I suppose that I’m always on the look out for a story. But I don’t know. A story is a lot more than a string of words strung together to form a, more or less, linear, dramatic arc. That’s Aristotelian story. That’s Joseph Campbell and the foundation of myth. But stories don’t often come to us in tidy packages. Most don’t. A beginning, a middle, and an end. That’s Hollywood and Madison Avenue. The true stories, the real stories, come in pieces, out of sequence, and are often scattered in time.

The stories that matter to us, the ones we hold and keep the longest, are the stories that build, organically, with no boundaries set in theme or time. Who we are, each of us. What our lives mean. Who we love and count among our tribe, our family. What be believe, truly in our hearts. Why we strive. These are…

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