The Gift of Story: A Wise Tale About What Is Enough
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All right then, she straightened herself. Her happiness returned as she brought out the gift she had for him. "Here, this is your gift my dear hus band." And in her palm lay the simple chain, her gift of sacrifice for him.
"Ha!" he hooted, jumped up, and began to pace the floor. "Do you know I sold my watch to buy your combs?"
"You did? You did?" she cried.
"I did! I did!" he cried.
They hugged and laughed and cried together, and promised one another that the future would be better, it would, truly it would, just wait and see.
So, you see, though some might say these two young people were foolish and unwise, they were in fact, like the magi who sought the messiah. Even though the magi with righteous intention brought gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh, in the end, that which they carried within their hearts had the most value, their yearning and devotion.
And the young couple here, like the magi, were wise too, for they gave the most golden of all things possible. They gave their love, their truest love to one another.
And it was enough.
nd with this, the old man, who was hardly more than a heap of bones, ended his story. There in the hut, his words made the loneliness and fear each of them felt, less lonely, less fearsome. Not because reason to fear was lifted magically from them, for it was not, hut because the story provided them with strength.
There they sat, the old man and the old woman, on that evening of the holiday time. He revealed to her that it was near the time of
Chanukah, the time of year he and his loved ones normally gave gelt, small gifts of coins. And she told
him it was somewhere near Christmas, a time of year during which her people also exchanged gifts.
And they smiled sadly, for both their traditions required gifts and there they were with absolutely nothing to give anyone. They sat in silence, until suddenly these words leapt out of the old woman's heart.
"I know. I will give you the gift of the sky above us."
And she could see that something swept through his heart, for he closed his eyes for a long moment, inhaled deeply, then opened his eyes again, and looked directly at her. He replied, "I am honored to receive your gift to me." And the old woman expected him to say no more.
Then all of a sudden he spoke again. "And...and I give you in return, the gift of these stars overhead."
"Also I am honored," she said. And they sat on in mutual heartache, a deepening joy, and contemplation.
Words rushed again into her mouth, from where she did not know. "And I return the favor to you, for I will give you the... the gift of the moon this night."
He remained silent for a long, long time. He was searching the sky for something else to give, hut
there was nothing left, for they had given everything that could be seen in the night sky. So they sat in utter quiet.
At last the words came to him. "Ah, I see it now. I return your kindness by giving you the story that I have just told. Keep it safe. Carry it out of these woods in great health."
And they nodded, for they knew that a strong story, perhaps more than anything else, could light the dark fields and forests that lay ahead for each.
In that hut, on that night, in that wood, they dared to recall their pasts; times of laughter, candlelight, steaming food, friendly faces, arms about their shoulders, the music of fiddles, the dancing and rosy-faced children. They drew on the warmth of the gifts given, certain for that time at least, and perhaps forever, that there was reason to believe in the ultimate goodness of humans.
Perhaps it was the apron she gave to him to cover his poor head, for like the young woman in his tale, the old woman had far more hair than the old man. Or perhaps it was because the stars and the
moon had become their great timepiece, like the watch of the young man in the tale. Or maybe because the trails they would follow lay before them like a silvery watch chain, or perhaps because they might someday be able to look forward to the growing back of something of theirs that once was beautiful and unencumbered. Whatever the reasons, and maybe for a thousand reasons that they could not, that you and I cannot, nor any of us will ever completely understand... but blessed be that it was so, because...
it was enough.
According to my dear aunt, the old man and old woman both agreed that it was safer to go forth separately. So, the following evening in a wintry twilight in Hungary, they parted and went their ways, taking their chances alone in the forest. Like so many others in a war devastated land, their fates became God's business. And that is all we know, for they never saw one another again.
As a child, I wanted to search for them and confirm their survival. "What became of them, where can they be?" I asked. Auntie explained that the old man was really a special kind of being, one who could perhaps never die, for surely his stories kept him strong and alive, as the stories she knew kept her alive, and as mine would do for me. "And the old woman?" I asked. "Where can she be?"
Silence. Then, looking into the distance to place only she could see, Auntie said, "I believe she may yet he living."
EPILOGUE
I HAVE HEARD MANY ORAL VERSIONS OF
the old man's story, and as a young adult, I read one similar to his called "Gifts of the Magi," authored by 0. Henry in 1905. I am still taken with how the core of story remains the same stalwart, glowing thing, regardless of what ornamentation or variant words are placed around it.
