Puzzles exercise the brain. This kind of workout is something I can do on a daily basis. Putting pencil to paper for a little Sudoku (a math puzzle – more entertaining than figuring out my bank balance) while cable news hosts keep me over-informed. Putting finger to computer for online jigsaw puzzles when I need a break from TV. Yes, my mind is sharp and my eyes are strained.
Get back to real life, you say? Can’t get away from puzzles.
Composer Richard Rogers sang on that subject. From The King and I…
There are times I almost think
I am not sure of what I absolutely know
Very often find confusion
In conclusion I concluded long ago
In my head are many facts
That, as a student, I have studied to procure
In my head are many facts
Of which I wish I was more certain I was sure!
Is a puzzlement
A great story set to music. The King of Siam reached out to Anna, the governess from England, to unravel some of the puzzles that persisted in his head. Through conversation and companionship, they both benefited by learning from (and disagreeing with) each other. They were like puzzle pieces representing Eastern and Western thought, and when their edges adapted and found a fit, a better image and understanding of the world emerged.
St. Paul’s is a puzzle. My next sentence choice could take take us in many directions, but the point I want to make here is that we are pieces that fit together. Surprisingly. Each one is the product of a different history. Our shapes vary. (Let’s not get into that.) Our ages may cluster around some vague measure of maturity, but our outlook on life is all over the map.
The analogy is obvious. When one piece is missing – when a unique voice, hug or smile is not present – the picture is not as colorful or meaningful as we’ve experienced before.
But our puzzle is not “done” even when all pieces are present and accounted for.
These short phrases are from a recently concluded TV epic with enough plot twists to boggle the most nimble puzzle fan.
What unites people?
Armies? Gold? Flags?
Stories.
There’s nothing in the world more powerful than a good story.
Tyrion Lannister
Game of Thrones
Final episode
In our church gatherings on Sundays or during the week, in our conversations, without a sense of hurry and in the embrace of trust, we share our stories. Mostly they are not epic. They are best told not in sound bites (or tweets), not in speeches, but in response to a skilled listener who lets the word images unravel from the head and heart of the teller. No prodding. No judgment. No subject changing. No filling a silence with commentary.
Storytelling is a waiting game.
Is the puzzle of a person’s entire story ever complete?
The picture on the box may be of a covered bridge in the fall, and every jigsawed piece has its place. But what does it feel like to ride a bicycle as a twelve-year old into that darkened corridor, the rhythm of wheels drumming on weathered floor planks? Beneath is the stream where you and Grandpa fished all summer, hooking more jokes than trout. Does this bridge connect home and school? Childhood and adulthood?
Stories: bridges into the heart. A story may be given away, yet remain owned. Maybe we don’t tell it the same way twice, as memories are rediscovered or put aside. Shared, it can linger with a listener. Or result in a joyful moment, like the flash of the silver trout, darting away, laughing.
Stories unite people. And puzzle pieces.
image: Copyright ©2018 by Dianne Phelan Müller