Without stories, we would have nothing but a single fleeting moment, already gone even as you hold the beginning of this sentence in your mind.
It’s the stories we tell that give us context and meaning. It’s the stories that let us understand other people. It’s the stories that build bridges, walls, and footpaths between and among us.
Without stories, nothing has any meaning.
We, ourselves, attribute whatever meaning we want to events. Then we enshrine that meaning in story. We tell those stories, with that meaning, over and over until we believe the stories we have told.
We know that every story has two sides. We tell each other that, and we know it’s true.
So which story do we believe, when they conflict?
Too often, the one that lies easiest in the pattern we have already woven.
If it fits neatly with our ongoing story, we absorb it, and seamlessly add it to the fabric of our selves.
But some stories are different. Some stories demand that we change that fabric. That we cut some threads, that we pick apart our weaving, that we dig down and rearrange the very warp of our souls and lives, to make room for a truth so strong, so shining, so imperative that we cannot ignore it.
If we’re lucky, those changes come from stories we are told, not stories we have to live.
Either way, though, changes will come. It’s part of the story.