Story Haven Studio

The Adventures of the Determined Storyteller: Navigating Grief and Loss Through Story

2011-03-05T19:43:00.001-08:00

A lone figure stands at the edge of a dark abyss uncertain of what to do but knowing that the call is there and she must follow. She knows she is not alone, others have taken this journey before but she has never seen this place, never known this depth of darkness and she is afraid.

This is where I stood almost one year ago today, knowing that I must face the fears of a potential illness, already deep in grief after the loss of my dog, my mother and my father within months of each other. With no family to support me, except my wonderful significant other, now I faced a biopsy and needed to make a decision. I did what I had to do, I made the leap, and I wanted my friends to know where I was going.

That is how the Determined Storyteller, an alter-ego, an avatar I had created to make writing about the mundane chores of housecleaning interesting to my readers, became a hero for me and for them. I couldn't leap into the dark and fall into an unknown place, but she could. I couldn't face the monster in the cave that said its name was cancer, but she could. And as the D.S. traveled that path and took the hero's journey, she took me with her and all of my friends joined in the battle to save me and to inspire themselves for their own battles.

Please join me and the Determined Storyteller in a four hour intensive workshop of self-discovery on the hero's journey. March 18, 2011 at Sharing the Fire in Warwick, Rhode Island. To register for this experience: http://www.lanes.org/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&catid=19:site-content&id=128:preconference

The Adventures of the Determined Storyteller: Results

2010-12-11T12:00:00.001-08:00

The Determined Storyteller was quite an imposing figure as she strode into the chasm, but not because she is larger than life or overly muscular. It was because she wore the Robes of Transformation and did not walk alone. There were angels and orbs and friends and other women who had come that way before her.

She finally reached the cave where first she had met and slain the monster that called itself cancer. There cowering in a darkened corner she found the thing that those dwelling near had called her to route. It was small but still it threatened. Suros, a new and stalwart friend came to the DS' side and together they pulled it from its hiding place. Three days they examined it, three days they questioned it and finally with less fight than fear it spoke in the tiniest voice "I am BENIGN."

And there was much rejoicing!

A New Chapter in the Adventures of the Determined Storyteller

2010-12-06T05:57:00.000-08:00

The Determined Storyteller fought the monster that called itself cancer and won. But with the caveat that this monster has many faces and may return. Thus she has once more been called to the edge of the chasm. Those dwelling in the regions of the cave have called her to vigilance once more and she must face the darkened path in order to find the light of knowledge.

Today, the Determined Storyteller sits, legs crossed, deep in meditation as she prepares for her journey to the chasm tomorrow. She will take angels and orbs and the Blessed Sword but this time she will not leap into the chasm, so the Towel from Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy will not be required. Instead she will walk with strength and power into the darkness wearing the Robes of Transformation she won in her last journey. And Deb, Laura, Deirdre, and Rannveiger will guide her. She is in good company.

It will be days of travel to the Pool of Knowledge and then the D.S. will see what journey is laid before her.

The Determined Storyteller in the Battle Against the Cave Monster: Postscript

2010-06-24T07:15:00.000-07:00

The Beginning:

The journey began as the DS gazed over the edge of a dark chasm trying to decide whether to ignore its call or take the leap. This was the day my doctor told me I needed a core biopsy for a lump found in my left breast during an annual physical. I had one previously and they are very uncomfortable, which in my opinion is an understatement. The last one was negative and the doctor who viewed this current mammogram said she felt I could wait and see if there were changes next time, but if it were her she would get the biopsy. A friend had just died of breast cancer and I wanted to let my friends know what was happening. The DS decided to leap.

The Traveling Companions:

As the DS plummeted from the cliff side, a friend stepped in to give her the Towel from Hitchhiker’s Guide tho the Galaxy explaining it could become whatever she needed. It became a parachute and acted as bandage and cape throughout the story. This is when I realized the story might be a powerful tool for keeping friends gently abreast (pardon the pun) of the situation without alarming them, to allow them to play a healing game with me, and to help me sort through my feelings and fears in the same way I use story to help others do so.

Throughout the DS’ journey, friends came forward with gifts and blessings including, a platinum breastplate, the Blessed Sword, a magic shield, a basket of glowing orbs, magic torches, an army of angels and themselves. Not only did the DS use these valuable tools, but I loaned them to others as they were needed. One friend whose mother was diagnosed with breast cancer was loaned the shield, another who faced a difficult situation was loaned the sword and so on.

The Call of the Hero:

The hero is reluctant, does not want to be a hero or take on a difficult task, only an adventurer thrives on this. But the DS knew what must be done. I missed my friend’s burial to get a biopsy on January 29th. I decided this was the best way to honor her life. I can only hope her family felt the same. Her name became the DS’ rallying battle cry "Rannvieger!"

This day was the same day as my sister’s birthday and also a horrible day for my family as my father was rushed to the hospital. The DS was drawn from her own calling to try and save her father. Bands of angels and her army went with her as the powers of darkness tried to distract her from the monster she must later face, perhaps to allow him to gain strength in her absence. She fought valiantly to save her father from their grasp, once to actually have believed him safe, but alas she failed. My father never recovered from his illness. He died March 13th, just three days after my surgery.

Nemesis:

My diagnosis came back positive for cancer on February 3 and the DS now heard the monster’s roar from inside a cave "I am Cancer and I will destroy you!" She now knew the monster’s name which could aid her in destroying him but it was name feared far and wide. I knew I had to talk about this journey because I felt cancer was so scary it had to be brought into the light of day to understand and defeat it.

Mentors:

I was fortunate to have a nationally renowned surgeon in the field of breast cancer, Dr. Stephen Edge. The DS entered the cave and met the Healer Edge who made her lay prone near a healing pool (my scans and tests) and gave her assistance in fighting the monster. He was my surgeon on March 10th and the surgery vanquished the monster beautifully. The delays caused by missed appointments to care for my dad did not allow the creature to grow beyond Stage 1 and .9cm.

But The Edge told the DS that she would have to face yet one more trial. She would need to decide whether to enter the Cavern of Fire (chemo) or just the Cavern of Lightening (radiation), which was a must. After meeting with Dr. Edge (surgeon), Dr. Levine (medical oncologist) and The Khan of Lightening (Dr. Kahn radiation oncologist) I discovered that there would be only a 2-3% benefit to having Chemotherapy. Of course I didn’t want to lose my hair but friends had already offered help with hats and the hospital has a resource center to help. I had already become determined to be the "Crazy Hat Lady" but the effects of chemo on the rest of my body was scary, to be honest.

The Finale:

After discussing the doctors’ recommendations and statistics with Thomas, we both agreed that a 2% benefit was not worth the trauma, especially with no cancer found in the surrounding tissue or lymph nodes. It would have been a completely different story had the DS not been given a choice, but she was. She entered the Cavern of Lightening on May 3 and was not heard from after that until she emerged. This is very significant because although the hero has traveling companions, there comes a time when she must face the journey alone.

Entering the Shadow Lands, prologue:

On September 10, 2009 our 18 year old dog Merlin died. He’d been sick with the effects of age for a couple years. Thomas had been carrying him up and down stairs and our living room had been a dog kennel with drop cloth and sheets on the floor. We knew it was only a matter of time but when we found him nearly unconscious one morning, it was unbearably sad. We rushed him to the SPCA and there surrendered him at their back door to be put to sleep. My heart was broken. He was such a large dog and a huge presence in our home and in our lives. He went everywhere with us. I am still crying as I write this but there really hasn’t been time to finish this mourning.

November. I was bringing the larger pond fish into the basement tank for winter when the oldest one, a koi named Big Fish decided to take the "Big Journey" on his own. This is a phrase given to me by a friend and I love it. It helped me feel better, for you see when I went outside to get another fish, Big Fish pushed through the screen covering the tank and landed on the basement floor. By the time I came in it was too late. I blamed myself for not placing the screen tighter. I had raised this 18" fish from a 2" fish and he was 15 years old. I know it probably seems odd to put so much importance on a fish in the light of all else that happened after that, but at that time it was significant. He was the largest and oldest and actually used to eat out of my hand. Another big presence in my life was gone and it was a death I could have avoided.

I now look back and realize that Big Fish’s passing was a harbinger of what was to come. I would be stripped of all the big presences in my past life, but my relationship with Thomas would become stronger than ever.

December 12, my mother died. Like Merlin, my mom had been ill for some time. She was on oxygen but a strong willed woman who wanted to keep living. She was frail however, and I had been saying goodbye to her for three years. I was ready for her passing. Of course, I mourned her death but it seemed easier to accept. I do miss her very much now and cry on and off, especially at those moments when a Mommy is needed. I have really come to understand the different roles Moms and Dads play in our lives, or at least in a woman’s life. I imagine it might be very different for a man.

I thought my sorrows would end here, and I do wish they had but when faced with the unexpected challenges of cancer and my dad’s illness, I did exactly what my parents and life experience raised me to do, stepped up to the plate as the Determined Storyteller.

Never in my wildest imagination did I expect to get cancer or lose my "big guy", my best birthday present, my dad. Still mourning for Merlin and Mom, I faced the greatest sorrow of my life, at least since losing my sister Pam at age five. When dad died I thought my world would end, and in many ways it did. It made me the oldest in the immediate family and placed me in the awkward position of being in charge of settling Dad’s affairs. I became the outcast and the outsider, and my heart felt like a stone.

After the long sleep, a Transformation:

About halfway through treatment, I was feeling pretty beaten down by everything that has happened to me. I lived in a kind of fog. It is hard to describe but it was like going through the motions hour by hour, day by day, looking for joy but just getting along. I was fortunate to have many wonderful friends who supported me and Thomas who was there all the time. They broke through the fog often, sending light and love to that shadow land, but still I felt like I was living a half life. Then one day it happened, Creator sent an angel by way of a fellow radiation patient named D (to protect her identity).

I wrote a blog about my angel and everyone has wondered what she said. Now I will tell you. It may seem trite and insignificant to you but at that moment of my need, it was huge. It was like a brilliant beacon in the darkness that burned away the fog, because I was feeling like a worthless being. I had given up important healing work because I myself needed healing. I had been called names and was starting to believe them because I was too weak to fight anymore. It is so hard to explain the pain I felt at that time.

One day D came around a corner and out of the blue, having never really spoken to me, looked into my face and said "There is a glow around you. You are such an amazing person.

She herself had been very ill for the first few days of her treatment which is why we really hadn’t spoken. When she said those words to me it was like a veil was lifted and I felt that light on my face. I acknowledged the power of this, of being kind to others never knowing when they may need it most. We spoke about this the following day and she told me how I made her feel wonderful too. We hugged and held hands.

So without knowing it, we had helped each other. Her illness lifted and I have never again felt that fog. The DS was shown her future in the Healing Pool. She would emerge in the White Robes of Transformation.

Journey’s End.

We, the DS and I, emerged from the Cavern of Lightening on June 23, 2010. There was an earthquake 250 miles north in Quebec just as I entered for the final treatment. I never felt the shaking but when I called home to tell Thomas I had finished he answered the phone.

"Wild Ride huh?"
"What?"
"We’re not talking about the same thing are we."
"No I was calling to say I just finished my last treatment."
"Congratulations! We just had an earthquake."

What a coincidence that is! And later I discovered that today, June 24, my ReBirthday is also the Nativity of Saint John the Baptist. I believe these are more than just accidents or coincidences, I believe they are Signo de Deo (signs from God) just as Big Fish leaving for his Big Journey was a sign.

Aftermath:

The hero finishes the journey and rebuilding takes place. Armies return to their homes where they find they too must rebuild. Weapons and armor are cleaned and laid to rest. Wounds are tended. Families reunited. But the Hero is changed. While others experience the joys of reunion, there is a melancholy surrounding the hero. She must come to understand this feeling of change, must learn to accept it and figure out its meaning in order to become whole again.

After the celebrations are over, after the feast is ended, the hero will retreat to a place where she can recognize herself again. The DS has spent so much time in the shadow lands, she is not certain what to do with the light.

She will continue to fight for right and against the dust bunnies of the world, but in what capacity? What will her life be now that the largest battle of a lifetime is finished?

The Determined Storyteller will have the courage to face other monsters but she wonders for the time being if she will just go through the motions of living or really take on life with passion once again.

I am sure the reader knows the answer already, but for now the DS, emerging from the cave in the White Robes of Transformation, has the glow of ecstasy in her eyes and has not yet come to an understanding of the path that waits before her. Yet, I have faith based on previous experience that she will find her way and follow it and that the path will take her to some place where the table has already been set. She will eat and she will grow, and she will be what all of her life has brought her to be, The Determined Storyteller.

Acknowledgments:

I wish to thank the friends who have traveled this journey with me and who have given their support, light, and prayers along the way. I hope you realize after reading this Postscript to the story, how much you really have meant and how much of it you wrote for me. And to Thomas, there is little I can say about your strength and love except that you are my shield, my armor, and my life’s blood. Thank you. And thank God.

Trying to Understand How People Become Disappointed

2010-06-19T14:54:00.000-07:00

I have been working with At-Risk Youth since 1994 and the following is also a prt of that work and the book I am writing about mentoring at-risk youth through story.

In my work with at-risk youth, I have developed four principals for successful negotiation. They are Judgement, Expectation, Trust/Respect, and Presentation. These are the things we take to the table when trying to reason with others and also when trying to understand our relationships with them.

Expectation: What do we hope for ourselves, the other person, and the relationship?

I think it is safe to say that most of us hope not be hurt in any relationship and that the relationship will be long-lasting or at least successful. But what we hope for in the other person is really the tipping point. We do seek others with common interests, viewpoints and even the same ethics, but what do we do when we have not chosen the relationship, such as in a family? The other person may have been raised with similar beliefs and traditions, but it may be that over time they have developed their own ideas and customs, even gone far astray of what was traditionally taught in the family. In this case, do we throw the "baby out with the bath water?" How do we cope within these more complex relationships? What happens when we discover after many years of being in a relationship, the other person has changed for better or for worse? It’s a difficult question.

So where to begin. Well, it may be simpler than you realize. Begin with safety first. Are you safe, physically, mentally, emotionally, and even economically? If yes, then the next step is to begin with you. Begin with how you think, not how the other person acts. In other words change what you can control.

The first thing we need to do when we are learning to dance with another person is learn the dance steps for ourselves. Make sense? Getting along in a relationship is like dancing. You learn the steps and then sometimes you move together, sometimes you dance the same steps and sometimes you move apart, yet the movement make up a beautiful full and complete whole. Would you expect anything else from dancing? So why expect anything else of your relationship.

Allow your dance partner the space they need to be who they are. Don’t expect anything else of them and you won’t be disappointed. The exception is when dealing with someone who just doesn’t try to keep up or move with you. In this case it may be necessary to stand off and watch them dance from a distance until they move toward you, leave the dance floor, or just get another dance partner. But in most cases, if you approach a safe relationship without expectation, your partner will approach you in that way too.

This doesn’t mean you won’t find sadness in those times you drift apart. You will because you are a caring loving individual. But you will also find great joy in those times you come together, if you make up your mind that you will be joyful and focus on those positive moments. Attitude makes a big difference.

*Note. Expectation in this context does not mean the same as standards. We should set high standards for our success and that of our children. This acts as motivation and does not have anything to do with our acceptance of their failures. People fail. People learn. People can improve, but the definition of improvement is what we are talking about when we discuss expectation in this article. Does improvement mean that another person is only acceptable or successful to us if they do as we do, do things the way we would, think like us? We need to weigh the value of our lives with or without others in terms of what we are willing to have or sacrifice for that relationship.

More on Judgement, Trust/Respect and Presentation in the next posts.

Balance by Spencer Pope

2010-06-09T08:38:00.000-07:00

My great grandfather, Spencer Pope, was an entrepreneur in New Berlin, New York and wrote poetry and prose for the New Berlin Gazette. I have the full collection of his writings and opened to find the following titled "Balance."

Balance by Spencer Pope, May 25, 1933

The Sun was made and sheds its heat and light upon the earth;
But its continued intense radiance will sere and blast
the very life its power gives, and so the clouds are hung underneath
to veil the earth and protection give to life.

We are given pleasures and joys in our short human lives,
Which like the Sun can sere and stunt us from ambition’s aims
And so the clouds of grief and pain are interposed with them
To bring us back to stern realities and more sane thoughts.

The raven’s song is dismal croak, the meadow lark’s a song of joy
Continued, either one can pall, yet both have place on earth.
There’s things that crawl and things that fly, but if all crawled or flew
Congestion would obtain and rational balance be gone.

God’s balance is not upon one single thing, but as a whole
It’s not ordained that one should know or do all things in life
But what is given us to do, we should strive to do well;
That there be some to learn and some to teach, is in God’s plan.

And those that now can teach are those who one time had to learn.

My Soul's Home

2010-06-05T05:53:00.000-07:00

The Catskill area is where my family is rooted. My great great great great great grandparents settled there from my mother, father, and biological father's families. These roots are very deep and many family members still live there or are buried in the region. Every time I work there, it is like going home, comfortable, soothing, real. I get to return there to work June 12 and 14.
June 12: Oneonta Storytelling Festival featuring Laura Simms, Marni Gillard, Lorna Czarnota, and Susan Trump.
http://thedailystar.com/communitynews/x433575145/Area-storytellers-sought-for-festival/print

My recently deceased mom and dad met at the Oneonta Hotel. The story goes that Mom was giving out kisses and my dad bought one for a dollar. I don’t doubt that at all since Dad used to carry a pocket full of nickels as a young man and bet the girls a nickel he could kiss them without touching them. I suppose the dollar had to do with inflation, and I am sure my mother was worth much more than that.

The hotel later became a bank and I don’t know what it is now, perhaps vacant. The first time I told stories with the Oneonta storytellers, I recall visiting what had been the hotel and touching the exterior wall just to be able to say I had been there, in that place where my parents met.

Mom and Dad's first photo together.

After meeting the Oneonta tellers for the first time, I realized what wonderful people they were and was invited to return many many times to not only tell with them, but teach them about storytelling. They became my family. As with many things in my life this year, I think this is their farewell festival, not enough young tellers to carry on the tradition and the work of running and organizing a guild.

It maybe no real coincidence that I will return there now that my parents are gone, a sad and fitting end of their journey, and the happy ending for the Oneonta Storytelling Center too.

I will also present Wild and Wooly Tales on the morning of June 14 at Downsville Central School and my dear friend and storytelling partner Merri Lee will join me in the afternoon to present "Letters Home, Stories of the North and South" at Unadilla Elementary School in the afternoon.

The following is a little history of my roots which spread across the region from Oneonta (where my mom, myself and my deceased younger sister lived for a while when I was just a toddler) to Delhi, Walton, Morris, Unadilla, Laurens, and New Berlin.

Cobb/VerValin my mother’s side of the family: Mom was born in Unadilla and may even have attended the school where Merri and I will visit on the 14th. My grandmother’s family VerValin has a small cemetery on a back road in Unadilla. I found it mentioned in the archives at the Cooperstown Historical Library and visited it a few years ago. The small cemetery is located in a farmer’s field and is surrounded by an old wrought fence with the name VerValin on the gate. There were four stones there but trees had grown up through everything and it was sadly in need of work and may not survive. There is no telling what condition it is in now. The farmer kept a path mown to it but that was years ago.

MacDonald/Beers : my dad’s side of the family hails from Delhi, Walton, and Beerston. Yes, the town is named after them. Pretty cool huh? Personally, I know little about the Beers. I think my dad’s mother was a school teacher.

I know more about the MacDonalds. They arrived in the early 1800s at Fayetteville, North Carolina from Dunbarton Scotland. They moved north and settled in the Delhi, NY region where years later, my dad was born. I’ve never had the chance to work in his old school or in Walton either, but spent much of my childhood there at memorable family reunions, clambakes, and Christmas’. My deceased sister is buried in the Walton cemetery with my dad’s mother and father. Her name was Pamela Irene and she died at age 3 when I was just 5 years old.

There is one Beers uncle, Neil, who fought in the American Civil War.

Southern/Pope my biological father’s family: The Southern’s settled in the areas of Morris and Laurens and became farmers. I forget which great it was but it was at least four generations ago that one of my grandfathers brought the first long haired, bred sheep from Sheffield England to Otsego County. I know we have Sheffield roots but have not been able to trace them to England.
The Popes settled in the area around New Berlin, NY. I know nothing beyond my great grandparents history but that is very rich.

My great grandfather Spencer Pope was an entrepreneur in New Berlin. At one time he opened the first bicycle shop and later ran a grocery. His wife, my great grandmother, Hattie was a milliner and had a shop on the main street. I don’t know where Hattie is buried but Spencer is in the New Berlin cemetery. His grave is shown on a cemetery map but there is no headstone. I may remedy that as Spencer was a writer. He wrote poems and stories for the New Berlin Gazette for years. I have a bound notebook of all his writings that a local farmer had gathered and published. Their only daughter, my middle namesake, Theral became a dressmaker.

One great grandfathers and an uncle who fought in the American Civil War are buried in the Morris Cemetery, at least that is the war I recall. I know there was a grandfather who fought in that war as I have a photocopy of his letter to his wife from the hospital where he recuperated from a wound. Theral is buried in that cemetery also. I never found her grave.

So you see, my history is full of people who influenced me, though I never knew most of them. There were poets and storytellers, teachers and entrepreneurs, shepherds, a milliner and a dressmaker, all things I have done or aspired to do in my life. And the Catskills really are home to my soul.

I used to work there often but not in the past two years. I am so excited to be going home once more. I will have Sunday between programs to try to find the old cemetery in Unadilla again and to visit my sister’s grave and tell her of her parents’ recent passing, although I am sure she is with them now.

There are cousins scattered everywhere in the area and I have not maintained contact with them. One aunt and uncle still live in Walton. Many others have moved to warmer climates, including four half-sisters and two half-brothers. Many others have passed.

But their memories and stories linger. They cling to walls of old hotels, stone walls separating farmer’s fields, and brooks that wind from one side of the road to the other. They live on in the smell of oiled dirt roads, and old wooden general stores, and in this storytellers dreams and words. For you see the very first story I recall telling, was told when I was 10 years old, sitting on the porch with my cousins at their home in Andes, NY, while looking at the foothills of the Catskill Mountains.

As long as I draw breath, I will keep them alive.

Taking Them Home.

2010-05-26T07:11:00.000-07:00

Today Thomas took Mom and Dad’s clothing and shoes to St. John’s Church Home for the elderly. I knew my parents would be happy that we donated these clothes but I never expected the reaction we would get. Thomas says he wishes I could have been there but he’s been hanging around with me long enough to have learned to tell a good story. His description brought tears and smiles to my face all at the same time. That in itself was quite a strange experience.

"I drove up to the home and two or three workers, men in uniforms, came out to help me. We were taking the boxes out of the van when a little old lady, about the same size as your mother, was standing on the balcony overhead. She saw the clothes and pointed at the shoes.

"Golden slippers! I could use those golden slippers!"

We took the twenty or so boxes into the building. There are about 200 apartments in that building, I think. Then a man came up to the table. He had one or two teeth left. He saw the box of your dad’s shoes and your dad’s slippers were right on top.

"Slippers! Slippers!" he smiled his toothless smile.

One of the managers had to come out and tell the workers not to just let them all take things.

"Spread it around. We have to make sure everybody gets something."

Imagine, crowd control over your parents’ clothes."

Thank you my sweet Thomas. My mom and Dad really smiled at that and you are one of my heroes.

The Compost Bin

2010-05-23T15:39:00.000-07:00

The following story is an off-the-cuff creation after posting this picture and being challenged by a dear friend to tell what was taking place. Being a storyteller, what was I to do?

No *%$# there I was, minding my own business pretending to look pretty even without make up when I heard a strange noise. It was like a low growl or more of a moan and it was coming from the compost bin?

Egads, what could that be?

Hiding my unmade face from the neighbors, I rose from the swing by the pond, picked up the pitchfork that sat poised and ready beside my broomstick (oops, you're not supposed to know about that side of me) and slowly cautiously, after tripping over a tree root here and there, made my way to see what it could be.

Scritch, scratch. Scritch, scratch. Someone, something inside the bin began scratching at the plastic. More groans or growls and the lid started to rise.

Cobwebs spilled from the compost and a hideous nauseating odor assailed my nostrils. I turned my head just a moment, reeling from the stench that made me gag.

All at once the lid exploded from atop the compost bin, missing my head by a fragment of an inch and landing some fifteen feet away. One large black hair-covered foot twisted like a writhing snake and placed itself on the edge of the open bin, and then another and another and another (you can stop me anytime) and another and another and another and, well you get the idea.

Strong black legs pushed against the bin raising a huge body above them and many many eyes stared at me, red and horrible. I do not like big black spiders with hairy legs, but what was I to do, Thomas was not home and I knew there was no time to run, screaming would only cause the creature to attack. I stood motionless, trying not to blink. I would stare it down.

The pitchfork shook in my hand and the stench still oozed from the bin, and then I saw movement just beyond that great body, a lot of movement and as many tinier spiders scurried out from beneath their mother. She had young and I was lunch...stay tuned.

Healing Tales and Healing Touch

2010-05-21T12:17:00.000-07:00

The following is a repost of an article from my Facebook page, so it it looks familiar to some, that is why.

I am thinking about stories where spells are cast that take away the will power of an individual. Often these spells steal a person’s ability to think independently or put them into a sleep so deep that only a healing touch from a specific source can wake them. Sometimes the "victim" is transformed into something those closest to them do not recognize. But there is always a key to unlock that spell, a way it can be broken, promise and hope for change.

While the "savior" usually comes in the guise of a hero or a lover, these too are only symbolic. The hero may be the other side of self, the victim’s inner hero. The lover may not necessarily be the opposite sex or romantic in any way, but representative of love in general. That love may be from someone outside self or it may be ones love for self. We must all learn to love ourselves, this is not selfish. It allows us to love others. And the saving grace is unconditional love. This hero or lover looks beyond the impossible, beyond the hideous, beyond fear and it does not matter if their healing works, they only know that they care enough to try, often overcoming huge obstacles to do so, and placing themselves in great danger, not only physical but also emotional. They risk connections, take a chance on love, trust.

The healing touch is often a kiss upon the lips, but this may not have been the story’s original form. This may be romantic but there are other forms of touch that might work equally well in the story. On the other hand, this kiss upon the lips may not be romantic at all, but rather like the "breath of God." That most powerful breath that can heal anything including sleep resembling death or death itself. It is the breath of life, very much like mouth to mouth resuscitation.

Science tells us that touch releases chemicals into the system. These chemicals tell us if the touch is pleasure or pain. Perhaps this is why a gentle touch upon the shoulder, a soft kiss, an embrace are such powerful images in story. And it may be that they not only heal the characters and break the spells but they release for the listener those same chemicals that speak volumes of truth about the value of love and caring, about compassion and courage.

So when people tell you that spells cannot be cast, that magic isn’t real or that miracles are just hallucinations, tell them a story and that is like telling the truth. Awaken a sleeping someone, transform an ogre, release a troubled mind, not only with a tale but with the touch of love.

Aftermath, Finale: An Epic Hero's Journey: The Determined Storyteller in the Battle against the Cave Monster

2010-05-18T17:22:00.000-07:00

The Determined Storyteller (aka me) are still undergoing cancer treatments as I write this, but our transformation came earlier than expected. Here is the story of today's remarkable miracle, the only thing I know to call it.

The sweetest kiss I can think of is a gentle kiss on the forehead.

With everything that has happened to me, from losing my old dog in September to my parents in December and March, being diagnosed with breast cancer and cruelly treated by my family, I lost my sense of self. I knew myself very well before, but since all of this began I have had no idea of who I am and what I am supposed to do.

Each thing that has happened has been like one more piece of me being stripped away until I was naked and raw. It was painful but I knew a transformation would come, I knew that but I expected it to take years. Yet a few simple kind words from a fellow patient at the hospital today changed everything.

I won’t share what she said because that would seem like bragging, rather I want to express what her words meant to me.

All the hurt and pain was washed away when she spoke. It was as if God kissed the forehead of my soul. Thanks to her, I have found my way back home to me.

I’m still not sure what I am supposed to do with all of this, except that I am changed and I am whole again even though I still have a long road to travel.

As with Gandalf in the Lord of the Rings, I am now clothed in metaphorical robes of white light. And ready to look at who I have become.

Thank you my dear friend, whose name I don’t even know. You did so much for me today and I wish you blessings in great abundance for it.

They say we should be kind to strangers for we never know when we might be in the presence of angels. You are an angel and I thank God for sending you to me.

Transformation

2010-05-15T05:15:00.000-07:00

A little longer to travel through this journey that began in January. The Determined Storyteller and I are in the final phases of our transformation and uncertain who we have become or what will become of us.

The only way to find out is to step back from self, to view the soul at a distance, and let go of ego while remaining grounded. It takes fearlessness, patience, trust, hope, and belief to do this.

Fearlessness: to face the true self.

Patience: to know that all is not revealed at once but slowly over time.

Trust: that a higher power is guiding you and you will not falter.

Hope: that what you will be is better and stronger that what you once were.

Belief: that this is where you were meant to come and be. It began the day you were born and now you have arrived.

And most important, you are not meant to stay in this place either, there is yet another journey you will take. Do not become so attached to this new self, this new ego, for someday it too will slough away and another self will emerge. Our souls are in a constant cycle of birth and death until the time they are released to travel home again.

My piece of Bayeux Tapestry

2010-05-02T09:45:00.000-07:00

Some of you asked to see my piece of Bayeux Tapestry. Sorry this took so long and sorry it is so wrinkled right now. This is a hand drawn and embroidered copy of one portion of the tapestry. I've been working on it for over ten years but only because I don't have time to do it everyday. It is actually more like 100 plus hours. You can see I am still working on two figures.

The real tapestry was done on linen with wool thread. Mine is all cotton because that is what I had when I started as a demonstration for some children whose eyes glazed over when I mentioned embroidery. This section should have a border which I did not use and because it is hand drawn the proportions are off. The colors and stitch are as close as I could get using a picture from a book.

I doubt that many of today's children know how to embroider. I began when I was a little girl as my mother embroidered. I do know that many children knit these days, something I regretfully did not take time to learn from Mom.

One Last Joke on Me: Thanks Dad

2010-05-01T11:41:00.000-07:00

If you've read my posts, you know my dad passed away March 13, 2010. We miss him a lot but he will always be with us, in our personalities, in our behaviors and in our stories. Dad was a huge fan a good joke, told many of his own and loved to play tricks on people, including his own children.

We gave one good final joke to dad just after he passed. My sister and I, and her husband were still gathered at the foot of his bed. Dad was gone and we had cried. Now we waited for a minister to come and pray with us. We needed it. The only religious person that could be found happened to be a Catholic priest, an Indian Catholic priest whose thick accent and rapid delivery made it even harder for us Lutherans to understand what he was saying. And he gave Dad last rights. After he left we laughed so hard, it almost seemed a sacrilege. But we knew Dad was laughing with us. It seemed fitting to laugh just once more with Dad. But that wasn't to be the last time he made me chuckle. That came in a motel room in Florida.

As executor, I traveled to Florida to visit my folks' place there. I cleaned out several bags of trash, carefully searching every nook and cranny for anything of either sentimental value to my family or monetary value to Dad's estate. And then I found it, the unexpected treasure, something I couldn't believe Dad had forgotten. In the middle dresser drawer, under a pile of Christmas decorations, I found a One Thousand Dollar Bill!!!! Man, I've never seen one of those before, how cool!

It was old and taped together. Dad liked to collect coins and money so I thought maybe this is a rare $1000 or maybe his emergency stash and he forgot it was there. Then I also saw a $20. Picking up the twenty and unfolding it, I discovered it was a coupon from a bank, not money at all. That made me suspicious of the $1000. Maybe it was some of Dad's joke money, but I had to be sure. I would take it to the bank.

I drove back to my motel a few hours later, very aware that I had what could be a lot of money in my purse. I immediately sent an email to my sister so she would have an accounting of what I had found, then I excitedly phoned Thomas. If anyone knew what a thousand dollars looked like, I figured it would be him, but no he had never seen one either.

Some time passed when my motel room phone rang. It was Thomas saying he had gone online and looked up one thousand dollar bills. He asked me who was on the front. I told him. He was silent. Hmmm, apparently that is not the correct president. I read the bill more closely and started to laugh out loud into the phone. "OH my goodness! Oh my goodness!" was about all I could say. Then I found my voice. "Thank you Daddy! Thank you." My dad had played one last joke on me and I am so grateful for that moment. I will never forget it.

The joke? Take a close look at this bill and see why I laughed. Daddy, I am really going to miss you but I also know you are always very close by.

Not the United States of America but the Untied States of Anemia. Signed by A. Phoneybill and U. Cantcashit. LOL!

Aftermath, Part V: An Epic Hero's Journey: The Determined Storyteller in the Battle against the Cave Monster

2010-04-27T10:29:00.000-07:00

"And the Determined Storyteller, knowing she would soon enter the chamber of lightening, cast forth an orb of light given her by the legends, and low the light covered her. A vision came to the DS and she knew she would emerge in the white garb of those who have been transformed. It would be only a little while before this would be reality."

We are nearing the end of this story my friends. The Determined Storyteller has made the leap of faith, fought and lost the battle to save her father, survived the battle against the monster that called itself Cancer (although the health system does not consider the battle over until the monster is vanquished for ten years). She will receive radiation treatments for six weeks and will go on with her life, I am sure to be called upon again for the strength and courage she has in apparent abundance.

When all of this began on January 29, 2010, neither the writer of this tale or the character of the DS, knew if she would find what was needed to move through and beyond this ordeal. It has been the journey of a lifetime and it is hoped the last of its kind.

This journey has followed the Hero's Journey format of reluctance and self-doubt on the part of the unwilling hero, the introduction of a problem and a villain, acceptance of the task along with finding the mentor and magic tools required to survive. The hero has met with set-backs and has been side-tracked on more than one occasion. When the hero emerges from this kind of experience the hero can not help but be changed in very real ways, but it can take years to fully realize and understand those changes. Unlike some hero's journey stories, the DS did not need to travel alone. She was well attended by a legend of friends and angels who cheered her on and lent their constant support and love. So in a very real way, this journey has been the journey of many. This is why I began writing about this experience.

I hope that you have found hope in this and that if ever you should face what seems an insurmountable task, this tale of this journey will give you the hope and courage you need to do what must be done. Watch in the weeks ahead for one last post to complete this tale.

Mapping for Radiation Therapy

2010-04-15T17:09:00.000-07:00

Getting mapped was like being kidnapped by space aliens. They put me on a table. Three of four milled about here and there adjusting this and that, writing on my chest, measuring, talking and calling out numbers. They adjusted a video over my face so I could take deep breaths to keep my heart from my chest, the video was my visual cue. Into the cat scan, whirring whirring, voices in the head and two teenie tattoos. Then they brought me back to my planet. Nanoo nanoo.

Aftermath, Part IV: An Epic Hero's Journey: The Determined Storyteller in the Battle against the Cave Monster

2010-04-13T09:13:00.000-07:00

The Determined Storyteller met with the Shah of Lightening and Levine of the Fire at Edge the Healer’s request. It has been a long hard journey for our literary heroine, from January 29 when she first leap from the ledge and discovered the dark cave to a time of defending her father against the forces of evil and darkness, to his death and her own great battle against the monster in the cave that called itself "Cancer."

With scores of friends who joined her army and supplied her with armor and weapons, love and support, and armies of angels, she succeeded in slaying the creature and was healed. The Edge warned her that the monster may have sent his seed further into the cave and that she may yet need to endure fire and lightening to rid herself of them for good.

Now the DS stands with head bowed, a decision of great weight upon her brow and a road as long before her as that which she has already traveled, just less rough and less dark because of all who have carried her along the way. What choices will she make?

To endure fire, as it turns out, meant for the DS to take that fire into her own body and to lose much in doing so with little to gain as a result. Her hair, her blood cells, her memory, all for a 2-3% benefit. To endure the lightening, the DS would lay prone in a chamber for 40 minutes per day for five days per week for six weeks and perhaps she would lose part of her heart to this lightening. The Shah of Lightening assured her that he would protect her heart with all his ability, and the Shah is a mighty warrior himself.

Thus knowing all of this, the Determined Storyteller chose to forgo the fire and will enter the Chamber of Lightening but first the Shah will make a map to show her the way.

When next we meet the Determined Storyteller, she will enter the Chamber of Lightening and grow nearer the end of this long long journey.

April 9, 2010, Burying Mom and Dad

2010-04-12T16:05:00.000-07:00

After many days of warm sunny weather, this day had to be cold and breezy, just the kind of weather my parents didn’t like because it went right through them and Dad had difficulty both with breathing in the cold but also with Raynaud. Yet the ceremony was warm just the same.

Thomas and I arrived ahead of the funeral director who brought the urn and the flag. Once they arrived, we followed them up the hill to the Bath National Cemetery in Bath, NY.

The cemetery is situated up the hill behind the Veteran’s Hospital complex. The complex is lovely with many buildings serving a variety of purposes from dorms to crafts and chapels. It is wooded with the treed foothills as a backdrop.

My first thought of the cemetery is that it was peaceful and serene, secluded as it is but that its military uniformity didn’t really match my family. Dad and Mom were nothing like other parents and I really wish we could have placed them somewhere that we could have a unique stone. But Dad was proud of his military service, as he was of the country he served, and so are we. It was fitting that he be buried in the place he wanted since so much of his last few years caring for Mom were out of his control as were the last seven weeks of his life. Perhaps he got that control back in this way.

When our vehicle rounded the bend we were met with the sight of two military personnel, dressed in their dress uniforms standing at attention. When the car carrying the urn passed, they slowly raised their hands in salute. It gave me chills and stirred my emotions.

We parked behind them and waited silently as the soldiers refolded the flag. The rest of our family began to arrive but I really wanted to stay engaged in that peaceful beautiful moment. Thomas gave me his arm and escorted me to one of the six seats facing a table overlooking the cemetery’s main monument and flagpole. It was downhill from where we sat and took a few moments for me to realize, but the honor guard of three soldiers assembled below us at attention.

The urn carrying my parent’s was carried somberly by the color guard to be placed on the table with the American flag before it. Our minster began with an introduction. He backed away and Blam! One rifle sounded. I jumped because it was so sudden. Tears welled in my eyes as I realized my dad was getting a gun salute. Blam! Another and then a third rang out. A three gun salute. By now I was crying so hard I almost couldn’t see the honor guard and then I heard the piercing sound of a trumpet from behind us. It was Taps, one of the most hauntingly beautiful tunes ever written, in my opinion. There is something about Taps that reaches way down inside you, much the same feeling I get from bagpipes which we had at the memorial. I was so touched and so proud of my papa. It was just so beautiful.

Next the color guard took up the flag and in perfect unison they unfolded and refolded the flag once more. A slow precise salute and it was handed off to the female soldier who turn slowly and approached were I sat. She knelt and placed the flag in my lap. "Mam, the country is grateful for your father’s service. We are sorry for your loss." More tears and the brief thought that I hate being called Mam, except for now. Now it was a great honor. I said "My family thanks you."

Aware that my sister sat beside me and not wanting her to feel left out, I took her hand and placed it on top of the flag in my lap and held it as the minister led us through the religious rites.
Following the actual ceremony which took place in a small shelter, we had to wait 30 minutes for the urn to be buried. We returned later, my sister, her husband and son, Thomas and myself. Trying not to step in the mud we placed roses on the grave.

It is still so hard to think of my tiny dear mother and my big strong Daddy as ashes in the ground. But just today I had a sudden revelation, something I have really known all along but needed the reminder, they are still with us not as ashes in the ground but changed into another form. Their bodies are things we can no longer touch and that is part of my sadness. I took to kissing them both on the foreheads in the past year and Dad always gave me great big bear hugs at bedtime when we stayed over. I’ll never have that again, but I will always have his humor and his thoughtfulness and my mom’s generosity and sensitivity. They are nearby, I call on them everyday. They are nearby.

Aftermath, Part III: An Epic Hero's Journey: The Determined Storyteller in the Battle against the Cave Monster

2010-04-12T05:35:00.001-07:00

When last we saw the Determined Storyteller, she stood beside the healing pool with the great healer, The Edge. He revealed that she must yet pass a trial before she could be rid of the monster that lurked in the cave. She must traverse fire and lightening, but had a choice of whether the trial by fire was needed - a choice that many never receive, both a curse and a blessing.

Traveling a short distance to the tent of the Shah of Lightening, the DS learned from him what would take place in the cavern of lightening and that she would endure it five days a week for seven weeks. There would be no pain but probable serious risks and discomfort. Next she will visit the Levine of Fire. Always courageous but uncertain of her own strength, the Determined Storyteller entered Levine's hut, her faithful Angel Thomas by her side.

Will the DS endure fire or enter the cavern of lightening? Watch for the next installment of The Determined Storyteller, the Aftermath.

Dad's Crows

2010-04-11T13:16:00.000-07:00

Fed the basement fish which will soon be outside again, the pond fish and the birds. Heard some crows cawing and thought of my dad.

He was never much on pets, not the way I am. He had some when he was a boy but they were outside dogs and cats and we had a family dog until I was eighteen when she was hit by a semi truck. She was allowed to roam the neighborhood and even when she slept indoors, and although she barked at my mom when mom sat on Dad’s lap, I never sensed a deep affection for the dog from my dad.

Dad loved wildlife animal shows on TV and in his last months, took up a profound friendship with two crows frequenting his yard. This struck me as odd because he never expressed that much interest in birds as such, that I recall.
He told me all about the crows’ antics and he was amazed by their intelligence. And what really surprised me was that Dad even saved scraps of bread and meat from his table to feed them, which he did every time he saw them.

Crows and ravens, as you may know, are harbingers of death. I guess I just find it ironic that my dad befriended them just before my mom passed and the last time I saw him before his hospital admission he was talking about how much he appreciated them.

Maybe there was a message in that for us. Death is a natural part of life and we can be appreciative of it. It doesn’t lessen the pain of losing our parents but it does remind us of the fact that we are all on a path toward death, so the journey really needs to be special.

The love Mom and Dad had for each other was very special. They almost made their 52nd anniversary. They are together, commingled in the urn now, for all time.

I wonder what the crows might think of that.

How does Audience Affect Story?

2010-04-08T08:25:00.000-07:00

Every now and then I receive email from students doing papers on storytelling. I recently received one with the following question. My reply is below.

I was wondering if I could ask you, as an award-winning storyteller, how different audiences affect and change your delivery of a story? Does it depend on who your audience is?

Live audience is everything. Try to imagine a written story without a live audience as existing on a single plane. Then take that same story and speak it out loud, still without an audience. It now has a second dimension but it lacks the luster that only a live audience can contribute. In going from print to spoken, the story has taken on some of the characteristics of the storyteller. There is no way to tell without those characteristics and they do change with each telling, just as the teller is not approaching the story from the same place each time. Both teller and story have a symbiotic relationship that morph with environmental, emotional, and experiential changes.

Now add the live audience to that same scenario. You have now added that third dimension that brings the story into full shape and off the page, just as seeing a movie in 3D. The story will take on the characteristics of the teller and both teller and story now use the audience. Likewise, the audience cannot help but be transformed by story and tellers so a new symbiotic relationship is formed. And, if I can add one more thing to think about, this power to transform story, teller, and listener is both creative and dangerous. It is why some people, Hitler for example, have been able to manipulate millions with a spoken word.

A Elegy for Dad

2010-04-04T09:06:00.000-07:00

I have a special journal I call my Book of Everyday Wonders. It is reserved for special shining moments in everyday life.

I never expected to write in it about death, and in fact I didn’t. I wrote about my mom when she passed December 12, 2009 and now about my dad who passed March 13, 2010, but these entries are about wonderful lives, not deaths. They belong in this book because Mom and Dad were beautiful shining moments in my life.

It is impossible to sum up 76 years in a short time, so I didn’t try. Instead I decided to share some highlights.

Mom and Dad were the constants in our lives. Friends, boyfriends, husbands, homes, and jobs changed, but Mom and Dad were always there, to love, to support, to advise, to cheer and to dry a tear.

From Dad, we got solid discipline. We learned to watch our money and to question those things that seemed like givens to everybody else, to be sure it was just right for us. Just because everybody else did it, didn’t mean it was the best decision or in our best interest. He taught us to stand on our own two feet.

From Dad, we learned about hard honest work and to be sure we knew what we were doing. He told us not to sign anything unless we read it. He once told me "Never make a bet you know you can’t win or a promise you can’t keep." You see, Mom and Dad both enjoyed games of chance but Dad also knew that he could only win at those things when he could use his skills. Who would place a bet if he knew he would lose? Not me. Dad taught me better.

Dad taught us the difference between a want and a need. Many times I said "Dad, I need it." If I said I needed a bike, Dad replied "You don’t need a bike, you need transportation. You want a bike." Knowing the difference between a want and a need helps us to be satisfied with what we have. Sometimes he drove us crazy, but it made us better people and more self-reliant.
And Dad was funny. Oh he could annoy us with his slow decision making but he delighted us with his humor, even when we were embarrassed by it.

He’d walk into a store and looking for the security camera, acting like a camera hound, all scrunched down and excited he’d say "Where’s the camera, where’s the camera." We begged him to stop but missed it when he didn’t do it.

Many times, I heard Dad ask a waitress if she had frog legs or chicken wings, then tell her to hop or fly and get him a drink of water. They always smiled at him, he was a charmer with his twinkling blue grey eyes. The server might ask "How was everything?" We all knew his reply before he spoke a word, "I don’t know. I didn’t have everything."

He even shared with me how when he was younger he’d bet the girls a nickle he could kiss them without touching them. Dad always carried a pocket full of quarters. I guess that was an exception to his betting rule.

He played lots of tricks and jokes on us. Every April Fools Day he woke us with the same joke "It’s snowing outside!" We were April Fools, we always fell for it. There was the bloody finger in the box and so many others.

Dad was my BFF, best friend forever, my dance partner, my favorite teacher. He taught me to ride my bike, pulled slivers from my fingers and dug cinders from my knees. He built a life for us that we are proud of, and he was proud of us.

In the end, it was us who worked for him, trying desperately to get him home. But he was in the hands of a higher power. God had a different home in mind for him and he’s there now, with Mom.

When I was four years old, I asked Mom for a new dad. She was divorced and dating. They married on my birthday. He was my best gift ever and I am grateful for the 52 years we had and for everything he gave me.

Dad, you are already missed and I will love you forever.

Scotland the Brave
Hark when the night is fallingHear!
Hear the pipes are calling,
Loudly and proudly calling,
Down thro' the glen.
There where the hills are sleeping,
Now feel the blood a-leaping,
High as the spirits of the old Highland men.

Towering in gallant fame,
Scotland my mountain hame,
High may your proud standards gloriously wave,
Land of my high endeavour,
Land of the shining river,
Land of my heart for ever,
Scotland the brave.

High in the misty Highlands,
Out by the purple islands,
Brave are the hearts that beat Beneath Scottish skies.
Wild are the winds to meet you,
Staunch are the friends that greet you,
Kind as the love that shines from fair maiden's eyes.

Far off in sunlit places,
Sad are the Scottish faces,
Yearning to feel the kiss Of sweet Scottish rain.
Where tropic skies are beaming,
Love sets the heart a-dreaming,
Longing and dreaming for the homeland again.
　
Clan Ranald: My Hope is Constant in Thee
Long Live MacDonald!

Life is a Song

2010-04-03T04:15:00.000-07:00

Woke up this morning with family stuff in my head but when I got to the bathroom, which has a window overlooking our beautiful yard, I heard a sound. I opened the window and stood as a robin on the garage roof serenaded me. And the whole world was filled with song. Life is a song you know, and we can either turn it off or learn to dance. I prefer dancing.

Treasure in the Mail

2010-03-29T05:19:00.000-07:00

Oh the treasure. There was an overstuffed envelope in my mail Saturday. Opened it last night to finish my day. It was packed full of all sizes, colors, and shapes of thank you notes for the storytelling coaching I did at Nichols School last Friday. One was even an origami note. Seems the kids favorite story that I told was my version of Pandora's Box. And they said that my coaching made their stories better when they performed for the younger children the following week. Love my work :D

As things get back to normal, sort of.

2010-03-28T07:58:00.000-07:00

What a wonderful weekend! The site for the Ice Dragon event was the armory on Connecticut Street in Buffalo, a castle! Congratulations to the event coordinators. That was a lot of work and it all seemed to go very very smoothly. If there were glitches, we didn't see them and that is a tribute too. When the hosts can weave magic for the guests and the guests never see the seams of the tapestry as they move through it, that is success.

I loved meeting some of you for the first time and seeing others I know very well. Thanks for visiting my merchant booth and giving me all those lovely hugs and sweet smiles. Sales were down this year but we paid for the space and made enough to purchase more lovely things for Pennsic.

We had a great time housing guests. They bought us pizza last night and we cooked them a nice little scamble this morning. They are on the road toward home and we are tidying up. Unlike the past several weeks, things are laid back. I even got to plant my windowsill herb garden that Thomas gave me for Christmas. It was so refreshing to get my hands in the dirt.

Now Kashka kitty can come out from hiding, the sun is breaking through the clouds, and we feel alive. Really, could we ask for more than that?

While the road ahead is still very long, the journey is so much easier because you are traveling by our sides.
Love to all!

Aftermath, Part II: An Epic Hero's Journey: The Determined Storyteller in the Battle against the Cave Monster

2010-03-18T09:35:00.000-07:00

The Determined Storyteller stood with the healer, Edge, gazing into the crystal pool of seeing. Edge waved his hand above the waters.

"DS, I see no other monsters in this cave. We slew the one and it had no seeds, but we can never be certain."
"What does this mean?" asked our inquisitive heroine.
"You must endure lightening strikes DS but you may choose whether you wish to walk through fire."
"Why healer? Why would I choose to walk through fire if I do not have to?"

Edge waved his hand once more over the water and the DS saw a monster much like the one she had slain with Edge’s help.

"Sometimes this creature will replicate itself and live elsewhere. But DS, the chance is very small that you will see it again."

The Determined Storyteller understood.

Should she endure fire and lightening to make sure that she is truly rid of this monster? Or should she choose the lightening alone?

As she contemplated this she heard a voice inside her head, "We are given choices and journeys for a reason. You must figure out why you have been given this task."

Will the Determined Storyteller endure both fire and lightening, or will she choose only the one? Stay tuned for the next episode in the Aftermath.

Aftermath, Part I: An Epic Hero's Journey: The Determined Storyteller in the Battle against the Cave Monster

2010-03-13T05:53:00.000-08:00

Aftermath: Part I.

In a hero's journey, the hero will be reluctant, accepting and eventually complete a task. Sometimes this is the end of the story, but in many cases there will be a rebuilding or wrap-up of the story called an aftermath.

In the story of the Determined Storyteller and the Cave Monster, the DS defeated the monster but with cancer, removal of the tumor does not mean the end of the journey. Sometimes it requires chemotherapy and radiation treatments to be sure that no rogue cells traveled to other organs or parts of the body. These treatments will often not begin until a month after surgery and the DS will not know what her future holds until she visits the healers a week after surgery for her post operative visit. It will be years before the healers proclaim complete remission, there is always a chance the monster will return. Thus Part I of the Aftermath just to keep readers informed of her progress.

Having defeated the monster in the cave, our illustrious heroine, the Determined Storyteller wounded and bandaged in the Towel of the Galaxy, was carried from the cave by the Healer and Seer known as Edge. Her armies chanted healing songs for her.

The DS was placed in a mountain pool, beneath a waterfall of clear fresh, not overly cold but mildly warm water, that trickled across her aching shoulders and tired back. The dressings of her wounds were removed to reveal the able work of the healer, Edge. And soon she awakened from her magic sleep to find her father once more in the keeping of angels and healers who worked tirelessly to remove the stubborn ogre from his chest.

A mighty cheer went up from the army who waited news of her status. And it was proclaimed that the Determined Storyteller would remain Determined, though scarred from battle, she would go on to fight again wherever she was needed.

Was her battle with the monster at an end? Not quite. He might return someday but not for a long time. Yet, she might need endure fire to make sure that no others were left behind. All will be revealed in the days to come.

The DS will prevail!

2010-03-11T08:02:00.000-08:00

Final Installment: An Epic Hero's Journey: The Determined Storyteller in the Battle against the Cave Monster: The Final Foray

Drawing deep from the magic fountain at her father’s castle, a pure “spring of strength that when sipped imparts refreshment and healing,” the Determined Storyteller returned to the cave to finally see the face of the monster. Healers advised her that he was not alone but was the only one with any power, and that power was small. The next morning, just at sunrise, the DS would meet her foe.

The Determined Storyteller entered the monster's cave, but her way was blocked by a great Seer and Healer known to all as Edge. She gazed into the Seer's pool. "The monster is as small as it can be but we cannot know as yet if it has spread its seeds throughout the cave. Yet know this DS, you shall not lose as much as had troubled your brow. Though your brow may be more visual to the world.”

The armies of the DS could not enter the small cave with her but remained fully armed and at the ready should she need them.

Edge escorted the DS into the cave and with swords drawn the battle began.
“Do not look into his face DS!” the Healer warned. “Use the mirrored shield to guide you. I will cut off his retreat.”

The Blessed Blade flashed as the DS tossed glowing orbs into the darkness. Singing Happy Birthday as she went (for some unknown reason this song holds great power), the DS glanced into the shield and saw a tiny being cowering in the corner. Looking much like a ragged old man the DS approached with caution. As she did the being leapt full force upon her, biting deep into the flesh beneath her arm. The DS tossed him free, Edge struck at him from behind but he leapt once more, biting straight through the platinum breastplate of our heroine. She cried in pain but found her courage “Rannvieger!!!!!,” she cried. And the Blessed Sword bit into the creature’s side. The Healer Edge thrust his blade too and together the monster was slain.

The Healer acted quickly to stay the bleeding in the DS’s chest by wrapping the magic towel of the galaxy around the wound. The DS swooned and was carried from the cave, laid before her army and they began to chant a healing song. Edge returned to the cave to seek any young that might have been planted in the cave walls only to return to tell the assembled that none were found and the DS’s battle against the monster was complete.

Only the days ahead will tell what healing remains for our stalwart heroine. Her armies know she has the courage and will prevail. The DS knows that without her armies and the grace of higher powers she would be nothing and she is grateful.

The war is not over but the battle is won.

Installment Six: An Epic Hero's Journey: The Determined Storyteller in the Battle against the Cave Monster: Battles on Many Fronts

2010-03-11T07:33:00.000-08:00

Installment Six: Battle on Many Fronts

When last we saw the Determined Storyteller, she rested comfortably with her armies near the Healing Pool. Challenged by the monster in the cave that called itself “Cancer!” the DS received yet another call to go to her father’s aid. His castle was under attack. The Determined Storyteller could have remained at the cave to see the face of the monster revealed by the Healers or go to her father’s rescue. But was it really a choice? No. She knew what she had to do and her armies departed for the castle.

The forces of darkness were already deeply entrenched by the time the DS arrived. Defeating them would not be easy and the battle raged for weeks only to the find the DS father cast out of his lands and into an unknown dangerous wood where he alone could travel and he alone must defeat his foe.

Leaving angels and warriors to watch over the wild woods, our heroine returned once more to the cave where the monster shouted, “Storyteller! There are more here waiting for you, and one larger than me!”

The hideous creature’s plan was to undermine the courage of our heroine and it would seem to be doing its work for the DS was now uncertain if she had the strength and courage to fight more than one at a time. She sought the healers for their advice.

“Oh storyteller,” they replied. While there are others in the cave, the monster lies. The largest of them is harmless, toothless, and benign. You can easily pass them and defeat this tiny monster with such a large voice. His bite is puny.”

Relieved and renewed by their wisdom, the Determined Storyteller, sharpened her sword and waiting patiently until she would have all the facts that surrounded this foe. “Tis good to know your enemy. It is easier then to defeat him.”

And now came an old and trusted friend of the DS, Robert of Bajak who deployed prayer warriors and angels to encamp around her. The army grew, some still working to defend her father who was trapped in the wild wood with an ogre sitting on his chest. This friend, RB went to warrior women that he knew who have successfully defeated these creatures of darkness and shared the saga with them. Approving of the candor and offensive the DS had adopted, the warrior women proclaimed that she has the heart of a warrior and added their support. They sent RB on his way with much positive energy to be absorbed by the DS. The Determined Storyteller was grateful beyond words.

The battle at the castle of the Determined Storyteller's father was now at a watchful rest, but some of her warriors had been called away to tend their own battles. In honor of friends who are on the unknown journey for their own loved ones this day, the D.S. dispatched angels and warriors their way. Oh faithful friends, you are not alone. And we will overcome.

Installment Five: An Epic Hero's Journey: The Determined Storyteller in the Battle against the Cave Monster: The Healing Pool

2010-03-09T05:05:00.000-08:00

Installment Five: The Healing Pool

When last we saw our courageous DS, she heard for the first time, the monster in the cave. He threatened her but the Determined Storyteller would not be daunted. Our heroine also faced a new foe, one that attacked her father and she was forced to choose which way to turn.

Even as the DS turned to aid her father, she heard a sound from inside a cave niche that beckoned to her and she knew she must follow.

Inside the niche the DS saw a healing pool but as she neared the sound that called grew louder and became a drone. There was a bed of rock on which the DS was compelled to lie prone, face down and still. A light appeared and moved over her, a magical test from an unseen source. And then Van Morrison was singing in her ears...”It's a marvelous night for a moondance,” and “On the bright side of the road.” She wanted to dance but couldn't, but in her mind she boogied down and she smiled.

Leaving the cave once more, our smiling heroine met legends of angels and warriors who gathered around her and they marched to defend her father’s castle.

The minions of darkness were no match for the light and the DS’s father was released from their grasp. He was floated safely on the wings of light to another plane to rest and recuperate.

Our heroine, she who shags out dust bunnies and dirty dishes, turned once more to the cave of the monster who had called her to battle. She knew she would be tested many times in the days to come and when all is ready she will face that invader of darkness. Its face would soon be revealed.

Entering the niche once more, the DS closed her eyes beside a still pool and felt her breath and found her inner self. “I surrender not to the enemy but to that which must be done. Come oh courage for we will not fail. We will be victorious.”

Though she could not yet see its face, the Determined Storyteller heard the monster call again, "There are more of us, you know. And one bigger than I. We will destroy you!"

The calm of the healing pool surrounded the DS, she asked the powers that be to gaze again into their magic pool to see if these creatures did exist or if the monster was trying to trick her into submission. “I will not be defeated or daunted or stopped,” she said. Yet “truth” was not yet within her grasp.

She prepared for sleep, knowing that in the morning she may be called to visit the wise healer who would reveal the monster's secrets. Though her mind swam with thoughts, exhaustion of the journey carried her to dreams. Angels guarded her and the mighty army of warriors as they found peaceful slumber.

Let go your cares for night has come and we are meant to rest.

Dealing with Healing and Grief

2010-03-07T17:12:00.000-08:00

With so much going on in my life for the past six weeks, or six months if you count all the loss, I have come to a point of realizing the need to find ways to cope. I am a very strong person who believes there are no accidents in life and everything we go through has a purpose, but when in the middle of so much shadow and turmoil, it is also necessary to deal with the real feelings.

There are times I have felt my heart racing and my stomach turning. There have been times of so much sorrow I think I might explode. And also times of remarkable peace. It has been interesting to try to figure out when these feelings come and go, what causes them and find ways to use them beneficially.

For instance, recently after visiting my dad in the hospital and realizing we may be losing him in spite of all our energy and effort to save a beautiful man, I came to a place of knowing that I needed Dad Free Zones and Times. It doesn't mean I don't love him. My love for my dad is deeper than almost any love I have for anyone, which is what makes losing him so painful. But without these zones, I might go crazy. And it is hard because my dad has a real zest for life. He is my best teacher, my jitterbug partner and a hard worker. Every time I turn around I find myself in the middle of something I know he would love, including dinner time. But dinner time has to be a Dad Free Time. The same is true of my own health issues right now. They are not allowed at dinner or TV time with Thomas. If my mind starts to wander, Thomas has permission to change the subject, and I can do the same for him.

I also discovered that if I feel myself slipping into morose, I can suck on a lemon wedge. I was reminded by a friend that this may not be good for my teeth, so I will remember to rinse afterward. But nothing brings you back to reality like a sour lemon.

Time also slips away quickly when you are worried about a loved one, your health, or almost anything. It is easy to lose track of important engagements and deadlines. Take lots of notes, a deep breath, and just do what you can in small bits.

Also, allow yourself to feel. Just as Stress Free Zones are necessary, it is also necessary to cry, scream, throw a tantrum (for yourself within safe settings) or punch a punching bag. Hold a good old fashioned pity party, but make sure you come back into the light.

Looking for Miracles / Finding Grace

2010-03-06T10:48:00.001-08:00

Yes I am hoping for a huge miracle for my dad as things do not look promising right now. And as for my own diagnosis, I don't want to deal with this. But I'm not the first woman to go through it and I am lucky it has been found early. That's a miracle. I think my doctor is a hero for finding it.

The miracle of my parent's 51 years together is something to acknowledge and perhaps their deep love for each other is why dad now stands at the door. And there is the miracle of Gilda's Club finding me before we knew we needed each other.

It is human nature to try to make sense of the senseless and to understand why and how something happens. It is part of the grieving process too. There is a need to order things in some way to help ourselves cope, it is empowering.
So I find myself asking, why did we lose our old old dog, followed by my mom, now possibly my dad and why did I get my diagnosis at the same time? First reaction is to say it just isn't fair! But does fairness really have anything to do with it? Is there any sense that can be made of it?

Here is something I've been thinking about, though it really doesn't make it hurt any less, it does help me see the forces that work through our lives and perhaps it helps to let go a little and give the reins to a higher power.
When our dog Merlin was younger we used to take him everywhere with us, but in his last two years he couldn't go anywhere and Thomas carried him up and down the stairs. That meant we could not travel together. We looked for the silver lining and realized after he passed, we could now travel and had planned a nice vacation, however things have altered those plans slightly. The good news is that I don't have to be alone.
Anyway, if Merlin were still alive, we could not have been together away from home to help my dad with mom's affairs or to help dad now. And Dad was mom's caregiver. If she were still alive when he is now so ill, I don't think she would have done too well with it. As for me, neither of parents may ever know what I am going through and that is a blessing. Is that a miracle too? And how about the fact that I had some regular storytelling programs cancelled due to the economy and testing, and some that decided to move their programs to April, May and June. Now I won't have to cancel them or at least can make other arrangements around them.
As much as I don't want to have any of this to deal with, I sure can see the miracles at work and I think maybe some angels are looking over my shoulder.
My goal is to keep moving forward with everything I do and plan to do, to be as cheerful and happy as I can, and if you ask me how I am doing, expect me to turn it back to you. How are you doing? That is how I am doing.

An Epic Hero's Journey: The Determined Storyteller in the Battle against the Cave Monster: The Battle for Father

2010-03-03T10:42:00.000-08:00

Installment Four: The Battle for Father

Having fought the Gatekeeper and being given passage to the cave interiors, The Determined Storyteller’s wounds were cared for by her many friends, and army that gathered. Still uncertain of her destiny, the DS arms herself to face an unknown enemy. She is given a platinum breastplate, the Blessed Blade, a magic torch, a basket of glowing orbs, and a bodyguard.
More determined than ever to find the courage needed to take this journey our trusty heroine was knocked from her feet by an unseen force and called to help her father whose castle was suddenly and unpredictably under attack. How can our Determined Storyteller fight on two fronts? How can anyone be expected to succeed in such a quest?
Turning to leave the cave to go to her father’s aid the DS finds a great and mighty army has gathered with bows and spears and a company of angels. Perhaps there is hope. But from inside the cave, even as she gives the command to march, a sinister voice is heard.

“Foolish Mortal! I am CANCER and I have you now!"
Turning back toward the cave for one brief moment before going to her father the DS replied in an even and forthright tone, "Oh yeh sucker, well come and taste my blade."
Will the DS and her army stay to fight the monster or help her father first? Will the monster in the cave show itself in the light or cower in the dark? Will the DS’s father be rescued?

Stayed tuned for part Five: The Healing Pool

An Epic Hero's Journey: The Determined Storyteller in the Battle against the Cave Monster: the GateKeeper

2010-03-02T11:22:00.000-08:00

Installment Three: The Gatekeeper

In the Determined Storyteller’s journey now begun in our last episode, she entered a mysterious dark cave without fear for the light of many friends who gathered around her lighted her way.
Entering the cave the DS was startled to find the Gatekeeper, the one who stands between all heroes and the quest. Neither male nor female but a cat of large proportions the Gatekeeper’s voice echoed from the cave walls.
"All who enter here must first pass me. I am here to help you but it will not be easy."

In one swift move the Gatekeeper’s mighty claw lashed out wounding our stalwart heroine and withdrawing blood and flesh. The DS felt a fury like no other and a will to strike back, only to have a gentle paw placed upon her sword hand.
“Strike me not oh Hero, for you have passed the first test. Those of us who have been sent to help you in your quest now know the path that opens before you. Save your fury for the monster you must slay.”
The Determined Storyteller wished to ask more questions but sensed that answers would be revealed not at this time, but later. She sheathed her sword.

An Epic Hero's Journey: The Determined Storyteller in the Battle against the Cave Monster: the Cave

2010-02-26T08:03:00.000-08:00

In our last installment of The Determined Storyteller, our daring heroine leapt from the cliff into an unknown chasm. Armed only with a towel given to her by a stalwart friend, R.B. who claims it was the original towel from Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, the D.S. opened it as a parachute and glided easily to the chasm floor. Landing softly at the bottom, the D.S. found a place of astonishing roughness with little beauty to behold. Surrounded by steep cliff walls and barren growth that had tried to makes its way to the sun, the chasm stretched before her toward the mouth a darkened cave. A knot twisted in our heroine’s stomach as she realized that the leap of faith into the chasm was not the journey’s end but only its beginning. The cave, she knew, held the answers she sought, the truth she needed and feared at the same time, but it was dark and she did not wish to enter it alone.

The D.S. stood before the cave, tasting fear in her mouth and wondering if truth was worth the risk, when all at once a glimmer caught her eye. There among the rocks was a flash of something metallic, a shield. As the D.S. bent to pick it up she heard a voice within her head, "Your friends are behind you." Turning the D.S. saw a mighty throng of smiling faces, too many to count.

“You have no weapons?” she asked. Then she saw each friend carried a lit candle in one hand. She smiled, "Ah. You will help light the way."

And the Determined Storyteller set first one foot and then the other inside the cave. The journey had begun.

An Epic Hero's Journey: The Determined Storyteller in the Battle against the Cave Monster: the Chasm

2010-02-16T08:11:00.000-08:00

It was a dark and stormy night. The Determined Storyteller, slayer of dust bunnies and clutter eliminator, traveled alone at the edge of a forbidding chasm. Summoning her unfathomable courage, she peered into the gaping darkness below. Truth was there, someplace below, someplace unreachable. Was it worth pursuing? Or was it better to wait until truth found her? Or would the chasm follow her forever? Others stood there before her. She felt their presence, Deidre, Mary, Laura, Debra, Leanne and countless others whose names she did not know. Some sought the truth, some feared it, and some chose to walk away and not to know. The D.S. questioned her own courage, her own need to seek the truth at all cost, and knew that if she did not seek it all who perished or fought in this place would not rest and would haunt her for ignoring their sacrifices. The D.S. knew that she must make the leap into the darkness to honor their lives.

She wondered, "What is in there? Will I get the answer I hope for? Or is something sinister waiting to devour me?"

There was only one way to find out. She did the only thing that could answer her question, the D.S. leapt.

An Epic Hero's Journey: The beginning

2010-02-16T08:09:00.000-08:00

I teach about the hero's journey as part of my healing story work. I use it in both my work and for personal support.
The hero is not necessarily an outwardly unique individual. He or she blends in with the crowd and at least when undertaking the first adventure, the hero is reluctant. He or she does not ask to be called to action and prefers to live a quiet peaceful existence with as little struggle as possible. Unlike an adventurer, the hero is not looking for personal gain and does not thrive on an adrenaline rush. Perhaps it is for this reason the hero will stand out once she accepts the call; her ego does not need to be served.

We might embark on a hero's journey many times in life, some will be small and some will be larger undertakings. These journeys may be easy or difficult. We may find the journey to be a straight path from start to finish or we may find we have many battles to fight before we even see the end of the journey. Most often, the road is twisting, a circle, or spiraled at the center before emerging at the other end.

My current hero's journey is more an epic that began in September 2009 with the passing of my eighteen-year-old dog after a long time of his struggling to walk. In early November, I brought my largest pond fish indoors for the winter and Big Fish, a koi I had raised for 15 years, jumped out of the tank to his doom. Funny as that may seem, it made me feel inept at caring for the life around me. Then, on December 12, 2009, my mother passed from a long-term illness. While I had said goodbye many times over, actually each time I left her, it was a tragedy because she was due to come home from rehab that same week. My dad was devastated.

Around January 20, during my annual physical, my doctor felt a lump in my breast. I had a core biopsy on January 29th and later that same day received a call that my dad, who had just driven to the Catskills to visit his brother and home again, was rushed to the hospital with breathing difficulties. He spent the next eight days in ICU. In that span of time, my biopsy returned as malignant. I was diagnosed with breast cancer. (You will note I did not say “I have” cancer. The wording of healing is very important. Cancer became a character in my story, the villain, not a part of myself.)

As I write this, Dad has gone from the ICU to his own room for three more days to rehab for one day during which he was rushed to the hospital twice and there to stay, finally moved back to ICU and not in good condition. I have had two biopsies, with ultra sounds and MRIs and still know nothing except the first biopsy result. It is February 16, 2010.

As with the hero, I was reluctant. “Why me?” I asked. “How can I manage all of this? It must be a bad dream.” And it has been the hardest thing I have ever done and I am not sure I can do it or for how long I can maintain composure and a stiff upper lip. I do not know if I have the courage to do what must be done and I do not know how I will fair. But one thing I do know, if my story honors the lives of those who have gone before me and helps just one person to face their journey, I must tell the story.

The Determined Storyteller is my archetypal heroine who allows me to step back from my own overwhelming emotions and see the facts more clearly. She was developed to help me clean house and straighten out my schedule and meet small crisis in my daily work. This character also helps me story this experience larger than life so I can write into it whatever I want the story to be and those who are reading may also be able to stand at a safe distance and take the journey with me.

Using Storytelling to Teach Math

2010-02-10T09:09:00.000-08:00

A Math Story

I was recently asked to tutor an eight-year-old girl in math. Her problem was subtraction, especially when the number on the top was smaller than the one on the bottom and she had to borrow. Numbers with many zeroes sent her into a panic and she shut down completely, refusing to do any work.

When I teach, I automatically go into storyteller mode and it only made sense to find a way to help this girl subtract by using a story to help her remember the steps.

Step One: The first thing I needed to do was help her line up her columns, so we built houses.

Each column of numbers, ones, tens, hundreds, thousands, ten thousands and so on, became a house. Each house had a second floor and a bottom floor, represented by the numbers we were using. Each house also had an attic where our borrowed numbers went and a basement where our answers went. Depending on the place values the story might sound like this.

Step Two: “There were four houses. Mr. Two lived in the first house. Can we subtract 5 from 2? No. So, Mr. Two had to go next door to Miss Six's house and he said “Gimme ten!”

In this case Miss Six is large enough to give a ten to Mr. Two so she does. “And Miss Six got smaller. Mr. Two got larger.”

I taught my student to cross out the six and make it a five then place a one next to the 2 in the first house. While it would be better if she really understood the concept of ones, tens, hundreds place and so on, and that the one next to the two was really ten borrowed from the tens’ place, that was not my job at that time.

The student crossed out Miss Six and wrote a 5 in the attic.

Step Three: “Now do the subtraction. What number goes in the basement?” Write your answer in 5's basement (in the first house).

Step Four: “Now let's look at the second house. Can we subtract 6 from 5? No. So, Miss Five has to borrow from Mrs. Two in the third house. What does she say?” The student answered “Gimme ten!”

We worked on this for several sessions until she would sit down at the problem and start drawing houses and telling the story without my prompting and with very little reminder of the story. Each session that she became more confident made it easier to introduce more difficult problems until we finally did an all zeroes problem. When I felt it was needed, I introduced a game. I made my student the math detective and told her we now needed to make sure we checked the basement work by adding our numbers from the basement and the first floor to get the answers in the second floor or attic.

I created a game board about getting the bad guy to jail. Each time she remembered to build the houses without prompting, her playing piece (in this case a star) made it one block toward the jail. If she remembered to borrow and cross out the old number, her piece got closer still. Once her bad guy got to jail, we extended the game to court and then to a cell. When her bad guy got to the cell, she made Math Captain! Eventually she made Math Chief, but this only happened when she remembered to investigate the scene of the crime, in other words check her work by adding.
By the time my student was learning to check her work she had already internalized the story so that she did the work in her head and before too long, she stopped building the houses but just did the problem the way everyone else does. It was so exciting to see this process and watch her level of confidence grow. Getting my student to remember to check her work is something we just need to keep doing, especially when she discovers that her answer is wrong. She shuts down again. Practice will help this. When she does remember and her answer is right, it is so wonderful to see her face light up. I made a little sign to put in front of her SaC, Subtract and Check. Eventually checking should become part of her routine in all her work. We have now moved on to telling time.

A Quiet Stranger by Lorna Czarnota

2009-12-24T08:32:00.000-08:00

CopyrightCzarnota2009
No portion of this story may be duplicated in any form without permission from the author.

I remember when I was a young teen, I went someplace with my mom and she left her purse sitting on a table or in a shopping cart unattended.

I asked, “Aren’t you going to take your purse? Somebody might steal it.”

Her reply to me was “If somebody takes it, they needed it more than I do.”

We lived in a different time. We lived in a time when people seldom stole things they didn’t need. Oh yes, there have always been bandits but they almost never bothered everyday people. People who stole from folks like my family would have been so hungry they would perish without the food or their families so in need. As far as I can recall, nobody would have stolen from us just to feed a drug habit or because they wanted more “bling.” Times are different now and I don’t advocate anyone leaving belongings sitting around. It makes me sad to have to say so.

Once, when my Nana was a young woman she said she and her husband went to a conference in Boston. She was always a well-dressed woman and wore her usual high heels. While her husband went to the conference, she walked, toured and went shopping. The heels were hard on her feet so she stopped at a shoe store. According to Nana, she drove the salesman crazy as she tried almost every shoe they had. In the end, she found the perfect pair, but alas when going to pay for them, realized she had no money. The whole day had passed and she was so disappointed. But Nana also lived in a different time. Seeing her dilemma and disappointment, the owner of the store said, “You just wear those shoes and when you have time come back and pay for them.” Nana did just that. Now, this might happen in a small neighborhood store today, but Nana was a stranger in a strange city. That most likely would not happen today.

Both of these incidents and these wonderful women, my mom and my Nana, taught me a valuable lesson that I have carried with me into adulthood. As the saying goes “Be kind to strangers because you never know when you might be in the presence of angels.” I believe that. They are with us everywhere. The following is a story I wrote to honor this idea. My mother inspired it.

A Quiet Stranger by Lorna MacDonald Czarnota (In loving memory of Mom 1928-2009.)

Two sisters sat with their mending in their laps one late chill spring night. The small lantern and a meager fire in the hearth were their only sources of light and rain pummeled the roof of their tiny two-room house.

It had been three years since their father passed, an old man and well loved. Their mother had been gone almost as long as they had been alive; it seemed to them only yesterday.

Never having much in the way of wealth, the two had each other. They took in mending and laundry from the village at the foot of the mountain; a good long walk to travel with their finished work.

Suddenly the two were startled from their half sleep, the work of the day still heavy in their hands. It was a knock on the door.

“Who might call at such an hour?” asked the eldest.

“And in such a storm?” said the youngest.

Thinking that it must surely be an emergency for someone to be there under these conditions, but living alone in so far a place, the two went arm-in-arm to the door.

“Who is there?” asked the eldest. There was no reply, but another hard knock.

She opened the door slowly while her younger sister stood just behind her, gazing over her right shoulder.

As the door swung into the house, by the faint light of the lantern, the girls could just make out a cloaked tiny figure. A slight voice, no more than a hollow whisper issued from beneath the hood.

“It is cold and wet. A bed and something to eat?”

What could the two sisters do but allow this tiny being to enter from the rain? Just inside the door they stood as the visitor entered, never removing the hood but walking straight to the fireplace and holding out two small and wrinkled hands.

“Our father would have bade you welcome were he alive,” the older sister spoke with good intent.

“But you do not?” the hooded voice asked.

Now the youngest girl spoke up. “We do, but we have little to offer.”

“Only broth that is left from our last meal,” said the eldest.

Now, those old hands reached up and pulled back the hood to reveal a silver haired woman of ancient age. “Broth and the floor by your fire is enough.”

The girls motioned this strange woman to sit at the table and brought her broth. She sipped and slurped and drank the final drop of what was in the wooden bowl. As she did, her eyes widened in surprise for indeed while the small house was plain, the inside bottom of the bowl was elaborately carved.

“This is a lovely thing,” she said in the raspy voice of someone so aged.

Almost as quickly as she had finished the broth, at her words, the youngest sister grabbed the bowl from her hands, rinsed it and placed it back on the mantel where it was kept and said, “It was our mother’s. Father carved it with his own hands as a wedding gift. We cherish it greatly.”

“Indeed.” The visitor said. “And might I have a drink of water?”

The eldest sister picked up the pewter cup that sat beside the bowl and filled it, not with water but with a little warm wine. “Drink this. It will help with the cold.”

The old woman drank and remarked at the lovely cup. “Also your mother’s?”

The sisters nodded.

“And that book too?” the visitor asked pointing to the mantel with a boney finger.

The youngest sister took up the book, its binding broken and pages nearly falling out. She clutched it to her breast. “Yes. Mama always read us a story at bedtime from this book and we still read to each other.”

The old woman said nothing but nodding her understanding, rose and spread her cloak by the fireside to lie on the hard dirt floor. Before she could do so, the eldest sister brought a straw mat from their own bed.

“We had two. This at least should help.”

Still the stranger was quiet. She lay upon the mat, her cloak over her and soon fell asleep. The girls read softly as they always did and then tiptoed to their own room. The youngest, uncertain of their safety with a stranger in the house, pulled the bolt on their door.

The night passed quietly without so much as a breeze at the window. The sisters went to the main room to break their fast and feed their guest but already the old woman was gone, the mat neatly rolled, and the door closed snuggly.

“Not so much as thank you,” said the youngest girl with a look of disgust. She bent to stir a coal from beneath the ashes to make a fire to warm their water when her eyes froze at the empty mantel. She was silent in disbelief for a breath. “Gone! They are all gone! The cup, the bowl our book!”

Her sister joined her side looking as if they might have fallen onto the floor.

“That old crow has stolen them!” the youngest roared. “Why would she take them?”

Although her sister was as disappointed and perhaps even angered at the theft, she recalled their father’s words, “Perhaps she needed them more than we.”

“Nonetheless, it was wrong,” the youngest said.

“Wrong or not, our father would forget it.”

And so they did. Though the empty mantel stared at them and they missed their only treasures, those things that held their memories were but things after all. As time passed they once more found the memories and even recalled the many stories held within the book so that they told them rather than read each night as they prepared for bed. The old visitor had become a shadow, faint and distant when the snows of an early winter began to fall.

So far from the village and atop the mountain, it was not long for the snow to pile up beneath the windows of that house. What scraps of cloth remaining from their mending, the girls stuffed in the cracks to keep the wind at bay. And now the nights were long and their food was that which they had stored through the year in a root cellar. The fire at the hearth was used sparingly so that the woodpile would last all winter long. The lantern burned only when necessary and the girls burrowed beneath their quilts for warmth.

Late October and November passed slowly. December came and with it the promise of Christmas and remembrances of those they had lost over the years. The two sisters secretly made gifts for each other, out of whatever they could find; beautiful simple things by hand, with love and joyfully made. One was wrapped in an old piece of satin from someone’s dress the girls had shortened; another was wrapped in moss harvested in the fall from beneath the old apple tree on the hillside. The cold was now outside the house, and all the warmth of the Holiday upon them.

The sisters giggled and poked each other in the side as they made a warm breakfast on Christmas morning and tied ribbons in each other’s hair. It was at that moment of absolute joy that they heard a familiar knock upon the door. A hard knock, a knock they had heard on a chill spring night months ago.

The two froze at the sound and looked at each other. The youngest sister took her gifts and hid them, afraid that the old woman had returned to take the last of their joys. The oldest sister was reluctant to open the door but thought perhaps it was a neighbor from the distant village. They walked slowly to the door, even as another knocked resounded. It made them jump at its insistence.

“Who is there?” they called and as before there was no reply.

“It’s her,” the younger sister said placing her hand atop the others. “Don’t open it.”

The sunlight of the morning through a nearby window warmed their faces.

“Look out the window first.”

Understanding her sister’s concerns, the older girl did look out the window and much to her surprise found nobody standing at the door.

“Whoever it was, they are gone,” she said.

“What?” exclaimed the youngest and out of curiosity she threw the door open.

Her sister was right, there was no one there. In fact there were not even footprints leading to their door, but on the stoop there was a covered basket with a note attached to it.

The girls stepped out into the morning, looking left and right and confirming no footprints in sight anywhere. Surprised and curious they drew the basket into the house and placed it on the table. The youngest took the note.

“What does it say?” asked her sister looking over her shoulder to read with her.

“When I came to call and was in need you cared for me with the best and all of what you had. In my need and haste I took these things from you. I now return them as they were but changed in ways I trust will give you comfort.”

The girls gazed into the basket to find the cup and bowl their father had given to their mother as a wedding gift. The note said,

“This is a cup of never ending drink, never will you thirst. And this bowl is now a bowl of plenty, never will you hunger.”

But the book their mother had read to them was not inside the basket. Instead the sisters found a book of fine leather with beautiful gold leaf pages and a note that read,

“I could not save your book for I read it every night until the pages disappeared. I send you this book of the same stories and many more to warm your nights and make light your hearts.”

The note was simply signed “A Quiet Stranger.”

And as the stories say "They Lived Happily Ever After."

May this Holiday bring you the comfort of your labors and the knowledge that you will always find what you need, when you most need it. May your angels be abundant.
Merry Christmas!

Re-storying: Changing the course of your future through the story you tell about yourself.

2009-12-01T09:06:00.000-08:00

Upon being sick recently, a dear friend made the suggestion to re-story my health. In other words, to tell myself I am healthy and whole. She was right of course, but re-storying is more than just positive thinking. It requires an in-depth look at the story we are telling, an understanding of what that story means, and enough imagination to change the course of that story toward a new ending. And, you must believe it will work.

A basic understanding of story structure, particularly of the hero’s journey tale is important too.

Story Structure

Story structure looks a lot like a roller coaster ride with a very gradual rise to the top and a steep quick run down the other side. Some stories will have many such rises and falls, each one getting smaller in size until a final episode wraps up the whole thing. But most stories can be looked at as one hill. The most level part at the beginning introduces setting, time, characters and sometimes a problem, although the depth of the problem unfolds gradually in the rise. More details become evident as we climb that hill, we receive a plot and foreshadowing of the climax.

When we hit the top of that hill, we pretty much know everyone and everything except a resolution. We now look over the top of the hill and see the steep drop before us and realize the full scope of the journey we have taken and the danger we face. It is here at the top that characters have their ah hah moment, the climax. Coming quickly down the other side of this hill we find answers, say a few hail Mary’s, hope for the best, and resolve the problem to come to an end that makes sense and is satisfying.

It is at the climax or hilltop that re-storying takes place at its fullest. By that I mean, we sometimes realize part way up that we need to do something and we may unknowingly put in to motion some change but until we have the journey behind us and all the information in it, we cannot effect that change. Using my illness as an example may be helpful. (You can insert almost any event that troubles your heart or physical health.)

Sample Story

I began to feel sick, the symptoms included a sore throat and lethargy. But was I sick? I couldn’t know. A sore throat might have been from the artificial heat in the car or my family’s homes. The lethargy could have been too much fun and turkey and not enough sleep. I was mindful but did not have enough information.

Let’s say I am a character in this story of my life. I am now standing at the base of that hill and beginning to climb the journey of the holiday weekend. As I move up the hill, the sore throat becomes post nasal, add to that sneezing and a runny nose. Now, we know the characters that have joined me. This is not a normal journey, something is wrong, a problem unfolds.

My story is about a once healthy happy person traveling to see family only to find she is sick. But we don’t know what awaits at the top of hill, we don’t know what the end of the story will be. Yet, it is human nature to start making guesses. I know that I have asthma and I work. So it is a natural conclusion that I will find an asthma attack and loss of work waiting on the other side of the hill. I get to the top and whoa, the drop is scarey.

Here at the top, I meet one last character in the story. A hero’s journey story always includes a mentor and in this case, the mentor is the friend who reminded me to re-story. She is the wise woman.

So what does it mean to re-story this story?

As previously mentioned, the conclusion is one of misery, asthma and lost work, therefore lost pay. Pretty dismal and not within my control. What if the story were to end differently? What are the options for this tale? I could die. I could make lots of other people miserable too. I could languish slowly. I could be miserable but get better. I could find a miracle cure. I could just keep moving toward the light and everything would be just fine, maybe a slight loss of pay but nothing too serious. See? Now there are many endings and many choices. This is empowering.

So story is not just the fairy tale or folk tale we tell ourselves or our children. Story is the everyday life we live. When that story isn’t taking the direction we hope for, the one that makes us happy and whole, we can re-story it. Will this solve all our problems to our satisfaction? Important to know that it will not, especially because we cannot control the behaviors of others. We are empowered only in our own choices. But the empowerment to change the course of our lives is there if we choose to accept it. Re-storying is a way to take back your future.

Anatomy of the Scary Story

2009-10-12T20:43:00.000-07:00

Scary stories are about more than just scaring the listener, and should never be about scarring the listener. When a good storyteller takes the audience on a journey through story, it is always with the audience’s best interest in mind, serving story second and the teller last. Telling scary stories is not about the storyteller’s ego boost. A good storyteller also respects religious beliefs when telling a scary story.

There are many kinds of "scary" story. The simplest type, usually preferred by young listeners, is the jump tale.
In this type of scary story, the storyteller brings the listener into his or her confidence, slowly unwrapping the tale until the end of the story when the teller produces the jump. This is done in several ways, sometimes simultaneously. The teller might change from a soft voice to a SHOUT! Proximity changes from having space between teller and listener to almost being on top of the audience. Body movement might actually have the effect of throwing the story at the listener. These jump tales often have elements of fooling the listener into believing the story is really scary or creepy, but with a comical twist at the end. Both the comical twist and the jump produce laughter breaking the stress of the tale.
Purpose: Jump tales show us that our fears are unfounded and allow us to laugh at our foolishness.

There are the saga or myth scary tales that have elements of the macabre or strange, sometimes involving monsters. These stories usually have fictitious, larger than life characters that experience the fright on our behalf and overcome it, Beowulf is one example.
Purpose: This story happens to someone else from a safe distance. The hero must win to show the listener that evil can be overcome.

Urban Legends are highly believable stories because they are told as if they happened to the storyteller or someone the teller knows. Best when told as a local event, we want to trust the teller to tell us the truth, while at the same time we are skeptical. We may or may not be told whether the tale is true, we must decide for ourselves.
Purpose: fun and thrilling while creating a need for logical thinking.

Ghost story: These stories must have ghosts in them. Most ghosts have a reason for haunting, seldom are they actually able to or wanting to harm an individual. Ghosts are present to solve a problem, finish an incomplete task, warn or help the character. Now and then, the fear the character has for the ghost is their demise but seldom is it the ghost that harms. Occasionally there may be a haunting without a ghost, such as an enchanted object.
Purpose: gives a glimpse at the beyond, lends hope, teaches a lesson, make us think.

There are trickster scary stories too. Sometimes there are no ghosts or creatures in these stories but peers who play tricks by creating rumors of hauntings.
Purpose: teaches a lesson

Some scary stories will be decidedly more frightening than others and an experienced storyteller will be able to gauge how far to push the envelope with a particular audience. Three things that make these tales work are believability, environment which includes venue, teller’s presence and voice, and safety in numbers. When we listen to a scary story we are not alone, there is always at least one other person there with us, the storyteller. A good storyteller always keeps us safe. They may dare us to walk the edge and face the fear, but they always bring us safely home.

Finally, there are key elements that make listening to scary stories different from watching a horror movie. They are imagination and experience. A listener can only be as scared as they can imagine and will only understand the fear that they have experienced in reality. I am one storyteller that usually scares myself more than my listeners when I tell scary stories, I have a wild imagination.

So this Halloween, I hope you will cuddle up with a trusted friend and listen to a scary story, tales that make us think, give us chills, and almost always allow us to laugh at ourselves.

My Appearance Schedule

2009-09-23T19:46:00.000-07:00

Public Appearances Schedule

I do a lot of work in schools and for private functions but have a flurry of public appearances coming up to let you know about. This seemed like the best way to post it right now:

October 3: "The Magic Fish Pond" Repertory Theatre, Jonesborough TN, 11:30am. A workshop about theuse of story in the aftermath of disaster and trauma, sponsored by the National Storytelling Network and the Healing Story Alliance. Tickets $5(I will spend a few days traveling north and visiting friends in Virginia, available for programs along the way.)

October 9: “Ghost Stories” The United Methodist Church, Bailey and Minnesota Streets, Buffalo NY. An evening of ghost stories, book signing, and book raffle. Sponsored by Spin-a- Storytellers. No fee.

October 11: Benefit for the Golden Hill Lighthouse, Golden Hill State Park, New York State. All day. Book signing and sales.

October 17: Fredonia Opera House, Adult Storytelling Cabaret, Fredonia New York. 7:30pm.Featured teller Michael Parent. I am one of the tellers opening the show. Tickets required.

October 24: Chautauqua Bookstore, Chautauqua Institution, 11:30-1pmWalden Books, Chautauqua Mall, 2-3:30pmDaughters of the American Revolution, 7:30pm NOT open to the public.

October 30: Teaching Conference, Oneonta NY. Available for registered teachers and staff only. Storytelling workshops.

November 6: Starlight Studio, Delaware Ave. Buffalo NY. 7-9pm Book signing.

November 7: benefit for the Pajama Program of Western New York, Galleria Mall. Book signing.

November 9: Heim Middle School, Becoming an Ambassador for Change, NOT open to the public.Collins Library, North Collins NY. 6pm. Wild and Wooley Tales

November 10: St. Bonaventure, The Value of Listening, NOT open to the public.

November 14: Barnes and Nobles Books, Main and transit, Clarence NY. 6pmLegends, Lore and Secrets of Western New York, reading and book signing

November 21: Tellebration, United Universalist Church, 7pm, EMCEE

November 28: 12-2pm Buffalo and Erie County Historical Society. Booksigning

December 5: Barnes and Nobles Books, McKinley Mall, Hamburg NY 6 pm Legends, Lore and Secrets of Western New York, reading and book signingThat’s it right now but will update as the schedule changes.

Telling Stories with the Elders

2009-09-21T07:31:00.000-07:00

I have done storytelling with many different audiences over the years and each is a unique experience. One technique I have found useful, especially as a story starters and also to stimulate memory, is the use of artifacts such as photos and other personal items from jewelry to broken bits of teacups. I have brought things of my own to use and I have also asked participants to bring their own.
Recently, when visiting one of my favorite senior living facilities, I was pleased by the results, but it went deeper than that. It was such a moving experience that I could not do any other work that day, I needed to sort out these thoughts. I’d like to share with you what happened and whether you are a storyteller, friend or relative of someone in a residential facility or even around the dinner table (the holidays are approaching) you can use this idea to get people talking.

I arranged the seating in a circle rather than typical concert style so everyone would feel like part of the whole. Residents were asked to bring things but only two people actually did, and that’s okay. I was prepared to tell my own life stories.
When the residents were situated and ready, I started by explaining why I was there and what we’d be doing. I began by showing them some of the things I brought with me. I had a rock from the Burren in Ireland where I lived alone for three weeks, I had a broken bracelet that my parents brought back for my sister from their honeymoon (Dad was my 5th Birthday present and I got a purse.) My sister died a few months later and I still have the bracelet. I also brought a little jade cat that reminds me of our first kitty Lucki, a small kaleidoscope that reminds me of my friends, and a shell necklace that belonged to my maternal grandmother. There are full stories attached to all these items and I explained to the elders that I collect many things and keep them as reminders and that when disaster strikes and people go through the rubble to find these things, they are not just holding onto material items but looking for the memories that go with them.
I passed the objects around and could see that for some of the participants it was very significant, this was evident in the great care they gave each item as they held it. I told condensed versions of the stories because the goal was to hear them, not me. But they needed a few examples.
I always use a microphone because so many are hard of hearing and passed it around for them to use but some felt uncomfortable using it so I didn’t press the issue.
There were some elders who did not want to speak loud enough to be heard, they were shy or felt their stories had no merit. In which case, I listened to what they said and repeated it for the others on their behalf. That was acceptable to all.
It is very typical when listening to someone tell a story, especially a personal one, to have one story remind you of another. This readily happened with this particular group. Someone would mention something and the whole group would come to life with similar stories. If we got to a quiet spot where nobody had anything to say, I would tell a story and/or ask a question. For example I said "My grandfather made cotton candy" and someone shouted "My father used to make candy" etc.
One woman in particular has Alzheimer’s and she would blurt out during someone else’s story something about herself as it came to mind. I let her do that and acknowledged it because a moment later, she might not recall that memory. The other elders, knowing her situation were very supportive. She said "I made hats. I worked at Chic’s." I asked where it was and she didn’t know. The other elders did and they told me and she suddenly recalled another fact, "I repaired holes in veils." These little snippets of memory were repeated by her several times but the details continued to grow until by the time we were finished I know she had worked in a hat shop repairing veils. The shop was named Chic Mae’s [sic] and may have been located in the Broadway District of Buffalo. Her father owned a candy store, possibly named Honey Bunchies, and he was known for some kind of caramel filled suckers.
Another woman has always told me that she worked at a women’s shop called Slotkins in downtown Buffalo. Knowing this I asked her to share her story. She is somewhat senile and never remembers that she told me the story before, but I always listen as if it the first time I heard it. She smiled but said "Oh nobody wants to hear that. Why do you want to hear it?" I told her that I loved the story and she took the microphone. (I let them stay in their seats since most have trouble moving around.)
When she was finished I learned something new about her story. As I had heard it before, she worked at Slotkins and ran it for years. She had 15 fashion shows each year. The new part I learned was that she inherited the store and was trained in fashion at a design school her parents sent her too. That she also knew all the markets in New York City. So, she was a buyer too.

