Thursday, December 26, 2019

What I miss

This is a hard time of year for me. It may be for you too; if so I'm sorry. It's a rough feeling, isn't it? I was sitting with it a few days ago and realized it feels like a combination of grief and homesicknesses. This got me thinking about what it means to be homesick, what do I miss? It certainly isn't a place, I am as home now as I ever was (that's a whole other issue), yet I still feel homeless, like I'm looking in a mirror without a reflection. With a little time, journaling, and a couple of cries, I realized what I miss is a life, who I used to be. I miss a future I didn't get to have, existential homesickness. I miss Kevin, that much is hugely, painfully clear, but I also miss who I was with him.

What I miss.
  • I miss being someone who didn't know what it is to grieve deeply.
  • I miss being someone who didn't have to learn how to navigate the medical system.
  • I miss the belief that there is time in front of me.
  • I miss laughing until I can't stand up.
  • I miss the inside jokes. I have new inside jokes, but not the old ones.
  • I miss being sharp and witty - my mind isn't as quick since he died, I think I used it up when navigating the medical system.
  • I miss looking forward to how much he loved Christmas.
  • I miss believing in Santa, or at least believing in Christmas magic.
  • I miss the future we didn't get to have, the adventures and arguments, the decisions and delights.
  • I miss being someone who tried to be empathetic to people who had suffered great losses, but didn't know how. I miss being someone who said some stupid though well-intentioned things about grief. I miss not knowing.
  • I miss the 30 years we didn't get have.
  • I miss who I might have become in that time.
None of this is to say I don't have a lovely life now. I do. I love and am loved, I have meaningful work, and I like much of who I am now. But I miss who I never got to be.

Loss is an evolving thing, I keep finding new pieces of it and making new discoveries about its reach. I miss not knowing this at all.
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Monday, November 25, 2019

Gratitude: Observations and readings

We are in the gratitude season. Honestly, I think it's always gratitude season, but right now it's everywhere. The reminders to be grateful are relentless. They are also necessary. In our busy, fretful lives it's easy to forget that most of the time, most of us are very, very lucky.

I have had a gratitude practice for many years. It's part of what kept me going after Kevin died; I would write down three things I was grateful for every day. There were days when that list was simply, "Kevin, Kevin, Kevin," but over time other things began to creep in. It was part of how I knew I would survive, even if sometimes I didn't really want to.

I am so grateful to you, the readers of this blog. Thank you for accompanying me for so long and so well. While much of my storytelling blogging has moved over to Patreon (check it out for posts, signed books, coaching, stories, and more), please know I still appreciate you, see you, and will continue to post here from time to time.

What follows is a gift, the Gratitude entry from From Audience to Zeal: The ABCs of Finding, Crafting, and Telling a Great Story. While this was previously published here, it's been expanded and revised. Over on Patreon I've shared the Sharing the Fire and Self Care entries from the Audience to Zeal Workbook, never before published online. They include readings and exercises to keep you going when your storytelling or personal flames might be low. I hope you enjoy both.

While these writing are specific for storytellers, I think there is utility and maybe even wisdom for everyone here.

Gratitude
excerpted from From Audience to Zeal: The ABCs of Finding, Crafting, and Telling a Great Story
(c) Laura Packer

We are so lucky to do this work. No matter the size of your audience, if we have one person who really wants to hear us, we’re far luckier than many, many people. No matter what critique we receive, if we get up and tell again, we are lucky and strong and can be grateful for the opportunity. No matter if we fail, make a mistake, struggle with jealousy or insecurity or any of the other demons that haunt us, every time we stand on a stage, we are so lucky that we can step beyond our own limitations.

We are so lucky to hear these stories. Every time we listen to a story we are being shown into someone else's world in a deep and intimate way. Every time we listen deeply to a storyteller we are giving them the gift of doing the work they love. Every time we are kind to a beginning storyteller or are moved by an accomplished one, we are opening ourselves up to awe, to connecting with someone else, to stopping the tumult for just a little while.

All of this is no accident. By our own hard work, talent and the whim of the universe, we are able to stand up and tell stories in front of interested audiences, be they kids, festival crowds, business people, or conference attendees. This is something to be grateful for. By cultivating a sense of gratitude for your work, your audiences, your colleagues, and more, you become more resilient when things aren’t just right and more receptive to opportunity. Ongoing research has established that cultivating gratitude makes everything better.

  • Gratitude opens the door to more relationships. Storytelling is all about relationships. When we are grateful for those relationships and express that gratitude we are more likely to be remembered and invited back. When I let my audiences know I am grateful for their time, when I thank those who hire me, I am letting them know that they are just as valued as anyone else. We all need to hear that from time to time. 
  • Gratitude improves physical health. My body is my instrument. When I am grateful for it I take better care of it. If gratitude will help my body endure all I put it through (this traveling life takes a toll) then I will be grateful for it every day!
  • Gratitude improves psychological health. When we are grateful we are less likely to hold onto toxic emotions. What I am feeling is reflected in my performance, no matter how practiced I am. If I take the stage with gratitude I am less likely to remain annoyed at the promoter who misspelled my name or any of the other myriad annoyances. 
  • Gratitude enhances empathy and reduces aggression. Storytelling is all about building empathy. Our brains are more likely to respond empathetically when we hear a story. If gratitude will help me feel more empathy then I'm all for it. 
  • Grateful people sleep better. Studies suggest writing in a gratitude journal before going to sleep can improve sleep. As storytellers we need to be rejuvenated and sleep helps. 
  • Gratitude improves self-esteem. Who doesn't need a little help here now and again? We are more likely to stop comparing ourselves to others when we feel grateful for them.
  • Gratitude increases mental strength. We all need strength. Performing - heck, life - can be exhausting. 

We are so lucky. Remember that and be grateful. Be grateful for every performing opportunity, for every audience member, for every time you hear a story even if you've heard it a million times already. When we are grateful we expand the possibilities for storytelling. Our gratitude will be obvious to the world.

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Monday, October 21, 2019

If you're read From Audience to Zeal I have a quick question for you

Do you have a favorite entry in From Audience to Zeal? I'm asking because I'm working on an article about it and want to include the topics most people found useful. Thanks!

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Friday, October 11, 2019

For Kevin, on the morning of my remarriage

Dear Kevin,

This is so weird. I'm writing this to you in my office, the one filled with all of the things you know but in Minnesota, a state I don't think you ever visited. I've lived here for over two years now, with a man you never met and one who is, on the surface, unlike you. In fundamentals though you are much alike -- perhaps this speaks to me more than to the both of you, but it is true. Like you, he is smart and funny, kind and passionate. He has three kids though the ratio differs. He loves me with all of his heart, just like you. Today I am marrying him.

It feels so very odd. I was supposed to be married to you for the rest of my life. I was supposed to be your wife only. I was supposed to be so many things and yet. Here I am.

Kevin, I swore to love you as long as we both shall live and that is still true. I will never stop loving you. I have learned that the heart is capable of amazing depths of love. I love Charley wholly and so too, I love you. I am profoundly lucky, some would say blessed, to be loved by two such men.

Marrying Charley in no way diminishes how much I love you and miss you, not does it change the truth of the love you felt/feel for me. Your love nurtured and sustained me for many years. I know it always will. Nor does loving and missing you diminish the love I feel for Charley and what he feels for me.

Thank you Kevin, for loving me so well; for helping me learn to love bigger and truer; and for, in the end, telling me you wanted me to be happy, to learn to love again, that it would be okay. Thank you for knowing love endures.

I know you'll be there with us today. While sometimes my heart gets twisted up in all of this, I know you will be there beaming, knowing I remain yours just as I am Charley's. Thank you for the gift of myself.

I love you.

Laura

P.S. After writing this, I ran it by Charley as I always do when I write about him. I couldn't get through it without sobbing. He held me while I cried and assured me that he was okay with all of this. I am so lucky in so many ways. Thank you.

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Sunday, September 29, 2019

Love, grief, and remarriage

By the time I next write to you, I will have remarried. Marriage is complex, the idea that I'm binding my life to another, and I'm finding the closer we get to the date, the more complicated it becomes.

The man I'm marrying is wonderful. He is smart, funny, kind, and has room for me to love Kevin just as much as I love him. He loves me powerfully and wholly as I am, broken and healed and human. I am so lucky to spend my life with him.

And yet.

And yet I flinch when people get too excited for my wedding, even when they have the best of intentions. I flinch more when they say things like I knew you would get over it or worse, I knew you would get over Kevin.

And yet.

And yet I am excited about marrying my new love who deserves to be called more than the new love. I am excited about marrying my love. I've taken to referring to Kevin as my late husband and the man I am about to marry as my living husband. Some people get it. Some don't.

And yet.

And yet, I never expected to be anyone's wife but Kevin's. When he died, I never expected to be in another relationship, never thought I would want to or could find someone who matched me as well. I am having dreams about betrayal, hurt, loss, and other delightful topics. It is hard to hold both the joy and the sorrow.

And yet.

And yet, I know Kevin would want me to be happy. He told me so, quite clearly, in those last tender days. I know he understood that my heart is happiest when it is loving and that to deny my own nature would kill me, as surely as the cancer was killing him.

And yet.

And yet, these dreams are breaking my heart at the time when it is also at its fullest. I finally cried a few days ago and it felt the same as in those early days after his death, bereft and with nothing left but tears that burned my cheeks.

And yet.

And yet here I am. Stepping forward even though it hurts like hell. Acknowledging that pain even as I am happy and stunned that someone is able to love me so well. Risking relationship even though I am afraid of the same tearing loss. Wearing both rings, to hold both loves. Honoring and celebrating all of the love, all of the time. Recognizing that I would not be who I am if I had not broken so completely, over and over again, then been reforged.

I could not be in this place if I had not found myself along the way. Who I am now is so very different from who I was, yet this me is still able to love and be loved. This me is still able to grieve and yearn and recognize that my body and my life are big enough to hold the past, present, and even believe there might be a future.

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Tuesday, September 10, 2019

The world through my eyes: How I spent my summer vacation

First, let me clear up a misconception. I didn't really take a summer vacation. What time off I had was spent without my camera, so my title is misleading, but I couldn't resist the worn back-to-school chestnut.

Here are some of the critters and things I noticed over the last few months. What have you seen?

Please respect my copyright and don't steal. Contact me for reuse rights.

If you're looking for storytelling blogging please check out my Patreon and support the creators you love.

Oh! This is my 999th post on this blog! That is a LOT of content developed over the last decade or so. Any suggestions for my 1000th post? Please post below or email me!

The skies above
The ones we depend on 
The hidden world
My neighbor
Mirrors everywhere
Parent and child
"Damned paparazzi!"
New life hidden
Recycling
Adventurers
Autumn is coming
Life and death
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Monday, July 29, 2019

Doing it anyway

"a walk in the rain" by Jeff Mendoza.
See more of his work here.
I spent this past weekend at the National Storytelling Conference (NSC), a wonderful gathering of colleagues and friends. It's packed full of workshops, keynotes, performances, and a whole lot of chatting with people I see only once a year. It's great.

It's also tremendously difficult. I first attended the NSC with Kevin and continued to attend them with him for the rest of his life. There are many memories and associations at the conference, as well as many moments when I desperately want to turn to him and say whaddya think? Going through the conference without that intimate connection, without that person to whom I can say anything, without Kevin, it's hard. Add to that the truth that the many people at the conference knew Kevin and love him still, it becomes something of a minefield.

It's something of a minefield but I go anyway. Why? I hear you ask. I ask myself the same thing, and each time I come back to the same realizations, some of which have to do with him and some do not.

  1. Revisiting relatively safe places that are triggering can help me access good memories I otherwise might not be able to find. I see Kevin everywhere at the NSC. I see him laughing, listening, telling, moving, alive. I remember him more fully. 
  2. I reminds me that I can still share things with him, I just need to listen differently for his response. I talk to him just about every day. At the NSC I talk to him even more. thinking things like Did you see that? or What do you think about that? or Hey, look who's here!
  3. I connect with those who also love him, and remembering him together feels good. It helps me know I'm not alone in missing him.
  4. The event has its own value and Kevin would be really pissed if he knew I avoided it because of him. Spending a weekend with people who love storytelling as much I do replenishes me.
  5. The price of love is grief. Knowing this now, I can prepare. I can plan on enough down time, find people to catch me when I'm falling, avoid the things I know will be really hard (like singing May the Circle Be Unbroken and calling out the names of those who have died). I can make choices.
Five years on, I find grief is like the rain. It is unavoidable, but now I have a little more understanding of how I can cope with it. I can avoid it, but that doesn't mean it's not there. I can let myself be drenched and give myself over to it, knowing now that I will eventually dry off and emerge again. I can bring an umbrella and chose to walk in it anyway, knowing I will get wet but I'll be okay. I am certain that I couldn't process triggering events and places like this when I was only a year or two out. They devastated me. Now, sometimes I choose to walk in the rain.

I don't choose to do it anyway every time, there are some places I may never visit again, but I now know I can choose. Sometimes, anyway. Besides, Kevin would kick my butt if I didn't get into the world, let myself be seen and loved, tell my stories, and live.


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Thursday, July 18, 2019

Throwing starfish and the necessity of barking

If you've been following me for any time, you know that part of my work in the world is reminding everyone to #barkagainstthedark. I've been posting barks on social media regularly since November 2016 and I continue to do so, even when it's really hard.

What is a bark? At its most basic, a #barkagainstthedark is a way to stand up to the grim moments and actions in the world. It's a way to say I am here. It's a way to build resilience and community and hope, even when things feel overwhelming and isolating and bleak. In action, barks can be something to make people laugh, a poem to make them think, a reminder of our better natures and the arc of history. Barks are whatever help us keep going and not give up. They are, I suppose, my own attempt to throw a starfish back into the ocean. It might not make a difference for everyone, but it might make a difference for someone.


We all feel down sometimes, so a bark is a reminder that no one is alone. Whether from mental health or societal forces, everyone has trouble remaining engaged and hopeful (at least I do, and I'm extrapolating from my own experience) so a bark is a voice in the darkness, a small light.

We live in extraordinarily challenging times. The current U.S. administration is racist, sexist, fear-mongering, and greedy. Their volume is overwhelming and their actions are devastating for untold numbers of people. That they are supported by our neighbors is heart-wrenching. Even when I try to remind myself that racist, sexist, fear-mongering, greedy behavior comes from a place of fear, I cannot help but become angry and disheartened. I bark to remind myself that I can do better. We can do better.

We will. It will take time. It may not happen in my lifetime, but we will.

Knowing it's a long game that may outlive me might make you wonder why I keep barking. I bark because if I stop I become complicit. I bark because I need to remind myself that I am not alone. I bark because the starfish story stops too soon. When I tell it, I end it with,

The man watched the boy pick up another starfish and throw it as far as he could into the waters. 
He saw the splash and imagined the creature's relief. 
He bent down, picked up another starfish, and threw.

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Monday, July 15, 2019

Lying fallow

This was originally published on Patreon; it is somewhat expanded here. Most of my blogging is now on a platform that allows people to support the artists they value, so the artist can keep creating without as much financial stress. If you enjoy this blog please consider supporting me over on Patreon. For as little as $3 a month you can get all the great content you're used to, fun rewards, and the satisfaction of knowing you are both helping me create more art and making your appreciation tangible. Thanks.

One of the great gifts of my life is that I love my work. One of the great stressors of my life is that I love my work.

I work hard because I love what I do and I don't get to perform, teach, consult, coach, etc if I do not put in the day-to-day work of marketing and promotion, so I work most of the time even if most of it is unpaid and invisible to those who aren't working artists. Because the day-to-day work of being a professional storyteller happens in my home, it's hard to stop and disconnect, yet I can't afford to go away or go offline for very long or very often.

As much as I love vacation time, that's a kind of stress too, because I worry about what I'm not doing. In the need to find a way to step away from work, I remembered what it is to be fallow.

Fallow is defined as:
/ˈfalō/ adjective: 
(of farmland) plowed and harrowed but left unsown for a period in order to restore its fertility as part of a crop rotation or to avoid surplus production.
It is essential for the land and for beings to rest. To gaze out at nothing. To do something other than what is productive. I need to remind myself that fallow time is vital for the creative process, let alone for living a full life. Fallow time is different from vacation time in that it's about deliberately doing nothing knowing it is, in fact, a necessary part of creativity.

I now actually put down time into my schedule and walk away from the screen, the classroom, the stage. I sit on my back deck and watch the trees move in the wind. I read something that has nothing to do with work. I rest.

I forget this sometimes and am soon spinning in place, exhausted and depleted. This article helped me remember and inspired me to remind you that you may need some fallow time too.  Part of my work for this summer is lying fallow. I hope a vacation will be in the future and I hope it will be easier to relax into that time because I've practiced in my fallow time.

What nourishes you? How do you replenish yourself? How are you lying fallow?

P.S. I am co-teaching a class on finding and following the work of your heart, which includes thoughts about lying fallow. If you're interested but have questions please get in touch. I also have a limited number of discount codes. Thanks!

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Monday, July 1, 2019

Where do stories come from?

This was originally posted on my Patreon, back in January 2019. Most of my blogging is now over there; this week I'm musing on what it takes to coach effectively and how this is its own kind of story. For as little as $3 a month you can get all the great content you're used to, fun rewards, and the satisfaction of knowing you are helping me create more art and making your appreciation tangible.

Almost every writer and storyteller I know has heard, "I would love to do what you do, but I don't have any ideas. Where do your stories come from?" Science fiction writer Barry Longyear published the collection It Came From Schenectady as a tongue-in-cheek response, saying that he subscribed to a mail order service based in Schenectady and they sent him ideas monthly. I sometimes long to be as snarky, but the answer is a lot more complicated.

I find inspiration for stories in all kinds of places, from existing works to the overheard, from my life to the odd reaches of my own imagination. Sometimes these ideas bloom into stories with almost no effort. Other times it takes real labor to figure out what it is I really want to say. And every so often there will be an idea that lingers for a long time until it turns into something unexpected. It's this last kind of story I want to think about with you, today.

One of my favorite of my own stories is called Blood Woman. It's a dark, first-person fabulist tale that explores love, domestic violence, and what we might do to protect those we care about. The protagonist is a woman who bleeds rubies and cries diamonds. I don't tell it often because it disturbs audiences, but it has become a part of my Haunted: Stories for the Brave of Heart show. I love this story. I love the character, the images, the places it lets me go. It took years to uncover and I am so glad I gave it time to emerge.

Blood Woman and a few others are what I call "pearl" stories because, like a pearl, they start with a small irritant and take time to form into something meaningful. These are stories that start from a single, powerful image. The image stays with me for a long, long time and, if I'm wise and mull on it, it will emerge into a story in its own time. The narrative needs to slowly accrete around the image. The precipitating image in Blood Woman was a girl's arm with a scratch, nothing serious but the kind of wound she might get while playing, with a few drops of blood. A single drop falls from her arm and lands on the ground, shimmering. The image always included the sound of bells and the taste of salt.

Had I rushed the narrative I probably would have come up with something interesting, maybe a fairy tale about a spunky girl who finds her fortune, but because I waited I found a much more powerful story. It's one that took time to craft and create. Had I rushed, the image would have been a nice one, but not the central theme.

This isn't the only time I've had an image haunt me. I wish I could say I gave each lingering image time to become a pearl story, but I haven't. When I haven't the story is inconsequential and I often end up removing it from my working repertoire. When I do let the image take its time as it grows into a story, it might become something special.

This is, of course, not the only way I develop stories, but it is one of the more interesting and mysterious. The creative process requires us to trust ourselves and our instincts about our work; I can think of no better example of this than pearl stories.

Have you ever had a similar experience? What happened? I'd love to know!
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Tuesday, June 18, 2019

Owl by day and by night

There is a family of barred owls that live in the woods behind my house. Contrary to conventional wisdom about owls, I regularly see and hear them during the day. Their whowho-who-whoooo calls are, by now, part of the chatter of the neighborhood. My neighbors are talking I note and I go about my business, smiling when the tone of the calls changes to indicate prey or hunger or territory or sex. I routinely see them during the day, most commonly in the afternoon, sitting on a branch and observing the world or napping. They seem to do a lot of napping. By day they are my chatty, watchful neighbors.

This all changes at night.

Owl by night becomes more than a neighbor, but something of mystery. As dusk deepens, I recognize them more by silence. The soft rustle of a leaf or the sudden stillness of the smaller animals nearby tells me that owl is near. Occasionally something flies right over my head and I only know it's there when I feel the breeze and turn to see the vanishing shape in the darkness. Sometimes I hear their call, which often seems more wistful at night though sometimes it wanders into melodies that make me wonder if owls get tipsy.

Owl by day and by night changes too. So do all of the other creatures around me, including me, you, and everyone else.  Owl by day and owl by night help me remember that none of us have only one nature, one way of being. Our perceptions of each other change based on context. What we reveal changes the same way.
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Monday, May 13, 2019

Observations from the road

Travel is a big part of my work. Storytelling isn't a local experience for me; I teach, speak, tell, coach, and consult all over the nation and sometimes the world. While it's sometimes challenging, I generally really like it, not only because I love my work but because it gives me a chance to see places I might not otherwise visit. Whether flying or driving, there is always something to see, someone to hear, something to ponder.

I've started keeping a journal of some of the things I see and hear; I thought you might be interested in a few of these observations. I've scrubbed specifics, so no particular place or person is easily identifiable.

  1. I am somewhere in middle America. I am hungry and don't have time to go searching for a sit-down dinner. Besides, I love fried chicken even though I feel guilty every time. I walk into a fried chicken joint near by cheap hotel. There are no tables, a few chairs for waiting, and a set of metal shelves to one side with a miscellaneous array of groceries. The only decoration is a poster of the American Olympic team and another of the local baseball franchise. Both have prominent American flags. The restaurant is owned by an Indian man, an immigrant. All patrons but me are African American; the owner welcomes them all by name. As I wait for my order a woman tells me she hates fried chicken except for the wings she can get in this place. "They're delicious here," she says. "I don't know how he does it." A family comes in communicating in sign language. The young man deaf and the man behind counter pulls out an illustrated menu so he can order. When my dinner arrives I take it to my hotel. The woman is right, the wings are delicious.
  2. I am somewhere on the West Coast, taking a walk in a park with a playground. I see an older white woman holding hands with a small African-American girl. They are having an animated conversation and clearly love each other. The woman is wearing a "Make America Great Again" t-shirt. The woman glances at me and I smile, "Is she your grand-daughter? She's lovely!" The woman beams. "Yes, isn't she!" She and I start to chat about kids and I eventually say, "I know we live in divided times, may I ask about your shirt?" She looks at me warily then sighs. "I know. I think Mr. Trump is doing good things for the country. He's a business man and will make us great again. Just because I support him doesn't mean I'm a racist. I love my grandchildren!" I nod and we sit in the sunlight, watching her grandchild play.
  3. I am driving through a Midwestern state. The land around me is broad and gentle. I can see plow marks in the soil and smell the fertilizer. It's a sharp odor and I want to wrinkle my nose, but this powers our agricultural landscapes. I see a plume that at first I think is smoke, but then realize it is dust from a truck barreling along a gravel road paralleling the highway. This is flyover country, but I love the details I can see from down here at ground level. There is an abandoned barn, collapsed more than the last time I drove past it. There is a farmhouse protected from the sweeping gusts by a stand of trees that are bent over from the constant winds. There is the road, ribboning out before me, endless and shimmering in the heat. There is the sky streaked with contrails that dissolve into long sweeping clouds, endless and blue and bright.

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Monday, May 6, 2019

The lucky shot

I have always loved the nature photography in publications like National Geographic. Those stunning images give the sense of being right there with the animals, plants, events, and places with a crisp immediacy and vitality. These amazing images have proliferated and are easy to find with a simple search; it gives the impression that those moments happen all of the time, that the shots aren't hard to get.

Ha.

As you may know, in recent years I've become more and more interested in photography. I have Kevin's good camera and use it often. My most frequent subjects are the birds and animals I see in our backyard and the woods beyond, though I'm also terribly fond of abandoned buildings and close up shots of things. Despite having a good camera, Annie Liebowitz' comment that her favorite camera is the one she has with her at the moment does me good to remember. It's a matter of timing and luck, not just equipment.

A few days ago Charley and I were watching a spectacular sunset from our back porch. I didn't have my good camera with me and was just present in the moment, watching the sky shift and the colors change. I'd been there for at least 30 minutes when our local owl flew by and landed on a nearby branch. I didn't have my camera, I had only my phone, and with it I captured what may be the best photo I have ever taken. Sure, it would have been better had I used my good camera with its wonderful zoom lens, but that wasn't what I had and sometimes you just have to leap for the lucky shot. Here it is, with no filters or post-production magic save trimming and a watermark.


The advent of digital photography means I take literally thousands of photos a month. Of those maybe a hundred are acceptable and a small handful are good. I'm sure those National Geographic photographers would say the same thing. It's a matter of being in the right place, at the right time, with the right mindset.

Is there a metaphor here? Hmm... something about using what you have at hand, being present in the moment, being patient, leaping for the lucky shot, failing again and again and still trying? Maybe. Yes, there is, but for right now? I'll love whatever camera I have at hand, I will watch, I will forgive myself for the poor shots and missed moments, and I will be present in the world. The lucky shot will come again for me, as it has over and over.

It will for you, too.

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Monday, April 29, 2019

Telling a story with #storyseeds

I post a lot here about #storyseeds, but it's a nice chance for me to think them through. As you know, many #storyseeds are single-shot prompts, with no connection to other #storyseeds or larger narrative framework, but I sometimes post sets that are intended to suggest another narrative. Tax day inspired just such a run.

I'm thinking about turning #storyseeds into a card deck, with some rules for play or just as a creative tool. What do you think? Would something like that interest you?






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Monday, April 22, 2019

Planting, cultivating, and harvesting #storyseeds

Many of you know I've been sending out near-daily #storyseeds for several years. They are short images or questions, crafted to spur the reader's imagination and maybe lead to new creative work. Truthfully, I started them as a way to spur my own creativity. It's a challenge coming up with something every day and it's keeping my imagination supple.

#storyseeds started as text only. Sometimes they would be interrogative:

What is that smell?

or

Name your superpower and why.

or

What would you give up to create the change you hunger for?

Other times they might be a teeny-tiny story, or a sentence with the potential to become one.

My garden is full of wild onions, tumbleweeds, and dandelions.

or

You find a note on the mirror. "Don't look behind you."

or

"I can never find shoes in my size," grumbles The Monster, "It makes me think there is an anti-monster bias in the fashion industry."

Lately I've been experimenting with #storyseeds that include images. I'm really enjoying this because it's giving me a multi-layered challenge. Not only do I have to come up with the seed itself, I need to find a way to enhance it with an image. Sometimes the image is integral to the seed as in these:



Other times not as much. While the image supports the seed it isn't the key part. This particular set of #storyseeds were part of a set released over one week, intended to suggest a longer story.


I'm also offering expanded, multi-part #storyseeds over on Patreon. To see those go over to my Patreon page.

I find planting and cultivating #storyseeds has given me a great harvest of ideas. I hope it has for others. Stories rarely emerge fully formed like Athena from Zeus' forehead; they often need to be tended and cared for as they grow. When we pay attention, the potential for a story is everywhere.

As I mentioned in the ideas, images, and story seeds entry in my book, From Audience to Zeal: The ABCs of Finding, Crafting, and Telling a Great Story, "Storyseeds are all around. Ask yourself questions about why the world is as it is. Pick one thing and wonder about it. Maybe your next-door neighbor has a secret. Maybe they are really a minotaur...or used to be a prima ballerina. Maybe they are looking at you and wondering who you really are."

Which leads me to ask: Who are you? What are your #storyseeds? What are you cultivating?

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Monday, April 15, 2019

The world through my eyes - adventure day

I went for an adventure a few days ago. Adventures are good for my spirit. They help me feel both minuscule and vast, connected to the world in a deep way and still observational of it, as well as offering me glimpses into the unknown. I decided to explore parts of the Twin Cities that are new to me and I found wonders.

I posted some of these photos originally on Instagram, but here I can explore them a little more thoroughly. I hope you enjoy this glimpse into my adventure and (more than that) I hope you have adventures yourself.

Adventures are about looking at the world in new ways.
Looking up in the lobby of a historical building.

They are about the details you see when you look closer.
The skylight.

They are about watching the watchers.
And finding beauty.
The ceiling in the hallway of the historical building.
Beauty that is in the details as well as the big picture.
Mushrooms in an asian market.
They are about cherishing the contrasts in the world.
This is my favorite picture in the bunch. It was taken in a Hmong market and shoes skeins of embroidery floss, used to make traditional art, and modern shoes.
Sometimes adventures bring unexpected friends.

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Monday, April 8, 2019

#storyseeds

As you may know, I've been posting #storyseeds on Facebook and Twitter for several years. These are little creativity sparks. I've shared longer, text based seeds here before, but I'm trying something new. I've begun making them image focused and it's really fun. Having to think through an image and seed has been sparking all kinds of ideas for me, so I wanted to share them with you here. I'd love to know what they might evoke!








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Thursday, April 4, 2019

You can't go home again

This past weekend I returned to Sharing the Fire for the first time since Kevin died. We were both deeply involved with this conference, and the thought of returning filled me with dread for quite a few years. I had tremendous trepidation about going back this year, but decided I may as well find out if I could.

It was both easier and harder than I anticipated, as so many things are.

On the one hand, it was wonderful seeing people I care about whom I haven't seen in years. I did a good job of planning for something that would be stressful so when it was, I had a safe place to hide and people who took care of me. I didn't have to bark at anyone, which was something I had genuine concern about since so many people say well-meaning things that are actually hurtful.

On the other it was yet another marker, another way of noting that Kevin has been gone for five years now, which seems so very long. It was another way of noting how much things change and how little they change. It was an enormous marker of how I have changed and not always in ways I would have hoped.

It was hard and good and hard. So it goes.

I expect I will return next year, now that I've managed it once. I don't expect that it will ever be easy.

My gratitude to all who helped me through. As it is with most things, I wouldn't have made it without you.

p.s. I posted a ghost story on patreon, one that is largely about Kevin. There is a video teaser here, and you can support me (and therefore have access to the story) here.
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Thursday, March 28, 2019

An open letter to Kevin, five years on

Dear Kevin,

I remember thinking on the first anniversary of your death that five years seemed impossibly long. That when you'd been gone for five years I might be dead too. That I could not bear the thought of five years without you.

All of that was true.
All of that wasn't true.

Loss and grief are like that. They change everything. The fundamentals of my world are not the same as they were before you died, before you were diagnosed, and yet I am still here.

There are so many things I could say but I don't know how. It's funny, writing about losing you was my driving reason to write for so long and today I don't know what to say. I miss you. I love you. I am so glad we had each other and in some ways still do. What else is there to say?

Now, five years on, I am finally starting to feel the joy and love of being each others start to outweigh the pain of losing you. Part of me is ashamed that it's taken this long, but so it is. I still have flashbacks and sometimes they are very bad, I still wonder if I did enough for you, I still am afraid I wasn't enough, that my memories of us are an illusion, but I can now draw up the sweet memories more easily and remember that yes, we were that good. I was that lucky. You would say blessed. Yes.

The hospital chaplain (you remember him, the white guy with reddish hair and the sweet face, the really smart guy, the one you kind of liked as much as you liked anyone in the hospital) was very kind to me in those days. I wish I could remember his name. I said to him several times that I didn't know how I could live without you, that I felt like I would die too, and he responded gently, each time, that I might. I didn't understand it then. I am starting to, finally.

Who I am now is at once much the same and so very different. I am still thinking about how to describe those changes (that alone is a difference, I am slower to speak. You might be relieved.) and this is not the time or place to list them, but I hope you are proud of me. I hope you would love the me I am now. I think you would. In some ways I've become the person you wanted me to be, the person you knew was there and I doubted. I wish it hadn't taken losing you to finally get here. Maybe I would have anyway. I hope so. I hope you know.

I hope you know how absolutely amazing your kids are. They reflect your light into the world and add to it with their own.

Thank you, beloved, my heart, for everything. For loving me, for loving all of us so very well.

Today I will take a walk and do my best to feel your hand in mine. Today like so many days I will miss you. Today I will remember that love endures, that it is infinite, that we are still each others. Today I will look at the waters and see you in them, in the air, in the sky. I will celebrate your continuation in the stars, the waves, the universe. Today I love you still and I always will.

Yours always,
Laura


Thanks to James for the amazing video.
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Tuesday, March 26, 2019

The raging river of social media

Social media is a constantly shifting river. It's more like the raging Congo (which you can see right over there) than your local fishing spot, full of riches and wonder but murky, dangerous, and hard to take in.

I've been on social media for a long time. I wasn't quite an early adopter, but I'll say I had a friendster account and leave it at that. At first I used social media to connect with friends and then to talk about storytelling or chart difficulties in my life, but over the last several years it has been more and more about my work, in large part because storytelling is the driving force in my life. It has always been a positive way for me to share my art, get feedback, and communicate with anyone interested in what I was doing.

Social media is changing. It's very hard to stand out in the rushing rapids, especially with ever-changing algorithms making sure the most of my posts are like raindrops in the river - unnoticed and without impact. I don't like inundating those who are kind enough to read what I write with a zillion social media pointer posts in the hopes that a few new people will see them. That doesn't feel ethical or polite. It's all made more complicated now by security breaches, browser activity tracking, privacy issues, and Russian troll farms.

That's part of why I stepped away from this blog. I wanted to share stories and thoughts with people who were interested, but very few people ever saw the posts unless I promoted the heck out of them, which led me back to the problem of how to not inundate those who were already interested.

I also stepped away because writing a thoughtful post takes time, and sometimes that's time I need to work on making a living. Being a working artist, coach and consultant is at least 80% marketing and administration. Trying to post here three times a week when I had no certainty many would see the post and fair certainty it wouldn't help me pay the rent was frustrating and discouraging.

I'm saying all of this for those of you who do read this blog and value what I have to say here. I will continue to post once a week for the foreseeable future though I'll likely miss a week here and there. I'll write about the stuff I always write about - storytelling, culture, grief, how to get along in a challenging world - and I'm delighted that you are still here with me. Thank you.

For those of you what want more, please take a look at my Patreon page. For those who aren't familiar with Patreon, it's essentially a subscription platform designed to support artists by leveraging micro-donations into working capital. I'm posting stories, essays, videos, audio recordings, and more. Please consider this if you'd like to follow or support my work and be guaranteed something interesting for your time. I'm trying to post there at least twice a week. You can follow along for free if you'd just like to see what it's about... there's no risk either way.

You can also sign up for my newsletters. I publish them once a month and try to always have something interesting and worthwhile. It's also where I let readers know about gigs, opportunities, and so on, all the things you'd expect in a newsletter. I write mostly about storytelling and performance here and about organizational storytelling and consulting here.

I'm still on my usual social media channels, too. My personal facebook page which has personal and professional posts, along with some political content so avoid that if it would be uncomfortable; my storytelling facebook page where I publicize gigs, post articles you might find interesting, and so on; my thinkstory consulting facebook page, my twitter feed which is the place to go if you want #storyseeds and #barkagainstthedark; and LinkedIn. I'd be delighted to connect with you on any of these platforms. I also have my web pages laurapacker.com and thinkstory.com which is where you can find out more about the services I offer.

Thank you for taking the time to read this, and for sticking with me in this blog. I love writing here and will not give it up. Thank you, too, for understanding that being a working artist is a complicated dance between earning a living and following the muse.

I hope your muses are singing clearly to you. I hope the world treats you well.
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Monday, March 18, 2019

The world intrudes

I've committed to relaunching this blog and I want to hold true to that commitment. My intent had been to write today about what it means to be a working artist and to share some of the joys and fears of this path, but the world intrudes.

I've written too many times in this blog about massacres and yet today I find I can barely think of anything else. Rather than bemoan the world, which you can do perfectly well on your own, I will step back for a day to regroup. I'll be back next week.

I'm also concerned about not having enough work for 2019, so I need to focus my attention there. The world intrudes in so many ways.

Thank you for understanding. I'll see you next week.
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Monday, March 11, 2019

Catching up week 2: Being present in the moment with writing, teaching, performing

Coming back to blogging feels good. I needed the break so I could give myself permission to write about something other than grief. Kevin and his loss are a huge part of my life, but I want to write about so many things. As I said in my rise from the blogging ashes, I'm back and a lot of things are going on. This is the second of several posts catching you up on my life and things that have been preoccupying me.

Of late I've been present with the idea of presence, especially in my work. In this instance I define presence as calm existence in the current moment, within my current context. When I am more present while working I am more likely to find a flow state; it continues to be an interesting journey and thought exercise. The word presence has a lot of new-age baggage attached to it, but the basic premise of benign the moment and aware of the context, the audience, and the purpose has great value for me.

Writing is an exercise in presence. While it requires reflection and thought, time and recrafting, planning and purpose, the act of writing is grounded in this moment, this emotion, this thought. It engages my brain like little else, except perhaps teaching, coaching, and performing. I am fortunate and grateful that I find these elements of my work all-encompassing; they are among the things that nourish me the most.

Writing From Audience to Zeal and its accompanying workbook (due out in about two months from Small Tooth Dog Publishing Group) was an exercise in presence. It triggered imposter syndrome like few things have, so I frequently had to refocus, remind myself that I do know what I'm talking about, and write another few sentences. There was a lot of swearing and short little walks around the house. It was when I could be present with the topic, with the words, with my own 25+ years of experience that the writing flowed.

I don't always find writing so hard, but I tell you this as an example of the importance of being in the moment when writing, at least for me. Other kinds of writing (such as memoir pieces, stories, poems, journaling) are more easily infused with presence. I suspect this is because I am less concerned with the audience, it's more about my own satisfaction in the creative process.

Teaching and performing each require a different kind of presence.

I love teaching. It's funny, the imposter syndrome I fight with when writing instructive material rarely arises when I teach. I think it's because the audience is right in front of me and I am able to focus on them. I am present. This is the case even in largely online courses, such as the upcoming Right Livelihood Professional Training (co-taught with Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg) and Storytelling From Audience to Zeal: Finding, Crafting, and Telling Great Stories.

Right Livelihood Professional Training helps people find and follow their calling, so it requires some real self-examination on my part. I need to ask myself all the questions we ask our students so I know I'm engaged and teaching from an authentic place. It requires presence. Storytelling from Audience to Zeal has required me to craft a storytelling class with both live interactive and offline self-paced components. It's requiring my presence the process so it's easier for students to be present in their own learning. I need to look at each exercise with clear vision and make sure it's comprehensible outside of my own head. Both of these classes have taught me to be a better teacher because I must be more attentive.

Finally, performing requires deep presence on several levels. I need to be present internally, with the story and my own process, as well as with the audience in their context. This means I can't afford to get distracted by what I might make for dinner, my own imposter syndrome, or anything. I want to give the audience my very best, and the best that I am is in that moment. This applies to every performance, whether it's from a stage, in a corporate meeting room, during a keynote, or around a campfire.

All of this brings me back to blogging. I find writing a blog is an in-the-moment experience, combining aspects of performance (because I know the audience is right there) and writing (crafting effective written communication), not to mention instruction when I'm pontificating on a particular point of storytelling technique. It's good to be back. It's good to connect with you. It's good to be present.

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