The Mindful Storyteller

“It's been a long time since somebody told me a story.” - Elderly Woman in Northeast Ohio ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Storytellers like myself will often tell you that our favorite section of the library is 398.2. In the Dewey decimal system, 398.2 represents the folk and fairy tale area of the library. If you like the Harry Potter series or The Lord of the Rings trilogy, if you're a fan of fantasy or sci-fi books, please know that your favorite authors have steeped themselves in the works of 398.2. We may think of fairy and folk tales as the domains of children, but that is only recent thinking. While the term “grim” did not, as is sometimes reported, come to us from the surname of the Grimm brothers who collected tales, the association is understandable: Many of Grimms' Fairy Tales are indeed known for their grimness! While the lore of folk and fairy has always fascinated and enchanted youth, it was never intended to be especially for children. Folktales are simply the tales that folk told - and that some folks are still tellin'. In her lovely collection of essays on fantasy, faerie, and folklore entitled Touch Magic, Jane Yolen writes, “The best of the old stories spoke to the listener because they spoke not just to the ears but to the heart as well.” The old folk and fairy lore were certainly entertaining, but they were always more than entertaining. They might be instructive - encouraging the community to reflect on its shared values. They might be illuminating - inspiring the heart to open to courage or vastness, to sorrow or compassion, to wonder or joy. I write “were entertaining” and here I must correct myself. We so easily slip into past tense as we speak of the value of the folk story, as we think about the fireside storyteller. It is 2019 as I write this entry and two weeks ago, I had the pleasure and honor of sharing a couple of old folktales with a group of twenty-five or thirty willing listeners. There was one young child in the audience, a couple of middle-schoolers, some high school students, and lots of adults of various ages. The tales held them. They traveled to distant lands, encountered a magical bird, and heard lore of how a dead sheep's shoulder bone could draw forth the fair folk. They entered the stories, just as I did, just as the tellers and the listeners did in the 1800s, and in the 1300s, and for time immemorial. Years ago, an 85-year-old woman listened to a teller tell some old folktales. She came up to the storyteller after he had finished sharing the stories. She took his two hands in her two hands. Her eyes welling with tears, she stared into his two eyes as she whispered in a voice like prayer, “It's been a long time since somebody told me a story.” ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ When is the last time you visited the 398.2 section of your local library? There are lore and tales there from the peoples of the world. Find one old tale that does more than entertain you. Allow it to seep into your being. Consider reading it with feeling to a friend or loved one or even work at retelling it in your own voice. If you'd like to tell it to a child, that's great - but also ask yourself, "Is there some adult I know who would be willing to really listen to this tale?" If there is, why not read it or tell it to them? (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

“The ground was hard, the air was still, my road was lonely; I walked fast till I got warm, and then I walked slowly to enjoy and analyse the species of pleasure brooding for me in the hour and situation. It was three o'clock; the church bell tolled as I passed under the belfry: the charm of the hour lay in its approaching dimness, in the low-gliding and pale-beaming sun. I was a mile from Thornfield, in a lane noted for wild roses in summer, for nuts and blackberries in autumn, and even now possessing a few coral treasures in hips and haws, but whose best winter delight lay in its utter solitude and leafless repose. If a breath of air stirred, it made no sound here; for there was not a holly, not an evergreen to rustle, and the stripped hawthorn and hazel bushes were as still as the white, worn stones which cause-wayed the middle of the path. Far and wide, on each side, there were only fields, where no cattle now browsed; and the little brown birds, which stirred occasionally in the hedge, looked like single russet leaves that had forgotten to drop.” - Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre, Chapter 12. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Story communicates across centuries, across the bounds of life and death. Read a chapter of Jane Eyre, and you are thrown across 170 years (or more) - into the imagination of a young woman of the 1840's. There is no one with whom you may sit and hear a first-hand account of life in the 1840's. You can not sit and laugh or cry or sip tea with one person who breathed the air and walked the Earth from 1840 to 1849. They have died. Their children have died. Their pets have died. Their horses, their cows, their oxen - the squirrels and monkeys and elephants and gazelles and lizards that roamed this planet in the 1840's - all gone. The little brown birds...like single russet leaves. Every one of them - gone. When I first read Jane Eyre, I was thrown across just 140 years, not 170. Thirty years have flashed past in an instant - and, by the time you read these words, the year 2019 may be a distant memory - as will I and our pet dog lying at my feet and the cherry tree swaying outside this window. We will all be gone - the tree, the dog, the writer. My mother was born in 1929, her elder sister, my Aunt Eleanor, was born in 1921. They are the two remaining of the seven siblings who lived to adulthood. Our 12-year-old son Finnean listens to their laughter, hears stories of their childhoods and young adult years, sits at table with them and sips tea. If all goes well, Finnean will be my current age in 2063. At that point, there will be no one who breathed the air and walked the Earth from 1920 to 1929. One would have to be thrown across 140 years to reach them. Embrace the magic of being able to travel across the centuries through the written word. What a gift we give ourselves when we sit down with a Bronte novel! We can sit and laugh and cry and sip tea and listen to the words and images, the dreams and fears, the reflections and hopes shared with us by Miss Charlotte Bronte, as she tells her Jane Eyre story from the 1840's. And Finnean and I can sit with his Nana and Great Aunt, sipping tea and listening to the words and images, the dreams and fears, the reflections and hopes of the 1920's and 30's and 40's and beyond. Storing away these tales in our minds, continuing a tradition that even predates the written word - the oral tradition of listening, remembering, and re-sharing the tales. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Are there old books and literature that intrigue you or touch your soul? If not, ask a good friend for some recommendations. Find an old story and read it - whether it be a novel, short story, biography, travelogue. And, each time, before you begin reading, note the year it was written. Reflect on the incredible fact that you are about to be thrown across decades or centuries! Enjoy the journey. In this piece, we mentioned Finnean's grandmother and Great Aunt Eleanor as two elders in our family. Who are the older people among your family or friends who offer stories of places and times that are no more? You can even seek out such a person in a local retirement community or nursing home - finding the right person for you and going there not just out of kindness or in service to others (though that is wonderful), but also going in search of places and times that are now gone, opening yourself to that which will soon be beyond the first-hand memory of any living being, seeking stories that can pass across decades, centuries, and lifetimes. (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

“The sacred lore of tradition is a living, moving thing, flowing like water from one age to another, reforming itself from one generation to the next, adapting to the needs of the new...What beneficial traditions have you inherited? How do they work best now?” - Caitlin Matthews, The Celtic Spirit, p. 245. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ One of the great gifts we can give ourselves and our loved ones is to re-sacralize our lives. With every advertisement, we are invited into triteness. We are cajoled and tricked into sacrificing a worldview of sacrality for one of banality. We tread on the surface of sales and bargains and deals. We get excited waiting for the package to arrive - somehow forgetting the thousand other times we've felt this same passing thrill of the buy. A sad effect of our consumer culture is that everything that does not involve buying and selling gets pushed aside. Every moment that you are not making money or spending money is wasted time. It is no accident that the sacred lore of our holiday traditions have been intruded upon by magnificent sales - too good to pass up. Matthews is correct, the sacred lore of tradition is not static and changeless; it must be flowing, reforming, adapting - but it also asks for space and time. Folk tales abound wherein the hero falls into some land where the space-time continuum is broken, some sacred space “where time stands still.” Tradition requires such spaces - devoted to family and friends; to ritual, good food, and togetherness; to not giving a hoot about sales, bargains, or deals. Tradition desires presence and story. You may have, in the mix of your memories, numerous worthy traditions that can be revived, adapted, and renewed. You may have a past so overflowing with pain, that there are few, if any, worthwhile traditions that might be resurrected. And perhaps most of us hold a mixed bag of both unhealthy traditions that should be discarded and left behind, along with nourishing ones that can be modified to feed our souls, as well as the spirits of our loved ones. And we are creative - we can develop new ways, explore new models, try new rituals that may grow into tradition as they are repeated again and again. Whether you revive old traditions or create fresh, original ones, do not be surprised if you find your worthy traditions imbued with story. When the space-time continuum is broken, when we create places for ritual and togetherness with family or friends, when we break bread together and forget our roles as money makers and consumers, then rich storytelling, deep story listening, and new tales emerge. Tradition re-sacralizes our lives. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ What comes to mind as you think of “traditions”? Can you identify three traditions from your childhood or younger days that fed your spirit? If so, what were they? Think of a friend that you admire and enjoy. Ask her or him about the traditions they grew up with. Can they name three good ones? Are there traditions alive in your life right now that are worth continuing? Are there ones that should be dropped? Fresh traditions develop over time - often slowly - as we explore new possibilities or play with new ways of doing things and then decide to make some things seasonal or annual events. Do you have any thoughts on new activities that you would like to try as you spend time together with family or friends? (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

