Stories Hide

Stories hide.  They stay quiet, listening for the perfect moment to be told.

Sometimes they sneak out of the mouth when no one is looking and you can feel all the breath in the room stop, and there is quiet.  Exquisite quiet.

Sometimes the story hides until a sudden moment of bravado and is offered with a flair.

Sometimes a story must be coaxed out of you, even though no one is really listening. Or cares.

I saw him walking down the street. All of his belongings on his body, limping with shoes that had many stories of where they had walked. Sad shoes.

Or maybe that was just my story.  Maybe the shoes had a story of celebration and resilience.  I can’t know until I listen deeper.

Stories hide.

Like the one about my mother playing tennis and me running after the tennis balls, or about my brother and why he always hums.  I’m still waiting for those stories to come forth with details that will awaken the senses.

Stories hide for a reason. Maybe we can’t hear them yet. Although we act like we can.

Today’s story is about a man who decided to die at age 34. He decided, he did it, and he’s gone from this life.  There are many parts of the story that are still hidden from those who loved him.  The story of mental illness has been hidden for years.  The powers that be still don’t know how to heal this illness and yet they keep trying.

Today’s story is about the deer that pranced across the field in the very wet fog, grazing on their breakfast.  Or maybe they don’t have breakfast.  They just eat.

The story for today is about the memory of smell. Fried eggs and toast.  60 years later I still love fried eggs and toast. And the smell.

A story about the red pencil writing this. Or maybe it’s about memory.   I suddenly notice that this red pencil, not very sharp, with a very dead eraser has the name of my close friend’s son imprinted on it.  I don’t know why I have this pencil, or when it was given to me.  I smile to think of him. I will give him a call. Because of this red pencil.

A story about loneliness. My mother would say, “if you are cold, you can always sit on your hands. And if you are lonely, know that God loves you.”

Stories hide, listening for the moment to come forth.

Today’s story is about a young man who died unexpectedly.

His ashes arrived home in a box.

Now surrounded by love and compassion. Ashes, compassion, impermanence.

The stories of love and heartbreak, pencils, and smells continue, unfolding, emerging, as is safe.

Stories hide.  They stay quiet, listening for the perfect moment to be told.