50 for 50, day three: This is water

This is the third of 50 blog posts leading up to my 50th birthday.

I've written about this before, but that doesn't mean it isn't still meaningful and worth thinking about. (I suspect I'm going to say this a lot as I blog my way to 50. So be it. Maybe that means I've learned a few things that are worth sharing.)

When I was a kid I thought it was kind of cool to think of myself as a control freak. I'm not sure why I thought that was a good label to own, but I certainly embraced it. I tried to control the world around me, the reactions of the people near me, the forces that pressed in upon me and I failed. Trying to do so is, at best, self-defeating and more likely self-destructive.

I learned at a young age that there is very little I can control. In fact, the only thing I really can effect is how I respond to the world, to people, to the circumstances in which I find myself. As a result of this understanding of my own power and powerlessness, I have tried to live my life as an act of being present. I fail all the time, but I keep trying.

I'm not talking about the things I have control over, like paying my bills or washing the dishes or deciding if I want to have a glass of water or a cup of tea. I'm talking about the external forces that press in on us all the time. I can't change those. I can choose which I attend to, but I cannot stop the world around me, whether it's politics or the climate or standing in a long line. I've learned a few things.

• I've learned that there is a far more that I cannot control than what I can.
• I've learned that the only thing I can truly control is my response to the moment. David Foster Wallace talks about just this in his wonderful speech, This Is Water, linked below.
• I've learned that I need to learn this again. Over and over and over again. Almost every day.
• I've learned that when I give myself permission to just be present in the moment, whatever it may be, the moment is often more bearable than I expected. If it remains unbearable I at least know it will change. 
• I've learned that change is pretty much the only constant.
• I've learned that sometimes presence can change lives. By accepting that I may not be able to control the broad outlines of the world, I can instead have significant impact on the small details. By listening, by choosing to be kind, by accepting that every moment is a part of my life with no less import than any other, I am, in fact, not powerless at all.

This is what 50 looks like. Choosing to breathe when breath is impossible. Choosing to listen because that may make all the difference or at least enough. Choosing again and again and again.


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www.laurapacker.com
www.thinkstory.com
(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

The Telling Life: Does size matter?

I am in the middle of a run at the Minnesota Fringe Festival. I'm telling The Adventures of Crazy Jane and Red Haired Annie, stories I dearly love, stories I know listeners usually enjoy, but my audiences are small; I'm in a hundred-seat theater and am filling no more than a quarter of the seats.

Fringe festivals are funny things. There are hundreds of performances, often selected by lottery, and the artists must do their own marketing beyond the basic stuff provided by the festival. It's hard work and can be grueling. It helps to have a local following or something that's easily described, and here I have neither. So my audiences have been small.

This has me thinking about quantity vs. quality of audience. It's easy to see value in a large audience, knowing I have drawn a whole bunch of people to my show. It can be harder to see value in smaller but still deeply appreciative audiences, because the immediate visual hit of fewer people in the room is unsettling.

I am reminding myself of what Brother Blue used to say, the room is full of angels. He's right, of course. Regardless of the size of the audience, if they are present, interested and engaged, then they are a good audience. Sure, it helps when there are more people, there is something about a critical mass that helps good storytelling become better, but the key is the connection between teller and listener, be that one child utterly entranced by a story, ten adults having a really good time or a couple hundred each in their own shared moment. It's about remembering that every individual audience member has chosen to be there and I am honoring their presence by doing the best I can.

So yes, I'd be lying if I said size doesn't matter, of course it feels good playing to sold out rooms, but as it is with most things in the world, it's what you do with it that really makes the difference.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

Ask the storyteller: Listen to the world around you

I taught a storytelling class recently and started, as I always do, with listening. Afterwards one of my students asked me, "What do you mean when you say storytelling starts with listening? I get that we need to have people listen to us, but what about before?" I realized I hadn't done a good job explaining.

What follows was originally posted in this blog waaayy back in 2008. I've rewritten portions but it still stands. I will adjust the way I reach listening but for now? Listen. Listen to the world around you. There are stories in the birdsong, in the rain spatter, in the overheard.

*     *     *

Shhhh.

