Posts
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
No matter how fast we run...
...we can't escape the past. Let me explain.
My partner, Kevin Brooks, tells wonderful personal stories. He recounts adventures from his childhood and from the lives of his family members. These stories are funny, poignant and more-or-less true. He urges me to tell the more-or-less true stories from my own life, but I resist. I tell him it's because I prefer the fiction and lies, myths and folktales I surround myself with on stage, but honestly? it's in part because the memories are hazy or seem just like little anecdotes and moreso because who I am now is rarely interested in looking back with nostalgia. But. But.
Who I used to be sneaks up on me and says, "Surprise! You thought I was gone, but here I am, I'm still part of you and I'm not going away! Aren't you glad?" Sometimes I cringe. ohgodithoughti'dgottenoverthat ther times I find myself welcoming in my OnceUponATime with open arms. Then I find myself telling stories.
This has happened recently in several different ways.
Social networking and the internet in general have forced me to allow the past in. Old friends, people I haven't seen or thought of in hundreds of years (so it seems) are now part of my regular life. This is a trite observation of course, I'm sure the same has happened to you. Some of these new-old relationships have become unexpected treasures that I never would have been given if I'd kept running forward. In these relationships we start out reminiscing but then find the present to be much more interesting.
While I'm enjoying the now-old relationships, what I find more striking is the gift of myself. It's as though I've recently become willing to let my old self back in, as though I've friended my own OnceUponATime. Two incidents in particular are bright examples.
A song came on the radio recently, you don't need to know what it was, and suddenly I remembered the boy I was madly in love with in seventh grade, the boy who didn't know I was alive. He was an older man; he was in eighth grade. My memory of him tells me he had dark hair and eyes and far too many pimples, but my 12-year -old self tells me he was sweet and quiet and had a voice that sent shivers down my spine. It doesn't matter that the lyrics now sound as corny as anything rejected by Hallmark; then it was the soundtrack to the school year and drifted down the halls whenever he walked by. I remember that 12 year old feeling with every molecule. That feeling still informs how I love, the deep physicality of the emotion, the way music shapes my heart. And I know that when I'm 80 I'll smile at the music I now think of as romantic.
My old self also came barreling home when I saw the movie Star Trek. Once upon a time I was a devoted sci-fi geek. Once upon a time I took in more sci-fi media that I now could name. Once upon a time I... well, I try not to think about those times too much these days. That kind of nostalgia might rot your teeth. But when I saw Star Trek every geeky molecule of my being came rushing to the surface at Warp 10 and I was incredibly happy. I leaned over to whisper in my friend's ear, "We're such nerds," and was relieved to see tears glistening in her eyes too. I saw that film not only with my friends but with generations of my own self. We had a wonderful time. When we left the theater I remembered and retained some of my young imagination and hope and determination that I could reach the stars. I'd forgotten some of it. It felt good to remember who I was, to realize I am almost who I wanted to be. So I'm nerd. So what.
Maybe Kevin is right and I should work some of these anecdotes into stories. For right now, though, I think it's enough that I'm walking side-by-side with my past selves, remembering who I used to be and letting them get used to who I have become.
(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer
My partner, Kevin Brooks, tells wonderful personal stories. He recounts adventures from his childhood and from the lives of his family members. These stories are funny, poignant and more-or-less true. He urges me to tell the more-or-less true stories from my own life, but I resist. I tell him it's because I prefer the fiction and lies, myths and folktales I surround myself with on stage, but honestly? it's in part because the memories are hazy or seem just like little anecdotes and moreso because who I am now is rarely interested in looking back with nostalgia. But. But.
Who I used to be sneaks up on me and says, "Surprise! You thought I was gone, but here I am, I'm still part of you and I'm not going away! Aren't you glad?" Sometimes I cringe. ohgodithoughti'dgottenoverthat ther times I find myself welcoming in my OnceUponATime with open arms. Then I find myself telling stories.
This has happened recently in several different ways.
