Struggles and Strife

Many times I’ve tried to simplify my life, clean up, live with a small footprint, do what I can to help others when they need it. And I do it. I live lean. I don’t own much. I garden for most of my food. But there’s one thing.

Books.

The last time we moved the container turned up on the back of the truck and contained – nothing! What do you think was the first words out of my mouth? Did it have to do with clothes (no, they were second, because I had an interview the next day!)? Or electricals? Furniture? Other stuff?

No. It was ‘My books!’

It didn’t mean just the books you find on shelves, although I lost most of the fiction and gardening books as well. It was the journals, the notebooks, the pads and printouts that had all my story notes. That’s what I meant. My books, as in my future, soon-to-be books, based on the notes and scribbles and stored characters that were once packed into that container.

I didn’t even care that I had to borrow the tiniest TV you’ve ever seen until the insurance came through, or that I had to sleep on the floor (it did have carpet, but was a bit scratchy), or that the huge cat-scratching post was replaced with the current carpet and my leg.

No. I only cared about the little bits of stories that were now consigned to … somewhere other than where they belonged.

It was a big moment (after I got over the bit of cranky temper tantrum and other stuff – I mean, who would want to steal our stuff?). I realised what was truly important in my life.

Why? Why put so much of my breathing and effort into telling stories?

Because there’s a lot in my life I’d like to share. Not in the honest, this really happened way, but in the way it’s been done through the eons – through story. I used stories with my foster kids (by the time they left, they could pick the salient points as soon as I spoke them – lesson well taken), I used stories with my employers (good code tells a story in a very specific direction, routes all mapped out), with my family (don’t tell me you’ve never omitted or added a bit of this and that to make the story more amenable to the audience), and so on.

We are creatures of story.

As an aside, I’m very glad we couldn’t get insurance on some of our book collections (they are irreplaceable now) because we packed them up in the car and trailer and brought them ourselves (it was summer, so no risk of rain). We still have those books. They have their own room. That room has one small desk, one chair, two trunks (yes, full of paper products that look a lot like words are printed on them), and four large bookshelves, and one half-sized that fits under the window. Filled to capacity. And on the tops. And books crept into the spaces between all these other things. Into the BIW (built-in-wardrobe). Into containers with lids that have something to separate the book from the plastic (see?). The desk cracked at one point, so a few books were removed to other storage locations.

Not one book goes on the floor. None are mishandled. They are pieces of a person’s soul, told in words of story (whether wholly factual or slightly embellished or any other form of misappropriation of the facts/evidence/truth – or even the fully unvarnished perception of the journey) so the story can be shared.

I value that more than any other thing in this world. A person’s story.

And now that I’ve said all that, I want to lead you to a person’s story that is worth reading.

RK Capps, Spades of Determination, a Locked in Journey.

Have a look at her story.

Yes, still basically out of action, but … you know … can’t help myself, had to do a few words. Maybe next week I’ll even be able to read all the peeps I follow. I hope so. Whatever happens, I’ll be back!