Resilience, hope, and resisting hate

When I think back to my childhood, I remember my friends and the games we played. I remember the woods up the street and the courtyard of my apartment building. I remember my family, my mother dancing in the kitchen, and my stuffed animals. And I remember my father railing about the Holocaust and Nazis and antisemitism.

My father was the child of Russian Jewish immigrants. He didn't know much about his family's life in Russia; the only story he remembered was one of Cossacks coming for the Jews in the village, and his father hidden in a flour barrel. My father was born shortly before World War 2 started and I'm sure his childhood was full of stories of pogroms, Nazis, and eventually what we have come to know as the Holocaust. While he didn't remember (or want to share) specific stories, this colored his entire life and outlook. His response to a trip to Israel was relief at the young people with guns, saying that this way he knew "it would never happen again." We all knew what "it" meant.

As a young child, I knew that I was Jewish and this was dangerous. Because both of my parents were secular, my only understanding of Judaism was that 6 million Jews died in the Holocaust. I knew that from a very young age and writing that down here feels like a childhood litany. I knew that Hanukah was the Jewish Christmas and it had something to do with oil lasting eight days. I did not know what Passover or the High Holidays were other than "Jewish New Year," I had a vague idea that we weren't supposed to work on Friday but we still did. I didn't know much of anything about my religion, culture beyond pain, and that Albert Einstein, Leonard Bernstein, Sandy Kofax, and Benny Goodman were Jews. I knew being a Jew meant I was at risk, that I was special somehow, and little else.

By the time I was in my teens and 20s I was hungry for deeper meaning, so I began to explore what my spiritual landscape looked like. In my 30s I had a much deeper understanding of what it meant to me to be a Jew. I began to shape an understanding of Judaism that wasn't based in fear or in anger over past atrocity. I would rather live in the present and live out loud. Now, in my 50s, I think of myself as a witchy JuBu (look it up). I observe the High Holidays, Passover, Hanukah. I try to set aside some of the Sabbath and have a bit of wine and bread, taking a moment to be grateful. I now understand myself as someone who is Jewish, and that Judaism is a religion of resilience among many other things. There is a reason that many Jewish holidays can be summarized as they tried to kill us, they didn't, let's eat. 

Anti-semitism has hovered in the air, but I've been lucky. It's rarely touched me. I've had a few people say some odd things to me (one date kissed me then commented that he'd always heard Jewish girls were sweeter; that was the only date and only kiss). I've had to explain things from time to time (I once explained Passover and why matzoh is important to a fascinated crowd in a rural midwest supermarket. They offered me Saltines with all good intentions). I've occasionally walked away from heated discussions or on rare occasions been able to ask the right question.

My social justice work has come from a place of privilege, I know this. I've worked for the rights of others and will continue to do so, but it was only in feminism that I felt my own safety might be endangered; I did it anyway. I've not felt physically endangered or even all that concerned about Anti-Semitism in the U.S. My father's fears were not mine.

All of that shifted after the 2016 election. The day after the election several synagogues and Jewish cemeteries were vandalized in Kansas City, not 15 miles from where I lived. I overheard people in public places talking about how the election showed the Jews who was boss. I was afraid to put my menorah in the front window but decided I would not live in fear. I lit the candles every night and I will do so again this year. The U.S. President may be a hate-monger and understands the power of fear, but I will not let him and his toadies define me.

Since then I have been more aware of the ways my father was right. He wasn't right to make the Holocaust the only notable part of Jewish history, but he was right that hatred is a powerful drug and that Jews have been targeted for millennia. American culture has always had a thread of anti-Semitism, but in my lifetime, until very recently, it was something to hide. Now it's out in public, and it has killed people.

Three thousand years of history, culture, art, music, life should not be defined by acts of hatred. I will not be defined by an act of hatred. I would rather create my own definitions of my life and my culture. I mourn those killed yesterday in Pittsburgh. I will say their names. And I will stand up. I will put my menorah in the window and be visible. I will remember that it is three thousand years of resilience, endurance, love.

I will still stand with those who are being attacked, whether they are of color, women, LGBT+, immigrants, Muslims, etc. I trust you will stand with me. They tried to kill us. We stood together. They failed. Let's eat.

Dedicated to the memories of:

• Joyce Feinburg, 75, of Oakland
• Richard Godfried, 65, of Ross Township
• Rose Mallinger, 97, of Squirrel Hill
• Jerry Robinowitz, 66, of Edgewood
• Cecil Rosenthal, 59, of Squirrel Hill
• David Rosenthal, 54, of Squirrel Hill
• Bernice Simon, 84, of Wilkinsburg
• Sylvan Simon, 86, of Wilkinsburg
• Daniel Stein, 71, of Squirrel Hill
• Melvin Wax, 88, of Squirrel Hill
• Irvin Yungner, 69, of Mount Washington

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(c)2018 Laura S. Packer

The Telling life: Sacred breath

In just a moment I'm going to ask you to stop reading this post. I'm going to ask you to sit up a little straighter, to relax your hands in your lap, to close your eyes and to take in a slow deep breath. As you do, feel your lungs expand and contract. Feel the warmth of the air you expel, the rush of it through your nostrils or lips. Let go of the stress and tension you may have been holding. After you've done this two or three times, come back to this post. There's more I'd like to share with you.

