The Story Giver

Ruby Driscoll woke into a day that would change her life. She had a slight sense of it; it was in the vigorous wind scattering fall leaves outside her window, a reordering. She resisted the temptation to grasp tightly at it, but she would not ignore it. Ruby opened to the day and went about the minutia of her morning, awaiting magic to reveal itself out of the mundane.

But the bus was late, and anxiety interrupted her sacred morning. Ruby could not be late again – she would certainly lose her job. She glanced at her watch every 25 seconds, willing it to slow. When the bus arrived, after approximately 20 watch checks, she grabbed the first open seat. She could still make it if everything went right.

Ruby followed all of life’s rules and yet always felt like she was teetering on the edge, each moment of bad luck cocked and loaded with the power to derail it all. She was one tardy away from unemployment, one flu away from missing rent, one more cancer scan away from being an orphan. She glanced down at her hands, noting how dry and pasty her brown skin had become. The cleaning supplies she used daily were harsh, even with gloves. Her 24-year-old hands looked a decade older.

She gazed out the window passively, watching the world pass by. Her heart hooked into the scene before her brain could catch up. Without processing the consequences of her actions, she pulled the cord to stop the bus. The driver shot a surprised glance at her before steering the bus to the side of the street.

A gust of wind had tipped the bike, just a little, but enough. Its rider collided with the sidewalk, papers scattering from her bag, forming a bed for the unmoving body. Ruby sprinted.

“Mam, are you ok? Mam?” Ruby whispered urgently, concerned by the woman’s silence. Ruby gently nudged her, careful not to move her. The woman stirred. A groan escaped her lips.

“Should I call 911?” Ruby asked, wondering if she should have already called.

“No, dear,” the woman said in strained whisper. “I just took a spill. Everything feels like it’s still in place.” The woman sat up and smiled, pausing to catch her breath. Ruby turned her attention to the papers, grabbing them and stuffing them into the woman’s satchel.

“That’s kind of you. What’s your name?”

“I’m Ruby.”

“Do you always come to the aid of fallen strangers, Ruby?” she asked, in a tone that was not conversational, but inquisitive.

“Oh, I think anyone would have done it.” She gazed at Ruby, holding space for her to elaborate, inviting an answer without posing a question. Ruby obliged, “I mean, nothing feels better than helping someone. Even if someone hasn’t realized that, their soul knows.”

There was a flash in the older woman’s eye, brief but meaningful. A subtle smile tilted the corners of her lips and the corners of her eyes towards one another.

“It was lovely to meet you Ruby.” The woman picked up the last few pages, helping Ruby finish the job. And then she was gone, riding away with her bulging satchel.

Ruby stared after her for a while, considering the encounter. She was strangely drawn to the woman. Ruby’s eyes sunk from the vanishing specter of the woman to the ground where she had lain.

A small black notebook lay stranded on the ground, where the papers had been. She grabbed it and quickly looked up, preparing to call out for the woman. But the woman was gone. Ruby tucked the book into her bag and headed toward the park.

She was unemployed now, a reality she had processed in microseconds. The only feelings that arose were gratitude, and then condemnation for feeling gratitude. The condemnation was louder.

Ruby found herself sitting under her favorite oak tree, in a daze. She had no idea what to do with herself. She noticed that her fingers were tapping the cover of the black notebook, a subconscious knock on the door. After a brief internal battle over the propriety of reading a stranger’s personal notes, she succumbed to temptation and flipped open the cover. She justified it by telling herself that the woman’s contact information might be inside.

The first page read: “THE STORY GIVER,” and below that, “You are invited to turn the page.”

Ruby’s heart leapt. Surely she was not the “you” to whom this message was directed. That would be impossible. But, what if . . .

She was powerless to resist. Ruby turned the page.

“Will, 42. Observations: anxious, embarrassed to be here, spends enormous energy hiding his hopelessness.

3rd party description: Will works hard. He’s a successful lawyer. In fact, he’s quite good at everything he tries. He doesn’t have many close friends but he doesn’t want for company. He’s put on a brave face since the divorce but everyone knows that it’s killing him. Attempts to talk to him on a deeper level are rebuked, usually with a joke downplaying it.

Family history: Middle of three competitive children, athletes and stellar students. Parents were very involved in their kids’ development and invested in endless lessons, sports camps, tutors. They celebrated their kids’ wins with enthusiasm, showering them with attention.

Old narrative: All I’ve done all my life is to work hard, to accomplish. But it never gets me anywhere. Life is an endless series of mountains to summit followed by the inevitable let down and loneliness of life in the valley. I can’t even convince anyone to climb the mountain with me.

