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I have no singular starting point. I teach, upper elementary students, and each day I am reminded that they come to me believing that I will give them what they are supposed to "get" so that one day they will be able to go to middle school, then high school, then college. They vaguely articulate dreams of what they want to be when they grow up. They come to school each day because they have been told that is what they do. Where else would they go? I look back at them and tell them that they will learn as much from each other as from me, that I want to learn with and from their insights/perspectives. They like the sound of that, and it fits with their idea of how some Quaker teachers talk to them. Then we struggle through a disorienting dance. Sometimes I lead. Sometimes they lead. Sometimes a faceless bandleader calls the steps with warnings that if they don't replicate certain steps perfectly they will not be invited to the next dance. Frequently the music and steps allow everyone to feel safe; once in a while we throw all caution to the wind and enjoy each others' dance, letting it open new possibilities for our next moves. More often than not though we are all hearing the same music. Self-selected, like-minded communities do that.
I collaborate with other professionals and sometimes, when we are sharing a common story it is affirming. The kind of affirming that sustains life, builds new worlds, and embraces all of the idiosyncrasies of the participants. When we do not share a common story the experience is painful and seemingly dangerous. This is illogical, especially as we agree from the outset that each of us holds a piece of the truth. We reiterate, when we have cool heads, that great growth and new understanding comes from sitting with conflicting stories and being willing to be less right. It is hard to keep a cool head sometimes.
I live in a neighborhood where election yard signs can be the death knoll for long-held friendships. I watch my fellow commuters, driving, alone, tuned in to their preferred radio station. We look like so many Langston Ants with purpose and seeming connectivity. But I wonder, how thin is the veneer of connectivity? Or how deep is the actual connectivity and mutual reliance that we then bury beneath membership in bodies like political parties that give the illusion that we've got our mutually exclusive stories all figured out?
In the bustle of daily needs to do my job, be present for family and friends, I forget to listen for other stories. I forget that I am telling a story. So, I come to this group wanting to be challenged to notice the stories unfolding around me. I come wanting to hear stories and perspectives that are very different from the ones that I form as an elementary school teacher. I want to be reminded of the stories I imagined when I was studying biology, anthropology, and womyn's studies.
I want to share stories from the classroom inhabited by 10, 11 and 12 year olds. They have already learned to look for the one right story. Challenging them to sit with their own stories and experience the healthy conflict that comes from grappling with the unexpected, a divergent view, or a new observation that questions their original supposition is hard. It is also a process that offers insight I think into why or how the brain scrambles to claim a story. Stories are power, power comes from our stories. As Wil writes it is a "dangerously absurd world" and I would argue that it becomes more dangerous than absurd when  we lose the ability to "see" the storyteller present in all of us.