My world spins on an axis of storytelling. In every part of my life, it is the stories that bring people together. It is the stories that keep the love, laughter, and hard work flowing. It is the stories people have told that I remember, calling each one of them up to relish as needed. It is the stories that I hold close to me because they provide connection, understanding, and mysteries to ponder. I am grateful to the storytellers, each and every one of you.
Numbers have intimidated me for most of my life. Words are my comfortable space, numbers not so much. In high school, we spent a month in one class on extra sensory perception (ESP). Various scientists, mathematicians, psychics, and practitioners visited our classroom. I was especially fascinated by numerology, which purports to interpret the mathematical code running through each individual’s life. I learned how to do this, even charting people’s numbers at a traveling psychic fair, but years later I’m grateful that it opened the door for me to feel more comfortable with, even fascinated by, numbers. In this way, numbers led to stories which led to understanding. (Here’s a peek at numerology.)
GrBeing grateful to my mother is a consistent theme in my life. I admire so many of the choices she made about parenting. The earliest gifts I remember receiving were a plastic train set and a Playskool village, both at Christmas (I think I was three). I recently found a photo of that village, which flooded my memory with the stories I used to tell with those movable pieces. In my mind, I was already constructing an involved world (see the second photo), designing houses and roadways, adding amenities to the landscape. I never had that larger village physically, but it was there in my imagination. I was given a doll and a panda bear later, both favorites of mine, but I’m thankful that my mom opened the door for the designer in my personality, giving me tools to tell stories in many ways. (Full disclosure: I photoshopped my head onto that second photo.)