My name is Sam

            My name is Sam, and I am the teller of tales. This is my initiation speech. At the end of it, I will be a true story teller. After forty years of travel, of gaining knowledge from each person who I met, I am ready to stand in front of the judges and be either chosen or dismissed. I hope it is the latter, but after hearing all the stories from every person I met in my life, I know now, what I did not know then. A job, does not make you who you are. If I failed this test, I could still spin my tales, share my knowledge with whomever came to ask the question, and no matter what, still be me. But today’s test was more than an initiation, it was my first and my last story. The only one I could ever tell about myself. For those where the rules. Win or loose, after today, I could never again utter these words because after today, I will no longer be Sam. The question then is, who will I be?

            I cleared my throat. Not the loud obnoxious noise people make to get your attention, but the quite one, the one that says, I have something important to tell you, something that is deep inside of me that doesn’t want to come out. So I clear my throat, and the next sound that you hear will be in a voice not my own, for my voice is for the ordinary. It is used in the day to day life of the market and the household. Except for late at night, when I tuck my little ones into their beds and they ask me for a story. So I clear my throat and I begin, in the new voice, the magical voice. It is the voice all of us have heard at least once in our lives. The one that lifts us from this life, and leads us into another. A life away from the ordinary and into the extraordinary. And so I clear my throat.

            Not a single eye turns in my direction. Why should they? These are the story tellers. They are the ones who remember every tale ever told and make sure that no one forgets them, even as their truths become more twisted and hidden. These men and women are the hero’s and I am a nobody. But I am a nobody about to become a somebody, and so I clear my throat and begin in a soft tone, one that you have to quite down and listen to in order to hear.

            And so I begin.

“The sky is my quilt, and each star a stitch sewn from a different hand. Which star is yours? My star is the one in the north, the one that guides, the one that follows. My star is the one that never moves in the night sky as the others rise and fall and change their bearing. I stand straight and tall, and I guide the lost souls of the world in the direction of their choosing.  But it is not the destination that matters. It is the journey. No matter how many eyes watch me for the answer to which life’s path they shall choose, none reach me. But I was never their real goal anyway. I was their dream, and dreams are important. Almost as important as the dreamer. And so it begins each night, the little ones searching the night sky for one of my brothers or sisters and closing their eyes and with all their might, whisper into the endless night. “Star light, Star Bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may I wish I might…”

            “Well I had a wish once too.”

            By now, a few had turned to watch, for it was still too loud to hear my words. A story is not told in words, it is told through the body and through the heart. The best story is shared through a connection between the story teller and the listener. It is conveyed through every movement, every breath and pause. A story is told in a heart beat, as you hold the one you love close and dream and wish and remember that first star who you shared this secret with. The one secret that came true as if by magic. For, out of everything in the world, the only true magic lies in love.

            So they watched me as I moved, as I danced across the stage, no longer caring who was watching and who wasn’t for I was telling my story. And this, was something that meant the world to me, for it was my world. It held everything that I had learned and all that I needed to share. Sooner or later, they would listen, and they would remember. People always remember the stories. They are the bridges of life. I paused in my dance, standing almost perfectly still, holding my breath, waiting for my wish to come true. A few more eyes turned.