“Look [at the man who is]...the slave and prisoner of his own opinion of himself...Public opinion is a weak tyrant compared with our own private opinion. What a man thinks of himself, that it is which determines, or rather indicates, his fate.” Henry David Thoreau, Walden, p. 7. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ There is an Iraqi folktale of a man who is possessed by an evil jinn. Though he does not wish to, because he is possessed the man speaks horrible words that destroy beloved relationships and even cause the deaths of loved ones. Many of us may recall times when we uttered horrible words that damaged relationships, as if we too were possessed by such a jinn. One friend struck a chord with many of us when he said that he often speaks to himself about himself with that horrific voice of the evil jinn. What stories about ourselves do we tell to ourselves? The Buddhist leader Thich Nhat Hanh says, “Knowing that words can create happiness or suffering, I am committed to speaking truthfully using words that inspire confidence, joy, and hope.” As we speak to ourselves about ourselves, are we telling stories of joy? You are the teller of your stories, only you know the full range of the tales. Yes, we all have stories in our histories that show our weaknesses, our pettiness, our moments of immaturity, selfishness, and mean-spiritedness - but we all have other true tales about ourselves, as well. You know the stories that capture moments when you were really present for a loved one in their time of need; those times when you did something creative or extraordinary that even surprised yourself; those untold anecdotes where you acted with simple kindness even though nobody was aware of what you did and the positive impact you had. You have stories about you that are not tyrannical; you have tales of yourself that inspire confidence, joy, and hope. You need not broadcast these positive tales to the world with braggadocio, but please whisper these beneficial stories to yourself - not just for your benefit, but for the world's benefit - because as you recognize and accentuate your own positive tales, you will be inspired to add to that litany. We can “add to the good” by focusing on the uplifting stories in our histories.There are tales of loving kindness that mark your being here on Earth. Tell these stories to the one listener who needs to hear them the most: yourself.                                                                     ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ You are the “resident expert” on the stories from your biography. What are some of the tales from your life that elucidate hope, joy, compassion, and confidence? Tell yourself one of your uplifting tales. Try to remember some of these stories when you are feeling down-hearted or discouraged with yourself. (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

“I think an instinct for selection goes with the art of storytelling… There is…[this] very personal relationship that exists between all storytellers and the stories they tell...I am firmly convinced that certain storytellers are allergic to specific stories...Herein lies a part of the storyteller's integrity, to be honestly aware of this and say: This story is not mine...This intimate relationship between story and teller must be reckoned with.” - Ruth Sawyer, The Way of the Storyteller, p. 151-152. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ It is as if we are strangely compelled to tell some stories while other tales strongly repel us - and we pay dearly if we tell the ones we should not. There are curious metaphysics at work here. I recall an evening in Flagstaff, Arizona - telling a sacred story in order to impress. Afterwards, there was a sickly feeling - deep in the gut. A sense of the wrongness of the motive. A dishonoring of the tale. Another time, in performance as a professional storyteller, stories were told to nurses and hospital workers - but the storytelling missed the mark, widely. Stories with humor that had - at other times, in other contexts - been connective tissue, lightly weaving teller and listeners together in a bath of laughter - here, fell flat. The nurses and hospital workers - at least on that particular day - needed something else, something more, perhaps stories of redemptive hope or gentleness - but such tales were not brought forth. And the teller experienced the consequences of failing to tell the tale that wanted to be told. Some of the most potent stories in my repertoire are those that were initially dismissed - yet they kept floating back, asking to be heard again and again - until they became part of my litany of stories. There is a strange, magical interplay of time and place and teller and tale ...and, of course, listener. Inherent in this is an invitation to see each story as living matter - as a being with a will of its own. If tales communicate - and, of course, they do - why not imagine that each tale speaks to the teller, telling her if she should be told, if you are the one to tell her, and also if this is the right time for her to be told. Yes, this all asks for a bit of imagination in the storyteller - but, are we not in the imagination business? Who among us has not had the experience of telling a story and later wincing with the thought, “Ugh, why did I tell that story tonight?” While you may be less likely to review and reflect upon it, you can also probably point to times when you told the perfect story for the moment - “the story that needed to be told.” Maybe a friend even said to you, “Wow, that was just the story I needed to hear.” ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ See stories as living beings. They know if they should be told, when they should be told, and who should be the one(s) telling them. Stories communicate. Slow down and mindfully listen. If you tell stories in performance, open your subtle senses to know what tales to learn to tell - and when to tell them. And all of us, in everyday conversations, can allow for pauses - creating enough space to ask, “Why is this tale coming to mind? Should I share it? Why or why not? Does this tale really want to be told right now?” Mindfully listen to what the story is telling you, before you decide if you should open your mouth and speak it. (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

“When I was a kid, most stories had one basic message: If you're strong, if you're brave, if you're honest, everything will turn out all right. It's a good message, but we can add other important messages. One I include quite often is that if we work together, we can accomplish things that we can't do alone. Another is that if the world is going to last, we must make better choices about how we live. And if we all do our part, a hundred years from now our grandchildren will be making up their own stories and retelling the ones we're making up today.” - Pete Seeger, Pete Seeger's Storytelling Book, p. 209-210. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ We are at a moment of cultural and environmental crisis. In terms of mental health, most humans in modern society are largely disconnected from their roots in the natural world; we are suffering mentally, emotionally, psychically, socially, spiritually, and we continue to further disengage from our relationship to nature and our identity as nature's own. Along with our human health, we are blinding ourselves to the greater health of our planet. Three strangely complementary systems of rejection and denial are at work: 1) There is the simple denial that there even is a problem to be confronted in the health of our planet, our ecosystems, and the lives of our plants, animals, and humans; 2) There is the denial that humans have much if anything to do with the health of the Earth and/or the problems that our Earthen environments are currently facing; and 3) Even among those who accept our Earth's health problems (and are even deeply troubled by them), there is a third, subtle, treacherous denial at work: the world-wise denial that anything can be done to alleviate our Earth's problems; a sickly, sophisticated embrace of our powerlessness; a focus on our impotence as “a given;” a negating of all worthy efforts as foolhardy, “too late,” “not enough,” or simply impossible. Sardonic wins. Everyone loses. The potential for stories and storytelling in the healing of our planet and ourselves is paramount. It may be that the sardonics have it right, maybe humans will offer too little too late in the healing of our planet - but, if there are positive possibilities for wholeness and healing, storytellers must be among the physicians. And even if our efforts do not lead to the best or hoped-for outcomes, they may lead to better outcomes than would otherwise result from no effort at all. And even if “the results” are negligible, the true storytellers know that the storytelling is never “in vain.” Stories are for the benefit of listeners. Those who hold and remember and recall worthy stories receive nourishment long after the teller has departed. A nourishing story is food. Sometimes a tale is health-giving, providing needed sustenance. Sometimes we are beyond the possibility of good health, but the worthwhile story still provides something - an easing of pain, a soothing of anxieties, an acknowledgement of loss, or maybe some positive unknown for future generations; stories are sometimes elixirs with restorative powers that ripen in times beyond the present. Worthy stories are needed food, feeding us, our children, and our descendents in times of want and hunger. Our Earthen home is in need of healing. We are in need of healing. Storytellers are not the only doctors, but we are influential physicians, essential specialists. Healing and inspiring stories provide needed medicine. In the midst of the storm, we storytellers must be calm, mindful, selective; we must mix, concoct, and share the finest medicines available to us; we must experiment and continue to learn, searching all the shelves of our medicine cabinets, drawing from all of our history and training, for the right prescriptions and dosages in this time of needed healing. I saw Pete Seeger tell tales and sing stories at the National Storytelling Festival years ago. In between tales, he paused, looked at the crowd and stated it simply: If humanity survives, a key part of the reason for our survival will be because of the stories, the storytelling, the story listening, the story listeners, and the storytellers. Our work is the healing of ourselves and the healing of our home - the healing of our Earth. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Recall a single story or tale that has left an indelible mark of inspiration on your life. It may be a folk tale, a literary story, an anecdote from your life or from the life of another. Stories inspire...and heal. We, as humans, are caretakers of this planet and we are members of the Earthen family. Every time a person cares for a plant, an animal, a park, a forest, a nature preserve, a fellow human, they are caring for the Earthen family. Recognize every act of compassionate caring as an act of healing for ourselves and our lovely planet. Listen to stories that highlight our interconnectedness and inspire us to act with magnanimity. Share tales that nourish us, heal us, and offer a beneficial balm to our planet in need of healing. (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

