I Have a Story to Tell You

"Like all the best families,
we have our share of eccentricities,
of impetuous and wayward youngsters
and of family disagreements."


~Queen Elizabeth II ~

It is Sunday March 6, 2011 and I am at a cafe table in the middle of a mall.  I know, not my "uje", but I thought the shops opened at ten not eleven, so here I am waiting for one of the great sins of our time - the modern shopping mega mall - to lurch to life.

My throat is sore, and I'm congested. Opting for the lesser of the evils I'm having some sort of unsweetened iced drink to try and keep my throat from drying up and dying.  Surprisingly, there is a starling in here, hopping from table to table. Not quite like the cafes of St. Germain, but the bird helps create at least a quirky, if not convincing atmosphere.

It reminds me of the afternoon I spent a few years ago channelling Hemingway at Les Deux Maggots. Ahh, April in Paris! I remember surfacing from the tangled beauty of the Paris metro into a postcard of red geraniums standing at attention in wrought iron window boxes. 

There in the cafe, across from the church, I found a little table under the canopy and began to write. As the afternoon wore on, I managed to make my way through lunch, completely backwards. I began with a cafe americano, followed by an espresso with chocolate cake, followed by chicken, salad, and finally, a lovely glass of french wine.  Actually it was more than one glass of wine, but when you're with Hemingway in spirit, who's counting? 

That was one of the most perfect afternoons of my life, and I'm sure, if you were here beside me sipping a cup of tea and munching on some homemade treaties, the story would take much longer to tell. I would fill in the gaps of the story; like how it was the first time I ever saw geraniums and liked them, that the energy and people in the cafe were amazing, that the waiter was a grey-haired, balding sweetheart whose patience allowed us to converse despite my merciless butchering of his exquisite mother tongue, and why I felt compelled to travel to Paris in the first place.

But this isn't the story I want to tell you. I want to tell you a story that you already know.  After all, what are we but manufactured characters of our own stories?

We go back. Despite our absorption into the individual self, the entertaining tales of our shenanigans in friendship and love are second to the narrative soil of the genes in which we are rooted.  Our mind reaches back in time as tree roots burrow deeper into the rich earth.

Despite our dysfunction, the skeletons tap on the closet doors of our mind and threaten to tumble out along with our heirloom scars.  Despite this delicate balance, we long to know we came from love.  Greater than the shallow love of skin on skin, greater than the dutiful love of being fed and clothed, we long to know we are from a love that binds eternity and purpose.

This morning, enjoying a breakfast of cheese, figs and pastry, a collection of long lost family photos stared back at me from my laptop.  Seven of us, in perfect two-or-three-year-gapped chronological order smiled back at me from my past.  Not one of us was older than 18.  We knew our place in that order, and we held each other up like each thread holds together a tattered blanket.

We knew our stories; That Peter fell asleep under a box on the porch when he was a toddler. Unable to find him, a panicked mom warranted a full search by our local police constable until rolly little Peter stretched and yawned after his nap and inquired as to what the fuss was all about.

And there was quiet Melanie, with her Holly Hobby infatuation and collection of Tetley tea figurines lined up on her bedroom window sill. 

Tim, eldest, quiet, and gentle. Its' funny how the most tender of souls are damaged and lost in the teenaged jungle of feel good temptation.  I looked up to Tim, and I loved him because he was good.

Paula. The second oldest of the crew. Athlete, blond beauty and fashionista. Her dream was to live in the city one day.

Donald. He was my age, but an old soul. Many have said I have an old soul, but if I have an old soul, Donald's was ancient. Even in kindergarten he was repentant. He hummed constantly with the stress of religious guilt.  The other five of us would rib him, but God save you if you weren't blood and wanted to take a swing.  We stuck together.

The baby was Matthew.  He will forever be the image of the curly blond baby holding up the end of the family helix as the seven of us paraded in front of the video camera and up the staircase one Christmas eve.

