My story — and I’m sticking to it — is that everybody has the right to tell his-story or her-story.
Last night, people in my therapy group told many important and interesting stories. As an exercise, I suggested that we each create and illustrate our own personal book — building that story in just twenty minutes!
Here’s the story I created in group last night:
These other images were part of my story yesterday:
How would you tell your story in just twenty minutes? What might be the background music for your story?
This storied song was part of my story, yesterday:
I always end the story of each of these daily posts with gratitude for all who help me write my story and for those who read it — especially you!
The Year(s) of Living Non-Judgmentally 
My blog is my story. But I don’t tell it all 🙂
Who does?
Wait. What?
🙂
I often feel my story is so mixed up – no one could possibly believe the truth.
Most stories are mixed up. Do you believe the truth? ❤
I love the book, and the continuation of it.
I sometimes tell my story on my blog. But my blog is sometimes interpretation of what I see in life. Which, I suppose, is also then part of my story. But I like that I mix up how I tell my story. And how I sometimes don’t tell it.
I love all of it, Colleen. ❤
…and she lived happily ever after, in light and love, filled with gratitude and appreciation for all those who relected light and love right back to her.
Thanks for reflecting light and love, Ruth. ❤
Many moons ago I had a button that said “What’s this cat’s story?” I pulled it from a box of free buttons at a record store. I let it go when I was traveling light but the message is still with me: every cat has a story, and I want to know every story. And behind every story is another story. That reminds me of a story told in a poem called “Reading the Books Our Children Have Written” by Dave Smith, and these lines:
Later I get up and go down in darkness and find the hour they played
before they were scrubbed, before they brought me those faces.
There on the floor I find the stapled pages, the strange mild
countenances of animals no one has ever seen, the tall dark man
who writes an endless story of birds homeless in the night. They have
numbered every page, they have named each colorful wing.
They have done all this to surprise me, surprising themselves.
On the last lined yellow page, one has written This is a poem.
Under this the other has answered. See tomorrow.
Oh my. That’s fabulous.
I love these stories.
Me too.
The stories are that there have always been different parachute colors. As a Victorian (but African Kitty Queen with Bogey), it is my duty to ensure stories have a happy ending:
Now you two, remember that we are stronger together, always:
This was not my idea Grumpy, and Oscar, don’t you believe a word that comes out of that dethroned queen’s mouth!
Oh yeah?
What are these cats’ stories?
Too many stories I know, too many… I truly believe they have their dramas in life too.
Ann, Always a good end of the day here.
-Alan
I like that story of yours, Alan.
That’s a stumper, Ann. If someone gave me paper and markers, I’d think of something but it would only be a piece of the story, maybe a thread that runs through.
A piece of the story is a great beginning! ❤