I found a new home. No, not the kind with four walls and a roof, but one with like-minded individuals who believe in the value of stories. It’s called The Moth, and I recently witnessed their awesomeness while attending Who Do You Think You Are at the Boulder Chautauqua Theater.  The Moth is a nonprofit organization dedicated to the art and craft of storytelling—my true passion.

It’s not that I’m a great storyteller, I try, but I believe there are few things in life with more influence and value than writing, telling, and sharing stories—our own and others.

The two-hour and fifteen-minute evening of inspiring stories included a man’s story of chemo, radiation, and a bone marrow transplant in 1991, a young woman with debilitating anxiety, a woman with facial abnormalities who found beauty in herself within her dog, a woman with a great singing voice who found self-esteem after a six-month sentence in the county jail for unpaid parking tickets, and a young man who told us about his experience of living in America as an illegal.

They were all rich and real; I didn’t want it to end.

I suspect most of you don’t believe me, but your stories are just as meaningful and valuable. My broken record soapbox is: Tell your stories—write them—share them.

Stories have a beginning, a middle, and an end. It’s as simple as that. You start, you explain, you stop. As an example, I would like to share one of my stories with you.

(Beginning) Before my dad fell in his home and firefighters used a front loader to get him off his second-floor deck, and he ended up in Devonshire, I cleaned his house, counted his pills, and did his laundry on Sundays.  (Middle) On one of those days, I heard a rustle in his wood-burning stove. I opened the loading door, and out flew a soot-covered sparrow. I screamed, jumped, grabbed a towel, opened the patio door, and chased after this bird for what seemed like hours. I ran, dove, tried to cover him with the towel, and finally, he escaped through the open door. I plopped down in a rocking chair close to where my dad, a man of very few words, sat in his recliner. I’m silent, huffing, and waiting for my heart rate to go down. After five minutes or so, my nearly 90-year-old dad said in his slow, drawn-out voice (Ending), “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone get so excited over one little bird.”

That was a 164-word story, and it took less than 50 seconds to read. It wasn’t spectacular, but it was easy and fun—stories are our history.

Give it a try for yourself.

Until the next time: Live while you live.

Jennifer Goble, Ph.D., LPC, is the author of “My Clients…My Teachers,” and the blogger and writer of Rural Women Stories: www.ruralwomenstories.com.

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