Stories

They say a story wants to be told. Or often, doesn't want to.

The more I write - and read - the more I believe this. That stories have a life of their own; that they come out when they are ready; and that though they come through us, they are not fully of us.

We are the canyon and the story is the river. The river can't exist without us. And the canyon cannot exist without the river, as we cannot exist without the story. Not only that, but we are molded by stories, carved into reality.

And like rivers, stories are wild. They are unexpected. Our job, when we feel so moved, is to release them and follow their course. Sometimes all we can see is the very beginning, yet we embark anyway, trusting that a story, like a river, cannot help but flow.

Like this story, which I knew was ready to come out, but didn't really know what it might cover. The beginning felt right, so I began.

And now it's clear to me that one vital point of this story is just how important and wonderful stories are. That I am moved close to tears now as I feel this, and I'm not sure why.

Perhaps because each story is a leap of faith, my leap of faith amidst the turbulence of life. Because we pour our hearts into our stories, into good stories. And because, when we have nothing else, when we cannot even eat (oh the sweetness of being able to cry), we at least have stories.

It's what I had in the desert, and it was more important than food. More important than a meal after 4 and a half days taking in only water and air and stars and mountains were my stories and even more so the stories I heard from others.

So now, as I travel, alone, uncertain, and now, sick, I always have stories, stories that connect me to you quite intimately, and also to myself and to the world. I suppose that's what this story is about.

Love Roni

It gives me such joy and nourishment that you are reading my stories. Thanks.