We all walk story-streets, surrounded by other people’s masterpieces in draft. All is novel and there is much to be read.
Here I have put aside my books…
When I am struggling for words, I am glad to know that not every day needs my stories to be unpacked. They are full enough. They stream with the unutterable, the silent look, the fleeting touch that speaks.
There are wonders, mysteries, melodies abundant in the mud and muck and dust.
I wrinkle up my nose and step aside, but love stops, stoops, blooms in unexpected places. It is hopeful, thoughtful, humble.
Our greatest works, our boldest dreams, are perennial, perpetual; another flies forth as one falls.
We have the will to rise written into our souls.
Even slum-sad days are dusted with hearts, hopes, ambitions. Some of them are battered. Others seem better blessed. But all are a little beautiful. All speak something of the best of who we are.
I am a self conscious narrator. I know my own bias.
Yet when I try to allow everyone the same share of life, to let them be unique, to be the hero, to listen for the stories they might or might not tell, I am baffled.
The weight of all we are, all we are not, is so heavy and yet it lifts… Our lives are such lovely little fictions.