Everywhere I turn, someone’s flapping their gums about the amazing power of storytelling.
It’s a universal, deafening drumbeat bent on convincing all of us that it’s time to recapture the lost art of sharing stories.
OK, I hear you. I believe you. I even agree with you.
But to be honest, I’m a bit storied out.
That’s why I was particularly miffed (amused, actually) the other morning when I realized that my dreams were complicit in this storytelling conspiracy.
It dawned on me as I was trying to process the previous night’s dream and finally grasped the fact that I dream in stories.
Yes, my unconscious mind strings together a mishmash of mismatched characters, locations and themes. It weaves them together into a messy, but unmistakable story – probably with a moral that escapes me altogether.
I always neglect to write down my dreams, so I can’t even recall most of them. But when I do, I usually enjoy my mind’s ability to jumble up details and play fast and loose with logic. Accuracy rarely seems to be a priority with these tomes.
Imprecise as it may be with details, though, my mind seems to be constantly trying to tell me stuff, and its megaphone of choice is the good old-fashioned tale.
Bet that’s true for you as well.
Which only reinforces the notion that, at our core, we are wired to communicate and connect through stories.
Guess that makes perfect sense, as life is pretty much a series of unfolding stories, complete with plot twists, tension, climaxes, lulls, and a final denouement.
As for those bandwagon-jumping story evangelists? I’ll try to be more patient with them. Even if they’ve found a way to invade my dreams.