To Light, I Gain Power

I’ve been mulling over the Power of Story.

I like to think of myself as a storyteller, and in those rare moments of irrational confidence, I think I’m a pretty good one at that. I love to tell.

There are stories in my life that started as deep wounds. Moments of rejection or loss, embarrassment, pain or fear that, when they happened in real time, weren’t ready to be told because they were too close. They could become secrets or stories.
I find that by telling my stories, by bringing them to light, I gain power over them. They no longer hurt me, no longer reject or embarrass me, no longer act like kudzu around my life. By speaking stories, I beat them. I can choose to make them comical, make them sane or meaningful rather than the very gritty and uncut aspects of totality that experiences are. I cease to relive my stories and I start to witness them.

And so I tell these stories. Because they are mine, because they are part of me, because they are not me.

(I wrote about stories five years ago; here is a bit on memory and story, another bit on storytelling as oral history. I like to talk about stories.)

Plug of the Day

My friend Leah has a fabulous blog of fabulous stories, ones that I am pretty sure most of you will absolutely adore. I couldn't give a stronger recommendation. This post is a hands-down favorite involving grape picking, semi-nudity and Mennonites.
For your entertainment I present Confessions of a Homecoming Queen.

Mosaic

I've been busy lately with things outside of work and I love it. Last week I spent Monday with friends who came out to camp to enjoy the nice weather with kids and dogs and then back to their house for a big dinner and games, then Tuesday I missed a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese b/c my nap turned into the previous post titled "Could", Wednesday was a impromptu trip to Greenville, SC for some BBQ at a place that ended up being closed (BAH!), Thursday was watching "Lost" online at Caroline's house before racing back to catch "Grey's" at Eva's. Friday was another big dinner night in West Asheville and talking with friends about nerdy topics and a sleepover. Saturday was a big breakfast, a great hike just off the Blue Ridge Parkway, a late lunch at the Bakery and "Waiting for Guffman" over freshly made pizza. Sunday church was such a refreshing experience and the lunch afterward went right along with the community. Sunday afternoon was time to rest, read and...wait, I have no recollection of yesterday. None. What did I do yesterday afternoon? Last night? I feel like the guy from "Memento" all of a sudden...

There are days when my life has the feeling of a mosaic; a collection of overlapping stories and punchlines: the poignant and the pugnacious, the preposterous and the petty. Sometimes I feel like all I am are stories. I simply tell them because they are mine, not because they free me or offer others any insight. I give them in place of me. Does that make sense? Instead of giving who I am I present stories.
I guess I'm thinking on how I define myself to others, both consciously and unconsciously, and how I'd ever learn to go about it differently.