This, I think, is one of the great paradoxes of life -- not unlike Lao Tzu's famous quote: "He who knows, does not speak. He who speaks, does not know."

On one level, Lao Tzu was spot on. On another level, Lao Tzu was saying something that a skilled skeptic could easily dismiss as proof that Lao Tzu "does not know because he spoke, so why should we bother to listen to anything he has to say?"

As the Zen Buddhists remind us, "The finger pointing at the moon is not the moon."

So it is with stories and storytelling. They are not the moon. They are fingers pointing at the moon. But pointing has its place. It does -- as long as we don't become prisoners of our pointing or forget to experience life in the unfiltered present because of our tendency to be overly identified with the stories of our past.

That being said -- what follows is an elaboration on this phenomenon from my 2015 book, Storytelling at Work.

"Let's assume for the moment that, after reading my book, you are intrigued by the notion of telling your own stories. Fantastic. Great. That's the reason why I wrote the book in the first place. So... you begin thinking about your own moments of truth and start writing them down -- at least the titles, that is. The more titles you write, the more stories you remember -- stories from your childhood, travels, work, relationships, quest for meaning, accidents, disappointments, victories, near death experiences, strange lights in the sky, and so on. Let's say you top out at 359 titles. But let’s take it one step further.

Let's say you actually write your stories. But not only write them -- you tell them, too, until every story of yours has been told. You could, of course, choose to tell your stories again to other people in other ways. You could, of course, choose to turn them into screenplays, novels, songs, sitcoms, i-phone apps, or webinars. But you don't. You feel complete, every story in you having been told.

So there you are with no more need tell a single story (not even the story of why you are no longer telling stories). Like small puddles evaporating after a storm, your need to tell your stories has completely disappeared. Now there is only solid ground beneath your feet. Your friends and fans, accustomed to your delightful story telling, are keenly disappointed, but you say nothing. You say nothing because you have nothing to say. You have no point to make. The words you would normally use to populate your tales have gone south for the winter. They are vacationing somewhere on a remote island, cocktail party chit chat for the night.

Your last story has been told.

Though you are fully awake and can see many things happening, you have no need to connect the dots, no need for a plot, characters, conflict, or a resolution. Everything is what it is. You are what you are, breathing slowly, wanting nothing, feeling grateful, enjoying the time before the first story was ever told. You think of telling that story, but don't.

You let it go. Like the milkweed floating by. And the leaf...

Why Tell Stories
Storytelling for the Revolution
A funny story about minced garlic

Photo of Milkweed: Dawid Zawilla, Unsplash
Photo of Moon: Bejamin Voros, Unsplash
Photo of Book: Nong Vang, Unsplash