Asking for Stories, Part 2

Somewhere in my study, I have a once-crisp envelope, now worn soft and gray. It has a fold in the middle from all the times it has been carried in a coat pocket or stuffed in a purse. The envelope and the letter inside it bear my mother's elegant script, written--as always--with an ultra-fine point pen. (This was always a difference between us: with some accounting experience in her background, she liked pens that wrote with clean, precise, fine lines--perfect for her sophisticated handwriting--, whereas I have always liked to press hard with my pens and roll across a page with a bold, sometimes smudged, looping script.)

My Mom's letter is written on an ordinary 6" x 9" writing tablet, the same one she used for grocery lists and things that needed to be done in preparation for a holiday gathering or vacation. She wrote on the fronts of three pages, and then the backs, something I always found curious. (How did she know when she was halfway through the letter? How did she know when to switch to writing on the back sides of the sheets?) One of the pages of the letter is ripped in half, just from being folded and unfolded so many times.

I had written to her first. I was a freshman in college, questioning my life's purpose. More accurately, I had wailed on paper in melodramatic fashion about how no one seemed to understand me and accept me for who I was. I had cried out in my letter, "Why? Why me? Why am I different? Why don't I fit in?" I begged for validation, for understanding. I begged, without realizing it, for the story of who I was, and, while I knew my mother would write something back, I know I did not expect the extremely eloquent, moving, grace-filled response that came in the mail several days later.

My mother's response-letter is one of my most treasured possessions, although I often don't know exactly where it is. I tend to bury it in the clutter of my books, files, bills, papers, and assorted memorabilia, and I like it that way. I like losing my mother's letter every once in a while because I like rediscovering it, which is, perhaps, a summary of my relationship to all my best stories.

When it comes right down to it, I'm sure I inherited my love of stories from my Mom, a woman who treated library cards as sacred objects that were meant to be revered; a woman who set the pattern for my "book binges," returning from any library trip with a huge stack of books that she'd devour in a matter of days; a woman who could never be convinced to spring for one of the plastic toys at the supermarket, but who somehow always found a way to buy books, fund educational field trips, pay for dance lessons, and purchase over time a set of World Book Encyclopedias. My Mom was my partner in crime in my adolescent years, when I became fascinated with classic movies. She would check out the TV Guide and tell me what movies I "needed" to see that week. She had no problem with my napping after school and waking up at one in the morning (even on school nights) to watch a black and white movie on the Late, Late Show. (In fact, she would often watch with me!) Mom would spend hours in discussion with me over the books I was reading in school, and she was not afraid to let my sister and me watch controversial but thought-provoking films and TV shows... provided, of course, that we did think--and discuss--afterwards.

Mom taught me, too, to be attentive to the stories of the people right in front of me. She taught me to suspend judgment and look below the surface. I absorbed her story about being snowed in at a lodge with a bunch of stranded travelers and sharing stories through the evening with a woman who worked as a prostitute--a woman, my devout Catholic mother said, who was more beautiful on the inside than some people who went to church all the time. I absorbed her story about Roderick, the little boy who always ran up to talk to her when she volunteered on the playground of our elementary school in 1960's and 1970's Detroit... and who wondered if she (an older white woman) remembered him (a young black man) when he ran into her many years later in a supermarket parking lot. She did, and he hugged her and made her day.

In her letter, my Mom told me the story of me. She shared what she knew about me from her perspective: specific examples of my gifts and talents, specific examples of the social pains I had suffered. She had heard; she had seen; she had witnessed. When I needed it most, she reminded me--on paper, so I could read it over and over again--that I was a person of value. Without having any concrete answers to give, she managed to teach me one of her many lessons about our life-stories: "You know how a puzzle has to be fitted together," she wrote of my questions and confusions, "piece by piece until the whole emerges."

Asking for Stories, Part 1

One of the most amazing methods I have discovered for bringing powerful, transformative stories into my life is to simply ask for them. Some of my story-requests were accidental--more like rhetorical questions--and I didn't actually expect the responses I received. As time has gone on, though, I have become more bold in asking for stories and, while such requests don't always produce meaningful results, I can attest to the fact that sometimes the most profound, extraordinary things happen when you ask for the stories you need.

Once when my daughters were little, I was browsing in a bookstore and leafed through an astrology book that described the characteristics of children born under each sign of the zodiac. The description for my younger daughter Katerina's sign (Pisces) was so accurate to my experience, it made me grin ear to ear. The book said something like, "Your Pisces child is the type of child you can place in her playpen and tell her she is watching a circus, and by the time you return from putting in the next load of laundry, she will be able to tell you all about it." That fit my imaginative little one to a T.

"Katie" (as I called her then), I might say, "Tell me about life on your planet," and, without any hesitation whatsoever, she would launch into a rambling description of a different world. "Katie!" I might call from my room at bedtime: "There is a monster under my bed!" From the darkness of her room, she would giggle, ask what kind of monster it was, and give specific instructions and as to how the crisis should be handled. So perhaps I should not have been at all surprised that she would have an answer to the most profound question of all, but I was.

When Kina (as she prefers to be called now) was four years old, my sister and I--with Kina in tow--were driving from the midwest to the east coast for a family reunion. My sister and I were at places in our lives where we were looking at where we had been and where we were going. We were determined that, in addition to the festivities and bonding of the family reunion, this trip would give us insights. To that end, we were bringing personal growth tools (our journals, self-help books, tapes and cd's with lectures and meditations on them, etc.), intending to carve out some reflective time for ourselves. It was from this position of "seeking" that I asked my happy-go-lucky little four year old THE question. Her response was short, yet it spoke volumes.

We had stopped at a Burger King at around ten or eleven o' clock at night. My daughter and I were already seated across from each other in a booth, and my sister was still at the counter waiting for her food. "So, Katie," I asked, half-joking and half-serious, "What's the meaning of life?" My four year old reached across the table top and pressed a chubby finger to my lips. "Shhhhhhhhhhh," she said. "You have to be quiet so you can hear the song..." Then she paused, took a bite of her cheeseburger, and added, "And if you drop your song, pick it up!" I was stunned, stopped in my tracks by what I had just heard. My sister, arriving at the booth, took one look at me, and asked, "What?"

I have gone back to Kina's four year old wisdom-story again and again, returning to her words many times as, in the busiest seasons of my life, I have struggled to hear "the song" underneath the chaos and disorder.

I have gone back to her words when I have found myself longingly searching for my song, knowing I had dropped it somewhere along the way.

I have passed her words on to other seekers, hoping that they, too, benefit from them.

As with many of the most powerful stories I know, Kina's spontaneous response resonated deeply for me when I first encountered it, and it continues to resonate deeply for me now. My understanding of her message has evolved and expanded as I have grown and changed. I have gained volumes of insight from this one tiny story moment... and to think: all I had to do to receive such profound wisdom was ask!

A Half-Million Stories

If we are to believe the media, statistics, red flags, and warning signs, we are in trouble... and have been for a long time. We need only look around for proof of danger, chaos, and upside-down thinking. We know our actions--and often lack thereof--have threatened our planet, putting the survival of various species and even whole ecosystems in peril. We know our attitudes and habits--and sometimes lack thereof--around money, food, and relationships have created crises for our bank accounts, bodies, families and communities. We see a world of violence, oppression, intolerance, and war, and we know--if we look at the headlines we would prefer not to see--that each day, somewhere, countless numbers of our human brothers and sisters are suffering and dying from disease, starvation, injustice, and genocide. We know that somehow we have veered off-track, and we fear that we (as individuals and collectively) may never get back to a place of stability, health, and balance.

What's more, it all seems so overwhelming! Where to start? With poverty? War? Disease? Greed? Intolerance? Crime? Our children? Our parents? The homeless? In our communities? Our country? Halfway around the world? One could easily give way to depression, cynicism, fear, anxiety, or hopelessness.

Except that there's more to the story...

