By the way he looks
Or a book by the way it’s covered;
For inside those tattered pages,
There’s a lot to be discovered. – Stephen Cosgrove
What was the last book you read? Do you remember? What drew you to it? Was it the title? The author? The summary? A recommendation from a friend?
Books and authors who have found lasting success share a few things in common; interesting and relevant characters who find themselves in unfamiliar circumstances and facing complex situations. Elaborate settings, emotional turmoil, and an ever-lovable underdog help turn some of the most beloved stories into timeless classics.
Some books are easy to read. Others, not so much. Maybe the subject matter is uncomfortable or disturbing. Maybe it’s so far from our own experiences that we have difficulty connecting, even on the most superficial level. Maybe it hits too close to home and we’re not ready to confront our own vulnerabilities. Let’s face it: we’ve done a pretty good job of building walls around our hearts and minds to protect us from feeling anything too much. We keep everyone and everything at a safe distance; retreating to social media as a false pretense of sharing.
Have you ever taken the time to think about YOUR story? Everyone has a story; even stories within the story. Chapter upon chapter as we change, grow, reflect, project, and ponder. Our stories both make us unique and connect us all through relatable, humorous, and tragic tales of triumph, loss, survival, and adventure. They stitch generations together and build a patchwork of people, places, and experiences that combine to form our legacy.
But what if we took the time to develop, analyze, and author our own stories? What would your story look like? Would it be volumes upon volumes, detailing every step you’ve taken to get where you are today? Would it be a high level, existential piece musing about your place in this vast world? Or would it be a dramedy outlining all of the ups and downs and ins and outs of life as you see it? Would it read more like a tabloid magazine or an encyclopedia? Hopefully, something in between:)
Since starting this blog 6 years ago, much of my story can be found here. In black and white. For everyone to take in, chew on, and spit out as they see fit. Before blogging was a thing, my diary game was strong and I find it fascinating to go back and read some of my ramblings from time to time. Whether scribbled on aged paper or neatly typed on a digital page, deeply personal insights abound; windows into what I was going through and how I was feeling; snapshots and snip-its of my life. My writing has always been a form of creative expression, a way to sort through complex issues and messy feelings. Whether it’s blog posts, journal entries, letters, poems, or just random thoughts jotted down on a bar napkin, I find once my emotions materialize into written word, they become much more manageable.
My story, just like yours, is chock-full of the highest of highs and lowest of lows. But life is lived in the in-betweens; the perfectly normal, completely unassuming, and totally average kind of days. The moments that seem to pass without much fanfare or drama. I’ve come to realize it is, in fact, in these moments that we need to dwell; savoring the gift of time. The seemingly most mundane and ordinary moments need to be celebrated, appreciated, and propagated. Because one of these moments will be life-altering; bringing us to our knees and breaking us down to our most vulnerable selves.
This past year has been the most challenging chapter in my story so far. Let me set the scene. A perfectly normal, completely unassuming, and totally average kind of day. A Thursday. I came home from work, finished up a St. Patrick’s Day cookie order, and started dinner. Ham and au gratin potatoes. My husband was playing video games with our son. It was raining, but only in the front of the house. In the back of the house, the sun broke through the clouds and presented a beautifully intense and full arcing rainbow. And then, in a split second, everything changed.
When I look back, it feels like both yesterday and a lifetime ago, all at the same time. I remember the smell of rain in the air and the damp wood under my feet. I see it all happen as if I am watching someone else go through the motions. And when I let myself, I can feel the pain, confusion, panic, and terror. I can hear my husband telling me to hang on. I can hear my son asking if I remember him. I can taste the blood. And my body shakes as the sobs overcome me.
It’s been 1 year. 366 days (thanks to leap year). 8784 hours. 527,040 minutes. 31,622,400 seconds. My story could have very well ended that day. But here I am. Adding to my story, moment by moment, day by day, page by page. I’ve climbed a mountain, helped guide my son through high school graduation and the beginning of his college career, vacationed with family, explored Europe with my husband, and pushed myself beyond the confines of what I thought I was capable of, over and over and over again. It was NOT without fear, pain, anxiety, or depression; sometimes all at once and often intensely debilitating. But it was always with a grateful heart and a profound appreciation for just one more day. One more day to gaze upon a stunning sunrise, to melt into my husband’s loving embrace, to share in the laughter of a corny joke with my son, to celebrate a family birthday, to catch up with a dear friend. One more day to make lasting memories with the ones I love.
This past year has been a master’s class in acceptance, perseverance, strength, faith, and hope. Challenges remain, but there is no holding me back. As is often the case, staring death in the eye gives a perspective to life not otherwise gained.
My book may not be the biggest, or newest, or shiniest. It may not be the most compelling or captivating. It’s tattered and torn and in desperate need of editing. Just like me. But it’s also got a bunch of empty pages in the back just begging to be filled with more adventures.
Today may be just another day to you, but it’s one MORE day for me. One more day to rejoice. One more day to sparkle. One more page to write. One more chapter to open. Many more volumes to live. My story has only just begun.