Pulse, thank you for saving my soul.
I know that sounds a bit dramatic, but it’s true. So I hope you won’t mind–think it too “evangelical”– if I share my testimony…
I grew up in a culture of storytelling. Every home had a porch and a fireplace, one for storytelling in the summer, the other for storytelling in the winter. Public spaces were designed for storytelling as well: stores had stumps and rocking chairs out front and wood stoves inside, for example. Hearing stories and telling them was as natural as eating and breathing.
As a youngster, I pretended not to listen to the stories the old folks told. But I soaked it all in and knew one day I, too, would be a speaker of The Word and not a hearer only.
Then I headed off to college, to graduate school, and on to a career in the health sciences, and I lost my voice. The only language spoken in that culture was the data-driven language of science; although I tried to puppet that way of communicating, I knew all along I was just a fake, a pretender. A Powerpoint poser.
Then Pulse came into my life, with its metaphorical stumps and rocking chairs, a place to tell health care’s stories. I was invited to join a community of storytellers.
When Pulse published my first story, I was instantly hooked–a junkie looking for his next fix, writing stories and telling stories, to anyone who would listen. I know now that it’s something I’ll keep doing until the day I die.
Thank you for giving me back my voice, Pulse. And for saving my soul!