Zelda's Inferno exercise: write about an untold family story. I deviated from the instructions...
Grieving is made of stories, and my task here is to listen, to be the conduit for the healing energy of narrative to flow to ground. They tell me stories of this woman I never met, they explain the photos. And all I do, all I can do, is smile and nod and um-hum at the appropriate times, and sometimes ask a question to move the story forward, to help the teller shape her or his thoughts. I am not the story teller here but the story extractor, gently tugging on the tale to help keep it moving, trusting that this helps, that as the heartmind tells the story of the other it sorts out the story of the self.