The Psycho-therapeutic Value of Story Telling
FRANCES E. FOOTE
The Story telling Movement is growing with such gigantic strides that a magazine which will keep the Missionaries in this movement in touch with one another seems most desirable, if not absolutely necessary.
Many writers have voiced many opinions as to the benefits to be derived from the exercise of the Art of Story telling, but there is one which I have never seen in black and white, about which I feel impelled to write. It is the Psycho-Therapeutic value of Story telling.
Pain is a real thing, and will hold us in his clutches and claim all our attention if allowed to do so.
Sorrow is absorbing, and will bow our heads and break our spirits if unhindered.
Upon what, then, may we concentrate our attention, that pain may grow weary of pressing his claim?
With what may we so absorb our minds that sorrow will fade away?
One of the fundamental principles of Story telling is that the oral interpreter of Literature, must so vividly see the pictures described in the story, that he will cause his hearers to feel that they, too, see.
He must feel the impulses and emotions of the characters in the story so truly that the hearts of his hearers will thrill with the same feeling.
Since this is true, that the mind must be absorbed in the distant scenes of Story Land, pain in due course of time must grow tired of urging his claim and will ultimately depart.
The emotions dominant in stories which we tell are altruistic for the most part. We prefer to dwell upon themes in which evil is overcome by good; those in which sorrow flees away and joy comes with the morning.
Isn’t it true that the person who, day after day, creates these altruistic emotions in the hearts of his hearers will find his sorrow, deep-seated though it may be, growing dimmer day by day as he brightens the lives of his hearers?
There are many cases which I could give you to prove my point. One, of a little child with spinal trouble, who was treated by a great surgeon. He would call upon her two or three days out of the week and each time tell her a story. He required her, meanwhile, to make up similar stories. For instance, he would tell her the story of “Little Green Cap.” Then he would say, “Now, by Tuesday I want you to have a story ready for me. It must be about a poor little girl, a princess and a magic ring.” So absorbed did the child become in such work that the pain in the poor little back grew less and less insistent until she ceased to be an invalid and was able to attend school. She was one of the happiest children I ever knew. She said she didn’t mind the pain any more, she had such lovely things to think about.
Another was the case of a young woman upon whom sorrow laid a heavy hand. Prostrated by grief, she lay for several days in a darkened room. Then rousing herself she went to a hospital and secured permission from the superintendent to visit daily the friendless patients who seemed lonely. For months she reported daily to the superintendent, was given directions as to which patients to visit, and for three hours she would go from one to the other telling humorous stories. The morning hours she spent hunting for artistic, mirth-provoking stories and her afternoons in bringing smiles to sad faces. The result was inevitable. People everywhere welcomed her as a ray of sunshine.
One more case—that of a young woman who, while making a brave struggle to recover from one serious operation, suddenly found herself facing another even more serious. With nerves racked by persistent pain, courage well nigh gone, pursued by that dread foe insomnia, she turned to her one accomplishment, Story telling. Though able to sit up but a few hours at a time, she held large audiences in many cities two or three times a week, until she once more went under the knife. Then within two months she was on the platform again, bringing herself back to health by compelling her mind to dwell in Storyland. I knew all the particulars of this case, the physical torture she endured for two years, the struggle she made to live, and knowing what I do, forces me to believe that if Story telling did not save her life, it certainly saved her reason.
It is a law of life that the only thing which we may always keep, is the thing we give. If then, the prime function of Story telling is the giving of Joy, then Joy is the thing which the Story teller may have.
To those who “travail and are heavy laden” I commend the Art of Story telling.