Why Storytelling

              There are moments you know your life has changed.  Let’s be clear that for this entry I do NOT mean your life has changed due to brain injury, because this is an entry about a moment when some challenge is completed or some dilemma is resolved — when some future path is revealed.  Often it is only through reflection that you can pinpoint such a moment of inspiration, but still there are instants, though exceedingly rare, when you are conscious that, “This has changed my life…” and the future goes on to verify your instinct.  For me, one such instant was during a performance of “Pouring the Sun” by master storyteller Jay O’Callahan, and my eyes were opened to the power of storyTelling.  It was then that I knew I had to be a storyteller.

              I have shared the specifics many times, and it’s a good story, but will not attempt to write them here, as it is a story intended for telling.  The printed word cannot affect one in the same manner.  This is not to minimize or discount the art of writing, but to recognize that stories shared by the written word are fundamentally different those shared through a speaking performance, and this is what was revealed at O’Callahan’s performance twenty years ago.

              I open with this because I was recently privileged to witness a student come to a similar discovery.  Currently I work at a high school in Beijing, China as an English speaking drama and literature teacher, and while I mention my experience with storytelling to many of my classes, typically there is not enough time to elaborate.  However, in a casual class last Thursday (where I lead boardgames played using English as practice for students), students came across my website and were browsing it before class began.  This led to them reading about both my brain injury and storytelling, and then casting countless questions to me.  While I attempted to answer them clearly and quickly, questions continued to fly — their interest was piqued, so I asked if they would like to hear my story about brain injury, justifying it is an opportunity to practice English listening skills, and just like that twelve students set up a row of chairs and space from me to perform.

              It was not my best performance.  I haven’t performed, rehearsed, or even reviewed the piece since the pandemic, but the students were a gracious audience, listening politely as I stumbled though my monologue, and when I reached the end and the final class bell rang, the students enthusiastically applauded, thanked me for sharing, asked a couple more questions, and raced out the door with the exuberance of a school day ending.

              But one student remained.  I won’t use his name, but know that he’s a smart, respectful, kind student, though he seems to have minimal ambition to be top of the class.  Instead he sits in the back corner of the room, paying attention and providing answers if asked, but rarely volunteering.  His attitude reminds me of my own in high school and I relate to his passive acceptance of the work.  That said, I was surprised to see him remain when the class left.

              “Hey, what’s up?”

              “Oh, um, Mr. Lethan…I wanted to say…”.  He paused, only a moment until a river of appreciation and realization began to flow from his mind and tumble out as words — how much the storytelling piece affected him, he could relate to the characters even though he never had brain injury, could see the story happening around him, found himself completely engulfed by the art of the performance, his new appreciation for verbal performance art, and we stayed talking for a full twenty minutes and could have talked longer but I pointed out that our families were waiting for us.  I was flabbergasted.  As stated above, I did not think it a particularly strong performance, but it moved him and made me think back to my personal realization about the art of storytelling.

              To be clear, I don’t think it was my performance that moved this student, but the power that is imbedded in the art form of storytelling.  The deeply intimate magic created when an audience witnesses a powerful truth emerging from story.  I recall advice from my graduate professor when I was studying storytelling, “The job of a storyteller is to get out of the way of the story and let truth shine through.”

              The goal of all art is to share some truth, but the interpersonal nature of storytelling can produce a uniquely intimate union between the audience and the artist, transporting us outside our body while traveling into our minds.  There is a space between the teller and the listener where the story exists, a spiritual realm that is both present and infinite, allowing sharing, learning, and personal discovery.

              This is why I tell stories.

              This is why I encourage you to share stories.

Usually, I try to keep my entires focused on brain injury and rehabilitation and I’ll continue with that focus, but I needed to share this event, because it reminded me that it is in this realm created by a story where healing can occur.  The place I hope we can all find when we share stories of recovery.

Thank you for sharing this story.