Aha!

He told me about them. On numerous occasions. In spoken words, in written words, in illustrations. Yet, it remained in a distance, I was unable to grasp it until I saw it form in front of my very own eyes. This page is about stories. Stories we first tell ourselves and, consequently, live out. 

She's lying in bed. I could tell she was still strong, even at the age of 92. Her bone was broken after a fall. She wasn't allowed to place any weight on it. 

She's lying in bed. She's telling me something happened to her other leg, some new pain, of unknown origin, and she's unable to use it. "I don't know why. Maybe I stood on it too much. What do you think? I don't know why it hurts." 

Two minutes later, she's back to pondering as to where the pain came from. I listen. I tend to the leg. It feels better. 

Two more minutes later, she tells me her other leg hurts, and she's unsure of how it began. It never hurt before until today. Could be that she stood on it too much the day before? She's looking for reassurance.

Two more minutes later, this solidly built 92 yo woman informs me that her other leg has been hurting since this morning, because she stood on it too long the day before. She didn't want to do it, but the "other woman" insisted on it. It is stated as fact. The cause and effect have been firmly established. The story has been formed. Her truth has been spoken. We now have the ingredients for a fully developed plot: the villain, the victim, the circumstances, the memory.

Two more minutes later, my words are: "There is nothing wrong with your other leg. You will be ok." I see a face relax and lips mouth: "Really? I was afraid I wouldn't walk again."

She is afraid. She needs a lifeline. She seeks stability, reason, something to hang on to, as the wave of uncertainty crashes over her head, taking her into the unknown. She is afraid of losing her life. She needs to find stable ground. She finds refuge in the story.

I see a story form in front of my very own eyes in a matter of minutes. I am watching it unfold, fascinated by the process of creation. A story created out of nothing, based on nothing but the creator's interpretation of the events, driven by our most fundamental emotion. Fear.

Fear creates one story. Perhaps, love writes another. If I am to live with stories, I'll pick one by the latter storyteller. But the real question is... can I live without any?