Expiration dates. They’re on just about everything these days. Eggs, boxed oatmeal, yogurt, canned foods, juices, milks of all kinds (cow’s, soy, almond) . . . even beer. There are expiration dates on lotions and cosmetics, too. “Best before October 23, 2012,”or “Discard on July 17, 2011,” or “Use by January 15, 2011.” Oops. Missed that one. As you can see, we have until mid-March to finish this half gallon of almond milk.

But one thing that doesn’t have a printed date or even an implied one is our memory. I may not be able to remember what I had for lunch on Saturday, but I can tell you every gory detail of my encounter with the neighborhood bully—when I was 4 years old. I love that old lingering memory. I hold on to it. Feed it. Embellish it. It is my memory. It is ME! It helps determine who I am today! Oh, really? A punch in the stomach by a territorial brat made me who I am? That’s scary. He may have had power over me as a kid on that particular Friday evening. (Oh, yes . . . it was a dark and stormy night—well, dusk.) But if I say that who I am was partially determined by that event, then he still has power over me. Right? After 50 years or so. Wow, that’s a strong bully. Wow. That’s a really strong story.

Some stories provide a lesson or help give us direction. But some stories, some memories are just plain limiting. And somewhere along the way we seem to forget the lesson that was the point of the story to begin with. We hold on to the memory and define ourselves by it. You know the line, “I used to do this, so this is what I still do. This is who I am.” I’ll give you a concrete example: I taught art for about 15 years. Well, that was about 20 years ago. And yet, sometimes I still call myself an art teacher or faculty member. Why? I love those memories. I love that story. I love being that. But, in reality, I am no longer a teacher—not in the traditional sense. But, since that memory has no expiration date, I can remember it over and over again, and speak about it for as long as I want. Notice, I didn’t say for as long as it’s useful. I said . . . for as long as I want.

To break loose from old habits and patterns that no longer serve us is perhaps one of Life’s greatest gifts, as well as one of the toughest challenges. We are all storytellers. When I was a kid, there was a common phrase people liked to use—to tell stories, which really meant to lie. “Now, don’t be telling me any stories!” translates to “Are you lying to me?”

Here’s another story: I fenced in college. Am I a fencer today? No, but if I describe myself as a fencer I am perpetuating a potentially dangerous story. Yet there’s typically no inner voice that challenges my memory, “Now, don’t be tellin’ me any stories!” Oh, no! No voice warns me. I’m completely free to lie to myself. Yikes! Storytelling allows me to tiptoe into both the unimaginable and the impractical. Story is a powerful way to re-imagine life as I want it to be. The key is to know when stories have outlived their usefulness.

 

The fact is, that none of the stories we write for our lives have much to do with who we really are. Whether they are stories of woe or glory days, they all eventually become merely the empty hulls of life—no longer imbued with relevant meaning. Instead, they often become a tidy little place in which to hide a tangle of emotional attachments. Stories are great, but the trick is to keep enough objectivity and distance so as not to get sucked into believing that they’re real—or worse yet, convinced that they represent who we are, because that’s just not true.

Perhaps stories are just crossroads, a place where we suddenly see ourselves differently or critical decisions are made. Here’s the song we wrote that grew out of our own conversations about the power of story called Storytellers. But, you have to remember that it’s only a story we made up because it was useful that day. It’s set to expire the minute another, fresher one comes along.

Posted on January 29, 2011

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