through a series of synchronicities, i found myself telling stories at an adult foster care home on monday evening.

it was a success!

they loved my stories, and were inspired to share some of their own stories (a brave pup who was found frozen in a trap and beat the odds to bring joy to her new family, a brave grandpa who was attacked by a bear while logging and brought home both his load of wood and the bear).

i loved doing it, and felt like an official storyteller.

for the remainder of that evening, my heart was tender.

it always is when i share work that comes from my heart & soul.

but my heart was tender for another reason: i realized that i have not been valuing my stories.

i love my stories, unreasonably & exceedingly.

often, they make me giggle. sometimes, they make me cry. i think they are worth telling.

they aren’t all fantastic, to be sure. some of them are even quite terrible. and since no one thing is right for everyone, i don’t expect everyone to love them.

at the same time, on some level, i have discounted my stories – because it is me that is telling them.

telling stories comes so naturally & effortlessly to me that i think it must be like that for everyone.

but maybe, just maybe, telling stories feels natural & effortless to me because i have spent hours .. years .. decades.. telling them or preparing to tell them.

and even if i didn’t, why does it matter? why do i discount myself, or discount my stories, just because there is ease in the telling.

so here’s to the things that we do with ease.

may they ever-increase our capacity for joy + ease + pleasure.