Social networking and the internet in general have forced me to allow the past in. Old friends, people I haven't seen or thought of in hundreds of years (so it seems) are now part of my regular life. This is a trite observation of course, I'm sure the same has happened to you. Some of these new-old relationships have become unexpected treasures that I never would have been given if I'd kept running forward. In these relationships we start out reminiscing but then find the present to be much more interesting.
While I'm enjoying the now-old relationships, what I find more striking is the gift of myself. It's as though I've recently become willing to let my old self back in, as though I've friended my own OnceUponATime. Two incidents in particular are bright examples.
A song came on the radio recently, you don't need to know what it was, and suddenly I remembered the boy I was madly in love with in seventh grade, the boy who didn't know I was alive. He was an older man; he was in eighth grade. My memory of him tells me he had dark hair and eyes and far too many pimples, but my 12-year -old self tells me he was sweet and quiet and had a voice that sent shivers down my spine. It doesn't matter that the lyrics now sound as corny as anything rejected by Hallmark; then it was the soundtrack to the school year and drifted down the halls whenever he walked by. I remember that 12 year old feeling with every molecule. That feeling still informs how I love, the deep physicality of the emotion, the way music shapes my heart. And I know that when I'm 80 I'll smile at the music I now think of as romantic.
My old self also came barreling home when I saw the movie Star Trek. Once upon a time I was a devoted sci-fi geek. Once upon a time I took in more sci-fi media that I now could name. Once upon a time I... well, I try not to think about those times too much these days. That kind of nostalgia might rot your teeth. But when I saw Star Trek every geeky molecule of my being came rushing to the surface at Warp 10 and I was incredibly happy. I leaned over to whisper in my friend's ear, "We're such nerds," and was relieved to see tears glistening in her eyes too. I saw that film not only with my friends but with generations of my own self. We had a wonderful time. When we left the theater I remembered and retained some of my young imagination and hope and determination that I could reach the stars. I'd forgotten some of it. It felt good to remember who I was, to realize I am almost who I wanted to be. So I'm nerd. So what.
Maybe Kevin is right and I should work some of these anecdotes into stories. For right now, though, I think it's enough that I'm walking side-by-side with my past selves, remembering who I used to be and letting them get used to who I have become.
(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer
Monday, May 4, 2009
Mapping my life
Through various moments of synchronicity I find myself thinking about maps a lot these days. I've been reading a number of books that use maps as metaphors; I've been traveling and relying upon maps; I've been noting the landmarks in my life, both literal and symbolic.
To start with, I love paper maps. I love this conceptualization of data, the attempt to capture the lay-of-the-land in its infinite variety and texture with ink and flat paper. I marvel at historical maps and consider it nothing short of magic that maps have any accuracy at all. How do we know what that coastline really looks like, if we can't see it from above?
I remember as a child when I was taught to read a map in school and then practiced those skills with my parents as we drove across country, I imagined that if you looked closely enough, if you had a good enough magnifying glass, you could see everything in the free map we got from tripleA. The blue line there? Don't put your finger on it, you might accidentally crush us as we drove down the highway. Right here? There's a field with a cow and if you can't see it, I'll draw it for you. I destroyed countless maps by amending them with detailed illustrations of the things we passed as we crossed from Pennsylvania to Vermont to Alabama to Nevada and back home again. Or maybe they weren't destroyed, but improved.
Now I use all different kinds of mapping tools - paper maps, googlemaps, gps and more. Each has their own beauty and utility, but I think the kind of map I use the most often is deep and personal, hidden in my own history. Using that map, I would give directions like this:
A more realistic kind of personal map would be one that traces the places I cover, a pheromone map where the worn routes I take regularly are more defined than the unknown paths in new colors, those that lead to the possible, the frightening, the new. Maybe that would serve only to depress me, displaying in black and white just how constrained I have become.
The kind of map I long for, of course, is the map to the future, but I can't seem to find that one. If I found it would I even know how to read the legend? Or would it just be a mostly blank sheet of paper with an "X" stating, "You are here. Now go."