The group of seven. Sharing stories only the seven of us will know, along with all of the plot twists, treachery and jubilation that all families experience.  But these are our stories; before the drugs, the alcohol, the pill, marriage, divorce, breakdowns, and birthing another generation.

This morning as I ate my breakfast, those seven children looked back at me.  We were smiling. We were innocent. We did come from love. Despite the individuals we are now, and giving the world another generation, we go back, weaving this new blood into the family story.

We Need to Talk



"Conversation about the weather is
the last refuge of the unimaginative."
~Oscar Wilde~



Someone sent me a list of over 200 "Thoughtful Questions" today. 

Often in my line of work, the business of "health-caring", we get lost in numbers. 

It's important to stop and reflect often. 

I'm challenging you to ponder just one question, and post your feedback here to share with others.

1. If you could express in a motto how you have lived your life, what would that motto be?


2. What does it take to reveal who you are?


3. In the expression, “Do whatever it takes” , what does it take?


4. What engages you?


5. How do we know that our network is getting too big?


6. They say that failure is a good thing. What is your best failure?


7. What would you like most to change about yourself?


8. What are you most daring about?


9. How do our children hold us back?


10. What is the best way to deal with friends who are not life enhancing?


11. When do you want to be misunderstood?


12. Describe a recent “eureka” moment.


13. What burns you out the quickest?


14. What have you done that you hope your kids will never do?


15. Why were you put on this earth?


16. What has shaped the choices you have made?


17. What does beauty mean to you?


18. Describe a pleasure that you do not regularly indulge.


19. Why do we like the words “thank you” so much?


20. What are the advantages of being anonymous?


21. Where do you feel a sense of place?


22. How do you deal with the remains of resentment?


23. What is the most rewarding thing you have done lately?


24. What gives you goose bumps?


25. Name one universal rule for growing old gracefully.

Wouldn't it be interesting to have a conversation with your friends, spouse, lover, children (etc.).....about these things???

The Gift of Storytelling



"To share our stories is not only a worthwhile endeavor for the storyteller,
 but for those who hear our stories and feel less alone because of it."


~Joyce Maynard~

 Anyone who knows me knows that I love mugs and pens. When I have a good cup of tea or coffee in my left hand, and a pen in my right, I'm usually feeling creative, relaxed and positive. One year my friend Jan gave me a mug at the change of every season. I still use those mugs every day at work.  This summer my friend Vicki bought me a beautiful pottery mug that I save for writing and needlework at home. I remember Jan and Vicki with every sip, and the stories that we've shared.

Yesterday, in a quick but oh-so-necessary pit stop to Starbucks.....ok, ok, I know what you're thinking; "Yah right.  A necessary stop at Starbucks ( reverently referred to by my more left wing acquaintance as Sixbucks).  Yes. Necessary. I was working in the community yesterday, with nowhere to pee but gas stations and coffee shops. I refuse to pee where they sell windshield washer fluid and porn. Feel my pain people.

Anyway, I toddled into Starbucks and after my bee-line to the ladies room, I decided to order  a good-old-fashioned-decaf-non-fat-eggnog-latte.  What with having such a traditional holiday beverage, I got into the Christmas spirit and looked at the display of mugs, over-priced stuffed mice (again very traditionally Christmas - what the heck?!) and an absurd mug that had some weird verse about a squirrel going out and making friends. Who in the world are the marketers trying to kid? Squirrels?! Garden-Nazi-guerrilla-garden-wreckers and demons from hell. Nobody makes friends with squirrels! My girlie side won out, and despite the political squirrel propaganda, the mugs were really cute, and I want one.

It was the rather modern, red and white tall latte mug that caught my attention. Each year the company comes out with a new design for the paper coffee cups. This year it's mimicked by a porcelain one as well. The design is a modern red and white pattern with the usual Starbucksish self righteous and sometimes inspiring or witty comment.  Anyway, the little quip on the perma-version of the mug this year reads something about sharing stories over coffee because stories are gifts.  Sold again Starbucks. Great marketing. Great reminder. Somebody lend me twelve bucks so I can buy a mug and read that quote every day. Better yet, you go out and buy one too, so you remember to share your stories even in the busiest times.

Lately life has become an unlikely machine. Events like breakfast, homework, work, the gym and daily telephone calls have become so time crunched to be rendered almost empty of meaning. The persistent grind has become exhausting, so much so that making an effort to create or take in great creative works of the human spirit is disabled.

Over the years my work has become the calling of listening to the stories of others.  Listening, hearing with my heart, and validating, and then of course the necessary paperwork to justify it all. When I feel like I've become a cog, I need stories. I need to write mine and to hear yours.

I have what some might call an "embarrassment of riches" when it comes to stories I can tell about my life;being held up by the army in Venezuela, outdoor sunrise Quaker services, African Shamans, working as a reporter and funeral director, cake at Les Deux Maggots, hermaphrodite neighbours, Christian mystic relatives....

Everyone on the earth suffers and rejoices in the experience of the human condition in turns. Sometimes laughter, sometimes tears, sometimes wonder and awe. Besides being present in those moments, it is our gift of language and our sharing of stories through which we share and absorb the stories which define the abstract notion of  what it means to be fully physiologically and spiritually human.

We have evolved into a society of people who text in a language decipherable by primates; "ur funny", "ROTFL", "how r u".  At one time, the art of letter writing was highly valued. To think that someone would take the time to sit down, commit the time to put pen to paper and be thoughtful in their communication to another human being was normal.  This thoughtful process evolved into telegrams; "Come home. Mom is sick",  to email (which most closely resembles the lost art of written communication), to texting, tweeting, and a barely decipherable parallel language. 

Language is more than just words. Language is a process, a vehicle and international currency used to analyze and express emotional concepts. This highly sophisticated linguistic expression of emotion is, I suppose, one of the key factors that keep us from living like apes and picking fleas out of one another's hair.  What should we think when language is taken down to a simple, bare, emotionless form of "u's, ur's and luv's"?  Is this the equivalent of our emotional degeneration as a society?

Every culture has it's roots in the muck of oral tradition. Historically storytellers were honoured and respected as great teachers and sages.  The oral tradition gave way to the written tradition. Those who were fortunate enough to have the luxury of learning how to read and write became the editors of society.  Their stories thrived as the oral tradition lost the privilege of time.  Industrialisation, commercialization, paying the mortgage, buying music lessons and hockey practice demand time and energy. 

Books? Who has time to read books?!  Maybe you snuggle up with Kobo or Kindle, maybe you download the classics and listen in 20 minute bursts as you grind on the treadmill or clench the steering wheel through rush hour traffic.  It is the rare individual or community who make time to keep their traditions alive. Storytelling in our twenty-first-century-independent dwellings no longer has a place. Grandpa and Grandma live a thousand miles away, or in a retirement home, and because the family is so busy making ends meet and raising over-indulged, over-stimulated, under-imaginitive children, who has time to listen to  stories?

This year I hope that instead of worrying about small token gifts, I can make time to get together with my friends over one of those pretentiously written paper cups of pseudo-styled coffee and tell our stories.  I hope the joy of the non-fat-decaf-eggnog-latte season lasts the entire year through. 

Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I wore my pyjama top to the office, or waxed half of my left eyebrow off before a first date, or the time I ripped my spanx? Tell me again how your second husband was the streaker who you saw on a date with your first husband.  Please tell me again how you dropped the Thanksgiving turkey on the floor and then fed it to your in-laws.  Tell me again how you got your nickname.  Tell me again about that silly wooden sculpture your husband bought for your anniversary.  Do you remember the time you called me the Great Kreskin and we laughed for a week?  Do you remember laughing all night about our coworker in the runaway kids car? Do you remember the Scottish rugby team and the birthday cake buying cab driver?  What about the Polish lady wearing the white boots in the new year's eve Porlamar market? I love these stories. 

All of us have our gift of storytelling immaculately wrapped already. 'Tis the season to start sharing that gift.