"From where do stories come?"
They sat beneath the shade of a tree near the spring around which the village had settled.
"You wish for me to tell you a story about the origin of stories?" asked the Story Teller.
"Yes," said the children gathering around him after seeing him arrive in the town.
"Daylight stories are different from night stories told around the fire," he said.
They waited quietly, expectantly.
"Daytime stories want you to accomplish something. Get something done. Nighttime stories feed your restless soul, baptize you into a community of understanding."
Birds gathered in the tree as if listening.
"Stories come from the creativity of the conflict within you."
He saw they did not know what he meant.
"When you do not know what is going on, you are conflicted. You are at odds within yourself. You feel alone, isolated. You do not understand and you feel that no one understands."
"Like when my mother died," said Griselda.
"Yes," said the Story Teller. "And what happened with you?"
"I told myself that though she was gone she was not dead. Not completely. I still feel her presence."
"Where did this story of your mother still existing come from?"
"From my mind and my heart."
"Are you more at peace now with your mother being gone?"
"Yes, though I still miss her."
"Your story, all our stories, arise from the creativity of the conflict within us. We cannot bear the pain of separation for long. Of being separate from ourselves. Of being separate from the world around us. A story arises that helps dissolve that pain and bring us back into community, into harmony with life."
They sat quietly together, absorbing. Listening to the soughing of the wind in the tree, the gurgling of the ever-arising spring.
"The great stories that captivate us arise from the conflict and struggles of our visionaries, women and men who want to answer the great questions: Who are we? What is all this? Where do we come from? Where are we going?"
"You tell the Story of God." said Herman. "But I know there are other stories."
"Oh yes," said the Story Teller. "Plenty. And I have them all in my story bag. But one can ride only one horse at a time. And this is the horse that is riding me right now. It's an ancient story, a powerful story. I think you will be surprised at its outcome."
He got up and stretched. "I will see you tonight at the Story Telling Fire."
They wandered together for a while through the streets of the town.
They sat beneath the shade of a tree near the spring around which the village had settled.
"You wish for me to tell you a story about the origin of stories?" asked the Story Teller.
"Yes," said the children gathering around him after seeing him arrive in the town.
"Daylight stories are different from night stories told around the fire," he said.
They waited quietly, expectantly.
"Daytime stories want you to accomplish something. Get something done. Nighttime stories feed your restless soul, baptize you into a community of understanding."
Birds gathered in the tree as if listening.
"Stories come from the creativity of the conflict within you."
He saw they did not know what he meant.
"When you do not know what is going on, you are conflicted. You are at odds within yourself. You feel alone, isolated. You do not understand and you feel that no one understands."
"Like when my mother died," said Griselda.
"Yes," said the Story Teller. "And what happened with you?"
"I told myself that though she was gone she was not dead. Not completely. I still feel her presence."
"Where did this story of your mother still existing come from?"
"From my mind and my heart."
"Are you more at peace now with your mother being gone?"
"Yes, though I still miss her."
"Your story, all our stories, arise from the creativity of the conflict within us. We cannot bear the pain of separation for long. Of being separate from ourselves. Of being separate from the world around us. A story arises that helps dissolve that pain and bring us back into community, into harmony with life."
They sat quietly together, absorbing. Listening to the soughing of the wind in the tree, the gurgling of the ever-arising spring.
"The great stories that captivate us arise from the conflict and struggles of our visionaries, women and men who want to answer the great questions: Who are we? What is all this? Where do we come from? Where are we going?"
"You tell the Story of God." said Herman. "But I know there are other stories."
"Oh yes," said the Story Teller. "Plenty. And I have them all in my story bag. But one can ride only one horse at a time. And this is the horse that is riding me right now. It's an ancient story, a powerful story. I think you will be surprised at its outcome."
He got up and stretched. "I will see you tonight at the Story Telling Fire."
They wandered together for a while through the streets of the town.
So true-I do tell my self stories to mend my world, or maybe it is my heart, and it makes my world more real
ReplyDeleteStories arise from the creativity of the conflict wihtin us. Very powerful and true, George. When I am really lost between places, though, it doesn't feel like creativity. It feels like death. Steve F.
ReplyDelete