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I feel raw. 

Like I’m about to either scratch my skin until it bleeds or expand it until it bursts.

You see, I’m on the cusp of something. Something big. And though I know I could fail at it, I’m not afraid. 

My fear is that I will succeed. Attain success in such a way that I won’t be ‘me’ anymore. But that’s a silly thought. I’ll always be me. Like that country song goes, “No matter where you go, there you are.” 

What kind of success? Nothing big. 

I’m going to change the world. 

I used to be afraid to tell people about who I am and what I will do in life.  Deep down inside, I was afraid they wouldn’t understand, would mock or shame me. But I’ve decided that I’m good inside my soul and it’s time. Because my still, small voice needs to shout from the mountain tops. 

I…AM…ME…

Whew. For a minute there I thought it would be too much to type out. 

Is it just me? Or do many of us have thoughts to change the world? One person at a time.

With all that I want to tell people, one of the most pressing things is this: I want to change the world with stories. That’s all. To tell people’s stories, maybe interspersed with my own, perhaps not. Our world is too caught up in things we cannot control. And then as circumstances spiral out of control, people close themselves off from the world and stop telling their stories. To be able to help people live out their truth with words? That’s a wonderful aspiration.

Stories are the backbone of humanity. They link the head to heart and feet. Some stories are cerebral – factual or full of complex concepts. Some are heart-centered with love or emotions as the arc and driving force. And some stories are all about movement – adventure, mystery, thrillers and all sorts of interesting people and places along the way. 

Our stories are what make us a community. There is something so comforting when you hear a story again that you’ve heard many times before. If you listen with new ears, you will find a nuance to it, a hidden treasure among familiar words.

Once, while at a rocky beach in far northern California with my mother, I learned the story of the seventh wave. As a child growing up in the foothills of Colorado, everything related to the ocean was fascinating to me. Though born in the Bay area of California, I was a mountain girl. Or so I thought. Ocean waves have a way of drawing a soul in, seductive in a way not found in other natural phenomena.

My mother grew up near the beach we were visiting that day. I kept watching her stare at the water as if it was telling her something. Walking up to her, then sitting next to her, I just watched. Her, then the water. Then her. Then the water. 

Finally, I asked why she was looking at the water so much. I liked the water but didn’t understand as a 10-year-old why she would just sit there when she could be looking for agate rocks or playing in the surf with me or my sisters.

     “I’m waiting for the seventh wave.” 

What? There are numbers on the waves? I was so very excited as I looked out at the sea. But all I saw were waves coming in, one after another. My face fell as I realized it wasn’t going to be something easy to learn. Or maybe it was.

She explained to me about the waves. Pointing to one, she smiled.

     “You start counting the waves. And keep looking for the biggest one that comes along. They all come in groups of seven. Once you find the seventh wave, you can start counting from there.”

But I didn’t understand. Why count waves? What can I possibly do with this new information? As I started watching the water, however, I noticed that I began to relax. For a young girl, it was hard to get me to slow down at times. Counting the waves calmed me. It calmed her.

I could feel just how peaceful my mother was watching the waves come onto the shore. A type of peace that mountain streams and quaking aspen couldn’t bring her.

It hit me as I got older, just how important it is to remember stories. I hadn’t thought of the seventh wave for years until seeing a video of a beach. A beach reminding me of my mom and peace.

And the seventh wave.