Dream geography

Does this ever happen to you? You find yourself in the same familiar places in dreams, over and over, known in the dream world, but not ones you've seen in waking life. It's not a recurring dream, but the same locale returned to regularly as you sleep.

It happens to me. I have a slowly emerging map of my subconscious, especially the anxious and fear-filled places but some of comfort. When I was young it was the lake side with a volcano in the distance. What would happen there varied (as it does, there were not recurring dreams but places) and it always had a slight scent of sulfur and menace. For many years I would find myself on top of the unfinished building, looking out over the same city scape, not a place I recognize though something like 1970's New York City. It's cold and windy, unsteady and unsafe. There is an elevator that took me there but I can't get one to bring me back down. There have been specific woodlands, buildings, rooms, beaches, all places I return to again and again in my dreams. Some eventually fade away entirely, but most continue to make Special Guest Appearances from time to time.

Most recently I've been dreaming of an indoor slum, deep underground, constricted and claustrophobic except when it opens into vast caverns. It was purpose-built to hold people; I can't really say house people, none of these rooms qualify as homes. They are industrial, kind of futuristic, and very small. Outside the rooms is a warren of narrow passageways with un-railed walkways over treacherous crevasses. It is not a safe, comforting, or easy place to manage, but in every dream I am trying to get back there for reasons that vary widely. In this morning's visit I needed to get back to my room so I could change clothing for a job.

What I find particularly interesting about this place is the steps I must take to get there. It is clearly a related to the magic woods of wonder tales, because if I don't follow the proper route and say the right things, all will be lost. I don't remember it clearly in the waking world, but it has deep familiarity in the dream world. I must go through several buildings, take elevators to specific floors and follow certain routes. I pass over a footbridge and must discard that which I am carrying. I can cross, but not with any things (yeah, I know, it's a pretty blunt symbol). From there I enter a dark building with a winding path through mounds that could be hills or could be trash. There are three people along the path, a man I must not see, someone else I must not hear, and an old woman whom I must treat kindly. I remember she had enormous feet blocking the path and it was by calling her grandmother, massaging her swollen legs, and embracing her (though she smelled terrible) that I could continue.

So it is in dreams. I have thought of trying to map them but somehow that feels unwise. I wonder sometimes if these places with their specific features and requirements are ever visited by others, if there is some kind of shared dream geography. Perhaps there is an old woman dreaming of kindness who calls me into the dream land when she needs it. I don't know. What I do know is that I love the depth of these places, the ways the symbols I find there are in the same language as fairy tales, and that the stories change while the landscape may not. It gives me a sense of mystery and wonder, even if the dreams are not always comfortable.

All of this reminds me of the 1962 short film La Jette, remade as 12 Monkeys. If you've not seen it, in the not too distant future humanity has had to retreat underground. There is a man who has the same recurring image in his dream and this is used as a path to send him back in time, to stop the triggering event that led to the current dystopia. Such strong, recurrent dream images and geographies can't help but feel meaningful and real.

Do you have dream realms? What are they like for you? What do they mean for you? And have you ever been to an underground indoor slum with a magical path for entry? If so, wave next time. I'll try to wave back.

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Powerlessness and action

Photo by Rodion Kutsaev on Unsplash

This was originally published in June 2019. The global state has continued to shift, so I've edited it some to reflect my current feelings. 

I've been thinking a lot about powerlessness and action lately, which has led me down some real rabbit holes of research and exploration. For example, when I was looking at images for this post I ran an image search for "powerless." Once I tweaked a few settings to weed out stuff related to tv or religion, I was left with images of people standing with their heads down, looking (at best) really glum. I find this interesting because what I am learning is that, yes, there are many times I am and will be powerless, but how I move through that experience has a great deal to do with my mental health and ability to be resilient, as well as my ability to heal after the fact. Powerlessness sucks, but my response to it makes it more manageable or less.

When Kevin was sick, even though I knew I was ultimately powerless to change the outcome of his cancer, I found ease in doing what I could. I could comfort him, talk with the staff, and share information with everyone who loved him. It was by acting then that I know now I did the very best I possibly could for his comfort and well-being, even as he was dying. If I didn't have that assurance I doubt if I would be as relatively okay as I am; I have enough to regret, at least I know I did the best I could in the face of powerlessness to change the outcome.

