We are story
As we venture into the season of social connection and reflection, we cannot ignore the subject of Storytelling — also the theme of this months’ Blue Sky Republic Newsletter to which this article contributes.
My most vivid memories of story-experience originated during nightly family readings, gathered around a real Christmas tree, decorated with real and burning candles, a bucket of water and a nervous mother, in a small cottage on the island of Terschelling, The Netherlands.
We would close the day after long hikes, trudging through icy rain, or a cycling tour battling Sisyphus-like headwinds (somehow Dutch winds always senses which way you’re headed), or a whole day of building cabin shelters on desert-like beaches while being sandblasted (which would set off small dunes around the roots of my hair)…
I think I was around 7–8 years old and my state evening of mind must have been somewhat pinkish, but I remember vividly the soft spoken story told by bearded fathers heading the circle of children. While struggling with my itchy and tightly knit sweater, my burning cheeks and drowsy eyes from sleepiness.
I would fight to follow the true story of friendship between a native Northern American and a female wolf leader called Náhani (the one who shines), roaming the wild country of Kitiwanga in Northern British Columbia. The storyteller Gregory Tah-Kloma, tracks the wolf hoping to protect her from trappers who are eager to collect the bounty of $1,500 for the Wolf’s skin. Gregory’s story was recorded by Robert F. Leslie — I imagine over a fire somewhere in an intimidating landscape of the Northern American continent.
Even though I remember very little about the storyline; I do have a lively and detailed images of the landscape in which I pictured this tale. These images are probably influenced by circumstances — i.e., the rosy feeling; the smell of freshly baked Christmas bread, chocolate wreaths in the tree (we used to take tiny bites from each wreath in the early morning — hoping no one would notice).
I can still picture the deep black forests in which Náhani, the wolf would emerge from the dark pines before stepping out in the virgin snow of a clearing in the forest. Somehow that landscape feels warm and cosy, even though in reality that wild place must have been freezing; unfriendly and probably not smell like Christmas candy, but that is the magic of storytelling.
The above setting — in all variations thinkable — is the oldest and most essential form of storytelling. Telling stories around the fire, is the most human of all activities — our way to make sense ourselves and our relationships with the natural and supernatural, the known and unknown worlds we are surrounded with.
Our storytelling capabilities evolved some thirty thousand years ago (at least that’s when we started painting them) and its core principles are imprinted in our biology. We tell stories to construct our personal identities, but also our collective identities: they provide us with both an action perspective as well as a causation perspective. Stories allow us to construct meaning of why we are here, how we should live our lives and it helps us to imagine scenario’s, activities and destinations. Without story, the world would not have existed as it is today or as it should become tomorrow.
Joseph Campbell’s legendary research into the human psyche of storytelling is influential in a wide field of business management, marketing, cinema and of course psychology, not only because of its appealing promise of a recipe — how to tell a good story (George Lucas applied its principles to the Star Wars Saga), but also because he seems to have touched on something fundamental and universal: how the fundamental structures of story resonate across all cultural, geographical and language barriers as it speaks to our innate human capability to coordinate with complete strangers; we apply what Harari (2011) calls the ‘power of the imagined order’ — how we can create an ‘inter subjective reality’, how we are able to communicate and understand abstract concepts that are intangible or do not actually exist in the real world; such as religion, the nation state, money or the legal system.
Joseph Campbell is mostly known for his deconstruction of the universal hero story or ‘monomyth’ as he calls it (Campbell 1949). He explains how the journey of Christ fundamentally resembles that of Buddha, Allah, Odysseus and many more. Not because they lived similar lives, but because this way of storytelling allows us to transport ourselves into their lives, how we can experience and make sense of their perspective; how their lives teach us how to live our own lives.
But for stories to be effective, they have to apply — or disrupt — specific rules and principles if it wants to capture and ultimately move us as an audience. In the thousands of years since we believe stories appeared — or at least the forty centuries since the first written epic story of Gilgamesh was written, we have refined our skills and taste. We don’t accept a crappy story, we expect and demand ‘a good story, well told’ as Robert McKee — renown screenwriting guru would say in his instructive book ‘Story’ (1997)
The Hero’s Journey (1949) applies the classical three-part structure of Separation, transformation and return. Departure from the known world into the unknown world. Overcoming trials and temptations, of death and rebirth, of revelations and atonement and ultimately the Return to the known world, where the hero presents the ‘gift of the goddess’ — his acquired wisdom to serve society.
The journey starts in the known world until he is ‘called into adventure — generally this moment comes when the hero is bored, depressed or in trouble and thus ready to be tested. This call often comes from a sudden event, a strange figure. In essence the call comes from the unconscious which is often represented as dark water where dangerous monsters live. The hero is tempted to cross the threshold and engage with these guardians of the unknown realm.
In many cultures these crossings are symbolised in rites of passage, from child to adulthood: the child needs to shed its dependency and accept its personal responsibility. The symbol emphasises that this is a point of no return: the child has to die, in order to be resurrected as a full member of society. Grimm’s story of the Frog king, or Iron Henry relates to this coming of age: the pond refers to the princess’ unconscious and the golden ball forces her to confront her unconscious need to transcend her childhood.
Although hero stories tell of fantastical landscapes and events, it is essentially a symbolic journey into the psyche of the hero. And it is also a story common to all of us; it doesn’t require some supernatural or god-like being. It teaches us how to engage with our inner limitations. The dragons are the mere keepers of our own happiness, our joys and our love. We tend to cage these treasures, lock them up and bury them so they won’t get spoiled or damaged.
The dragon-keeper cannot enjoy or consume the treasures because it is useless to him. His only role is to guard it. According to Campbell, these dragons represent our ego. And are ego is the mirror of what we believe society expects from us; how we think we should present ourselves and how we should guard our successful image towards society, but what we are guarding is in effect our own treasure. Unless we release this treasure, unless we slay our ego dragons, we cannot enjoy love and life itself.
Only by defeating our inner dragons in the abyss of death and rebirth, we can experience the revelations about the source of life, we can then transcend our old selves and find atonement; inner peace and a sense mastery of the center where all is quiet, in balance like in the eye of the storm. Top athletes, singers or dancers may recognise this: they cannot act without mastering the balance in their inner center.
Other heroes cannot defeat our inner dragons, but they can point us in the right direction, facilitate and inspire us to be ready when the call to adventure reverberates.
I wish you readiness and a safe voyage.
