the power of storytelling: from pain into purpose

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to have a story to tell. I’m not the most outgoing person, so I’m not sure who I wanted to tell, exactly, but I wanted to have a story worth sharing. I didn’t want to be like the characters in the books I escaped into—I didn’t want a life that inspired escape for someone else. I wanted a life that showed someone else what was possible. What hope could do. What love could do. What struggle could birth. I wanted to tell a story that would inspire someone to keep going, to keep pushing.

I started this blog as a scab collection, of sorts. The plan was to impart reflections and lessons from yesterday’s scars. That’s where the inspiration sourced its power. The power of yet. Wounds still open and gaping and raw weren’t to go here. They were to be felt, not seen. Quiet stillness pooling the saltwater of tears in peace. They were supposed to fester until sutured. It was supposed to be my way of having a means for catharsis without the show of pain. But that’s never been how I write. It’s never been why I write. I’m not sure why I thought the tide would turn this time around.

I used to write to capture moments. Feelings. It was how I processed the world around me. It was how I dealt with the multitude of feelings coursing through me. It helped me stay leveled and sane with all that my mind and life had going on. It helped me stayed connected to the Spirit too. 

When I hurt, I wrote. When frustration threatened to overwhelm me, I wrote. When others hurt, I wrote for them for me. When life happened, I wrote. I wrote for the good and I wrote for the bad. I wrote in the good and I wrote in the bad. And throughout it all, I prayed for change. I prayed for hope and peace and resilience. I was my whole self when I wrote. I was a reflection of hope and love and peace, and I loved that. But what about now? 

If I’m honest, I’ve been too scared or nervous or insecure to publish my work. Sometimes more ‘and’ than ‘or.’ It’s mostly tucked away in notes and files that get buried in yesterday’s pockets of truth. Today’s truths must fend for themselves. If I’m honest, there are few lessons to easily pull out and share. The reflections in mirror pools of old tears are plentiful, though. Introspections that lead to holes from rabbits delayed from going on their way are innumerable, too. I am capable. I think. I am able. I know. I am better than I give myself credit for. And but so why don’t I give myself credit?

I have to release this idea that I’m so far from perfect that my voice and my view don’t matter no matter how beautifully written. Even if it’s not my definition of perfection, it’s beautiful because I’m beautiful because The Creator said so. Even if it’s not a Nikki or a Zora or a Toni or an Alice original, it’s a Kamala Starr original. That’s enough. That’s more than enough. It’s got to be. 

This isn’t about me. It’s about my gift. It’s about my ability to impact people with words. Just words. My words. The Creator’s grace. My harmony. The Creator’s amp. My heart. The Creator’s love. My war. The Creator’s peace. Beyond understanding. It is beyond understanding. It is incomprehensible that I’d wake up in the peak of morning with nothing on my mind but The Creator’s light and these words floating, phrases and participles like anti-gravity particles, waiting to spark connection. Consciousness. Compassion. Community. Comprehension. This, too, is love. Overdue.