I read somewhere that, in the Jewish tradition, THE SHORTEST DISTANCE BETWEEN A HUMAN AND GOD IS THROUGH A STORY.
Well, I’m looking for that short distance. I’m looking for a story. And I’m always looking for that pathway to God.
I also read that a former vice president of Disney said that if you “scratch the surface in a typical boardroom, we’re all just cavemen with briefcases, hungry for a wise person to tell us stories.”
I love stories. I love to read them. I love to write them—My own and those of others. I haven’t stopped writing—not really. But, over the past year, I’ve been somewhat MIA from this blog. My excuse, I suppose, is that I’ve just been living my story. My daughter suggested that the restructuring of A Restructured Life might have already taken place. Maybe I’ve just restructured and moved on.
But, probably not. We’re always in a state of restructuring, aren’t we? Of becoming. Of perfecting.
So…where have I been?
We went to Israel in the spring with my daughter and son-in-law. I found a story there that was elemental, that was real. I walked in the footsteps of Jesus. I’m not sure if you can get more real and elemental than that. I want to go back and spend more time walking in the steps of the Rabbi.
I’ve been taking lessons on how to compose music and write lyrics. It’s creative; it’s fun; and, hopefully, I’m warding off early traits of senility. The problem is I can’t seem to get that whole syntactic arrangement thing down. That’s okay. Whatever I can absorb is what is meant to be.
My summer was relaxed and plentiful. Because I live in Texas, summers are also miserably hot. But our garden flourished with tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, zucchini. The fruit orchard that my Gentleman Farmer Husband has so painstakingly thought out and planted and nurtured is now becoming seriously established. There is something immensely satisfying about not venturing out to other exotic (and less hot) places but, rather, staying close to home and reaping what you have sown.
I am also still working on my sleepy little town’s history—the History of Simonton, Texas—and finding that there are some amazingly significant stories that took place in this small but unknown neck of the woods.
Now that school days are upon us, I am homeschooling my thirteen-year-old granddaughter. She attends a homeschool classical academy two days a week (three days with me), and the curriculum is rigorous and unbelievably advanced. In the first four weeks we’ve already studied The Epic of Gilgamesh, the Code of Hammurabi, cuneiform writing, Egyptian myths, and Mesopotamian trade and agricultural practices.
Stories. Oh, my!
Stories, it seems are what life is all about. They are a form of history that travel from one generation to another. Without story you have not got a nation, or culture, or civilization. Even the Ancients knew that. We can learn dry historical facts and data about any given era in history. But, it’s the stories passed down through the ages that tell the truth of who we humans are. The ancient stories are valid. They are fully human stories of who people were, of what their culture was built upon, of what God or gods they believed in and worshipped. They connect us to them in powerful ways. And it is to our benefit to try to understand these tales, because they tell us who we are, where we’ve been, what we believe, why we fear and why we can trust.
So, yes, I’ve been MIA for awhile. But, that’s okay. I’m working on my own story in life. Don’t know where it will lead or how it will end. But I’m just living it.
Tomorrow is another day. Perhaps another blog. Or…Perhaps, I’ll just wait until I really feel I have something to say. That may be awhile.
But, that’s okay.
Because, I am looking for Stories. My own and those of others. Those really great Stories of Life.