Sometimes I don’t know the words. I see my grandsons on Face Time, sleepy beautiful faces in my phone. Wanting to put in their Christmas request: they would like a computer in their room. It has to be fast for interactive gaming.
I welcome this direction. I will be their dancer on a mirror, singing and spinning, a 21st Century Ecstatic Grandmother. Wanting only to be used, to be a part of it.
“Yes,” I agree. “I’ll start searching.”
Among many other things, like golf clubs and kayaks, I get them those “extras” that can be difficult for parents to afford.
It makes me swoon when those two fresh young faces appear on my screen. Live, no less. (I do love technology.)
But the biggest part of me is my heart, swelling. Such blessings as these are mine. Gratitude washes from me in waves that fill the room with light.
This is today. A day full of love.
Evening Primrose – I’m so excited. I raised them from seed.
Personal narrative: his-story; her-story … version or diversion? “Just the facts, Ma’am.”
Sgt. Friday was always so sure the facts would suffice. In a manhunt, maybe. But in the quest for a personal narrative little is certain. If you like facts or feel you need them, personal narrative is the worst place to look.
What matters is that you like it and it helps you live more happily. The fact it’s fiction changes nothing.
But I want my story to also be believable, and more than that, compelling. I want people to say “That was a good story,” and even feel inspired, uplifted and emboldened to go on with their lives, face their demons and come through whole.
In a stricter sense we have only fictions to select from, and if Sgt. Friday would grouse he would also lose.