There was a woman who figured out who she was – a storyteller. She told stories to entertain and to educate. She lived stories in her dreams and journeys. She had many adventures on the planet where she was born. She made friends with a myriad of the magical and mystical. She splashed in rivers, listened to winds howl, and felt the warmth of the morning sun. She heard birds sing, wolves howl, and cougars scream. She made friends with rocks, meadows, and mountains.
She wandered from town to town, village to village, house to home. Sometimes she wondered if she were lost. She sought her purpose and her place. Slowly, ever so slowly, she felt the truth quietly seep into her bones. Wandering was her place. The ever-lasting journey of the seeker. She met many along the road – observed and learned. Each new face came with a new story. She delighted in every one just as she delighted in the aromatic pages of her favorite books.
You know the ones. Ones that are filled with tales of a wee bairn being stolen, or a hero being tested. The types of stories once told at the hearth with bright eyes gleaming with the flicker of firelight.
Through the millennia, lifetime after lifetime, she passes by, peering in the windows seeing the same stories played out. Some are joyful, some not. Yet, all are woven into the tapestry of the whole. She hears the laughter, and the weeping. With her, she carries the words that fascinate, intrigue, and sooth. She bandages wounds, guides footsteps, and heals hearts. She brings the poems of her birthright and the songs that linger in the air as she passes by.