Story Shaping

About fifteen years ago when I was finishing up my undergraduate degree, I had a literature professor who somewhat mischievously set her graduating seniors the task of writing an essay on the question "What is Literature?" I say mischievously because we were probably a month or less from graduating, most of us with degrees in Literature and/or Writing (I was a double major) and presumably most of us were feeling rather good about the fact that we'd survived three or four or five years of study and could pat ourselves on the back for having become at least somewhat proficient in our field of endeavour.

Heh. I think Betsy (my professor) knew that attempting to answer the question would provide us with some moments of humour and humility. Perhaps she even knew that for some of us, instead of providing "closure" to the college experience, contemplating such a question could help invite us into the realization that the field we'd chosen to study would continue to be a rich terrain to explore for the rest of our lives. At least that was my experience. As I struggled to answer the simple question, I think I began a conscious awareness that my studies in school had merely opened the door. I've always been a reader, a writer, a lover of language and especially of stories. I've always needed those things in my life to help make sense of my life, and to help me think through (with mind, imagination and heart) all that I'm learning.

I don't remember much of what I said in that essay. I do know that I fumbled for words, that I moved quickly from prose into the language of fairy-tale in an attempt to answer it. And I do recall that the metaphor I tried rather clumsily to employ was literature as a "cup" -- something that helps provide a shaped container for our experiences, be they sweet, sour, or something mixed.

I thought of that essay when I read these wise words this week from Rebecca West:

Art is not a plaything, but a necessity, and its essence, form, is not a decorative adjustment, but a cup into which life can be poured and lifted to the lips and be tasted. If one's own existence has no form, if its events do not come handily to mind and disclose their significance, we feel about ourselves as if we were reading a bad book. We can all of us judge the truth of this, for hardly any of us manage to avoid some periods when the main theme of our lives is obscured by details.

I resonated with this quote on so many levels, both aesthetic and personal. And I felt tremendously pleased to finally find a well-written description of what I tried (fumblingly) to say when I was 23.

What kind of book is your life right now? What's happening in the story, and what or who is shaping its plot twists, its deepening characterization? What is the main theme of your life? Questions worth asking. We need stories that help us think through the answers, stories that help us to order and shape all the "raw data" and ordinary details of our lives. Stories that challenge, heal and startle us. Stories in which we see ourselves...both as we are, and as we wish to be.

More on this soon...