Tell me a story

Sometimes, when the rain is heavy and the day already dark and fading, the road beneath the tires disappears. It's a pretty trick: black under black isn't there. At times like these, but for the sounds of wet tires on wet asphalt, I could almost think that I was flying. And in those seconds right after another car passes going the other way, and I'm temporarily blinded, my imagination soars, again.

I become then, fleetingly, a warrior-fighter-pilot in a fast spaceship, small, just enough room for me and the rations and ammo I need, speeding slick through the blackness of space with a cool smile, shoulders back and head down, oh so slightly, like a bull savoring the view before the charge. And I'm all alone and for once it's ok to be that way; the warrior-fighter-pilot has no room for love, no room for sadness or any happiness other than the feel of the controls, trusty and comforting, in her hands.

Or I am an elven scout, riding dragonback through a storm, seeking something dreadfully important and always tanatalizingly just out of sight. My steed is calm despite the howling wind, shearing through black clouds like a burning sword through snow, and the sweet rolling movement of wings does not move me in my throne-saddle, and I sit, quiet and watching, Queen of the Sky with her cherished companion.

And in those quick quiet black seconds, before vision returns to show me just another rain-slicked country road, I'm happy.

It's those little escapes, you see, that make life worth living. Being able - for a few moments, a few hours - to get away from what you know and to be or experience something new, brings a sweet peacefulness to an otherwise ragged day. And it's not merely my imagination that brings those escapes, that's the wonderful thing; it's books, and good movies, and journals and long talks.

It's stories, see.

I love stories- reading them, seeing them, hearing them, thinking them. And the best kind of stories are those that people tell about their lives; all the little things, and the really big things, and the things they think no one else could possibly care about but treasure themselves for sentimental, sappy, silly reasons. Humor and tragedy and lessons learned, love and hate and joy and grief; those are the things that make life worth living. And it's the experience of living through another's memories that puts one's own life into perspective; in escaping your own life in a story, you take back with you at the end some bit of wisdom, though you may not always know it right away.

Sometimes the wisdom you take with you is profound, and sometimes it's merely a reminder; a new way of understanding something you already know.

Both are sacred.

And, it's fun. It's an intimate moment of sharing, storytelling. It's a coming together and a touching of spirits that nothing compares to. Whether you're gathered around a campfire or separated by miles and electronic connections, the spirits merge for the time that the story is told. You're allowed, invited, into someone else's world - their head, their heart - with no promise of anything but that sharing, and you go in, anxious and happy and alive, and through the words and images they conjure, the storyteller and the audience and the story all merge and reality, for a time, fades away to whitenoise.

I want to find old journals and read them late at night, a cup of hot chai tea at hand, purring drooling cat in my lap, and lights low. I want to find old photo albums, flip through them slowly, read the descriptions and imagine what it was like at each particular time and place captured on film. I want to sit with a complete stranger, at a coffee shop or bus stop, say, and hear the stories of their glory days that everyone else they know has heard too many times.

I want to know about the simple things and the complex things, and the simple made complex and vice versa; I want to hear about the chance meetings that changed lives and the sudden realizations that make you stop dead in your tracks, stunned, and rethink your mood and morals and motives, even if just for that day.

I want to hear the jokes. I want to hear the whispered confessions. I want to hear the laughter.

I want that sacred merging of two spirits; I want to learn and laugh and come away a better person for the gifts given in that merging.

I want to hear stories.

Tell me a story, dear friend, and I'll tell one in return. Tell me a story, and, for a brief time, let's merge, and learn, and simply be alive in the whitenoise of everyday life.