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.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Monday, June 1, 2009
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?
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?
Monday, May 25, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
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."
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."
Monday, April 20, 2009
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?
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?
Monday, April 13, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, April 6, 2009
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?
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?
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
David
David, a dear storytelling friend of mine, died a few weeks ago. He was a tall, imposing man with a deep, authoritative voice – and a ponytail. His stature and voice exactly suited the stories he most loved and told so well: sweeping epic tales of heroes and hubris, determination and near-disaster, horror and honor.
Just like his story heroes, David waged his own epic battle with the cancer that took away his strength; his sight in one eye; his ability to walk.; and, ultimately, his life. But it never vanquished his spirit. As late as four months before he died, David, along with several other tellers, unspooled the mighty tale of Odysseus, mesmerizing all of us who were fortunate enough to be there.
But David was not just a good storyteller. He knew the power of stories to heal – and so he made his living by telling his treasure of epics to troubled teenage boys in group homes. He never told a whole story in one visit either. He always stopped at the most exciting, or terrifying or gruesome part. It was masterful; the boys were hooked.
As he once explained to me, “The boys listen to these stories first because of all the gore and mayhem. But after awhile they begin to hear the deeper messages: like about courage, and overcoming the odds, and confronting your fears.
“Bit by bit the stories make it safe for them to explore other ways to be in the world than what they grew up with. And so they can begin to create new possibilities and new stories for themselves.”
“I don’t wasn’t to get to the end of my life and find that I lived just the length of it,” said the poet Diane Ackerman. “I want to have lived the width of it as well.”
David, you definitely lived the width as well as the length of your life. And all of us who knew you are the richer for it.
Just like his story heroes, David waged his own epic battle with the cancer that took away his strength; his sight in one eye; his ability to walk.; and, ultimately, his life. But it never vanquished his spirit. As late as four months before he died, David, along with several other tellers, unspooled the mighty tale of Odysseus, mesmerizing all of us who were fortunate enough to be there.
But David was not just a good storyteller. He knew the power of stories to heal – and so he made his living by telling his treasure of epics to troubled teenage boys in group homes. He never told a whole story in one visit either. He always stopped at the most exciting, or terrifying or gruesome part. It was masterful; the boys were hooked.
As he once explained to me, “The boys listen to these stories first because of all the gore and mayhem. But after awhile they begin to hear the deeper messages: like about courage, and overcoming the odds, and confronting your fears.
“Bit by bit the stories make it safe for them to explore other ways to be in the world than what they grew up with. And so they can begin to create new possibilities and new stories for themselves.”
“I don’t wasn’t to get to the end of my life and find that I lived just the length of it,” said the poet Diane Ackerman. “I want to have lived the width of it as well.”
David, you definitely lived the width as well as the length of your life. And all of us who knew you are the richer for it.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Ritual at Spring Equinox
Last Friday morning I stood shivering on an exposed, windy hilltop with nine other very chilly adults and three small children as we waited to greet the rising of the sun on the Spring Equinox.
As dawn unfolded, Tomas, an initiated shaman in the tradition of the Huichol people of central Mexico, led our small group in a simple morning song ritual. Each of us held our “life arrow”: a small twig wound with different colors of yarn. Each twist of the yarn represented a prayer or intention placed into the stick for the new seeds we wanted to grow and blossom in our life in harmony with Great Grandmother Growth – Tatanakawey in the Huichol language. Later each of us would “plant” our stick, symbolically sowing these seeds to sprout in the warming days to come.
I thought of how people have been doing ritual for millennia, elders teaching the new generation; they, in their turn, passing on the teachings. And how much ritual – even the very simple ones – feed our hunger for community and connection.
Ritual helps us reconnect with the blessings of life that we often overlook in the midst of hurry and worry. And it reconnects us to the Great Aliveness called by many names in many tongues – God, Goddess, Yaweh, Allah, Buddha nature, Tatanakeway are only a few.
How do you incorporate ritual into your life to feed your soul?
As dawn unfolded, Tomas, an initiated shaman in the tradition of the Huichol people of central Mexico, led our small group in a simple morning song ritual. Each of us held our “life arrow”: a small twig wound with different colors of yarn. Each twist of the yarn represented a prayer or intention placed into the stick for the new seeds we wanted to grow and blossom in our life in harmony with Great Grandmother Growth – Tatanakawey in the Huichol language. Later each of us would “plant” our stick, symbolically sowing these seeds to sprout in the warming days to come.
