By Michelle A. McLemore

Once upon a time, within the swirling molecules of space, the Creator drew forth a deep breath of every color of energy and blew it into a clear, nearly spherical bowl. S(he)/we swirled the bowl gently, lovingly watching the sparkles of energy coalesce and cascade, mixing every possible setting, every conflict, every character, and every archetype. Then S(he)/we gently rolled the bowl out away from its BEing.

The particles tumbled out slowly across the ethers, haphazardly spilling the glittering contents a bit here, a bit there, stretching across infinity and back. The brilliance drizzled down and lit here upon water, there upon land; here upon mountain, there upon valley; here upon city, there upon village; here upon the woke, and there upon the dreamer. Storytelling was born. And it was good. And it became essential.

The sleeper woke and mused over his night visions. Puzzled or awed, he would inevitably relate what he saw, what he felt, to another and they may have divined meaning.

Later, dusk drew the corners of night around her and tucked in the corners. Low fire light danced and threw shadows, stirring the imagination, exciting whispers of mysterious occurrences in the woods, in the waters, and in the skies. How had life come to be? Explanations were proposed. Cause, action, conflict, characters, and the stories built.

When the children fussed, someone would sit with them at bedside and share of times of calm, of intrigue, of lessons learned to nurture peaceful rest and protection. Were these personal memories masked in elaborate names and metaphors? Possibly. Were they ancestral stories passed across generations proven to aid growth and peace of the spirit? Possibly. And no matter how many sparkles were woven into stories, each speaking multiplied, and further distributed, the cosmic colorful energy of the creation.

Cave walls to art galleries, murals displayed stories and expression. Moments were captured in crushed berry pigment and oils, and the stories remain though the artists have turned to dust sparkles themselves.

Centuries rolled on. Until here we are, a “civilization” that has at times lost its humanity. Lost much of its sparkle. Lost its voice for deep sharing and creating, ironically despite the plethora of social media blastings that occur every second. Looking back, I, too, fell prey to what I suspect is a common myth many of us adopt as we age: “No one wants to hear my life stories, let alone my dreams, or creations. I have nothing useful to share.”

Somewhere in growing up, discerning how to safely and effectively navigate business and society, I had learned to package myself as a listener, a recorder, and reflector for others. I watched My Fair Lady too many times.

A lady doesn’t give in to rambling. Silence is graceful and intriguing. “God gave us two ears to listen and only one mouth, so we should listen twice as much as we talk.” Proverbs 17:28, “Even fools are thought wise if they keep silent, and discerning if they hold their tongues.”

The more common take you might have heard? “Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and to remove all doubt.” “Children should be seen and not heard.” “Still waters run deep.”

These were the messages filtering through society, television, and books as I was growing up. And in the midst of all these suggestions, we taught ourselves—some to the point of bare survival—to suppress the innate drive in all of us to examine existence—the cosmos within as well as without—and spin out the elements weaving the tale through breath to create understanding, mystery, or more questions. These are, and always have been, a necessary action to create balance, heal, and discover new possibilities about what it means to live and be alive.

Story telling wasn’t meant to be competitive. It was to build bridges of understanding, of experiences, and of imaginative potential—to unite, not divide; to invite others into our experiences, to assist empathy and understanding while peeking into others’ struggles; to see the best and the worst we can be so we can choose to lean into struggles that are worth it and to discern which rocky paths do not always have to be followed.

I believed I was content as a listener and recorder. I journaled to preserve my memory, my emotions, actions, and observations. Yet, over the years, I noticed my throat began tightening up when I felt strong emotion. I was strangling myself—keeping in and down expression of my experiences and that which moved my spirit. (Because again, my thoughts on others’ situations were…irrelevant. Right?). And in swallowing silence, I disrupted the intended energy flow between sacral chakra, solar plexus, and my throat chakra.

I spoke less—or less of anything of personal experience. I sang even less than that. I began to feel Jackie Draper paper thin, useful only as a fixed role—static character to support others as the protagonists of their own stories. Listening without challenging was, after all, the traits of a good friend, co-worker, teacher, step-mom, wife. (Are you too collecting and storing your experiences in an unlit cave barring entrance and exits?)

The body eventually rebels—it does know what is best for you. I began to question, at what point could, or should, we muster the courage to share a memory with a sibling, child, or grandchild? To vocalize a beautiful memory? To recount a struggle and insight with a neighbor or work mate who may be going through or coming upon a similar situation? Why do we withhold experience that may provide others with a light to navigate by–even if it is to see options. Different perspectives exist and that is a beautiful truth of reality. We have choice in how to perceive situations, how to respond to situations, how to proceed with our energy. Story telling for the transmission of thought, concerns, insights, and caution is the oldest most natural, inherent—and I would argue—most necessary transmission mode.

Personal reflection is good. This reflection time—and hopefully it occurs multiple times—allows review of the rich and varied story lines we’ve walked, conversations we’ve shouted, held in, imagined, cried, sang, shouted, and whispered. We can review mountains we’ve climbed and deserts we’ve crawled through; times we’ve been rescued and times we’ve rescued others physically, emotionally, spiritually, or mentally and may never have even known it. There were waiting times (as Dr. Seuss immortalized) and there were flurries of burning the candle at both ends like Millay. We’ve observed significant moments through others. We have oceans of content in each of our lives for hundreds of stories. And yet, of our reflections, how often do we share?

In this age of AI creation, I am concerned that we will become even more removed from the natural human need to create and share our personal stories and those of our communities. Life can be stranger than fiction but also more rewarding with insights, movement of the soul, and inspiration.

The other day, I met an old high school friend for coffee. At one point she took a breath and told me that in some of her toughest moments, she remembered my face from a track relay race we ran. From her view watching me run the last several yards of the third leg, she described my contorted face, striving with every fiber. And she commented, “That face would come to my mind in the years after that, and I’d tell myself that’s the depth I had to strive—to push through” whatever life challenge was bearing down without mercy.

We both teared up and I reached out to hold her hand. Then, I related that she had been my inspiration. She was the final leg in our relay team. I had lost ground for our team running on a broken leg (though we didn’t know it until later). She regained what advantage I lost, and she pushed beyond other teams gaining us a medal.

My voice wobbled a bit as I related my memory. After the race, I had collapsed in a bathroom stall in pain. I heard her come in, collapse in the next stall, and wretch over and over again. In my mind, she had pushed beyond pain finding a deeper drive to not only finish but push her body and spirit to a point of achievement that I couldn’t fathom reaching yet could respect and admire. I was in awe of her and mortified that my limitations had put more pressure on her run.

It was one race with two different perspectives. Two lives inspired from one moment in time. One moment shaping each characters’ development for thirty years. We were each blessed and humbled hearing the others truth spoken.

That should be written in my memoirs. That is something I would like my former students, children, and grandchildren to remember—that regardless of how we feel others may be thinking about a moment of our life, the truth may actually surprise you.

With every breath we impact something or someone. With each minor decision—conscious and unconscious—we may inspire, disillusion, entice, repel, and each person will perceive the moment as they will. We will be a hero to some, a wizened mentor, a haughty bully, a stock comic, a nurturing parent, a trusted companion, or possibly even a fairy godmother. And though we should not live our lives for how others may perceive us, our stories and chapters should be reflected upon. We can revise our thoughts, our habits, our tendencies so the next chapter goes a bit differently. We can brainstorm quests we’d like to experience to enrich or deepen our existence, remembering all the while that there is no perfect story line. Every story has conflict. It is part of the Divine origin intended to challenge, sharpen, and develop the characters.

And you may hear or feel, “It isn’t my story to tell. It might upset some people.” To that I say, “my bologna has a first name, it’s B-u-l-l-s-h–.”

You are a fountain of epithets, poems, songs, fables, plays, memoirs, screenplays, and novels. You hold the key to questions next generations will have, though they do not realize it just yet as they are caught up in trying to learn what it means to be an adult and battling the old world and new world perceptions of what that means. You are in the position to encourage storytelling again with the young, within your own family, and community to release what has been held and holding loved ones down for decades. Perhaps, once again, families and friends could gather and share out loud funny times, inspiring times, questions about mysteries, lessons learned, and dreams. Don’t forget the dreams.

Sharing our stories, our moments of humanity (not just the successes and not just the failures or sorrows) energetically helps us heal and creates room for more experiences. If you aren’t used to sharing your personal life out loud with others, perhaps journal a pleasant moment—something as simple as sitting outside and really noticing your surroundings through all your senses. What comes to you? What do you discover? How do you feel? Each feeling has its worth. Your story may not begin with, “Once upon a time,” but it could. It could simply start with, “The other day I noticed….” Then, work it into a conversation. It is sharing for the sake of sharing. Let your voice sing and share as it was meant to. Unite your sacral chakra, solar plexus ,and throat so your soul and existence can breathe full and deep and expand. Give your experience and expression the voice it has ached to use and may it land on ears that will be enriched or challenged by it. Regardless of its reception, your job is only to give it freedom—to whisper it to the ethers where its sparkling colors will be borne aloft on the breath of life once again.

Michelle McLemore is a freelance writer, energy practitioner, and stress management guide for schools, businesses, workshops, and one-on-one clients. Her background as an English, history, psychology, and writing teacher aids in personalizing client self-care and boosting balance and vitality. She hosts in-person and virtual classes a few times a year. Learn more at michellemclemore.com or facebook.com/MichelleMcLemoreHealingGuide.