Okay. It's time. Stop reading, close your eyes, relax and breathe. I'll wait.

Now do it again.

Welcome back. How do you feel? A little more grounded, I hope?

My mentor and friend, Brother Blue, used to start each of his storytelling sessions with a collective breath. He said it was calling the muse. It was. With that great sigh we, those assembled, became a community and blessed the room with our breath. We took that moment to allow creativity to flow through us. It gave us a sacred pause.

There is a commonly touted belief that, with each breath, we breath air shared by Julius Caesar and maybe even dinosaurs. That isn't precisely true, but the truth is even more amazing. Every breath we take, every time we inhale, we are breathing in atoms that have been here (functionally) forever. Our bodies break apart those air molecules and take what they need, then we exhale the waste. The oxygen we breath is a byproduct of life: When the planet was young there was very little oxygen, it developed thanks to photosynthetic organisms, so the oxygen we breath is life giving to life. The carbon dioxide we exhale may go on to nourish a tree that will emit oxygen and, in time, decompose to carbon that will nourish other organisms, some of which your grandchildren may eat.

Every time we speak our bodies shape our thoughts, into vibrations in our vocal cords. What is quite literally an image of the electrical activity directed in our brains is then pushed by breath and creates sound vibrations that ripple through the air and directly impacts the tympanic membranes of our listeners. The vibration we feel in our own bodies as we tell stories is felt by our listeners.

So what does breath have to do with storytelling? Everything. It helps us connect to our listeners in real, physical ways - the electric spark of thought becoming vibration, powered by breath to become sound. Each breath contains some element of the birth of life.

When Brother Blue would ask us all to sigh together it was more than creating community, more than imploring the Muse for assistance, more even than gathering thoughts to tell stories, it was blessing each other with life. With hope. With story.

Breath is sacred. Breathe deep.

(c)2015 Laura S. Packer

A plague of loss

One of the many things I cherish about my relationship with Kevin is our approach to the Holy. Kevin was a faithful Christian. I am a struggling Jew. We had many conversations about what it means to have faith and how that faith could be expressed. This was one of the things that bound us to each other in the early days of our relationship; it was one of the things that helped us navigate the end.

Though Kevin and I came from different traditions and had different understandings of faith, god and spirituality, we found common ground. We respected each others beliefs, talked about it frequently and eventually built new rituals that honored us both. The new traditions honored religious calendars, community and common ground between us. Many of you may have heard about or participated in our Christmas celebrations. Far fewer knew about our Passover celebration.

Blood
Frogs

I was raised in a secular home. It was only once I was involved with Kevin that I really began to explore what it means to have more than 3,000 years of history behind me. While I am unlikely to ever be deeply observant, being Jewish has become an important part of my identity, one that is tightly bound to my Christian husband.

Lice
Enraged beasts

As I explored more of my own heritage, with Kevin's encouragement, I found that I particularly love Passover. I love the ritual and story of it, that it celebrates freedom and memory and does so through food and narrative. Kevin and I attended friends' Seders and then began to host our own. It was another piece of common ground for us, as descendants of enslaved people and as people questing for our own understanding of the world.

Cattle disease
Boils

Every year I would consider the Seder and the story told. I would look to my own heart for the parts that had the most meaning. I developed my own Haggadah and sought a deeper understanding of the ritual. Soon I noticed that the naming of the plagues always brought me to tears and I would find myself shaking as God forbade the angels from celebrating the death of the Egyptian firstborn, stating that all beings are beloved. It helped me understand the depths of enslavement, if it took something so terrible to break it. It helped me feel empathy for all people and helped me remember that everyone wants to feed their family, everyone loves their children, everyone grieves. I would encourage those at my Seder table to consider how truly terrible each of these plagues were, how they are more than words on a page and drops of wine on a plate, but each one brought pain, loss and grief.

Hail
Locusts

Now, in my season of grief, this is even more acute. Before the grief was a theoretical thing. Now it is intimate and personal. Kevin's death and my grief feels like my own plague and I keep wondering what I have done to deserve such punishment. Of course I know cancer is not my fault. Of course I know I did nothing to make him ill or deserve this loss. But grief has its own language and own fickle logic. In the middle of the night my heart cannot help but ask why, over and over again, wondering if there was something I could have done to change what has happened.

Darkness
Death of the firstborn

For the first time in many years, this year I am not hosting a Seder. I will go to a friend's home and say the prayers with her community. I will be the welcome stranger. I will close my eyes and hear Kevin's voice mixed in with all of ours as we recite the story together. And as we place drops of wine on our plates to signify the losses incurred by the plagues, I will add one extra.

