The Story of My Life

My granddaughters LOVE the band, One Direction. They are obsessed. They are die hard fans. They know their names. They know their songs. They know their likes and dislikes. Who their girlfriends are. Probably what they ate for breakfast. I went to their concert with them and watched in awe as they sang every song and danced energetically to the music like rhythm was teasing their soul to make its break onto the dance floor. It was a kaleidoscope experience – the music, the songs, their voices, their dancing all blending together in different concert colors and shapes. I smiled joyfully through the whole thing. A Moonflower Bloom moment….

“The Story of My Life” That was one of the few songs that I knew and yes, I sang it outloud with them, moving to the beat, feeling their infectious rhythm urging me to follow their lead. It was so much fun to see through the eyes of these girls of mine.

Although I have to admit – I really do like that song. I like the rhythm, their sound, and especially the message. And what I like about it is that every single one of us can relate. We each have a “story” of our life. One that is intimate, personal, and solely and selfishly ours. One that keeps us perpetually moving in the direction that we are going – where we are intended to go – where we are destined to be. Our own personal flight into the future.

A few years back, I put together my mom’s “story” in a photo video for her 90th birthday. I watch it occasionally when my soul yearns to hug the past. And I am amazed at the differences in our generations. Hers. Mine. My children’s. My grandchildren’s. Cherished photos that have been passed down from generation to generation. Black and white. Torn edges. Some yellowed with age. All those that tell a story of our lives, past and present. My grandparents when they were children – ladies in long dresses, hats, and gloves. Men on Sundays in their suits and hats, pulling horse driven buggies to church. My mother’s life flight from childhood through marriage, children, grandchildren, and great grand children. What a great story…

Another piece of my story comes from my dad’s Journals. He gifted us, unknowingly, with the “story of his life” in his own writing, penned in volume after volume of Journals that he kept since he was a young man. From the time I was a child through his last days, I remember watching him religiously sit in his chair and summarize the events of his day. It was a daily habit that we find so cherished now. All the years of his life in a bookshelf of Journals in his own unique penmanship. What a treasure to leave behind. One that he would never know we would cherish as we do. He did it so he would remember – the important things that he did, that he and Mom did. That his kids and grandkids did. It is all chronicled, faithfully and treasured in “Dad’s Journals”.

The photos coupled with the Journals give us and all future generations of our family an intimate peek at the story of their and our lives. The differences are amazing, spanning over more than 100 years and 4 generations. Even in just my own lifetime, the changes are overwhelming. When I was born there was no TV. No cell phones. No computers. Life was more private, centered around family, church, friends. Communication and news was slower, simpler, and less detailed. Less horrific. Less political. Less absurd. Less frightening.

In a lifetime of changes, where so much good can be done with the amount of knowledge and information that continues to be learned, how can so much evil and negativity dominate? And how much can the world tolerate this type of change and hold tight to the values, beliefs, and dreams that our ancestors held so close? That thought overwhelms me and plagues my dreams of a perfect world for all future generations of my family.

I ponder upon all of this and the stories that were my parents and grandparents lives and I cherishingly live my life, respectful of the fact that my own story began with theirs and that theirs were lives well lived. I honor their way of life, their simpler dreams, and want to preserve and hold tight to what they held so dear.

I still write letters.
I photograph everything.
I chronicle my life through my writing.
I love the country.
I watch sunsets.
I play outside.
I say my prayers every night.
I tell my own story.

I don’t want to let any piece that mattered most to them get lost in the exhaust of our flight into the future or be forgotten in this journey that we are on. I want all of my Moonflower Bloom moments passed on so that they become part of the life stories of all of my children and grandchildren.

When my son first read my Moonflower Blooms website, he told me:

“Mom, I love it. Keep it up. Tell your story.”

That’s exactly what I’m doing.

Simply yours,

6 comments on “The Story of My Life

  1. Love it!
    As I read all of your essays, my mind wanders to snapshots of Grandpa’s farm, days on a beach, planting my first flower garden with Dad…..
    I, too,
    I photograph everything
    I write letters and thank you notes
    I love unexpectedly lovely moments
    Dawn and dusk are my favorite times of the day
    I say my prayers before sleep
    And I can close my eyes and imagine the smell of the sea

  2. Can’t thank you enough for taking the time to sort through and assemble the photo video…it is appreciated so very much. My daughters treasure it as much as I. What a gift! Love, Your Sis πŸ™‚

  3. I’ll never forget that concert – all of us smiling and all of us dancing ☺️.
    Memories that last a lifetime.?

  4. You have me hooked and have only read this one story. I totally can relate to this story because,I, too took my granddaughter to their concert and brought back memories of the first time I saw my favorite boy band….The Beatles. Grandchildren keep us young and constantly thinking about our own childhood. Thanks for the memories!

    • Thanks, Gayle, for posting! We have so much in common with our lives, our roots, and our families. Those connections are so important to remember and to cherish. It’s so good to remain in touch with you.

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