Once upon a time, when I was little, I went outdoors on a summer afternoon. I walked down the long driveway, from the backdoor of our yellow house, past the garden and the swingset, toward the garage. As I walked, I heard my own voice inside my head, telling the story of what I was doing. I knew the story stretched back to my beginning, and that I was just noticing it, not beginning it. I knew the story was happening still, and that it would keep on happening, as long as I kept on telling it.
Many years and many stories later, I am no longer the only story I can tell. But my stories still begin on the inside, where I keep what I love and what I have learned. My favorite stories are the ones that come to me, full of their own life, echoing things I have thought or felt but giving them a new meaning, or a true meaning. Clouds make rain. Stories make sense. I love that.