Gather ‘round the fire and stand to share your truth
On Friday, April 21, my husband and I, and another 150 people, attended the Mount Kearsarge Indian Museum Native American Stories of the Night Sky. While sipping hot cocoa and hot cider, and enjoying s’mores, attendees gathered around the campfire to listen to tales of the stars.
My favorite was the Winnipesaukee story of the trip through the stars to the afterlife. I’m paraphrasing:
All the dogs you have ever known guard a log over a deep chasm. You must cross that chasm to reach the afterlife. If you were good to the dogs–took care of them, loved them, respected them–they will hold that log steady and help you pass. But if you were cruel to them… you’re not getting across!
After the many stories, including an Irish folk tale and some attendees were invited to share, we were able to view Venus and the Moon through telescopes provided by the McAuliffe-Shepard Discovery Center. The weather was cool but clear–and we had an incredible view of the heavens. Discovery Center volunteers were there to educate and inform.
What a wonderful evening!
The experience set me to wonder: Have we lost the oral tradition? Do we no longer share stories? And, does sharing stories matter?
The Value of Stories
Humans have always enjoyed an oral tradition, sharing stories, history, songs, and poetry. The evening was a reminder that, no matter our heritage, we share knowledge and experience through stories. In our single lifetime, we cannot experience and know all there is to live and learn. Through sharing, we can understand perspectives, live other lives, per se, and see the world and life through other eyes.
I suppose I first must establish the proposition that everyone — everyone — has a unique and valuable story to share. We’ve each had joys and tragedies, wins, and losses. The human experience is shared. It’s the uniqueness that lends value. You gave birth. I gave birth. But you are you and I am me — we had different partners, support systems, pregnancies, doctors, bodies… an infinite list of variation that ensures your experience is far different from mine. When we share those stories, our reality grows.
Even the one person’s life story has cultural and historical value. My maternal grandmother was no one to the world. What would be the value of her life story? Yet, the tales she told me gave me direct knowledge of World War I, the Depression, World War II, and the lifestyles in Sicily and in New York City. I understand from her firsthand account the experience of traveling across the ocean as an immigrant to Ellis Island. I learned about sweatshops and the ghetto — and what starting a business was like back in the 1950s. I learned about religious practices, cultural pressures, and medical challenges. From her eyes into my mind.
I captured many of her stories and regret not doing the same for my other grandparents, my uncles, my father, my aunts.
We each have a valuable story. If you don’t relate it, it will be lost.
Transmission
Critics argue with the proliferation of electronic devices, we have abandoned that tradition and replaced it with reels and recordings. I disagree. Holding romantic notions of ancient practices as better or more worthy is fallacious (tradition). Today’s reel is as powerful as, and arguably more transmittable than, yesteryear’s scop.
However, I wonder if our recording world has eliminated the connection between the storyteller and the audience. Would any music aficionado disagree that live music is superior to even the most advanced digital recording? Live interaction fosters connection, encourages sharing feedback — both verbal and nonverbal. I rather enjoy an applauding audience, bathing in the shared energy, witnessing the grins and hearing the laughter. I feel next to nothing if I receive 200 “claps” on a post.
The other fallacy drivers, the modernists, mock the ancient oral tradition as passe. Paper and the printing press — and now recording devices — have allowed us efficiently to preserve and transmit knowledge, verbal artistry (stories, poems, songs), and laws. The channels — the delivery tools — have evolved. We no longer need to rely on one, possibly unreliable, traveling bard to share news, history, and law. Our information is written, archived in stone for correction, adaptation, criticism, and review.
The collection, storage, and sharing of information is easier than at any other time in this planet’s history.
Yet, our recording effort has devolved into 30 second snippets. Is there not a distinction between a snide comment or an image of one’s dinner and a detailed video or reel of one’s life experience? Can we no longer differentiate between a deep and quality story versus a 30 second kitchen incident with a dog and a bowl of cereal? Perhaps that question is circular. Let me rephrase:
Maybe in our tech evolution, we not only lost live exchange and connection but also cannot differentiate between meaningful stories and blather?
Three Risks to Take to Share Your Story
Our moral and cultural evolution must meet our technological advances. To add value to our present-day oral tradition, I suggest we must face three challenges:
- Get real. Share only those stories that will enrich others’ lives.
What you had for dinner or the collage you made with sea glass is a journal entry. No one really cares. These journal posts are not stories. Yes, you have an impressive existence and I wish I were you. That’s the intention, right? Boasting? Craving attention? Yes, these daily posts will provide a future C-student archeologist fodder for her dissertation about you and your prawns and ugly sweaters. Yawn.
Instead, I argue you go deep. Tell us about your day. Your job. Your experience as a spouse or parent, sibling, or student. Tell a story. Your story.
A dear friend of mine is a nurse and provided daily entries of her experiences during the Covid crisis. She continues to post stories of her experience working with older adults. I’ve learned so much — and her stories have helped me better understand the challenges of aging in our healthcare system — and the experience of a healthcare worker.
2. Get raw. No, I don’t want to see images from your surgery. But we want to learn about your authentic experience.
The line to walk is between obscenity and offensiveness and inspirational and insightful. We want to hear about your surgery experience — and what you learned about preventative care (If I only knew what I know now), medical services (Don’t let them send you home a day early…), and the value of a support system (You only need your bestie and your bestie-dog!). But leave the shock-value crap to traditional media.
Stick to the truth. Tell us the entire story. Let us into your world.
3. Get live.
For this risk, I challenge you to get live. That’s right. Stand up and tell your story to a live audience. No social media. No recording video while hiding in your bedroom. I want you to tell us about you to our faces. Let us react in the moment. Let us feel what you feel. Let us give you contemporaneous feedback. No delay. No checking for likes or claps.
I was so inspired that I sought an opportunity to share a story or two. Last week I presented a tale of Growth @ the Newport Library Arts Center. Designed by artist Heidi Lorenz, the new program relies on the PechaKucha model. They challenged each speaker to record a story using 20 slides, each timed for 20 seconds.
I got real, got raw — and delivered it live in front of the gallery audience. Loved it! So many wonderful compliments and kind feedback. The connection is far more significant than sharing on social media. Sharing this story — Apple Trees, Lighthouses, and Adventures — highlighting the evolution of the relationship with my father — was cathartic.
I’m encouraging you to get real, get raw, and get live. In fact, sign up at PechaKucha and share your 20/20 story with me. I’d love to hear it.
Unless you’re ready to present live… I can arrange that should you be so brave!
Published 7.2023, Medium: The Pillars