Sometimes I miss the stories. Like on days like today.
Every once in a while I do the ”bloggy” things I used to do all the time; follow the clicks down the rabbit hole, read story after story, pour over images, watch videos, and get inspired. And it reminds me of how much I love stories. Yours, mine, ours. All of them. Unfortunately, I don’t seem to carve out as much time as I used to for them anymore. I guess because those “bloggy” things turned into a full-time career, which in turn, has changed how I do “bloggy” things in general. Having a passion like writing as a facet of a full-time career is awesome (I wouldn’t change it for a thing) but there’s also a down side, and not having the time to enjoy it in a way that I used to is one of them.
I have found the web to be a wondrous place to spend time (when I have—or make—the time to spend). I am amazed again and again by how much openness and authenticity there is out there in the blogosphere and how much time people spend writing, shooting and sharing their stories and how brave, funny, heartbreaking, beautiful and poetic these stories can be. And it makes me remember my stories. And how I used to spend so much of my time writing them and how I don’t have that time anymore. I realize too, that with every story I document with my iPhone—the kind that takes me a single second to capture in an image—there is a story to go with it that could be written. Only, it’s not. Instead, each story just swirls around my head, rarely seeing the light of day. The images alone tell a story too, and I am so very thankful for that butI have neglected to give myself the time to sit with my stories. To listen. To coax and coddle and craft them.
Ironically enough, I am more of a writer than anything else these days. I write every single day; articles (about stories no less), columns, posts, class content, and books even. But not my stories. Not like I used to. Not the ones I want to write just because I want to tell stories. Instead, my day to day stories continue to line the hallways of my psyche like wallpaper; layers and layers of colors and textures stacking up and even peeling off, making me who I am and yet, not being revealed. My stories are told in images like they’ve always been, but many of the details feel lost somehow because they aren’t being written. On days like today, it breaks my heart a little bit.
I would like to say that I’m going to start spending more time writing my stories. But I won’t say that. I have said I would conquer my clutter, get back to yoga, spend more time living my creative joy all of which seem to be really great ideas—backed by good intentions—but they’re not really happening either. Not on any kind of “regular” basis anyway. So instead of putting another thing on the to-do list, I’ll just acknowledge and feel this for a while.
Sometimes I miss the stories.
I guess this is something that’s been on my mind for a while now as I’m enrolled in Ali Edwards’ Hello Story class. I’m thinking it might prompt me along and encourage me to take a little extra time for stories again. I’ll bet it’s just what I need. Class starts tomorrow if you’re so inclined to sign up too. Ali is a great friend and a compelling and creative teacher so I know it will be awesome. For more about Ali’s class Hello Story visit Big Picture Classes. (last minute giveaway via my facebook page happening today! comment for a chance to win)
Can you relate? Have you ever felt that although life’s progression is a gift, it can also mean missing some of the things that used to be? Are you ever missing things the way I am missing stories? I would love to hear your thoughts.