I have always believed that one of the few things that sets homo sapiens apart from other species is our ability to tell stories. We use stories to raise our children, interact with our loved ones and strangers, and pass down our history to the next generation of storytellers. We use them to entertain, excite and enlighten our fellow humans.

Some of us do it in a more factual way using bullet points and bar graphs. Others of us do it with less structure and more random flower power. Some rely on repetition or profound articulation or sheer volume of information. A select few like to combine all of the above into one large word stew.

The method of telling our story may be determined based upon the audience and what we perceive will be most receptive to them. Many times, the audience itself is determined first by the story-teller’s singularity of style.

Either way, the ability to communicate is a part of the makeup of all creatures – perceived senescent or not. But for humans – and, at least, most definitely whales – communicating in story format has got to be encoded in our DNA.

Why else my consistent desire to write about anything – and if you’ve read a few of these pages, you know I mean anything – whenever and wherever I can? I have written or attempted to tell “my story” in blog-form, poetry, plays, spiritual commentaries, group shares, analytical spreadsheets, character performance, grocery store clerk conversations, emails to my kids’ teachers, water cooler chit-chat, soccer mom associations and one-side, rear-view mirror defamation screeches.

Will all of these words stitch together to form a best-selling novel according to critics and Oprah fans? Probably not.

Will their amalgamation achieve an authentic and well-lived life worthy of its legacy?

I certainly hope so.

🙂

I may have written about the fact that quite frequently being a grownup is more like an out-of-body experience than it is my reality.

Throughout the day as I accomplish various grownup tasks and adhere to my responsibilities, the sheer act of going through those motions makes my soul float above my body and I watch myself behaving as some unknown adult crossing everyone’s t and dotting the rest of the planet’s “i”s all the while wishing I was flying fast and high on the neighborhood swing-set singing “De Do Do Do De Da Da Da” eating a free box of sno-caps and drinking an ice cold IBC Rootbeer.

Just sayin’…

Sometimes my titles are better than what I feel like writing about.

“Helping doesn’t always help” is what my son said to me tonight as I was trying to “help” him clean his face properly.

Sage wisdom that I have subscribed to for years except in extreme cases of me being right or The Parent.

🙂

I am so often compelled to help others see the ways that I am right that it can be quite off-putting and not nearly as humorous or endearing as Jules in Cougar Town.

I frequently lose the line between the helpful parent trying to gracefully guide our offspring through the trials and miscalculations of being kids and preteens, and that other one in the grocery store we all point at with our mental forefinger, silently tsking away her apparent ineptitude in dealing with her obviously grossly misunderstood child.

I know the psycho jargon for my Ripkinesque streak of consecutive days without missing a single opportunity to at least once indicate I was correct above all else, has to do with defending my position in the Universe lest I be flicked from it.

The parenting pendulum is an enigma wrapped inside a polysemous shroud cryptically woven by three blind mice hiding from a herd of loose cats chasing after the red dot at the end of a laser pointer.

“Helping doesn’t always help, Mom.”

Well, all right then.

And a chair is merely there to sit on.

It provides no assistance whatsoever.

Other than the fact that it is there.

To be sat upon.

For support.

When not standing.