Likewise, when I was in those first, harsh months after his death I gave myself over to grief. I couldn't change what had happened but I could make choices about how I responded. I knew the only way out was through, so I let myself mourn fully. I am still mourning him and always will, but I doubt I would have been able to let myself love Charley had I not made the choice to keep loving Kevin, and one way of expressing that was to grieve deeply.

This line of thinking comes out of looking for ways to manage my own frustrations and fears during the Trump administration. I am largely powerlessness to effect what my government is doing, but there are still things I can control and impact through the actions I take. I can decide how I respond. I can give into my fears (which is part of why he was elected, he's very good at feeding fear) and hide (which I sometimes really want to do) or I can take what power I have and use what I've got. I have a voice. I can make donations where I think they might help. I can let myself be seen, even when it's scary or possibly dangerous. I can act in ways that I think are moral, ethical, and right in spite of the many messages that it isn't important.

I also remind myself that allowing myself to be powerless, that giving up what power I have, is exactly what oppressors and despots want us to do. They want us to become so disheartened that we give up and become silent. When we do that we become complicit in our own disposal.

There will always be things I am powerless over, but I can choose which response I feed and how I act. I could have forced Kevin to try treatments that would have only harmed him in my quest to control his illness. Those wouldn't have saved or prolonged his life. I could have tried to suppress my grief, in which case I'm sure I would still be deep in the heart of it. I could feed fear and not publish this post or give in to those who try to silence me. I could overlook injustices that don't impact me because it's safer, but none of these things are who I want to be. By acting in the face of powerlessness I retain my ability to decide who I am and how I respond.

By engaging with my own powerlessness and choosing to act anyway, I become stronger. It's important that I remember to rest as well, but thinking of it as rest rather than giving up means I don't give up my sense of action. I might be powerless to create the kind of change I want in a timeline we need, but I can choose to keep trying and to rest while others pick up the ball. Whatever happens, I need to know I tried, I need to know I did what I could, I need to know that I stood in the face of powerlessness and claimed my own soul.

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See/Read/Hear/Do

Everything we take in influences how we see the world. This is especially true for artists, not because we see/read/hear/do that differently, but because we are aware that what we absorb is reflected in our art. It's an interesting exercise for me to notice and share this material.

As you know, much of my blogging has moved over to Patreon. I have an ongoing series there that I thought readers of this blog might enjoy because it's about what influences me and my art. See/read/hear/do posts are summaries of the things that are interesting me lately.

The following post was published on Patreon back in November 2019. If you want more of my posts on creativity, storytelling, process, and more, you can subscribe for as little as $3/month, only $36 a year. This is less than the cost of a movie with popcorn for two, and it directly supports the arts and (I hope) an artist you care about.

I hope you enjoy this musing, and I'd love to know what's inspiring you lately.

See/Read/Hear/Do: Monsters+ edition

Hello Patreon friends,

I'm writing to you from the middle of the Kansas City Storytelling Celebration, where I am one of the featured storytellers. In the last two days I've told stories with close to 700 people, mostly kids. It's a lot of fun and very hard work. I'm honored to be one of the featured tellers, along with the remarkable Dovie Thomason, Michael McCarty, and Andy Offit Irwin. Truth be told, I'm pretty nervous when I'm sharing the stage with them. It's really something. Between the wonderful regional tellers, the featured tellers, and all the kids I've been meeting, I'm both exhilarated and exhausted.

This post is another installment of see/read/hear/do, where I share with you some of the things that have been catching my interest. See/read/hear/do hopes to give you a glimpse into what feeds my creativity. Lately I've been thinking about monsters.

See

We're just past the season of scary movies. That is to say, I've lately been watching MORE scare movies than usual. I don't like really violent films, nor the kinds of scary that's about human monsters, but a good ghost story just makes my toes curl. Among my favorites I've seen lately is Errementari, a Basque film based on any number of stories about the the devil being held captive by a blacksmith. As it is in the folktale, so it is in the movie: A smith makes a deal with the devil and then tricks the devil into captivity. I really liked it, far more than I expected. It's kind of cheesy, but there is an integrity to the telling that I rarely see in folk horror films. It's not terribly scary, though there are some loud moments and violence.   

