Secrets (listening, continued)

Secrets are often hard things to carry around. They weigh you down, make you old before your time and drive you into isolation. If you have a secret it's easy to think you're the only one who has suffered this terribly truth and this knowledge can change you. Mind you - not all secrets are burdens, some are joyful, but those often end up being shared in short order. I'm talking about the heavy ones. Or the ones that at least feel heavy.

If you can find someone with whom you can share your secret you'll often find that, really, it's not so bad. You're not alone. If someone would just listen to you without judging then your life might be a little better. Chances are pretty good the secret is no worse than anyone else's.

If you're afraid to tell anyone your secret, afraid no one can truly hear your secret without flinching, then there is still hope. Check out PostSecret.

Sometimes we need to know that someone is listening, without seeing their reaction. Maybe it's kind of like going to confession - you name your sins and are somehow forgiven. PostSecret encourages you to write your secret down on a postcard and to send it out. You know someone will read it. You know you're not alone anymore.

A selection of received postcards is posted every Sunday. And you know what? Every week almost, I find one of my own secrets there and I realize, I am not alone.

Through the act of being silently listened to, these revealed secrets accomplish many things. The secret teller has the opportunity to give up their burden. The secret reader may find themselves on the screen and realize they are not the only one who has carried a particular secret. And the community that has arisen around sharing secrets, via PostSecret, is impressive and has helped many people through their own dark nights, by listening to each other's secrets with kindness and compassion.

If you're reading this blog you may already know about PostSecret. Check it out again anyway. You are not alone. And if you're wondering if I've sent in a secret I will tell that yes, I have. It helped. I don't need to tell you what it is, because someone else already knows, already listened to me, already shared my burden.

Letting go of your secrets can be an act of survival.

On dying visibly

I know I have a lot to say about listening, but life and death keep getting in the way. I have a post half written that I'll finish when I can. For now, though, there is this.

I wanted to bring a powerful article and photo display to your attention. Walter Schels is a photographer living in England. He has taken a series of photos of people in hospice care, recorded their stories with the assistance of his partner, and then took another photo after they died. This is all on display in a London gallery, but more immediately you can read an article about it here and see the photos here.

The entire exhibit is called Life Before Death and stands as a reminder that so many of us only begin to live when we know we're going to die. When I had cancer I lived with more immediacy and vibrancy than I had before. I celebrate my not-dead day (April 19th, for those of you who may be interested) to remind me that yes, I am alive. Yes, this is the only chance I get to live fully.

All that aside, these photos are beautiful. The stories are so human and stand as a testament to how alike we all are, how we all have the same needs - to be loved, cared for, to not die in utter isolation, to be remembered.

Take a look. It's not frightening but has a somber beauty, like the tolling of a bell.

(c) 2008 Laura S. Packer

text weirdness

As an aside, I'm having some issues with blogger's text options. I've been playing with it to try to make the text size and kerning consistent, but at this point I'm ready to throw the computer through the window, so I think I've had enough. I'm sorry if it bugs you, but for now we'll have to live with it.

Another Hero: Pete Seeger

Before I delve into another set of thoughts on listening (and it's coming, don't worry) I wanted to touch upon another of my heroes while he's fresh in my mind. The other night while making dinner (roasted eggplant with cilantro green sauce, seared tilapia, stuffed clams) I stumbled across an American Masters program about Pete Seeger. The food was a little saltier than I'd intended, seasoned with tears of joy for his life, sorrow that his work is still so relevant and remembrance for everything his music has meant to me.

I am so moved by this man's bravery and integrity. Not that his actions are news to me, but I am reminded of it anew. Talk about walking in hope - for peace, justice, environmental health and welfare and more. Pete has sung out for civil rights, human rights, labor, kids - he has helped shape the current progressive agenda. And he's done all of this while being a decent human being. He is relentlessly hopeful that we can be our better selves, living in kindness, compassion and with respect for all living things. That takes immense courage and inner resourcefulness - it's easy to get hopeless and forget that we have the capacity to change, grow and be kind. Pete reminds us that we can.

He invoked the First Amendment when called in front of the House Un-American Activities Committee. How's that for courage! He's named in the Supreme Court case that helped to establish precedent for conscientious objectors. Anyone who says arts and artists don't make a difference should look at this man.

Plus the man sings and encourages us to sing! I bet, regardless of whatever kind of music you like, you know some of his songs. How about this, "To every thing, turn, turn turn..." I bet you hear a melody. Or, "Where have all the flowers gone..." or... well, you know what I mean.

Heroes come in many different shapes and sizes. Pete Seeger reminds me that hope is a verb - it move us to action and feeds us. He reminds me that voices lifted together in song are stronger than those shouting in discord. He reminds me that human beings, regardless of race, color or creed have the potential for such love, such joy and such music. Thanks, Pete.

ps - the photo is from peteseeger.net, a lovely appreciation site.

(c) 2008 Laura Packer

The overheard

I'll start with this. I wrote about keeking a long time ago, that fine art of taking a little peek in on something, a glance. I do this with listening too - you might call it eavesdropping, I would call it... research. Or maybe a way of life.

Take this example. Last weekend Kevin and I were having breakfast at a pleasant little restaurant. It was really crowded, cheek to jowl. A couple of young guys were near us and had a conversation something like this:

"So how was it last night?"
"Oh, man, it was sweet! There were only, like, two or three fights. Though this one girl took it really hard on the head and was holding herself up on a pole afterwards. It really wasn't that bad."

Within another sentence or two they were talking about if they should start a housecleaning business or stick with their jobs for another six months because, "The work is like, balls, but it's at least a steady income and until I'm ready to do something on my own I really can't complain."

I'm just grateful they didn't look over and notice me jotting all this down. Being 40 and invisible does have its advantages I guess, though that could be another post.

Meanwhile, the couple on the other side was having a heartfelt discussion about literature, the future of their relationship, and the cost of gas.

I love those overheard gems. They help me remember that we aren't really so different from one another, that we all have largely the same cares and concerns. I can't say that an evening with only two or three fights would be my idea of a good time, but I can identify with his excitement and energy and the thrill of just being alive. All the while the other couple was so very much a chick-flick one moment and then real-world every-day the next. And I live that life too, the one of operatic concerns and mundanities.

Any of this material would seem very cinema-verite, but it doesn't need the cinema part. Just by listening I have a greater connection to the real life that happens all around me. And this is just passive listening, simply by being in an environment and extending my ears. I get to absorb stories, process them and my world becomes a bigger place. How cool is that?

So by just listening I learn about the secrets and truths in the human heart. I learn about the threads that connect us. I gather material for characters and stories. And I get to remember that I am one of many and just as easily overheard. How wonderful! Someday I might show up on someone else's blog.

So the other day I overheard this woman talking to her friend and she said...

Listen

Shhhh.

Listen.

Really.

Take a moment and just listen to what's happening around you. What do you hear?

It can be hard to just listen, whether to your environment, to a selected sound such as music, to ourselves, or to another person. We're so accustomed to our own running monologues or to filling our environments with other sounds that when we take the time to just listen, it can be a little overwhelming. Yet this experience can lead to a transcendental moment, to deeper understanding of another person or our own self.

In the last few months, when I haven't been writing, I've been listening. I've been listening to other people. I've been listening to a lot of music. And I've been listening to myself again, by writing in my journal. I've also been thinking about listening and the universe is tossing more stuff to me about listening in the shape of books and websites and random conversations. So I think I want to spend the next few posts writing about listening.

You already know I'm a storyteller, that I create my own works of fiction and non-fiction and perform them in front of adult audiences. Well, good storytelling comes out of listening to the audience. More than that, it comes out of being listened to deeply prior to the performance. More than that, it comes out of listening to the world around you to find those kernels that become stories in the first place. Storytelling is an act of listening.

If storytelling is my life's work, as I believe it to be, then listening is also my life's work. Helping others learn how to listen and understand the impact of deep listening is part of that work.

That being said, I'll stop here. There's too much in my head, too much I want to cover for one post. I'll be back soon.

For now though -

Listen. Don't interrupt. What do you hear?

(c) 2008 Laura S Packer

Not missing, running

Wow, it's been awhile since I've written. I've certainly thought of things I wanted to say but haven't had the time or concentration to do so. My internal monologue has been something like this:

Gee, I miss writing in my blog. I could write about the PMC. Or about the new conversations around hope in the media and what that suggests about our current condition. Or about the challenge of creativity when under significant stress. Or.... But hey, this blog is supposed to be intermittent anyway and I have so much to get done, so I'll write later.

And here I am a month later. How disappointing.

So what's been keeping me away? Mortality, mostly. Chaos. Too many other commitments. My own internal monologues distracting me.

For now, though, let me just touch on mortality. And that will keep this entry short, because really, life is short and blog entries can be too.

This entry is in memory of my friend Joan Clark and my Aunt Evvie. They both died this week and I will miss them.

I urge you to go outside, breath some fresh air, tell those you care for how dear they are and do something kind for someone you've never met. Live your life. It's a one way trip and we need to make the most of it while we can.

Not a manifesto

I wrote this some time ago for a writing class. While I still stand by it, I might write it differently today, but I think it's an interesting exercise, looking at where I was almost a year ago.

It's something to consider, why we do the things we do...

Why I Write

Because I can’t not write. When words come tumbling out of me in a frantic rush, a great tsunami that threatens to overwhelm me in its intensity, for that while nothing else exists. There are no politics with their attendant fears and disempowerments, no bills to be paid and appointments to be kept, there are no obligations of love or worry, just words that rush forth as though I am the source of a river and for one tiny moment am touching what it might be like to be immortal, even if unknown.

I write because I am hungry for words, for their beauty and coy intimacies. By writing and crafting language I can leap and dance along invisible wires and see how far I can stretch my own boundaries, challenge myself and become a little braver than I was before I wrote. I can play with language, break it apart and reconstruct it, and am often surprised by what I find.

When I write I find undiscovered countries within myself. Writing allows me to explore new territory that I might not be able to look at directly; it helps me understand my own heart. Writing allows me to chart the ebb and flow of my own life amidst all other lives. Writing is the secret cartography of what it is to be human.

When I write I understand the world just a little bit more, in all its beauty and heartache and ironies and small glories and mystery. Writing helps me understand my place in it and feel that much less alone. For all that writing is a solitary act, when I write I am one of thousands driven by language, knowing the quest for the right word, the turn of phrase that will capture the shimmer of wine in the grail such that you taste it without ever looking up from the page.

I write because I believe that story has the power to break down barriers of country and creed, that the stories we tell have the power to make us pause before we strike and sometimes listen to each other just a little more closely. When I write I send out a raven to explore the great floodplains and see if there is anyone to hear me. When my ravenous words don’t return I know they might have found new roosts and the world is a less hostile place.

I write because it gives me a window into new worlds. I love the unexpected directions stories and characters will take; the sheer sensual click of fingers on keys, pen scratching on paper; the subtle connection between writer and reader; the commonality of human spirit we find in stories well told. I write because the world is highly subjective, and this is one way I can share my world, just as when I read, I share the author’s world. I write because the world is not perfect and in story I can at least change the imperfections, rewrite, try again. I write the same way I drink cool water – because without stories I would dry up and die.

I write because I have to, because the world is so big and I am so very small. It is a way of saying, “Here I am, in this moment, on this page. Read me. And then tell me your story. Let us listen to each other.”

(c) 2008 Laura S. Packer

Gratitude

I recently heard a wonderful piece on Morning Edition . My local station runs a program called Morning Stories featuring personal stories of maybe 3-4 minutes, sometimes wonderful, sometimes maudlin. This story was called Thanksgiving and Getting, told by a woman who is casually informed that she never says "thank you." She grew up privileged and maybe just never had the opportunity to really consider how grateful she was for the things in her life so she never developed the habit of not just taking things for granted. She tries to say thank you regularly and finds it to be strained, so she begins to keep a gratitude journal that changes her life.

I've been thinking a lot about gratitude lately and wanting to write an entry about it. Beyond the fact that it's seasonal, it's something worth taking under consideration and thinking about. This has been a hard entry to write, not because I don't have a lot to be grateful for, but because examining it is surprisingly difficult. I keep drifting into the maudlin or the self-congratulatory and that's really not what I want this to be about.

As I was approaching my 40th birthday this past October I did what most people do. I thought about my life. I figured that since I'm now at about the half way point, it's worth examining. I have done a few of the things I wanted do, done many things I never expected to, and haven't done some things I thought I would have easily accomplished by now. None of this is an earth shattering surprise. But when I thought about the things I have or haven't accomplished, I wasn't filled with a sense of contentment or pride or regret, nor was I moved to suddenly act or apologize or get depressed. Mostly I just felt grateful that I have been given the opportunities I have had, that I have people in my life whom I have loved and that have loved me, that I have managed to do some things that might have made a small difference in the world.

Rereading this, I suspect it's a pretty common set of reactions.

After looking at my life on the brink of 40, I decided to try to make this year about gratitude, to appreciate what I have and see how this changes things moving forward. I am trying, with more or less success, to be aware of the gifts in my life, to note them, to thank the universe for them. I don't think I'm likely to become one of those people who is always praising everything. I'm not that open-hearted. But I do think the world is a big place, that we can see more of it, and be happier in it, if we move through it noticing the details and grateful for the gifts, as often as we are able. The poet Mary Oliver writes beautifully about this.

All of that being said, I know I will not succeed in this goal. It's one that is doomed to failure from the start if I am to remain in this world. Our modern world, with all of its conveniences and noise, isn't accommodating to a life of deep observation and gratitude. Those who move too slowly or express too much gratitude are not looked upon with patience but as bordering on mad. I am a child of my time and find extended deep observance wearing - I need that dose of tv or some other kind of consumer culture to numb me from time to time. But I can still try to slow down, to look, to be grateful and express that gratitude. I will not be the worse for trying. I'm not afraid of bring thought a little mad (that happens often enough anyway) and I think perhaps I might appreciate the chance to be a divine fool, mad with gratitude for the gifts of the world around me.

I'll let you know what happens.

(c) 2007 Laura S. Packer

Santa, faith and miracles

If you are under the age of, oh, 20, you may want to stop reading now. I'm going to talk about some things that you might not want to know. If you're over 20 you might want to stop anyway, because I hope to challenge some of your assumptions and shattered beliefs. Though, really, isn't that what blogging is all about?

It's the season where overweight elderly men in decidedly out-of-fashion red and white suits are all the rage. You know who I'm talking about. Mr. Claus. Santa.

I have no interest in Santa-bashing. I'm not going to explore his better-than-the-NSA security (after all, he knows when you are sleeping, he knows when you're awake), nor will I deign to impugn his fondness for bouncing kids on his knee. I trust that he is what he seems to be, a kindly old man, a great listener, a generous soul who manages to accomplish miracles over the course of one night.

That's right, I'm suggesting that maybe, somehow, Santa is real. Sure, at some point in your life someone told you that your parents put those presents under the tree, that it was all a sham. When I found out, I cried. I felt deeply betrayed by my family, by all the people who said they were Santa, by the world. Some of the magic was gone. But the kid who told me that was wrong.

I'm tempted to go into some kind of Yes, Virginia-esque rant about how Santa lives in all of us, but I won't. Instead I'll simply suggest this. Of course Santa is real. He is believed in by hundreds of thousands of kids all around the world, and reality is highly subjective. For them, he is real, flesh and blood, no-sense-questioning-the-miracles kind of real. There are other things thousands, millions of people believe in with less evidence than Santa, that they have absolute faith in. UFOs. God. Miracles. Who am I to disuade them of their belief brings them comfort and joy while harming no one else? Who am I to say that the things they believe in aren't real? Isn't that part of what faith is about - believing in something you can't prove is real? Kind of like string theory?

Sure, Santa needs help with his miracles. We all need help with miracles. I think it's kind of miraculous that my Jewish parents went to the trouble of drinking the milk, eating the cookies and leaving me notes on Christmas (not to mention giving me gifts) so I wouldn't feel left out when the other kids got visits from Santa. Thanks, Mom and Dad. I appreciate that miracle, it was a wonder for me as a kid. And I didn't feel left out.

I think it's kind of miraculous that so many people at work gave to Toys for Tots so kids they didn't know would have something to play with this holiday season.

I think it's kind of miraculous that we're all still here in the first place.

So maybe Santa is that force in the world that reminds us to be kind to each other, that we can extend ourselves a little bit more to help each other out. That listening to one another doesn't cost anything beyond some time and patience. If Santa is kindness and listening and patience - those miraculous forces that can change lives and the world - then I'm a believer, no matter what anyone says. It's worth having faith in something.

(c) 2007 Laura S. Packer