I have seen a lot of discussion about the detrimental effect of "story" on our lives; the stories we tell ourselves. These discussions talk about how we tell ourselves stories about how we are and what the world is rather than seeing what's actually there; that we surround ourselves in words of our making to the point we can't see the world as it is. Now. This IS a valid point; we make assumptions of what somebody is going to do or say, sometimes almost forcing that belief into existence. But that is a different narrative.
Story--true story--is magical. I know it's not cool to say it, but we ARE our stories. When a people are truly conquered is when their stories are erased. There's a reason that invading armies destroy the cultural artifacts of a nation; why colonial powers restrict native languages and denigrate native customs in favor of their own. When archaeologist look at a prehistoric site, they get excited to see art; to see something done in a way to reflect an aesthetic or idea and not just practicality. We look to art, not science or engineering to first define culture. Art is story; story is art. When our stories are lost, our memories are erased.
I read "Weave a Circle Round" at the end of February. I read some reviews of it saying it was confusing, too unfocused, unreliable characters---but i really enjoyed it. I loved the authors take on story; the importance of story. How the story we tell ourselves can trap us or empower us. And the incredible importance of choosing story; and what power we give to others and what power we retain.
I haven't experienced the Pandemic as so many have; I'm considered an "essential worker", but i'm not a front-line worker. My work takes me into more remote areas, working outside, away from interactions with the general public. So i HAVEN'T been stuck at home, nor have i been exposing myself to potential infection. Work has been busy, I've traveled within safe guidelines and seen the seasons change; watched the trees wake up and burst into full leaf and flower. I've heard the dawn chorus day after day, seen moon rises and moon sets, sun rises and sun sets, listened to peepers and leopard frogs, fumbled with equipment in the snow and rain, and felt the burn of the sun when i forgot sunscreen. When i come home, it's a rest and retreat. I enjoy not feeling a need to check on events that might be happening. I miss some of the events that mark the season; the music and laughter, but i appreciate the quiet. This time, when honored, allows us to reflect, to take stock of what IS and what could be.
We tell ourselves stories about how the world works, we listen to stories about how it works; this time, when the plot has changed, this time gives us room to change the stories we want to tell. I was listening to Ideas (CBC Podcast) and never realized how close we came to NOT having the racial divide. That after the civil war, black men were elected to positions of power all over the place; and people accepted it. That, were it not for the complacency, we might have had a completely different world. Imagine, if the USA had stricken the racial divide from politics and general society? Imagine if we just celebrated the amazing bouquet that we had become; if we all gathered together to work out differences, accept that crap happened and convened to create a new future. Men, who were enslaved, who could name wealthy plantation owners and stolen children from Africa among their ancestors decided that this country, that had whipped their backsides raw, was worth investing in and making a better place. That's pretty awesome. I wonder if the story that was being told to those folks who rebelled against this, was fueled by guilt; the feeling that if you accept that these men and women belonged at the seat beside you, that meant the world you'd lived in before was in fact NOT okay, but you'd been okay with it. That's hard to swallow. I've talked with men about the Me Too movement, and the introspection in required. We have our dark sides and our mistakes; it's when we don't dare look at them that we can refuse to change them. When we're afraid of those stories, that we refuse to author our lives and let ourselves drift on the story that does not call out our name but lets us pretend we're part of a tide that we cannot change.
I love stories. I have a bookshelf full of them, full of illustrated magic, snippets of lives recorded on paper, words that have been read by grandmothers and toddlers, with the jam and tea stains adding another story to the written word. I remembered bee balm's power with burns because of a story told by an herbalist; i remember potassium and sodium react with water because of a story about an outhouse and a river told to my chemistry class; i remember the days the months because of a rhyme involving peanut butter and a little red wagon. I remember walking down the streets of Washington D.C. in April and the juxtaposition of cherry blossoms and sun-baked garbage in the relative innocence of a 20-something in the decade leading up to WWII; because my grandmother put it into story; in the letters she wrote home and reminiscing with her grandkids. Story is powerful; that doesn't make it bad. It's something to know, to know and understand, and shape the plot or dance in its rhythm.
7/6/2020