(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer
To start with, I love paper maps. I love this conceptualization of data, the attempt to capture the lay-of-the-land in its infinite variety and texture with ink and flat paper. I marvel at historical maps and consider it nothing short of magic that maps have any accuracy at all. How do we know what that coastline really looks like, if we can't see it from above?
I remember as a child when I was taught to read a map in school and then practiced those skills with my parents as we drove across country, I imagined that if you looked closely enough, if you had a good enough magnifying glass, you could see everything in the free map we got from tripleA. The blue line there? Don't put your finger on it, you might accidentally crush us as we drove down the highway. Right here? There's a field with a cow and if you can't see it, I'll draw it for you. I destroyed countless maps by amending them with detailed illustrations of the things we passed as we crossed from Pennsylvania to Vermont to Alabama to Nevada and back home again. Or maybe they weren't destroyed, but improved.
Now I use all different kinds of mapping tools - paper maps, googlemaps, gps and more. Each has their own beauty and utility, but I think the kind of map I use the most often is deep and personal, hidden in my own history. Using that map, I would give directions like this:
- Drive for awhile until you come to the place where I used to always see the old man walking his dog. He was kind to me. Turn left. What happened to them anyway?
- When you think you're lost look behind you and you'll see me when I was a little girl wearing my favorite pink panda shirt. Wave to assure her she'll make it through her childhood even if it's hard.
- Swerve quickly so you don't hit the tree I used to love to climb. It's gone now. Termites? Development?
- Slow down as you drive past my old school. God, I hated that place.
- And now turn around, retrace your path and you'll find yourself right here, right now, in this moment in my life.
A more realistic kind of personal map would be one that traces the places I cover, a pheromone map where the worn routes I take regularly are more defined than the unknown paths in new colors, those that lead to the possible, the frightening, the new. Maybe that would serve only to depress me, displaying in black and white just how constrained I have become.
The kind of map I long for, of course, is the map to the future, but I can't seem to find that one. If I found it would I even know how to read the legend? Or would it just be a mostly blank sheet of paper with an "X" stating, "You are here. Now go."
(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Fiction: Items found in a foreclosed apartment complex
A cracked hookah repaired with duct tape, lying on its side in a closet.
A packet of photographs, held together with a rubber band that snaps as soon as it’s stretched. The photos are of a woman asleep on a beach blanket. Even though the pictures are faded, her skin becomes increasingly red with each photo.
A lease with the words, “Fuck You” written across it in magic marker.
A green upholstered chair with a faded brown stain. The stain could be coffee or hot chocolate. It is, in fact, the stain left from a cat who gave birth on the cushion. Of the six kittens, one died while the others were falsely sold as purebred.
A pair of hand-made pink mittens with strings attached.
A medicine chest full of expired drugs, the labels peeling off the brown bottles.
Four hard core S&M magazines, shoved under a floor board. Handwritten notes line the connections sections. When the building is eventually torn down these magazines will be ripped apart and the pages will be caught by the wind, fluttering high above the city like shiny, leathery wings.
A white board with a grocery list. Milk. Eggs. Oranges, Aspirin.
A letter to the tooth fairy asking for more money, promising more teeth soon.
A plastic Big Wheel trike, the wheels scuffed and the seat covered in NASCAR stickers. The name Mike is scratched out, Sarah is written in black magic marker in its stead.
A wedding ring, caught in a sink trap.
Four dusty shoeboxes, each hold a pair of worn out red bowling shoes wrapped in tissue paper.
A small teddy bear with one arm missing. The wound is stitched up with green thread. The bear was originally bought new for a girlfriend who soon left. It was tossed into a corner and forgotten, only to be discovered by a new puppy, owned by a new girlfriend who called it, “So cute!” and stitched it back together when the puppy started ripping it apart. The puppy, now grown, has moved onto more challenging objects and the girlfriend, now pregnant, worries about living with her parents forever. The baby, yet to be born, will soon have his own teddy bear that he will one day bring to college with him and give to his first real girlfriend who will leave him for a musician and eventually return with the bear and contrition.
A looseleaf binder with hearts and initials drawn on it.
A spice rack with the remains of curry powder encrusted on it.
A shoebox with postcards. One is from Niagara Falls and is written in block printing. It reads, “Alice says she’s never seen anything like this place. She says to tell you we’re having a great time. I don’t know why she didn’t just write to you herself. Love, John.” At the bottom of the shoebox is a cluster of dried petals.
A large jar with over four hundred dollars in pennies. It weighs – pounds.
A paper bag with several clumps of hair, each tied with a ribbon. Each clump is a different color and length.
A garbage bag full of brassieres.
(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer
A packet of photographs, held together with a rubber band that snaps as soon as it’s stretched. The photos are of a woman asleep on a beach blanket. Even though the pictures are faded, her skin becomes increasingly red with each photo.
A lease with the words, “Fuck You” written across it in magic marker.
A green upholstered chair with a faded brown stain. The stain could be coffee or hot chocolate. It is, in fact, the stain left from a cat who gave birth on the cushion. Of the six kittens, one died while the others were falsely sold as purebred.
A pair of hand-made pink mittens with strings attached.
A medicine chest full of expired drugs, the labels peeling off the brown bottles.
Four hard core S&M magazines, shoved under a floor board. Handwritten notes line the connections sections. When the building is eventually torn down these magazines will be ripped apart and the pages will be caught by the wind, fluttering high above the city like shiny, leathery wings.
A white board with a grocery list. Milk. Eggs. Oranges, Aspirin.
A letter to the tooth fairy asking for more money, promising more teeth soon.
A plastic Big Wheel trike, the wheels scuffed and the seat covered in NASCAR stickers. The name Mike is scratched out, Sarah is written in black magic marker in its stead.
A wedding ring, caught in a sink trap.
Four dusty shoeboxes, each hold a pair of worn out red bowling shoes wrapped in tissue paper.
A small teddy bear with one arm missing. The wound is stitched up with green thread. The bear was originally bought new for a girlfriend who soon left. It was tossed into a corner and forgotten, only to be discovered by a new puppy, owned by a new girlfriend who called it, “So cute!” and stitched it back together when the puppy started ripping it apart. The puppy, now grown, has moved onto more challenging objects and the girlfriend, now pregnant, worries about living with her parents forever. The baby, yet to be born, will soon have his own teddy bear that he will one day bring to college with him and give to his first real girlfriend who will leave him for a musician and eventually return with the bear and contrition.
A looseleaf binder with hearts and initials drawn on it.
A spice rack with the remains of curry powder encrusted on it.
A shoebox with postcards. One is from Niagara Falls and is written in block printing. It reads, “Alice says she’s never seen anything like this place. She says to tell you we’re having a great time. I don’t know why she didn’t just write to you herself. Love, John.” At the bottom of the shoebox is a cluster of dried petals.
A large jar with over four hundred dollars in pennies. It weighs – pounds.
A paper bag with several clumps of hair, each tied with a ribbon. Each clump is a different color and length.
A garbage bag full of brassieres.
(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Psychic Hairdresser, part 1 (fiction)
I have a big date tonight and want to look hot. He's, like, rich and cute. Do your thing.
Listen baby, I know you think this is the start of something special but he's not who you think he is. He'll make you pay for the drinks, will glare when you order the filet and when he kisses you it will bear an uncanny resemblance to kissing a fish. Trust me, I know. Let me give you a trim instead. Stand him up and take the extra money to go out with the girls. You'll never regret it and you just might meet someone better.
Do blondes have more fun?
Depends on the blonde. In your case, no.
Make me look like her. I loved her latest movie and I just know I could carry off that hair. Besides, my boyfriend thinks she's cute.
