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| Mosaic at Sheridan Square |
We feel
the presence of a story by the quality of greater presence and attention it brings. A story
often begins to tell itself. As a teller, something stronger than intellect is
directing our words. As a listener, we understand intuitively that someone is
sharing something important with us—a moment that may have changed the arc of
their life.
When a story arrives, we stop
speaking in concepts (For example: “I habitually lie
to my wife for no reason because I learned as a child that lying saved me from
my father’s rage.”) These concepts are important in understanding
intellectually the path to self-sabotaging behaviors. But they’re not
experiential; therefore not transformational. In transformational story, we're not looking for "facts" as much as we're hoping to untangle emotional knots that keep us frozen.
When story takes over, we slow down,
begin to speak from our senses, within a concrete setting and time,
communicating an emotional quality, repeating significant dialogue, possibly
surprised by forgotten details, in which we feel
the emotions we weren’t able to feel when the event happened, but buffered
and released, as in what happens when we watch a good film or read an engaging
novel. For example, here’s the story that might arise:
“One
time, I was about nine, I opened a bottle of Dewar’s that my father kept in the
bar in the den, and I took a sip. It was awful! Bitter. Why did anyone drink
this stuff? I remember the TV was turned on to some after-school program. I
hated the program and the Scotch and decided never to do either again. When my
father got home from work and saw the torn label, he yelled, “Who did this?” I
knew he would beat up the guilty party because he always did. So I lied and
said it was my older brother and his friends. It was easy to blame Eddie
because he was always getting into trouble and our father didn’t believe his
denials. He was the one who got beat that time.”
Untold, we may reenact that lie that
saved us over and over, like re-listening to a garbled voice mail to understand
the message. Fully told, we are released from that freeze frame that has
blocked the flow of our life force around the issue of truth for decades. There’s
no longer a need to reenact it.
In storymaking, we give ourselves permission
to play with memory. We might create
a “What if?” tale to give that little boy in the story what he really needed: a
sense of safety around his father. What if a dad swims out to rescue his son
who has paddled too far into the lake, wraps one strong arm around his precious
child, and swims with the other arm back to shallow water? Not only does this
tale inject parental safety into that painful memory, changing the neural
pathway that held it; it triggers a new emotional state, and launches the
limitless possibilities of a new story.
If you feel caught in old behavior
or relationship patterns, it’s likely that you’re stuck in such a story. You
will likely find, as a client of mine did after telling a similar story,
that the compulsive need to lie has dissolved. That story is over.
Try This
Reporting
facts as they happened chronologically. (“He said, then I said, so he said…”) is not a story. In fact, it
can shut down your listener’s receptivity and your own emotional engagement in
what you’re saying.
Teller: Tell the situation as you remember it. In three minutes, describe a
problematic situation with a trusted friend, therapist, or life coach. Think:
context or problem, your usual response, the usual outcome. Compressing time this
way forces you to get to the “bones” or essentials of your story.
Listener(s):
Listen! The greatest gift you can give someone
is to hold space for them while they process for themselves what they said out
loud. The Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hanh once said the most
healing thing we can say to someone grappling with a problem or strong emotion
is, “Friend, I hear you.” (This also holds true as well for listening to our inner
voices. Respond with empathy and the strong emotion will soften and
become quieter.)
Teller: Now
describe the as a situation as a scene or master shot, as if you are watching a movie. Giving yourself
another three minutes, ground your story in a setting, with people, describe
how the problem manifest in concrete terms, what you did, and the outcome.
You’re improving here. Forget about doing it “right.” Just say what comes. When
it gives you an ending—and it will—give it a title that captures the feeling
you have about it. A title is like the ca-ching
of a cash register; it concludes the transaction. In story terminology, it
frames the experience and establishes your authorship, and thus your authority,
over the circumstances. This is how you become the storyteller of your evolving
life.
Listener(s):
What stands out for you? Do not
interpret, analyze, intellectualize, or give advice. All worthy responses, but
a different kind of process from story. Above all, don’t impose your own
meanings and solutions, no matter how well-intended. Story medicine is based on
emergence: the knowledge that each person intuitively knows is right for them and our
role as listener is to help them gain access to it. Respond with what you
heard, and what had resonance for you.
Each of you:
What do you each take from this exchange? You
have engaged in dynamic, direct sensory experience together, rather than a retelling of a
problem. Now you can discuss it in your usual roles as friends or
client/counselor as usual.
What do you now see that you didn’t
see before?
Do you have a new idea for what to do about the issue?
Transformation doesn’t have to be earth-shattering. Life changes incrementally when we think
or do one small thing differently.
I call it a Grail Moment.
