Fate and Destiny

Following last week's posting, I want to share a few more thoughts from Michael Meade's workshop about change, soul and story.

Change, said Michael, usually involves both fate and destiny. Most of us confuse the two, which generally means we believe that believing in the existence of one precludes belief in the existence of the other. By changing the trajectory of our life story, though, we can have both.

Usually we're so anchored in our fate (i.e., the story we let define us), that we can't move toward our destiny. This "destination," is what our soul came to life to live for. And for most of us, moving toward our destiny requires creating a new, bigger story for and of ourselves.

If you really want to change, though, you need first to accept your fate (the story of who you think you are) so that you can move into your destiny (the story of who you really are).

Tall order. New thinking. Big rewards.

Change and the Soul

I know, I know. To even mention the word "soul" is to raise a lot of red flags for a lot of people. And here it is right in the title! Bear with me, though, and I'll try to define it metaphorically (thanks to Michael Meade) in a way that is meaningful without being dogmatic.

In the lexicon of a mythologist, "soul" is the part of us that isn't afraid to explore our own unconscious self. To "dive down" into the murkiness and find the treasure. Or you can think of the soul like the roots of a seed, drawing nutrients from the earth long before the first shoots appear at the surface.

Unlike "spirit," which is identified in all traditions as transcendent, or upward, soul likes to go down. Soul literally grounds us. And, like the roots of a seed, it's where all true change begins.

Real change turns everything around. Obama's learning this now. Real change is incredibly difficult to bring about, because the unknown is so frightening.

And so we cling to our old, outmoded stories – even dysfunctional ones – because we know them so well. Following the soul down into the dark, damp earth is scary. Dirt clogs the mouth and nose. Will we suffocate?

But up above, where we can't yet see, the seed is cracking open and green shoots are pushing their way through what is often the hard clay of our old story, until, one day…

Well, you know how the rest of this story goes. The question is, are you willing to tell it?

A Culture of Measurement

I attended a Michael Meade workshop a couple of months ago. For those of you who don't know Michael, he's a mythologist, multi-book author, storyteller, and riffs brilliantly on almost everything.

Michael is the kind of person, who – as soon as he starts talking – you start taking notes, only stopping when he does. Needless to say, a lot of ideas get stirred up, which I want to share over the next few postings.

My first note entry observes that we live in a "culture of measurement." That is, we tend to quantify and qualify everything according to facts, i.e., what we "know" to be true. As Michael pointed out, though, it's not that facts don't matter; it's that they don't tell the whole story.

In real life what this means is that each of us is far more than the sum of our parts. It may be a fact that you practice medicine or law; nurture a family; create beautiful art pieces; ride waves masterfully. But you are far more than a doctor, attorney, wife and mother, artist or surfer.

You are a tapestry of experiences, emotions, memories, dreams, roads not taken and roads that stretch ahead. To allow anyone else to define, quantify or measure your story for you is to lose ownership of your own narrative – and your ability to create a new story for yourself.

Trickster Tales

Every culture has "trickster" tales. Sometimes the trickster is a person; sometimes an animal. As we chuckle at someone else's foolishness, these teaching stories help us see our own foolishness.

Here's one of many stories from ancient Persia that features the trickster Nasraden.

One evening a passing villager came upon Nasraden on his hands and knees busily looking for something below a street lamp.

"What are you looking for?" asked the villager. "I dropped my keys and I'm trying to find them," Nasraden replied without looking up. "Maybe I can help you," said the villager, and he, too, began to search diligently on the ground.

Fifteen minutes passed with both men working steadily, but still no keys. Finally, the villager stopped. "Where exactly do you think you dropped them?" he queried. "Oh," Nasraden replied, "I lost them in the kitchen, but the light is much better out here."

Stories

(In Greek mythology, Calliope was the first born of the Nine Muses - the Goddess who bestowed the gift of storytelling, the oldest teaching/healing art we have. I wrote this poem as a homage to Her.)

Calliope speaks:
"I am first born. Sit here beside me and I will teach you the power of story."

"In the time of beginning…"
tiny root hairs sprout from my toes and grip fertile black soil
"In the time yet to come…"
at the tips of my fingers sway supple green branches
"In the time of now-between…"
between roots and branches, the trunk of my spine

The body remembers…
The bones remember…

Listen. Do you hear that sound?
It is not the sighing of wind in the forest.
It is the crying of people who have lost their stories.

There would always be time to remember
They said
There would always be time to dream
They said
There would always be time to walk beneath the trees
They said
Until it was too late.

The land withers and grows barren
The people wither and grow barren.
The stories are lost
And all around the desert grows.

Will anyone remember
How to dream the trees awake
Before it is too late forever?

Words

(With apologies for the gender-specificity. I wrote this poem based on the creation story told in the Bible, which necessitates a masculine God.)

I have fallen in love
with the sounds of words,
my mouth caressing the juicy
plump roundness of "a" and
"o" and "b";
the curved softness of "p" and
"m" and "n";
the seductive and sensuous
"s" and "l" and "h";
even the spiky sharpness of
"t" and "k"
against my teeth.

This must be, I think,
what it was like for God
when He rolled the doughy world
in His hands and
the Word became flesh.

Did He savor the taste
of every syllable?
Did light melt on His tongue
like a sugary lemon drop?
Did He scoop out the darkness,
sticky and sweet as raw honey,
letting it drip through His fingers
while the new-born stars
hummed and buzzed around Him?

Did He choose the intense, fiery flavors
of peppery Adam and piquant Eve
so that His mouth would tingle
and His eyes burn?
Or, like all adventurous cooks,
did He simply enjoy experimenting
with the recipe?

I do not pretend to know.
I know only that this world
is both sweet and bitter
and that words once spoken
become a part of us forever.

From Generation to Generation

I was doing the NY Times crossword puzzle this afternoon. One of the clues was: “It’s handed down from generation to generation.” The answer was “lore.”

It made me think, sadly, how often this is really not the case in American culture anymore.

In slower-paced times, lore was often handed down at the dinner table. Today, shared family meals are frequently sandwiched (hurriedly) between after-school activities and homework, or are totally non-existent. And grandparents – traditional lore tellers – may live on the other side of the country.

In less frenetic times, lore also belonged to the community: people who grew up together, and whose children grew up together. Today, people may not even know the neighbor down the street beyond a passing hello. And tomorrow there may be a moving truck in front of the house.

“Stories are how we organize our thoughts, preserve them in memory, share them with others, and pass on the lineage of the community and its experiences,” said noted author and practitioner of mindfulness meditation, Dr. Jon Kabat-Zinn.

A family, a neighborhood, even a country, needs its stories: Who are we? Where did we come from? How do we belong? – or it will cease to know itself.

A year ago, I went to Denver, Colorado and Brunswick, Georgia to record old family stories told by the last two surviving elders on both my paternal and maternal sides. These audio recollections are very precious to me. What are you doing to keep your personal lineage story alive in your family?