I thought of how people have been doing ritual for millennia, elders teaching the new generation; they, in their turn, passing on the teachings. And how much ritual – even the very simple ones – feed our hunger for community and connection.
Ritual helps us reconnect with the blessings of life that we often overlook in the midst of hurry and worry. And it reconnects us to the Great Aliveness called by many names in many tongues – God, Goddess, Yaweh, Allah, Buddha nature, Tatanakeway are only a few.
How do you incorporate ritual into your life to feed your soul?
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Launch Party Recap
We had a wonderful virtual launch party this past weekend! Thanks to all of you who came. Now that it's over, I wanted to recap our 12 winners and the prizes they won.
Story Fruit: Giselle M; Margie H; Jody H; Kappy R.
Tuning In: Katherine A; Theresa D; Janet C; Lynne Z.
The Soul Stories Workbook: Jan S; Norm L
Story Shaping Consultation: Diana S; Kay G
Congratulations!
Story Fruit: Giselle M; Margie H; Jody H; Kappy R.
Tuning In: Katherine A; Theresa D; Janet C; Lynne Z.
The Soul Stories Workbook: Jan S; Norm L
Story Shaping Consultation: Diana S; Kay G
Congratulations!
Monday, March 16, 2009
Myth or Fact?
Many years ago I spent two weeks traveling around Ireland visiting sacred goddess sites with a present-day Druid.
Michael looked like a cross between an old Irish farmer and a leprechaun. And he told wonderful stories! Small springs, back-country hillocks, stone cairns off the beaten track – all had a story attached to them. He recounted the old legends of Queen Maeve and the red bull of Ulster while we walked in and around a stone pen dating from the Iron Age that was reputed to have housed that very bull.
Were the stories myths or historical fact? It didn’t really matter. Our earliest ancestors throughout the world made no distinction between story and “reality.” In fact, they would have considered our distinction arbitrary and limiting and would have felt sad for their descendants.
As Laurie Fadave says in her book, Celtic Myth and Legend: “The ancient Celts viewed the tangible world (i.e., This World) as a physical manifestation of the Other World. The two are interdependent parts of one whole that together comprise ‘Reality.’ Without meaning to be too superficial, if one were asked where the Celtic ‘Other World’ is believed to be situated (akin to ‘heaven is up, hell is down’), one would say ‘you’re in it!’”
Michael looked like a cross between an old Irish farmer and a leprechaun. And he told wonderful stories! Small springs, back-country hillocks, stone cairns off the beaten track – all had a story attached to them. He recounted the old legends of Queen Maeve and the red bull of Ulster while we walked in and around a stone pen dating from the Iron Age that was reputed to have housed that very bull.
Were the stories myths or historical fact? It didn’t really matter. Our earliest ancestors throughout the world made no distinction between story and “reality.” In fact, they would have considered our distinction arbitrary and limiting and would have felt sad for their descendants.
As Laurie Fadave says in her book, Celtic Myth and Legend: “The ancient Celts viewed the tangible world (i.e., This World) as a physical manifestation of the Other World. The two are interdependent parts of one whole that together comprise ‘Reality.’ Without meaning to be too superficial, if one were asked where the Celtic ‘Other World’ is believed to be situated (akin to ‘heaven is up, hell is down’), one would say ‘you’re in it!’”
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Prescription for the Disillusioned
In today’s harrowing economy, where our fears can project a tomorrow that paralyzes our ability to dream a different story, a friend sent me this poem by Rebecca del Rio.
I wanted to share it with you because I think it speaks to the danger of clinging to “the stories of (our) life” – past and present – that cause us to mistake what was for what can be.
Prescription for the Disillusioned
Come new to this
day. Remove the rigid
overcoat of experience,
the notion of knowing,
the beliefs that cloud
your vision.
Leave behind the stories
of your life. Spit out the
sour taste of unmet expectation.
Let the stale scent of what-ifs
waft back into the swamp
of your useless fears.
Arrive curious, without the armor
of certainty, the plans and planned
results of the life you’ve imagined.
Live the life that chooses you, new
every breath, every blink of
your astonished eyes.
I wanted to share it with you because I think it speaks to the danger of clinging to “the stories of (our) life” – past and present – that cause us to mistake what was for what can be.
Prescription for the Disillusioned
Come new to this
day. Remove the rigid
overcoat of experience,
the notion of knowing,
the beliefs that cloud
your vision.
Leave behind the stories
of your life. Spit out the
sour taste of unmet expectation.
Let the stale scent of what-ifs
waft back into the swamp
of your useless fears.
Arrive curious, without the armor
of certainty, the plans and planned
results of the life you’ve imagined.
Live the life that chooses you, new
every breath, every blink of
your astonished eyes.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Songlines
Some of the oldest storytellers on the planet are Aboriginal Australians, whose stories go back thousands and thousands of years.
Landforms and animals that we see simply as rocks, watering holes, Perente lizards, kangaroos, even majestic Uluru (Ayers Rock) are, for Aboriginal Australians, not what they appear and more than they appear: they are the Songlines that enable the people to travel with absolute surety the vast, unmarked distances of the Outback.
"The knowledge of songs and paths tells us where we are going, without maps and compasses,” said Aboriginal elder Burnam Burnam. “It tells us what the desert and mountains can be expected to offer by way of water and resources. Bonds between us and land can never be broken while a person lives, regardless of the clothes we wear, the processed food we eat, or the cars we drive. (…) If people are in communication with their own essential nature, they will also possess a natural link to other beings and creation.”
We, too, need Songlines in our lives - stories that can help us find our way when we feel lost in the outback of our own fear, despondency, loneliness, hurt. Stories that can lead us back to our own essential nature.
What stories do you sing that help you remember how connected to everything you truly are?
Landforms and animals that we see simply as rocks, watering holes, Perente lizards, kangaroos, even majestic Uluru (Ayers Rock) are, for Aboriginal Australians, not what they appear and more than they appear: they are the Songlines that enable the people to travel with absolute surety the vast, unmarked distances of the Outback.
"The knowledge of songs and paths tells us where we are going, without maps and compasses,” said Aboriginal elder Burnam Burnam. “It tells us what the desert and mountains can be expected to offer by way of water and resources. Bonds between us and land can never be broken while a person lives, regardless of the clothes we wear, the processed food we eat, or the cars we drive. (…) If people are in communication with their own essential nature, they will also possess a natural link to other beings and creation.”
We, too, need Songlines in our lives - stories that can help us find our way when we feel lost in the outback of our own fear, despondency, loneliness, hurt. Stories that can lead us back to our own essential nature.
What stories do you sing that help you remember how connected to everything you truly are?
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Facts are what we are. Stories are who we are.
When we think about storytelling, most of us think of fairy tales and children. The real truth about stories, though, is that they're so much more than we think.
In this blog, I'll be sharing ideas about the power and place of stories for grownups as well as kids. I invite you to share your stories, too. They can be personal stories or stories you've heard that have inspired you or made you think.
In the latter vein, here's one of my favorites:
Long ago – in the time of flying buttresses and catacombs, of Rose windows and gargoyles – a traveler chanced upon three stonemasons hard at work. “What are you doing?” he asked the first one. “I’m cutting stones,” said the man. “What are you doing?” he asked the second. “I’m building a wall,” the man replied. Finally, he asked the third man the same question. “Ah,” said the third. “I’m building a cathedral.”
This is the power of stories. What you tell yourself shapes who you are now - and who you will become. While all three stonemasons answered truthfully, only the third one envisioned himself and his work within the larger story.
What stories are you telling yourself that simply cut stones? What stories are allowing you to build cathedrals?
In this blog, I'll be sharing ideas about the power and place of stories for grownups as well as kids. I invite you to share your stories, too. They can be personal stories or stories you've heard that have inspired you or made you think.
In the latter vein, here's one of my favorites:
Long ago – in the time of flying buttresses and catacombs, of Rose windows and gargoyles – a traveler chanced upon three stonemasons hard at work. “What are you doing?” he asked the first one. “I’m cutting stones,” said the man. “What are you doing?” he asked the second. “I’m building a wall,” the man replied. Finally, he asked the third man the same question. “Ah,” said the third. “I’m building a cathedral.”
This is the power of stories. What you tell yourself shapes who you are now - and who you will become. While all three stonemasons answered truthfully, only the third one envisioned himself and his work within the larger story.
What stories are you telling yourself that simply cut stones? What stories are allowing you to build cathedrals?
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