Telling Stories

I am finishing up The Virgin of Bennington by Kathleen Norris and have thus started the first novel I have read probably all year, The Red Tent by Anita Diamant. Both books are amazing reads, but latter has surprised me in a way I did not expect.
I am struck by the history and pride of storytelling.
I think about "Beowulf", that ancient literature that existed for hundreds of years as an oral tradition long before it was ever written down. Today we seem to toss aside our stories as we let time erode their significance. We tell the facts but not the story and do not pause to ponder the greater issues addressed in the daily frustrations of humanity.
The Red Tent is the story of Dinah, the only daughter of Jacob, sister to the eventual 12 tribes of Israel. The tent itself was where the women went during their monthly cycle, as it was culturally inappropriate for women to be around men while they were "unclean". But in those few days in the tent, what did the women learn, teach, and pass on as tradition and wisdom to their daughters? What did they impart? Midwifery, herbal medicine, spindles and weaves, gods, cooking, pottery, song, story. How women talk and what wisdom comes out of it, and maybe insight into where we are today.
That coupled with a conversation I had with my friend's mother this morning renewed my awe at the relationship of women to each other and how deep and complex their communication pathways are. Sisters to mothers to daughters to friends to lessers to greaters to crones to maidens, through tears and trials and breakdowns and breakups and births and deaths and blood and cramps and giggles and roars and confidante and loneliness, to assurance and love and confrontation and honesty and affirmation and praise and affection and moodiness and fits and snuggles and joy. Stories form the history and make-up of who we are as a gender and as a people, I wonder what to do to preserve it. .