“We tell ourselves stories in order to live…”. Joan Didion

As humans, I suppose, we are always looking for the narrative, to lessen the blow or to heighten the lift. And didn’t we start at the beginning, in our first class under the name of our first president at Washington Elementary. One by one, we stood alongside Mrs. Strand’s desk and told all of the other 5 and 6 year olds what we did over the summer. These were not tales of trips to Europe, nor even flights across state lines, but rather heads hanging out of station wagons and under lake waters. Feet racing on dirt roads and pedaling bikes. Balls hit. Candy bars frozen. Popsicles melted. And sunsets dared awaiting mothers’ calls. 

With each story, hands raised up with ooohs and aaahs of remembering the same, the similar. The excitement of stories melding connected us all. That’s why I keep writing. I keep painting. The thrill when your memories return to you in an oooooooh, and you share them with me, and then with another, is like no other. We are alive! Living in the word, in the story. 

I flank my sketchbook with boy and girl, facing forward. Ever grateful for what has been. Ever hopeful of what is to come.