Balloons float up in the sky along with our dreams. They rise ever higher until they either disappear or burst. Stories are like that. They either disappear with us, or they burst out into the world.
Deciding what to write is like choosing a balloon I wish to share. A story I don’t want to disappear with me. To share that balloon I have to burst it. The bursting can be hard. It can be enlightening. It can be a relieved pleasure or a forgotten pain. To share my story I have to burst its perfection and see what lies beneath.
Stories don’t have to written. Many are passed down from one generation to the next in families. Our family has plenty of them. Stories are told to friends over a coffee, they’re shared on social media, they’re laughed about in the pub…. Stories are how we tell others about our lives, experiences, beliefs, dreams and imaginings. Like balloons they have many sizes, shapes and colours.
What stories do I need to ‘burst’ before I die? What needs to be known by others? The time when I became the first woman to part in a mountain rescue in the Tatras? My mother’s spy father and her own forays into espionage? My father’s war stories? The story of the deep sea divers in Singapore? The time I met Stevie Wonder and he sang to me? Or maybe….?
There are so many… it becomes overwhelming and it seems so much easier to keep them whole and unbroken. What will burst out of them when they pop? Will it be glitter and sparkles or just a lot of stale, hot air?
Time to choose my next balloon.