My niece played Ariel in her high school musical this spring. Little girls twirled around the lobby in mermaid dresses as we walked to our seats. As a dad, watching my own girls hang on the edge of their chairs as they leaned in to watch their cousin was every bit as fun as enjoying the show.
Having been partially raised by Walt Disney, my daughters know The Little Mermaid story, so aside from a few minor tweaks in the narrative, they knew about Ariel’s pact with Ursula, the loss of her voice, her voyage to live on land, and she and Eric living happily ever after.
As the curtains rose, I watched my girls. When my niece first appeared, they leaned over and exclaimed, “There’s Hannah!”
But a song, a scene, and another song later, Hannah no longer existed; she had become a mermaid. Hannah moved like a mermaid, she sang like Ariel, but mostly the Ariel we saw on stage felt like Ariel. She yearned for dry sand beneath her, cried when her father dashed her dreams, and rejoiced when she became part of our world.
Ariel felt her story.
Life is a story. In moments of clarity, we sense a meaning and narrative arch to the days we live. In darker moments, the story ceases to carry a plot. To show up and live with heart, we must engage life as a main character engages his story. Characters engage their story by the act of presence, allowing themselves to affect and be affected by their story. And the means by which a character connects with a story is feelings.
Feelings invite us to become present to the story of life. This is the idea of “life on life’s terms”. Circumstances force us to live on its terms, as opposed to our own. We are not the authors of our story. We can hope, dream, and work toward goals, but we lack the ultimate power to guarantee the outcome of our story. Certainly we can co-write through our passions, choices, and engagement, but at the end of the day, much of our life is left open to factors beyond our control.
In The Lord of the Rings, Frodo’s brave companion Sam questions the story of his life,
“I wonder what sort of tale we’ve fallen into?”
“I wonder,” replied Frodo. “But I don’t know. And that’s the way of a real tale. Take any one that you’re fond of. You may know, or guess, what kind of tale it is, happy-ending or sad-ending, but the people in it don’t know. And you don’t want them to.”
Isn’t this why we watch and read stories? Would you want the characters in the movies you watch and the books you read to know the ending of their story? We would cease to connect with a character the second they knew the outcome of their ending. We want our own lives to be safe and predictable and filled with goodness. Yet the stories and characters we love experience just the opposite, and we love them for it. Ariel risked her world for a better and bigger one. Little girls love her for her dreams, her courage, and her willingness to risk for love.
Frodo Baggins did the same for me. Frodo’s journey is anything but safe or predictable. He lives under the threat of certain death and finds the strength to choose goodness over evil again and again, and this is precisely why he holds our interest. Tolkien scripts an imaginary Middle Earth most unlike our world, and yet he makes Frodo human enough that we believe we could be Frodo. He lives present to the danger and fear which hunt him, and he finds heart when hope seems lost. Frodo shows up for his story, and his courage invites us to do the same.
Process
How are you showing up for your story? Rate your level of presence recently.
Feelings become the intersection between your story and your role as a character. Are you feeling your feelings?
If an audience watched the movie of your life, how connected would they feel to you as a main character?
