Story & Mental Well Being

We naturally think of our own lives as stories, psychologists say. Changing the way you tell your scan help you handle whatever plot twists
come your way.
Jennifer King Lindley

 We all enjoy a good story. Listening to tales growing up, be it about a mythological character or a real life character always keeps us engrossed. We are glued to our TV sets & run to Movie halls for the same reasons. Facebook & Twitter owe their success to our penchant for stories.

Stories are how we naturally conceive of our own lives as well. “Our lives are so complex that we need some way to make sense
of them,” says Jonathan Adler, PhD, a professor of psychology at Olin College of Engineering in Needham, Massachusetts.
“When we construct a narrative, it allows us to hold on to the important parts, filter out the trivial, and find a meaningful

pattern in it all.”

Our daily life becomes mundane with routine activities. however we forget that we are the protagonists & the narrator of a significant tale: our life story. The only hinderance to our appreciating the significance of our stories is that we are not reliable interpreters or narrators. When we are upset, we paint a grim picture with same incidents that otherwise would not have bothered us. we lose focus and tend to revolve in circles.

Researchers at Northwestern University found that people who tend to tell their stories with GRIM colours (Contaminated stories) are low on mental well being than those that weave stories with a "Silver Lining"

slight paraphrasing, a change of tone; to our story can help us become happier, develop better relationships & achieve more success. 

POINTS TO PONDER

Article source: Power of a story (Real Simple)

Keh Mukariya By Amir khusro

The name Amir Khusro is unknown to none. 
Presenting a beautiful art of keh - mukariya or "guess what" poetry by the Father of Qawwali.

The Etiquettes of A Fall

I always took the safer road, the slow lane, the vacant seats.

Played Safe.

And then once, the safest traveler takes a leap, not as much a leap of faith, as give in to wilderness, the unshackling… a feeble and rare endeavor to experience proclivity.

One night I found myself, on the edge of insanity, engulfed in murk, and on the side of a road completely unknown. My vision blurred, (mostly because I’d lost my spectacles), and an echo blared in my ears as if all my ancestors (dead and undead) chose that very moment to knock some sense in to me by literally knocking on my eardrums; in unison.

Yes, I had erred, faltered monstrously (pun intended) and slipped.

Now, the difference between a pusillanimous prude and an oblivious derelict is how he deals with the “slip”, the etiquette of brushing off the dust from his body with a thousand pair of ostensibly vigilant but actually amused eyes tracing all his moves.

While the indiscretions of a recurrent errant train him to such performances; wherein his expertise enables him to do the same with the kenspeckle of the star performer; rendering him an “Artful Dodger”; the novice slipper feebly attempts to shroud himself in diaphanous cloak of discomfiture. Every moment, with every movement the latter remains agonizingly aware of the fall.

And so was I. New to the art of dodging eyes; the flush of shame ripe and reflecting profusely. Palpitations intensified. What have I done! Where could I have slowed down! And yet I knew the palpitations were knocking and forcing open the doors. And then I did the only thing I do under stress.

Sitting on the raw shingle, dry grass tickling my sole, and prodding eyes feigning to sympathy; I wrote a poem in my newly found state of exploit. Here it goes: