Our stories evolve as we do. They morph and change. Ideally, they grow in essence, even as they become agile in form - bendy, I like to say. They push us like the wind in the trees. They speak gently to us, and through us, like the stars at night. They hold us up when we don’t know who we are, like the ground we walk on. They are alive so long as we are. This is contrary to what we are taught about facts...