My family keeps secrets. Secrets are an interesting thing. They create those in the know and those who are not. They divide us and them, you and me, sister and brother, child and parent. Secrets fester and surface at inconvenient times –like pimples that suddenly appear the night before a big date or an important interview.
Some of our family secrets were relatively benign, like the time my parents threw a big 40th birthday bash for my mother the year she turned 43.
Others were well intentioned. When I was 8 and my sister 4 our cat, Gideon, fell and was badly injured. My parents took Gideon to the vet and when he came back he was much larger. When I commented on his size, my parents explained that he had stretched in surgery. It might have worked, but Gideon’s disposition also appeared to have changed as a result of his trauma. What had been a lovely, gentle animal suddenly attacked and drew blood. He shredded furniture and left his mark on every possible surface. I steadfastly stood up for the cat. We couldn’t give him away. It wasn’t his fault. Eventually my parents were forced to admit that they had replaced the cat with another of similar coloring. Rather than transformed, they had brought back a different animal altogether.
Yet other secrets were more questionable and better hidden. But I didn’t become a storyteller to “out” my family’s secrets. That would be shady, base, ignoble, disrespectful, and morally wrong.
Rather, I became a storyteller because storytelling heals the very wounds that secrets create. Secrets are the gatekeepers of shame. Stories are the mythical creatures that heal the wounds of humanity. Like the Phoenix, stories rise from the ashes.
Stories bring together what no man shall cast asunder – no matter how hard he tries. We all grow old, we all die, we all make mistakes, drown our sorrows in something, have humiliations and fears we would rather not share. Stories dive below the social façade to our deepest humanity. In that they heal. In stories, kindness generates good will, love conquers all, and all the important pieces, no matter how ignoble or uncomfortable, are included.
Stories speak the deep truths. They sing to our souls. They comfort and heal. They teach us to love, to open, and to reach for possibility. Stories bring magic to the world. I’m a storyteller because I believe in magic. Where there is magic, secrets shrivel to their proper size, they become the keys that open doors, their knowledge the power words that let us reclaim ourselves and our first born children. I’m a storyteller because I want to share the deep truths embedded in the patterns that we weave. I want to create magic in the world.
The image at the top of the post can be found here.
Leave a Reply