SPOKEN WORD: The Power of Storytelling
Although it was the middle of the night, she was awake and writing in her room. She heard footsteps outside her door, a long pause and finally a very quiet knock. Not wanting to wake her daughter and the baby in the room next to her, she got up from the bed and went to the door, rather than speaking aloud.
It was one of her granddaughters. Down below, the security guard was looking up to see if he was needed. She gave a silent wave signaling all was well. She knew the reason for the visit from the home’s resident storyteller.
It was late summer and the nights were still comfortable, so she suggested they go to the sitting area on the roof where they wouldn’t disturb anyone. She grabbed a candle and some incense and a fresh cup of guayusa for her writing companion, prepared to offer it to her if wanted. She was old enough now at 16, to use the tea that was far superior to coffee in stimulating creativity and clarity of mind.
As they climbed the four sets of stairs to the roof, she took note of the energy level of the storyteller, noticing that she was wide awake and a bit frustrated perhaps. When they reached the sitting area under the pergola, she flicked on the colored lights so they could see to read.
It was a beautiful night, the moon very close to full, a slight breeze to move the stagnation and frustration in the storyteller. They sat and looked at each other silently for a moment. This was their way, so aware of each other, and comfortable with letting the words take shape between them.
Then the storyteller spoke, “I have written two stories for the Word Warriors competition this morning, but I don’t like either of them and I’m stuck.”
“What are the two stories?”, Grandmother asked.
She thought for a moment, not wanting to go through them and explain them in detail.
Noticing and understanding, Grandmother said, “Just a sentence or two about each so I can understand where you are stuck.”
“One is a story about the night the war came to our village, with gun shots and bombs, and the sound of the helicopters, rattling our huts. Everyone has a story like this, and although it is a good story, I would like it to have more of an impact for the competition.”
“I see,” Grandmother replied. “And the other?”
“I don’t like it at all. I’d rather not say.” she said.
“Okay,” Grandmother said, reading the storytellers emotions, and knowing what she has been going through the past few months, and the transformation taking place, asked, “What is the single most impactful event in your life, that has made you who you are today?”
The storyteller viscerally responded immediately, saying “Ahh, my mother, that’s it”, standing up excitedly and then asking, “May I come back later?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be in my room.” Knowing now that the storyteller would not be sleeping tonight, Grandmother offered the tea and it was gratefully accepted with a knowing smile of gratitude, as they both knew the story was going to be very deep and emotional.
A few hours later another knock on the door and this time they sat together on the floor of the roof leaning against the planters that lined the pillars that supported the pergola.
The storyteller read the story out loud without any emotion, barely audible. When she finished Grandmother moved closer to her and leaned her head upon her shoulder asking her to read it again, this time louder, with more feeling.
As the words entered her body, Grandmother began weeping gently at first, then as the moment of deception and leaving arrived in the story, she was crying uncontrollably. The storyteller barely noticed until she finished and heard her blow her nose into a tissue.
She moved away and looked over at Grandmother, and needing no words, still said, “What do you think?”
“I wouldn’t change a single word.” She thought for a moment and said, “This could be very emotional for you, have you considered having a time keeper to signal you at regular intervals so you don’t go overtime and get disqualified.”
The storyteller smiled and said, “No, I am so happy with what I have written, that this competition means nothing to me anymore. I don’t care what happens.”
Smiling in return Grandmother said, “That’s wonderful, now do you want to sleep awhile with me waking you in a few hours or would you like to go for a walk. The sun is just about to rise.”
“No,” said the storyteller, “can we watch a movie? Could we watch Anastasia?”
“Ahhh, Anastasia, that would be perfect! Let’s do that. And then a light breakfast?”
Later, that morning, in the competition, the storyteller shared the story of the night her mother abandoned her in the woods near her real grandmother’s home, walking into a group of trees saying she had to pee, leaving her to walk alone, crying at the age of 5. Having to find her way in the dark to her grandmother’s home, never seeing or hearing from her mother again.
It was an emotional story with no dry eyes in the crowd, many of them friends who had never known any of the details of her life.
The growth, evident in the weeks that followed, bore fruit as news came from her mother asking to reunite for a weekend. Having written the story and released a good bit of the emotion that had shaped her life up to this point, opened up a new chapter in her life, of forgiveness and understanding, allowing her to move on, empowered to create a new life, free of unworthiness.
