Memory and Storytelling

How can we change the past with storytelling? This is one of the underlying themes of my father���s and my book, Prodigal Father Wayward Son.

But what does this mean?

To understand how storytelling can rewire our past, we have to think about memory.

Every time we remember something, we change the past. Not just metaphorically, but chemically, physically, in our brains.

I used to think of my memories as if they were files stored on a hard drive of a computer: take one out, look at it, put it back. Read only.�� But brain scientists are discovering that the act of retrieving a memory in fact erases the chemical structures in the brain that store that memory long term, and during the act of remembrance, the only place it exists is in the brain���s equivalent of RAM. Then when the conscious review of the memory is complete, that memory is re-stored in a different place in the brain, with different chemical structure.

The act of retrieving the memory alters it, and there���s no dialogue box that pops up and says, ���You already have a file called ���5th grade lunchroom humiliation.��� Do you wish to replace it with the modified version?���

So the truth is, we change the past every time we remember something. We can���t help it. It���s chemical. And every time we tell a story about ourselves or a friend or a family member, it���s filtered through the mechanism of memory.

Humans tell stories. It���s what we do. But mostly we do it without thought or attention ��� our storytelling is routine, not ritual. So, although we rewrite out histories all the time, the tendency is to reinforce the painful aspects of our more bitter memories, particularly those that relate to our parents and childhoods.

But if we tell our stories with strict attention and a sense of the sacred, it is possible to intentionally re-write the emotional responses that are bound up with them.

Many of my stories of my father, and the memories that went with them, used to cause me pain every time I saw my father, or heard his voice, or even thought of him.�� But now, after an extended process of ritual storytelling, those emotions are much richer, more complex. Yes, there���s still deep sorrow and occasional sharp annoyance, but there���s also affection, acceptance, and most of all a profound sense of relief.

After fifty years, I can feel my love for him with out the bitter taint of resentment.

And that is huge burden off my heart.

For more on the book, go to http://facebook.com/ProdigalFatherWaywardSon

To pre-order:��http://amzn.to/1zeaKO8