We also have countless examples of individuals (and communities and cultures and whole civilizations)--from the past and in the present--who have faced adversity and triumphed, who have overcome obstacles, who have solved problems large and small, who have had the most amazing comebacks, who have saved lives, who have inspired others, who have made life-changing contributions and had awe-inspiring achievements, who have persisted and had a breakthrough, who have endured darkness and survived to see the light, who have struggled and sacrificed and won, who have created breathtaking art and new paradigms, who have lived lives of grace and dignity, and who have touched others through their love, compassion, courage, insight, imagination, and heroism. We need to tell those stories.

Einstein told us that we couldn't solve problems from the level on which they were created. We need a different vantage point. Powerful stories can give us that. Powerful stories can give us insights, solutions, models, guidance, and wisdom. I submit we need to make a conscious effort to re-story our world. I think we need to generate a frenzy of story-sharing. We need our stories to flow in an abundant circle of give and take. We need personal stories and family stories, histories and biographies, fictions and poems and works of art. Powerful stories can bring us together. Powerful stories can help us learn and celebrate. Powerful stories can give us hope. We need to tell those stories.

How many shared stories does it take to heal wounds, solve problems, create breakthroughs? How many shared stories might it take to right wrongs, bring change, save us?

In William Gibson's play The Miracle Worker--itself a story of persistence and problem-solving, of overcoming obstacles, of hope and triumph--Annie Sullivan tries to break through the communication barrier between Helen Keller and the world at large by teaching Helen sign language. Annie spells into Helen's hand constantly, hoping to give her the key to language and thus communication. Helen's mother watches the process and asks how many finger-spelled words it will take before Helen "knows." Annie's reply is "Maybe a million." Kate Keller then asks to learn the sign language letters, so she, too, can spell words to Helen. Working together, Annie and Kate only need to spell a half-million words each.

We have a story-model. It only takes one person to begin. It only takes one to join in. Our efforts matter, and, as in Helen's case, when the breakthrough occurs, the whole world changes.

A Broad Definition of Story

If I were speaking as a teacher, writer, historian, psychologist, media scholar, or in any one of a number of other roles, I might define story differently. As a human being, though, I think we know in our innermost being what stories--good stories--are: creative expressions, narrative in nature, that somehow sustain us. Our best stories have incredible power.

I believe our ancient ancestors knew this. Gathered in communal circles in the darkest night times in the most isolated spots, carefully tending the embers of fires that kept them safe and warm, our ancestors also carefully tended their stories. Stories were safeguarded, valued, and shared; survival depended upon it. I believe our survival still depends on our sharing of meaningful stories, but with all of our modern shelters and insurances and weapons and "conveniences"--all of our so-called "protections"--we often forget this. We forget that what really guarantees our survival and allows us to thrive is something that comes from within... and our best stories honor this.

We need the kinds of stories that inspire us and lift us up, that give us guidance when we venture into unknown territory. We need stories that impart knowledge, and more importantly, wisdom. We need stories that entertain us and lighten our loads in the midst of chaos, confusion, and turmoil, allowing our spirits to sing even in the midst of stress, anxiety, fear, and darkness. More than anything else, we need stories that bring us together, that provide a basis for intimate human sharing in a world that is increasingly impersonal, disconnected, and fragmented.

So where do we find these stories? Everywhere! We need only look and listen, or, more precisely, "see" and "hear."

I define "story" broadly. As I see it, meaningful stories can emerge from "classic" literature and popular literature, biographies, memoirs, journalism, and history. Meaningful stories can also emerge from myths and sacred texts, movies and television episodes, songs and symphonies, photographs, paintings, rituals and dances. Finally, of course, some of our most important stories are the ones embedded in our conversations, letters, e-mails, and journals--the stories that we share with our friends and family members, and the stories we tell ourselves.

