Come, Share with Me Your Stories
by Mary Courtney Blake
I don't know how it is that I have become a writer. All through school, writing was the bane of my existence. In fact, I have been known to say that writing was the reason that I didn't go further into academia. The thought of writing long discourses on philosophical matter seemed annoying at best, painful and vexing at worst. I still feel this way, and yet, there are days where I am compelled to write, to share my stories, to create.
Most days, my creations have no known audience and yet I still create. Why is that, you may ask... why create for the void?
Creating is humanity's way of reaching out, of staring boldly into the face of death and daring to say that "I am more." It is our way of contending with eternity. The authority of the artist lies not in the power to shock, or even to create beauty, but in the ability to help us see beyond ourselves. Sharing our stories makes us more than who we are because it allows us to become a part of one another, to see more wholly.
Even in telling my stories I become more. Because, in the telling I find meaning and beauty where I found them lacking before. I have to organize my thoughts and examine my heart. This sort of self-reflection that is focused outwardly helps us to release both joy and pain, to no longer harbor these things within ourselves. It is like painting a beautiful painting, but not knowing who will see it or how it will speak to them. The only thing that the artist knows is that she must paint. Her heart compels her to create, to speak, to connect... to present her stories. Once presented, these things can stand on their own for the world to witness. We can see them more objectively and celebrate them for what they are for now they are outside of us.
So here it is, my painting. I urge you, dear readers, release your stories and find your voice. Not so that you can scream and never listen, but so that you can whisper and move the mountains in the souls of man.