If you have Netflix, you can see it here. I stress, watch it in Basque with subtitles. For one, it's a neat language to hear, and for another, the dubbing is terrible, awful, horrible, no good. 

Read

I admit, most of my reading lately has been non-fiction news. At least I hope it's non-fiction; maybe it would be better were it fiction, I don't know. In any case, I'd like to share with you one of the best books I've read in the last few years, instead of any of the news articles I can't stop myself from consuming. My Favorite Thing Is Monsters is a breathtaking book. I hesitate to call it a graphic novel, because it feels like so much more than that. It is a lavishly illustrated book, telling Karen's story. Karen lives with her brother and mother in an apartment in Chicago, and she comes to believe her upstairs neighbor has been murdered. This graphic novel is so much more than a murder mystery or a coming-of-age story or a family drama. It delves deep into how we see ourselves and those we love, as well as the cultural metaphors we use to survive. In Karen's case, it's b-movie monsters, metaphors I love, too.

It's a stunning work. If you know it or pick it up, I'd love to know what you think. I can't wait for volume two.

Hear

Do you listen to podcasts? I do. I follow quite a few; they keep me company on the road, when I'm doing housework, and at the gym. I have quite a few favorites. Since this post seems to be the monsters edition, I'd like to tell you about the REI Camp Monsters podcast. REI, the camping equipment retailer, has released eight episodes of really fun campfire stories, all about monsters.  They use light sound effects to enhance the experience, but for the most part it really feels like sitting around the fire, listening to a good storyteller spin a yarn. They base most if not all stories on real local legends, and it's just delightful. I hope you enjoy it. 

Do

I love the dark time of the year, but it's hard for me emotionally. I get blue. I do a lot of different things to manage it. In part I try to embrace it, to recognize that it's a form of hibernation. I nest. I also use a happy light and try to be kinder to my body with movement and food. Another practice that helps is to notice small details and spend time with them. The glitter of frost on the golden grass. The way the cold air feels on my cheeks. The soft brush of my blanket on my skin.

Do you have seasonal blues? How do you deal with them?

That's it for this installment of see/read/hear/do. Please let me know how you're doing, if there's something else you'd like to see in this feed, and know how very grateful I am for your support.

Love,

Laura

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What I miss

This is a hard time of year for me. It may be for you too; if so I'm sorry. It's a rough feeling, isn't it? I was sitting with it a few days ago and realized it feels like a combination of grief and homesicknesses. This got me thinking about what it means to be homesick, what do I miss? It certainly isn't a place, I am as home now as I ever was (that's a whole other issue), yet I still feel homeless, like I'm looking in a mirror without a reflection. With a little time, journaling, and a couple of cries, I realized what I miss is a life, who I used to be. I miss a future I didn't get to have, existential homesickness. I miss Kevin, that much is hugely, painfully clear, but I also miss who I was with him.

What I miss.

• I miss being someone who didn't know what it is to grieve deeply.
• I miss being someone who didn't have to learn how to navigate the medical system.
• I miss the belief that there is time in front of me.
• I miss laughing until I can't stand up.
• I miss the inside jokes. I have new inside jokes, but not the old ones.
• I miss being sharp and witty - my mind isn't as quick since he died, I think I used it up when navigating the medical system.
• I miss looking forward to how much he loved Christmas.
• I miss believing in Santa, or at least believing in Christmas magic.
• I miss the future we didn't get to have, the adventures and arguments, the decisions and delights.
• I miss being someone who tried to be empathetic to people who had suffered great losses, but didn't know how. I miss being someone who said some stupid though well-intentioned things about grief. I miss not knowing.
• I miss the 30 years we didn't get have.
• I miss who I might have become in that time.

None of this is to say I don't have a lovely life now. I do. I love and am loved, I have meaningful work, and I like much of who I am now. But I miss who I never got to be.

Loss is an evolving thing, I keep finding new pieces of it and making new discoveries about its reach. I miss not knowing this at all.
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Gratitude: Observations and readings

We are in the gratitude season. Honestly, I think it's always gratitude season, but right now it's everywhere. The reminders to be grateful are relentless. They are also necessary. In our busy, fretful lives it's easy to forget that most of the time, most of us are very, very lucky.

I have had a gratitude practice for many years. It's part of what kept me going after Kevin died; I would write down three things I was grateful for every day. There were days when that list was simply, "Kevin, Kevin, Kevin," but over time other things began to creep in. It was part of how I knew I would survive, even if sometimes I didn't really want to.

I am so grateful to you, the readers of this blog. Thank you for accompanying me for so long and so well. While much of my storytelling blogging has moved over to Patreon (check it out for posts, signed books, coaching, stories, and more), please know I still appreciate you, see you, and will continue to post here from time to time.

What follows is a gift, the Gratitude entry from From Audience to Zeal: The ABCs of Finding, Crafting, and Telling a Great Story. While this was previously published here, it's been expanded and revised. Over on Patreon I've shared the Sharing the Fire and Self Care entries from the Audience to Zeal Workbook, never before published online. They include readings and exercises to keep you going when your storytelling or personal flames might be low. I hope you enjoy both.

While these writing are specific for storytellers, I think there is utility and maybe even wisdom for everyone here.

Gratitude

excerpted from From Audience to Zeal: The ABCs of Finding, Crafting, and Telling a Great Story
(c) Laura Packer


We are so lucky to do this work. No matter the size of your audience, if we have one person who really wants to hear us, we’re far luckier than many, many people. No matter what critique we receive, if we get up and tell again, we are lucky and strong and can be grateful for the opportunity. No matter if we fail, make a mistake, struggle with jealousy or insecurity or any of the other demons that haunt us, every time we stand on a stage, we are so lucky that we can step beyond our own limitations.

We are so lucky to hear these stories. Every time we listen to a story we are being shown into someone else's world in a deep and intimate way. Every time we listen deeply to a storyteller we are giving them the gift of doing the work they love. Every time we are kind to a beginning storyteller or are moved by an accomplished one, we are opening ourselves up to awe, to connecting with someone else, to stopping the tumult for just a little while.

All of this is no accident. By our own hard work, talent and the whim of the universe, we are able to stand up and tell stories in front of interested audiences, be they kids, festival crowds, business people, or conference attendees. This is something to be grateful for. By cultivating a sense of gratitude for your work, your audiences, your colleagues, and more, you become more resilient when things aren’t just right and more receptive to opportunity. Ongoing research has established that cultivating gratitude makes everything better.

• Gratitude opens the door to more relationships. Storytelling is all about relationships. When we are grateful for those relationships and express that gratitude we are more likely to be remembered and invited back. When I let my audiences know I am grateful for their time, when I thank those who hire me, I am letting them know that they are just as valued as anyone else. We all need to hear that from time to time. 
• Gratitude improves physical health. My body is my instrument. When I am grateful for it I take better care of it. If gratitude will help my body endure all I put it through (this traveling life takes a toll) then I will be grateful for it every day!
• Gratitude improves psychological health. When we are grateful we are less likely to hold onto toxic emotions. What I am feeling is reflected in my performance, no matter how practiced I am. If I take the stage with gratitude I am less likely to remain annoyed at the promoter who misspelled my name or any of the other myriad annoyances. 
• Gratitude enhances empathy and reduces aggression. Storytelling is all about building empathy. Our brains are more likely to respond empathetically when we hear a story. If gratitude will help me feel more empathy then I'm all for it. 
• Grateful people sleep better. Studies suggest writing in a gratitude journal before going to sleep can improve sleep. As storytellers we need to be rejuvenated and sleep helps. 
• Gratitude improves self-esteem. Who doesn't need a little help here now and again? We are more likely to stop comparing ourselves to others when we feel grateful for them.
• Gratitude increases mental strength. We all need strength. Performing - heck, life - can be exhausting. 

We are so lucky. Remember that and be grateful. Be grateful for every performing opportunity, for every audience member, for every time you hear a story even if you've heard it a million times already. When we are grateful we expand the possibilities for storytelling. Our gratitude will be obvious to the world.

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If you're read From Audience to Zeal I have a quick question for you

Do you have a favorite entry in From Audience to Zeal? I'm asking because I'm working on an article about it and want to include the topics most people found useful. Thanks!

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For Kevin, on the morning of my remarriage

Dear Kevin,

This is so weird. I'm writing this to you in my office, the one filled with all of the things you know but in Minnesota, a state I don't think you ever visited. I've lived here for over two years now, with a man you never met and one who is, on the surface, unlike you. In fundamentals though you are much alike -- perhaps this speaks to me more than to the both of you, but it is true. Like you, he is smart and funny, kind and passionate. He has three kids though the ratio differs. He loves me with all of his heart, just like you. Today I am marrying him.

