The answer to a question I have forgotten

So my musings on the title aside, I'd like to muse about the actual stories I worked on in Advanced Storytelling.

We dove into combinatorics, which is to say, the art of putting things together. Gestalt, if you will. We dealt in personal stories and folktales, and I began by telling George MacDonald's The Light Princess. Initially I felt drawn to the story because of its sheer cheek; Mr. MacDonald's writing is irresistibly clever. But the more time I spent with it, the more I thought there must be some other attraction for me there.

It was not until I paired The Light Princess with a personal story about my experiences in Utah that I began to realize the draw of lightness. MacDonald's folktale deals with a young woman who has been deprived of her gravity (both literally and figuratively.) Gravity has no hold on her, so she floats about, lighter than a feather. And "she could never be made to see the serious side of anything." It seems like a nice enough life, but it is ultimately vapid and unsatisfying. [Warning: I'm about to spoil the ending for you] Through love, she is is made whole.

In my story about Utah, I approach the battle from the opposite direction. I considered myself over-burdened with gravity, saddled with extra weight and extra seriousness. Through self-acceptance, which must necessarily be a rebellious act of love in this social climate, I am made whole. Or at least, less fractured.

Putting the two stories together, I saw the thread of "conversations with gravity," and was stunned at how important that topic was to me. I fight, kick, scream, and spit in my battles with gravity. And the answer, all along, has been Love.

Love is the answer to a question that I have forgotten, but I know I've been asked. And the answer has got to be Love. ("Reading Time with Pickle," Regina Spektor)