It may sound rather silly, but I'm sure one thing that truly scares me is having my stories grow old. My mind and heart are filled with stories of foreign countries, sunrises, wild animals, extreme experiences, finding friends, places of happiness and humor. Will these memories and moments become a burden to me? Will anyone listen to my stories? When I am old, will I be able to remember my own stories? Will I remember how I felt?
The real reason I've thought of this seemingly odd fear I have developed is because I constantly get asked the same question. One a have grown to despise: "What's new?" I used to enjoy that question because I would have many fresh stories to tell about recent experiences. Now, it's a guarantee that I can answer that question in one word rather than in a series of stories strung together. That word is: nothing.
In the last three months, literally nothing 'is new'. I drive to and from work each day. My excitement comes from passing the same guy on the highway each day before and after school. I get excited to come home before it's dark out. I look forward to cutting our jungle lawn. If I'm lucky, I might have time to watch a show on Netflix.
This is my life now. I love my job, but as for a personal life, things are pretty bleak. It can't help that I live in a desolate town. Maybe it only seems this way as I have gone from one extreme (living in a city with four-point-some million people) to another (living in Saskatchewan).
Whoops, let's get back on track here. My fear, ah yes. Another way I have discovered that this is a fear of mine are moments I have where it's a perfect time to tell a story. I can jump into that conversation with "that reminds me of when I was living in Melbourne and..." or "We did something similar to that in New Zealand..." Recently, I have found that those who are listening don't really seem to care. Perhaps I'm a bad story-teller or maybe the listeners find it hard to connect with my stories. Maybe I have already told them this story? Are they annoyed that I keep starting sentences with "This time in Australia"? I have suddenly developed a guilt and a bit of anxiety to tell my stories. I feel bad for sharing them instead of being excited and happy. I'm finding that I am keeping more of my stories to myself these days so that I don't have to feel the guilt of sharing or mask my distress of their disinterest.
I have twenty-something years worth of stories. Even if no one wants to listen to my stories or briefly share in my experiences, the great thing is that I have had these experiences. My stories are special and unique. No one else has them. I won't let my stories be a burden. I will not fell guilty for sharing a story. I will enjoy the fact that at this moment, I can remember all my stories and they ways I felt through each story and experience.
The most precious thing I have are all my stories. It's maybe all I have. Without my stories, what would I really have. I am so grateful to have all my stories. The fear of loosing my stories comes from the very fact that without my stories, I am nothing.
