The Importance of a Story
Our stories are what make us who we are; they shape us, break us, and teach us. My story isn’t glamorous, but it’s mine and so I write. More for me than anyone else, a way for me to continue to connect the dots of my life as it unfolds. Flashes of past that come forward in dreams or a scent or a sound and make sense as a true understanding of me as I am now.
One of my earliest memories is of my grandmother, Mary Glass, and myself but my family all called her Big Momma. I now know that my grandmother worked cleaning house for a white woman when I was a child. It was one of several jobs she had, as a single mother of 5. On this day, in particular, I remember her saying let’s go for a ride to pick up something. I put on my royal blue plush coat with the furry white collar and those toggle like buttons. I loved that coat. We took the bus to a building on Skinker, across the street from Forest Park in St. Louis, MO. When we walked up to the building I remember being in awe. I was 3 and the building was one of the tallest I had ever in my life seen. We entered through the front doors that were opened by a doorman and entered the elevator. The old kind with the gate that pulled closed, loudly. I remember holding my grandmother’s hand, a mixture of excitement, uncertainty, and wonder. When the door opened we walked to a door where we entered into what seemed like a grand place with beautiful hardwood floors that shined brightly, flowers on tables, light fixtures on the walls that gave off soft lighting, huge windows that allowed light in from all around. I remember my grandmother introducing me to the woman and her offering me a piece of candy from the crystal dish at the entrance of the home. I remember looking up at my grandmother who nodded it was okay and I walked to the dish, gently removed the lid, and took one piece of candy. The woman said you can have another and I took just one more. With a big smile on my face, I put the candy in my pocket, rejoined my grandmother, and taking her hand said thank you to the woman. Always a quiet child, I don’t remember speaking to anyone about that day. I just remember the feeling of knowing there was more in the world than what I had been shown so far in my life. And a sense of wanting to know what that more could be like. A seed was planted.
The next memory I want to share is of a 5-year-old me. We were still in St. Louis; my mother had married a man that was now my stepfather. They married when I was 3. All my life I called him by his name, never “dad”, but that is another story for another time. We lived in a townhouse in one of those townhome communities. I actually have so many memories of this place. It has always interested me that the majority of my memories there do not involve my immediate family. The memories that I cherish and that make me smile are those of friends and their families. And even more curious, it is many of those memories that seem to come forth in me as adult Candace. The two that I will share here involve an older woman that lived next door to us. Each summer her granddaughter would come to visit and for a few weeks, this girl and I would play. Often though there would be moments of sitting on the front porch with her grandmother. The woman would pull a piece of grass for each of us, and now I am wondering if it wasn’t grass, but some sort of herb. I remember her saying to suck on the end — it was sweet. As we sat there chewing on our grass, she would tell us stories of her childhood and we would listen and ask questions. There was something about these warm summer days sitting on the porch, listening, and laughing. Such simple times and it didn’t involve toys or clever things to hold our attention, but nature and stories. Another memory around this time involved two of my friends — Becky and Jaime. Jaime, like us, lived in a townhome in the complex, but Becky lived in a house behind us. To get to Becky’s we had to go up a hill and cross a short field. I remember the first day we went to Becky’s and as we crossed the field I saw them — horses. I had never seen a horse up close like this. Their beauty and their size amazed me and yet they were so gentle too. Becky gave each of us carrots and we stood there in the sun, feeding the carrots to the horses and then laying in the grasses. Nature had stolen my heart.
The last story I will share is more recent. It was during my first intensive during my life coaching training. We were doing an activity of drawing our first home. Simple right? Except that, for me it wasn’t. It wasn’t simple and in the end, was emotional. After hearing the other two people in my group show in so much detail their childhood homes that they had lived in since birth to 18 years of age, I started to question why it is so easy for me to detach from people, to pick up and leave at the drop of a hat. But when you are 7 years old and have lived in 5 different homes, it becomes easier to see. I couldn’t describe my home, because the homes –at least the first 3 — all blended together, bits and pieces of each. The longest amount of time I have ever spent in one home is 7 years and it was from 7–14 years of age. Since leaving home at 18, I can’t tell you how many homes I have lived in. A close friend joked when I decided to move to Tucson that she had never seen anyone get a house together — cleaned up, packed up, and sold as quickly as I had (one month total) well, I am well-practiced. This is true in the places I have lived and in my relationships too. It’s rare for me to feel truly connected to anyone or anything. This speaks volumes to who I am and my story, of how I lived and loved and longed for life. My evolution.
At this moment in my life, when so much of it fell away in July of this year, it is these pieces of me, these stories that have brought me to this place I am now. The core of me sees this life in pictures — like how a movie is shot, slices of life shown in slow motion with just the right music set in the background. The simplicity of nature calls to me, and this time, I listened and doing what I do so well, I packed up and left. This time though, I believe it was the BEST choice I have ever in my life made. I’ve realized just how much pain was in St. Louis for me. I needed to heal. I’ve heard the saying; “ You cannot heal in the same environment that made you sick.” I believe this to be true, at least for me. I realize that all that happened in my life in the Midwest was a vital part of my growth. But because of that, it could not be a part of how I continued to grow. This life I am living continues to amaze me and every day I am grateful for all that got me here.
Since moving to Tucson in September, I have been able to work through my grief. I’ve taken all that I have learned over time and continue to learn and have basically been coaching myself. I hope what I offer here is of use to you, dear reader. Please know that these are MY stories. You have your own story too. Together, we can help each other have a clearer understanding of our stores. Please feel free to reach out, to share, and to discuss. I absolutely love exploring this life. Welcome to Explorational Life Coaching.