Gladly. This haircut will make you feel good like a woman should. I know it will. In fact, the next time your "boyfriend" goes out drinking, you'll throw all his crap out the window and have the locks changed by the time he gets back. The breakup will be fast and loud. It'll be worth the expense and embarrassment. You won't see him for a few years, then you'll bump into him at a gallery opening, where he never would go with you now. Your hair, by the way, will be gorgeous, you'll have dyed it that deep red you've always admired. The meet will be cute and you'll enjoy introducing him to your husband who adores you the way he never did.
I don't want much done today, just a wash and trim.
Oh, honey, trust me, today is the day to do it all. Go for the dye job. I know you've been avoiding it, but you know what they say, make the curtains match the drapes and you never know what's going to happen. You are wearing clean underwear, just in case, right? Do you really want me to tell you the rest of it?
I heard you can do amazing things. Make me into who I always wanted to be.
I can do almost anything I set my mind to, but I can't do that. No, really, I can't do anything with that hair. If I did it would be a disaster, I can see it now. Ask at the next chair.
Send your questions to the Psychic Hairdresser by emailing or posting comments below! Free answers with a wash and style! The Psychic Hairdresser knows all!
(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer
Listen baby, I know you think this is the start of something special but he's not who you think he is. He'll make you pay for the drinks, will glare when you order the filet and when he kisses you it will bear an uncanny resemblance to kissing a fish. Trust me, I know. Let me give you a trim instead. Stand him up and take the extra money to go out with the girls. You'll never regret it and you just might meet someone better.
Do blondes have more fun?
Depends on the blonde. In your case, no.
Make me look like her. I loved her latest movie and I just know I could carry off that hair. Besides, my boyfriend thinks she's cute.
Gladly. This haircut will make you feel good like a woman should. I know it will. In fact, the next time your "boyfriend" goes out drinking, you'll throw all his crap out the window and have the locks changed by the time he gets back. The breakup will be fast and loud. It'll be worth the expense and embarrassment. You won't see him for a few years, then you'll bump into him at a gallery opening, where he never would go with you now. Your hair, by the way, will be gorgeous, you'll have dyed it that deep red you've always admired. The meet will be cute and you'll enjoy introducing him to your husband who adores you the way he never did.
I don't want much done today, just a wash and trim.
Oh, honey, trust me, today is the day to do it all. Go for the dye job. I know you've been avoiding it, but you know what they say, make the curtains match the drapes and you never know what's going to happen. You are wearing clean underwear, just in case, right? Do you really want me to tell you the rest of it?
I heard you can do amazing things. Make me into who I always wanted to be.
I can do almost anything I set my mind to, but I can't do that. No, really, I can't do anything with that hair. If I did it would be a disaster, I can see it now. Ask at the next chair.
Send your questions to the Psychic Hairdresser by emailing or posting comments below! Free answers with a wash and style! The Psychic Hairdresser knows all!
(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer
Saturday, March 28, 2009
When did I become the grownup?
I wonder if I'm handling my 40s well. I always imagined that by the time I hit 40 I'd be married (nope) with kids (none that I can see, unless you count various adults in my life) a homeowner (renting and currently relieved to do so) and with a career (wait, how did I miss that one?). Here I am, living in sin with my sweetie, parenting any number of people though none are biological, in the same financial mess as most of my peers (retirement? wait, let me stop laughing) and still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. I'm not the grown up.
Except sometimes I am.
For example, a couple of weeks ago I was at an event where an older friend took ill. Only a few of us were around when this happened, but I found myself in the position of making the decisions. Should we call the EMTs? Should we send our friend to the hospital, even though they didn't want to go? What do we do next? I was the youngest person in the room, but I was the one calling the shots. Maybe it's because I'm bossy. Maybe it's because someone needed to be decisive and the others were having more difficulty putting their emotions aside, while I could. I don't know why, but I do know that I was the decisive one because someone needed to be.
Afterwards I found myself thinking, "When did I become the grownup?" I asked my sweetie and he told me that I'd been the grownup for years, the one people could rely on, the one who remained calm. Hell. Does being the grownup mean I have to be boring now?
I hope not. There are good things about being a grownup. I can get a new tattoo if I want. I can eat what I want when I want. It's easier to not care about what other people think. I can make my own decisions. I can choose what part of adulthood I want to embrace.
