Stories to Tell

Since I’ve left my love cocoon in Minnesota and moved back to Denver, my formerly solitary life has taken on so much more. My story started out as a narrative but has been woven into a plot of life so much larger than myself. The world moves but I am no longer the center. My stories are no longer mine, but are intricate webs woven into the lives of others.

When I was the axis of my life, I had full discretion over the emotions, the actions and reactions that I wrote to the world, but now that’s changed. My stories are no longer mine, but rather are contributions; sometimes featured, sometimes supporting. I can tell my stories, but not someone else’s. There is so much in me right now, I am so full, so saturated with life, but now I intersect. I write all day, capturing my actions and observations on the page like a butterfly tacked to a display, but these are not colors, sights, sounds, smells, flames that I can share. They are not my stories to tell. So for now, I err toward safety, keeping my writings to share on another day, maybe in the book, maybe not. Life is made up of stories that we weave together on a bright, full loom, each string belonging to one of us, the picture belonging to none.