"Storytellers Anonymous" by Rev. Barbara Merritt

Tue Apr 1 12:58:59 EDT 2008

M I N I S T E R’ S   M E M O
“Storytellers, Anonymous”

“Hello, my name is Barbara and I am a storyteller. Storytelling has made my
life unmanageable, and I am seeking help.”

My storytelling began as a professional requirement, as well as a social
activity, Some of my stories made people laugh. Some spiritual stories were
inspirational. Some confessional stories gave people hope. I sought out the
very best and rarest of stories. I listened carefully to the stories of
others. I collected stories! I felt that they were essential to the
successful navigation of my life.

This storytelling becomes problematic the moment I begin solitary
storytelling, and the only audience is myself. I will make up stories about
everything and tell myself that they are an accurate reflection of reality.
I find meaning in my stories. My stories make me feel safe. Worst of all, I
start to believe my own stories (talk about gullible!) I defend my stories
to those who question them. (My inner “fundamentalist” comes to my aid and
produces dozens of arguments to bolster the trustworthiness of my tales.)

You want an example? I’ll give you one of the more innocuous stories. The
weather. It is so late in March that April has already arrived, and the
temperatures have remained ridiculously low. There are still snow showers in
the forecast. None of the tulips I planted last fall are coming up through
the frozen ground. On the days when the cold wind blows and I have to very
reluctantly wear my winter coat, I tell myself that winter is here to stay,
that spring will never come, and that God has forsaken me. The proof is
rotten weather.

This story quickly changes when the temperatures get up above 50 degrees.
Then, I see promise everywhere: including what looks like (what might be)
the emergence of those same tulips. The gentle breeze puts a smile on my
face. And I am confident that the garden can be restored. The sand from the
winter’s plowing can be removed. There is every reason to believe that April
will be kind and miraculous, rather than cruel and heartbreaking. When I see
a hopping robin, I tell myself that grace is everywhere and that God is
smiling upon us all.

Which story do I believe? It depends on the weather. Cold, gray days in
early spring bring out the dark and sullen storyteller in me. Bright,
beautiful days in spring bring out the lyrical optimist, the “everything is
fine” story.

What is genuinely amazing is that I can believe both stories on alternate
days. A warm day that ends in snow can have me believing both stories on the
same day. These dueling stories wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t assign
meaning to them. (If the sun shines, I am loved. If the clouds come out, I
am rejected.)

Any number of wiser people can point out the illogical nature of such
arguments. They can show me the hard science that, thus far, spring has
always arrived in New England no matter how delayed or difficult the
passage. But the compulsive storyteller clings to her story. Why? Because
the stories made me feel less vulnerable. The stories give me the illusion
of being in control. They help explain why the creation sometimes feels
wonderful and sometimes appears to be threatening.

All of us tell stories. It is a most human and understandable way that we
use our imaginations to get through the day. The great problem arises when
we believe our own stories: when we forget that we are the authors. We
mistake them for hard facts and realistic assessments.

Some of us can spin some whoppers about what it means when a friend or a
child doesn’t call us on the telephone. Some of us cherish some
extraordinary stories about people who hold different political views than
our own. (We’re completely right, they are completely wrong.) Some of us
flip back and forth between stories that we are “vastly superior” to other
people, or that we are “profoundly inferior” to other people. Sometimes we’
re convinced that love surrounds us. Sometimes we tell stories that we are
completely alone.

We need to hold the stories we tell somewhat “lightly.” We can remind
ourselves that while our story may feel very real and accurate, it is “just
a story.” More than likely, we’ll be able to tell a new story tomorrow.

And there is additional good news. The terrible stories we’ve told ourselves
over the years (that we are damaged goods or weak or unlovable) can be
traded in for much better stories: narratives which include our resilience,
our strength and the remarkable number of people who are our friends. If you
are the one who wrote the story, you also have the power to make important
revisions. If your parents wrote the stories, you can send the stories into
retirement.

On the next occasion when I am telling my self a really compelling story,
please remind me that is just a story. There are new chapters coming and
more surprise endings than anyone can possibly imagine.

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