When I was a kid I marveled at how grownups seemed so self-assured and knew the right thing to do all the time. As I grow older, each birthday I wonder, "Is now when I start feeling like a grownup?" I suspect I'll ask that question until I die and, depending on if there's an afterlife, may continue to ask. I think part of the secret of being a grownup is that you learn to fake confidence more effectively. You've learned that it's better to move forward than to stay in stunned indecision.
Some days I'm fine with my 40s, thinking that I'm just not living a conventional life. Other days I grieve. But I do know that I'm trying my best and trying to treat those I meet with compassion and dignity along the way. What else can I do? We make the best decisions we can in any given moment.
My friend was fine, by the way. I'm glad I was able to help them and maybe that's enough of a reason to be a grownup from time to time.
(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Mistaken gifts
The gifts given by those who are obligated to love us, even when they don't know us, are almost always the worst.
I was once in a relationship with a very nice man who had a very nice family. His extended family really cared about me and did their best but, boy, there were some challenging moments.
At Christmas there were usually moments like this:
I'd open a beautifully wrapped small box and find a brooch (or bracelet or necklace) inside. All well and good, you might think, but the brooch (or bracelet or necklace) was invariably well beyond the boundaries of good taste. Covered in rhinestones (and not in any kind of ironic way), festooned with cats with faux emerald eyes, dangling little metal dice, something... it was always absolutely hideous.
The relative in question would look at me, beaming, wearing her own version of the same jewelry and would ask, "Do you like it? I loved it so much I just had to get one for you!"
And I would remind myself not to look at the very nice man I was dating, knowing I would burst out laughing if I did, and tell the relative that it was lovely, thoughtful, considerate. Two out of three isn't bad.
The worst gift, however, came in our second Christmas together. One of the loving relatives was very excited, she said she'd found the perfect gift, ideal for a young lady, something she knew I would love. I opened the package with great trepidation and had to take a deep breath, tears coming to my eyes as I struggled not to laugh at the perfume bottle nestled in satin.
I know this family loved me. And I know she just didn't put two and two together when she gave me, her nephew's girlfriend, this particular perfume.
It was called "Tramp."
(c) 2009 Laura Packer
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Cloning the sacred
This past weekend was the 27th annual Sharing the Fire Storytelling Conference sponsored by the League for the Advancement of New England Storytellers. One of the keynote speakers, Valerie Tutson, spoke quite passionately about the need to give oral narrative the same weight as written narrative in schools. At one point in her speech she prefaced a telling of The Cowtail Switch by explaining that the version she tells is not the version she learned from her teacher, which is not the version commonly found in books which was written down without attribution though with good intent. The name of the original Liberian storyteller and the context in which it was told has been lost. I found this question of story context just as thought provoking as the main points of her keynote.
I began to wonder what happens to stories when:
So, can the sacred experience of hearing a story, rich in cultural meaning, be cloned when the story is learned from the internet without any of the accompanying cultural meaning and context?
The obvious answer would appear to be "no" since deep context is so vitally important for the creation of the sacred. You need to know why this story in this moment told this way is sacred.
But.
There is a school of thought that the act of creation - whether it's woodworking or gardening or cooking or storytelling - is in and of itself sacred. If these stories are told with integrity of intent, even if the teller doesn't know who the original teller was or when in the cycle of the year this story was told, if she tells the story with the intent of communicating something of herself and of the truth she finds in the story, I suspect the sacred nature of the story is retained. The sacred is present in her reverence for the story and audience, and in the audience's reception of the story. The telling and hearingn are the sacrament. I suspect its sacred nature is retained even more so if she says something like, "I learned this story from my teacher (or a book or the internet). I have made it my own and I'm giving it to you." The act of sharing this creative moment with her listeners empowers them to create themselves (double meaning intended). It invites them into the creative process, the sacred moment. It creates context and meaning, even if she learned the story from the internet.