Listen.

Listen beyond your own inner monologue and the hum of the computer and your to-do list.

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 a deeper understanding of another person or our own selves.

I listen a lot.
I listen to other people. I listen some to music, though less so since Kevin died. I listen to the natural world. I listen to the hums and rumbles of everything surrounding me. I listen to myself again, to see what might have changed. I've always been a listener, but even more now. I listen to the world to find myself, to find echoes of Kevin, to be reminded that I am not alone.

You already know I'm a storyteller, that I create my own works of fiction and non-fiction and perform them in front of live 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.

Listen. Don't interrupt. What do you hear? What does it call upon you to say? What happens when you listen then speak for the world?

(c) 2008 Laura S Packer
(c)2015 Laura S. Packer

L is for... listening

This post was originally published back in 2011. It still captures much of what I want to say about Listening.

There is a wonderful program called This I Believe, in which various people, some well-known and most everyday, wrote and read essays on their core beliefs. These ranged from forgiveness to science to faith and more. I would listen to these essays on NPR, transfixed. I was moved to write my own This I Believe essay; I ended up writing more than one, as I found I have several core beliefs. But I kept coming back to the same thing. 

I believe in listening. When asked to define myself, I often start with, “I am a listener.”

This may seem like an odd thing for a storyteller to say, after all, my craft requires people to listen to me, do I have to listen to them? Yes. When you think about it, storytelling starts with listening. Without a listener, the storyteller, no matter how superb, is talking to the wind. The wind may be an excellent listener, however because storytelling is an experience based on relationships, and most of us don’t have two-way relationships with the wind, we need active and engaged listeners. Storytellers listen to their audiences while they tell their stories and shape the tale to meet the needs of the audience. It’s a relationship, a dance, not just a rote performance.

Storytellers who listen to the world around them in their daily lives can craft stories that are more readily recognizable, where the audience can find themselves and their own story with more ease. These stories, where the audience doesn’t have to work as hard, give the storyteller a way to reach their listeners and connect with them more deeply, thus creating a more satisfying experience to all. We’re more likely to remember a story where we found ourselves, in some way, than a story we found completely alien. We’re all Luke Skywalker, Little Red Riding Hood and The Big Bad Wolf, after all.

But there’s more to it than that. We all need to be listeners to the world. When we listen intently to those around us, we have a much better chance of understanding them. We also model for them the way we want to be listened to. Have you ever had a conversation with someone where you were interrupted constantly? Where that person kept diverting the conversation to themselves? Where your experiences were only launching pads to their own stories? We have a chronic listening deficit in the western world (maybe globally, I don’t know). We are taught from a very young age that if we shut up and listen we’re passive, giving up the advantage, that we won’t gain anything from the interaction. I disagree. By listening to those around me, by giving those with the greatest need to talk a chance to be heard, I have forged deep and meaningful relationships, helped people find their place in the world and ultimately had opportunities to express my own ideas in a wider range of forums than I would have otherwise. 

Listening is the base of every workshop I teach; it’s inevitably the hardest part for participants. Being still and listening to others is harder than standing up and telling a story, harder than finding a new company vision, harder than working through your own life for your next story. Without listening, without being listened to and listening to others carefully, all of these tasks become much more challenging. 

We can learn to be better listeners, it’s a skill like any other.

Next time you’re talking to someone you love, just listen to them. Don’t interrupt with a question or your opinion, just pay attention and listen. Wait until they wind down before you praise, ask or empathize. You may learn something you never knew.

Try sometime just letting the interrupter talk. Listen to them. You may find they wind down after a while and become your ally because you are the person who took the time to hear them. 

Listen to those whose views you oppose. You may find they have the same basic concerns that you do. They love their families, care about their communities and want to be happy just as much as you do. By listening to them you may teach them that the enemy isn’t so frightening after all. If you can extend them that kindness maybe they can extend it back to you.

Leaders need to be great listeners. They need to remember that everyone in their organization has their own measure of wisdom as well as opinion. By listening to them you may learn things you never knew about process, engagement, success or failure and potential improvement. But you need to be willing to listen.

It’s not easy. We want to share our own stories and have our own voice. You will have that chance, but if you can listen, you may learn more about the world and yourself than you ever expected.

(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

Storytelling as a river

The story quote of the week let us spend some time with Mole as he sat by the river and listened to its tales. I think rivers are great metaphors for storytelling (and life in general). Think about it.

• A good story moves you. You flow from image to image and are transported along the narrative.You find yourself someplace new, a stranger in the world, after you hear a great story.
• A good story is never the same each time you tell or hear it. Stories change with experience, so the parts of a story that are meaningful in one telling may not be the same as the next. What's more, stories change with the audience, so no two tellings are ever the same, since audiences vary while tellers grow and change. 
• A good story harbors many. Even the simplest stories are rife with images and metaphors that linger long after the telling. You may find yourself coming back to it later and discovering hidden depth. There is a story I first told maybe 15 years ago; each time I tell it I discover something new about myself, a new image swimming around, new hidden treasure.
• Just like rivers, stories that are dammed up can be immensely powerful or immensely destructive. We need to be heard. We need to know that someone values our stories and our work. If we have no one to listen to us, the stories we hold inside can become warped and dangerous and, in turn, warp us.
• Stories have tributaries, you don't know where they might lead and what connections they may harbor. A simple folk tale could become an epic. A heart-breaking personal story may lead to an ocean of commonality. Each story, teller and listener is connected, just the way a river is connected to a spring, is connected to a glacier is connected to the rain is connected to the ocean.
• Good stories keep us alive. They are an ecosystem. We are nourished by the stories we hear and tell. They move us to listen more effectively and tell better stories. Just like a healthy river that sustains myriad life forms in its flow, its banks and for miles around, stories keep us strong, sustained, filtered, alive.

As the weather becomes warmer, take some time. Go listen to a river. It may tell you a story you never expected to hear.

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

On listening

There is a wonderful program called This I Believe, in which various people, some well-known and most everyday, wrote and read essays on their core beliefs. These ranged from forgiveness to science to faith and more. I would listen to these essays on NPR, transfixed. I was moved to write my own This I Believe essay; I ended up writing more than one, as I found I have several core beliefs. But I kept coming back to the same thing. 

I believe in listening. When asked to define myself, I often start with, “I am a listener.”

This may seem like an odd thing for a storyteller to say, after all, my craft requires people to listen to me, do I have to listen to them? Yes. When you think about it, storytelling starts with listening. Without a listener, the storyteller, no matter how superb, is talking to the wind. The wind may be an excellent listener, however because storytelling is an experience based on relationships, and most of us don’t have two-way relationships with the wind, we need active and engaged listeners. Storytellers listen to their audiences while they tell their stories and shape the tale to meet the needs of the audience. It’s a relationship, a dance, not just a rote performance.

Storytellers who listen to the world around them in their daily lives can craft stories that are more readily recognizable, where the audience can find themselves and their own story with more ease. These stories, where the audience doesn’t have to work as hard, give the storyteller a way to reach their listeners and connect with them more deeply, thus creating a more satisfying experience to all. We’re more likely to remember a story where we found ourselves, in some way, than a story we found completely alien. We’re all Luke Skywalker, Little Red Riding Hood and The Big Bad Wolf, after all.

But there’s more to it than that. We all need to be listeners to the world. When we listen intently to those around us, we have a much better chance of understanding them. We also model for them the way we want to be listened to. Have you ever had a conversation with someone where you were interrupted constantly? Where that person kept diverting the conversation to themselves? Where your experiences were only launching pads to their own stories? We have a chronic listening deficit in the western world (maybe globally, I don’t know). We are taught from a very young age that if we shut up and listen we’re passive, giving up the advantage, that we won’t gain anything from the interaction. I disagree. By listening to those around me, by giving those with the greatest need to talk a chance to be heard, I have forged deep and meaningful relationships, helped people find their place in the world and ultimately had opportunities to express my own ideas in a wider range of forums than I would have otherwise. 

Listening is the base of every workshop I teach; it’s inevitably the hardest part for participants. Being still and listening to others is harder than standing up and telling a story, harder than finding a new company vision, harder than working through your own life for your next story. Without listening, without being listened to and listening to others carefully, all of these tasks become much more challenging. 

We can learn to be better listeners, it’s a skill like any other.

Next time you’re talking to someone you love, just listen to them. Don’t interrupt with a question or your opinion, just pay attention and listen. Wait until they wind down before you praise, ask or empathize. You may learn something you never knew.

Try sometime just letting the interrupter talk. Listen to them. You may find they wind down after a while and become your ally because you are the person who took the time to hear them. 

Listen to those whose views you oppose. You may find they have the same basic concerns that you do. They love their families, care about their communities and want to be happy just as much as you do. By listening to them you may teach them that the enemy isn’t so frightening after all. If you can extend them that kindness maybe they can extend it back to you.

Leaders need to be great listeners. They need to remember that everyone in their organization has their own measure of wisdom as well as opinion. By listening to them you may learn things you never knew about process, engagement, success or failure and potential improvement. But you need to be willing to listen.

It’s not easy. We want to share our own stories and have our own voice. You will have that chance, but if you can listen, you may learn more about the world and yourself than you ever expected.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Listening to strangers

Stranger, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me, why should you not speak to me? 
And why should I not speak to you?
           - Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, To You

I love talking to strangers. Pretty much wherever I go, I find myself engaged in conversations with people I've never met before and am unlikely to meet again. There is always opportunity. On the subway, out for walks, in line at the supermarket. Cops, bums, clerks. You may be thinking this is risky, but I've found that people love to be listened to and are grateful for a willing ear, so I've never felt endangered. And really, that's what I end up doing. Listening to strangers.

I think of this as my work in the world, as the best kind of storytelling. Storytelling, after all, is mostly listening. You listen to your audience for their sighs or yawns. You tailor your story according to how they react. Sure, you're going to tell the same plot, but you can shift the details based on what they need. This is how I tell stories anyway.

When I talk with strangers, I'm doing the same thing. I listen to what they have to say, respond with what they need to hear. If I can, I tell them something similar to what they are telling me. I tell them the story they're looking for. They then know they have a sympathetic audience and can say what they need. They know when we're done talking I will disappear and take their secrets away, so they are safe with me.

And they are safe. I file these stories away, jotting them in my notebook. I remember some forever. Others might become the seeds of a character or story I tell. Still others become stories I tell the next stranger, when they are in need of solace and companionship. These conversations are among the key ingredients in this storyteller's creative life and I would never hear them if I wasn't willing to listen.

I've heard about death and birth, love and rage, damnation and redemption. Each story came spooling out of the teller with only some good listening and trying to tell them the story they need to hear so they can tell me what they need to say.

"Wow, that sounds amazing."
"My aunt had something similar. Are you okay?"
"Sure, I have a few minutes."

I don't know if these stories are factual though I hear them as true, nor do I know how they end, but it doesn't really matter. We're two human beings connecting, telling each other stories for a few moments and bridging the gaps between us. And really, in the end, isn't that what storytelling is about?

(c) 2011 Laura S. Packer

Local wonder

A few nights ago I went for a walk around my neighborhood. I like where I live; it's a multi-cultural, multi-class kind of place, largely residential with a small downtown. Kids play on my street. I smile at my neighbors. But I don't go walking as often as I might. My life is busy, so I usually drive. Just like most of you.

I decided to walk because it was a beautiful night; because I am achingly aware of oil consumption these days; because I wanted to stretch my legs; because I wanted to feel alive and in my body. I decided I'd take myself out to dinner in our little downtown, about a mile-and-a-half away, and I would walk.

In that walk, I met wonders.

I walked by houses where people were cooking dinner. I smelled curry, hamburgers, pasta, rich spices I couldn't identify. I walked by homes where dinner was a communal event around a table, others where dinner was eaten by flickering tv-light. I heard a ringing hammer, a late night project coming to completion in the warm night. The air was thick on my skin, encouraging me not to hurry.

A dad and his kid were hitting a ball. The kid missed and the ball rolled out into the street, then towards me. I picked it up and tossed it back; the dad thanked me and commented on the beauty of the evening in a Boston-accent so thick he could have been sent from Central Casting. His hand ruffled his son's hair.

A little farther on and I met another neighbor who collects vintage neon. We talked about passionate collecting, art, kids, politics, family, life, all in the span of ten minutes. Her hospitality and kindness reminded me of another time, then made me think that no, she was of this time, this moment, just not what we are taught to expect. Hospitality and kindness surround us in our own neighborhoods if we look for it.

At the restaurant, after chatting in my walk with other neighbors in the long light of evening, I settled in expecting a peaceful meal at the bar. Soon I was accompanied by a funny man, telling me stories, jokes, and speaking with tremendous pride of his son. We gave each other tastes of luscious morself from our own plates. In the hour of our meal we became old friends. And when I stepped outside to walk home, a full moon accompanied me turning the world quiet, silver.

I tell stories of worlds populated with unexpected marvels - a debt collector who accompanies us after death or Eve speaking in her own voice - but truly, we live in a world of wonder. For all that the breadth of the human imagination is astonishing, when we open ourselves to the gifts of the world we have endless opportunity to be amazed at its generosity.

(c)2010 Laura S. Packer

image courtesy of Ridwan Chandra

Driving in my car

And the value of public, private spaces.

I have lately had occasion to spend a lot of time in my car, driving back and forth to visit with ill friends, to stressful jobs and to other difficult places. There has been little opportunity to breath and ponder this convergence of events and even less time to check in with myself to see how I am.

My family and loving friends ask me how I’m doing, they’re justifiably concerned, but whenever they ask I smile automatically and say, “I’m okay. I’m holding up. I’m fine. There’s too much to do to worry about it right now.” While they may know this isn’t true they know better than to push. I would love to confide my worries and anxieties, but somehow opening that door seems like too much to do right now, as though once I were to start I just wouldn’t quite be able to stop. Frankly, I don’t feel as though I have the time for the release or the energy to worry about taking care of them taking care of me.

The people who know me best ask how I’m taking care of myself. I’m exercising. I’m writing (though you may not believe it). I’m taking a lot of baths. And I’m driving. It’s when I’m in the false privacy of my own car that I can really let go. I’m sure you know how it is: You turn the radio on far too loud and wail to some song or another, pretending the tears on your cheeks are for the lyrics or the memories they evoke. You know why you’re really crying, but right then you don’t have to explain it.

Other times I rant. I roll up the windows and yell at the universe, asking it why it does what it does. The people driving by either assume I’m on a hands-free call or a loon. It doesn’t really matter. I can rave and finally tell myself whatever it is I need most to hear.

I think these public, private spaces give us a freedom to express ourselves that we may not have with loved ones (we worry about what they may think of us afterwards or if they will be distressed by our pain) or with paid listeners (therapists sometimes think the therapy is more important than the listening and get in the way of letting us hear ourselves). When I’m in my car or writing in my journal in a café or part of an emotional crowd at a movie, I can let myself feel and process without worrying about anyone else.

Some people say cities create a devastating social isolation. This is certainly true sometimes, but I also think these kinds of conglomerations of people give us the opportunity to be alone in public, gives me a chance to sort things out in my own mind and heart without question or interruption but with the reminder that I am one of many. Nothing I feel is utterly unique. I take comfort in that sometimes.

Next time you’re out driving, look around. You might see me, singing my heart out to some Beatles song or another. Smile. And drive away.

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer

Political stories

It's that time again. You know what I mean. Our media is saturated with ads telling us why we should vote one way or another, why we should believe this candidate or the other and in general full of short, powerful stories. All these stories are masterfully crafted to persuade and manipulate. They tell us what we want to believe.

Advertising in general is full of short, powerful stories (this product saved my marriage, that service made my kid happy and therefore they aren't on drugs) but during a political season the ads are particularly intense. They are full of recrimination and promise all at once. They are honest lies; none are completely true but they are presented as truth.

I certainly have my own, strong opinions, but right now I'm interested in the ways the various storytellers are crafting their tales. What the stories they tell assume about their audience, we the American people. It will be interesting seeing whose story grabs a larger audience, persuades more people and thus wins the election. That will be highly informative about what kind of story this audience wants to tell about itself.

I fear that none of these stories lead to happily ever after, even if the ads would have you believe it to be so (vote for me, I'll fix everything!). Like all complicated stories, like life, happiness isn't really in the moral of the story but in how you tell it, in the journey, in the language you choose to wrap around yourself and ingest.

I'm purposely not analyzing the different stories being told right now, because I couldn't avoid doing so with bias. I'll leave that to you to do for yourself. But just remember as you hear the speeches, watch the ads, listen to analysis; these are stories. They are constructed to persuade you. They are designed by master manipulators and persuaders. They are all telling one version of the truth that may not be what you would consider True. Our media will tell you the stories as many times as you want to hear them, will take otherwise inconsequential pieces of the story and blow it out of proportion, and will do whatever it takes to make you consume more media. The media, as well as the storytellers, have their own interests at heart.

I certainly prefer one story over the other. I know which storyteller I'd rather listen to, which one is telling a version of the truth I prefer. But I also know it is a carefully crafted truth. I recognize the tricks, the pauses in delivery and the micro-stories that I use when I perform. That doesn't mean I don't choose to believe anyway; I'm doing so out of hope, not necessarily out of real faith. I know the parts of his story that touch me, move me, make me believe more than the other guy's.

All that being said, enjoy the storytelling, even as you listen with careful ears. It's grand theater. And I hope the good guy wins.

(c) 2008 Laura S. Packer

Right here, right now

I am blessed by many things in my life. I am loved. I have friends, family, community. I am healthy. I have comparative wealth. There are many blessings in my life.

One of the greatest blessings is my friendship with Brother Blue and Ruth Edmonds Hill.

Brother Blue is a storyteller. In many ways he is the storyteller, the one who got so many of us started. He is fearless, passionately committed to his art and to the singular idea that we are all storytellers, that if we all listen to each others' stories, there will be no more wars because we will all understand each other. Storytelling to change the world. Ruth is his wife. She is a scholar in her own right, brilliant, kind and thoughtful. She is the counterbalancing force that makes Blue possible. She is equally committed to deep listening and to loving the world.

Together they have shaped my life and the lives of so many. They are a blessing on this earth.

They have hosted a Tuesday night storytelling group for over 15 years, in Cambridge, Massachusetts. It was there that I stood up and told my first, real story. I was never the same. It was their faith in me, their loving listening, that convinced me that I could do this, that I am a storyteller.

Last night many of us chose to tell our stories to honor Brother Blue and Ruth. We told them, in no uncertain terms, how much we love them. How they have helped us, changed us, inspired us. We all were in tears at some point or another. I told a story about Crazy Jane, before she was crazy, meeting a man in blue and woman with a smile that could coax flower from the ground. Brother Blue and Ruth knew what I was talking about.

We did this because, so often, at memorial services, you hear stories about how wonderful someone was, how important. Why wait? Tell the stories here and now, when the people they are about can hear them. Let them know how much they mean to you. I am so glad we took this time to tell Ruth and Blue we love them. We know they know. And really, that is one of the best, most human stories of all.

I think that may be the closest we get to happily, ever after.

(c) 2008 Laura S. Packer

Night listening

I had mild insomnia last night. Sometimes I get really agitated when I can't sleep, but there are other times when I don't really mind. When I relax into the dark and quiet, when I can just be part of the world.

I woke up around two and was awake for at least an hour, listening to the world around me. I could hear the wind in the trees. I wondered what they were whispering about.

I could hear a car door slam, the car start and drive away. Was it the end of a party? The start of a work shift? The aftermath of an argument? Or someone else not sleeping who wasn't content to lie in bed and drift? I do love that drifty feeling, I used to imagine I was in a boat on a safe, dark sea and the waves would lull me to sleep.

I could hear my breath and heartbeat. Once, when I couldn't sleep, I rested on my side and listened to my heart in my ear. I told myself a story about when the world was young, when the heartbeat of everything could still be heard. When the heartbeat of the rocks and pebbles was in syncopation to that of the ocean, which was a counterpoint to that of the birds and lizards and worms. And so on. It was a good story, one I even remembered when I woke up.

I woke up last night from some kind of frightening dream, I was so sure I'd remember it I didn't bother writing it down. As I lay there in the dark I reminded myself over and over, it's just a dream. I still thought it was interesting, but I soothed myself so well that now all I remember is the start of waking, the sharp edge of fear and knowing there was something that woke me.

And I remember the quiet summer dark. The rustle of leaves and answering rustle of sheets as I turned. And my breath gradually slowing as finally, I fell back to sleep.

Sometimes, listening to quiet is what we most need.

(c) 2008 Laura S Packer

The music of what happens

It seems to me that since I am a storyteller I should occasionally relate stories here.

I am not the first to ruminate on listening, nor will I be the last. The ancient Irish understood that the incidental sounds in our lives were as precious to hear as anything we could deliberately create. Listen. What do you hear?


From the life of Fionn, the greatest of Irish chieftains, borrowed from the Sacred Texts website.

Once, as they rested on a chase, a debate arose among the Fianna-Finn as to what was the finest music in the world.

"Tell us that," said Fionn turning to Oisi'n.

"The cuckoo calling from the tree that is highest in the hedge," cried his merry son.

"A good sound," said Fionn. "And you, Oscar," he asked, "what is to your mind the finest of music?"

"The top of music is the ring of a spear on a shield," cried the stout lad.

"It is a good sound," said Fionn. And the other champions told their delight; the belling of a stag across water, the baying of a tuneful pack heard in the distance, the song of a lark, the laugh of a gleeful girl, or the whisper of a one moved in passion.

"They are good sounds all," said Fionn.

"Tell us, chief," one ventured, "what you think?"

"The music of what happens," said great Fionn, "that is the finest music in the world."

(c) 2008 Laura S. Packer (such as it is, the story isn't mine)

Domestic paleontology

I'm at the home of a friend's mother, cleaning. The mom is a wonderful woman who, in her later years, has filled her house with everything she could possibly want - something I can certainly understand, we all want what we want. She has built the life she always craved, is able to be whoever she wants and has all the accoutrement she needs to be that person. The problem arose when she truly filled the house and it became a place with narrow passageways, canyons with walls built of boxes filled with her treasures.

Not too long ago it became clear she needed to live somewhere else, someplace where she could get help if she needed it. Living alone into your 80s is a wonderful and risky thing. The ads we all mock ("I've fallen, and I can't get up") are a frightening reality for older people. While she was loathe to give up her independence, it was apparent that she needed greater care than her family could provide as they had dispersed to different parts of the country. So now she's living safely with her daughter. Which leaves the house.

I'm helping my friend sort through years of accumulation and treasures, strata of a life. Each time we clear something - a pile of old newspapers that hides a box full of old letters, for example - there is something else to be found - a drawer full of china they used when my friend was a child, in the back are old photos, receipts, mismatched kid gloves and the odd pair of baby shoes. And all of this comes with stories attached.

Some are stories my friend can tell. "Wow! When I was kid we used this when we...." So I listen. Honestly, I think that's a big part of why I'm here, to act as witness. But many of the stories are only implied, hinted at by the physical objects, but lost. Who was Maisie and why did she write a letter to my friend's long dead great-great aunt? The letter is just a friendly social missive, but it's an intimate note, gossiping about people no one in the family now knows.

It's these lost stories that get my mind whirling. I will never know the details, but I can and do imagine them. Endlessly.

It's hard to do the work we have to do when we keep finding treasures like that. Of course, there are still the piles and piles of magazines, styrofoam plates, old shoes and more to sort through. But I don't know what I'll find next, what will lead me to the next suggested story.

It's work that is at once heartbreaking, exhausting and endlessly fascinating, a deep reminder of the interconnectedness and fragility of all our lives; these lost family stories could be mine, the photos could be my lost relatives, the letters could have been written to me or to you. Each story may be lost, but it leaves a trace, a fossil footprint just waiting to be found. This is paleontology of the spirit.

(c) 2008 Laura S. Packer

p.s. My friend read this story and said it was okay to publish. So there.

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.

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