BTW, she wasn’t going to share beyond the fact that she worked at the store but I asked her to share about the fashion shows which she had told me about before, and she then went even further. We need to ask our elders to tell these stories even if we think we’ve already heard them. She smiled the whole time.
I had regulars and new folks. One woman who was new wouldn’t let go of my hand afterward and must have hugged and thanked me four times before she was finally pulled off to go have her lunch.
We shared stories about jobs, the way the city used to be, the games we played as kids (they loved when I demonstrated my hopscotch technique), penny candies, family and so on and so on. They all voted yes to doing this again and said how much they love when I come visit. But the best experience for me was yet to come.

As I was wheeling my sound system down the hall I passed a man in a scooter. I smiled and said hello.

He smiled back but when I went to pass him he said "Well, wait a minute. Don’t go so fast." I stopped and he asked if I worked there.

I said "No, I am a storyteller and just did some work with the other residents."

His face lit up, a mischievous twinkle in his eye and he asked "So, you’re a storyteller. What kind of stories?"
My usual spiel is folk tales, fairy tales, personal stories, ghost stories, original tales and for all ages, but I only got to say fairy tales when he interrupted.
"You mean to tell me that grown people and those who aren’t (sign of crazy), are willing listen to fairy tales?"
"Yep," I said. "They never were for kids ya know."
"Well I don’t think you could tell me one of those."
"I was here today to get all of you to tell your stories."
"Well, I don’ think I would do that. I don’t have any stories."
"Can I ask you a question?"
He said "Sure."
"Were you ever in the military?"
"Was I in the military, well Missy let me show you...hold on."
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his billfold, from that he took a card and handed it to me.
"Nobody believes unless I show them that."
It was his military ID card encased in plastic to keep it safe.
"Canadian Infantry?" I read.
"Where is it from?" he asked. "Issued?"
"Overseas!" I said. You were overseas, where?"
"Glasgow."
By the time we were done talking I found out that he was in the Canadian military stationed in Glasgow, was born in Canada but moved here with his wife. She died here of cancer. They moved here at the request of her sister so they could be near each other and he gave up his Canadian citizenship.
"I can’t go back," he said. "Well, maybe they’ll let me now, but I gave it up for my wife."
"You loved her so much you gave up your citizenship for her?"
He got a great big smile on his face.
"I loved her more than anything in the world."
He had no story to tell?

Now I hope you can see why I was not able to focus on anything else that day. My brain was just swimming with all the stories and how effective this can be.
If you have elders in your families, I hope you will try this during the holidays. Get the whole family together with the children too, sit at the feet of your elders and listen to their lives. You will be so glad you did.

Storytelling with Special Needs Audiences: the challenges and belssings

2009-08-19T11:13:00.000-07:00

Of course working with any population we choose to label, such Developmentally Disabled, at-risk, even children or adults, means recognizing that within that audience we have individuals with varying needs and capabilities. The younger the audience or more involved their personal challenges might be, the more specialized our focus becomes and the more flexible we need to be as presenters.
I have had the great privilege of working with many different types of audiences from young to old, from highly intelligent to severely disabled mentally, emotionally and physically. None can be addressed fully in one article or together as each has its merits and setbacks. Today, I worked with children who ranged from severely to moderately developmentally disabled.
These children and youth came in wheelchairs, asleep, alert, walking, without eye contact, quiet, loud, smiling, blank-faced. My challenge was to deliver my stories in such a way that I could engage as many as possible without allowing my ego to get in the way. What I mean by that is that the response of the audience is not the same as a "typical" audience. Some children slept through the entire program, others made loud noises, some laughed, some continued to be blank-faced, some clapped, some seemingly did not know anything special was happening, some caregivers participated and brought their charges along for the ride, some sat and wondered what to do, and none of it had anything to do with my stories or my ability as a storyteller.
It takes years of experience to get to a place in performance where you know that you are delivering quality in the right way without feeling let down on a personal level by audience response and it takes some knowledge of special needs groups to really understand that what you do counts even if there is no immediate response. The energy a storyteller must put into programs with very young children and audiences made up of special needs groups, especially those who are severely disabled, is ten times what we put out during an "average" presentation. I sometimes refer to this kind of energy telling as "in your face" storytelling.
While it sounds negative, I mean it mostly as a style of storytelling that requires more movement and up close presence than I usually put out. I am a storyteller who does active stories but usually stands fairly mid-stage and in front of my audience. I do movements and character voices for some stories but I do not move around a lot. When working with the audience today, I moved back and forth across the "stage" front (really on the floor in front of the stage) and up and down an aisle while trying to engage eye contact on a one-to-one basis with as many children as possible, even to the point of bending over to find eyes that were viewing the floor. In addition, my actions were exaggerated x3 and some verbal subtleties in stories were left out in favor of more engaging facial expressions and body language.
While ignoring sudden uncontrolled outbursts by individual children and being aware that some children exhibited concern over loud noise, I was aware that many seemed to continue to sleep, even when I used my drum in one story. Still I incorporated children in the stories as characters and taught them the responses and hand movements for some stories, expecting them to do what they could with help and encouragement from their caregivers. When the stories were finished, the children were taken to crafts tables for activities relating to the stories. This further reinforced the stories. I took this time to walk around the room and speak a moment with each child, even ones who did not seem to know I was there and after getting their names from either the child or caregiver, made sure I used their names when speaking to them.
Observations from this and many other programs like it:
* We cannot be so oblivious to the needs of the audience that we plod through our work in whatever fashion we are accustomed to. We must enter the story space with an awareness of audience need and a flexibility to meet that need.
* I know from experience, and faith in what I do, that even a sleeping child hears what we say in the deepest place where they reside. (Sometimes it is best not to wake them but to let them be in that peaceful place.)
* I know that honoring them and their existence is a blessing they deserve and using their names reinforces the fact that their lives mean something.
* And I am exhausted but so happy and honored to have these opportunities.
Take care of yourself as a storyteller or caregiver, replenish your energy so you can continue this work of making magic and dreams, affirming and witnessing the human spirit.

Just One Story for Choice Making

2009-06-30T10:16:00.000-07:00

The Grain of Rice
Grain of Rice

Copyright/Czarnota 2008

No portion of this story may be recorded or copied without permission from the author. This story is in the public domain but this version is protected.

There was a king who had four daughters, each of whom he knew and loved equally. In his aging years he knew one must take the throne as his replacement, but didn’t know which one to choose. So, he devised a test. The king gave each daughter a single grain of rice.

“Each of you must decide what to do with your rice. I’m going away and when I return I will choose who will be queen.”

The first daughter looked at the rice in her hand and said, “My father is a great king and so this rice is most precious.” She wrapped it in golden thread and placing it on an altar prayed over it each day for her father’s safe return.

The second daughter thought this is special rice from my most special father. She hid hers in a plain box under the bed so that robbers would not steal it.

The third daughter said “My father is a great king and I can have rice anytime I want.” She threw hers in the trash bin.

The fourth held her rice for a year and a day and contemplated what to do with it.

Time passed, perhaps two years and more. The daughters were looking out the window one day and saw a man traveling toward the palace; it was their venerable father. They took him in, washed his feet, dressed him in clean robes, and fed him before he asked; “Now daughters, I am most curious to know what you did with your rice.”

The first brought the gold wrapped grain to him. “I treated it with great respect and prayed for your safe return.”

The king kissed his first daughter’s cheek. “I am proud of you my daughter.”

The second brought a dusty box from under her bed. “I kept it safe from robbers, Father.”

“I am proud of you,” he said kissing his second daughter’s cheek.

The third daughter had a problem didn’t she? She had thrown hers away, but let’s face it, one grain of rice looks like any other. She went to the kitchen and got another grain. “Look father, here is mine.”

The king did not become king for lack of wisdom and he knew his daughters well. “I expected as much,” he said with a knowing smile. She was a clever one to be sure. “And I am proud of you.”

His fourth daughter stood silent by the window as each of her sisters presented their rice.

“And my fourth one, where is your rice?”

“My father,” she said sadly. “I no longer have my rice.”

The old king walked to her side and looked out the window.

“I planted it Father for the people were hungry.”

Before the old king’s eyes were fields of rice from the single grain he had given his daughter.

“I am most proud of you,” he said placing a crown upon her head. “For a good queen knows that she must care for others.”

Now it is not so much that the fourth became queen that makes this story important when we think about choices. Each daughter did what she felt was the right thing, each was presented with the same opportunity, and each was successful in some way. No choice made by the princesses was wrong, because success has many definitions. But only one daughter succeeded at the proposed goal of becoming queen.
May you do with your grain of rice that which will bring you success.

One Writer's Process for One Writing Project

2009-06-29T06:50:00.000-07:00

Authors will approach their projects differently, but I would like to share my own. It will also vary depending on what is being written. The process I am writing about here is for the historical work I am completing at this time: "The Spirits and Secrets of Western New York." This book is a combination of history, myth, legends and lore of the region.

I was given a choice about what I’d like to write by the publisher. So the first step was to determine what that would be. I wanted to write something other than the Western New York book but it seemed to me that what I had looked into was already somewhat saturated. I’m not saying what that was because I would like to write a children’s book on it eventually. That has not been done yet. Anyway, I considered Western New York. The next step was to decide if I had enough stories to fill the book and how to handle such a wide region.

Step 1. Decide what you want to write about and research what has been done already.
Results: This region has been written about extensively but usually in specific themes. My book has a variety of stories from history to lore spanning the entire history of this region. I did not find other books that did that. There are history books from particular eras and events, ghost stories, biographies, but nothing quite like my book.

Step 2: Figure out what is available for the size book you want to write. Submit.
Children’s books are generally shorter, this book had to have 30,000 to 40,000 words or about 128 pages.
Process and results: I took stories I already knew something about and added them to other tidbits I found in my research. I then created a tentative table of contents with tentative chapter titles and listed specific story titles under those. I submitted this to the publisher and they gave me a contract. I also needed to give them a title. This is a working title; they are always subject to change by the publisher. I chose something that expressed the content and feel for this book. I also use titles to help me stay focused on my goal. *You wander less when you have an objective.

Step 3: Begin writing. Authors approach this in different ways. I am a chronological writer, first things first for me. So I began at the beginning by writing a very short introduction. I will be rewriting this introduction but like the title it served as my mission statement and kept me focused.
Results: write, don’t edit. Get the story on paper (or computer as the case might be). I wrote as much as I could on each particular story and simultaneously researched the missing bits. I took tons of handwritten notes and copies, all filed in individual folders per topic. If other story ideas popped into my head, I made a list. After finishing the stories I knew I wanted to include, I went back and used this list to fill in. Some stories had to be left out because of length. That is a difficult choice to make, but it also means material for another book.

Step 4: research and fill in. I did this as I went along but after each chapter was finished I went back and reviewed the details (not editing yet), just correcting dates, names, numbers and the like for historical accuracy. I also gave copies of these early chapters to readers, friends and relatives I trust to give me their opinions. Was it interesting? Did they learn something new? Did my writing make sense? And my significant other is always the one I ask to make notes in the margins. (Work in double space for this reason.)

Step 5: I had to submit images for this book before the text so I needed to know early what I was going to include. I wrote all my text first. Once I was satisfied that most of the stories were in place, I began looking for images. At the same time, I was adding new stories and looking for images to include with those and beginning an early edit of the first chapters. When the images were all gathered (two weeks ahead of scheduled in this case) I sent them in with a rough draft of the manuscript so the publisher could begin a layout. They had not specifically asked for that but Western New York is celebrating an anniversary and I would like to piggyback on that for marketing, time is of the essence.

Step 6: Last edits and marketing: While I finished writing stories, Thomas continued to review previous chapters. As he finished those, I went back and made changes accordingly, not always taking his advice but more often that not doing so. I also had to supply the publisher with a marketing plan so I did hours of research for local bookstores, historical societies, museums and events, trying to give them as many contact names and addresses as possible. (All this going on, by the way, at the same time I am finishing stories.)
Thomas finished reviewing earlier chapters, and after I sent all the marketing information to the publisher, I went back to do my final edit from the beginning. I do this final edit in red pen and transfer that to my computer pages by typing. This final process is tedious and required many breaks. I’d say I did three or four pages, then took a game break, or walked, or gardened, or cleaned house, something completely different.

Step 7: Submit final draft. When the manuscript is done, do a final spell and grammar check, check your formatting so it follows publisher guidelines, complete introductions and acknowledgments, bibliographies or whatever else needs to be done, and send.
I do not plan a bibliography because I did most of my research online, however the publisher may ask for one. That would be another project. Also, in the case of this publisher, I must send the manuscript electronically. Follow up to make sure it arrived safely.

Step 8: Wait. The publisher will have editors review the manuscript and I will get additional edit notes from them. That will be crunch time. It has to be completed without ten days of their sending them to me, at least for this publisher. I will move on to my next project, editing a book I’ve been writing for four years on using story with at-risk youth. (I plan to self-publish this one as a training manual.)

Step 9: If my editing is accepted, I will wait to be notified that the book is ready, they will probably send a cover design for me to sign off on and that’s it.
Step 10: Market. Even though the publisher will do a lot of this, the author has to talk up their book too.

I hope this helps some of you budding authors to get an insight look at a process and inspire some of you would be authors to get started. You just have to get it in writing! All those thoughts go on paper and you should not worry about whether they sound good, get them down. All you experienced writers, I welcome your additions to this discussion and hopefully you too will help get people going.