The Gift of Story

I've been travelling a bit lately -- to New Jersey, New York, Texas, and then back home to Southern California. I've met quite a few people from all over the world. In Jersey, I met a man from Ghana Africa. He told me of the village that he grew up in, how they used to gather during a full moon to tell stories. People would take turns telling their story while everyone else listened -- while giving regard to the speaker and their message. Someone might want to contribute a song related to the story, raise their hand, and the speaker would decide to allow it or not.

Two weekends ago, in Houston, I attended a large weekly gathering of people with my son Alex, his mother and step father. It really felt like a global village, as there were people of all different colors: black, brown, white, olive. We sang together, I got to shake hands with a few new people, put my arm around Alex's shoulder, sang and listened. Most of the people seemed to be there to celebrate the gift of love, to listen to stories for the purpose of learning, improving their lives, and contributing to the lives of others.

Last weekend, I went white-water rafting in the Kern River, and again, I was struck at how often I noticed how we tell stories to each other. I noticed that in each case, when we as a group gave enough space to the speaker, that the speaker's heart and mind was fully engaged in telling their story, and in sharing the wisdom that they had discovered through study and life.

And so, I was reminded of the beauty of story telling, and how important of a role that it plays in my life -- in our lives -- and how much fun I am having in hearing and celebrating the need to contribute to the wellbeing of others. And sometimes I learn something to help me in my own journey.

It reminds me of the time that my mother decided to celebrate Christmas in July by reading me a story called "The Gift of Story" by Clarissa Pinkola Estes. We sat on her deck in Kansas City, and she wanted to share with me a parable about what is enough. I remember that it was a sunny day, the flowers were in full bloom, and I could smell the aroma of freshly cut grass. I could hear lots of different types of birds singing, and I heard the voice of my mother read the story to me. I remember how soothing and calming it felt. I remember that every now and then, her voice would quiver as the stories within a story came to be, almost like a seed sprouting to life. I also remember feeling my throat tighten a bit, as I discovered the wisdom that had been passed on from generation to generation through the story. As she finished, I remember crying tears of joy and tears of sadness all in one breath, and sharing that moment with my mother. I remember feeling grateful as I learned something about what is enough, but especially feeling joy as my she cared enough to read to me -- and to pass on a gift of wisdom through her love.

I enjoyed it so much that a few months later, when the December rolled around, I told the story of my mother celebrating Christmas in July by reading a parable on what is enough. I remember that all seven of us men were gathered at Craig's house, and we had a fire going in the fireplace...