Let You Tell Me A Story

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So, your stories. Your stories. YOU AND YOUR STORIES are teaching me right now. I am reading stories I feel honored to read. And this gift of sitting down and reading narratives of my fellow sisters around the world is perhaps the greatest gift I've ever asked for and received. Hundreds of stories. Real people, real women, real tragedies and triumphs.

Last night Chup and I put the children to bed and dedicated two hours to cleaning our house. I sorted toys and clothes--flung about and strewn throughout the hallways and main living spaces of our groovy Retro House. Chup scrubbed the dishes with his rolled-up pants (I know Chup is serious and dedicated about getting a job done when he rolls up the bottom of his pants to Huck Finn length) and also blended, strained and heated warm soy milk on the stove. I wrote for awhile in my journal and scheduled out today in hourly form--to make certain I didn't blow another day of sunshine. We watched every minute of the Papal announcement from our reclined couch-bed in the den yesterday, and although we all needed a recoup day from the flu, laying around has it's messy consequences.

But no matter the activity yesterday, my mind was on you. Your stories. Your bleeding stories. Your funny stories. Your photographs. You. And I still have hundreds to read. And I keep thinking, here I live in Provo, Utah, a city of fellow Mormons and white people (and people who want to change things up) and I've lived here my whole life (mostly) and here I sit reading the stories of people of the world, connecting without leaving my own office. My mind is stretching immensely. What a birthday gift--to grow my own consciousness and increase my awareness. I owe you.

This is my way of saying thank you.

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