Story

The present results from the passing of all the moments lived up to this one.  Accumulated events, places, people, emotions, physical states, actions and reactions interlace to form our today.  Sometimes we share bits and pieces of our history – the funny, the sad, the poignant, the educational.  Our story can be told for relationship building, amusement, for healing, for self-actualization, for memorialization.

The noun story has ten entries at dictionary.com.  The following three pertain to my thoughts today.
1.  a narrative, either true or fictitious, in prose or verse, designed to interest, amuse, or instruct the hearer or reader; tale
6.  a narration of the events in the life of a person or the existence of a thing, or such events as a subject for narration
10.  (obsolete)  history

I often work to remind myself not to get stuck in my story, not to let where I have been define me so deeply that I don’t see the options in where I am.  We are not confined by our story but flowing through it.  Embracing having arrived where we are as a result of our history is crucial.  But we might try not to be defined by the events so unchangingly that we cling to the players and happenings we did not choose.  Letting go of what we did choose that did not serve us well is also important!

How we put the parts of our story together can be complicated and incomplete.  How we assume the story of others can be even more so.  I am taken aback by how much our society is want to say, “I know his/her story.  I saw a photo. I read his/her job title.  I met his/her spouse.  I went to school with him/her.  I know where he/she lives.  I know how he/she voted.”  Is any of that really enough for us to fill in the existence of a person?

Her Story

If she writes you a story
will you tell her you love her, as blood
ink sheds soft scribbles each moon
over pure white thought

Shall the tale be about you
or her, or us, or people we have known
who have grown, more or less
by times retelling into heroes

Whose language shall she chant
slang, rhythm, or chime of clock telling
time passing rhyme after rhyme
life giving open pelvis

If you love the story
does it belong to you, will every story
softly laced or wryly written after loving
become part of your body

Lost after figure fails, when lyrics reside
in legend, if she never fathoms the fairytale
will it cease to be but afterbirth bits
bright glass gravel

Picking up shards or clearing the way
left to say by the eyes (which often tell lies)
arranging a trap of tacks or cleaning them up
pointedly identical in a picture

Unwitting accomplice to tale’s telling
body verses, arrows, heart and asps dwelling
she speaks and perhaps keeps herself
weaving yarn one point at a time