I don't know why I feel such a compulsion to tell my story. It's slightly unusual, yes, but not all that much. Basically, I spend most of my time doing what most people do: paying bills and taking care of loved ones and trying to pick up a few nuggets of beauty and joy along the way. Being the mother of a high functioning autistic son as well as caretaker for a chronically ill spouse does throw a few extra challenges into the mix; but truly, in the grand scheme of things, I've been very fortunate. We have good doctors; prescription coverage for Mark's dozen medications; great teachers and therapists and counselors for our son; disability payments that keep us afloat; rental assistance that enable us to live in a simple but homey townhouse, back away from the street, where the kids can run and I can indulge my love of roses. I belong to a church that believes in active love, and I have friends and sisters who provide a steady stream of affection and laughter. Compared to millions -- perhaps billions? -- around the world who struggle merely to stay alive, we are truly among the lucky ones.So why do I write this -- here, now? Why do I feel the need to allow you, the anonymous bystander, a peek into my life?
Maybe it's because I feel that nothing is quite complete until it is passed along, that a sorrow shared becomes lighter while a moment of joy multiplies.
Maybe it's because I have found that I get my greatest boosts from those who are open enough to share their true selves -- not the "fit for public" selves, all dolled up in silk and glitter. I admire many people, but it is those who allow me close enough to see their thinning hair, to smell their morning breath ... those who have called me in a moment of glee or written me in a flash of rage ... those who dare to cry in public, to sing in supermarkets, to laugh just a little too loud ... These are the one who have impacted my life most. I want to be one of those people.
Or maybe it is because my thoughts are often like children, turned loose on a hot summer night. They race round and round the cabin, darting in and out of the woods, filling the air with their laughter and squeals. Writing is the campfire that draws them in from the shadows, mesmerized by the dancing flames, by the sudden shower of sparks against the deep blue velvet of the sky.
But mostly I think it is simply because I am a storyteller. I always have been. I always will be. I wear many hats these days: wife, mother, daughter, neighbor, lover, sister, teacher, friend ... But my children are quickly growing up. My husband will not live forever. My parents will someday pass on to the Other Side. But no matter where I am or who shares my days, I will always be a storyteller above all else.
So come on in! Pull up a chair, and I'll brew us some coffee. I'm glad you found time to drop by.
