I Yearn for Yarns, Photo by BradensEye ever tangled with Miracle Designs

There is terrific spunk in the lawless ability to chronicle our narrative. Inside every strand of life is a story to be told. The snobbery of life appoints our attention ought to be dedicated elsewhere. Curbing stories stamps any sloshing between your filth or frankness colliding with my own. Some of us need more light or extra rations of water. Perhaps your neighbor is a frisky functioner provided the ample doses of air. I sustain a prolonged prancing pace with gulps of sea breath blotted by cumulus cloudy sun-splotched skies in the formidable Fahrenheit field of the eighties (made even more pivotal by a dosage of the same numerical era musical tunage). With ineffable alacrity, I believe in tending overgrown gardens jammed with fertile human soil. Lacing traces of our timeline together is similar to the healing hooks knitters know through years of looping. Set your fibers into a weave of unbridled yarning.

Stories are a communal currency of humanity. ~Tahir Shah, In Arabian Nights: A Caravan of Moroccan Dreams

Stories are my scotch. While I’m no longer the tippling type, I can stitch just as many conversational hours swapping history as those sipping at any dive bar, den, dinner table or swanky hotel nook. I’ve caught myself drunk on worship when plain fondness left the building. According to the pretend bookshelves flanking my father’s reading room, a good telling is not hard to come by. Thousands of hardcover and paperback tales are neatly sandwiched on top of one another, in side by side rows, fashioning a wall in front of most existing walls, stacked to near-human heights. As he’s affirmably raised another voracious reader, mutually we know the bounty of so many superb sagas. It’s what we do with our sense of community, through binding connections, that serves to ensnare our personal prose. The soap operas we are, from every anecdote to academically strong song, pattern the fables, fairytales, myths, and legends alike of who we will become.

Sometimes reality is too complex. Stories give it form. ~Jean-Luc Godard

If evolution is too radical a mirror, we may remain wrapped in our chrysalis. Insulated with clemency, we’re pardoned from conspiratorial authenticity. Contempt has always had a checkered past. Straight facts can appear as obscurely philosophical ghosts. Therefore, we have faith in the romantic comedy and pray that drama abides in convicted chambers alone, but might bring in the spine-tingling horror story. As I stretched my thoughts all the way out across the backyard fence, the fabric of my life teetered in the breeze. I wanted to see it all on high against the bubblegum-blue sky backdrop. Here, I felt the wobbles would lift my eyes beyond my normal five-foot view. Appearances articulate our scars alongside pride. The more relatable you are the less treason results crossing your frontiers. Are you producing noteworthy non-fiction or fiction flawed with fantasy? How we’re living shapes how revered we’re being.

Those who tell the stories rule the world. ~Hopi Tribe proverb

Stories have helped me save a few souls from themselves. I’ve gently nudged stronger numbers than a few young women caught before a life seated solely behind a desk, between the sheets of someone who doesn’t remember their name, or yet unwilling to command the quivers of seismic empowerment. I’ve found the presentation of sweeping sparkles is exhibited quite frequently in the lining of our lives when we’re purely unrestrained uniqueness. Given half the chance to dare on dreaming while awake, casting many conventions aside, the swagger from enhanced vigor is a mighty receptive reward. Our stories unite us in times of need or desire. We attach meaning as an association when we know someone else’s diary. Oral tradition has long been preserved by native tribes and cultures alike. The sharing we craft through storytelling truly spills unto creating the combinations that render our propagation. Talk about archiving!

The human species thinks in metaphors and learns through stories. ~Mary Catherine Bateson

When I set sail to college, I wanted to return to my small town with supernatural escapades. I’d picture myself and strand grand ideas vociferously: a valedictorian speech to a cheering crowd, living on another continent, a Nobel Prize, or a best-selling book. I’ve consistently dreamed loudly. I had this idea that if I could ‘get out’ of wherever I was then big things would happen for me. I could bring my amplifications and acquirements back to this little space to invest their rhetoric inside the minds of those unable, or unthinking, to presume the challenges for themselves. For me, it was about blending my wanderthirst into a shake of voyagism for the masses. Einstein minds and seafaring pioneers or pirates were all a part of the travel virus from which I hoped to never be cured. But it was furthermore that I was aware I would flourish. Then, if I could take you with me ~ through my stories upon return if you were not there live ~ I was on to something better! Elaboration for whatever reasons is often where discourse turns to education. The internet has opened us to new knowledge heights. No longer must we wait upon our own kin or clans to share a good word. Toy with your twining. Do not permit a threadbare embellishment of your story. Go tell your truth on a mountain, or let it seep between the soup and salad courses. Dish and describe finding you will succeed with a well-embroidered parable.

Great stories happen to those who can tell them. ~Ira Glass

Let your plot thicken, while forever spinning your yarns.

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