Stories live in their moment
How my 93-year-old grandmother reminded me the best tales can't be rushed, recorded, or recaptured
Stories need more than words, they need their moment. They need atmosphere, the right setup, no matter how formal or informal. This delicate timing is something I've been thinking about after spending a few days with my grandmother, a sensitive, master storyteller who understands this truth intuitively.
When stories are gathered at the wrong time
History shows us what happens when we try to capture stories outside their natural moment. Think of the Gospels according to their different sources (Matthew, Mark, Luke, John). When stories are gathered at different times and by different sources - often decades after the events - they become open to interpretation, and their veracity is analysed for ages to come (no better read on this than Emmanuel Carrère's The Kingdom).
A similar fate befell Epicurean philosophy, an extremely valuable source of wisdom long misunderstood (if not vilified). Because the original context and nuanced delivery were lost, the lack of complete sources makes it hard to spread its true aim: sobriety and joy in the present moment (Charles Senard’s Being Stoic is Not Enough is a poetic and eye opening read on the topic).
The art of story momentum
My grandmother, aged 93, is a story collector who understands this instinctively. Her memory and descriptions are intoxicating; her sensitivity, enlightening. She knows that stories can't be forced or scheduled, they emerge when the conditions are right.
I'm visiting her for the first time away from my one-year-old boy, an avid story discoverer whose tales range from chickens that run a farm to dogs that go to school and kids that chase stars (Charlie Chicken, Spot the Dog, Oliver Jeffers' How to Catch a Star). While he's on one side of life's spectrum discovering stories, my grandmother sits on the other, having mastered the art of when and how to share them.
Capturing her gift - the carpe diem of story
My grandmother's stories unfolded in the intimacy of the same breakfast we've shared for years (toast filled with olive oil and fresh tomatoes, coffee with milk) and in long after-lunch chats that only her newly acquired need (not wish) for napping interrupted. The first time we sat down for coffee, I felt the urge to run for my notebook or pull out my phone to record, tape, write down all that shared knowledge. But I realised that would shatter the delicate atmosphere that had created this magical moment.
Instead, I let the stories breathe. I heard family secrets I knew and didn't know, secrets nobody cares about outside our little universe. We talked about modern days and old ones, about sophisticated times in the city and authentic moments in the village. We discussed the sensitivity hidden in small gestures and her small everyday needs: an extra bench on the street, a tree that brings shade. We talked about origin, ambition, legacy.
She told me not only how my parents met, but how she had convinced my father to ask my mother for her number. They had spent a year together as students, and the long summer break threatened to separate them forever. Without my grandmother's gentle push, they might never have reconnected. I thanked her because, in a very real sense, I exist because of her.
Every time we paused, there was a quiet understanding, a "to be continued" that we'd pick up soon right where we left off. Such was the beauty of shared time we hadn't accounted for. A visit that felt like a subtle, quiet gift.
The fragility of the perfect moment
As we said goodbye on our last day together, she said, "We have the best conversations, don't we?" I agreed but had to turn away, my eyes were watery.
I wondered how many more conversations we'd have left. And as I stepped into the taxi and the city started to fade behind me, I wondered how many of those stories I'll be able to preserve, and how many will be lost forever.
But maybe that was the point all along. Maybe the most precious stories aren't meant to be preserved. Maybe they're meant to live fully in their moment, in the familiarity of shared breakfast, in the subtle pause between words, in the small gift of an unexpected visit, in the trust that is passed on between generations.
I feel this so deeply! Thanks for sharing this :)