The kinds of stories I'm interested in--the ones that have power--are the ones that reach us in that "story place" we all have. You know the "story place." It's what makes your ears perk up in a public setting when you sense an earnest conversation is taking place or what draws your undivided attention to a certain relative who starts to speak at the Thanksgiving dinner table. It's what makes you stop dead in your tracks when that movie is on television (you know the one!), even though you've seen it a dozen times before. It's what creates a hush when a certain poem or scripture or tribute to someone is read aloud; it's what makes people sink into a painting or photograph or musical score. These reactions don't occur when we are listening to instructions or reading our cereal boxes or watching the stock ticker. Nor do these reactions occur when the stories before us--the tales and sounds and images--are just "filler," a distraction, a reader's, listener's, or viewer's version of "empty calories."

We need robust, meaningful stories that feed our souls and spirits. I believe many of us are starving for them. We don't need just any stories right now; we need our best stories. Our best stories provide connections between what we feel deep inside our most tender hearts and what we experience as we face the challenges of our daily lives. Our best stories--whether written, spoken, displayed, or danced--tell us something about who we are.

Becoming Story People

How are we to gather and nurture stories? How can we begin to infuse our lives and replenish our planet with robust, fulfilling, satisfying stories? I think we need to become story people, or perhaps more accurately, draw forth the story-impulse we already have inside of us. We need to train ourselves to spot the glimmer in the eye of a nearby senior or the wiggle in the body of the closest kindergartner and recognize the story waiting to spill out if only we open the floodgates with the magic words: "Tell me..." We need to look and listen attentively, seeking out the words and sounds and images--whether provocative, joyful, serious, or sad--that take us to a deeper place, a more alive place, and when we find those words and sounds and images, we need to share them.

My older daughter Maggie crackles with the story-impulse. All through her school years, you could barely get "How was..." out of your mouth before she was off and running with her tales of the day, ranging from from the absurd to the profound. These days, as a graduating college senior, more often than not, her phone calls begin with the words, "Guess WHAT?" and again, she is off and running. Maggie seems to take delight in human nature (and animal nature, too, for that matter), and therein lies the potential for amazing stories. From junior high, when she passed on her classmate's hilarious rendition of how he broke his arm by reaching for a Twinkie, to her college-years recaps of her ultimate frisbee and broomball games (the amount of laughter directly proportional to the number of times she slipped, slid, or fell down), Maggie has passed on--with great enthusiasm--the stories she hears and the story-moments she participates in.

Throughout junior high and high school, Maggie volunteered at the Humane Society, bringing home--and sometimes writing down--stories of the cats she worked with, each unique and individual to her. When she was a high school sophomore, she made the decision--despite the fact that none of her friends were going--to attend a school-sponsored summer mission trip to Pine Ridge Reservation. After a week of working with children who swarmed all over her and being open to all that she saw and learned and witnessed, she and a few other new-found friends/volunteers took an early morning hike on their final day. They hiked up a ridge as the sun was rising, full of the profound experiences they had shared over the past week, and, on the other side, came upon a herd of wild horses. The awe-inspiring moment resonated with Maggie in a profound way, and, as she told me her stories upon returning home, I knew the moment in particular and the trip in general had changed her life. Over the years, she has talked to, listened to, and shared stories with a nun in Honduras who works with young girls who live in poverty; an elderly woman in Georgia whom she met on a second volunteer trip; and special needs friends she has developed through two different organizations she has worked with during her college years. She even developed a bond one summer with tree frogs, which she saw everywhere, believing them to be a form of communication from a high school friend who had passed away.

One of Maggie's stories is quickly becoming the stuff of legend. Last year for her birthday, Maggie was in search of the perfect dress for her party. She went into a store where, she said, the least expensive dresses are generally about eighty dollars. She found the perfect dress, but unfortunately, it did not have a tag. She looked around, but it was the only one of its kind. A similar--but not nearly as perfect--dress nearby was eighty dollars. She put "her" dress back at first, but then picked it back up and took it to the register, figuring she had nothing to lose. The sales clerk had to look up the untagged dress in the store's inventory and gasped. Though it seemed impossible, the dress was marked in the inventory as only five dollars! With nothing else to go on, the clerk had to charge her what was marked in the inventory. What an amazing early birthday-present! But the story didn't end there... Maggie decided to look for new shoes at a different store. Maggie found the perfect shoes to match her dress, but, despite her recent good fortune, she decided that $40 was probably more than she should spend on shoes considering she already had a pair that would work. Later, when she went out to her car, she looked down on the ground and found, by the tire, forty dollars! She went back to the shoe store, bought the perfect birthday shoes, and related the story to the sales clerk. They decided that the "angels" wanted her to have those shoes.