In the oral tradition, "Gifts of the Magi" is called a literary story, which is usually a short story written down using elements culled from or clearly reminiscent of much older folktales. It is possible that the old man's story was derived from the literary tale. It may have been mixed with themes from old eastern European fairy tales. "Purchasing the wonderful object that becomes useless" is a common leitmotif in the old tales, generally revolving around the selling or bartering of one item in order to purchase another, hut having the new item become utterly useless because of the unforeseen actions of
another person or force. Sometimes there is an additional twist; inexplicably or by virtue of a change in consciousness or perspective, the useless thing becomes useful again. The Jack and the Beanstalk tale is an example of this.
Worldwide there are many ancient stories that revolve around the idea of bitter hut instructive irony. While some deal in trivial irony, others treat issues of life and death. The story "Wolfen". or "Gellert" is about a man who slays his faithful dog because he thinks it has killed his infant child. Shortly after, the man discovers that his dog had slain a wolf in order to protect his child, who was still safe. In "The Pearl" by John Steinbeck, a poor man and woman win one treasure, a pearl, while losing another, their child. Many of the plays and poems of Federico Garcia Lorca are masterpieces of hitter irony, as are many of the plays of Henrik Ibsen.
However, the old man's and my aunt's story, though both bitterly ironic in their own ways, also contain an additional heartening twist—that love can prevail over losses. Even after all these years since my aunt suffered a stroke and slowly slipped away from our family circle, I continue to feel a profound love and gratitude to her, and also to the stranger in the hut in the woods who strengthened someone I loved, who in turn strengthened me, so I could tell you about the gift of story, and so you can be encouraged to offer the gift of your own stories to others whom you care for.
In this way, you see that story as gift has generativity, and genealogy. Already, just by your reading my words, we have come to the fifth generation of the story about the young man and young woman who sold their valuables, gaining items that became useless, hut which caused them to return to their ground note, the greater treasure of their love for one another.
Someone told the old man,
the old man told my aunt,
my aunt told me,
I told you,
perhaps you will tell another,
and the other might tell another too.
For some stories, considerations about the right time, r
ight place, right person, right preparation and right purpose guides when and whether the story should be told or not. But for family stories, stories from one's culture and stories from one's personal life, anytime may be just the right time to give the gift of story.
Like night dreams, stories often use symbolic language, therefore bypassing the ego and persona, and traveling straight to the spirit and soul who listen for the ancient and universal instructions imbedded there. Because of this process, stories can teach, correct errors, lighten the heart and the darkness, provide psychic shelter, assist transformation and heal wounds.
In our present time, there is a goodness to, and a necessity for, rugged independence among individuals. But this is often best served and supported in good measure by deliberate interdependence with a community of other souls. Some say that community is based on blood ties, sometimes dictated by choice, sometimes by necessity. And while this is quite true, the immeasurably stronger gravitational field that holds a group together are their stories... the common and simple ones they share with one another.
Though these may revolve around crises tamed, tragedy averted, death be not denied, help arriving at the last moment, foolish undertakings, hilarity unbounded and so on—the tales people tell one another weave a strong fabric that can warm the coldest emotional or spiritual nights. So the stories that rise up out of the group become, over time, both extremely personal and quite eternal, for they take on a life of their own when told over and over again.
Whether you are an old family, a new family or a family in the making, whether you be lover or friend, it is the experiences you share with others and the stories that you tell about those experiences afterward, and the tales you bring from the past and future that create the ultimate bond.
There is no right or wrong way to tell a story. Perhaps you will forget the beginning, or the middle or the end. But a little piece of sunrise through a small window can lift the heart regardless. So cajole
the old grumpy ones to tell their best memories. Ask the little ones their happiest moments. Ask the teenagers the scariest times of their lives. Give the old ones the floor. Go all around the circle. Coax out the introverts. Ask each person. You will see. Everyone will be warmed, sustained by the circle of stories you create together.
Though none of us will live forever, the stories can. As long as one soul remains who can tell the story, and that by the recounting of the tale, the greater forces of love, mercy, generosity and strength are continuously called into being in the world, I promise you...
it will be enough. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CLARISSA PINKOLA ESTES, PH.D., IS AN AWARD winning poet, a certified Jungian psychoanalyst, and a cantadora (keeper of the old stories) in the Latina tradition. She has been in private practice for twenty years, and is former executive director of the C.G. Jung Center in Colorado. Her book, Women Who Run With the Wolves, a compendium of twenty fairy tales and their interpretive and psychological applications to the inner life, has been hailed as a classic and as the seminal work on the instinctive nature of women. Dr. Estes heads the nascent Guadelupe Foundation, which has as one of its missions to broadcast strengthening stories—via short-wave radio—to various trouble spots throughout the world. She is the author of a nine volume audio series using story and psychoanalytic commentary, the latest being How to Love a Woman: On Intimacy and the Erotic Life of Women. Her next book, on the arche-
type of the wise old woman in fairy tales, and the curiously special gifts she has to offer to women of all ages, will be published by Ballantine in 1994.