We hear stories, we see them, we sing them, we read them, we write them, we paint them, in blogs, in poetry, on canvas, with eBooks and hardbacks, with cameras and film, with banjos and oboes, in elevators, on planes, while running and cooking and knitting and clicking. We never get tired of listening and telling and watching and singing our stories. Our stories. For everyone. The rest have no passion, no meaning, no bones. They chatter and fly with the wind. Ours move us, change us, reveal and stay from grandmother to daughter, from father to babe.
Happy Holidays to all!