I intended to have my regular post ready for today, but I’m in between contracts again, and catching up on about three months’ unattended laundry and other spring cleaning.
So, I’ll break tradition a bit, in a mostly formal blog, and tell you instead about a dream I had last night.
It was about a favorite aunt—elderly at the time, and a great former pal of mine—who passed away, four Mays ago.
I dreamed of her sitting at her kitchen table, as she used to with my kids. All week-long, she would save children’s stories from our local newspaper and read them to the kids, whenever they visited.
At the end of each visit, she would open the door to her kitchen pantry. There, you could see the pencil and different-colored pen marks, showing the kids’ names and heights, spanning a few years. And she would add another entry, to this living narrative.
When I woke up this morning, I could almost hear her asking…
What stories are you reading—telling—making? Are they stories to grow by?
So, how are you measuring progress?
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