Trumpeting our stories

After such a full weekend -- class all day Friday, the Book Festival Saturday, long conversations on Sunday -- I feel like my head is exploding with stories.  Certainly the initial minutes of my meditation time were spent sifting through all the stories; it seemed to take forever to get back down into that quiet space within that feeds me.

And it seems to me that that was one of the key learnings of the weekend -- this weekend of storytelling and sharing: that however strong the urge may be to trumpet our stories, the truth is that we are NOT our stories; that in fact story gets in the way of knowing, of presence, of wonder and awe, of connection...

Yes, a tiny piece of story can build that first bridge -- like the wonderful connection I felt with Rose, a woman from Australia who was in town to hear her sister's presentation.  It was fun to hear we'd grown up not far apart, in small towns in Ohio; fun to hear she lived not far from my niece in Australia; moving to hear that she, too, had recently spent time at the deathbed of a dear one.  But the connection came not in the details of the stories but in the sharing of responses, and feelings.  We only spoke briefly, over lunch.  But I felt a wonderful bond with her, and still treasure the sense of affinity we shared across the table.

I felt that again, listening to Anne Lamott.  Her speech was marvelous: she peppers her talks, as she seasons her books, with references to incredibly juicy stories.  But it is not the story that builds the connection you can't help feeling with her: it's the emotions, the revelations, the responses, the discoveries that emerge; the vulnerability she shares, and the hope she reveals, that make her such a joy to listen to and read.

At some point in her talk, Lamott shared something she'd heard that she thought might challenge us.  "The opposite of faith isn't doubt," she said.  "It's certainty."  But my husband (who was amazingly wise this weekend) said later, driving home, that he thought that observation was a little off.  "I think what really happens" he said, "is that faith begins where certainty ends."

Thinking about that now, I'm thinking that stories are often about certainty.  This thing happened to me.  This is my reality.  I'm certain I was victimized, or betrayed, or damaged by this (so often that's the root of our stories).  And I think he's right.  Faith is that sense of mystery and wonder that comes in when you realize you can no longer be certain (maybe even certain that someone else is at fault, or that you were at fault, or that fault and blame even matter).  It's the piece that lies below the story, the breath that stops when you get past the words, the mysterious sense of connection you feel when all the masks and pronouncements and language we use to declare ourselves to the world fall away and the vulnerability beneath lies revealed.

Which of course makes me stop in my tracks -- I am, after all, an inveterate storyteller.  That's what this blog is about.  But it comes back to the balance I mentioned in last night's post.  There needs to be a balance between story and wonder.  Story alone won't get us there: we need to step into the silence that follows the story; to stop and sense that which lies beneath.