The Gift of Storytelling



"To share our stories is not only a worthwhile endeavor for the storyteller,
 but for those who hear our stories and feel less alone because of it."


~Joyce Maynard~

 Anyone who knows me knows that I love mugs and pens. When I have a good cup of tea or coffee in my left hand, and a pen in my right, I'm usually feeling creative, relaxed and positive. One year my friend Jan gave me a mug at the change of every season. I still use those mugs every day at work.  This summer my friend Vicki bought me a beautiful pottery mug that I save for writing and needlework at home. I remember Jan and Vicki with every sip, and the stories that we've shared.

Yesterday, in a quick but oh-so-necessary pit stop to Starbucks.....ok, ok, I know what you're thinking; "Yah right.  A necessary stop at Starbucks ( reverently referred to by my more left wing acquaintance as Sixbucks).  Yes. Necessary. I was working in the community yesterday, with nowhere to pee but gas stations and coffee shops. I refuse to pee where they sell windshield washer fluid and porn. Feel my pain people.

Anyway, I toddled into Starbucks and after my bee-line to the ladies room, I decided to order  a good-old-fashioned-decaf-non-fat-eggnog-latte.  What with having such a traditional holiday beverage, I got into the Christmas spirit and looked at the display of mugs, over-priced stuffed mice (again very traditionally Christmas - what the heck?!) and an absurd mug that had some weird verse about a squirrel going out and making friends. Who in the world are the marketers trying to kid? Squirrels?! Garden-Nazi-guerrilla-garden-wreckers and demons from hell. Nobody makes friends with squirrels! My girlie side won out, and despite the political squirrel propaganda, the mugs were really cute, and I want one.

It was the rather modern, red and white tall latte mug that caught my attention. Each year the company comes out with a new design for the paper coffee cups. This year it's mimicked by a porcelain one as well. The design is a modern red and white pattern with the usual Starbucksish self righteous and sometimes inspiring or witty comment.  Anyway, the little quip on the perma-version of the mug this year reads something about sharing stories over coffee because stories are gifts.  Sold again Starbucks. Great marketing. Great reminder. Somebody lend me twelve bucks so I can buy a mug and read that quote every day. Better yet, you go out and buy one too, so you remember to share your stories even in the busiest times.

Lately life has become an unlikely machine. Events like breakfast, homework, work, the gym and daily telephone calls have become so time crunched to be rendered almost empty of meaning. The persistent grind has become exhausting, so much so that making an effort to create or take in great creative works of the human spirit is disabled.

Over the years my work has become the calling of listening to the stories of others.  Listening, hearing with my heart, and validating, and then of course the necessary paperwork to justify it all. When I feel like I've become a cog, I need stories. I need to write mine and to hear yours.

I have what some might call an "embarrassment of riches" when it comes to stories I can tell about my life;being held up by the army in Venezuela, outdoor sunrise Quaker services, African Shamans, working as a reporter and funeral director, cake at Les Deux Maggots, hermaphrodite neighbours, Christian mystic relatives....

Everyone on the earth suffers and rejoices in the experience of the human condition in turns. Sometimes laughter, sometimes tears, sometimes wonder and awe. Besides being present in those moments, it is our gift of language and our sharing of stories through which we share and absorb the stories which define the abstract notion of  what it means to be fully physiologically and spiritually human.

We have evolved into a society of people who text in a language decipherable by primates; "ur funny", "ROTFL", "how r u".  At one time, the art of letter writing was highly valued. To think that someone would take the time to sit down, commit the time to put pen to paper and be thoughtful in their communication to another human being was normal.  This thoughtful process evolved into telegrams; "Come home. Mom is sick",  to email (which most closely resembles the lost art of written communication), to texting, tweeting, and a barely decipherable parallel language. 

Language is more than just words. Language is a process, a vehicle and international currency used to analyze and express emotional concepts. This highly sophisticated linguistic expression of emotion is, I suppose, one of the key factors that keep us from living like apes and picking fleas out of one another's hair.  What should we think when language is taken down to a simple, bare, emotionless form of "u's, ur's and luv's"?  Is this the equivalent of our emotional degeneration as a society?

Every culture has it's roots in the muck of oral tradition. Historically storytellers were honoured and respected as great teachers and sages.  The oral tradition gave way to the written tradition. Those who were fortunate enough to have the luxury of learning how to read and write became the editors of society.  Their stories thrived as the oral tradition lost the privilege of time.  Industrialisation, commercialization, paying the mortgage, buying music lessons and hockey practice demand time and energy. 

Books? Who has time to read books?!  Maybe you snuggle up with Kobo or Kindle, maybe you download the classics and listen in 20 minute bursts as you grind on the treadmill or clench the steering wheel through rush hour traffic.  It is the rare individual or community who make time to keep their traditions alive. Storytelling in our twenty-first-century-independent dwellings no longer has a place. Grandpa and Grandma live a thousand miles away, or in a retirement home, and because the family is so busy making ends meet and raising over-indulged, over-stimulated, under-imaginitive children, who has time to listen to  stories?

This year I hope that instead of worrying about small token gifts, I can make time to get together with my friends over one of those pretentiously written paper cups of pseudo-styled coffee and tell our stories.  I hope the joy of the non-fat-decaf-eggnog-latte season lasts the entire year through. 

Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I wore my pyjama top to the office, or waxed half of my left eyebrow off before a first date, or the time I ripped my spanx? Tell me again how your second husband was the streaker who you saw on a date with your first husband.  Please tell me again how you dropped the Thanksgiving turkey on the floor and then fed it to your in-laws.  Tell me again how you got your nickname.  Tell me again about that silly wooden sculpture your husband bought for your anniversary.  Do you remember the time you called me the Great Kreskin and we laughed for a week?  Do you remember laughing all night about our coworker in the runaway kids car? Do you remember the Scottish rugby team and the birthday cake buying cab driver?  What about the Polish lady wearing the white boots in the new year's eve Porlamar market? I love these stories. 

All of us have our gift of storytelling immaculately wrapped already. 'Tis the season to start sharing that gift.