What Happens to all of the Stories?

As I think about it, in some ways we seem to be a collection of our stories.   We have stories of our childhoods, stories of our first loves, stories of our careers, our children, our elders, our cultures. Stories of loss and pain. Stories that we tell others and stories that we tell ourselves.

Tahir Shah, in Arabian Nights, tells us that "Stories are a communal currency of humanity.

I was thinking about this today as I sat after dinner listening to my husband (in his 70's) and his friend (in this 80's) tell some stories about their childhoods, their parents, and about their experiences in the military before or during the Viet Nam War.   I could see their eyes lighting up in the retelling.  I could sense how vivid were their memories.  I listened to stories (some that I had heard a number of times) about sleeping in a house crowded with numerous relations, trying to sleep with the noise of all of the men snoring.   About older siblings who cared enough to teach the younger ones to read.  About mothers who selflessly worked and prepared meals and who adored their children - even if the kids were up to no good.  

I know that not all stories come from fond memories.   Sometimes when we tell our stories we weep or cringe inside.  It still hurts.  Some who are within reach of these stories choose to shut down and avoid the discomfort.   Others will listen, sensing the sorrow, and be touched in some way.  

I was overcome by a sense of how precious these stories are.   I don't want them to become lost.  I want them to live on, enriching the lives of subsequent generations.   

Yet I know they won't.  I know that I can't tell many of my parents' stories, much less those of my grandparents'.  I know that my daughter and her children will only remember a few of my stories, if any.  Beyond the grandchildren, I can't imagine that any stories are recalled at all.

What happens to all of these rich experiences, lovingly or painstakingly told?  

"The human species thinks in metaphors and learns through stories," according to Mary Catherine Bateson.

Can a metaphor help us think about what happens to our stories?   Can we perhaps imagine that each story is a thread in a tapestry?   Can we imagine that this tapestry woven of the countless stories of countless generations becomes the backdrop of our lives?  The fabric of our consciousness?

Carole King sang to us:

My life has been a tapestry
Of rich and royal hue
An everlasting vision
Of the ever-changing view
A wond'rous woven magic
In bits of blue and gold
A tapestry to feel and see

Impossible to hold.

Is there a metaphorical tapestry, woven of the many stories of our forebears, informing our sense of self? Perhaps unfelt or unknown to us? Or are our stories simply lost in time - drifting away like smoke?

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