We are all connected by stories because we are stories ourselves. There’s that wonderful quote from Muriel Rukeyser: the universe isn’t made of atoms. It is made of stories. When we learn someone else’s story, it shifts the fabric of our being. We are more open. And when we are open, we connect.
Tonight I got out of my comfort zone to get into my cold car, program my GPS to a route unknown to a Tree street I’ve never been to, knocked on a stranger’s door and gather with a room full of women I’ve never met. After a simple introduction reminding us of the power of our stories and the uniqueness of our voices, nearly everyone risked vulnerability in order to share a part of herself with everyone else in a way that connected us in imagination, knowing, seeing, tasting, joy, laughter, loss, and grief.
We bonded over tales of releasing tangy pomegranate tendrils, stories of conspiring cartoon cows, memories of childhoods interrupted by death or divorce, and images of wasps nesting in lacquered hair and a new rose bed labored over next to a south-facing porch.
I’m reminded of another time, another gathering of women, sharing of lives through real, raw, stories. This one was up Provo Canyon in the cool comfort of fall. The connection was palpable, spiritual, and unforgettable.
This is why we write.