By Terry Tafoya, Ph.D.

In his book, Once Upon A Midlife, psychiatrist Allan Chinen suggests, “The reason for the ageless appeal of fairy tales can be summed up in an old Hasidic proverb: give people a fact or an idea and you enlighten their minds; tell them a story and you touch their souls.”1

In one aspect, therapy is a process of allowing clients to tell their own stories, and perhaps this is one of the reasons why 12-step programs are so effective with certain individuals. Lives that have been perceived as chaotic suddenly take on structure and recognizable patterns when a client is required to put his or her history into a narrative format. One of the fascinating elements of doing family history as part of therapy is to watch clients piece together how specific incidents had an impact on their lives. Most families have unwritten established patterns of behavior that members seem to follow.

One client in recovery from alcohol dependency was surprised to see that his first incident with alcohol abuse at the age of 19 coincided with his father’s abandoning the family, two pieces of his life he had never put together before. The famous therapist, Bruno Bettelheim, emphasized in his work with severely disturbed children that his “main task was to restore meaning to their lives.”2 Bettelheim, Chinen and others have shown how useful storytelling can be to help people achieve significance to life.

Chinen, for example, quotes cognitive psychologist, Gisela Labouvie-Vief, that the “two modes of reasoning...[are] logos and mythos.1 Both are Greek terms meaning “word,” but logos refers to words used in explanation, calculation and planning, while mythos refers to the language used in stories, drama and dream.” The distinction between these two terms are useful in doing therapy, as we attempt to combine the two for the best result.

Even before Piaget, societies were aware that children don’t think in the same manner as adults.3 If you ask a three-year-old to indicate the oldest person in a room, the child will not pay attention to “logical” indications of age, such as skin condition or hair color. Instead, the child will choose the tallest person in the room because from a young child’s experience, the older you get, the bigger you are. Just so, asked to identify the “oldest” block of wood in a set, the child will choose the biggest one.

But this also means that when we engage in therapy with an individual client, we need to be concerned in terms of where in the developmental process he or she may be. Piaget suggested that there are three major stages we need to recognize — sensory/motor, concrete and abstract, where the abstract thinking level is associated with “adult” thought. According to Piaget, children tend to achieve abstract thinking at the average age of 12, but this means that while a significant number of children will be able to think abstractly before the age of twelve, some may not achieve abstract thinking skills until after the age of 12. Indeed, in later research by Adler, in the 1970s, he did not find adolescents being able to consistently use abstract thinking skills until after the age of 15.4 In the case of some individuals, because of neurological damage sustained from alcohol and drug abuse during the mother’s pregnancy, abstract thinking skills may never be achieved, regardless of age.

The significance of this in the utilization of storytelling cannot be overemphasized. Using “standard” adult/rational approaches in therapy with a client may fail because a client may not be able to process information at the appropriate developmental level. Storytelling can provide a number of tools to overcome this problem. According to Bettelheim, stories speak about a child’s severe inner pressures in a way that the child unconsciously understands, and — without belittling the most serious inner struggles which growing up entails — offer examples of both temporary and permanent solutions to pressing difficulties.2

How might “adult”/abstract and “child”/concrete issues conflict? Bettelheim described visiting a class of second and third graders who were working with paper models of the comet Kohoutek.2 They proudly showed their creations to Bettelheim, who asked them what they held in their hands. They responded, “Kohoutek.” When Bettelheim explained to them that Kohoutek was really millions of miles away in space, and what they held in their hands were models of the comet, “...they lost all interest. Some crumpled the paper up, others dropped the model in the wastepaper basket. When the pieces of paper had been the comet to them, they had all planned to take the model home to show their parents, but now it no longer had meaning for them.”