“In the stories we tell let the spoken word be...of a compelling and imaginative nature. Let it...charm the ear and arrest the mind, to build with perfection and delight…[to be] in itself...worth remembering. But let there be substance equally good.” - Ruth Sawyer, The Way of the Storyteller, p. 156-157. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Ruth Sawyer says that our stories should be substantive. The Zen Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh writes, “Seeing that words can create happiness or suffering, I am committed to speaking truthfully using words that inspire confidence, joy, and hope.” Are we committed to sharing or ingesting wholesome, substantive stories that speak truthfully and inspire confidence, joy, and hope? How many films have we seen that expose us and our loved ones to more horrific violence in the first fifteen minutes than anyone should be exposed to in an entire lifetime? Do we ever speak of the value of stories that are “wholesome”? Do we even utter the word “wholesome” except when speaking with irony or in mockery? Many will argue that the term “wholesome” reeks of some past era when people practiced outer forms of politeness while subtly (and not-so-subtly) supporting violently oppressive systems and structures that elevated only a privileged few. Past and current oppression, systemic and otherwise, must be addressed - and, in fact, story is a key tool in educating and informing people about such injustices, but need we conflate wholesomeness with oppression? Do people avoid speaking of “wholesomeness” because it alludes to privilege or do we avoid the term because it seems naive, absurd, childish? Perhaps we have grown so harshly sardonic that to speak of stories promoting basic goodness, as Ruth Sawyer and Thich Nhat Hanh suggest, is to risk ridicule, to risk being seen as unsophisticated. Speak of the value of “wholesome stories” and you may be seen as a simpleton who still thinks people can be “all nicey-nicey.” C'mon, who ever speaks of “wholesomeness” as some positive trait and virtue these days? In just one of Thich Nhat Hanh's books, he mentions “wholesome” ninety-eight times, but then his thinking was forged through his compassionate, nonviolent efforts at peace and healing within the fire of the Vietnam War. Perhaps someone who has experienced how brutal people can become when their cultures are destroyed and the people are immersed in violence, terror, and war, may recognize that wholesomeness is a value that should not be easily dismissed. Ninety-eight mentions in one book. Ruth Sawyer says that we need stories that are compelling and imaginative, stories that “charm the ear and arrest the mind,” delightful tales that are “worth remembering,” and she adds emphatically, “Let there substance be equally good.” She follows this up by speaking of stories that evoke wonder, highlight daring, and bring laughter - but that is not all. Sawyer also calls for “stories that stir one within with an understanding of the true nature of courage, of love, of beauty...Stories that bring our minds to kneel in reverence; stories that show the tenderness of true mercy, the strength of loyalty, the unmawkish respect for what is good.” In other words, Ruth Sawyer tells storytellers that the wholesome story is needed. Thich Nhat Hanh agrees. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ You may have encountered wholesome stories through films, books, or conversations with family and friends. Recall a wholesome tale that touched you and watered beneficial seeds in your spirit. Take time to reflect on the story. What did you learn from it? How did it touch you? What details stand out? What brings this particular tale to mind? Think of a wholesome story that you might want to share. It might be a story from your own life, maybe it's one that you've read or heard from a friend. It might be a story that you've often reflected on, perhaps it's one that just popped up. Muse on this tale. What details stand out? Why not share it with someone? (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

“When I spent a winter at Princeton...I used to visit an old man who lived near the campus...He was a mathematician, a friend of Einstein's. Every time I came, which was usually at night, he would open the door for me and take me in close to the fireplace. Then his wife would offer me a cup of tea and we would spend an hour just sitting there. After that, I'd bow to him and go home. That happened many times. I knew in advance that whenever I came, the same thing would happen. Yet I always came, because it was very nice and very rewarding. We need to learn again how to be silent...Silence can be more intimate than talking. It is a way of being that makes your doing, your action, deeper and more effective.” - Thich Nhat Hanh, The Art of Power, p. 156. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Inspired by the Zen Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh's story of his silent nights with the mathematician, our family has, over the past twenty years, sometimes experimented with “Silent Tuesdays.” We put the word out to friends and family that we'll be hosting a silent gathering at our house on a particular Tuesday evening. That night, we greet people with a smile at the door. With a gesture, they are invited to come in, sit, relax, meditate, pray, maybe read a spiritual book - and, after about an hour, we have tea. We sit and enjoy our tea together, then folks are invited to wash out their cups and depart. All of this happens in silence, from the greeting to the good-byes, with a few hand gestures, smiles, maybe a hug as someone is leaving, and no words. The paint that the storytelling artist uses is words, but the canvas is silence. We dwell in a cacophony of words, both spoken and unspoken. In the past (and perhaps still in some cultures), there was room for silence. The canvas was clean, unspattered. Today, our minds and the air are full of sounds - internally, the drum beat of our incessant thoughts, externally, the thousand and one ceaseless voices calling for our attention in every moment. We need to be selective in which internal and external voices we give credence to, but more fundamentally, we are called to create the space for silence. We are infatuated with machine metaphors to describe ourselves and our ways, but we have much more in common with oak trees and radish plants than we realize: Sunshine, clean water, rich soil, some space, some nurturance, and silence allow for growth and provide us with much that is needed for joie de vivre, the joy of living. We humans love story. One of the great fortunes of life is to share our worthy stories and to listen to the tales of others that challenge, enchant, and inspire us. And there is also the gift of silence - not just silence so that we can think and reflect (though this, too, has deep value), but the precious gift of a silence so clear that we are free of thoughts. In such silence, we are simply here. Alive. Present to the experience of the moment. This is richness...and it somehow sweetens the telling and listening when the space for story opens again. This is the work: mindfully creating space for silence, for story, and for silence again - in an ongoing circle of health and growth and well-being. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Do you create the space for silence to manifest in your life? In the life of your family? How might you create such times and spaces? Perhaps a dialogue with loved ones about silence - and its potential value, maybe even drawing from Thich Nhat Hanh's experience described above, could be an entree into possible practices of silence. An invitation: Schedule a time for fifteen minutes of silence three times this week. Do not busy yourself with silent activities during this time. Simply open yourself to enjoying the silence - maybe going for a little stroll through your neighborhood or just sitting in the kitchen, perhaps enjoying the flavor of your coffee or tea, either alone or with a friend. You may find that your mind is racing with thoughts in the silence (and that's okay), but create that space three times this week where you can at least begin to experiment with silence as a choice, as a practice, and as an opportunity for growth. (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