(c)2015 Laura S. Packer

Here in the dark

The day after solstice and the world is still shrouded. I love this time of year. I find myself at my most creative, my most volatile, my most self when I have no choice but to be present in the dark.

I have struggled with episodes of depression for most of my life; late autumn and early winter are prime times to plummet into the dark, and no surprise. The world is dark. For all that I dread these episodes, I learn so much each and every time it happens, just as I learn so much each winter solstice when the world is turned over to the things that live in the dark. Even those years when I retain my equilibrium, the dark lets me see the world and its inhabitants in shadow-light. Here the tree and its branches against the barely-brighter sky. There the moon-glow from the snow.

This year I find myself sitting in my dark living room, watching the candles flicker and considering the nature of the dark. Without the dark we would not relish the return of the light. We would have no time when we can't call on the excuse of the glare to avoid that which we most need to cherish and consider. Without the dark we would yearn for the solace and stillness it provides. We try to deny it, but it is as much a part of us as the sunlight. We need the balance. We are creatures of night as well as day.

We find ourselves in the dark. We rely less on sight and more on our other senses. I can smell the burning wax, hear the click and hum of the furnace and notice the presence of those long gone. Whether they live only in my imagination or as external phenomena I don't know, and I don't really care. I welcome them into the warmth and faint glow. I can share myself with them here in the night.

In the dark I turn to my own heart for guidance. Without clearly marked paths to travel and instructions from the world, I know only my own rhythm, my own breath, my own life in this very moment.

We are the things that live in the dark, our shadowy selves less defined but welcome. Here. Sit down. Have a cup of tea. I am listening. I am here, with you, in the dark.

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

Keep the fires burning - Imbolc

I am something of a spiritual magpie, finding expressions of gratitude and solace in traditions from around the world. I don't believe this to be contradictory or disrespectful, as all of these traditions are born from human need and are yearnings towards the inexpressible, so whether something comes from my own Judaism, from Islam, Buddhism, Christianity, Humanism, or some other faith, it's all about being alive in this world and finding a path through our magnificent, confusing, awe-inspiring, heartbreaking lives.

Today is Imbolc, the Celtic day to honor the goddess Brighid. It's also St. Brighid's Day, no coincidence there. Brighid is the goddess of fire, of creativity, of poetry, medicine, arts and crafts, smithing and birth/spring. She's my kind of girl.

Many years ago I was traveling in Ireland in the spring. It was a pivotal time in my life, turbulent with change. Among other things, I was truly beginning to embrace my calling as a storyteller, beginning to label myself as such, so it felt very daring to tell people that this was my work. In the U.S., when I said I was a storyteller, the assumption was that I read to children or that this was my hobby, not at least an avocation. But in Ireland, no one flinched or wondered, they just nodded and said, Oh, you're a shanachie! It was so much easier. An old man in a pub asked for a story and, when I was done, nodded, then told me I had the gift so I'd best go visit Kildare and be blessed by Brighid. Americans all said I should kiss the Blarney stone (which I didn't get to) but this old man, with his pipe and muddied boots, wasn't to be denied. I went to Kildare, where Brighid's sacred well lies and her eternal flame once burned.

I found myself outside of a church, St. Brigid's of Kildare. It was a cool, wet day and I wandered through the grounds, my shoes soaking through. Towards the back of the churchyard was the site of her sacred flame, extinguished for many years (since rekindled). As I looked into the earth I saw offerings. Shattered crockery, small figurines, stacked rocks, notes folded and decayed. I closed my eyes and in that moment I saw two sturdy hands, working clay and I knew I would survive this turbulence. I knew I would emerge reshaped, not unscathed, but whole.

I left an offering. I gave my thanks. I walked into the Norman cathedral and listened to the Good Friday mass; I hadn't realized the date until the priest welcomed me in and invited me to stay. I had never before paid much mind to this particular story of sacrifice with the hope of redemption. I sat in the cold, feeling the world reshape itself around me. I could feel a small flame alight inside as I welcomed myself back home. I could live this life, be this person, do this work. When the service was done I left an offering. I gave my thanks. And I walked back to the rest of my life.

Now, every year on Imbolc, I light a candle to Brighid. I consider hands, shaping clay. I remember an old man, pointing me to Kildare, inviting me to be blessed. I keep my fires burning.

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

Advance, retreat, advance again

I wrote recently about my deep need for white space, the time and geography that allows for creativity. I've just returned from a week of white space, time spent in the Adirondacks on retreat. While the patterns in my life that drove me to eliminate white space from my life haven't really changed, I have had a chance to spend time thinking, writing and staring out at the world without interruption.

Creativity is the residue of time wasted.
              - Albert Einstein

Prior to my week away I'd been driving myself forward, having set some substantial goals and pushing relentlessly to meet them. What I'd forgotten was that meeting goals, or even working towards them, or even simply being alive in the world, results in change. Meeting some of my goals made things happen, so I had new obligations to meet, new opportunities to seize. I filled up all of my spare time with actions, advancement, motion. I'd forgotten to be still, which is part of my work, part of anyone's work, to find stillness in the chaos so we can see who we have become and what we can offer.

One’s action ought to come out of an achieved stillness: not to be mere rushing on.
              - D.H. Lawrence


So I went on retreat. It was really hard, unplugging entirely and having no access to email or cell phone. At first I was pretty twitchy, but within a few days, began to relax. I stared at light-dappled water. I floated in the lake. I admired the spiders. 

I found myself in a place that encourages stillness, so I could be present with 
the water.
the loon.
the boat.
the tree.
the sky.
the ant.
the stone.

And in that stillness, while I didn't find all I might have sought, I found some measure of peace and clarity around my life, around coming actions and, finally, around white space.

There are aspects of modern life that require strategy and planning. Times when we long for maps. By remembering we are in this world to explore the uncharted, to take a step forward and another back without it meaning failure, to prepare for a long journey with many diversions, to meet allies and foes, we can plan for strategic retreat and future advances.

A dance, really, one step at a time.


(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

Longing for winter

I live in New England where this time of year typically is grey and slushy, the streets full of piles of snow. In an typical year my feet would be complaining about winter boots, I would have shoveled my own weight in snow and I would have slipped on the ice at least once. In a typical year I would be silently congratulating myself on getting through another winter.

This isn't a typical year. It's been an unusually mild winter. We've certainly had a few Very Cold Days, we've had some snow, but it's been nothing like years past. Whether it's global climate change or simply an anomalous year, I don't know. I do know that, for all that it's been easier, I find myself longing for winter.

Winter gives me something to push against. The short days and long nights can trigger depression, so the cold and snow give me an external force to fight with. They offer me badly needed resistance. Much the way a weight lifter needs to lift heavy things to be strong, I need to push against winter to not be consumed by my own darkness on the long dark nights.

Winter is beautiful. The starkness of snow and barren trees, the sparkling ice, the plumes of exhalation that turn me into a dragon, the clarity of the stars are a kind of beauty you can only find in the cold, in the snow, when the world crunches beneath your boots.

Winter allows for comfort. When I've been outside shoveling or driving home in the dark, winter encourages a kind of self-comfort that seems silly when it's 45 degrees outside. I don't really need hot cocoa if I can walk around with an open coat. I don't really need the crackling fire if my hands aren't frozen and my toes lost to feeling. I can still enjoy them, but the need makes the cocoa sweeter, the fire warmer.

Winter allows for rest. We all need fallow time, a chance to be quiet and look within, when we are not called upon to produce and create, but can rest in the dark, replenish ourselves with long nights spent reading or talking. Winter gives us a badly needed reason to stay home, to not rush out, to do only what is essential and in so doing, allow our reservoirs to refill.

Winter is a time of possibility, where magic lurks. C.S. Lewis knew this, introducing us to Narnia in the winter, when the White Witch beguiles Edmund. Maybe he learned this from the many fairy tales that call upon winter to hide mystery. We need to see the tracks in the snow so we can wonder if they were from a squirrel or a clawed man. We need to leave out sweet cakes and milk for the fairies and to marvel when they are gone. We need the wonder of the frozen lake, the threat of the crack and the safe scurry to the side. We need the mystery of the cold and dark and the persistent hope of warmth and light.

Because Winter reminds us to hope. When winter is at its most fierce, when the storm rage and snow piles high, we know it will not last. Winter reminds us that even the most trying times are fleeting, that we can endure even this with only a bare memory and faint promise of spring.

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

Living the life of a storyteller

Image found at http://shannonmcm.com/ 

I spend a lot of time writing about storytelling and various issues in the art. I’ve written about striving for excellence, various performances, listening, telling specific kinds of stories and so on, but I’ve not written explicitly about living the life of a storyteller, how to move through the world so story informs everything you do and everything you do is informed by story, moving through the world prepared to accept the gifts and challenges story brings. In some ways this whole blog is about living the life of a storyteller, so I demonstrate by example, but I thought it might be fun to come up with a list, a few ways that might change the way you think about your life and incidentally deepen your storytelling and other endeavors.

