My neighbor here Pilgrim place told me once that what she liked about me was my “wry sense of doom.” She and I share a love of words, and she listens well, and I took her words to heart. For the last 10 years or so, I’ve been aware that I don’t need to tell some of the old angry or sad stories anymore, that I’ve told them until they’ve been exorcised. Further, I realize, usually after the fact, that many of my stories center on my survival from the kind of experience that people here at Pilgrim place seldom have. For example, I told one couple, more staid than I thought, that my parents were in vaudeville. The husband shook his head, then said only partly joking, “Well, that explains a lot.”
I can make anything funny. Certainly, as a chaplain, I think it’s really important to pay attention to the sadness, regret and grief that dwells in so much human experience. So my stories will about the humor in some of the most startling and gruesome experiences in my life is definitely not avoidance at all. I choose irony (as different from sarcasm, which I despise) and humor to keep from getting both feet stuck in the pain and desolation, confusion and grief in the human condition at large, and sometimes in the human condition of Maggie.
The other aspect of my storytelling also has several facets. I am actually quite far on the introversion scale. But also embedded deep in my brain probably from early childhood is a fear of getting lost and of disappearing in a crowd. My storytelling is a way of creating my place, My Space in a group or relationship. My storytelling is a placeholder, where I can stay until I feel more comfortable. In that sense, my storytelling gives me shelter and protection; it’s the place where I can hide out while still belonging to the group.
Every gift is a mixed blessing. I think I’m a fairly good listener, but my storytelling is a problem for me when I monopolize a conversation. In truth, I love other people’s stories as much as my own, but I get caught up in the energy of a moment and don’t give another a chance.
In the end, I love a good story, mine and others. I can’t preach a homily or sermon without beginning with a story. I can feel a group settle in, nestle in to whatever message I offer wrapped in a story. But I know as well that if I’m not careful, my stories can prevent or damage precisely what I want so much in telling them – – acceptance, and the intimacy of true friendship.