“It is not necessary to make an effort to think in a particular way...We just think with our whole mind, and see things as they are without any effort. Just to see, and to be ready to see things with our whole mind...This is called mindfulness.” - Shunryu Suzuki, Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind, p. 115. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ The work of the storyteller is “just to see...without any effort.” There is some strange reciprocity that exists between your mind's eye and the mind's eye of another. If we allow our minds to truly envision the scenes as we share a story than our listeners are quite likely to see, as well. Conversely, if our telling of a story is “just words” unaccompanied by imaginative vision, then our listeners will only receive words, not images; there is likely to be little or no vision manifesting in those who might attempt to listen to such words. Suzuki tells us that mindfulness is effortless seeing that is accomplished with “our whole mind.” This may seem contradictory: effort is not required, but “the whole mind” is called into play. What does this mean? Seeing with our mind's eye (or, for that matter, with our physical eye) is effortless work. We read a compelling novel and the images just pop up; the scenes play out through our mind's eye. There is no effort. Mindfulness also calls for wholeness, for a synchronization of body and mind. As a mindful storyteller shares their tale, they invite themselves into an immersion. They bring to bear the body, mind, and spirit as one - as a single unified whole. When this unification is successful within the teller, something more may happen. The listener's body, mind, and spirit may then be “pulled into” the story, as well - thus creating an atmosphere of “shared experience” that softens the hard edges of separateness that keep us distinct from each other. This immersion is deep, but there are layers here. If body, mind, and spirit are at one within the story, can we simultaneously be mindfully present within the room, within the physical space where the story is being told? Can we be both in the story and mindfully present in the room? ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ What does the term “mindfulness” mean to you? What does it mean to you to be mindfully present to story - as a listener or as a teller? Have you had experiences of “mindful presence” as a storyteller or story listener? Have you encountered times of “shared experience” where the tale is vividly present to both teller and listeners? How does this complement - or contradict - the greater, general ideal of being mindful and present? (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

“The painter works with his colors, mixes them, tries out effects, knows before he begins just what his box and palette can provide him with. He leaves nothing to chance...He feels for a divine relationship between what he wishes to say and the colors in which he wishes to say it...It would seem as if for those artists [known as storytellers who are] dependent on words alone for the expression of their art, words made audible, there would be both delight and intelligence in acquiring sufficient material to work with freely.” - Ruth Sawyer, The Way of the Storyteller, p. 140. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ How often do we talk about vocabulary, the words we use and how we use them? We are perhaps fearful of arrogance. Why use a complex term when a simpler one will suffice? There is also the risk of exclusion. Jargon has often been used to separate the insiders from those on the periphery. Our words separate us by class or level of formal education. We risk the misperception that good grammar is a direct indicator of a “bright person” or a skillful mind. But can an expansive vocabulary also move us toward a subtlety of expression - moving us beyond the thick contentiousness of black-and-white thinking? In a literature club for 6th graders, we are currently reading a Walter de la Mare book from 1929. The book is written for children, yet the vocabulary is not “dumbed down” for young people. Tread, entreaty, verges, inflamed, canopy, mounting, enraptured, salutation, kindled, wrath, straggling, vanguard, illumined, sombre, abiding, apprehensive, apparition, portend, reconnoitre, mounded, nought, wherewith - these words are found on 1 of the 420 pages in de la Mare's book. What do you think? Has our working vocabulary declined over the decades? The richness of the palette, as well as the artists care and use of the colors, is elemental to the painter's work. It is the stuff of her vocation; the substance shaped through her creativity. For storytellers, our concrete material is words. Our stories are shaped in words. Ours is an oral art, a living art, an ephemeral art that appears and disappears on the breath of the teller. Because of this, it is both the selection of words and the sundry ways we make them manifest that gives creative form to our stories. Our pacing, inflection, tone, and other vocal choices and characteristics shape the telling of tales, but it begins with the words we choose and use. As I share old folk tales with children (or adults), I often keep much of the rich vocabulary intact in the retelling. Why? Language holds power. And beauty. You need not know the meaning of every word to appreciate the story as a whole. Even if we cannot identify every color the painter has used, we may look upon her art with gratitude - knowing that the painting could not be what it is without the specific array of color carefully chosen by the artist. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ How do you think of words? Do you see an expansive vocabulary as simply “a way of showing off” or can words help us move towards subtlety and nuance of meaning? And can our selection of words add beauty? Are you open to expanding your vocabulary? Where do you hear unfamiliar words? What books, articles, and stories do you read that offer rich, flavorful, zesty words? Do any of these words make it into your speech or the stories that you then share? (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

“At one time most of my friends could hear the bell, but as years passed, it fell silent for all of them. Even Sarah found one Christmas that she could no longer hear its sweet sound. Though I've grown old, the bell still rings for me....” - Chris Van Allsburg, The Polar Express ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Your best storytelling instructor may be a toddler. They are masters of imaginative play. Toddler play lacks the awkwardness of self-consciousness. Their imagines are reality. Storytellers conspire with their listeners. Together, we create worlds. Honing the craft of storytelling involves developing the ability to “turn on” one's imagination, learning how to generate vivid images within yourself so that your audience may do the same. Here, the toddler may be your teacher. When engaged in this creation with young listeners, the storyteller holds an especial responsibility. As a professional storyteller, I sometimes find it necessary to “tone down” my storytelling performances when I am sharing tales with very young children. Everything I say is real and alive. A bumbling green-hairy monster may be quite amusing for 4th and 5th graders. That same monster can be terrifying to a 4- or 5-year-old. If you are a teller who shares tales with young children, you have an obligation. Whether your listeners be your nieces and nephews at bedtime or the children at the local preschool, an accomplished storyteller working with young people must know when to tone down one's imagination, when the tale is becoming too intense, “too real” for the listeners. The goal here is not to simply “water down” one's craft, but to recognize the covenant between the teller and her listeners. Live storytelling is a performance art that exists as an interplay - a dance - between the teller, the listener(s), and the tale itself. It is no accident that the traditional storytellers of village and tribe held places of honor and respect within their communities. The role of storyteller has often co-mingled with the function of shaman, priest, counselor, or healer. Stories hold power; the storyteller is in a position that calls for accountability - and, at times, restraint. The storyteller is also called toward humility; we must let toddlers be our instructors. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Aspire toward being the best storyteller that you can be. As we sharpen our storytelling skills, we must move toward regaining the power and nuance of imagination that we held as toddlers. Silently observe a toddler at play for fifteen minutes. What do you notice? What do you see? Name something specific you observe in the toddler's play that serves to teach you something about storytelling. While we must exercise and strengthen our imaginative muscles, we must also learn when not to flex them. Tell a story to a young child. As you tell, reserve part of your awareness for their eyes, their body language, their facial expressions, their reactions to the telling. Be cognizant of “the dance” that occurs between teller and young listener as you share a story. Be aware of your responsibility. (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

