RobArt Penguin

I like to tell stories–probably why I like writing. Too often my kids, who are grown, tell me that I’m telling the same stories they’ve already heard. They tell me, that even after they inform me of my repetition, I continue anyway too many times. But I try to improve myself and in deference to their concern, I usually ask if they have heard the story I am about to tell, and I stop if they have. I suppose the story telling rises from a sense of nostalgia, remembering days when I was more active or had exciting adventures. My current life is relatively calm. No one wants to hear that I wrote another page of my book, took the dog out, vacuumed the carpet and washed the dishes. I’d rather revisit my swashbuckling days as a corporate lawyer. But I only have so many tales, I guess. My repetition reminds me of my mother who, in her last years, only related to us with worn out stories. She had become solitary, occupying her days with reading and watching soap operas. Unfortunately, we tuned her out while she retold stories from decades ago. I’d like to follow a different path, be someone who has more than old tales to define myself. I don’t want to be tuned out. So, somehow I must become forward looking, create new life stories, and save the repetition for the day I’m 95.