The first time I saw Navajo storyteller pottery, I was intrigued. It conveys the passing of stories from one generation to the next. But it reminds me of the stories I tell to myself.
First off, a micro lesson on Internal Family Systems, aka “Parts therapy.”
It’s a therapeutic framework for understanding the different “parts” we have. The part that is responsible and shows up to work every day. Or the part that is like a crabby
toddler who wants a cookie and needs a nap.
I have some pretty strong parts that are excellent at catastrophizing. Other parts that love to judge.
Our parts are not who we are. Even the ones with bright and shiny attributes. They are roles we’ve adopted out of necessity in order to survive and function in society. (Even if those functions are as dysfunctional af.)
Foundational to IFS is the belief that at are our core, our True Self, is a loving, caring, creative person who lives in a place of unshakeable peace.
It’s our higher nature. The Good Angel, if you will.
Anyhoo. Back to the storyteller.
Do I listen to the wise, loving stories from my True Self? Or do I listen to the stories of the scared younger versions of myself?
More often than I care to admit, I listen to th0se wounded parts, not the wise and secure adult. Scared, lonely parts that have experienced deep pain and lack of safety and want to take cover and hide. And they can get rather loud. Especially at 2am when a scared part reminds me that the ache in my hip is likely bone cancer. Faaaaack, it’s probably what’s causing the twitch in my eye because it’s spread already. I’ll be dead by morning.
The stories have different circumstances but the ending they portend is all the same. You will end up alone and dead in and no one will even notice until the smell of…. uh, you get the idea.
This pottery reminds me that I am the writer of my own story. And when I freak out over world events and want to stock up on shelf-stable food (especially snacks), get a pallet of toilet paper (because, uh, lessons from covid anyone?) and lock myself into a bunker, I know there is a part of me that is scared and is looking for comfort. (This is after an angry part wants to beat the shit out of some people.)
It’s time for me to remind and comfort those scared parts that the adult me is here. She is wise. And she’s pretty badass because she’s gotten through a lot of shit. And we’re still standing! And she’s going to love and comfort those scared parts. Not speak shame or toss it a book on personal development.
Nope. Just acceptance and love. Acceptance and love.
I’m not there yet. But this is the direction I’m heading, and this little tchotchke will help me remember when I lose my way.
But back to the store. I purchased the storyteller and then puttered around a bit more, and something caught my eye. Oh! A puzzle!
Bright colors, beautiful flowers and only 500 pieces. (After a hiatus one must ease one’s self back into puzzling.) $3. The price is right.
I grabbed it and continued browsing. And then I looked at the puzzle box more closely. You can check out the photo. Look carefully at the table.
You trying to tell me something, Universe?
Quite a lesson from this lovely Navajo storyteller.
By the way, I named her Esme. It means beloved.