tell the story

sometimes the best intentions still result in the worst outcome. well, not the absolute worst, but the opposite of the best, at the least. 

example- I just tried to ninja-levitate out of our creaky bed, in order to avoid waking my husband. (it didn't work. in fact, i'm convinced that the series of noises was perfectly timed to wake him up to full alertness.)

telling a story. how do we learn to tell a story? and how young do we start doing it? i'm finishing a class in storytelling, and though it was created with well-laid intentions, i am certain that the outcome has landed at the corner of the extreme, and almost absurd, far reaches of what i expected from a class bearing that name.

how do we tell a story to children? to people over 70? to tweens who are in the throes of the years that i have long forgotten, on purpose? 

tonight i told a story the old-fashioned way, to a group of eager listeners in an assisted living home. though we had to work out the kinks of sound projecting, i.e., my voice at a near yell, there was a place about halfway through where everything gelled- they were into it, or at least not sleeping yet, and i was comfortable, and we rode that story all the way to a triumphant ending. that seven minutes was the highlight of this class, and one of the high points of this entire degree. i wish there had been more, more, more of that kind of telling.

this semester, and over the course of this degree, i have become fluent in many ways to tell a story. i have poured out my writing heart into massive research papers and excessively detailed projects. i have recorded my voice. i have created book trailer movies and a poem movie and a digital advocacy story movie, all of which have turned out to be projects that i'm quite proud of. i feel competent and prepared to communicate via many forms of media, including online discussions, email, blogs, chat, text, telephone, and photography. 

the degree, overall, has led to an intimate new relationship with the old phrase: "blood, sweat, and tears." some of the projects and papers were as enjoyable as rubbing sandpaper on unshaven, prickly legs. others felt like no work whatsoever- they were bubbly and beautiful and waiting to be sucked down like a hot glazed donut: pure joy. 

mostly, the cumulative result is a new appreciation for an obsession that has rightly been turned into a new and honorable career, a track that allows for growth and changes, or for settling and perfecting; either choice, or both, are allowed in this field, and encouraged.

lately, the little itch is back, the one that needs scratching the most, projects and papers be damned.

this is the story i was born to tell. this is one of the venues in which i am privy to tell it, and what a great age in which to be alive.

i don't have to bother with parchment paper and a quill pen, although i have both, and enjoy a rant from time to time with the old ink bottle. i can go to a bookstore and find the perfect new journal, the one in which all the greatest new ideas have already formed and are only waiting to be scribbled. i can create a new, beautiful blog, full of pink and flowers and delicacies, even if i only look at it for now, with admiration.

this skin tingle and kettle bell in my diaphragm are the real story, and they won't be left waiting. (and i surely won't be sleeping.) the greatest story is yet to tell. and so it begins.