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."
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
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?
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