.svg){kind=small}
Remember? Remember when your sister made that surprise trip home that Christmas? Remember when Dad laughed so hard he almost fainted? Remember how Nana used to always eat the icing first?
Any time we gather, story is the heart of conversation. Whether cherished memories from decades back or angry accounts of being cut off in rush hour last week, we connect through the stories we tell. This pastime is nothing new. We are but the latest authors in the age-old tradition of storytelling.
The universal human experience
Since humanity first gathered around a fire for warmth, safety, and nourishment, we have shared stories to make sense of our world. Stories of our past and present. Our hopes and fears. Our feelings for each other. And our questions about the mysteries of life.
American author, philosopher, and historian Joseph Cambell studied the history of storytelling. He traversed cultures, observing people groups around the globe, documenting their deeply held stories—their myths and folk tales through the ages. And he made a profound observation: Every story—was essentially the same story. He called it the monomyth. You know it. Even if you don’t think you know it, you know it. Star Wars. Indiana Jones. Finding Nemo. All these stories hold to the principles of the monomyth Campbell wrote about. The call to adventure. The mentor archetype. Seizing the sword and slaying the dragon. They are the milestones all our stories have in common.
The most personal is the most universal (or, every story is about us)
If storytelling is the reflection of the universal human experience, then every story is a reflection of ourselves. Like a house of mirrors, different angles, contortions, and shapes offer different perspectives on the age-old existential questions about who we are, both individually and collectively.
We connect so strongly with stories because we see ourselves in them. We see our emotions reflected in the characters of a favourite book, show, or film. We see our worst nightmares laid bare, and our deepest wishes fulfilled. We feel catharsis. And when we want to convey our own feelings, fears, wishes, and resolutions—we also often share them as a story. It’s one of the most natural ways to express our sense of identity and longing. To communicate our conviction and get our point across. To inspire empathy and connection with the people around us. Storytelling is like an instinct in our soul.
The means of storytelling have changed and multiplied to be sure — from oral storytelling and drawings in caves to ancient scrolls and staged productions, to novels, movies, and the digital revolution of streaming services with seemingly limitless shows. Still, whatever the means, the essence remains the same. It is the story of us.
We love and remember together through the stories we share.
Around the dinner table
Today, the story continues not just out there but right here at home. Whenever we gather, we contribute and collect each other’s latest chapters. We recount our favourite tales from our shared past — sometimes together — reminding one another of the details and the layers of the stories that shape our sense of ourselves, even as we tell them. We love and remember together through the stories we share.
Take a moment to think about a loved one you’ve lost. Picture them in your mind. Their smile. Their laugh. Something eccentric that only those closest to them would know. When those of you who knew them best come together, consider how you talk about them. It’s likely not a recounting of disconnected facts or general statements; it’s likely a tapestry of intimate (and maybe even irreverent) tales. Maybe it’s the way they always cheated at card games or how they would sneak the kids' candy after the parents had said no. When we share their stories, these people we love, find their way back to us again. Back to our dinner table. And for the duration of those stories, in a way, it’s as if they’ve been brought back. Better still, they’ve been made real for a new generation.
“But while we have no control over time itself, we do have a choice in how we orient to it, how we inhabit the moment, how we own the past and open to the future - a choice that shapes our entire experience of life, that ossuary of time. And just as it bears remembering that there are infinitely many kinds of beautiful lives, it bears remembering that there are infinitely many ways of being in time.” - Maria Popova, The Marginalian
Change of environment
I put on my ski gear, and pull my boot bag up on my back. Covered head to toe, I step outside. My skis are perched on my left shoulder, and my poles are in my right hand. I walk carefully down the snowy path and up through the village to the lift. It’s a sacred ten minutes of meditative rhythmic walking to warm me up for the day ahead.
New snow has fallen – about twenty centimetres. The snow cats have groomed the mountain during the night. It’s early and I'll be on the first lift up to the slopes.
This is the change of environment I crave the most at this time in my life. The movement from posed stability to energetic vulnerability, from the familiar to the serendipitous unknown, from the routine to the spontaneous. Here on the mountain I feel like I live life to its fullest. I feel more alive here than anywhere else. Curiosity is my catalyst — I could rest today, I could contemplate other days gone by, but I'm curious: What will the snow be like? What will my balance and form be like? What shapes of clouds will appear? What breeze will freeze my nose? Where will the trail take me? It is ski season; adventurous, mysterious and invigorating. It provides another form of lifestyle filled with the sort of vulnerability I love.
Of course everyone knows that change is constant, but there is nowhere else in the world where I see, feel, hear, touch and taste this truth more clearly than here on the side of my favourite mountain.
This magic mountain that I've skied for years and years changes all the time. It's ironic really, as it is made of stone and rock, ice and dirt - elements so strong and stable, so unmoving and unbudgeable, so unforgiving and invincible, yet it is forever changing. Of course everyone knows that change is constant, but there is nowhere else in the world where I see, feel, hear, touch and taste this truth more clearly than here on the side of my favourite mountain. Such a curious phenomenon — this alpine environment that moves and changes constantly, just like me. The weather forecast looks good today, colder than yesterday, but mostly sunny in the morning with the wind rising in the afternoon. Of course, this could change too.
Letting change flow
Arriving at the base of the mountain, I put on my ski boots, tuck my shoes away for the day, and once again perch my skis on my shoulder. I use my poles to help me navigate the steps up to the gates; it’s the beginning of the season and this morning routine of getting to the lifts still has me feeling a bit winded as I get used to the altitude. My friend is waiting for me. She and I smile brightly at each other and, seconds later, the buzzer goes off and the gates are activated. We are the first ones through, proud of ourselves for our early rising and excited to experience the thrill of another ski day together. We banter about the beautiful day ahead, our slight aches and pains and need for some stretching.
My friend is confident and bold — an expert skier. Me, I am not as confident and I am no expert. But I am bold, and she inspires me. Most of all, I am grateful for the change of scenery, communing with nature and the joy of being together again on the mountain.
Tensing up in anticipation of a coming bump or turn will surely cause a fall. The key to serenity on skis is letting change flow, becoming one with the change, and then being the change.
As we descend each run at our own pace, our skis pushing us beyond our unique comfort zones, we each experience individualized moments in the quiet rhythm of skiing. Every day on the slope is different, every turn of every carve into the snow is different, at times smooth and other times choppy. At all times, our minds must stay connected to our bodies. It is invigorating and mystifying, as we must disconnect from all worries and all other actions and stay absolutely present. Tensing up in anticipation of a coming bump or turn will surely cause a fall. The key to serenity on skis is letting change flow, becoming one with the change, and then being the change.
After a few hours of skiing our favourite trails, I tell my friend I want to stop at a lookout spot, not because I’m tired but because I want to breathe in my surroundings. She says she’ll let me have a bit of alone time and we decide she’ll do another run and meet me back here. The sky is vast and filled with a multitude of blue hues, the clouds are fantastical and bright white. The fresh cold air is thinner up here; it smells minty as it passes through my nostrils and it tastes minerally as it drips down my throat. The steam rises from my scarf as I breathe in and out, feeling the warmth of my body. This change of environment is essential to my well-being. It’s not just any change of environment though.
Chrono-diversity
It’s being up at altitude that thrills me most. The physicist Carlo Rovelli in his book “The Order of Time” captures the essence of my pause at the lookout spot. He writes,
“I stop and do nothing. Nothing happens. I am thinking about nothing. I listen to the passing of time. This is time, familiar and intimate. We are taken by it…. Our being is being in time.”
I lived and worked in this village just below the slopes for ten years, all through my thirties, and now that I am retired, I return here as much as possible. Initially when I moved away, down to sea level and no longer at altitude, it took me a long time to adjust and to adapt to being in a different time zone, but not just a different chronometric time zone, but a different “chrono-atmospheric” time zone.
I am fascinated by the way Rovelli explains how altitude changes time. He writes, “Let’s begin with a simple fact: time passes faster in the mountains than it does at sea level…
I am fascinated by the way Rovelli explains how altitude changes time. He writes, “Let’s begin with a simple fact: time passes faster in the mountains than it does at sea level… This slowing down can be detected between levels just a few centimetres apart: a clock placed on the floor runs a little more slowly than one on a table. It is not just the clocks that slow down: lower down, all processes are slower.”
