Inside Stories We Tell I begin with a tale of a man and a woman, husband and wife, and of the stories each tells. It is also of four brothers, who each as they are, tell stories of their own. It is of a man and a woman and four sons, master storytellers all, around and through whom many tales came to be woven. The man told stories inside out ... about inadequate ogres in the world who took advantage and injured nice persons. When he was young, the man was the youngest of his brothers and sisters. He did not have a father for a good portion of his growing up and the older children must have helped his mother in the caring of the youngest one. Perhaps it was always having these much older ones looking down at him, or perhaps he felt neglected, or may be the older ones were critical ... whatever might have been, it must surely have seemed to the man, when he was a boy, that there was too much or too little of something and that this lack or surplus had something to do with these older, bigger and more powerful persons. Whatever resentment he might have felt had to be kept to himself, of course, for how can you feel badly toward those who are the only sources of your love and support? So it may be that the man learned very early to be helpful, valuable and productive, but to keep his feelings, his resentments and anger, to himself. The man grew and became talented in his creativity and his productivity ... a calm, quiet, generous man who gave of himself. He married a beautiful young woman with three infant sons and gave his life for their wellbeing. He made a home that was sufficiently happy, healthy and whole; there was much joy and love inside. Perhaps the only major unhappiness in his life was in relation to some of the older, powerful men for whom he worked, who lived far away in the big city. The man would often come home and tell stories of these insensitive, uncaring, unscrupulous men, who were very selfish and difficult ... although he never told these men of his resentment and anger or of how difficult and disappointing they were to him; although he told his wife and his children many stories of powerful men in high places who took advantage and injured nice persons who did not deserve such treatment. The man was greatly loved for his kindness and willingness to help, always using his creative talents for others. The mother told belonging stories in which she and others could safely and in comfort be together in value, in worth and in happiness ... she was very generous and kind-hearted in the stories she gave away. When she was young, she had many, many brothers and sisters. As one of the middle girls she had many household responsibilities, and she helped take care of the four youngest brothers, as well. It may be that as a beautiful and bright young woman she tired of all her chores and her parenting responsibilities or the difficulties in getting the attention a young woman might want from her parents who were spreading their love among many children, or perhaps she was just so alive, vivacious and engaging she just wanted to jump into her own life. However it happened, when she was very young she fell in love with and married a handsome, daring young man and the two quickly had three beautiful children, one right after the other. Although he came home from two wars safely, one day the young man suddenly died and in her sorrow the young woman was left alone with her three beautiful children. Well, her large family helped her through this terribly difficult period and she eventually met a handsome, kind and loving young man whom she married. Years later she happily had another son. Her life and joy were her children and husband and her family life. Again, she had her young boys to care for well. As the woman matured into middle age she seemed to enjoy the attention of others, being next to and together with those she felt comfortable with. These were happy times … although, there were the wives of the powerful men with whom her husband worked and other women who she compared herself to and, once in a while she wondered if she really was beautiful, if she should not have really gone on to more get more education, if she really was as good as some of the people around her. But she gifted others with her charm, her wit and energy, by helping people to see she was just one of them, that people were really the same no matter their station in life, by helping others less fortunate then her, essentially by enacting stories of being next to, being together with, all people in generosity, gaiety and caring in such a way that no one might feel above or below another. Well, her three oldest children went out into the world and her life began to change. Suddenly, one day she learned one she loved had betrayed her in a moment of weakness, and she felt her world shaken to its gentle and fragile foundations. Perhaps it appeared to her that she was not beautiful, she was not valuable, that she was not lovable enough to hold the one she cared for to be true. It seemed that she was not desirable enough to be wanted by the one who knew her the best and to whom she had given her life. Her first love was gone, her eldest children were gone, and now her second love seemed ripped from her heart by another who must have seemed to have some things she did not or one who seemed to be more adequate than she. Perhaps she did not, could not, understand the possibility that what had happened had less to do with her than the imperfectness of her husband, or that the potential of recovering what she had lost was possible, so she was overwhelmed with disappointment, despair, sorrow, anger, rage, hate and finally overcome by bitterness. She withdrew into herself, and into drinking, only to participate in her marriage in the following way - her husband had to do whatever she wanted in order for him to prove that he really loved her (although she might have felt he had already proved otherwise and could not undo what he had done). Her life went between sorrow and rage; forgiveness was an unreachable goal because she thought this betrayal struck so deeply at what was so vulnerable inside of her ... that she was precious and lovable and valuable. Nevertheless, the woman was loved by all because she made everyone feel comfortable, at ease and cared for, that everyone belonged to one another equally (we are one big family, you know) and that no one should be turned aside because they were less than another ... her generosity and kindness endeared all who came near her. And so, she lived with her bitter resentments and sorrows and he lived attendant to her will, and his own resentments (for once again, how could he be angry with the one from whom he wanted and needed love and companionship and whom he had hurt so badly?) Such unresolved raw feelings could only be held so long and when they built to unbearable levels they erupted in the home, flashing and thundering briefly before the two withdrew to lick their wounds, with only the youngest son as witness. The youngest son told in-between stories ... stories that lit the eldritch spaces between those his stories cared for - so that those he was close to would not, could not, feel bad about any of what was in between. The youngest son of the youngest son was well cared for in his family until the older brothers had left and until pain erupted in his family. As you might guess, he learned to feel first anguish and then anxiety and then a sickness deep in the pit of his stomach when he experienced the pain, and then drinking in his home. But his wellness and wholehearted joy in life provided a partial solution - he learned that humor could keep much at bay and when that was not possible he learned to escape with his friends in wild abandon ... drinking covered much of what he could not solve for himself or his parents. Finally, he found his own haven with another beautiful young woman and he began a family near his original home. The youngest son was loved by all for his humor, his generosity, his ability to get along with everyone and his ability to help everyone get along with everyone else when he was around. For he had also become very big and very powerful, lifting weights until no one was as physically powerful as he ... although he was kind, thoughtful and direct, spreading lightness and fun everywhere he went. The third son, youngest of the oldest three, constucted in-clusive stories in which each and every one had a part to play and together a purpose to perform. In the middle of these stories the third son helped each person to contribute in ways that helped his story do something visible and productive in the world, although carrying the responsibility for such large stories must have been exhausting for the third son, for nothing was inconclusive about how these stories went. Being the youngest of the three, this son might have felt that he always got hand me downs, that the others were bigger and faster and more powerful in games, and that the older brothers (perhaps only the eldest brother) could do want they wanted without consequence. Nevertheless, the youngest brother grew up to become very competitive in games and in trade and soon, because of his great motivation and powerful personality and charm, soon he was directing many people in the city in which he lived to keep the city a comfortable and abundant place to live. It was interesting to find that as a man he was to assert a great deal of control over the domains he staked out for his own, while at the same time becoming beloved by all for his debonair charm, his ability to help people in need of support, but most of all, people liked him for his incisive wit and his ability to tell wonderfully interesting anecdotes and stories and to converse until the wee hours of the morning with a seeming endless supply of passion and energy. Always on the go, the youngest son was a powerhouse of energy and ambition and good-spirit and friendliness, and was especially close to the middle son of the oldest three. The middle son told outside stories of fish and game and wild woods ... stories of out there beyond the civil, social familiarity of home. The middle son was as kind and generous as his mother, as exquisitely sensitive as his grandmother, and as helpful as his father. He was so much so that others often took advantage of him, and as he did not learn as quickly as other students, he much enjoyed being out in the wild woods away from restrictions and requirements. He had many, many adventures in many places far away. The middle son went very far away at a very early age and advanced to become masterful at providing for the sustenance of others who had to travel far from home. He was loved for his unstinting, unselfish and essential generosity of being. The middle son was loved because he would give all to you that you needed if you just asked. It would be harder to find a kinder heart. Later in life he would return home periodically to care for his mother and father. And, so, what about inside out, in-between, in-clusive, out-side far away, and be-longing stories?? Oh ... you ask - what about the eldest brother, the oldest son, what kind of story-teller was he, what kind of stories did he tell? Well, first and foremost, there had to be someone to listen to all these stories being told, so the eldest, oldest brother-son listened ... quietly, calmly, with large eyes and open ears he cocked his head and gently listened. Fragments, story-lines, endings all were gathered in his patient listening and when he began to tell stories, the stories were about light and darkness, above and below, next to and a part, and all about how stories helped people or prevented people from those things dearest in their hearts. The eldest son told outside-in stories. He looked in on the stories that people told and that people lived and tried to perceive their shape and form, as well as to determine any flaws that might make a story less beautiful, less desirable. (He discovered that peoples stories really were mostly of three kinds - stories where people tried to get enough above everyone else so that no one could come down unexpectedly upon their backs ... this kind of story is one in which control and domination protect; stories where people tried to be so low that no one could get to their vulnerable undersides ... this kind of story is one in which withdrawing to the lowest, most unthreatening position protects; stories where people move between approaching and avoiding, back and forth ... this kind of story is one in which being so very busy often protects. Please read the Kestrel, the Muskrat and Bee, if would like to begin of understanding the positions in such stories.) At any rate, in her sorrow and in her rage, but mostly in her despair, the woman lost her will in the dark liquid that took away all the gifts she could give and be given. Her husband was so busy telling inside-out stories, and her youngest son was so busy relating in-between stories, and her third son so tied up constructing in-clusive stories, and her middle son was so far away, that they could not help her. Actually, it might be said that the woman wove a very tight belonging story around all of these stories so that they cooperated with staying lost in her sorrow, rage and despair inside the dark liquid. Well, you ask, what about the eldest son, the one who listened and might have been expected to hear these stories and to see the flaws which made how they fit together all less beautiful than they might have been? He was also caught in his own story, as are we all ... which is the problem, you see ... for how can one step out of ones own story and the stories of ones family, when all the stories are told by master story-tellers, as each of us is? Perhaps the eldest found a glimmer of the out which might escape the in when he realized that how all these stories fit and the patterns they weave cannot be heard or seen unless they are shared ... and in the sharing perhaps the stories might be better fitted to one another, with the help of each storyteller, to make a different whole and a more beautiful story all together. But if one stays in and perhaps another, then it is very hard for any other to come out ! So you must choose, as the reader (and as author, as well), do you want to keep in by yourself or do you want to get all together in in order to go out ? -- Damian A Vraniak (1991)
Posted on: Wed, 06 Nov 2013 18:02:06 +0000
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