Your life—every life—is a story.

Stories are the stuff of creation. Every story contributes to evolution inasmuch as it brings consciousness to form.

Your story helps you come alive.

By bringing awareness to our memories, writing them into stories, reflecting on them, and being changed by the writing, we come more alive. “Aliveness springs from our making something of what we experience and receiving what experience makes of us,” writes Jungian Ann Belford Ulanov.

Your story changes how you see.

By writing, we see and re-see our life experiences until we find underlying patterns, hidden wholeness, and emergent meaning. This capacity to “revise” helps us see others’ experiences from multiple angles and strengthens our capacity to reimagine the world around us.

Your small story tells a big story.

Each of us is like Zora Neale Hurston’s character Janie—“the world and the heavens boiled down to a drop.” In the particulars of each person’s story resides universal truths. Exploring how and why this is so is both good writing practice and good spiritual practice.

Your story helps heal the world.

Our world needs many true stories. We collectively need a multiplicity of stories to break stereotypes, humanize, and empower all peoples, especially in the arena of faith and spirituality. Without a diversity of stories, we cannot see the many faces of holiness within creation. In a world of disregarded facts and fractured truths, your story fills a cultural need for truth-telling.

Art-making and life-making go hand-in-hand.

Our creativity and our lives draw from the same Source. When we create, we become co-creators with the same evolutionary process from which we emerged. Both our lives and our creations, then, are of utmost value. The tools of art-making are tools for participating fully in life, and so they are for everyone, not just “writers.” With intention, the practice of making stories artful connects us to our Source.

Your story is worth serving.

When we write in service of the story, putting our own needs and consideration of our audience’s needs to work for the story, magic happens. Transformation—within ourselves, within our writing, and within our readers—becomes possible. To write in service of the story, we honor the story’s life-force with deep receptivity and sustained effort. This exercise of serving something worthy outside of ourselves is contemplative practice.