The universe is made of stories, not atoms, says the poet Muriel Rukeyser. Think about it. Every account we give of ourselves is a narrative of one kind or another. Every life form has a narrative shape by virtue of coming into being, existing for a certain period of time, and then passing out of existence. But no story and no life exist in solitude. All stories interweave. And no story is ever static. No matter how much we long to believe in a “perfect ending” we can be certain there is no final destination where nothing changes. (And if we view heaven as just such a place, then it’s sure to be the opposite of heavenly—a kind of hell realm of unrelenting sameness.) Since we ourselves are always changing, the story we live, and the story we tell, are always changing as well.
Here’s the question: if the universe is made of stories, what kind of stories are we telling? What kind of stories are we living? This is what I hope to explore on this site.