Stone Soup

I only remember a handful of the books my parents read to me when I was a child. Among them were Frog and Toad, Ping, Caps for Sale and Stone Soup. Now that I am a parent, and have read Go Dog, Go! roughly two thousand times, I realize that my myopic view of children's literature was about my insistence on what was read to me and not about any refusal on my parents' part to buy me more books.

Among the books I was adamant about as a child, Stone Soup is perhaps the most significant. I’m not sure if it was because I associate all culinary action with my mother, or because the illustrations were so beautiful, but that book evokes a visceral emotion in me when I see the cover art or hear someone reference it.

Mostly, I've always remembered the concept of the book: A deceitful vagrant comes to town and tricks the citizens into believing he has a magical stone from which he could make a delicious soup to feed everyone. And I've always remembered the lesson of the story: The things we believe to be magical or mystical are typically tied to something concrete and achievable. The vagrant wasn’t powerful and his stone possessed no magic. Instead, his charm and storytelling were enough to make the town believe their own everyday actions were the product of a very paranormal pebble.

I’m not sure why that was such an important lesson to me as a kid. Perhaps I just liked the idea that I possessed the power to create something, or do something, that otherwise seemed miraculous. I had the capacity within myself to achieve something remarkable by doing something very common.

It's not as though I don’t believe in magic or mysticism. But when I was working on my dissertation, it was good to know that I had the ability to get it done. I didn’t need to wait on some homeless man to bring me a rock and claim it would finish the job.

And it’s not as though I don’t feel my two daughters are my destiny and that perhaps, maybe, there was divine intervention. But I’m comforted by the fact that it was really just sperm meeting egg and a couple of quality epidurals that brought the two beautiful creatures into being.

For me, miracles are a bit more powerful when I can create them on my own.

This past weekend I participated in an overnight retreat for a community organization focused on leadership in the nonprofit sector. Forty-six people committed to improving the community (and appreciative of the networking that comes with that) packed their bags and prepared to spend two days working through some highly intense activities together.

Much of this is what anyone would expect at leadership training: community assessment exercises, leadership style workshops, training videos, and—as one would assume—a group activity in which we had to build the tallest tower possible from just a few household objects, without speaking to one another while we did.

I enjoy these types of gatherings. I relish any chance to learn about my community and how it could be improved. I always appreciate the chance to meet new people. And as an added bonus, the retreat was held at a beautiful lodge nestled deep in the woods.

But the most powerful part of the retreat, besides how comfortable the beds were, was the chance for interpersonal communication. And connection.

Much of this was choreographed. Numerous one-on-one and small group activities provided a framework for interaction. But one activity in particular created the deepest chance for connection. Before the retreat, we were all instructed to prepare for something called a Self Disclosure. In this, we had to bring something we made or found that could tell our story. Not just our general life story, but the story we most want people to know and yet typically never share.

How absurd is it to ask a group of adults--ranging wildly in age and life stages--to make something that might require a glue stick in order to tell their hardest tale to a group of strangers?

Absurd enough to be effective.

After a very long and intense day of training, and a long day of everyone either silently or vocally expressing their apprehension about the upcoming self-disclosure, we were divided into small groups and assigned private rooms in which we would disclose ourselves.

My group was comprised of six other individuals. We sat in a small, drafty cabin and went clockwise around the circle listening to everyone expound on the story they hardly ever tell.

Now, what was said in that circle will follow me to the grave, but I can at least say this: I came away with a harrowing sense of humility.

After this activity, we were able to meet up with the larger group and enjoy drinks and more casual conversation. But it was clear that whatever happened in each private group changed the overall dynamic of the larger class. Everyone seemed relaxed. Sure, vodka helps, but there was a palpable difference in the dynamics after the Self Disclosure activity was complete.

Despite the cocktails, I couldn’t help shaking the reality of how humbled I felt during my small group gathering.

It isn’t as though I’ve never heard someone talk about struggles far more difficult than my own. And it isn’t as if I don’t fully understand how privileged and lucky I am and have been. But this time I came away with a different perspective. The most startling observation for me was watching how intently everyone listened to one other. No one kept score. No one felt superior.

Or inferior.

This was the first time I was aware of how important it was to value my own struggles. Even if they felt small in comparison.

The easiest reaction to hearing others’ battles--which might on the surface seem more difficult than my own--is to brush off anything I’ve been put through, or anything I will face later in life because I know someone has had it worse. The moment I hear of someone else's adversities, I immediately shut my mouth and silently vow to volunteer at a soup kitchen.

A friend of mine recently told me she's not sure how I handle all the demands of work and motherhood. She claims to feel overwhelmed with her life as a single person without children.

But looking back to when I was single and had just moved to this city, I was extremely overwhelmed by my new job. Later, I felt getting married was a major life transition to which adjusting took time. When I had my first child, I never knew a stress so profound. And then came my second child and I couldn’t understand why I ever felt worn with just one.

I think the natural inclination is to assume I have no reason to feel stressed when I see others are facing more. Why complain when others have it worse? Why not be grateful for every single passing moment because there’s someone out there who would love to have it as good as I do?

Well, for starters, stress is normal, complaining is fun and being constantly grateful is exhausting.

Sure, it is important to keep everything in perspective. To be fully aware of the point of privilege from which I've come. Recognize how good I’ve got it.

But there is danger in dismissing the obstacles I’ve faced in my life because they seem to pale in comparison.

I survived a horrific car accident that could have killed me. But it didn’t. I endured post partum depression, but was fortunate enough to have access to doctors who helped me treat it. And yes, my second pregnancy was difficult and riddled with terrifying possibilities, but in the end, I birthed a very healthy child.

These may be the easiest, tamest problems a person can have. But they are my problems. And I can’t exactly apologize for them. Nor can I deny the value they may provide to another person who is needing a little perspective.

At the closing of the retreat the director placed a large stock pot on a table at the front of the room. She held up a stone high above her head and I knew what was coming. My stomach knotted with homesickness as she began to tell the story of Stone Soup.

But her version was different. She told about how a huckster with the stone was able to get everyone in the town to contribute to a soup, and that together, their ingredients fed the community. The lady who had salt and the man who had carrots couldn’t do much until they put their valuables in a pot together. Everyone's contribution enhanced the soup’s flavor.

This version wasn’t about a devious man tricking a town into believing in magic, leaving my childhood brain to better understand that I can make my own fate. This version was about how everyone brought something different to the table, each contributing just a little to provide a lot. And every level of ingredient, from water to pork, is of value.

The most surprising aspect of the entire retreat was how dramatically the classic story had changed since I was a child.

But that’s just my perspective.



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Coming this Summer: Harebrained.