The glorious ordinariness of love and grief

I'm going to tell you a secret, one I'm a little ashamed of. I thought Kevin and I were something special. That we built something just a little brighter than what I saw in many other couples. It was a wonderful secret to hold inside of me and treasure.

I'm not alone in this secret; you may feel that way about your love. And you should. Each love is amazing, wonderful, sacred but not any more unique than the love of the couple next to you. I am coming to treasure the very ordinariness of love and feel sad that we don't live in a culture that knows ordinariness can be a wonder.

We are surrounded by media (movies, books, art) full of big, dramatic Love. We can't help but yearn for something similar. We all want happily ever after which, according to lots of movies, books and art, means we will never again fart, have to wash the dishes, pay bills or get annoyed at our loved one. Once we realize that isn't true we still yearn for our own version of the Princess Bride. I don't think we can help it, we're taught that True Love is incredibly rare and makes the every day vanish.

As I talk with more and more people who have lost the love of their life, as I have lost mine, I become more and more certain that love is one of the glorious every day miracles. I listen to women who tell me their husbands were the most handsome, the smartest, the kindest, the funniest, the sexiest men who ever walked on this earth. They show me pictures and I am struck again and again at how very ordinary they seem to be. Yet it's true, they were the most handsome, smartest, kindest, funniest, sexiest men in their relationship. And each relationship is its own individual planet, its own place in the universe. In the broader context these men and relationships may have seemed ordinary, but to at least one person, they were everything.

And I think that's the glorious ordinary miracle of love. We transform those we love into the Handsome Prince, the Farm Boy who remains pure, the Princess whose nobility cannot be disguised by rags or dishes or laundry or even the occasional fart.

If Love is so gloriously ordinary, grief is too. Because most of us are able to love so deeply and so well that we transform the ordinary into the extraordinary, we also are able to grieve to a place beyond description. That, too, is an ordinary miracle; we love, we experience loss, but we still continue to love each other, as ordinary as we are. That's why I so resolutely believe that no grief supersedes another, we each can love miraculously, so too can we grieve beyond language. It is utterly every day. And utterly sacred.

Kevin and I were special. It's not a secret. Just as the specialness of all who love isn't a secret, nor should it be. I am so grateful that the world can hold this much love, this much pain and the hope for easier times ahead.

(32 weeks.
All told, I'd rather still have my secret and still and you.
I miss you. I love you.)

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer

Ask the storyteller: Scripted vs. improv storytelling

I am delighted by the responses you've sent me; I'm looking forward to answering your questions. Please keep them coming, they are helping me think about storytelling again. I can't promise I'll get to every single one but I will do my best.

TBinKC asked, How much of your storytelling is planned and scripted, vs. improvised in the moment based on how the audience responds? Is there a process of writing or improvising and then 'locking down' a story?

Great question, TB, thanks! Please keep in mind that I can only answer from my own experience. Every storyteller has their own methods and preferences; what follows is what works best for me and what I teach my students.

I do not memorize my stories. I want to remain flexible in the language I use and in my response to the audience.

I learn the structure, what I call the bones of the story. I will often write an outline that includes basic plot points and narrative flow as well as any key phrases I want to make sure remain consistent from telling to telling. When I practice the story I keep the bones in mind and take note of any particular gestures or physical feelings I may experience in the course of telling the story; a great deal of my understanding of a performance piece lies in my body and how I feel as I tell. I don't write out bones for every story I tell, but I never learn a story directly from the text. I don't want to be bound to specific words. I may have a mental outline or a written one, but I deliberately move away any long-form written narrative, so there is room for me to improvise language, respond to events and pay attention to the audience.

By not tying myself to specific, memorized narrative I can more effectively dance with the audience. The dance is the give and take between audience and teller, the way the listeners shape the tale. Let me give you an example.

If I were working on Little Red Riding Hood the bones for telling might look like this:

• little girl lives with mother in house at the edge of the wood
• mother gives a basket of goodies, tells her to take it to grandmother
• stay on path, don't talk to strangers, wear red cloak
• sets off, wanders off path for flowers. woods, path, shadows
• wolf appears, queries, girl replies to grandmother's
• "I'll take the road of needles, you take the road of pins"
• etc.

The bones may be more or less detailed than this. Please note that anything in quotation marks indicates a specific phrase I want to remember. As I practice the story I will make mental notes about the gestures I use, such as raising my arm to represent the trees. I will take note of my emotions at specific points in the story. Oh, the woods are friendly at first but become scary. Good to know. This will inform my inflections.

When I perform the story I pay a great deal of attention to the audience. The audience's reaction and needs may over ride the bones. If the audience is particularly enjoying the dialogue between the wolf and the girl I may spend more time there, improvise more conversation. If they seem bored by it I will move along quickly. The audience drives much of the story, even as I stick to the general plot and structure. It's a dance. We all know the steps but we pay attention to each other and respond to one another.

You asked how I "lock down" a telling. To be honest, that happens by telling it over and over, seeing what works and dropping what doesn't. I deliberately try to keep my telling as flexible as possible. Even with that flexibility the stories remain basically the same in both narrative and duration. This allows me to do what I love most in storytelling: play with language and play with the audience. It is an art of the moment and that is a big part of what I love about performance storytelling.

I hope this is a useful answer. I'm sorry I can't give you a magic formula but, like anything worth doing, it's worth doing again and again, learning each time, honing our art and craft as we go. There are some amazing performers who memorize their pieces word-for-word and you would never know. Play around with it and see what works for you.

All that being said, wanna dance? Let's tell each other some stories and see what happens.

Please keep your questions coming. You can post them below or email me. I'll be back next week with another installment of Ask the Storyteller.

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer

An audio selfie about Kevin, me and bravery

In mid-October I had the chance to record an audio selfie for the NPR program On Being with Krista Tippett. I don't know if it will ever be broadcast and I don't really care.

The question I was asked to answer, along with others who recorded, was about bravery. I spoke about my beloved Kevin as he faced his death. If you love Kevin this will may not be easy to listen to. But it's true. He was the bravest person I have ever met. It was an honor to be his partner in life and, it turns out, in his death.

You can listen to it here.

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer

Halloween: My beloved dead

Today is Halloween. I've always loved Halloween. When I was a kid I would spend many days planning my costumes; to this day my favorite may be the year I dressed as a shadow, all in black with filmy veils. I would stand behind people and imitate their movements which turned out to be a lot creepier than it sounds. As I grew older I became one of the adults who always has their porch light on for trick-or-treaters, even when I lived in a neighborhood where no one went out past dark.

Last year Kevin and I did what we always do - did - on Halloween. With great forbearance he would watch scary movies with me while I answered the door for trick-or-treaters. When there was a particularly wonderful costume I would yell for him to come look. Unlike previous years, last year he rarely came. He didn't feel well. We didn't yet know what that meant.

This is the world I live in now, one where every day, every commonplace event has associations with Kevin, our relationship and, from now through the end of March, with his illness. Everyone says the first year is the hardest because of all the "firsts" and I am certainly finding it challenging. I expect this year I will keep tissues handy while I answer the door.

Halloween is traditionally a time when we consider the dark. When we pay homage to the ghouls and ghosts that always surround us. Tonight we enter into Dias de los Muertos, the day of the dead and I have an alter set up for Kevin and my other beloved dead to welcome them in. In truth, this is no different than any other day for me now. What else can I do?

In some ways my life is now a perpetual Halloween. Every day I speak to the dead. Every day I pay homage to the unseen around me. Every day I welcome my beloved dead in because that is far preferable to closing the door on possibility.

Tonight I will watch scary movies, though not as scary as the ones I would watch when he was here. I will answer the door and pass out candy. I may yell for Kevin to come look at any particularly wonderful costumes and hope that he sees them. I will set out some of his favorite food and share a meal with him. I will celebrate my dead, because there is no other choice but celebration of life, even when that life has ended.

Happy Halloween.

(31 weeks. I love you.)

(c) 2014 Laura Packer

Ask the storyteller: so whaddya want to know?

I used to write a lot about storytelling. I really miss it, but I'm having some difficulty writing about anything not related to grief, so I'm asking you for help.

What questions do you have about storytelling? I have 20+ years of experience as a performer and consultant. I've told stories in some pretty odd places. I've seen stories transform lives.

I've thought deeply about storytelling, its meaning and practice, myth and folktale, story application, use and misuse. I love this stuff.

This is a chance for you to help me back to my calling, get me back on the road. What would you like to know? About performance, application, process? About my experiences as a performing artist, writer and consultant? The field is wide open.

I'd like to make this a weekly column on Wednesdays. Leave your questions in the comments below or send them to me here. If you see this on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn or other social media you can leave questions in the comments section.

I really appreciate your help. Let's make some beautiful stories together.

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer

Seven months: Obvious and true

Today is seven months since you took your last breath. I can't believe it. I have no choice but to believe it. Seven months since we last held hands, seven months since I kissed you, seven months since... everything.

I miss you.
How stunningly obvious.

Yesterday was my birthday, the next in a long line of milestones marking your last year. On my birthday last year we had a few friends over. We laughed. We ate cake. I remember being worried because you weren't eating much but you assured me you just had a stomach ache. It was a sweet day. Afterwards we both remarked that we were finding friends, community, that Kansas City was going to work for us.

Yesterday I was well taken care of by friends, some of whom you've met, others have arrived since you died, brought into my life by your death and my need. It was nice. They all did their best to let me know how much I am loved. I appreciate it. They were kind and loving and concerned.

But they aren't you.
Again, how stunningly obvious. How utterly true.

When I blew out my candles I forgot to make a wish.

I sobbed last night, violent painful tears.
That's okay. As I move through grief (and I am moving though the path is jagged) I have learned that even if I feel truly, utterly, horrendously sad, it will ease. It won't abate, but I will eventually be able to breathe for at least a little while.

I eventually fell asleep and dreamt.

I had some new and magical way to travel through time. It was a year ago, my birthday when you were still here, and I had knowledge of what was to come. You had begun the rounds of doctors' appointments and I begged you to insist on a CT scan. I knew what the results would be and I was hoping against hope that it would be caught early enough that we might be able to do something, save you somehow. I gave you a hug and kiss, watched you walk out the door and thought of how I would look surprised and upset when you came home to tell me the results of the scan. How we would find the best doctors and how maybe things could be different. I knew it wasn't soon enough so I was already thinking of how I might go further back in time and try again.

I woke full of painful hope, knowing that even then it wouldn't be enough. That I would still be here, a year later, alone in our bed.

I lay awake for a long time, staring into the dark, wishing I had magical powers.

I still wish I had magical powers. I didn't think to wish for them when I blew out the candles.

I miss you. I always will.
I love you. I aways will.
I do not regret a minute of our time together, even with the pain I am experiencing now.
How true. How obvious and how true.

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer

Birthday post: Two lists

Today is my birthday. For most of my life my birthday, and the birthdays of those I love, have been my favorite holidays. This year it feels, at best, superfluous and confusing. I no longer know why I am here. While Kevin was not my reason for being he helped me find confidence and meaning even in (what I thought were) the most challenging of times. Without him it is very hard to find. I know that feeling will change, that eventually I will have purpose again and reason to celebrate my existence, but for today, it just feels like another piece of cognitive dissonance.

In past years I have posted lists of things I am grateful for, one for each year of my life but, for obvious reasons, this year that would be hard to do. Coming up with 47 things to celebrate would be a reach and one I don't want to undertake. I'm sure some of you are thinking but that's the best time to write out a gratitude list! when you aren't sure what you're grateful for! You may be right, but it's not going to happen. As the song says, it's my birthday and I can cry if I want to.

Nonetheless... In all of the difficulty, trauma and loss of the last year there are some things I'd like to draw attention to. Some thank-yous to be said.

1. I am grateful for my friends and family. Thank you for dancing with me through all of this, being understanding when I've been sharp, giving me space or embracing me as seemed right.
2. I am still grateful for the beauty in this world.
3. I am grateful for social media that allow me to have company at 2am and readers for this blog.
4. I am grateful for tea. 
5. Lastly, and most importantly for me this year, I am grateful for Kevin.
   For his love.
   For the enduring memories of 15 superlative years.
   For his grace in the face of death and utter engagement in his life.
   For his foibles and follies and the rhythm of his heart.
   There is no one on this planet I love more. Even now. Thank you, sweetheart.

In The Hobbit we learn that hobbits give gifts on their own birthdays. I like that, especially at this time in my life when I have far more than I need. So I'd like to offer this to you:

1. May you love and be loved so well you shatter and must rebuild anew when it ends.
2. May your grief be punctuated with moments of grace.
3. May you love again, be it a dog, a friend, the world or a partner.
4. May you remember who you are and rejoice in it.
5. And may you know that your life touches many, that you matter, and, in eventual time, may you be mourned and remembered as well as you mourn and remember.

Love to all.

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer

A lexicon of grief

I love words. I love their possibility and precision. I expecially love archaic words that once had significant context and meaning but now only reflect an outmoded way of thinking.

A great example of this is collective nouns.

A murder of crows.

A hastiness of cooks.

A blush of boys.

You would think such thorough lexicographers would have found a collective noun for just about everything.

A charm of finches.

A knot of toads.

A pity of prisoners.

They didn't.

There is no collective noun for a group of widows or widowers. There is no word that captures the utter isolation you experience when you lose a spouse. There are no specific words for the darkess of the night, the silence, the emptiness where once there was warmth. There are no graceful, antiquated words for the particular keening sound I make. There are no words

I don't have the words. My most trusted ally is absent.

So I offer you a few collective nouns, specific to those who are grieving. Perhaps the lexicographers can add them to their lists.

A keen of sorrow.

An echo of silence.

A singularity of widows.

Grief underscores the old axiom "needs must" and so in my need I must create new words. New patterns. A new udnerstanding of what it is to be a singular entity, even in a crowd. I have become a singularity of widows. 

(c) 2014 Laura Packer

(30 weeks. No words.)

Writing about grief. Mathematics.

I wasn't sure what to write about this week. Truthfully, I rarely know exactly what I'm going to write about when I sit down for my Friday post. I know only that writing helps. That analyzing, sharing and being present with my grief through the written word helps. 

I started to write about exhaustion. But that felt trite and, really, how interesting is it to hear how tired I am? Then I began to write about the very physical nature of grief, but I've written about that before and I get tired of listening to myself say the same things over and over again. I then thought about how grief is a roller coaster. But I've written about that too, and I want that post to stand on its own since it's from the before. And then I thought about the dividing line, the before and after. But that's not for today, I'm not ready yet. I may write more about fatigue, the physical pain of grief, the inescapable cycles - heck, I probably will - but none of those are what I wanted to say today.

I started thinking about the process of writing about grief and that felt interesting. I thought about how writing shifts things and I knew what I wanted to say this week.

I've had some lovely and humbling comments about how helpful my public grief journey has been. Thank you. Honestly, I don't feel like I have a choice. By giving it voice, by writing about it, I can understand it more thoroughly and remind myself that I am neither the first nor the last to feel this way. Kevin was one in a million. Together we were one in maybe five million. But considering there are 7 billion people on this planet, we weren't as unique as I might imagine, so it helps me to think that maybe my expression of grief, my changing understanding, will be useful to one of those other thousand or so couples like us. Or, more accurately, to the remaining part of those thousand or so couples.

Giving my grief voice is important for another reason. I do not live in a culture with good models for grieving. I'm coming to think that part of my life's work is education around this inevitable part of living. If we live and love, we will experience grief. It's as simple as that. By sharing my own experience, as individual as it is, maybe the next person will be a little less afraid. Maybe they will feel a little less alone.

Maybe I'm fooling myself and this is all just self-indulgent. I'm sure that's part of it too. But that's okay. Grief is overwhelming and the mourner needs permission to experience it and to not be alone. Sometimes we all need to be indulged.

For me, part of that permission and indulgence is writing. Blogging. Journaling, which I do far more than any other form of writing. Eventually storytelling. All of this helps me believe that I still have a reason for being here and that I will be heard.

I have built my life on a public examination of my experiences. Whether I am telling a folktale, a myth, a piece of fiction or a story from my life, they are all really personal stories. Whether I am writing a blog post about grief, a recipe or directions to a place I love, they are all reflections of my own experience. Fellini said, "All art is autobiographical; the pearl is the oyster's autobiography." I don't know how to do this but to express it and I am profoundly grateful that there are people willing to share it. Here is my pearl.

I hope each of you can find your voice, however that may be. Silence gives the darkness power. Speak up. Be heard. Wail. Live.

(29 weeks. I love you.)

(c) 2014 Laura Packer

Two songs. A post in two parts

1.  How did I get here?

At this moment I find myself in a coffeehouse in Topeka, Kansas, waiting for a friend prior to her open mic.

Topeka.

Kansas.

At this moment I find myself not crying over the loss of Kevin, but I feel like a walking absence.

Kevin. 

Gone.

In another moment I will cry and try to pretend I'm just wiping my eyes, blowing my nose. An everyday thing in a coffeehouse in Topeka, KS.

At this moment I am drinking tea. I am listening to REM playing over the cafe stereo. I am watching the man across from me talking to himself.

At this moment no one in the world knows where I am. If I close my eyes I feel like I am floating. I am, in many ways, adrift. Not all. 

One of my favorite bands is The Talking Heads. For years I loved the song And she was because it felt like it described my life so well. Now? Once in a lifetime feels more apt.

And you may ask yourself-Well...How did I get here?

Here. Listen.




2. I grieve.

When I was in college I experienced my first bout of major depression. I got through, though it was a near thing. Friends helped. A good crisis intervention hotline helped. And some music helped. The Peter Gabriel/Robert Fripp song Here comes the flood helped immensely; I am still here in part because of that song. I listened to it over and over in my dorm room, imagining what it would be like to let go and drown, what it would be like to choose to survive.

When the flood calls
You have no home, you have no walls

Since Kevin died I barely listen to music. Too much of it is too painful still, carrying memories and secret moments. As you know, music connects to emotion and right now I have more emotion than I can easily handle.
But...

A friend reminded me of this song. While it doesn't represent all of my experience of grief it captures some of it.

the news that truly shocks is the empty empty page 
while the final rattle rocks its empty empty cage 
and i can't handle this 

Once again, Peter Gabriel speaks for me. Thank you. And if anyone knows how I could get a letter to him, thanking him via paper and pen, please let me know.

(c) 2014 Laura Packer