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Telling Our Stories - April 2001

A deep appreciation for the resilience of the human spirit was cultivated early on in me, by my father, "the professor", who through books and personal reminiscence taught the hard-won lessons of life. I became an avid student of and believer in, the power of the tale to transmit love, empathy and truth. Images of Alice drowning in a pool made up of her own tears, mingle in my mind with images of my father walking to school through the snow, newspaper stuffed in his shoes to fill the holes. Our stories are the best of what we have to share with one another, for they impart that which we have in common, our humanity.

The recent earthquake provided a wellspring of adventure style dramas, bringing us together as only a common enemy could. Friends and strangers alike shared the mix of terror and astonishment, as asphalt pavement became oceanic waves, and high rises swayed like Disneyland rides. For days after our sensibility was rocked, each encounter began with, "What's your story?" No matter where we were when it happened, for those 30 seconds duality ceased, as we mutually experienced the potential shattering of life as we know it.

And it doesn't necessarily take the wagging finger of "Mother Nature" to gather us around the communal hearth. It can be the tragedy of young girls, spinning out of control on their way home from a Youth Group meeting, that causes us to meet our neighbor's gaze in that knowing way which conveys nothing will ever be the same. Here in the Snoqualmie Valley we've had to tell this saga too many times: The tale of children who lost their lives, of the families who lost their loved ones, the friends who lost out on a future of shared dreams. There is also the story of the community that gathered around and helped to carry the weight of that grief, each one of us knowing it could easily have been our daughter or our son that bitter eve, last January.

Sometimes grace brings us together through tales of upliftment , like the one that took place three days after the earthquake, when 800 hundred people gathered at St. Mark's Cathedral in Seattle, for an Interfaith Day of "Mystical Chanting." There were six religious groups represented: Jewish, Buddhist, Sufi, Hindu, Catholic and Hawaiian. They each shared divinity chants from their traditions and taught them to us. The event lasted all day, with a brief break for lunch. It was a gorgeous, blue- sky Saturday, perfect for playing in the garden, hiking in the mountains, or shushing down the slopes. Instead, we sat on wooden pews, gazing up at the brilliant, glass mandala that crowns the alter of St. Mark's like a portal to heaven, and collectively opened our hearts. Eight hundred voices merged into one, chanting the ancient sounds, "Om, Shalom, Amen, Ya Allah," making an offering of peace and blessings to the Universe.

Recently, I had the honor of hearing, Sherman Alexie, a Native American author, poet and comedian speak at my daughter's school. Alexie's main protagonist for much of his writing is Thomas Builds-the-Fire, the reservation storyteller who, "caught some disease in the womb that forced him to tell stories." Thomas repeats his stories so often that the words, "crept into all the other Indian's dreams." Thomas's stories, "hung in your clothes and hair like smoke, and no amount of laundry soap or shampoo washed them out." (from Reservation Blues)

Like Thomas, our stories cling to us, shaping our lives, the same way the fabric of our lives provides the pattern for our stories. In the time between the writing of this essay and your reading it, a myriad of tales have been chronicled in your memory banks and mine. What's important to note is what we choose to include in our stories, what we embellish and exaggerate and omit. As we listen with care to ourselves and to others, we begin to hear the story beneath the story, the one that reveals our fears, our courage, and whispers of our longing for connection.

My 16 year-old daughter, Jamie, said when she felt the earthquake hit, it was as if the external world finally matched her internal sense of reality. For her, it affirmed some deep understanding that she has always had: There simply is no solid ground. The earth's shifting plates have reminded us once again that we are only visitors here. According to Yoga and Buddhist teachings, impermanence is the only constant. All the stories ultimately converge into that singular Truth. Nothing stays the same. No matter how much we attempt to avoid it, there is no escaping the undertow of change.

The question is, how do we make peace with this unsettling fact? The only way I know is by recognizing ourselves in every human tale that's told, and knowing deep in our soul that we are each a part of every exaltation and horror that happens to another on this planet, whether it's a new cure for cancer or the bombing of Iraq. Our stories keep us connected, they keep us honest. They remind us of our shared fragility and that precious gift we all covet — LIFE.

For right now, there's lots of damage to be accessed and repaired, and as always after dark times, hearts in need of healing. Spring has arrived and none too soon. The extra hours of light cheer on the forsythia and dogwood, while a new crop of stories breeze in on the Chinook winds, breathing hope into our tenuous lives. As Sherman Alexie writes, speaking for the "Thomas" in all of us:

Blessings,

The Yoga Barn, Inc.
Robin Rothenberg, Certified Yoga Instructor
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