1. “yes, and…” is the first rule in improv. It's also the first rule in the life of a storyteller. Every experience is fodder for the next story. You see a hippy walking a toy poodle? Great, that could be a story. Your mother calls and talks your ear off? That’s story fodder too. You accept life experiences, joyful or tragic, participant or observer, as opportunities for stories, even if you may never tell the obvious story in front of you. Maybe that toy poodle is really a magical servant. Maybe it’s a hallucination personified. Maybe the hippy is really a breeder of rare dogs. Maybe it was inherited from their just-deceased stock-broker son. You don’t know what the story really is, so you can make it up. It’s your story now. Even if you don’t use the idea immediately, add it to your compost heap, a file somewhere  that contains various ideas, phrases and inspirations for stories. “Yes, and…” also means that you’re willing to risk failing. If you work on a story that doesn’t go where you expected or you get stuck, it doesn’t mean it failed. It means you learned something new about your own process and maybe you should move onto a different story. This one will wait for you. Frankly, “yes, and…” is a pretty nice rule to have for life in general.
2. Listen. The best storytellers I have ever known are also among the greatest listeners. They know that listening to other tellers and the world around them will only deepen their own telling. By listening intently to other tellers they learn more about the craft of storytelling and increase their understanding of how it works in performance and in the world at large. Great storytellers also listen to the audience. Remember, there is no fourth wall in storytelling, so you can react to your audience in real time. If the audience loves it when you talk about trees and you can do so appropriately in the context of the story, talk about trees more. The meat of the storytelling performance happens in the audience’s head. Listen to them and take advantage of it. Equally, storytellers need to be listened to; practice your new stories with a friendly audience who can give you useful feedback. You get to decide if you use that feedback or not, but a little friendly listening can go a long way. Lastly, when you listen to the world around you, it’s quite likely you’ll overhear stories just waiting to be told.
3. Praise. Be abundant in your praise of other tellers. Don’t hesitate to tell others what you love about their work and their gift. Just as importantly, accept praise as you receive it. Don’t second guess it or deny the listener’s experience by minimizing their praise. What we don’t need but frequently get or give is “constructive criticism.” Newer endeavors especially thrive when they are fed, not when the roots are plucked off. Heck, be abundant with praise in general. If someone does something well or kind, let them know you appreciate it. How often do you feel appreciated? You’d be surprised how giving appreciation leads to being appreciated. Thanks to Doug Lipman for starting me down the path of being a routine appreciator.
4. Fail again, fail better. In other words, take risks. If you take no risks in your art or your life you will never grow. Don’t be afraid of failing. Your job is to try new things, fail frequently and to learn from each experience, so you can reach new heights of success.
5. Change is inevitable. You may be a superb teller of personal stories. You may one day find yourself drawn to tell folktales. This may be frightening but remember, change happens. The only time change stops is when you die. As you try new things, listen, praise and take risks, you will change and grow. The material you are drawn towards will change, as may your audiences. Embrace it. Find a way to make it your own.
6. Value. No one else does what you do. Your art has value and deserves to be valued. Your whole self deserves to be valued. When you are living the life of a storyteller you may find people under-estimate the time and work you put into your craft. Don’t let them. Make sure they know that your skills are valuable. This must start with valuing yourself. If you don’t know what to charge for your work, ask other tellers what they charge. Don’t be afraid to ask for what you’re worth; you support yourself and your community when you do.
7. Self-care. No one else is going to take care of you for you. You must understand what nourishes you and your art and provide it for yourself or ask for it clearly and firmly. What is conducive to you doing your best work? Do you need a cup of tea ahead of time? Do you need to run a mile? Do you need space and quiet in which to create? No one will know to give you these things if you don’t ask. Equally, you need to explore what helps you feel most whole, how you can take care of yourself. Maybe you need a bath before you can sleep, or you are renewed by eating sushi once a month. Find a way to care for yourself and you will be a more complete artist.
8. Abundance and generosity. Assume the world is abundant. That there are ample gigs for all of us, that there are audiences, that you will learn and tell the next story. Be generous with your talent, your compassion and your heart. When we expect abundance the world becomes a much bigger place than when we assume there is scarcity. What we are given or create for ourselves can be accepted with that much more joy. When we are generous it becomes easier to accept the gifts of the universe, because we have become part of the gift of the universe. Envy (I’m a better storyteller than he is) greed (I want more gigs, even if they aren’t right for me) refusal to share (No, I don’t know anyone who can do that gig even though I can’t) all will only keep your heart compressed. Be like the grinch, let your heart grow three times in a day.

You may have guessed this manifesto is about more than being a storyteller, it’s about life. We are all storytellers; the world is our stage and we can decide if our life-long performance is a sold out success or a bust. Go for it. The world is waiting.


(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Re-emergence soundtrack

I spent the last week in the middle of the woods. No phone or internet, no tv or radio; just me, some friends, the wild world and encouragement to write. It was a deeply restorative time, one I needed badly. I've come back re-energized and with renewed priorities.

I have some concern about how to maintain this energy and purpose in the face of so many competing needs. I've written, talked and, as I was driving home (about five hours) I sang about it. Without consciously thinking about it, I found myself singing out some of what I need to remember.

As I drove out through upstate New York my dear friends (and yours too, probably) The Beatles, sang to me about the Two of Us, how connected I am to so many, and reminded me to Let it Be. By the ferry into Vermont Joan Armatrading reminded me that I'm Lucky. Kate Bush sang to me about Cloud Busting, how the impossible is possible even when forces align against us. Barreling into New Hampshire David Wilcox sang about Laura's last ride in Johnny's Camaro (if you don't know this one, you should), then Jane Siberry reminded me that Love is Everything and that I am Bound by the Beauty. And by the time I was almost home The Beatles were back with me, all of us singing at the top of our lungs about being a Paperback Writer, considering scenes In My Life and remembering to take a sad song and make it better.

By the time I got home my throat was sore from singing for five hours but my heart was reassured that I could maintain my self against the combined forces of traffic and timecards, work and worry. I was midwifed across three states and back into my known life, a renewed woman, by four guys from Liverpool, some wild women and a gentle man.

And I got to wondering: What are your soundtracks? What music midwives you from one state to another? How do you re-emerge from retreat to everyday life?

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Retreat

I'm going on a weeklong retreat in the woods. No phone, no email, no twitter, no tv, nothing to tie me to the modern world beyond basic needs. Really, twitter and email aren't basic needs.

At first it will be hard. I'll shake and tremble with confusion. But it will be good for me.

It's good for all of us to get out of our lives from time to time, to disappear into places larger than we are. To live in the moment.

Where do you retreat to? What do you retreat from?

I'll see you when I get back. I'll bring back secrets from the loons.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

God is what happens when people are interconnected

An enormously moving speech by Jim Gilliam from the Personal Democracy Forum about faith that people connected can create a new world and the internet makes it possible. Gillam is a film producer, was a born-again Christian and has survived cancer three times. Thanks to Cory Doctorow for posting this at boingboing.Please watch it, this is powerful, relevant and real.

Watch live streaming video from pdf2011 at livestream.com

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

It isn't always pretty

I love this time of year, when every day brings new hints of spring. Today I saw the noses of daffodils and crocuses peeking out of the ground. But I have to say, after a winter like the one we've just had, it's not a pretty time of year. The trees are still bare, there are piles of dirty snow lurking in every parking lot and along most streets. There is trash and worse newly uncovered as the world melts. It's not particularly appealing.

I don't care. In fact, I'm reveling in this changing landscape.

The times of greatest growth and most intense change are rarely pretty or without peril. Whether seasonal change, physical growth (remember growing pains? those really hurt!) or personal growth, when we are in the midst of it, it's hard to see the coming beauty. But it's there.

It's in the rich scent of dirt I can smell each afternoon.
It's in the green tips emerging from the ground.
It's in the red glow of the trees as their buds get ready to issue forth leaves.
It's in the mud and rainwater splashing into my sneakers.
It's in the mourning doves who have come back to my yard.

It's in our hearts when we are in the most turmoil, unsure of who we are, when we are waiting for our own personal spring. Be still. Do you hear your ice cracking? Do you hear the birds in your heart sing in praise and celebration? Does your skin feel tight, as if you are about to blossom?

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Brigid's Day

courtesy wikimedia commons

Today is Brigid's Day. Also known as Imbolc and Groundhog Day, today celebrates the Celtic goddess Brigid. She is also known as St. Brigit, as the Catholic church quite wisely adopted her.

Brigid oversees creative endeavors, poetry, storytelling, healing and smiths. She is represented by leaping flames and, as a goddess always stretching up, she urges us to lift ourselves higher, whether onto the next hill or to a new, more challenging task. She is the goddess of lofty pursuits.

Many years ago I visited her sacred flame in Kildare, Ireland, kept alight for thousands of years with only brief interruptions. The church built on this ancient, sacred site is strong and imposing, a solid place to consider your place in the universe. Around the flame were offerings - scraps of burned paper with a word or two still visible, beads, goddess figurines, shattered vessels. It was a wondrous place.

I spent part of the morning sitting on the damp grass watching the fire flicker and stretch, then the deacon of the church invited me inside to get warm. As it happens, it was Good Friday. I listened to a sermon outlining Jesus' journey through crucifixion. It was a brutal story. As a Jew I'd never heard it told in such detail. I wept with the old women attending the service. But there in the church built to honor the saint derived from the goddess of creativity and flame, I saw all of these stories as paths to our own creative redemption. Whether through art or story or prayer or community, creative action lifts us up into our better selves, where we can examine our own spirits and our place in the world with fewer distractions.

Brigid has walked with me through some of my life's more challenging moments. I've taken comfort in creative acts of writing and telling, art and poetry. I am grateful for the reminder that, through striving to go higher, I burn brighter.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

A birthday list

Today is my birthday. I am an utter fool for birthdays, believing that it's important to move through the world with joy, so taking one day a year to celebrate your own existence is a worthwhile endeavor.


This year, as in other years, on my birthday I'm writing a list of things I am grateful for, one for each year of my life. This year I was moved towards a simpler list, though I think it is no less meaningful; this may be in part because I didn't want to repeat myself too much as those previous lists are still quite valid. In any case, I hope some of these resonate with you.


Thank you world.

1. Love. The opportunity to love and be loved.
2. And like! Distinct and important.
3. And dislike too - the chance to be an adult and work it through.
4. Mistakes. The chance to try again.
5. Taking the last walk with Brother Blue.
6. The sound of wind in trees.
7. The scent of the ocean.
8. The taste and comfort of Red Label tea with milk and honey.
9. The feel of my lover's skin. 
10. Hugging and being hugged.
11. The myriad shapes of clouds.
12. Writing. 
13. Reading.
14. Music. 
15. Especially the Beatles.
16. The occasional wisdom to take the next breath.
17. Kind strangers.
18. Overheard conversations.
19. Trees. And other plants, fungi, lichens. The slow, growing things of the world.
20. Animals. Mammals, fish, insects, all living things. Even mosquitoes who have their place in the world.
21. Good cries.
22. Well-told stories. Both hearing and telling.
23. Museums and the arts in general.
24. Being heard.
25. Wild acts of hope and guerrilla art.
26. Wild places that I will never see.
27. Languages I will never know.
28. Laughing until I can't breath.
29. The opportunity to help others.
30. Working at a problem until I solve it.
31. Or until I ask for help.
32. Forgiveness.
33. Creativity and creation. 
34. Trying and failing and trying again.
35. Work. Financial security.
36. Completing things.
37. My home. 
38. Playing. Kites. Toys. 
39. Cooking.
40. Naps.
41. The sound of my own breath - at night, underwater through SCUBA, in this moment.
42. My body.
43. Life. I am so grateful for this life.

And one for the years to come - I am grateful for you, for the connections I have in this world. Thank you.

Oh, and yes, the little girl at the top of this post is me. I don't know, have I changed that much?

(c)2010 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

Singular

I spend last weekend unplugged, alone with very limited access to the internet and email. It was wonderful and restoring.

We are so connected that it's easy to forget how lovely it can be to not think about everything at once. I know I often forget that really, I don't need to check email every 30 minutes. That the world will not end if I don't know what CNN has to say. That Twitter, as much as I love it, will get along just fine without me.

For the last few days I did only one thing at a time. I was a singular entity.

If I was eating, I ate. I felt the textures of my food and took the time to taste each bite. I didn't have a book open or the tv on while I consumed my meal thoughtlessly.

When I wrote I was thinking only about the structure of each sentence, the way the paragraphs connected. There was no music, no wondering when I would get to the dishes. I was only mind and fingers on keys.

When I walked felt my muscles pull and lungs expand. I was in the world, of the world.

I was singular, not struggling to do multiple things at once. How lovely.

It's easy to forget that we evolved to do one thing at a time most of the time. Red Riding Hood got into trouble when she did too much at once. But Jack saved his family by doing one thing at a time.

Be Jack. Be a trickster who knows when hide, knows when to run, knows when to chop. And does each thing for itself, very well.


(c)2010 Laura S. Packer

From dark to light

Today is Groundhog Day. Or Candlemas. Or Brigidmas. Or Imbolc. It's the midway point between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox and the time when we might believe that winter will end and spring will come.

It's a time to take a deep breath and take note: There is more light later in the day. The buds are thinking about fattening up. Soon the ground will soften and the green mouths of crocuses will sip the air. Brigit's animal, the groundhog, sniffs the air to see if it's time to emerge into the world.

Brigit or Brigid of Kildare (the goddess/saint of poetry, creativity and healing) is honored with an eternal flame that burns through the dark days, reminding us of the fire within, of our own ability to create even in the cold. Today reach inside and feel the warmth of your personal spring. What is ready to bloom? What will you release into the world as the days become longer, the leaves prepare to unfurl and (regardless of what the groundhog predicts) the Earth shifts on its axis and spring comes to the Northern hemisphere?

(c)2010 Laura S. Packer

Identity

I've been thinking about identity quite a bit lately on both an individual scale and as a broader theme. Who am I? How do I define myself as an individual and in a broader cultural context? To what extent am I defined by my actions, my beliefs, my connections, by some other factors? I know these are big philosophical questions and I am certainly not the first person to look them nor will I be the last, but it's an exploration everyone should undertake from time to time. This whole blog, really, is an examination of who I am. For now thought, I'm interested in how any individual answers those questions, what tools do we use and how effective are they.

Over the course of this week I'll take a look at different factors that effect identity, how we define ourselves, how we tell our story. I'm really interested in how we talk about each aspect of our identity, how we construct our identity through story. I'm trying to get away from the mammoth blog posts I lean towards, so I thought I'd break up this conversation into different parts. Each day I'll look at a different measure of identity then next weekend I'll see if it's given me any new insight.

Topics I plan to touch upon include identity in the context of: action (I do this...) , relationships to others (I am a daughter, etc), cultural context (ways we support or violate cultural expectation or what our culture expects from us) and belief (what our belief and philosophy suggests we are). Any other suggestions?

I would love your input. Navel gazing it no way to understand ourselves, so if you have any thoughts or tips, please post them in the comments section. How do you define yourself? What do you tell others when you talk about yourself or your life? What don't you tell? When do you most feel like yourself? Thanks.

(c)2010 Laura S. Packer

Birthday presence

I love birthdays. It's important to have one day, every year, when you unequivocally say YES! I am HERE!

Today is my birthday, so here are 42 birthday presents and moments of presence, in no particular order and one for each year of my life. And yes, it's not lost on me that I am now the answer to life, the universe and everything.