“The tea ceremonies of Japan are conceived in the spirit of the Taoist earthly paradise. The tearoom...is devoid of ornamentation. Temporarily it contains a single picture or flower-arrangement...The simplest object, framed by the controlled simplicity of the teahouse, stands out in mysterious beauty, its silence holding the secret of temporal existence.” - Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, p. 155. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ In one of the Irish stories that I tell, an important scene takes place on a particular hill in the southwest of Ireland. When I visited Ireland, I spent time on this very hill. I hesitate to say more. Why? I know an incredibly talented storyteller whom I have always viewed as the consummate teller, nearly flawless in our craft. Yet, one time I saw her share a particular story for which I held a depth of knowledge that she did not have; her performance was still powerful and moving, but I found myself only thinking, “She did a pretty good job on this.” I understood what elements she had missed. I share stories from across the globe. Certainly, there are sometimes cultural or local elements that are lost through my retelling; much can be lost through our “translations” of the tales. Good storytellers, however, can often compensate for missing elements by adding little worthy pieces to the tale. The key is to add just a little and not overcompensate. (The aforementioned talented storyteller added a few little elements that uplifted her telling.) I had told the Irish story involving that particular hill before I ever visited the site. I continued to tell if after the visit. Afterwards, something more was present in the tale. I did not simply add details to my description of the hill in the later tellings, it was not as straightforward as that. I just “knew something more” and, ever since that visit to the hill in Ireland, that nebulous “something” has poured into my telling of that Irish tale and out to my listeners. Initially, after returning from Ireland, I would mention visiting that particular hill - but, in time, I found it better to not mention it. (This may be part of what lies behind my hesitancy to say much about it here.) There is energy in mystery (see néart in Irish, lungta in Tibetan). John O'Donohue, an Irishman, said, “The human imagination loves suggestion rather than exhaustive description of a thing.” There is value in the silent “knowing” of things, value in knowing when it is best not to say too much. This, too, is part of the storyteller's gentle work. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ While speaking here of folktales, the same holds true of family stories. We need not share everything when telling a tale - whether we are sharing a folktale from a stage or a family anecdote in the kitchen with friends. In fact, holding back and not sharing certain elements may make the telling more compelling. Think of a story you tell or would like to tell and imagine “holding back” certain elements or details. What might you keep private, held in mystery, or simply unrevealed? There is magic and power in the unknown. Let that energy reside below the surface. Let it remain hidden and undisclosed. Your listeners may not whiff a hint of what was unsaid, but they may sense a certain power or energy (néart, lungta) in the tale. (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

“Old Man's Cave is part of the Hocking Hills State Park near Logan, Ohio...According to legend, Richard Rowe lived at least briefly in the cave beginning in 1796...He eventually settled in the Hocking Hills, and he is purportedly buried in the cave. As a result of Rowe's occupancy of the cave, locals named the structure ‘Old Man's Cave.' “ - Ohio History Connection, ohiohistorycentral.org ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ All over the world, there are stories associated with mountains, hills, lakes, rock formations, rivers, caves, etc. For example, there are basalt columns in Northern Ireland known as The Giant's Causeway. Folk traditions and stories are associated with these formations. In Ireland, place names, stories of place, and lore associated with specific features of the local landscapes are known as Dindsenchas. These mythic and folkloric elements of the land are mirrored in our personal histories of place and story. When we return to the neighborhoods that we once knew, memories unwittingly arise. There are now four-way stops at almost every intersection in the town where I grew up, Struthers, Ohio. As you drive, you must stop, go, and stop again. On each corner, in every block, everywhere, I find memory, story. “That's where Joey lived. I remember what he told me that night after I dropped the rest of the guys off. Joe was the quiet one. He never said anything when we all got into those deep, philosophical discussions. That night, as he stepped out of the car, he looked at me - one seventeen-year-old to another - and said, ‘When I talk, I talk to God'... And how many years ago is it now since Joey has died?” In my hometown, memories constantly fly towards me. Places exude story. Sometimes the memories are general: “We played a lot of kickball and kick-the-can there in the Greco's backyard.” Sometimes the general leads to the specific: “That place was a candy shop. It was called Dee's Market. We walked down there all the time. Once, Mitch, Dan and I were walking home when, all of a sudden, there was this big lightning storm and ...” Sometimes the memories are recent: “That's the hill where the kids and I went sledding last winter. All three of them loved it, so did I. We made a chain with the sleds. I laid on my stomach, then...” Through these little tales, our children have learned that places contain stories. As we revisit familiar family spots on trips and outings, it is lovely to now listen as our children share their memories that the land evokes from them, “Hey, Dad, remember the last time we were here and...” I lived in Boston when I was in my 20s. When we visit New England, forgotten memories come unbidden. I tell stories. There are so many stories that are a part of us, and a part of the land. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Why not ask a friend, a loved one, an elder to show you around the neighborhood where they once lived? Why not listen to their stories of the land, to their stories of the neighborhood? Why not invite a family member or friend to one of the places that hold your stories? Why not walk with them and show them where some of your stories reside? Dindsenchas: Sacred stories of the land ...and neighborhood. And a blessing wish: In the days and months and years ahead, may you soak the land with many worthy stories. (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

“In studying anything work with the head, get all you can out of it. Then put it away for a month and when you come back to it you will find much that you never dreamed of before.“ - Hans von Bulow, Letters (see Ruth Sawyer, The Way of the Storyteller,p. 122) ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Incubation. The mythographer Joseph Campbell quips that nothing compares with what we did during those first nine months in the womb. Over the years, you may have been successful in science or business, created spectacular art, or written an incredible dissertation or novel, but how does that compare with creating toes or fingers or lungs? Incredible things happen in the dark spaces of incubation. This is also true of story. As a professional storyteller for over 25 years, I have had numerous opportunities to incubate story. One of my areas of delight has been Christmas Tales and Legends. They are told in December and then shelved again in January. Besides Christmas tales, some stories in my repertoire are told and then laid aside for years before they are revived, while others may never be resuscitated. Those tales that are set aside for months or years and then reanimated come back more than refreshed, they come back anew, different than they were - sometimes subtly different, sometimes radically so. The differences have little or nothing to do with intentionality; they strengthen, morph, brighten or dim “on their own” through the incubation process. We do not know what the stories “do” as they sit within us, unspoken and unthought of - but they do something. We are not machines that simply record and later play back what was previously recorded. We are something far more like walnut trees or collie dogs. Things happen within us. Things change in us without our ever asking them to. We are of this natural world and what we do with story - or, perhaps, what story does within us - is part of this natural process. Stories are a part of the natural order of ceaseless change. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Have you ever let a story “sit inside of you” without telling it for awhile? Did the story change? This “incubation process” is also relevant for negative stories that “water harmful seeds” in us. Sometimes the repeated telling of such toxic tales increases their power and harm to us or others. When we give such stories “a rest,” they sometimes lose their weightiness. Many of us can recall a story that deeply upset us years ago, but today it is retold with mirth and laughter. There is much that happens in the incubation of a story. What story might you want to incubate? And why? (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

“The old stone circles that predate the Celtic era by centuries were the first meeting places, erected to put people into correct alignment and spiritual communion with past, present, and future, and with all the beings no longer living as well as those yet to be born.” - Caitlin Matthews, The Celtic Spirit, p. 119. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ What happens as we “create the story space”? Like those prehistoric stone circles, the created story space may serve as a place where the past and the future can live together in the present moment. When our family gathers and we begin to share stories of loved ones who have died, we are engaged in “spiritual communion with past, present, and future.” While my family would roll their eyes as such lofty language and ideals, I'd argue that, through our storytelling, we are inviting the departed back into our circle. We are inviting them to come alive for us. There is this commonplace marvel of a break in the space/time continuum through storytelling: Let's take, as an example, stories shared in my family about our Uncle Dudley. My brother, sister-in-law, Mom, adult niece, and I laugh at the antics of Uncle Dudley as we remember him and his ways, while, in the same moment and at the same table, my children, my niece's children, and the other younger members of our family are also laughing because they, too, “know” Uncle Dudley. They, however, have no actual memories of him - they know him only through the stories. They appreciate his goofy antics. They see his smile, but their experience is not “memory” as it is for the elders; their experience is imagining - and, over the years, as more Uncle Dudley stories are told and retold, their imaginings are re-imagined and “memory” is built through their imaginations - memory of story told and told again. We are all in the realm of uncertain images. My memories are not identical to my brother's - though we have a great deal of overlap and we can both “picture” Uncle Dudley. For the younger generation the “picturing” is different, some of them may have seen photos of Uncle Dudley, many of them have not - they are deciding in their mind's eye what he looked like, imagining the sound of his voice or his gestures. Uncle Dudley died in 1978, but is he present with us? Is he smiling as we smile? Is he laughing with those who were not yet born when he left us? Nearly every traditional culture throughout the history of humanity would answer these questions in the affirmative, with a simple and unpretentious “yes.” ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Storytelling is communion, for many it is “spiritual communion.” Film, books, letters, and artifacts allow us to “touch the past.” The well-told tale also enables the past to breathe again. When we share a story with someone who is younger we can give them some taste, some touch, some smell of what was. Sometimes a story of pain or sorrow from the past is a gift that will strengthen, educate, or embolden the next generation; sometimes a story of lightness or joy will water beneficial seeds. Think of one story from the past that you want to tell. What person of the past will you bring to life for your listeners? (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

