Of all the stories that trickled and flowed towards me as a child, my favourites were always the ones my mother told about her childhood (including the story of the faithful donkey Madiklos).
My father never told stories.
I am in Berlin is to see whether I can find some stories about my father’s childhood and about my grandparents. But I’m digging in a sandy and shallow layer of soil. My aunt, who lights up when I ask the right questions about her own life, goes quiet when I ask about my grandparents’ lives. She has nothing to tell. I see her straining to dredge up some detail they shared with her. She has no information. ‘They never told us anything,’ is her refrain, and when she says it, she seems aware of some small tragedy.
The silence was in part, I believe, the silence that enveloped the post-war world. There was no need to rehash. What there was a need for was to move through, on, over to the other side, where memory was as good as dead. But dead memory is usually zombie memory: undead and bloody minded.
The bonds between my mother and her family were always deep.
The bonds in my father’s family were almost non-existent and, where they existed at all, they were fraught with neuroses.
My mother’s family told stories.
My father’s didn’t.
The many gifts that stories give
At some point in their young lives, just as they were starting primary school, both my children became prone to catastrophising when something had gone wrong in their day. I would try to counter it by pointing out what hadn’t gone wrong. This approach failed.
So I invented a game that we still play, especially when we haven’t seen one another for a while. It’s called ‘How was your day?’ On New Year’s Eve we play the same game, but we call it ‘How was your year?’
It is a tried and tested exercise in contextualising, bonding, storytelling and attention.
Today, for my birthday, I’d like to pass this game on to you. You can play it with anyone.
Today, for my birthday, I’d like to give this family gift to you.
How was your day?
Rules
One person starts and asks the six questions to the person on their left.
We don’t interrupt one another.
We allow people to take their time and think without getting impatient.
When you have finished answering your questions, you ask the questions to the person on your left, and so on, until everyone’s had a turn.
You aren’t allowed to skip any of the questions, except question 3 (because sometimes your day is just fine).
The questions
How was your day?
What was the best part?
What was the worst part?
What was your funny?
What are you grateful for?
What are you looking forward to?
Stories are where wildness grows
Last year, Jules and Ollie got matching tattoos and though I didn’t want to make a big deal because they were their tattoos, celebrating their relationship, I couldn’t help feeling like the tattoos acknowledged some core aspect of our shared lives: the role that stories have played and continue to play.
The meaning of stories
I asked my children this week to tell me how they thought about stories in their own lives.
Ollie told me, among other things, that ‘How was your day?’ was an exercise in both reflection and creation.
‘For instance, “How was your day?” was a way in which we learned to tell stories. They are a kind of short form, but they are such a great opportunity for reflection and creation.
‘You reflect on what’s happened in your day, plus you make your own day come alive to others. Sometimes a story is just there, because something absurd or amazing happened, and all you have to do is retell that. But sometimes you turn an ordinary and mundane day into a story even if nothing profound happened.’
Jules responded differently to my question about what stories mean.
‘Three things immediately come to mind,’ she said in a voice note.
‘Firstly, stories teach you that there’s more to life than your own experience. They teach you empathy and give you knowledge, and even provide a bit of an escape from stuff, but mainly it gives you this strong sense that you are only one small part in this very big system.
‘The second thing is that storytelling builds a bridge between you and other people. You can find yourself in other people’s stories. Other people’s stories validate your own feelings, which then fosters connection.
‘Thirdly, storytelling teaches you to listen and it teaches you the value of listening. If you’re the one talking and someone else is listening, you understand how it feels to be heard and I think that’s huge. At the same time, to learn to shut up and focus on someone else’s story is really valuable too.’
Happy thank yous
For a year and a half, I’ve been getting stories in my inbox in response to Love Letter. Thank you for all of them. For making me laugh and gasp, and for giving me reading and listening and travel tips, and for connecting me to people and ideas.
Your stories are the best gifts.
‘How was your day?’ is my thank you.
Lots of love,
Kowski
I love this! What a special gift you have given Ollie and Jules. Thank you for giving it to us now, too.
What a great gift, thank you. Love this so much.