Telling Stories

I think women love to share their stories, the stories that have shaped them, the stories that perplex them, the stories that are both finished and unfinished. That is partly why novels are read largely by more women than men.
My strongest and deepest friendships revolve around the ability to share stories, current and past, and feel accepted and loved. It involves revealing struggle as well as joy in those stories and to expect not only understanding and connection, but new perspectives that help one to change, shift, and rethink positions, attitudes.

A has been my friend for over thirty years and one of the most desirable things about living in California has been her geographic accessibility. We were together yesterday for the third time in the six weeks I have been here. It's delicious time, rewarding us with a sense of unique energy that abounds between us.

We have been friends since my daughter was almost as young as my grandson is now, three years old. Yesterday A told me some valuable stories about her daughter's youth and her son's. The stories were poignant illustrations of A's parenting skills, of not responding in prescribed ways to typical childhood issues.

A's daugther who is now in her thirties, complained as a five year old, that she had never been a flower girl like her friends in a wedding. A asked her what it was that made her unhappy. What a good question! Instead of explaining why she had not been a flower girl or trying to change her feelings of unhappiness she asked her to analyze what exactly made her feel badly.

It turned out, of course, that the DRESS was the main thing! She wanted one of those frilly dresses that came with being a flower girl. So A bought taffeta and lace and sewed her daughter a flower girl dress which was then worn happily in and out of the forest surrounding their house in the woods of Maine.