Story laundering

The subtleties and nuance of human nature and its endeavours to make sense of life and the human condition can be a source of both wonderment and amusement. Listening to people tell stories is definitely one of those occasions. Stories are open to interpretation, it seems, not only interpretation by those who listen to the story being told, but apparently also interpretation by those who are telling the story. In comedy sketches, there often will be a complicity between the comedian telling the story and his or her partner on the stage. Complicity in story telling can also be tragic, in theatre performances, where the dialogue takes a somber turn, often superbly exemplified in opera. But the story telling I am thinking of is the one we participate in daily with our family members, friends, neighbours. The story line is often quite simple, a minor happening or incident, such as a retelling of a frustrating trip to town dealing with Holiday traffic, or the retelling of a conversation with a long lost friend, or the news of an illness or other distressing event in the neighbourhood. Telling the story rarely revolves around the basic facts. Like knitting a sweater or painting a picture, the yarn and colours and brushes we start out with, rarely are the only ones that go into the process and the finished product. In the case of knitting or painting, no harm done there. In the case of story telling... not so. But it seems we can't help ourselves. Instead of five cars jamming the freeway, it turns out it was well, at least twice that many. I have found myself embellishing the most innocent of recounts, and it makes me smile. I have also noticed that funny stories turn out even funnier, and sad stories either become real tragedies, or, they turn into instant fairy tales with amazingly good endings that leave everyone surprised if not suspicious at the marvelous turn of events. It occurred to me that humans do this not because they are deceitful by nature or inclination, but because we so want to feel a sense of control over what we do not understand, and enhancing events, thus turning them effectively into stories, gives us a sense of proportion, of measure, even if that sense is quite off balance. Now, some people are cut and dry. They tell stories like it is a weather report. " Yeah, it was awful. He got the diagnosis and three months later, he was dead. Oh, well, that's the brakes. Gotta run! Have a great day!" Most people, thankfully, are a bit more subtle. But then again, therein exists the problem. Where to draw the line, where does a story become just a recounting before it turns into a small fiction pamphlet? Sometimes, it seems the facts are treated like unwelcome visitors. We barely tolerate them, and it seems the less accurate information we have, the more tempting it becomes to embellish the event. We cannot stand a skeleton of a story,no, that won't do, we feel an almost instinctive desire to add muscles, and flesh, and clothes.Sometimes we get so carried away, we change the skeleton's costume half a dozen times, trying to find the style in hat, coat , shoes that will best fit our mood, our perception of what we think happened. Because that is a big part of it, working with what we think happened. Diplomacy turns these endeavours into an art form, where people can carry on entire conversations for hours based on perceived information, turning that in turn into tangible evidence and action. Diplomacy is the art of knitting sweaters with invisible needles and see through yarn, hoping that by the end of it all, you have a warm wool article of clothing. Our every day lives can be that complicated too, not because of circumstances so much, but because of the perception of these circumstances. This way, a network rivaling a major freeway intersection, occurs in the nuance of our interactions where even between people who have known each other for years in intimate quarters carry on conversations that seem more like dueling sessions carried out by musketeers. Attack, block, retreat, advance again. It can be amazing how few words are exchanged, or how very many, and how little is understood or resolved. We launder our words, like criminals their money, and we are equally guilty of altering reality as a result. Because in either case, deception is a means to an end. Now, in the case of story telling, the deception is often innocent, a way to close the gaps between what we perceive to be true and what we can live with. I find that with time, I love to listen to people talk and tell their stories, great and small, sad and funny, slow and fast, because I am learning that the space and time between the words are as important as what they say. The silence I give them in listening is sometimes cathartic, and allows some people to realize they need to either turn down the details and their veracity, or embellish a bit more, to heal whatever wound they are sharing, whatever joy they want to relive, whatever surprise they want to understand. The listener is the water in the machine, where they put the laundry of their life's stories, and they themselves are the soap. As listeners, we can ease the process and add more water with our appreciation and tolerance of the story, just as we hope our soap we put into our stories will get the added benefit of some extra water from a kind and willing listener. Story laundering is not about deceit, not very often that is, because most people are pretty decent and sincere, it is about coming to terms with what happens to us every day, in big and small ways, in awful and great ways. So, the next time Joe Big Mouth irritates you with his tall tale, relax, and give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps someone will return you the favour the day you are obviously enhancing a story. In the end you both are trying to make sense of reality as you know it.