Tuesday, June 17, 2014

Connect the Dots

Perhaps it’s self-induced sleep deprivation, or roundy round responsibilities boredom, or maybe it’s simply that the chili was so much more exciting “in theory” and the gelatinous red reality in my lunch bowl puts my dendrites in “anywhere but here” mode, but whatever the reason, I’m off on a tangent today.
Three hours of sleep kills filters and linear thought and it will be a struggle to keep this little lamentation going forward but it is that same disturbance in the force that compels me to write in the first place. The skips and blips in the sequencing make sense even though you aren’t up in my head. I hope you are able to connect the dots.
I read the writing of a beautiful soul today. Her name is Kate and I’ve known her for all of my “interwebs social network sojourn” and like so many writers she is passionate, capricious and pretty much unaware of the sheer talent residing between brain and fingertips. She reminded me that I long to tell stories. It’s deeper than a simple passion to create fiction, to transport a soul to a stellar place for a moment or a day. It is beyond my worth or identity as one person on the planet. There is a deeper burn at my core to connect those dots into something beyond now.
My little genealogy habit, maligned by my family and fueled by those heinous shaky leaves, is simply another expression of who I am as writer. It isn’t so much DOB, DOD get ‘er done click mcfamily as it is the story of the life rediscovered.  How sad that a legacy becomes a few scribbled lines on the back of a grimey data sheet, or a tic mark on a census.  I want to know why your mother’s name is nowhere to be found in the remnant electrical ghost of you. I want to know about your twin sisters, the ones that came state side with you – and then disappeared from the scant information I’ve found on the family.
I live in a community where families are still saturated in cultural identities they brought with them four hundred years ago. Yet I, for all my alacrity with technology and my ferreting skills can’t prove the identity of a maternal great grandparent. It disturbs my heart that someone’s little girl, someone’s mother is reduced to a simple granite marker. And so I continue to search. There is always that hope that I will find the story, the human, the life that mattered. And to be blunt – maybe I will find the arc in the storyline to prove that I matter as well.
We are story tellers for so many reasons. Perhaps you are the voice of those who no longer have the opportunity to speak. Write the story, then. No matter how simple it may be now, give it a generation to cure appropriately. It could be priceless for someone else. You may never know the end result and that’s ok. Just write it down…and do it now.

Peace. 

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