This is a post I wrote for another one of my blogs. I wanted to post it here 1)so it was chronicled and 2)because in order to tell my story about food and healing and emotional wellness I believe it is necessary to tell me whole story. There are SO many reasons I have become the person that I have become. So here is that intro:
I’ve had several blogs. Some I have never published and some I have… Several times I have bounced the idea of this blog back and forth in my mind. I’ve weighed the ideals concerning social voyeurism and exposure; our cultures needs to ostensibly ply every thought and reaction to a Facebook status, Twitter feed, and social network venue therein. I have debated concerning the topics that, if I were to establish a blog, I would, no doubt, have to write about if I were to be true to myself. Authenticity. I mused over the blogs of other people I have read, some vapid trash, some painful mirages of who the person would like to be, and more respected blogs that inspire me to grow and think.
I landed the plane with the thought of storytelling. Not the fictional kind of story telling, but the kind of story tell that generations before us treasured. It calls to mind a memory of my childhood: Maybe it was a long night with adults drinking and playing Dominos. The ivory bones slamming and the black dots peppering the table. Neighbors drinking and laughing, trashing talking, while music plays in the smokey background. I am sure it was something Motown. I was a child and they were gods. It took one story to unleash a universe that lead into a full night of “do you remember when” and “whatever happened to ‘ole whats his name.” I sat, safely out of the way, listening to stories of when women and men were in love, when they fought, when a child was born. I marveled at all the knew and all they had done, forgiven, and loved. “And she had that baby and we never knew if it was his…but he didn’t care, he was the proud daddy either way.” There was grist, identity, and laughter, frequently tears, and seconds and thirds on whiskey.
It wasn’t just in my childhood where people told stories, real stories, about life, love, birth, loss, infidelity, and triumph. Worlds have been built because of storytellers telling true stories. These tales teach us to be different, who we are, or point us where to go and these storytellers open their hearts, sometimes their wounds to give us a part of themselves, their pasts. And so, in their vulnerability they hurt a little and heal a little. We absorb their life and wounds and, maybe, if we are lucky we hurt and heal too.
…but we don’t always have a neighbor’s house to sip Crown Royal, puff on a cigar, play Dominos and tell our stories to everyone. We get disconnected. We settle for 140 character shot in the dark. Jasmine is “surfing facebook unable to sleep.”
So I fired up WordPress and decided I would step into my Grandma’s shoes. I will be a storyteller. True stories. Stories of where I have been, who I have been, and who I am becoming. This is that house, where we can sip whiskey and tell our stories and, maybe, just maybe we can hurt and heal together.