Once Upon a Time. . .
“I have been building these tunnels to Imaginary World at night since I was two years old, and now I can go there whenever I like.”
--Patrick, age 7
As I sit down to write this the sky is dim, and the rain is falling steadily against the backdrop of my very green backyard. A cardinal alights on a branch just outside, its color brilliant against the greens and mottled grays and browns. I have put headphones on with some soft, gentle music, lit a candle, and placed it next to my steaming cup of tea. It is cozy in here -- the weather is not quite cold enough to put the heat on, but perfect for wrapping up in a favorite blanket. My husband is building a fire in the next room, and the scene is perfect for telling a story.
In these days of being quarantined and facing scary news in the greater world on a daily basis, it seems that a good story, an epic story even, is something we pine and hunger for. I know I spent an unusual amount of time picking the perfect novel to read, and when my husband and I were faced with choosing our next show on Netflix, we were pickier than usual. One could write this off as a desire for escapism, but I think something deeper has been awakened. Stories that align with the archetypes of grand adventures and quests, good versus evil, the plight of the underdog, all have the power to restore balance. If not in the greater world, than in our minds and understanding that these forces exist in the real world, and that perhaps we can influence them -- small as we are -- with our own choices and decisions.
When I watch my children play and invent stories, I recall possessing a sense of endless possibility I experienced in my own play as a child. Anything I could think of could become possible through the power of imagination. There were no pending deadlines, and long diversions from the initial idea were part of the fun. Similarly, my daughter has been working on a graphic novel for months now about “Imaginary World.” The chapters go on and on as a sort of theme and variations, a new and different imaginary world in each one. Consistent roles for the hero and the enemy emerge as the main character pursues a new but similar quest in a different world. My daughter has absorbed the importance of these archetypes unconsciously, and has come to understand how to incorporate them into her rich inner life. The storylines work their way into her active play with my son, and we witness the beautiful improvisatory play children are so often comfortable exploring.
My kids attend a Waldorf school here in Birmingham, and in that tradition fables and fairy tales play a foundational role in childhood development. Care and thought is put into the telling of the tale, always with the goal of engaging the child’s senses and imagination. Morality and lessons are not overly emphasized, but are left to work their own way into the child’s soul over time. If a child seems to be going through a difficult time, or seems unusually withdrawn, the advice will often include a prescription for a classic fairy tale before bedtime. This may appear to be counterintuitive -- wouldn’t exposing them to the evil and darkness in the story upset them further? The healing comes through the journey the child takes with the characters; faith and reassurance can be built through hearing that the darkness and evil can be overcome -- that order may be restored, and that good can win out in the end.
When I think about storytelling, I can’t help but think of all the similarities to our roles as musicians. Whether it be a somber song cycle of Schubert, or a grandiose symphony by Mahler, we are connecting to the audience through the telling of a story. The mode of language hardly matters as long as we strive to connect the musical intentions of the composer to the audience through the lens of our own personal life experience. The intentionality of all these connections is important -- if we miss one of the links, the potential impact of the story we are striving to tell begins to break down. Ultimately, this drive to relate to one another through the universality of the human experience is perhaps the most visceral and important reason to create art of any kind. We can all recall attending a performance that not only awakened our souls, but left us feeling like we had been through something. Aren’t those the ones that compel you to go back?
As I put together my practicing plan for the next few days and months, my goal is to reconnect to my role as musical storyteller. My children have learned from their teachers that the most basic form of a story is simply a beginning, a middle, and an end. Is a musical phrase not the same? Digging into my own emotional connection to the music as a way to deepen my understanding and ability to communicate feels vulnerable, but in a good way -- like my own soul has been needing more of a voice.
We have been rather suddenly immersed in a world that seems more dangerous, more evil, more uncertain than the one we lived in before. I think this is the perfect time to indulge in a great story, and allow yourself to be swept away. I’m not necessarily suggesting a weeklong marathon of Netflix watching, but perhaps to use this situation to explore what kind of narrative appeals to you at this moment in time. And then entertain the idea of creating and telling a story of your own, whether it be through music, writing, or a ghost story by a campfire. Maybe by creating our own stories we can start on the pilgrimage of healing our souls. Maybe we can connect to one another on a deeper level, and offer a reminder that some sort of order can be restored in the world with the passage of time. The world won’t be perfect and neither will we, but with hope, we will all emerge from the journey with a renewed commitment to fight for the happy ending.