Stories that matter

Our stories of matter should matter.
Stuff to stuff, spun by our own star, spinning together life from dead breath.

We are tied to the air and to the land. We are tied to the stuff that swirls into our bodies with ever breath.

We are made of air.
Our stories once reminded us who we are, they now serve to sever us from anything that reminds us of our own mortality.

Science starts with the ground we walk on. So I share the same stories over and over again.

Turns out the ravens may be sharing stories, too. We are not the only ones aware of those beyond our own skin.

As we forget, I find comfort knowing other creatures will remember long after we've left.

A shore thing

Late December, the back bay, still autumn-warm, gets blown up the beach by the stiff breeze, and washes my feet. 

"I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas."TSE

A shell on the beach, once alive, now falls apart in the dull sunlight, its intricate markings still telling stories.

Winter break is marked by the long shadows of mid-day, as good a time as any to wonder what matters.

The point of education, the only point, really, is to learn how to live a life that matters. Education itself matters no more than the swirls etched on a dead oyster's shell.

It's the stories we read from that shell that define who we are.

If our biggest concern is how well our children do on abstract national standards, we've lost our way.

I'm taking my kids to the edge of the sea in May to help them rediscover the stories that matter.