The stories that my grandmother told me I understand, today was the collective experience and learning of my tribe, my community.
The story-teller was the keeper of our history and knowledge, they gave us legends to inspire, and they gave us, fools to learn from. They showed us the path to achieve our potential. Whether we accepted the quest of challenge or not was another story. The man who did the man who did not, their tales told us the choice we could make.
The Bards of Europe, the Native American storytellers, the Bhagwats of the Hindu’s, they are people who knew the map, of the quest, albeit a mythical one. With migration, industrial revolution and the web-plague we have lost our tribe, and our story-teller.
Our memories have been rendered irrelevant; we have to relearn the applications of past lessons. Those stories are not celebrations of the past but the pathway to the future, the increasing number of people, finding that they are not where they were supposed to be, lost babe’s in the wood, need to find their healers, leaders, and guides. We have but one path, the story of our tribe; we need to find the storyteller to reveal it us.
A pilgrimage made is for us to remember those lessons through the artefacts that commemorate them. Bowing to that edifice is bowing to learning.
As we tell the stories and peel the layers off literary, philosophy curative and metaphorical layers one by one we are but recognizing the layers of our experience and learning.
The scribes, the shamans, the priests they knew the omniscience of the words, in their proper intent, sequence, intonation and incantation, the power that it could wield.
Writing hence became very dangerous, if anyone the component was different from what the author wrote, the manifestation would change.