Stories with stains

My thoughts on the topic for a new story spin around in my head as much as I hear the laundry hitting the drum in the washing machine. I enjoy the soft tickle of my comfortable wool cardigan and sip the iced latte macchiato I just made to help remind myself that it's August, even though it's wet and chilly outside.

I love writing and sharing powerful stories. There are so many in my head that I can't choose this Sunday morning. Every time I zoom in on a beautiful theme in my mind, an irritating little voice in my head calls out, "who's waiting for that?  

Hello, I write first and foremost for myself,' flashes through my head. The little voice is silent. 

For me, writing is an active way of reflecting, it helps to structure my thoughts and to give short and concrete words to what concerns me and what I find worth sharing.  And yes, of course it's also nice when it is read and I do appreciate the personal responses, from which beautiful conversations and new stories arise. 

Storytelling is a skill in itself, which is why I gave myself writing coach Miloe as a gift this year. We have fun together, she is my big stick to write regularly and she challenges me to get to the core in 500 words, for myself and for the reader. To share my life experience in such a way that you, the reader, step into my story in thought. 

The beep and subsequent silence tells me that the washing machine in the attic is ready. I walk upstairs and realize that I am getting better at writing candidly about myself and leaving behind the fear of being judged and excluded. This makes me vulnerable and also strong.

It is easier to write about others. Or to circle around it, to spin out the personal experience until there is a general wise lesson full of container concepts, one of those business immaculate stories of which there are already so many and after which it remains quiet.

I choose to create personal pieces with color. I take the risk that a story will lead a life of its own somewhere.  Because those same personal stories also bring people together, from which beautiful encounters and new adventures and stories arise. It is as it is, and I am as I am.

When I take the laundry out of the crate one by one, whisk it out and hang it up I smell the damp freshness.  The hangers of colorful blue, orange and yellow summer clothes dangle above the stairwell. I bristle when I see that grease stain didn't get out of my favorite turquoise shirt again. 

Are the stains that belong to me allowed to be there in my stories? Or would you rather see that I keep those hidden away for you?