The Other Story

I watched the end of a really beautiful series last night, the kind that dares understand humanity in a hopeful way. These stories are precious to me because they aren’t always the stickiest kind and that makes them rare in the media culture at hand. We are creatures with a wide range of potential, not all of it good, and finding a balance that is inspiring but still fits is a gift. We have a strange way of weaving our beliefs about ourselves into reality, and we only find our way when we can dream.

I woke up still reflecting on that idea. If that is true, why?

I sometimes compare myself to myself at other times in my life. Why was I happier then? At least one difference is that I believed I was part of a much happier story. I think about the happiest person I know. Her faith is a cornerstone for her. She doesn't entirely believe that she will ever die. She has a very specific belief that when God comes back, she will be invited to ride in a chariot, like Elijah. Imagine a chariot ride with God as a possibility in your story.

I set aside the impulse to consider the rationality of the story, who is to say? I’m more interested in its effect. Having worked in the field of psychology, I suspect the effect of this particular story is stronger than any psychotropic medication. It is not a treatment I would prescribe nor caution against, but it seems like an important one to understand.

In the field of psychology, there is the concept of the narrative identity. The idea is that we all have a story that we use to help us process our lives and construct our identity. It brings a sense of purpose and meaning to our lives. We might not even be entirely aware of the story, but if we find ourselves unhappy, it might be because we are stuck within an unhappy story.

The narrative identity offers a useful surface area to understand the clash of politics and culture in our country. There are two big stories that don’t seem like they can both be true at once. What happens when we come across a story that doesn’t fit with the one we carry? The emotional thread it might pull can be surprisingly strong. Even if we aren’t entirely aware of the story inside of us, we recognize the power of stories. Specifically, we recognize the destructive power of a false story. We all have the personal experience of being pulled along by a story that turned out to be untrue. The effect can be catastrophic for our lives. Extrapolating to the national stage, entire countries may rise or fall on the wave of a story.

I suspect there is a more elusive reason why the other story may cast an intolerable shadow. If that story is true, or if that story is believed, what role have we been playing all along?

It is almost a shame, we don’t give the inner storyteller enough credit. A story is a strange and mysterious thing, like a magic bag of holding. It can fit any number of stories within. The story never ends, it just becomes a part of a larger story. And you never really know which story holds the other, or if they simply hold each other in symmetry, each bright within the light of a different stage.

This understanding of reality might be uncomfortable because it might seem like a discount on truth. We often use the word as a contrast to truth, he’s telling a story. The truth is a valid reason to be careful of stories, they live within a space where truth is uncertain or not always the point. There are some philosophies of life that question the existence of truth entirely, but this is not that philosophy. Truth matters, truth is discoverable. But truth is too complicated to be encapsulated in any single story. The same series of events can take the shape of any number of stories, and all of them true at once.

The liability of a story is not only that it may be false and lead us astray, it may also be true and yet we may cling to it at the expense of deeper truth.

The chariot rider of my life is someone I admire. I have seen her weather storms that I believe few would survive, and with a song in her heart. Her inner story is a powerful one that has carried her through. As fantastical as her beliefs may seem to others, she has no pretense of being open to the stories that seem fantastical to her. She would be the first to tell you that she believes truth is a settled concern. And it is not entirely clear that it hasn’t worked out well for her. Once upon a time, I had very similar beliefs, but at some point turned around toward openness. And it is not always clear that has worked out well for me. If it brings moments of clarity, it brings just as many that seed confusion and doubt. And I unhappily find myself further away from people I would rather be close to.

But another grace of stories is that you never know which part of the story you are in. Is it the darkness before the dawn? Is it the calm before the storm? Is it the part just before a heart becomes softer, the truth seems to come together, or everyone jumps out and says, surprise! Just one way to find out.

My wish is to learn to walk with humility and hold my story lightly, for the sake of the truth and not at its expense. To hold compassion for the impulse to cling to a story, sometimes a story is the only thing that carries us. To be aware of the story on which my inner storyteller has settled, and its effect on my life.