The power of story

I don't remember my childhood. I don't mean I don't remember what I had for breakfast on my first day of school, or who my second grade teacher was. I mean I don't remember my childhood. I remember two events from before I was eleven years old. That's right, a grand total of two.

Tonight, my Mom and I went to Deep Water Theater and listened to several talented storytellers who had attended Donald Davis' annual storytelling workshop this past week on the island (I attended that workshop myself a couple of years ago; it's wonderful). Anyway, two of the tellers, Sheila and Kindra, told wonderful (although very different) stories about their childhoods, and I was enormously blessed by both. I had a moment of jealousy at not only their ability to remember their childhood experiences, but at the experiences themselves, which were full of love and joy. But it was just a moment, and I chose to let that feeling go. It was much more rewarding to simply enjoy the stories, to marvel at the wonder that can be found in childhood, and to learn from their joy (and from the sadness in one of the stories, too).

This is the power of story - sharing truth and experience in a way that moves the listener, because he or she can relate, even if - like me - he or she can't relate in the usual sense of "oh, yes, something similar to that happened to me, too, I remember..."