“Reading brings the presence of other times, characters, and cultures into your mind. Reading is an intimate event.” - John O'Donohue, Eternal Echoes, p. 55. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ What happens when we read deeply - when we truly enter the story that we are reading? In a little book that we can toss into our purse or pull up on our phone, there may dwell peoples, kingdoms, kindnesses and treacheries, vast worlds of good and harm, dreams, muddled intentions, complexities, inconsistencies, life and breath and death. This “entering into” can happen to the writer of the story as well as the reader. In the oral tradition, we can also enter into story as listeners or tellers. With deep listening, we are no longer in the room with other listeners and the storyteller; we transmigrate. At such moments, we have crossed over into story. Such is the transmigration of soul. We go - with the story, through the reading - into spaces that appear smaller, yet they are cavernous. More than “being” caverns, the stories - imagined, read, written, told, and heard - lead us “through” caverns and out into the light of other lands, other times, other peoples. Have you, as you are nearing the end of a novel, had that experience of impending longing, that feeling of “Oh no, soon - too soon - all these people, all these characters, all these places will be leaving me (or I will be leaving them). I will miss them. I do not want our time together to end”? If you know something of this feeling of impending loss, then you know something of what we did as young children, when we passed into the light of imaginary worlds in our pretend play behind the couch or in that cozy corner of the living room. If you have experienced this longing of not wanting the novel's characters to depart from your life, then you hold familiarity with a great facet of the storytelling gem: you have some knowledge of story and the transmigration of the soul. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Are there particular novels or stories where you have connected deeply to place or characters? With what books, if any, have you had that experience of “impending longing” as you neared the end? If it has been years since reading one of those novels, why not go back to the story and meet those old friends again by rereading the text? Who else might you want to introduce to those characters? Would you like to talk about your experiences with those characters with others who have also read the book? Or, do you want to “hold that experience close” and keep it private? Would you like to share with the author your appreciation and connection with the characters in their story? If the author is alive, why not write to them? If they have died, why not write to them anyway - and pour forth what their sharing of story has meant to you? (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

"Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet." - William Butler Yeats, The Celtic Twilight, p. 7. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Storytelling is an act of fearlessness. To bring story to life is to see beyond the barriers of the so-called “agreed upon reality.” You invite listeners to fly above the limited evidences of their five basic senses; you inspire them to trust some subtler sense. Their eyes are not really seeing your Aunt Mabel as you speak of her. Their noses can not really smell that fish that you describe frying in the pan. And if your tales move in the direction of vast possibility, your bravery must be robust. There can be no fear in you if you intend to build dragons out of words: to make the listeners squint as they see that scaly beast from a distance, to make their faces contort in disgust as they inhale the toxic rot of the dragon's breath. Everything exists. Everything is true. In a world that so privileges the measurable, it is the storyteller's absurd and virtuous job to elevate and prioritize the boundless. One can attempt to fake it: I don't really believe what I'm saying to you, but I'm saying it anyway. One can play that buffoon - half-heartedly attempt to entertain the kids for a few minutes, and then cynically laugh at the droit buffoonery that you played for the crowd. This may (or may not) be entertaining, but it is not storytelling. Storytelling asks more of the teller. It calls for an entering into story. It may be a memory of fried fish with Aunt Mabel or it may be a tale of dragons built by you or others in the deep wells of imagination. It may require an embrace of a faith in fairies. Whatever the tale, the teller - if they truly hope to be a storyteller - must enter into the story. The storyteller must cross the threshold. The teller must enter into the tale. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Whatever the subject matter of your story, practice going “all the way into” your tale. If it is a story appropriate for children, tell the tale to one or two kids. Allow their listening eyes to serve as catalysts for you, inspiring you to share from the heart as you dwell in the heart of the tale. Yes, let us go forth, tellers of tales. Seize whatever prey your heart longs for. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet. This we know, as storytellers. (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

“It isn't necessary to continually blurt out everything that is on your mind. You can say what you have to say, gently, and then you can stop. You can let someone else talk, or you can appreciate the silence.” - Chogyam Trungpa, Shambhala: The Sacred Path of the Warrior, p. 122.. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Storytelling without Story Listening is meaningless. Athletes and artists hone their talents through steadfast action, the application of new techniques, repeated exercise, etc. This is also the work of scientists, math students, novelists, and computer programmers: discipline, diligence, stick-to-it-iveness - oftentimes spiced with creative flashes, resulting in growth, learning, and ascending to higher levels of competency. Here, we must defy convention and see the art of listening as a learned competency, as a skill that can be improved, polished, matured. If you are listening the same way you listened ten or twenty years ago, it may be time for growth - but how do we apply discipline, diligence, and perseverance to the art of listening? We must train ourselves to listen mindfully. We can develop awareness of when, as listeners, our minds “float away” and how we can use those “float aways” as triggers to invite ourselves to re-focus as listeners. Just as a mindfulness practitioner might enter into training in mindful breathing, learning how to follow the in-breath and the out-breath, the in-breath and the out-breath, so we can enter into mindfulness training for Right Listening. We can begin to gently test ourselves: Can I listen steadily for two minutes? For three minutes? Can I offer focused, present listening for five minutes? How about sixteen or seventeen minutes? We can begin to ask ourselves: When another person is sharing their stories, “what kind of listening” am I providing? When the other person speaks and shares their stories or their perspectives, do you truly listen or do you begin to formulate your responses to them even as they continue to speak? Do I feign listening as I begin to compose my responses? One Tibetan teacher says, “It isn't necessary to continually blurt out everything that is on your mind. You can say what you have to say, gently, and then you can stop. You can let someone else talk, or you can appreciate the silence.” Part of mindful listening is allowing for silence after people share their stories. We may or may not choose to respond with some thoughts or a story of our own, but allowing our words to slow down and learning to regain comfort with silence is the mindful work of enhancing the storytelling space. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ We are built to be storytellers. We are also innately wired to be story listeners. Just as we can improve our storytelling skills, we can heighten our presence and awareness as story listeners. It is a choice. This work requires an effort; it requires mindfulness. Begin to pay attention to your listening. If you keep a journal, at the end of the day, you may want give written feedback to yourself - just a sentence or two - on your listening for the day: Where was my listening really focused? When, today, was I at my best as a story listener? When was I an especially scattered and unfocused listener? When did I fail to listen? If you do this daily or even once every few days, you will begin to see where and when you are strongly present as a listener, as well as learn when your story listening is not at its best. Through mindfulness, you will slowly begin to become a better, more attentive, more mindful listener. What an incredible gift to give to your co-workers, neighbors, and, most especially, to those you love: an amazing gift - the gift of your true listening, the gift of your genuine presence. (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

We are in “a deeply fragmented culture...It seems that we are in a huge crisis of belonging.” - John O'Donohue, Eternal Echoes, (Introduction p. xxiv-xxv). ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Belonging grows out of a shared set of stories. It is nurtured when we create the space for shared story to develop. For shared story to grow, we must adventure together. As children, we may have had great adventures in our backyard or in the neighborhood with friends. When a group of college friends pile into the car and go on “a road trip” together, they create a little adventure for themselves. Funny things happen. Problems arise. Surprises pop up. Story germinates. And the stories may grow stronger over the years becoming part of the old growth forest that old friends revisit together decades later. Where is adventure now in your life? You need not travel around the globe or across the country on a foray. Why not call a friend and go for a walk through an interesting part of town next week - maybe a neighborhood that you haven't been to for years or some place you have never visited? Explore. Laugh together. Feel a little tingle of playfulness as you create shared story. Father Edward Hays says that if we want to nurture our friendships, we must commit the “mortal sin of the assembly line,” we must “waste time” together. Buddhists speak of the value and importance of aimlessness - nowhere to go, nothing to do, no task to accomplish. Such perspective is blasphemy in a culture with an unwavering focus on achievement and accomplishment...in this culture of fragmentation, with a huge crisis of belonging. What are you really here to achieve and accomplish? What value do you place on friendship? Do you currently feel a sense of genuine belonging? Have you felt it in the past? Might a little trek with an acquaintance or some friends foster connection and water the seeds of shared story? ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Belonging grows out of a shared set of stories. We experience. We reflect. We reminisce. We retell. We playfully argue over the details of “what really happened.” Contact a friend or family member and suggest a little shared mini-adventure for some afternoon or evening later this month. Why not? Shared stories are often little reflections of lived life. Living life, being present to the little moments together, cracks the soil for shared story to germinate and grow. Be present to those with whom you share the little journeys and be present to the stories which emerge. The bonds of belonging grow stickier with each shared story expressed and enjoyed. (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

”Slovak folk art has always abounded in eastern Slovakia...The Eastern Slovakians are...known as great folksinger and story tellers.” - Stefan Blasko, ABC Slovak Language (Volume 5 - Slovakia: Geography and History), p. 193 (1973) ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ They explained to me beforehand who I was going to see. When we arrived at the house, they went into the backyard to fetch him. He had been working in the garden (of course) and he was wearing an old hat. There were actually cobwebs on the hat. It was like a dream. That day in 1987 with the old man and the cobwebby hat was a pivotal one in my life. I was in the small village of Lastomir in eastern Slovakia, the village where my grandmother had been born in 1892. The eighty-something-year-old man in the hat was my Great Uncle Jan, my grandma's younger brother. Grandma Kasony died in Texas in the late 1970s, about 10 years before I met her brother Jan in Slovakia. The last time my grandmother and her brother saw each other was when she was a teenager and he was a boy, just before she left for America. They would never see each other again. Their children would never meet each other. They would never know each other's grandchildren - until, in 1987, I met my grandma's brother - and he beheld his older sister's youngest grandchild. He had not seen her or any of her descendents for over 75 years. My Great Uncle Jan and I held each other's hands and gazed at each other with tear-swelled eyes. There is much brokenness and fragmentation in our lives, in our stories, in our family histories. There are unknowns that will forever remain unknown, for some there are many. Lauret Savoy speaks of walking through “many untended unnamed graves” of African-American slaves. Here, family story is muted, made invisible, silenced by external forces, and Savoy feels “as if part of me lay beneath fieldstones, buried by a white-washed past.” Whether our family stories are lost or stolen, there are longings for wholeness. Reaching out to touch bits of who we are and understand where we came from is the work of healing; it is the ongoing process work; it is the sacred labyrinth walk toward wholeness. My ancestors came from Ireland and Slovakia. Like all places, these lands are rich in story. I love folk stories and tales from all over the world; at the same time, the embrace of identity - or, perhaps, the longing for that embrace - draws me to Irish and Slovak tales and lore. There is warmth and delight in the thought that when I learn and share an old Slovak folk tale, I may be retelling a tale that Great Uncle Jan and Grandma heard as children, or perhaps their parents heard it, or perhaps their grandparents told the same story. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Are there particular lands or peoples that you feel connected to? Perhaps they are part of your family, ethnic, or racial heritage. Perhaps it is not a “blood connection,' but you simply feel a great affinity or synergy with a specific place or people. Many dedicated folklorists and collectors devoted their lives to preserving and recording ancient tales. These collections are available. The collectors have done the difficult work of gathering these treasures - these gems and jewels - and they have gathered these treasures that they might be shared - that these stories might continue to entertain and inform and challenge and inspire. At this moment in history, you have an absurd and incredible opportunity. You can go to the folktale section of your library (or online) and soak in the treasure wealth of stories from the cultures and peoples with whom you are connected. You have this opportunity. You have this choice. (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

"Imagination is the...priestess who against...the wishes of all systems and structures insists on celebrating the liturgy of presence." - John O'Donohue, Eternal Echoes, p. 217. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ We may think of the dreamy storyteller as anything but present, but are they? As a teller of tales, I spend much more time listening for story than I do in the telling of story. Listening takes place in boundless spheres. Of course, we hear story in the books and articles we choose to read and in the films and shows we choose to watch. We also hear story in the conversations that we are privy to - whether it's a two-minute exchange with an acquaintance in line at the coffee shop or intentionally sitting down with a beloved aunt for two hours on a Saturday morning. Where else does story touch us? In one seminary class, our professor sent us outside - with notepads and with open eyes, ears, and hearts. The instruction was to go outside, listen, and come back with an original poem. It need not be good, but it must be written. Did G-d speak to us? Did the campus pond, the sycamore, the passing squirrel whisper poetry in our ears? I can only say that “in listening, we heard” ...and recorded. Of course, rather than some external source, it may be argued that we listened for our own imaginative musings. Debate about the source of the poem or story may interest your intellect, but of relevance to the storyteller is this: In listening, we hear. And: Listening requires presence. Every storyteller I have met is a mammal and mammals tend to enjoy being outdoors. There's lots going on outdoors. Temperatures vary. Winds pick up or slow down. Birds are singing or silent or absent. The variety of species of insects within a mile radius of you right now is mind blowing. Storytellers, like most mammals, are very curious creatures. They listen for story. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Borrowing from my professor's playbook: Grab a notepad and a pen or pencil. Put on your coat and warm hat if it's chilly outside. Bring an umbrella if you wish, but get out there. Speak no words. Listen. Find a spot your drawn towards and, in silence, pay attention with your eyes. Listen with your eyes. Listen for at least seven minutes, then write (record) for at least eight minutes: a poem, thoughts, observations, maybe the beginning of a story. It need not be good - just listen, hear, and record. (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

"Hope is the refusal to accept the reading of reality which is the majority opinion; and one does that only at great political and existential risk...hope is subversive...The language of hope and the ethos of amazement have been partly forfeited because they are an embarrassment...partly squelched because they are a threat...Speech about hope cannot be explanatory and scientifically argumentative; rather, it must be lyrical in the sense that it touches the hopeless person at many different points...The language of amazement is against...despair just as the language of grief is against...numbness...Hope is created by speech..." - Walter Brueggemann, The Prophetic Imagination, p. 65, 68-69 (1978/2001) ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ “The language of hope and the ethos of amazement” have been the domains of storytellers for millenia. They still are. As tellers of tales, we are unbridled, not limited to the perceived limitations that ensnare and restrain the current “reality.” Walter Brueggemann's thoughts on hope grow out of his reflections on the prophets of the Hebrew Bible, but his observations on hope fit a much wider context. For example, scientists' arguments about Global Climate Change have been largely ignored. While there are powerful forces at work attempting to undermine and muddy their scientific findings, it is also true that their arguments for change (i.e. their calls for hope) lack lyricism. Their scientific explanations and arguments do not “touch the hopeless person at many different points.” There is no lyricism of the poetic storyteller. We are left with either denial or hopelessness. The work of the storyteller is not only to reflect who we are, but to mirror back to us who we can be. We are drawn toward inspiring stories. Why? What do they “inspire” in us? Is it not something better/greater/vaster/kinder/more worthy than what currently is? Our work as storytellers is to be agents of inspiration: You can do this. We can be this. This, too, is possible. Saying some new reality is possible does not make it so. That is true. There is much more to it than that. At the same time, saying and thinking that some better reality is an impossibility ensures that it cannot happen - at least until some subversive voice speaks with the “language of hope” and the “ethos of amazement.” ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Recall a story that inspired you. It may be from a film, a book, or a tale someone told you. What was it in that story that touched you? Was there something amazing that happened in the tale? Have you shared this story with others? Are there stories you sometimes tell yourself to awaken hope within? Are there other tales you share or would like to share that hold the possibility of inspiring hope in others? (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

