On being a storycatcher

When I first proclaimed the title "Storycatcher" for myself, I was not really aware of its implications. It just seemed like a fitting label when I innocently attached it to me and my works. I've written books from the stories I've caught, yet there are many personal stories shared with me from other people who never intend to see them in print. These people just want to unload the heaviness or find a common ground with my humanity.

Storycatching comes with baggage, for sure. When I capture a story someone shares, I tear off a bit of their soul and pin it into mine. Amazing fact, there's room aplenty in the many corners of my own soul for them to unburden on me. Saying the words aloud for the first time ever often brings them relief. Sad fact, often those stories tear at my soul so much, I toss and turn and think on them at three o'clock in the morning. Knowing what secrets lie behind a person's masked smile is an onus that I have learned to accept.

Last week, for one example, I was walking laps at the gym. I've been there long enough that I have become acquainted with stories of others walking beside me, talking as we go, so when one particular man waited at the curve and asked if he could talk with me, it was nothing out of the ordinary. He didn't hesitate and blurted out right away, "Today's the day my brother was killed, seventy-seven years ago." 

The anguish in his voice, even though muted by the required mask, brought tears to my eyes. "He was returning from a bombing mission over Germany. The plane was almost back over England, but then was shot down by enemy fire." 

We kept walking and my heart began breaking for the soldier killed, and as he continued, for his family. "We didn't know he was dead for eight days when the telegram arrived. Eight days of praying the daily prayers that he would be safe in the war, and he was already dead."

He went on, "There were survivors. One came to visit my mother after the war ended and told her about his last hours."

I asked questions. He had answers, rehearsed and rehashed over the seventy plus years. His brother was only twenty-one years old. That's what kept me up at night. His life was ahead of him, but it ended in a fight for my freedoms. A man I would never know. A promising life cut short.

Storycatching is not all fluff and "Mama in the backyard chasing chickens." It is down to the core capturing. It is never-forget-the-past retelling. It is a necessary part of being human.

Catch of the day,

Gretchen