When I read this, I started to understand and accept why I had found it so challenging to transition from life up on the mountain to life in the valley. All of my processes had to become slower; my mental and physical, even spiritual relationships towards time had to change in order for me to adapt and to adjust to my new surroundings. It was a very unnerving time at first, and I found myself longing to return to the mountains. Despite the fact that I enjoyed my new job, raising my children and making new friends in a different culture, my personal processes, like my coping mechanisms, had slowed down and I needed to give myself time to accept the newness of this “chrono-diversity” at sea level.
Some consider winter a time to slow down and rest, imitating elements of nature that hibernate and tuck in to escape the cold. But for me, it is this change of environment, this other way of being in time, this speeding up and expanding of time, that I long for in the winter months.
During those years, my friend stayed in the mountains; she never returned to life in the valley. And I believe this makes us different in the way we now measure time. Maybe her time does actually pass more quickly than mine? She is a speed queen and can get a million things done in one day. She thinks faster than I think, and certainly skis faster than I ski.
Some consider winter a time to slow down and rest, imitating elements of nature that hibernate and tuck in to escape the cold. But for me, it is this change of environment, this other way of being in time, this speeding up and expanding of time, that I long for in the winter months. It’s the rigour and rhythm of mountain time. Rovelli writes,
“Two friends separate, with one of them living in the plains and the other going to live in the mountains. They meet up again years later: the one who has stayed down has lived less, aged less, the mechanism of his cuckoo clock has oscillated fewer times. He has had less time to do things, his plants have grown less, his thoughts have had less time to unfold ... Lower down, there is simply less time than at altitude.”
I guess the proof is “in the physics.” As I’ve learned, it is the changeability of time in the mountains that keeps me skiing through life. Even if it seems a bit ironic and mysterious to me, I imagine I will always feel this type of change to be constant in my life. Though I suppose, that could change too.
The next storytellers
It’s a beautiful generational shift when our children start bringing their own stories to the table. It starts early when toddlers recount nonsensical gibberish with the vivaciousness of a Greek comedy. Later on, kids, teens, and tweens orate with glimpses of our own mannerisms. They use our expressions and timing like ducklings in our narrative wake.
Each family or group of people, as it grows and evolves, forms its own culture that will, in turn, shape those within it. And this culture is characterized by both the stories we tell and the way we tell them.
Each family or group of people, as it grows and evolves, forms its own culture that will, in turn, shape those within it. And this culture is characterized by both the stories we tell and the way we tell them. Just like the bigger capital-S Story reflects the universal human experience, each of our little-s stories reflect our family. Our friends. Our communities. Us.
We share a backstory of how we all came together. A hundred inciting incidents that launched our connections and journeys. Our hardships and failures. Our triumphs. And all the lessons learned along the way.
When I think about my own family gatherings, I remember the feeling of all of us squeezed in around my grandfather’s — my Pop’s — kitchen table. Whenever we got together, we’d gather there in the breakfast nook and play Spoons - a silly and fantastic cardgame. A lot of laughter. Some arguing over who grabbed a spoon first. Now that nook is gone. The kitchen's gone. My Pop is gone. But as one generation slides into the next, whenever enough of us all come together, we'll still pull out some spoons and cards for a game. We don't need the nook. As long as someone remembers how to play.
As long as someone remembers our story.
Something we can all belong to
It may seem like an oversimplification, but Joseph Campbell’s findings tell us some valuable truths about ourselves that are worth noting. Whenever and wherever we are, we are storytellers. By sharing our stories with one another, we share wisdom and knowledge, we seek understanding and affirm identity; and ultimately, we cultivate belonging. And this, I think, might be the heart of it all.
We want to belong.
Where belonging was once key to our physical survival, now it is central to our sense of identity, value, and purpose. We want to belong in a community. A friendship. A family. At a dinner table.
Where belonging was once key to our physical survival, now it is central to our sense of identity, value, and purpose. We want to belong in a community. A friendship. A family. At a dinner table. Of course, simply sitting around a dinner table doesn’t equate to belonging. Belonging is something different; to truly belong there, with the people sitting around it, we have to be part of their story, and they have to be part of ours, such that it becomes Our story.
Storytelling is, at its core, a testament of our need and our drive for belonging. We share our stories to remember that we belong. We belong here. We belong to each other. We belong to this moment and to this life—with all its great mysteries. I wonder what stories you’ll share this holiday.
