Why We Need Stories

On Saturdays during this time, I've been going to work. I pour my second cup of coffee as Mike comes in from his morning run and we high five (usually just figuratively because eww…sweaty hands,) and I head upstairs to my office (usually my bed under the covers because comfort and also because my office does not have a door that blocks out the sounds of zoo animals, I mean children.) 

On Saturdays, I write.

We’re on week 10 (11? Let me consult my calendar I haven’t looked at since early March. Oops, I deleted it off my phone to preserve memory for all those new social conversation apps. Okay, 10, but it surely feels like more.) 

I love this routine. 

And (there is always an "and") I miss my coffee shops. I miss the buzz of the latte machine. I miss the chatty clerks and the friends reconnecting. I miss being amongst other people without ever having to have a conversation. 

I miss their stories.

I don’t know their stories, of course, but I love to make them up. 

I’ve always done this. I learned it from my mom, De De, which is why we call them "De De stories." Mike teases me about it, saying I’m being "nosy." We will be out to eat and he will attempt a conversation only to notice my eyes not on his. "You’re spying again, aren’t you?" "I’m not spying. I’m just observing and listening." I dispute, although I come on a bit strong.

I think it is natural to crave stories. Even when we don’t know them, we make it up. Stories connect us to people no other way can. 

This is why I miss my coffee shop stories. I miss seeing people and "learning" their stories, even if it is all in my imagination. 

When I’m out now, I don’t linger. My mind is focused on moving, keeping appropriate distance, trying to take deep breaths behind the impossible suffocating mask. I don’t spend a lot of time watching people, wondering what they are doing, learning their stories just by observing. It’s hard to feel connected when you are so far apart.

I’m not sure if it was the well made latte I craved, the desire to escape the same walls I have stared at every week, or the stories I missed. Whatever it was, when I was time head to work this morning, I felt the desire to be around other people. I needed to take my office elsewhere. I grabbed my charged laptop, stopped off at the local coffee shop for a latte and croissant to go, and then parked my car with a view of the buzzing running path around the still lake.

It is here that I sit now, writing, as if it’s not the mini-van I once used to tote children around the city but my seat in a busy coffee shop with my fellow patrons. It is cold today, but as the sun rises higher in the sky, my car warms.

And all the while, I watch and I wonder. 

I watch a dad slow jogging in jeans behind his young son weaving back in forth trying to maintain control over his bike like it’s the first time on two wheels. A nervous and yet thrilled grin spreads across the boy’s face. He doesn’t know his dad radiates the same expression, arms postured anxiously but smile radiating joy. I wonder when our children notice our pride and fear all wrapped up into one. 

I see the group of friends jogging 6 feet apart. They all carry water packs. I wonder if they were continuing their training for the race they will not get to run. I think about the races I’ve done in the past, how disappointing that might be to have a dream taken away. I also wonder if I would have the courage to keep going. 

I watch the brothers in their driveway playing basketball. Neither of them are very good. They laugh at each other, and I think how I was with my siblings, teasing out of love. Later they run inside for a minute and return with skateboards before disappearing down the road together. They look like friends, not siblings. And I think maybe how they are both of these, especially now. I think of my own brother and sister. I miss them.

At one point a woman comes out onto her porch and shouts across the street to where a boy sits in the park. "William! What are you doing? You have to tell me if you are going to cross the street!" She is trying to keep a calm voice but I hear both relief and annoyance. I am glad to know other mothers share my free range parenting push and pull. 

I see a woman get out of her car with a book and make her way to the shore. Shortly after a man leaves his car with a guitar case in hand. I imagine them both seeking the same rest and retreat from their families and their homes that I search for today.

I watch the mother and tween daughter, roller blading and chatting. The child is wearing a volleyball shirt. I wonder if she misses her teammates. I wonder if her mom misses them too. But they also both look happy to be together. l think how sometimes I fear that age and yet sometimes it looks beautiful. 

I see the rowers, fresh off the lake, loading up their long boats onto their small cars. They glow, with sweat and happiness—to be alive, to move their bodies, to see friends, teammates they haven’t seen in weeks, to be able to do the thing they so long to do at a time when it feels like so little is available to us. 

I realize I am doing the same.

David Sedaris says that a good storyteller is a good observer. 

"And you have to kind of be tuned in, but every now and then your subject comes just right to you and sits in your lap. And if you're awake, you think, wow, there it is, right there-- the thing to write about. And you can pretty much guarantee that if you're sitting at home and you're just online all day…that nothing's going to come and sit in your lap. You need to be in the world and you need to be engaged with the world."

When we observe the stories around us, we grow more curious. We watch. We wonder. We connect. We learn more about humanity, and in turn we learn about ourselves. 

I don’t know the true stories of the people I watch on the lakefront today. I don’t know their thoughts or their history. I could be, likely am, very wrong. But experiencing their stories heals me. It makes me feel apart of something, to feel together, even while apart. 

Maybe this is why I write. So I can let others in on my life experiences, so you can say "me too, I’m glad I'm not alone" or "wow, I never thought of it that way" or "that is so different than me, thank you for sharing." So we can feel connected.

Recently I saw a post from another writer friend on Instagram. Her family lives on a farm and it was growing season. I love to watch her family on the farm, how their lives integrate, how they teach us so much about our connection to the earth and to God. It is so different from my family’s experience and I find it beautiful, inspiring. "I love watching your life." I told her. Then she responded with "I think the same about yours. I have always imagined myself being a city girl." This struck me. We live different stories, and yet still find value in experiencing another person’s story. 

I am a part of a writing group but have never met a single person. And still, I feel connected because they share their stories. I discover I am not alone in the struggle of parenting and the pursuit of creativity. I celebrate friends with big accomplishments and friends with small discoveries. I cry with those who have lost babies or miss loved ones. I learn what it’s like to plant a farm, or move from another country, or pursue creativity while working full time. Some stories are the same as mine, while others’ very different.

It opens my eyes and draws me in, making me feel like we are together, even while we are apart. This is why we need to tell our stories, to be heard, to learn, to listen, and to ultimately feel connected.

A man works outside of his home in his yard. He spent most of his morning raking and now he bags the waste into tall brown bags. He looks up at me, and makes eye contact. I realize now he has probably watched me all morning. He likely has wondered why this woman is sitting in her car, alone, staring at a computer screen. I wonder what story he is telling himself about me.

I hope it’s a good one.

Image created by @phoenixfeatherscalligraphy for C+C, 2020

This post was written as part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to read the next post in this series "Together, Apart".

PS. Don’t forget to sign up for my newsletter the Raise & Shine Letter for more of my stories, so we can feel together even while apart.