Imagine a storyteller finds a story on a website. She reads it and is deeply moved by it, even though it isn't from her culture. She learns the story, puts her own spin on it, and tells it. At the performance some of her listeners are in turn deeply moved, maybe even a few descended from the same culture as the story. Those listeners in turn look the story up, discover their own deep connection to the story and begin to explore its meaning in their own lives. They create meaning. The act of telling and listening created the sacred space for self-discovery and shared creation.
Perhaps with the incredible array of story information available to us now context becomes more academic and intent can fill some of the void. We create new context by telling old stories with new audiences and doing so with genuine intent to share the world all of our human commonality.
While I deeply believe we should understand as much context we can for stories, I also know that the shared experience of storytelling is in and of itself a sacred moment. It is foolish to try to stop stories from changing; it is human nature to change what we find. Instead we can embrace these new stories and new moments, and strive towards a vision of shared creative experience. We may not be able to clone the sacred moments of the past, but we can create evolving sacred moments now and into the future.
(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer
I began to wonder what happens to stories when:
- they are taken from the oral tradition, where they have tremendous meaning imparted by their cultural context
- they are written down and standardized in books
- those texts are stored in libraries, where the stories gain another kind of context and meaning, one of academia and (one would hope) cross-cultural wonder
- the stories are eventually relearned and retold by storytellers who (through no fault of their own) can't have the deeper cultural context
- the stories are then uploaded to the internet, to a teller's page, a school project or some other form
- and again, the stories are relearned, now by someone thousands of miles away with even less context. At that point the stories are being told entirely without their cultural context; they have an entirely different life than in point 1.
So, can the sacred experience of hearing a story, rich in cultural meaning, be cloned when the story is learned from the internet without any of the accompanying cultural meaning and context?
The obvious answer would appear to be "no" since deep context is so vitally important for the creation of the sacred. You need to know why this story in this moment told this way is sacred.
But.
There is a school of thought that the act of creation - whether it's woodworking or gardening or cooking or storytelling - is in and of itself sacred. If these stories are told with integrity of intent, even if the teller doesn't know who the original teller was or when in the cycle of the year this story was told, if she tells the story with the intent of communicating something of herself and of the truth she finds in the story, I suspect the sacred nature of the story is retained. The sacred is present in her reverence for the story and audience, and in the audience's reception of the story. The telling and hearingn are the sacrament. I suspect its sacred nature is retained even more so if she says something like, "I learned this story from my teacher (or a book or the internet). I have made it my own and I'm giving it to you." The act of sharing this creative moment with her listeners empowers them to create themselves (double meaning intended). It invites them into the creative process, the sacred moment. It creates context and meaning, even if she learned the story from the internet.
Imagine a storyteller finds a story on a website. She reads it and is deeply moved by it, even though it isn't from her culture. She learns the story, puts her own spin on it, and tells it. At the performance some of her listeners are in turn deeply moved, maybe even a few descended from the same culture as the story. Those listeners in turn look the story up, discover their own deep connection to the story and begin to explore its meaning in their own lives. They create meaning. The act of telling and listening created the sacred space for self-discovery and shared creation.
Perhaps with the incredible array of story information available to us now context becomes more academic and intent can fill some of the void. We create new context by telling old stories with new audiences and doing so with genuine intent to share the world all of our human commonality.
While I deeply believe we should understand as much context we can for stories, I also know that the shared experience of storytelling is in and of itself a sacred moment. It is foolish to try to stop stories from changing; it is human nature to change what we find. Instead we can embrace these new stories and new moments, and strive towards a vision of shared creative experience. We may not be able to clone the sacred moments of the past, but we can create evolving sacred moments now and into the future.
(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer
Pictures for a thousand words
I love words, you know that. But there are sometimes images that evoke feelings with such strength that it's easier if I shut up and get out of the way.
I'm not sure if I like this site for its design or for the images it holds. Either way, take a look.
One Photo A Day
I'm not sure if I like this site for its design or for the images it holds. Either way, take a look.
One Photo A Day
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