The Story Eunuch

Have you ever brainstormed a list of fantasy jobs, or simply fun ways to earn money?  Nels and I do this regularly, usually on the deck while listening to music and drinking beer.  We generate possible names for bands, pithy sayings for Magic Hat beer caps, themed music playlists, and so on.  

Unfortunately, there does not appear to be a market for this enterprise, despite the plethora of boring or downright offensive band names (Old 97’s=yawn, Popa Chubby=gross) or beer cap wisdom (Minds Awaken on Roads Less Taken=cool; A beer in hand is worth 2 in the Fridge=yawn).  My latest favorite potential band name is Meat Bat.  I saw it in directions for a recipe to whack chicken breasts to a particular size, but it could also mean a new variety of bat that eats frogs, for instance.  I have resigned myself to the fact that I will never earn a living from Meat Bat.  Damn the internet and its DIY-for free mentality.

Speaking of fantasy jobs, my friend Bryan from yoga teacher training has a great idea.  He theorizes that there are people who want to tell their stories to someone they can trust, knowing that these stories will not get judged or retold.  Bryan would simply listen, without question or expression, not imposing his experience or energy on the story, but just hearing what the person has to say without reacting to it.  When the person left, Bryan would promptly forget the story.  He named this job “The Story Eunuch” because it would be emotionally safe. 

As someone who longs to be heard, this didn’t make much sense to me at first.  I want reaction (with appreciation being especially welcome, thank you very much).   But then I realized that there are lots of stories I tell in my daily journal writing that never make it to a listener or reader.  This writing provides a safe place for making sense of raw experience.  Like the making of sausage, nobody else should be exposed to this process, lest they realize their darkest fears about me, i.e., that I am completely nuts.  For people who don’t use writing as this kind of outlet, however, having a non-reactive listener might be helpful.  It would be a cheaper form of therapy, plus the storyteller would know that Bryan isn’t concocting a way to fix her/him, or even to get her/him to fix her/himself.  

Maybe we all could use a Story Eunuch.  When is the last time you told a story and felt that you were heard without judgment, reactivity, or someone wanting to fix the problem for you?  Or worse, that they would remember that story and always associate it with you, when really, it was just how you felt at that particular moment?  Our stories seem to follow us around.  They gain purchase in the telling and retelling, until even we believe that they convey something more than they actually do.  Stories are powerful arbiters of meaning and identity, whether the meaning is accurate or the identity is truthful.  

Not to put Bryan out of future employment, but I wonder if we each can be our own personal Story Eunuch.  Can we listen to the private stories we tell only ourselves, and the public ones we share, with equanimity and compassion?  Can we choose to see these stories as constructions of experience, as opposed to arbitrary truths?  Perhaps it’s time to inventory our stories, and throw out the ones that don’t serve us.  The ones that create conceit and the ones that hone in on limitations. 

While we are at it, maybe we discard the stories we have about other people:  She’s OCD.  He’s a jerk.  The cat is lazy.  That way, we act as Story Eunuchs for others.   What might happen if we remove these judgments?  What possibilities appear?