Indeed, isn’t the technique of “reframing” inherently a narrative device to be able to tell a story in a different way? In an American Indian community intervention working with tribal members who had joined an urban gang, I listened to a young man describe how he would protect his sister from members of a rival gang, whereupon an elder criticized him for his violent behavior. I suggested that although in Native American tradition, it was the role of the warrior to protect members of the tribal nation, there were also certain responsibilities that went with warriorhood. A person who was in harmony could not kill, so there were ceremonies warriors would have to go through to remove them from the harmony in order to protect their community. But the warriors would not be allowed back in the community until purification ceremonies had been done to restore their harmony, or they would be dangerous to the community they were sworn to protect. Through this analogy, the gang member’s behavior was reshaped to one more understandable to community members, giving a pathway for addressing the problem.

Ceremonies and rituals are often a method of acting out stories, giving them a concrete form. For example, in the Warm Springs Confederated Tribes in Oregon, among the Sahaptin people, there is a ceremony called Palaxsiks, conducted for someone who is a widow or widower.5 The ceremony is based on this story.

Long ago, there were two caterpillar people who loved each other very much, but one of them died. The caterpillar woman mourned the loss of her husband. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, didn’t want to be around anyone. She wrapped her sorrow around her like it was a shawl and began walking. All the time she was walking, she was crying. For twelve moons (one year) she walked, and because the world is a circle, she returned to where she had started. The Creator took pity on her and told her, “You’ve suffered too long. Now’s the time to step into a new world of color — a new world of beauty.” The Creator clapped hands twice, and she burst forth as the butterfly. Just so, for many Native people, the butterfly is the symbol for everlasting life and renewal.

The mourning ceremony of the Palaxsiks follows the pattern of the legend. After the body has been buried, the surviving spouse, usually within a week of the burial, will be stripped of his/her regular clothing behind a blanket screen. Relatives from one side of the family have brought new clothes of dark colors that are used to dress the widow/widower. This indicates the cocoon stage. The hair is cut. But since hair continues to grow, and at one point, will return to its original length, this represents the psychological and spiritual healing that is taking place internally. Incidentally, the cut hair and the dark clothing also serve to mark an individual in the mourning process, so community members can acknowledge this and act accordingly. However, when a non-Native client begins therapy, a provider will have no way of knowing if the client is experiencing bereavement until a history is taken, and even then it may not come up immediately.

At the end of one year, there is a closure ceremony where the family members who received the clothes during the first ceremony bring new clothes of bright colors to dress the widow/widower. The bright colors represent the wings of the butterfly and also signify that the time of bereavement is over, and the individual is freed of the restrictions of the previous year.

In working with a client, a therapist will often operate from an abstract level. If a client lacks the appropriate developmental skills, he or she will not be able to follow the therapist. But the power of ritual and ceremony lies in part with the reality that if one moves the concrete, the abstract will automatically follow. In the legend and the Palaxsiks, those able to understand the behaviors on an abstract level can do so, but those who can understand it only on a concrete level will also be affected.

In the stories from A Thousand and One Nights, there is the story of the “Little Fisherman and the Genie.”6 A little fisherman throws out his net, and on the third toss, pulls in a strange bottle. When he uncorks it, a genie emerges and tells the little fisherman the genie is about to kill him.

The little fisherman is very confused about this and asks about the standard three wishes he had been expecting. The genie responds, “For a thousand years I was in that bottle. For the first three hundred years of my experience, I thought, ‘He who frees me, I will reward beyond his wildest imagination. Three wishes I will grant — anything.’ And three hundred years go by, and Nada, Zip, Nothing ... I’m still in the damn bottle. So I think, ‘Two wishes! That’s all I’m going to grant because this guy is taking so long!’ Then another three hundred years go by, and I think, ‘One wish — that’s all I’m granting.’ And so,” concludes the genie, “for the last one hundred years of my imprisonment, I’ve decided that he who finally gets off his lazy ass and opens this bottle I’m going to kill for taking so long.” The little fisherman realizes he’s not dealing with a rocket scientist genie; after all, what really bright genie gets stuck in a bottle to begin with? So the little fisherman says, “I can’t believe that a genie as powerful, big and magnificent as you could fit into such a tiny bottle to begin with.” At which point the genie sneers, “Oh, yeah? Well watch this!” and goes back into the bottle, at which point the little fisherman corks it back up and tosses it back into the water.

On an abstract level, when a client tries to “bottle up” powerful emotions (such as grief, or anger) when those powerful emotions finally escape (and they eventually will), they will often emerge in the manner of the genie — outwardly destructive, or inwardly destructive. Ceremonies like the Palaxsiks provide a safe and sacred time and space for both expressing and containing powerful emotions. Some clients will come from families that for a number of reasons, no longer have access to appropriate ceremonies and rituals to deal with life-transitions or specific challenges. So, where ceremonies and traditions may have been lost, people should be reminded that the oldest ritual we do was once done for the first time. The oldest song we sing was once sung for the first time. We must never be afraid to make new songs, to create new rituals. If they have power, then they will become the heritage we will pass on to our descendents. If they don’t have power, then there is a “spiritual Darwinism” in operation, where things without power will be forgotten. Incidentally, in some instances, it may not be necessary or appropriate for a provider to take a client through a particular ceremony, but to support the client in seeking out a priest, rabbi, or traditionalist, depending on the situation and the client.

Finally, the work of Milton H. Erickson reminds us that stories come in all sorts of forms; we are all conditioned to recognize the formal reality of traditional legends, myths and fairytales, as well as biblical and koranic literature.7,8 But stories of the experiences of other clients, or those of our children or relatives, can be just as effective in some instances, for providing new choices to clients who may have no appropriate model in terms of dealing with a given situation. Models may come from novels, from television, movies or comics. Erickson also used what he called “my friend John” stories to explain to a client how a situation might be approached differently. One of the magical aspects of story lies in the fact that when you hear someone tell his or her story, you recognize an aspect of your own.

Dr. Terry Tafoya is a Taos Pueblo and Warm Springs Indian who has used American Indian ritual and ceremony in his work as a family therapist while serving at the University of Washington’s School of Medicine. Dr. Tafoya serves as a consultant for the U.S. Center for Substance Abuse Prevention, and was the chief curriculum writer for the Gathering of Native Americans, a substance abuse prevention project for American Indians and Alaskan natives. He is on the teaching faculty for the American Psychological Association and the Milton H. Erickson Foundation for Clinical Hypnosis and Psychotherapy. To access his materials and current scheduled presentations, visit their website www.Tamanawit.com or contact Dr. Tafoya by e-mail at: Tamanawit@aol.com.

References

1. Chinen, Allan, B. Once Upon A Midlife. Los Angeles: Jeremy P. Tarcher, Inc., page 2, (1992).
2. Bettelheim, Bruno. The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tale. New York: Vintage Books, page 6 and 49, (1977).
3. Piaget, Jean. The Development of Thought: Equilibration of Cognitive Structures. Translated by Arnold Rosin. New York:Viking Press, (1977).
4. Adler, Kurt, A. Socialist Influences on Adlerian Psychology. New York:19th International Congress of Individual Psychology Budapest, Hungary, August 1-5, 1993. In the Adlerian Translation Project Archives at the Alfred Adler Institute of San Francisco.
5. Tafoya, Terry. “Widow as Butterfly, Treatment of Grief and Loss Among the Sahaptin.” Journal of the Manitoba School of Medicine, vol. 5, (2), pgs. 53-58, (1982).
6. Burton, Richard. The Arabian Nights’ Entertainments 13 vols. London: H.S. Nichols 1894-7.
7. Erickson, M.H. My voice will go with you: The teaching tales of Milton H. Erickson, M.D. in S. Rosen (Ed. with commentary). New York: Norton, (1982).
8. Gilligan, S.G. Therapeutic trances: The cooperation principle in Ericksonian hynotherapy. New: Brunner/Mazel, (1987).