Wendy Darling has just been awakened by a boy’s cries. She curiously sits up in bed and then notices the boy, Peter Pan, sitting on the floor very distraught because he cannot figure out how to reattach his shadow. Wendy jumps up from bed, grabs her sewing kit and announces, “It must be sewn on.” She also warns, “I daresay it will hurt a little.”

Why are myths and stories so important? Why do we sit entranced while viewing our favorite movie or play? For the same reasons Peter Pan waits every night outside the Darling’s nursery window. It is because we are missing something. Something deep down in the primordial soup of our souls is longing for something. Something more.

I still remember the first time I smelled death on my father. I was five years old, balancing tip-toed on the edge of a step stool, peering into the kitchen sink.

One story from my own past that I have actively worked to rewrite, is the story of losing my father to suicide back in 2010. The very same month that he died, I also ended an 11 year marriage, walking away from my home and the life I had built with the father of my two children.