The Sunday Story Club. We all carry stories within us – wrenching, redemptive, extraordinary, and laced with unexpected and hard-won wisdom. These stories define you. Deep conversation has the power to enlighten, heal and transform.
Your curated, online persona is NOT you. You need to talk.
The stories you tell yourself define you. But are they accurate? Could there be another version?
In The Sunday Story Club, we ask questions that sidestep the prepared narratives participants often use to explain their life experiences to themselves and others. In this way, you learn something new about yourself. You can find out how to run your own salon in the book.
When my co-author, Doris and I, ran our first salon, 12 women who had not met before sat in Doris’s lounge room looking at one another. We wondered if strangers would talk. Well, they do with the right questions. Not only strangers but also long term friends have been amazed to hear stories told by someone so close to them that they have never heard before.
We wanted to share the astounding experience of the salon so we wrote THE SUNDAY STORY CLUBso others can discover this magic running their own salon.
The streets we walk, the food we eat, the people we know and lives we lead become so familiar, so assumed, we hardly notice them at all. So I have travelled halfway across the world at great cost and inconvenience to bring home something vital for a writer namely a yardstick to measure our own culture.
I’m in Italy oohing and ahing over an extraordinary Italian icon, a thing of such beauty it wraps you in total sensory bliss. It is a tomato.
There are lots of tomatoes in Italy and each one of them, it seems, is a culinary temptress. This red beauty isn’t the supermodel of tomland, all fiddled with, half-starved and fake. It is an earthy, fleshy, full-bodied and ripe tomato and it floods my mind with memories of tomatoes from my childhood. The taste is warm, rich and sweet. Its smell recalls my mother shredding the lettuce and whipping up some mayonnaise from, of all things, sweetened condensed milk, vinegar and mustard. But the women’s mag mayo couldn’t kill the taste of the tomatoes. They were real tomatoes.