"The house of the [Scottish] story-teller is already full, and it is difficult to get inside and away from the cold wind and soft sleet without...There are many present - men and women, boys and girls. All the women are seated, and most of the men. Girls are crouched between the knees of fathers or brothers or friends, while boys are perched wherever - boy-like - they can climb...The [storyteller's] tale is full of incident, action, and pathos. It is told simply yet graphically, and at times dramatically - compelling undivided attention..." - Alexander Carmichael, Carmina Gadelica, p. xxviii-xxix(Introduction) (1900) ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ We may be jealous of those cultures and times when storytellers seemed to abound. What would it be like to have a storyteller arrive at your door, walk in, sit by the fireplace, and entertain your family for the evening? Of course, we are inundated with stories. We have the weight of stories on the news, through social media and television. Then, there are the stories deemed as “entertainment,” endless films and TV shows - some of these even hold the same mythic elements as we might have found in that Scottish storyteller's tales - magical creatures, heroic action, dazzling beauty, characters with noble aims or sinister intent, choices, fumblings, adventures, resolutions, further problems. With all these stories and all this storytelling, why might one still hold envy for that old-fashioned storyteller knocking on the door - asking for a bit of food and lodging while offering to bring a few old tales to life? Do not be too hasty to give answer to the question. Let's just sit with it...and perhaps add a few additional queries: What would it be - to have this person enter your living space and transform it with their words, gestures, and expressions? What does it mean - the physicality of this being who holds story and from whom stories pour? The teller might be able and strong or feeble, bent, and weak - but how is it that they could occupy space in your home - and, simultaneously, begin to fill space in your mind and heart? And what is your reaction to this storyteller in your home - are you entranced by the tales or are you worried that he may be a “thief in the night”? Or worse? How are others in your home reacting? Are children and loved ones bored? Smiling in anticipation of the teller's next word or gesture? Relaxing into a wakeful half-sleep as the teller's story rolls on? We humans are incredible creators: automobiles, rocket ships, cures for diseases, microchips, bridges, works of art, stories. We don't know what we are capable of making. The impossible and unimaginable often becomes the imagined and the real. Is it possible, even today, to create a community where a storyteller might knock on your door and offer a tale in exchange for a bit of food or lodging. It is impossible, of course, right? ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ We are creating this world, our communities, our meanings. Imagine this: Someone learns to tell a couple of stories - maybe folktales, maybe original stories - and/or perhaps a song or two. They then call five friends (maybe some of these friends have young children) and say, “Imagine if some night next month, without warning or a call ahead, I just show up on your doorstep ready to tell a tale or sing a song? Will you let me in...and share your dinner with me, too?” One of the five (maybe more) says, “Sure,” and, once again, the solid world of impossibility crumbles under the light weight of the magician's feet. (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

"Go out and look: If you want to know the stars you have to go out as often as you can and look at the sky...The number of constellations is not overwhelming...If you know thirty constellations...you have a good working knowledge of the sky. Make the acquaintance of two or three each time you go out and you will soon be familiar with all thirty." - H. A. Rey, The Stars: A New Way to See Them, p. 18, 20. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ If we visit an ancient site like New Grange in Ireland, StoneHenge in England, or the Adena and Hopewell Indian mounds in my home state of Ohio, we can see that ancient peoples saw themselves as living in relation to the moon, stars, and heavenly bodies. Traditions and rituals associated with solstice and equinox are not simply celebrations of the Earth, they are festivities recognizing the complex (and repeated) relational harmony of the Earth and its creatures to a greater universe beyond our bounds of understanding or observance. They are celebrations of vastness. We live muted lives. Not “muted” as in unable to speak; no, we are quite noisy beings. We are “muted” as in muffled; we have put a damper on vastness. We speak little of the “light pollution” that has extinguished the stars overhead in our cities and suburbs, but the toxic consequences of this pollution are surely great. Amazing technologies enable us to explore the outreaches of our universe in ways unimaginable to previous generations. Ironically, our nightsky has been dimmed, so our eyes, minds, and hearts are less drawn to the heavens. Therefore, we are not moved with awe and wonder at the star-filled night. It is no surprise that the constellations represented stories to our ancestors. To draw lines connecting dots of light in space, connecting these immense, blazing balls of fire, is to apply story and meaning to the unknowable vastness of the universe. Constellations represent myths and tales. Yet how many of us know the story of the Greek princess Andromeda, let alone the constellation tales of cultures beyond Greece and Rome? Even if we do know these stories, what relation do they have to the night sky? We are unable to see the dots of connection. The night sky has been dimmed. There are probably state or national parks not too far distant from where you live.. What happens when we go camping with family or a few friends? You may not know many constellations or any stories associated with them, but, if you happen to camp on a clear night, you will probably look skywards more than you typically do. Take a moment and notice, in your body and mind, what you are feeling as you look up at that star soaked sky. Breathe in and out. Be mindful of what you are experiencing. It may be wonder and awe. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Wonder and awe are food for storytellers. If a serious athlete must consume so many grams of protein, a formidable storyteller must taste a due measure of wonder. The starry sky was available to our ancestors each clear night of the year. Those of us living in cities and large towns are impoverished. We must seek the stars. So many souls are hungry. Be fed by the night sky. (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

"First we are the apprentice, painstakingly learning the basics of our craft; then we become journeymen, trained apprentices who are able to travel from place to place practicing our craft; finally we become masters of our craft and are honored as repositories of skill." - Caitlin Matthews, The Celtic Spirit, p. 73. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ In the year 1942, Ruth Sawyer stews over what can be accomplished with traditional storytelling in such modern times. She recalls an elderly upholsterer who visited her home in the 1920s to have some furniture recovered. He told of his youth working in an upholstery guild of Europe in the mid-1800s. He said, “Money! We did not know what money was. We were sheltered; we were fed; we were taught. We lived only for our work - the rightness and beauty of it. We honored the guild, the master, and our patron saint. We knew if we were good, industrious boys we would be masters some day. Then it would be our turn to pass on to the apprentices the best of what we had learned, what we had invented for ourselves.” He laments that there is now neither pride nor honor in the work and that the young men want only “money - to earn and to spend.” In a technocratic society that exalts speed, efficiency, money, and the latest technologies, elders are often seen as incompetent and superfluous, if not simply burdensome. One Tibetan teacher is blunt in his observation of Western culture, “In most areas, the grandparents' wisdom is no longer needed, and they have no role to play. They end up in an old age home or a retirement community, and occasionally they come to visit their grandchildren and watch how nicely they play.” Storytelling - and, even more so, Story Listening - represent radical acts of subversion. We do not have storytelling guilds with masters and apprentices like the European upholstery guild of the mid-1800s, but we do have elders and they do have stories. We can subversively choose to exalt slowness, inefficiency, and the old technology of a couple of mugs to hold our coffee or tea as we sit and listen and exchange stories with an elder. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Is there an elder in your life that you'd like to spend some time with this month? (My 89-year-old mother still has her 97-year-old “big sister” - so your age may not preclude finding “an elder.”) Schedule a time to get together. Think of it as entering an old-time storytelling guild. The elder is the master. You are the apprentice. Appreciate their stories (even if you've heard them before). Note their tones of voice, their gestures (or lack of gesture), their facial expressions, their little nuances of speech. Appreciate their telling. Listen, enjoy, learn. (Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )