Nested stories
Dear Reader,
Today’s letter to you is different because nested within it is another letter. It’s a true story insofar that the stories we tell are true though I admit I’ve also changed lots of details.
Dear Priya.
How are you? Hope all is well.
I don’t know how to say this except to blurt it out: four birds are currently living inside me. 4! I think they are somewhere in my chest though I have no idea when they moved in, or how.
I found out about them yesterday. It was just after 5:30 in the morning. So, there I lay with my eyes wide open in the semi-darkness, completely still, not ready to get up, and feeling sad for no particular new reason. Which is when I heard someone talking.
“Ever since that happened to me- you know, it wasn’t a really terrible thing. Wait. Let’s back up. Really awful things happen to people. They do. All the time. I know what happened to me wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t. I know that. Just as I know that a lot of people would’ve shrugged their shoulders and moved on. And I don’t know why, but apparently, I wasn’t able to. Since then, I’ve carried this feeling inside of me. That it must’ve happened because there’s something wrong with me.”
She sounded so familiar. That was my first thought. I didn’t question who was talking or how I was able to hear them so clearly. All I felt was relief! There was SUCH comfort in knowing that right then, at that exact moment, someone else was experiencing the world in the same way, an unexpected kinship. My second thought was she sounded like a bird. The kind that tells stories. A story bird. I assumed she was outside the open window next to my bed, perched, perhaps, on the branches of the crooked magnolia tree that almost touches the wall of the apartment building. Hearing the bird, smelling the strong sandalwood incense that accompanies my downstairs’ neighbor’s morning yoga routine, and tasting my tears on my lips- you know those moments in life when you feel this can’t really be happening, and yet, you can tell it is DEFINITELY happening- well, that’s how I felt.
“And, maybe it is true, and something is wrong with me because here I am, still not able to move on..” the story bird was saying.
All I can say is: Dear Story Bird, I know that feeling.
That’s when the others spoke up. I counted a total of four different voices (1+3= 4 birds!)
Bird 2: “The mind, it makes up these stories...”
Bird 3: “We are so different in how we process experiences.” This one sounded a little older than the others, a low, gruff voice.
Bird 4: “Wait till you hear my story!”
That’s when I noticed something strange. Stranger, I should say. Each time they spoke, my chest moved in accompaniment. I placed tentative fingers on my ribs, just a little above and to the left of my heart, and sure enough, I felt each word knock against them as they were spoken.
Storytelling birds in my chest!! How is such a thing possible?!
One last bit of strangeness.
I lay there motionless because I didn’t want to alert them that I was listening. As each bird launched into a story, I realized I knew each of their stories. That’s because they were all mine! Stories about things that have happened to me, not to some birds in my chest! They even spoke just like me, lowering their voices, the same way I do, for dramatic effect and even pausing at the same junctures I pause at. It was quite the performance.
To be absolutely sure this was all really happening, I slowly lifted my head off the pillow and tried to perform the near-impossible task of pressing my ear against my chest. Just as I got as close as I could, I heard applause and what sounded like foot-stamping, accompanied by cries of “Encore!”
My ribs actually hurt from all the movement inside.
So, here I am. Hearing my stories.
What does it mean when you hear your stories and you know you don’t want to hear them anymore?
Take care,
Your loving friend,
Namrata
Dear Reader, does any of this resonate? What stories do your birds tell? What comes after? How should I respond?
I hope you will share.
Best,
Priya
The stories stored are a flock of birds that when discovered fly to heights above communication lines that seek an ear to listen an be retold. There is a pecking order. I wake from dreams and sift thru the scenes ; chose the right bird with the best plumage. Satisfied the bird sings a song from my heart to you.
There's an aviary in my soul...