When I say the story has become the stuff of legend, I do not exaggerate. On a recent evening out, Maggie--who is a kick-your-shoes-off-and-dance kind of person--got tired of carrying her shoes from place to place. At one point, she actually was prepared to just leave her shoes behind. Her friends, aghast, said, "You can NOT leave behind the angel shoes!" and carried them FOR her the rest of the night. Not only that, but among the people I have shared the story with, the idea of "angel shoes" has come to symbolize great abundance and good fortune. My friends have been known to say things like, "It's time for the Universe to bring me my angel shoes!" or "I think I just received my angel shoes!" As fun and funny as it is, the "angel shoes" tale seems to have created a sort of bond between all those who know the story.

Earlier this week, Maggie announced she has accepted her acceptance into the Peace Corps. She asked, "Do you want to know how I made the final decision?" She said she had been reading Leaving Microsoft to Change the World, a book my sister had given her, and I Will Not Die an Unlived Life, a book I had given her... another example of Maggie's being willing to be touched by story. When Maggie goes to Africa, her region of choice, she says, "I don't want to go as a representative of my culture... I want to go to learn..."

I believe she will do just that, and I believe she will have many stories to share when she returns.

In the Beginning

Our stories, our best stories--the ones that grow sturdy and strong, the ones that sustain us through rolicking, verdant seasons and brittle, anxious seasons--begin as tiny, precious, fragile things: seedlings, perhaps, or maybe only fluttery whispers, waiting to find form. A stroke of the brush, a hesitant trickle of syllables or sounds, a moment's hush followed by the tilted head, the glimmer, the pause, and then, softly, "Once upon a time..." or maybe just "Once..." So our stories begin, wispy and delicate, yet resilient beyond measure, nourished by sacred attention, waiting to unfold.

Sometimes we forget what we need. Blessed with superpowers and bursting with stamina, we charge through countless days, tackling and conquering, producing and prevailing. We gobble ready-made rations snatched from fridges and fryers and snacks zapped swiftly on a rotating plate, taking pride in our chronic speed, no longer remembering the slow, sunny flavor of the last ripe tomato from a garden's vine or the fragrant burst of juice from the first perfect summer peach. We race through mazes of tangled streets, zipping in and out of buildings with dizzying proficiency, ticking tasks off gangly checklists grown too large, forgetting the hush, the scent, of sacred forests of pine and spruce, the texture, the cushion, of summer sands between our toes. We watch with rapt attention the latest dramas unfolding on our great, huge screens and individual, handheld screens. We call, text, twitter, post, record, burn, copy, and play, splattering images and sounds across our landscapes, deftly managing a frenzy of messages, headlines, graphics, sound bites, ringtones, "reality," replays, and advertising. We forget the pleasures of long, lazy evenings on rocking-chair porches, of shadows descending softly on circles of familiar faces, of resonant voices rising and falling, filling the darkness with stories.

Sometimes we forget what we need... As with fresh, homegrown foods and nature's sounds and silences, we sometimes forget what our spirits most desire--rich stories, authentic stories, stories that fill us and sustain us and remind us who we are.

I propose a transformation!

I propose we harvest stories! I propose we gather and rescue our old, wise stories before it's too late. I propose we plant fresh, new stories because it is time. I propose we nurture story-seeds, our yet-to-be-discovered wisdom, starting small and expectant, like second-graders with soil in paper cups, watching, waiting, for the first tiny signs of life to poke their way through. I propose we pause... to share our truths, to listen and to tell, to nourish the still, small stories that our spirits so crave...

Let the story-sharing begin...