Where stories unfold

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Many of us live from stories we have created to explain the excruciating parts of our existence. These are sometimes the only things that make sense and regardless of the truth behind any particular story, they ultimately give us enough security and peace to continue our lives.


Our stories are about our bodies, our emotions and our spiritual worthiness. They are seldom true and they are always tenacious. They are woven into our tissues; we cling to them like mighty lifeboats, even when they hurt us over and over again. Especially when they hurt us over and over again. They are all that we know and all that we have to hang our hats on.


We are such magnificent story hoarders that we sometimes have to be in tremendous agony or even near death to give them up. Mercifully, life is about bumping into not only people who will validate the false stories for us, but also people who refuse to buy our most painful ones. Stories such as "I don’t deserve to be here", "It’s all my fault", "I must live with shame, blame and pain", "I deserved to be abandoned, neglected or abused", "I will never have what I need or want", "People like me don’t do things like that", "I am better, worse or unequal to others in my species."


It rocks our world when we come in contact with people who refuse to believe our stories. It makes us very uncomfortable to be treated as if we were perfectly precious. It sometimes makes us ache; it can even make us dead tired. The false stories are so integral to whom we believe ourselves to be that we redouble our efforts to make them so when faced with the threat of giving them up. It scares us more to peek at a life where our bodies, minds and spirits are free to be the marvelous creations of perfection that they are than to be forever imprisoned by lies that were told to us or lies that we had to make up to bring sanity to our lives.


Listening is an awesome responsibility. It is a job that will bring tears to my eyes, and it overwhelms me with rage, impotence and rapture. To be witness to the unfolding of a soul defies explanation. To feel the skin, muscles and bones sing their song of release under my hands humbles me. To be the repository of long believed and newly told life stories thrills and excites me. To be the co-creator of reconstructed, reclaimed and ultimately true stories for others is an honor beyond description. To have the ability to see the precious gem that every human being is and to help them to turn their vision the tiniest bit so that this core of love is blazingly evident to them is a gift that is priceless.


Being a listener means having to constantly bring myself into account everyday, to sort out my own false stories, to let go of the lies that hold me prisoner. It is the perfect job for someone who has been given the gifts of tremendous hardships. It makes me a better woman everyday. I am humbled and brought to a place of such exquisite tenderness with every person that wanders into my life with a story to offer. I am reminded of my true identity with each offering, that I am a servant of God and that I can only serve Him through serving others. It is thrilling and at times terrifying to know that I have been given the means to serve my Creator with so little of my own blood shed in the path to fulfill my destiny. I am so grateful for all the gifts of presence in my life that made that dream come true. My husband, my children, my friends and my enemies have all contributed to my freedom to be who I am, a listener of stories, facilitator of truths, an instrument of relief and healing, a purveyor of love.© 2005 Jacquelyn I. Brenner

A client shares the story of her mandala at a group retreat at Hollow Reed in 2008.

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