New narrative: Will’s parents loved him deeply and gave everything to set him up for success; unfortunately to a child, it looked like they were trading love for achievement. Will’s hero’s journey requires him to stop offering achievement in exchange for love, a bargain which grotesquely devalues and misunderstands love. His mastery of life’s external challenges has proved a dead-end; it can reliably be said that the next stage of his life therefore involves an internal journey. It will require many great acts of vulnerability, a feat requiring more bravery than summitting the tallest mountain on Earth. Who would Will be if he were already unconditionally loved?”

Ruby placed the book on her lap and lifted her head. She let Will’s story marinate, admiring the distance between his old story and the new story. They involved the same person, the same facts, but they used different lenses. The latter was also structured for the analytical mind of a lawyer, increasing credulity.

She turned the page.

Samantha, 25.

Observations: Deeply sad. Desperate for help. Open.

3rd party description: Sam is all heart. Many people claim to be an empath but until you’ve met someone like her, you can’t truly grasp what an empath is. She feels the pain of others on a deep level, particularly animals and oppressed people. She’s vividly creative.

Family History: Sam loved animals since she was a baby, it was always a magnetic pull. Her family nurtured it, with pets, zoo visits, and books about animals. But when she was old enough to understand that a hamburger was a cow whose life was taken, depression took hold. She felt distant from and confused by her family, who were by all accounts loving people who also happened to kill 3 animals a day.

Old Narrative: I would give my life to stop their suffering. I’m depressed because nothing I can give – including my life – will ease the suffering of these beings. I feel guilty for being here, for driving cars that kill animals and pollute their habitat. I can’t understand my fellow humans, obsessed with endless economic growth. I cannot fathom why they value money over the wellbeing of earth, the animals, and other people. It’s terribly lonely but feeling sorry for myself feels self-indulgent in the face of true suffering.

New Narrative: Feeling deeply is a gift that cuts both ways. Sam has used her gifts to understand suffering, but now she must learn to use those gifts to understand joy. Where there is pain, there is also peace. In order to grow into her role of becoming a voice for the oppressed, she must fill herself with pleasure and joy. Not only is it her birthright, it is the only sustainable path. She will explore the world for sources of joy, be it in the faces of rescued animals, the thick mossy carpet of a redwood forest, or in the building of a community that lovingly supports one another in their shared mission.

Ruby spent the day reading the stories of the black notebook, exhilarated. Each page contained a tiny miracle, a seed that contained the power to transform. She dreaded finishing it. But when she turned to the last page, there was simply an address, and the word “Come.”

Her knock was answered immediately. “Hello Ruby. I’m delighted you’re here. My name is Sophia. Come in.”

Ruby sat on the teal couch, appreciating the soft, plentiful lighting and the room’s boho charm. But when she took in the whole of Sophia, sans bike helmet and sunglasses, she thought the room was insufficient to house her presence. Sophia was middle-aged with raven hair, decorated by a silver streak only present on one side of her asymmetrical part. There was nothing remarkable about any feature of her face, but Sophia wore it in a way that inhabited the whole of it, using it to express unconditional warmth. Ruby thought that it might be her first time seeing real beauty.

The women sat in silence for several seconds, acclimating to one another’s presence. Sophia spoke first, with care.

“Ruby, I am a story giver. I hold space for the pain of other people and transmute it by giving them a new story to live into. Each story is a tree: the roots must be planted in truth, the trunk bearing the strength of the subject’s adversity, and the light playing on the leaves must reflect the whole of their uniqueness, their gifts.” She paused. “Would you like your story?”

“Yes,” Ruby said, never more certain of anything.

“I hope you don’t mind but after we met, I did some investigation to discover your identity, and your story. The housekeeping uniform made it an easier task, and once I had a name your school teachers were thrilled to speak of you.” Warmth radiated on Ruby’s cheeks.

Sophia continued, “when you were 8, you placed personalized valentines into the lockers of your school’s bullies.”

“They were bullied at home.”

Sophia smiled. “At age 11, you won first place in a writing contest but when your teacher called to tell you, you told him to give the prize – a pizza party – to your best friend, whose parents had just divorced.”

“It made her so happy. And the real prize was knowing that I was a good writer.”

“I expect that you are a wonderful writer.” Tears welled in Ruby’s eyes.

“Ruby, you are the next Story Giver.”

“Me? I don’t understand.”

“Telling stories is not my only job. I’m also tasked with finding story givers. You are only the second that I’ve ever found.” Pause. "You will also be added as the beneficiary of our trust. We found that charging people created pressure to tell them what they wanted to hear.” She chuckled before delivering the joke, “capitalism is great for innovation, but terrible for truth. The size of your trust is tremendous, so much that you can live – comfortably – for life, regardless of when you retire from this work.”

Ruby sat, processing. Was there a catch? But she knew there wasn’t, as sure as she knew that grass was green. She bowed her head slightly in reverence, and then sat up straight, proud.

“I was born to do this.”

Sophia smiled. “That is the first line of your story.”