50 for 50 day 28: Some thoughts about birthdays, the world, and love

This is the 28th of 50 posts celebrating and reflecting upon my 50th birthday. You can read the entire series here.

It has become something of a Facebook tradition to announce the celebration of a birthday month. I really want to do that, but this month isn't off to an auspicious start. Mass shootings, Tom Petty, Puerto Rico (and Houston and many Caribbean islands and Mexico and...) still in shambles, the US refusing to support a UN measure condemning the death penalty for LGBT people (with a history of never voting to condemn the death penalty for anything, anywhere), the Equifax and Yahoo hacks, millions of US children imperiled by a politicized system that favors party over people, the pissing contest with North Korea, and more. It seems like the height of selfishness and more than a little tone deaf to cry out Me! Me me me MEEE!!! 

Of course, I want to. I want to be boisterous and celebratory and selfish, claiming the month as my own. This year it just doesn't feel right. Of course, adding to the misery and noise isn't really useful either, as I commented yesterday, so I go on.

Birthdays are funny things. When I was little my favorite holiday was, without a doubt, Halloween. Were I pressed I would have admitted it's because I'm almost a Halloween baby and I could parlay that into spooking my classmates. Plus the candy. As I grew older I developed a philosophy that birthdays matter; we all deserve at least one day out of the year that celebrates our very existence. That belief held firm until Kevin died (if you don't know what I'm talking about, take a look at any of these posts from 2014 on). For awhile it felt as though birthdays didn't really matter since they only led to loss. It isn't in my nature to be endlessly bleak, so that too has shifted. Birthdays no longer need as much hoopla - I don't expect a party or gifts this year or any year - but they mean more. They are a reminder that our time here is so brief and so precious.

As I near 50 I find myself wanting mostly to love and be loved. Sure, I want to be reminded that my place in the world isn't wasted, but what I'm really hungry for, amidst the noise and smoke and distraction, is connection.

Know this, dear reader. You are loved. Your place in the world matters. It matters to me, whether or not we have met, as I'm sure it matters to others. You are but a flicker in the time of the universe and you are precious for that very reason. If we all knew how precious we are and yet how insignificant (regardless of office, wealth or fame) perhaps we would all be a little kinder.

Here is what I want for my birthday. Love and be loved. Be a little bit kinder. Let me know what you did and what happened.

This is what 50 looks like. As kind as I can.

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(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

The best we can

I was visiting with a friend recently. Her husband died not too long ago and she was planning his memorial. She asked me to help, knowing I had to do the same for Kevin. She wanted to keep it small so we were talking about whom she might invite.

"What about so-and-so?" I asked.
"No, I don't want her there," she replied with real vitriol. I was surprised, last I knew they had been close.
"Why not? What happened?"
"When my husband was sick she never called to see how he was doing. Alright, she called a few times but not very often. And then when I posted on Facebook that he had died she liked the post. She didn't tell me she was sorry."

I didn't know what to say. I know the friend to be a considerate person so I was sure she had done the best she could, that she probably was at a loss for what to say or do. This seemed like a small thing to provoke such anger. Then I remembered how crazy I was when Kevin was sick and shortly after his death. The small things that cut me, things that now I wouldn't even notice or could at least laugh off.

I kept my mouth shut and we continued planning.

As I've thought about it since I am reminded of one of my life's truths, one that is easy to forget.
We all are doing the best we can, most of the time anyway.

My friend was so raw, in so much pain, that everything was magnified. I remember feeling that way. I remember being racked with guilt because I chose to spend a night at home instead of in the hospital with him, even though I desperately needed the rest. I remember seeing snuggly couples and being enraged that they held hands in my sight, because I was never going to be able to hold Kevin's hand again. I remember trying desperately to control everything I could because the thing I most cared about in the world was entirely out of my control. I remember being that raw and in that much pain. Everything hurt and I was hungry for some way to direct it. I did the best I could to be sane but I know I wasn't, just as my friend has been doing.

And I remember being that person (though not as much in recent years) who didn't know what to do, so did nothing by default. It wasn't that I didn't care, I wasn't concerned and wishing I could help, but that I felt unable to do anything constructive, so I figured they would ask if they needed anything, and I was silent. Now I know, of course, that reaching out and admiting my concern and inability would have been far better, but at the time, withdrawing seemed like the best thing to do. I did the best I could, just as my friend's friend did.

When Kevin was diagosed and later died I was acutely aware of people struggling with how to help. Some people disappeared, reappearing later when it seemed as though I was through the worst. I assume they were frightened and didn't know what to do. It helped me to remember that I have been frightened and unsure, too. Others were present and giving. Sometimes this was enough. Other times I just wanted to scream at them. They did the best they could and were loving enough to forgive me when I snapped. They were doing the best they could. I did the best I could, too.

It's certainly not always enough, not always the right thing, but I think most of the time most of us do the best we can. We often just don't know what to do and we are afraid. If someone you care about is having a rough time, letting them know you are there even if you don't know what to do might mean the world to them. And if you are the one in pain, when you come back to yourself try to remember that those around you did the best they could, even if it wasn't enough.

As we move through the end of this year and into the next, I hope we can remember that we are each trying as hard as we can. We are trying to be kind, compassionate, present, aware; we will succeed and fail every day. All we can do is try again and recognize the effort when we see it.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

There is no vacuum

I'm traveling a great deal for work these days; I'm on an airplane and sleeping in hotels several times every month. There was a woman next to me on my flight to Chicago this afternoon. This isn't unusual, I know, in this era of oversold flights. I had been hoping for an empty seat, but there she was so we both had to make do.

We both settled in as well as we could, our ample hips brushing against each other. I held my arms in tight as did she, we were polite air travelers. I put on my headphones, noise canceling on, and listened to my podcast while I played a game in my tablet. I did my best to create my own little bubble around me, a place where there was no one else and the flight could pass as quickly as possible. There were at least 75 people on that plane, and we all pretended we were in some kind of vacuum, where the other 74 didn't exist except when the flight attendants came by to offer us water or coffee.

I thought she was doing the same thing I was, pretending no one else was there. She leafed through a magazine. She settled in to doze.

About midway through I realized she wasn't hugging her jacket as she rested, she was crying. It's an awkward thing, having a stranger cry next to you, but I have been so blessed by kind strangers when I was the one crying, I couldn't help but want to help. I waited until she was pulled together a bit, then I took off my headphones and asked if she was okay. She couldn't meet my eyes but said, in a voice so quiet I could barely hear her over the airplane white noise, "I'm going home to bury my mother. She died yesterday. I thought I had more time."

She spoke with her mother yesterday morning, a few hours before she died, and told her that she loved her. Her mom had been in the hospital a few weeks ago but they sent her home, saying everything was fine. They were wrong.

Her mom's name was Ruby and she lived in the town where she raised her children.

I asked if there would be anyone there who loved her, someone she could lean on. Her daughter, Laura Rachel, was meeting her there, she said. "I call her Rache, but I love the name Laura."

We talked on and off for the rest of the flight. I am so glad I reached through that crowded vacuum to ask her if she was okay. I doubt if she will remember me in a month, but that's fine. Sometimes all we need is someone to be with us in that moment. Sometimes all we need is to be the on who is present.

Her name is Judy. She is going home to bury her mother and she needed to know she wasn't alone.
(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

The Telling Life: K is for kindness

I’m participating in the A to Z Blog Challenge throughout April.
Monday - something light to start the week. A bit of self-care, creativity challenge or the like.
Tuesday - telling notes for a specific story or kind of story. Tips and tricks to help you think about what you're telling and how.
Wednesday - my usual #tellinglife post, looking at some of the more personal aspects of storytelling and its role in my life.
Thursday - a dip into some of the issues facing contemporary storytelling or a dive into some of the more unusual applications of storytelling.
Friday - my usual personal post about life following the death of my husband
Saturday - the storytelling coach offers a tip you can use right now. An example of the kinds of tools I encourage my students to use.

Kindness is my abiding value. Be kind whenever possible and remember that it is always possible, though the form of kindness may change. Today, for example, I've had a raging migraine for most of the day so I was kind to myself and delayed writing this post. I'm still tender, so please forgive rough spots; I want to get it up but don't really have my usual brain power.

Kindness is part of my storytelling practice. I strive to be kind to my audience, to those who hire me, to the narrative and to myself. This leads to some best practices that I find easier to enact when I remind myself that they come out of kindness. Let's take a look at what that means.

Being kind to the audience. 
I try to craft my shows so they take my audience into account. I work to tell stories that are appropriate to the people who are listening to me and to what I may know about outside events. A dramatic example of this was when I was hired to tell a story that included people jumping from a burning building. I was hired in August of 2001, for a show in October, 2001. After the events of September 11th, 2001, I spoke with the program organizer and suggested a different story instead, one that had similar meaning but didn't include jumping from a burning building.
Additionally, I acknowledge that the people are people. Things happen. If a baby starts crying, if a cell phone goes off, if someone walks out, I don't take it personally. I have no idea what the extenuating circumstances are.

Being kind to those who hire me.
Whenever I am hired, I make sure we all have reasonable expectations. I listen to their concerns and do my best to answer them and make sure they feel heard.
When I am hired to perform I make sure I meet expectations in terms of material, timing (I don't run long or short if at all possible) and venue. To do otherwise is to be disrespectful to the event planner who is relying on me.
When I am hired to coach or teach I use kindness as my first principle. I present new ideas in ways that are accessible. I listen and I support. The dissection and discussion can come after the value of the work is affirmed.
When I am hire to work with an organization I strive to find out as much as possible about the current state of morale, engagement and so on, so I can be kind to the people who take the workshop. I want to make sure I meet their needs as well as the needs of those who hire me.

Being kind to the narrative.
I make sure I understand why I'm drawn t a particular story and then honor it. I try to make sure its roots are not forgotten, I get permission to tell a piece if it's crafted by another artist, I tell it to audiences who I think will appreciate it.

Being kind to myself.
I get listened to and try to minimize my own isolation. This helps keep my self-doubt at bay and allows me to be kinder to myself when I do make mistakes. I hydrate. I try to take care of my body. I try to be gentle with myself if I am feeling stressed. I do something good for myself every day, even if it's as simple as having an extra cup of tea.
When I perform I take a moment to feel centered on stage so I don't feel anxious. I ask for changes in the house lights so my eyes don't hurt. I do what I need to feel connected to the audience. I take my time.

How does kindness influence your work? What are your best practices about kindness? What am I forgetting because I have a headache?

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

The telling life: Five tips for self-care

It's happened again. I let myself get run down and I have another cold. My head is congested, my eyes are watery and all I want to do is huddle in a lump, feeling sorry for myself.

That isn't really an option, though I'm certainly moving more slowly than usual.

What this is making me think about is how I care for myself, especially when things are busy or I feel yucky. In lieu of a detailed post (because, really, I feel crummy) here are my top five self-care priorities, the things I try to do regardless of how busy things are. Please let me know how you take care of yourself, maybe your tips will help me head off the next cold. Bear in mind, this list is heavily influenced by my current slow state; what I would write when well might be quite different!

1. I try to get enough sleep. If I can't get a full night's sleep I at least try to schedule a nap here and there. If I make it my habit to sleep enough then my mood is better, my body can more readily fight off infection and I am more creative/spontaneous/generous in my responses.
2. I try to get outside most days. Even now, when I have a cold, I will at least stand on the porch for a few minutes and breath fresh air. It helps me remember that there is a whole world out there. It also means that I take a little time for myself every day.
3. I try to do something kind for someone else. Even at my most miserable, if I can say something nice, give someone a smile or express gratitude, I remind myself that the world is bigger than I am. I know, this sounds kind of polyanna-ish, but it's true. 
4. I try to be realistic in my objectives and be kind to myself. These are related. For example, days like today when I feel as though I can't think well or focus for long are not the day to write a deep and meaningful blog post. I'd rather admit that and do the best I can with who I am in the moment. When I can't, when I know I have to exceed my current capabilities (say I had a big gig) then I suck it up and do what I need to shine. I then give myself permission to crash later and prepare for that crash ahead of time, since I won't be able to do much in the moment. 
5. I try to do the best I can, whatever that may be. Today the best I can is this post and then a lot of tv, tea and napping. Tomorrow it will be something else. Whether self-employed or working for someone else, the best we can is all we can do. I don't get paid if I don't work so I try to avoid sick days (I try to make every day a productive day) but I know it's necessary sometimes. Tomorrow will be something else. If I approach every day as a new best I can  then each day offers new opportunities. This is self-care because I understand that the best I can will change. 

What are your tips for self-care, whether healthy or ill? Really, I'd love to know so we can all benefit from our collective knowledge.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

The Telling Life: Santa Claus and other stories of faith

I love Santa. I am not Christian and I was told the "truth" about Santa many, many years ago, but I still love him. He's my guy. At his most basic (ignoring the obvious consumer-oriented interpretations) Santa reminds us that kindness and generosity matter. He reminds us that we can ask for what we need. Since my first precept is be kind I love this embodiment of listening and kindness.

We are surrounded by culturally embedded stories that we have faith in. We may not be aware that these are stories of faith, but they are. Faith is simply trusting and believing in something for which there is no absolute proof. Looked at this way, almost everything is a matter of faith. Almost everything is the stories we choose to believe in.

These days it seems as though the loudest stories that inspire faith are those of fear. Be afraid of people who look different, be afraid of terrorists, be afraid of the police, be afraid of each other. When we are afraid we are more likely to assume the worst about each other, we are more likely to lash out. We are less likely to be kind. Having faith in these stories is understandable considering our news media and the state of the world, but they aren't the only stories.

There are stories of kindness and generosity. When we hear and tell these stories, when we have faith in our own better natures, we might be less likely to flinch when someone unfamiliar enters our world. We might be more likely to respond as if we were a character in a story of hope. We might be more likely to be generous and therefore the other may rise to those expectation instead of sinking to our fears.

I have met Santas, people who were kind for no reason other than our shared humanity, in every circumstance and every day. I have been sheltered by strangers, shared meals with the homeless, listened to by the frantically busy and loved by the unexpected. Every one of these people has been a Santa, offering me kindness, generosity and what I most needed in that moment.  I have been a Santa and hope I will be again.

My belief in the story of human decency is the deepest faith I hold. The stories we have faith in shape who we are, how we behave and how we are received in the world.

When we are kind we are often met with kindness.
When we are generous we are often met with the same.
Even if we are not given back what we have offered, we don't know what effect our actions may have in the long run. We don't know how we might change someone's story of the world, their lives and themselves.

Regardless of the season or your religion, be a Santa. You don't have to be Christian, white, male, large, bearded or dressed in red. Just be kind. Believe your kindness matters. Tell yourself the story of your best self. At worst you might build your faith in yourself as an embodiment of generosity and kindness. At best you may change the world.

(c)2015 Laura S. Packer

Compassion, grief and education

Webster's defines compassion as "a feeling of wanting to help someone who is sick, hungry, in trouble, etc. Sympathetic consciousness of others' distress together with a desire to alleviate it."

I believe in compassion. I believe in compassion in both the Western sense and the Buddhist sense, of wanting sentient beings to be free from suffering and, most relevant here, of compassion being love without attachment. It has helped me build bridges to those I thought were unreachable, it has helped me be patient when I really just want to bite, it has helped me be kind to myself in the midst of the darkest pain, it has helped me to remember to be kind to those whom I find frustrating. I believe in compassion.

I have been showered with compassion, in both the Webster's and the Buddhist senses, since Kevin became ill. I am deeply grateful for it. When those who care have been able to love me, care for me, ride the grief roller coaster with me without telling me how to grieve (in other words, loving me without attachment) it helps beyond measure. Compassion is quite literally saving my life as I mourn the life lost.

What's more, I have opportunities to exercise compassion on a daily basis. I have always tried to be compassionate but now I turn to compassion to help me be kind to those who are not on this grief journey with me. Which would be just about everyone.

For example:

• I have been compassionate with caregivers who didn't understand Kevin. I reminded myself that they see dying people everyday and are doing the best they can. I did everything I could to help them to be as human as they could be, by asking them about their lives, about their cares, so they would see us as people, not just patient and family. And when they did something I didn't like, I didn't blame the individual but the methodology and, as kindly as I could, protected Kevin with everything I had. There was no sense in denying compassion to the caregivers; I used every tool I could to make sure he got the best care possible and caring for the caregivers was one of them.
• When someone says to me, "I can't imagine what you're going through," I remind myself that they are afraid. I remind myself that they are so scared of losing loved ones that they can't let themselves imagine it. That I represent something they are too scared to feel. I strive for compassion for their fear, for the part of them that knows someday they, too, will be in my position.
• Likewise, when someone says, "You're so strong, if it happened to me I would still be in bed," I remind myself that they, too, are afraid. I remind myself that they don't realize that what they're saying could sound like a condemnation of my being out in the world, that somehow they might be suggesting that my grief is less than theirs would be. I remind myself that they are trying to be kind. I remind myself that I am out in the world because I am still alive. To stay in bed for months would be to give up and I'm not ready to do that yet (though I certainly have days where I don't go far from bed). I remind myself to treat their blissful inexperience with compassion. Sooner or later they will learn that it's not strength, it's momentum.
• And lastly, when someone suggests that it's time to move on, time to stop grieving, or asks if I'm ready to date yet, I remember that it is their discomfort with my loss that drives them. They are distressed that I'm sad and made uncomfortable by both their distress and my public feelings. I choose compassion for myself, by grieving in my own time and own season. I choose compassion for them by gently reminding them that this grief is mine and their discomfort is not my concern.

I don't live in a culture with good models for grief. We don't have the Victorian or Jewish year of mourning, there is no veil or ritual or public way of marking loss other than Facebook status. We are removed from the bodies of our dead - in fact, death has become something alien and hidden, so we never have a chance to learn just how much a part of life it is. Those of us who are lucky enough to have not yet had a big loss have no guidebook to help those of us who have. 

I find myself becoming a teacher of grief. All of us who are grieving must teach those around us what helps, what doesn't, and must remember that we are frightening premonitions of what everyone will become. We must be willing to love and be loved without attachment, without expectation, only with acceptance that we all are doing the best we can in any given moment.

I must remember to be compassionate every day, with those who don't know how to help me grieve, with those who are frightened by it, with those who have suffered their own loss. I must let compassion guide me, so perhaps the next time grief is encountered, there will be more compassion, more patience, more love. With or without attachment.

(18 weeks)

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer

Asking for what you want

I just saw the best customer service prank ever. You can complain about the expense, what the money should have been used for instead and all kinds of things, but really, this just made a whole bunch of people happy. Take a look.



What it drove home to me was this: Ask for what you really want. You never know who might be listening. There is rarely any harm in asking and I think the world could use a little more honesty, including honesty about our own hopes and dreams. If we don't dream big, ask big, hope big, what can we expect to find, have, accomplish? If we're too afraid to tell anyone what we want, will we even tell ourselves?

All that being said, what do you really want for Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanza/Solstice/etc? I'd love to know.

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

Free hugs: Some thoughts and observations

I'm sure by now many of you have heard about "Free Hugs." A guy and a sign in a public place started a trend of strangers offering hugs to strangers. The video makes me cry every time I see it and it's something I've wanted to do since I first heard about it. If you've not yet seen the video go ahead and watch it. I'll wait.

See? It's really something special.

This past Friday I decided it was time to try out Free Hugs myself. I had originally planned on going to an upscale shopping plaze, thinking that a mall on Black Friday (the day after Thanksgiving that has become a retail frenzy) would be the perfect place to try this out. As I thought about it further, I came up with another locale. I went to Walmart, the home of low prices and lower corporate ethics. My local Walmart (which I must tell you, I have patronized with a sick taste in my mouth, when I just can't afford to shop anywhere else) is in a neighborhood populated by people who don't have very much money. This particular neighborhood has a large Hispanic and African-American population.

I wanted to give out Free Hugs at Walmart because (for me) this store symbolizes some of what's most troubling about American retail. We could argue this ad nauseum, but let's not. It's enough to know that I wanted to give something away in a place that's all about profit and consumption.

I stood outside of Walmart in the cool afternoon, watching people stream in and out of the store. I got a lot of funny looks, mistrusting my motives. I can't blame them - who wants to hug a stranger? I was surprised to realize that I had expected people to know about Free Hugs. What a ridiculous assumption! Why should they?

After about five minutes a woman came up to me with a big smile and her arms extended. We hugged. We thanked each other. She moved on. From there I was hugging people in waves. Four, five, six hugs then nothing for a few minutes. Sometimes people would smile but didn't want hugs, others looked at me sideways, as if I were nuts.

Almost everyone who hugged me asked why I was doing this. I told them all that I thought the world could use a little more kindness, a few more hugs. They all agreed. Black people, white people, Hispanic people, young and old all came up to me for hugs.

There was a man who could have been a hard living 50, long scraggly hair and missing teeth, who came up to me for a hug. Afterwards he asked why I was doing this then said, "Nobody's hugged me in a long time. Thank you."

After I'd been there for about 20 minutes a Walmart employee told me it was time to move on, that I couldn't do this there, that it was probably illegal. I didn't argue, though I honestly wonder if the store had a problem with it or if she did. Security had driven by me several times and didn't stop. I asked if she wanted a hug and she looked at me as if I offered something perverted. How sad.

I couldn't stop grinning afterwards. It felt great hugging those strangers. I plan to do it again. And I'd invite you to hug more. We all need a friendly touch sometimes. Next time you see me, come over with your arms open. I can't wait to hug you, too.

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

K is for...karma

As you know, I'm storytelling my way through the alphabet. You can find summaries of a-e here and f-j here. Dig around the blog for more as you'd like!

K is a tough letter in English, so I'm cheating and going to Karma. You know the basic concept, that what goes around comes around. This applies to storytelling as well. While I find some deep spiritual value in this, there are real, practical ways we can see karma at work in storytelling.

When storytellers practice good listening, when we remember that other tellers are as worthy of being heard as we are, we help build a community of listeners. And we need listeners for our own stories, so modeling good listening comes back to us. If we are ungenerous and don't listen to others, why should they listen to us?

When we are ethical about the gigs we take and refuse, passing on the ones we believe could be better fulfilled by other tellers, we help build a better reputation for storytelling as an art. None of us is accomplished at everything. When the right artist is in the right job we are viewed as more professional, more accomplished and more creative. We build a better a environment for all of us to tell in. What's more, if we are generous and pass gigs to the right people, they are more likely to pass gigs back to us.

When we help less experienced tellers we are ensuring the art survives long after us. As we grow from new tellers to journeymen to mentors to elders, we are able to share our accumulated wisdom. Hoarding it won't help the world and won't help build a community of tellers and listeners.

All of these actions and more build good karma.

A story.

One of my signature stories is about a woman who is dissuaded from suicide by someone who might be Coyote. I've told this story hundreds of times. I know it makes an impression. I've been telling it for maybe 15 years.

About two years ago I received a thank you card from a suicide prevention organization, letting me know that a donation had been made in my honor. The note included an email address if I wanted to know more.

My curiosity couldn't be contained. I wrote and asked.

The donation was made by a mother. Her son heard me tell my story, talked to me after (she said he told me he didn't know anyone else every felt that way. I've heard that a lot. Every time I tell people they aren't alone and they can get help if they need to). He then told his mother he was thinking about killing himself. He got help. He was going to be okay. He'd been accepted to a good college and was building a better life. A life. One he would not have had, she believed, had he not heard that story on that night.

As storytellers, we impact untold numbers of people every time we tell, listen and teach. As storytellers, we impact untold numbers every time we give less than all we have, every time we don't listen, every time we turn away from the teaching moment.

We never know how our actions will be reflected back to us, only that they will.

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

H is for... healing

The cracked pot, an Indian story.


A water-bearer carries two large pots on a yoke across his shoulders up the hill from the river to his master's house each day. One has a crack and leaks half its water out each day before arriving at the house. The other pot is perfect and always full of water after the long walk from the river.

Finally, after years of arriving half-empty, the cracked pot apologized to the water-bearer. It was miserable. "I'm sorry that I couldn't accomplish what the perfect pot did."
The water-bearer says, "What do you have to apologize for?"

"After all this time, I still only deliver half my load of water. I make more work for you because of my flaw."

The man smiled and told the pot. "Do you see all the lovely flowers growing on the side of the path where I carried you? I noticed your leak and scattered seeds. The flowers are so lovely because of the water you leaked. There are no flowers on the perfect pot's side."



None of us is without flaw, without pain, without scars and cracks.

When we tell our own stories of pain and survival, we heal. When we listen to others tell their stories, we heal. You don't have to be a therapist, you need only be an ordinary compassionate human being who listens to someone else. As tellers, we can process our own pain and turn it into performance that is, as Elizabeth Ellis puts it, a roadmap to hell and back. I went there, the same place you are now. I survived. I returned and I healed. Here is a map. 

Storytelling helps us heal. I have seen miracles. The woman who began telling the story of her rape, over and over, and now sings praise songs to the universe. The man who told the story of his son's birth and death, so he and his family could heal, discovering along the way that he was actually celebrating his son's life. My own retellings of fairy tales and myths that are really about mental illness or loss. Storytelling helps us heal.

This has been the case since we began to communicate; think of Prometheus' terrible pain, of Ishtar's grief, on and on. Story has the capacity to help us heal. I address healing story in organizations here.

There are some wonderful online resources to get you started with healing story. Here are a few of my favorites.

• The Healing Story Alliance an organization dedicated to storytelling as a healing art.
• Postsecret a website where anyone can anonymously share a secret and we realize none of us are alone in the dark.
• Healing Histories a neighborhood in New Orleans collected stories to heal post-Katrina.
• Elisa Pearmain is a storyteller and my friend. She uses story for peace work, healing and more. She has written several books of these tales.
• Lastly, the biggest example of healing story I can image: The Truth and Reconciliation Commission in post-apartheid South Africa. Rather than imprison or kill those who had committed atrocious acts of bigotry, a nation told their story. People listened to each other and decided to build something better. While the impact is debatable, it was done without bloodshed. This is nothing short of miraculous, and it was all done through story.

Spider Robinson, a wise and wonderful science fiction writer, wrote Shared pain is lessened, shared joy increased. Storytelling is the vehicle. Let us heal together.

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

When stories find us

I am at the National Storytelling Conference, a wonderful annual gathering of tellers from all walks of life and all range of experience. It's a great opportunity to hear stories, hone skills and meet new friends.


Truth to tell, I didn't really want to come. I've been very busy and was yearning for a quiet weekend at home. I knew once I got here I'd be glad, but wow, was I grumpy. And when you set out on a journey with that kind of attitude, you are guaranteed a different journey than the one you expect.

On Friday I packed my suitcase and called the cab, thinking if nothing else I'd have a chance to get some writing or reading done on the way.

You know what's coming.

My cabbie was great. Not only did he find a good route from my home to the airport, he loved to talk. And he loved to talk about food. From the moment I got into the cab until he dropped me off at the terminal he was telling me about all the hidden gems in the greater Boston area that I had never found, so many places I couldn't remember them all and started taking notes. He was a man on a mission to share his delight in the delicious.

Okay, so I got to the airport and thought Now I'll have some quiet time. I can read or maybe even write a little. This might have worked had a four-year old not decided that I was her personal plaything. I don't know about you, but a joyful four-year old isn't something generally I want to resist. We played until it was time to board.

Great, I thought, no one is sitting next to me. Now I can read and write a little. Two minutes before the plane door was to be closed, a man ran on board. He huffed and puffed his way down the aisle and plopped next to me, apologizing for being breathless and sweaty. And then he told me he was late because of trafficit'snotlikethatinSpokanehe'sonhiswayhomeaftertwomonthsherebuildingan additionforhiscousinwhowasparalyzedinacarcrash. And then he took a breath. We introduced ourselves. For the next three hours, he told me his story. He told me about his family, his 20-year old cousin who would never walk again. The blueberry farm she grew up on. His mother, his girlfriend, his girlfriend's kids, his photography hobby. By the time we were looking at his photos on his laptop (they were very good) I gave up on reading or writing until sometime next week.

At the airport we shook hands, wished each other the best of luck and I got into my next cab to hear about life in Somalia, African family structure and social safety nets, children and cooking and wives and....

By the time I got to the conference I was already full of stories and warmed up to hear more.

The universe conspired against me, against my grumpy mood and yearning to be alone. I have been reminded of both the power and the pervasiveness of story. It's inescapable, at the conference (for three days I am immersed in the language of story and surrounded by those as passionate about it as I am) and beyond. 

Now, I know story matters. I know we are surrounded by stories, in our bodies, our minds, our architecture, the planet itself. Everything we do has the potential for story. But sometimes, like everyone else, I get caught up in my own crap and overlook the incredible richness and human need for story. I need a whack. My journey here was one whack after another. Duly noted.

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

On love and being given the Brother Blue and Ruth Hill award

Typically on Thursdays I post in response to the story quote of the week. This week won't be an exception, but it's in an unexpected and overwhelming context, so please bear with me.

I've written before, many times, about Brother Blue and his wife, Ruth Hill. They are my teachers, my friends, my spiritual parents. Brother Blue died in November, 2009 and I still miss him. I talk with Ruth every week and see her several times every month. I don't know who I would be without them.

The Brother Blue and Ruth Hill award was instituted by the League for the Advancement of New England Storytelling in 2002 to "recognize extraordinary commitment and efforts to promote a broader understanding of the art of storytelling and the support of storytellers in the development of their art. It serves, as Brother Blue, has said, 'To honor those who give their lives to storytelling to change the world.'"

This year my partner, Kevin Brooks, and I were the recipients. I cannot tell you how honored and grateful we are. To be selected by our peers as being worthy of this award, and an award established in honor of a couple who have shaped both our lives, is humbling and overwhelming.

Which brings me to the story quote of the week.


A people are as healthy and confident as the stories they tell themselves. Sick storytellers can make nations sick. Without stories we would go mad. Life would lose it’s moorings or orientation... Stories can conquer fear, you know. They can make the heart larger.
― Ben Okri


Brother Blue always said that if we knew each other's stories we couldn't point a gun at each other. If we understood how much we were alike on an individual basis by hearing each others stories, we couldn't kill each other. If we told from the middle of the middle of ourselves to the middle of the middle of our listeners, there would be no reason to fear.

We understand ourselves and our lives through the stories we tell and hear. They create the worlds we live in. We need to be mindful of what stories we tell because they are how we learn, understand, shape and share our worlds. A well-told story can build walls or bridges.

And that is why I do the work I do, whether on a stage, in the street, a boardroom or class. Stories connect us. They keep us healthy because we can reach beyond ourselves and find we are not alone. They make our hearts larger because they give us the gift of seeing the world through a new lens and the realization that this lens is not so different from our own. Standing on the stage this past weekend, as we accepted the Brother Blue and Ruth Hill award, all I could see was the potential of hundreds of beating hearts, expanding to hold all the stories they heard, flying off to make the world a bigger place.

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

Giving things away - The Little Prince

As you know, I've decided to give some things away.

I don't know how old I was when I first read The Little Prince. My father gave me a copy and I fell in love. I remember reading it and sobbing at the end, my parents trying to console me that the Little Prince was happy. I thought that was a crock.

Since then I've read my way through five or six copies, rereading it until the covers fall off and the pages loosen from the bindings. Each time I read it I find it has different meaning for me, but no less than that first time. I still cry.

 I've given it as a gift. It was the most quoted book in my high school year book (It isn't with the heart that one can see rightly...). I've tamed birds and chipmunks and other small animals. I hope I could tame a fox, but I don't know. I've been tamed myself. I've drawn quite a few elephants in snakes to see who gets it. Not everyone does. I hope you do.

If none of this makes sense to you run, don't walk, to your local library and read The Little Prince. It might be in the kid's section. Don't let that fool you.

Today's give-away is a Little Prince domino set, given to me by a friend from France who went back home. It's a box full of baobobs and lambs, princes and roses, foxes and stars. Tell me why it should be yours in the comments section; make sure I have a way to reach you. I'd love to give it you.

On my other blog I'm giving away a selection of cookbooks from the 1960s and 1970s. Take a look!

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Stuck in the middle with you

Image courtesy of Josh Harper.
Used under a Creative Commons License.

I am one of many, an adult child with adult children (actually step-children, but they still count). I know I am lucky, many people don't have these kinds of connections, but as my parents age the caretaking responsibilities are shifting. It's a complicated thing.

(I need to stop here and address two readers in particular: Mom and Dad, if you're reading this, what I'm writing about doesn't mean you should change anything. It's my honor and duty to care for you and fret about you as needed. It is different and challenging, but I'm your daughter and I love you.)

(There are some realities associated with a blog your parents read.)

Okay, back to the topic at hand. My stepkids are more or less launched. They have their own lives and are finding their way through the world, one lurching step at a time. I think they all know that their parents and I are still here for them, but they are figuring out their lives on their own; they don't need us anywhere near as much. I'm terrifically proud of all of them. This doesn't mean I've stopped worrying about them or caring for them as needed, it just means the intimacy of care has changed.

Just as I exhale, the kids will be okay, the need for care shifts. My parents are aging. They need me more. I am their only child so I feel an appropriate obligation to be available to them, to help as I can. This is complicated by the facts that I live hundreds of miles away and we have all of the usual baggage parents and children can carry.

As my parents need more care I have become intimately familiar with each sign on the Garden State Parkway. I keep my iPod full of interesting things to listen to at any moment. My car is never below half a tank.

It isn't the increased travel I find challenging, but learning this new territory in our relationship. What is the line between care and interfering? When one parent is ill, how do I support the healthy parent without alienating them? How do I ask the difficult questions that might highlight the things they can no longer do so easily? How do I ensure both parents know they are loved, even if I'm hundred of miles away? How do I care for myself in the midst of this? What are the lines between increased care and helping them maintain their independence, between being present when they need me and still continuing my life? What happens next?

I know none of these questions are unique to me, they are merely unique in how they are expressed in my family, as each family has its own language and politics. I know many of you struggle with similar issues.

It also raises the question of who will care for me when I'm old. My step-kids have their own lives, in-laws and parents, I don't think it's reasonable for me to expect them to guide me through my old age. The state system for the aged is unlikely to be much of a safety net by the time I'm in my 70s. Several childless friends and I have sworn to care for each other as we age; honestly, I expect we'll see more intentional communities of elders in the coming years. It gives me comfort to think of a cluster of old ladies and gentlemen, helping each other across the street, but I wonder if that will be enough.

And again, I'm not the only one in this position. Maybe you are one of these middle-people, caring for the both the old and young. I'd love to hear from you, about your struggles and solutions. We're stuck in these middle years together. Maybe if we find a better way to negotiate now, it will be a little clearer when it's time for someone to care for us.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Why it's worth remembering childhood dreams

Because sometimes you're lucky enough to fulfill them!

Today I had the pleasure of spending time with two new friends, Bill Hanley and his wife Rhoda Rosenberg. These wonderful people have an incredible creative life. Bill is known as the "father of festival sound" while Rhoda is a talented artist and teacher. They are kind and generous and I count myself lucky to have met them.

Over the course of his travels, Bill has acquired some pretty impressive pieces of machinery. He needs them, since he builds massive stages and structures for sound equipment. Among other things, in his backyard, he has a crane. A big one.

When I was a little girl, my favorite toy was my Tonka Truck . My Aunt Betty gave it to me - she asked me what I wanted to play with, hoping I would say "a doll house" or some other equally girly thing, but instead I told her I wanted a Tonka truck. She loved me enough to take a deep breath and get it for me. I never got over that truck.

As I grew older I loved taking things apart and putting them back together again. I was one of the kids and then one of the adults who stared into construction sites. I've long thought that if I ever won the lottery I would get a sandpit and some construction equipment just to play.

When I saw Bill's crane I told him about my Tonka truck and how cool I think big machines are. So he asked if I wanted to operate it. I think I only squealed a little.

Today, in my grown-up body, 8-year old Laura got to play with a crane. I am still giddy with the experience. Thanks to Bill's generosity and kindness I was able to let my young self and adult self play with utter delight.

I hope you can fulfill some of your childhood dreams with such joy sometime soon too. Even if they don't involve heavy construction equipment.

(c)2010 Laura S. Packer

Fabulous Flash Award! Thank you!

I am honored and delighted to have been given a Fabulous Flash award by Diandra, writer and creator of Short Stories and Mad Rants. You should read her blog, she has some wonderful stories posted there.


She gave me this award stating that my flash fiction stories are, "short, imaginative and fun to read, and they sound fresh." Cool! I'm really tickled.


The requirement of this award is that I pass it on, so check here next Friday for four great flash fiction authors you should be reading. And if you'd like to read any of my flash fiction just click on the fiction tag to the right.


Thanks again, Diandra, you really made my month.




(c)2010 Laura S. Packer

A modest proposal

This past weekend was the Pan Mass Challenge, a fund raising bike ride for the Dana Farber Cancer Center. I've done this ride several times in the past, riding 160 miles in two days. It changed my life, who I know myself to be and how I move through the world. I raised over $20,000 for cancer research. I realized that having cancer in my 20s was only a tiny piece of who I am. Over the course of those two days, I felt like a hero - the route is lined with supporters holding signs and cheering. It has been one of the peak moments of my life.


Last year, for various reasons mostly related to my back, I decided not to ride. It was the right decision. I didn't ride again this year and, while I still know it was the right decision, I miss it. But what is that I miss?


I still ride my bike, so that's not it. I am doing good in the world in other ways, though with less visibility, so it's not the impact I miss. I know who I am, as a survivor, fighter, athlete, human being, so that's not what I miss.


I miss feeling like a hero. I miss have a few moments in my life when I am part of the parade and I know they are cheering for me. And I miss knowing that this is in every way deserved. It's kind of a drug, that kind of support. And it's something we all should have a chance to experience a few times in our lives.


So here is my proposal:


We all do heroic things. We give money and time to a cause we believe in. We are kind unexpectedly. We go above and beyond the call of duty. We love our kids even when they're monsters. We love strangers' kids when they're monsters. We don't strike back at those who have hurt us. We keep going.


Why not have a few parades a year where we get to cheer for each other? One could be for parents, grandparents, step-parents, anyone involved in raising a child, even if that child is grown. Another could for people who are nice to their co-workers, a third for those who are nice to strangers. Whatever. We could make banners proclaiming our heroic acts and march proudly along, the local high school marching bands could strut their stuff (which I think is pretty heroic - come on, playing the tuba in high school?! How brave is that!?) while our friends and neighbors line the street and cheer for us. They can hold up signs that say things like You are an everyday hero! And when it's their turn to be in the parade we can hold up the same signs for them.


We'd all feel a little better, feel acknowledged and maybe be a little kinder to each other. I think it could work. What do you say, wanna be a hero?


(c)2010 Laura S. Packer

Unnoticed heroes

I've been thinking lately about everyday heroes, the ones we don't see because they are so very ordinary.  I expect most of you know what I'm talking about - some of you are probably nodding and thinking Oh yes, I know who she means. Heck, most days I feel like one of them. I do too sometimes, so have been trying to notice the unrecognized around me and let them know that I see them and appreciate what they do by saying, "thanks, I saw how you did thus and so and I appreciate it." Sometimes I get a great reaction, a blinding smile or  story, other times they just look at me like I'm intruding. I think both are reasonable and appropriate reactions. I'm sure sometimes I am intruding.

I realize this may seem trite - isn't good customer service what we pay for? Aren't we supposed to be kind to one another? Well, sure, but so often we're tired, cranky, overwhelmed by the world that being kind and patient becomes a kind of heroic act.

Here are some of the unnoticed heroes I've been trying to pay attention to:

• The woman who bagged my groceries and took the time to put all the cold stuff in one bag. I also noticed her speaking patiently and clearly to the old lady behind me who seemed to be having a tough time getting through the line.
• The school crossing guard from my grade-school. Loretta's aunt. I never did say thank you to her when I was a kid, so I'll do it now. Thanks for keeping us safe and never getting mad when we were brats.
• The customer service rep at the bank who called me to tell me my credit card had unusual charges. I know it was his job, but he was friendly and patient when I panicked.
• The kid who picked up some trash dropped by his friend without making a big deal out of it.
• The people behind the scenes who make the big acts of heroism possible - the 911 operators, the police dispatchers, the staff at suicide hotlines, the maintenance staff at hospitals.

Who are some of the unnoticed heroes in your world? What have you noticed lately? Who do you need to thank? Take the risk. It's a small heroic act in itself.

(c)2010 Laura S. Packer