It seems that, while last semester’s coursework and circumstances brought me to think a lot about the notion of home and identity, this year is, instead, placing a focus on story telling. It could, perhaps, be due to the fact that I’m currently taking three English courses, but it seems that this idea of stories – and of how we, as humans, communicate through our diverse languages, our history, and our imaginings – has become very prevalent in my life. Not only am I being asked to truly think about these ideas, I’ve also been asked a few times very recently to share stories of my own.

I’ve written some in the past about storytelling and about specific moments when it seemed very influential – remembering the story of the Druid whom I met in Avebury, for example. It is my hope, in this little rambling bit of writing, to reflect upon the idea in a much broader sense.

As a species, it seems to me that humans have an inbuilt instinct or desire to communicate beyond the normal scope of that of a creature communicating with others of its own kind in order to ensure survival. In one of my courses this afternoon, we were debating whether or not there was a psychological need to establish the sort of symbolic language necessary for story-telling, as well as for the development of civilization. Is this enforced upon us by society? Or do we, innately, have a desire to develop that sort of abstract means of communication? Is there something inherently spiritual and instinctual in the practice of storytelling and communication with others? I would say that it seems so, though others in my class seemed to have a more cynical view on the matter.

Whatever the cause of it, there is undoubtedly something about this ability that makes us human.

No other species – so far as we are aware, anyway – possesses this same drive to preserve their history and create fantasy stories through which to interpret the world and grapple with our past and present issues.
In another course, we discussed the importance of storytelling – beyond the simple statement of it being almost human nature – as well as the source of stories and the process of creating them.

 Today, there are millions of books in print, and millions more that exist only in rare, treasured copies, which contain enumerable written works. It seems to me, that with print and infinitely more internet and digital sources being available to us, value is attributed much more often to the written (or typed) word. That it can be read and re-read by different people who don’t even need to be in the vicinity of each other is, no doubt, useful. I think, however, there is something of a denial in focusing so much on this supposed permanence (surely such works that are physical and thought “permanent” can still be destroyed).

As was mentioned by Phillip Carr-Gomm in the short documentary piece, ‘Fable: The Lost Art of the Spoken Word,’ we tend towards a denial that life – and everything in it – is in fact ephemeral and fleeting.

Storytelling, by its very nature, is just as ephemeral as anything else in life. Words, once spoken, can very rarely be recited again word-for-word, at least not without determined practice and memorization. The experience of hearing a story can never be replicated, even if all the same conditions are met once again. It will never be exactly the same story and experience that it was in that moment in time. In embracing that idea – in embracing the fact that life is fleeting and should be lived openly as such – I think there’s a great deal of peace that can be found in the art of storytelling. It connects us to that which was but, at the same time, it is always continuously changing with each new telling, each new storyteller adding their own slightly different spin on it.

In stories, I think, there is a great deal of truth to be found. Classmates have suggested that stories teach moral lessons and societal values. Undoubtedly, I think this is true. But I also feel, at least in the instances that I can recall having heard and/or shared stories, that there is something else at work. Within these stories, there is often a sort of universal truth to be found. Kristoffer Hughes, I believe, mentioned in ‘From the Cauldron Born’ that, especially in Celtic folk tales, there is meant to be a transformative process which the character, the audience, and perhaps even the storyteller themselves undergo during the telling. What that transformative process might be, could be very different depending on the individual – a story might even touch you in a different way each time you hear it. The tale of Taliesin is certainly that way for me.

For me, I suppose, storytelling is quite similar to ritual. I expect, in a great story, for there to be something that stirs in me; a sense of change – no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. It needs to make me think about something long after the hearing or reading of it. Even more so, I expect to find in it, a connection to something – another person, the land, the gods, etc. that reminds me to come out of my ‘tech-swamped cloud’ and really live in the world. 

I expect that in the coming months this topic will be revisited a few times. For now, it’s got me puzzling over things and, needless to say, looking forward to my courses and the topics we’ve been discussing.