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Hi.

 If it's sour, add sugar and multiply it for the refreshment of others.

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Story

Story

She read a passage and asked us to write the word that most stood out to us on a tiny river rock she provided. That's how I came to hold in my hand the word story on a stone. There's a little bit in my person that rails against such an exercise, an obstinate part that cringes at any hint of woo woo. Another part of me that craves it.  My inner cynic decides upfront that there would be no word for me. Yet here I sit turning 'story' over and over in my fingers and likewise in my mind. 

This morning my husband said to me that I needed the night off. I should take some time for myself to write or something. I jumped at the chance. My feelings run wild without a lonely writing session. Emotions get wrangled back into order and often some semblance of clarity comes when I write.  I wonder what could have possibly made my husband suggest that I get some writing time in?

As I sit by myself, I remember the little stone tossed into my bag and dig around for it. Story. Story in my hand. I'm hurt from, tired of, and for some reason hesitant at the truth of the words 'angry at,' the mishandling of stories. My story, the story of someone I love, stories in general, large and small.

I look again at the tiny rock harmless and light in my palm. Capable of cracking the window before me if mishandled. Capable of harm in the wrong hands. In my hands.

And so it is with a story. So it is.

But that's where the analogy breaks down with my little stone. My story rock would look and feel just the same trusted into any hands.

Unfortunately, real stories aren't in stone. Real stories can be distorted by the hands of the one who holds them.  

As children, my brother and I would press silly putty onto pictures in the newspaper. The picture ink would lift onto the putty and we would stretch and bend the picture to our own liking and for our own amusement. They became twisted creations based on some original.

And so it is with a story. So it is.  

The challenge is to hold stories carefully. Our own stories. Each other's stories.  

Thanks for reading.

Always,

Amie

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