The Magic of Storytelling
A few nights ago, I attended an evening of free-form, ecstatic dancing, and at the end we all circled up to share insights and reflections. One of the dancers shared a quote from Gabrielle Roth, considered by many to be the mother of ecstatic dance:
“Where we stopped dancing, singing, being enchanted by stories, or finding comfort in silence is where we have experienced the loss of soul. Dancing, singing, storytelling, and silence are the four universal healing salves.”
Hearing those words felt like hearing the deepest “Om,” like feeling a vibration at the frequency of light. Dance, singing, storytelling and silence. In each of these we give and receive, create and witness, feel known and surrender to the unknown. And each of them crosses over to the next and seamlessly combines elements of them all.
Belonging to a dance company for 13 years, I have lived the joy of dance and experienced firsthand how it has fed my soul. I feel overwhelming emotions when I listen to songs and sing aloud with complete abandon; it is a daily way I return to my Self. Silence has found me in both meditation and nature, where I bow to its divine inspiration and infinite bliss. And oh, the magic of storytelling! I am finally giving this creative expression its dues through my business as well as my creative writing, and my soul could not be happier.
Why is storytelling so magical? What is it in stories that grips us, enlivens us, reaches into the depths of our being and turns the levers that release a flood of emotions, connection, oneness with all of humanity? I believe a good story is like a mirror. It reflects back at us the elements in ourselves we want (and sometimes need) to see more clearly. It uses words to describe and define what we and the characters are feeling so that we can make sense of what was once just a tangled web of string at our feet. And a really good story introduces us to characters and feelings that broaden our perspective of the world and this life, while simultaneously helping us understand them. In short, great stories foster empathy.
Why is this magical? Because storytelling is the only way empathy can be conveyed without direct interaction with another human being. By putting yourself in the shoes of the characters, you can understand their perspectives, background, behaviors and motives. In some ways, because there is less at stake, little to no ego involved when one is reading a story, the likelihood of developing empathy is even higher than if it were learned or experienced in person. And the beautiful thing is that then the reader can take the empathy they have gained and employ it in their day to day life.
Another way storytelling is magical is its ability to transport us to another world. It is escapist in nature, and whether it is a true crime story or a fairytale, the reader is whisked away to somewhere entirely different from their own life. This is magical because stories give us an opportunity to live another life - anytime we pick one up. Whether you are wanting to take a temporary vacation from your life or gain insight to return to your life refreshed, a story can provide those things.
The magic of storytelling can also be found in the ways stories connect us - to each other, animals, nature, even inanimate objects. It is a creative, connecting medium, one that weaves a web of wonder and imagination. This is how it can be magical in any form it takes: an advertisement, an article, a novel, a movie, a play, a comic book. It relieves us of feeling alone in the world and reminds us we are part of a greater whole. We have a role to play, a plot to carry out, an ending to move towards. Every life, every year, every day is a story. We are all dancing, singing, sometimes silent, stories.
To share the magic with you now, I will tell you a story…
Unopened
Once there was a woman who, three days before Christmas, received a small gift on her doorstep. It was the tiniest gift she had ever received, wrapped carefully in the tiniest box she had ever seen. She looked up and down her street and even asked her neighbors if they had left it for her or had seen the person who left it, but they said ‘no’, and ‘no’. It was neatly wrapped in thin gold paper that sparkled in the early morning light. Had the gold paper not caught her eye, reflecting the sun as she stepped out for her daily walk, she would have missed it altogether.
The woman brought the gift into her warm, humble home, removed her gloves, unwrapped the paper and opened the lid. Inside glimmered the deepest red of a freshly fallen maple leaf, the smallest she had ever seen, its intricate outline and patterning both alluring and wonderful. The veins seemed to stand out as though they were streams of gold running the course of the leaf’s shape, all channeled into the miniature stem. Though she cherished it and was most gentle with her touch, to her dismay, it quickly withered, grew crisp and crumbled to tiny pieces by midnight. She slept restlessly that night, dreams of the unknown giver spinning over and over in her subconscious mind.
The very next day, as she stepped out for her morning walk, the woman paused before her doormat and saw, yet again, another tiny gold present. Once again, she brought it inside, removed her gloves, unwrapped the gift, and opened the lid. This time, inside shone the most beautiful miniature oak leaf, a rainbow of reds, oranges, yellows and greens blending like watercolor, its golden veins shockingly bright. ‘This time’, she thought, ‘I will not touch it.’ Though she desperately wanted to hold it in the palm of her hand, she restrained herself and set the box down carefully on her desk. She was so curious that evening whether it would crumble or last that she sat in front of it, watching it until all at once, at 11:59pm, it burst in a tiny explosion of color and all that was left was a pile of autumn-colored dust. She felt frustrated that her attempt to preserve its beauty had not worked, and fell into yet another fitful sleep.
On the morning of Christmas Eve, the woman woke and bundled up in her warmest clothes for a brisk walk around her block. Excited for the celebrations ahead that evening and the following morning, she rushed out the door. It wasn’t until she was several steps down her driveway that she realized she hadn’t looked down. Glancing back, she saw the now familiar tiny gold package glinting in the sunlight. Not wanting to risk a small animal taking it, she picked it up and hurried back inside where she set it down with care under her tree, unopened. Though she was more curious than each of the previous mornings, she felt cautiously responsible. If she opened it, it would crumble by midnight. But if she left it unopened, perhaps it would stay preserved, its beauty untouched, unseen, unexposed. Though her curiosity gnawed at her, opening it did not feel worth the risk.
She went about her day, baking cookies, wrapping gifts and humming Christmas tunes to herself. Every so often she would glance at the tiny gold present under the tree, but each time only strengthened her resolve that she would not destroy something so beautiful just to satisfy her own curiosity. It would be enough to know it was in there, enough to know someone had left it on her doorstep just for her.
***
The following December, as she was unpacking her Christmas decorations, the woman discovered a tiny box wrapped in thin gold paper in the bottom of the bin. The giver remained anonymous. She remained curious. Yet as she held the small gift in her hands, she realized that every time she had walked by a tree this past year, she had paused in awe of the beautiful fractals each leaf possessed. She smiled to herself and set the tiny, golden gift, greater in value to her than any she had ever received, under the tree, unopened.
