Buring or Telling Stories?
The difference is in the mind of a storyteller
I am sitting on a crackly, cheaped kitchen stool, feeling the warmth of pale orange rays playing gently on my face. The dots of dirt on the window glass, brave recipients of frequent rain, obscure the temperature reading on an outdoor thermometer. The taste of Inka coffee and Mazafati dates still lingers on my palate when I prayerfully give thanks that my name doesn’t coincidentally match a famous vodka brand or any dictator’s…
A moment… Am I beginning to tell a story?
What makes a moment special? When we ask someone to tell a story, whether around a fancy kitchen island, by a humble campfire, on a walk in nature, or even when stuck in a storm on a glacier, we often seek insight into their life. We expect tales of adventure, fear, bravery, humour, or learning.
When experiencing a defining instant in our lives with heightened senses—tingling nerves, closed or open eyes, and calm or pounding heart (depending on the moment) —memories form stories we keep in our minds. Each time we recount them, aloud or in our thoughts, our minds revisit those memorable instances.
Where do memories live? How are they exposed? The digital world can record everything, creating vast amounts of data, but it diminishes the oral tradition of storytelling, making it rare or even distinct in some societies. We are accustomed to grand stories on big screens: magical romances, brave knights kneeling before princesses, childhood friendships of explorers, or fast-paced action movie protagonists. Chapeau bas to all the directors of documentaries, journalists and other creators who tell the dramatic stories of real people (those that don’t fit under the “drama” genre). These stories often depict resilient spirits amidst loss, exile, or violence.
More often, “special” has nothing to do with the special effects of an action movie or a heroic saga filled with comedy and romance on a big screen or even terrifying life stories of refugees on a boat or in a desert. Unique moments are often special in an ordinary way — joy and happiness found in the simplicity of life. Sometimes a memory revisits a whole day or night, especially if uplifted by photographs, recordings, or a high dose of adrenaline or oxytocin (or other substances or their pitiful absence). More often, it leads to a single moment—a highlight of the day, a quiet moment to oneself, a breathtaking view, or a mere state of peace, understanding, or safety.
It’s banal easy to create expectations of grand adventures, and gestures fed with videographed populistic stories and family expectations about how your epic graduation, engagement or wedding day, the birth of your first child, next travel or even the funeral of a cherished family member should look like. Who’s memories should they be? Of course, there is an element of sharing that amplifies the most significant life events. It’s incredibly beautiful to see the special moments of connection or even hear the “first cry” or touching talks at the big event marking life events or life’s end.
We delight to hear other, simpler stories, digitally presented by images, sound, writing or passed in an oral tradition. If you come from a culture accustomed to storytelling, you might affirm that storytelling holds a magical element — either in an oral tradition or in books. Magical or special, far from the world of witchcraft or princess and princesses, they refer to what truly matters, not because it’s loud, sparkly, vivid, or extraordinary, but because it is visionary, emotionally dense, or has a cathartic effect.
So, my supportive reader, I invite you to consider: Will you bury your stories in your safe and sound mind, or will you tell them? Will you write them, draw them, paint them, sculpt them, record them, sing them? The choice, as in all matters of momentary decisions, is yours.
Let that moment be yours!
