There are more than 7 billion people in the world. I believe there are more than 7 billion, billion stories to be told. Some people are masterful with the written word. Some stories can only be properly told orally or visually. Sometimes that story takes generations to find a conclusion. And sometimes they never do.

My mother used to say that she was not artistic. She felt that she couldn’t paint or write stories. And yet my mother’s story was told through her children. And even though she is gone, her story lives on. I happen to think it is a wonderful story. Especially the way it intertwines with mine.

My story does include paintings that have evolved as I have evolved. My story also includes writing. The very first poem that I ever wrote was:

Eyes like a Hawk

Ears like a fox

Legs like a deer

To run through the year

I may have been eight when I wrote this. But I was proud of it. And so were my parents. They encouraged me. But my angst got in the way and I didn’t write again for many decades. My mother’s father wrote poetry during World War I. We found the originals a few years ago. I thought they were quite spectacular but then I’m probably biased. He was my grandfather!

My brother and I both paint and we both write. Our forms are quite different. My sister doesn’t paint or write but she is an incredible party planner. We all have our strengths. And we all tell our story differently and to different people. It’s like bumblebees moving from blossom to blossom to pollinate. They deposit something and they take something away from each encounter. I guess you could say they spread the love. Our stories interact with others and in doing so becomes part of their story and theirs with ours.

We need each other to survive but it is our individuality that ensures that survival. The problem is that there are some people who don’t quite understand. As I have said in the past the ‘big picture’ is a mosaic made up of a lot of ‘little pictures’. And there are more than 7 billion of them. I wonder how many it would be if we were to count the stories of those who have gone.

As long as we remember those in our past they will live on. Their story will not die. Now is that not a form of immortality?