Friday, March 14, 2014


I look at the photos in my feed and I see the storytellers abound.

Some tell the stories of their bodies, their beauty, their soul.

Some tell the stories of travel, and jobs that give them the freedom to tell stories of families, found love and nuptials and births.

Some tell the stories of their daily lives, of quiet moments wwith coffee, shared books and magazines,  pets, and food.

Others tell the stories of creation.  Of art, of words, of gathering tribes, paint, adornment, the bliss of a camera in hand.

I have looked on in awe. I see people's photos that make me wish to see the world from their view. Of perfect creams, and whites, and perfect coffee. I struggle because I don’t seem to tell stories that are as beautiful as others.

As I sit here soaking in the soft beauty I realize that I was not made to tell those stories. I am attracted to rust, to the vintage, to the oft neglected,  the dented, chipped, and scratches. 

My story to tell is of survival.  Of finding the beautiful in the abandoned, of seeing the value in the aged. Of wanting to save them all, to not forget,  to say this is what this object has to teach me. The lessons of continuing even if someone says that you cannot be usable or useful.

It has taken me months of stepping away from the things that I love to do in order to understand that I have been trying to tell the stories that are not meant for me to tell.  I am now ready to tell the stories that are meant for only me to tell.

1 comment:

Jaime said...

There is great beauty in telling the story of something that has been abandoned.. it still has a voice. It still has soul within it, don't you think? If only people could see that.

Thank you so very much for visiting my blog today. I've been away a long time... it gives me great comfort knowing that people are still here, still reading, still sharing their hearts.

It's so very nice to meet you!