1. The smell of autumn leaves, life out of decay.
2. My family in all their crazy, persistent, loving, nagging, wonderful selves.
3. I am surrounded by love
4. and the realization that love is not roses and puppies, but that love can be hard, smell like piss and is still infinitely valuable.
5. The rough hand of the bum as he seeks a moment of comfort and safety.
6. The warm, smooth sweetness of tea in my mouth, the comfort in my soul as I cradle the cup.
7. The shock as I took my first few breaths underwater, learning SCUBA. The realization that I wouldn't die, that my mermaid-self remembered.
8. The gift of listening, of letting go of myself and hearing another human being tell their story.
9. Touch. The feel of skin on skin, from the simplest touch to the most intimate contact.
10. The sound of wind in trees in all seasons, whether the whisper of new green buds, the gentle clapping of summer leaves or the chitter of bare branches scraping against each other.
    
11. The patience to see the world in many ways.
12. Salty, crunchy, sweet, savory, smooth, bitter, sour, umame. Rich and plain, chewy and subtle. All of the flavors, tastes and scents that inform my fingers, mouth, tongue and tummy.
13. Taking the time and thought to write this list.
14. Walking at a comfortable pace, moving through the world under my own power.
15. Stones large and small. Those worn to hand shape, great cliffs that tower above, gems that glitter and granite that holds its secrets tight.
16. And fossils that tell stories of life from impossibly long ago.
17. Living things. Dragonflies and octopi. Wolves and leopards. Goats and snails. Hawks and hummingbirds.
18. The gifts of the dead, their stories and memories. Ghosts and artifacts.
19. Playing with little kids who haven't yet learned to be self-conscious.
20. The calm distance in my body when I am engulfed in a good book.
21. Stretching, feeling my muscles and sinews move.
22. The smell of sauteing onions.
23. Singing out loud, without caring who hears.
24. The satisfaction of giving something away.
25. Laughing so hard I can't stand up or wet myself just a little. Knowing this will happen more often as I age.
26. The thrill of a crack of the thunder and lightening. Even when it's fearful.
27. Remembering to be compassionate.
28. Hope and the opportunity to hope again. The rejection letter, the failure, the missed parking space.
29. The changing weather. Cloudy days and fine. The cut of cold air, the weight of the summer.
30. Those sterling moments when I remember who I am, when I am at my best and most whole. Those moments are rarely when I expect them, so they keep me guessing and awake.
31. Surviving and thriving. Scarlet fever, cancer, childhood, adolescence, adolescents, driving, eating, loving, living.
32. Sleep, the comfort of waking warm and safe. Waking knowing there is more in front of me.
33. Sex. The delicious thrill of my own body and the bodies of others. Taste and scent and convulsion and more.
34. Dreaming, sensical and not. I love knowing my mind is creating even when I'm not really there.
35. Which leads me to that wonderful, deep sense of presence when I'm creating. Writing, art, telling, anything, when I create something I am here.
36. Regret. I try to live my life without regret, understanding that I make each choice the best I can in the moment, but those things I regret tell me so much about the world and how I want to move through it, that I can view it as nothing less than a gift.
37. Kites and wind-up toys and sharp kitchen knives and beautiful glass and evocative art and the right poem in the moment. All of these things make me stop and notice.
38. The perfect tool for the job, the one that fits in my hand and invites me to use it. This leads back to the act of creation and honest, hard work. Presence in the world.
39. The smell of metal and bread and rain and grass and snow.
40. My mother's scrambled egg sandwiches. My father's delight in showing me something new to him.
41. Deep breaths in fresh air.
42. Walking through this life, knowing that there is more to come. More work and laughter, more time (or not) and more hope. I think humans are creatures of story and of hope.

Thank you for reading this. I'd love to know if any of these are on your list of presents and presence, I'd love to read your list.

If you're interested in last year's list of things I'm grateful for, it's here.

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer

Living the big life

I'm just home from the National Storytelling Festival and I'm thinking about the Big Life, since I promised I'd write about it here and because the Festival reminded me of some of my dreams. Whenever I write that phrase Big Life I feel a thrill in my heart and the voices in my head sing, "Someday I'm gonna live the Big Life!"

But then I have to ask myself two questions:
1. What does the Big Life mean?
2. Why not life my Big Life now? It's not like it's tapping its foot waiting for me to show up.

When I try to define the Big Life I find I get distracted by goals: I seem to think Big Life means achieving certain things. I want to do this, I want to accomplish or experience that. These are all parts of living, but they aren't how I want to live my life. By living my life mindfully (whatever that means for me or for you) I can take better note of opportunities and decide if I want to act on them, I can be kinder, I can be more present in the world.

I am coming to believe that Big Life simply means living and knowing that I am doing so. It means I am not waiting for the world to come to me, but I am going out to the world. When we live mindfully, when we walk through the world with open hearts and minds, we can't help but live the Big Life because the world is always out there waiting for us to experience it.

So go on, live big. There's no reason not to. And in the process I guarantee something wonderful will happen.

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer