Wednesday, January 16, 2008


Collecting stories.

Humans, like crows, are inclined to collect things. Stamps, bottles, butterflies, bugs. Stories. We have our personal stories, of course, Aunt Millie finding love or Uncle Bill getting drunk every Christmas. The time I fell into my mother's washbucket.

What I mean is published stories, those we collect in book form, those we take from the shelf when we ache for wholeness. We collect stories because we love them. We remember the adrenaline rush we received when we first read them. We collect stories because we are human, because we are like the crows. We decorate our nests with stories. We cock our heads, like crows, admiring our obsession. We know that inside the story, all is well.

Given the truth of this, I wonder how anybody talks about a story without her heart bursting from joy.


Anonymous said...

Oh, how lovely! I collect a lot of things, but I'd never thought of all the books on the shelves and stacked on the floor as my collection of stories. So glad you pointed it out. They are a comfort, aren't they? Teagrapple

ggw07 said...

Bingo! Could bits of this find itself in a story? If so, I'd like to read it.



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"I was no better than dust, yet you cannot replace me. . . Take the soft dust in your hand--does it stir: does it sing? Has it lips and a heart? Does it open its eyes to the sun? Does it run, does it dream, does it burn with a secret, or tremble In terror of death? Or ache with tremendous decisions?. . ." --Conrad Aiken


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