Meaning
In the stories we grow up with.
Stories are a lens through which we interpret our lives- our own stories. A hobbit leaves the comfort of the shire to carry the burden of a ring he didn’t ask for. A stranded robot begins to navigate the differences of love and programming. Two clandestine youths will and then won’t and then will get together or not get together or it’s complicated. We witness the lives of other beings (fictional or otherwise) play out before us and then relate them to our inward selves. We survey their journey, often to the very end, and use their mistakes and victories and themes and feelings as markers for our own travels in this life. Stories empower and encourage us. They warn and console us. They act as transcendent touchstones connecting us. Most importantly, they inspire us to live our own narratives out in meaningful ways.
As a child, I often viewed my life as a grand adventure. My innocent, little, main-character-syndrome had me fighting invisible dragons on the ledge of a trampoline or healing my perfectly healthy dog from battle wounds. I was the hero I had seen others be. I was the Green Power Ranger. I was Lancelot. I was Luke Skywalker. I was courageous and a defender of justice and the weak. The stories served me well in the backyard before suppertime.
When I was in second grade, Titanic saw its extremely successful arrival into theaters (much more successful than its arrival elsewhere). I wasn’t allowed to watch it at the time, but I heard from a school mate (Taylor – a much cooler, more popular kid… or what I’d now call… a dick) that Jack dies a chilling death. Well, I had made up my small-child brain that Jack was my self-inserted protagonist, and it wasn’t my time to go. Luckily, we had a language arts project due. This project saw us authoring and illustrating our own books. Time to set the record straight. What happened is that Jack and Rose jumped off the Titanic onto a convenient placed cliffside and the captain died (again, apparently). I changed our fate, Jack and I, instead of accepting his.
Real life, however, is not like a backyard and rewrites are much more difficult than second grade. Good and evil aren’t as easy to define as in LOTR. I might always be the hero in my stories but I’m quite often the villain in the tales of those around me. Or the comic relief or just a footnote. There’s a lot of grey and nuance and complication. But stories serve me even in the depths of life, love, and the mundane. They allow me to escape the necessities or work and survival. They entertain me or move me to cathartic tears. They call me to be more. With their influence, I write my own. With their influence, I can write it better. And, one day, I can submit my story to sit among the rest, ready for the retelling.