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...