It feels so very odd. I was supposed to be married to you for the rest of my life. I was supposed to be your wife only. I was supposed to be so many things and yet. Here I am.

Kevin, I swore to love you as long as we both shall live and that is still true. I will never stop loving you. I have learned that the heart is capable of amazing depths of love. I love Charley wholly and so too, I love you. I am profoundly lucky, some would say blessed, to be loved by two such men.

Marrying Charley in no way diminishes how much I love you and miss you, not does it change the truth of the love you felt/feel for me. Your love nurtured and sustained me for many years. I know it always will. Nor does loving and missing you diminish the love I feel for Charley and what he feels for me.

Thank you Kevin, for loving me so well; for helping me learn to love bigger and truer; and for, in the end, telling me you wanted me to be happy, to learn to love again, that it would be okay. Thank you for knowing love endures.

I know you'll be there with us today. While sometimes my heart gets twisted up in all of this, I know you will be there beaming, knowing I remain yours just as I am Charley's. Thank you for the gift of myself.

I love you.

Laura

P.S. After writing this, I ran it by Charley as I always do when I write about him. I couldn't get through it without sobbing. He held me while I cried and assured me that he was okay with all of this. I am so lucky in so many ways. Thank you.

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Love, grief, and remarriage

By the time I next write to you, I will have remarried. Marriage is complex, the idea that I'm binding my life to another, and I'm finding the closer we get to the date, the more complicated it becomes.

The man I'm marrying is wonderful. He is smart, funny, kind, and has room for me to love Kevin just as much as I love him. He loves me powerfully and wholly as I am, broken and healed and human. I am so lucky to spend my life with him.

And yet.

And yet I flinch when people get too excited for my wedding, even when they have the best of intentions. I flinch more when they say things like I knew you would get over it or worse, I knew you would get over Kevin.

And yet.

And yet I am excited about marrying my new love who deserves to be called more than the new love. I am excited about marrying my love. I've taken to referring to Kevin as my late husband and the man I am about to marry as my living husband. Some people get it. Some don't.

And yet.

And yet, I never expected to be anyone's wife but Kevin's. When he died, I never expected to be in another relationship, never thought I would want to or could find someone who matched me as well. I am having dreams about betrayal, hurt, loss, and other delightful topics. It is hard to hold both the joy and the sorrow.

And yet.

And yet, I know Kevin would want me to be happy. He told me so, quite clearly, in those last tender days. I know he understood that my heart is happiest when it is loving and that to deny my own nature would kill me, as surely as the cancer was killing him.

And yet.

And yet, these dreams are breaking my heart at the time when it is also at its fullest. I finally cried a few days ago and it felt the same as in those early days after his death, bereft and with nothing left but tears that burned my cheeks.

And yet.

And yet here I am. Stepping forward even though it hurts like hell. Acknowledging that pain even as I am happy and stunned that someone is able to love me so well. Risking relationship even though I am afraid of the same tearing loss. Wearing both rings, to hold both loves. Honoring and celebrating all of the love, all of the time. Recognizing that I would not be who I am if I had not broken so completely, over and over again, then been reforged.

I could not be in this place if I had not found myself along the way. Who I am now is so very different from who I was, yet this me is still able to love and be loved. This me is still able to grieve and yearn and recognize that my body and my life are big enough to hold the past, present, and even believe there might be a future.

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The world through my eyes: How I spent my summer vacation

First, let me clear up a misconception. I didn't really take a summer vacation. What time off I had was spent without my camera, so my title is misleading, but I couldn't resist the worn back-to-school chestnut.

Here are some of the critters and things I noticed over the last few months. What have you seen?

Please respect my copyright and don't steal. Contact me for reuse rights.

If you're looking for storytelling blogging please check out my Patreon and support the creators you love.

Oh! This is my 999th post on this blog! That is a LOT of content developed over the last decade or so. Any suggestions for my 1000th post? Please post below or email me!

The skies above

The ones we depend on 

The hidden world

My neighbor

Mirrors everywhere

Parent and child

"Damned paparazzi!"

New life hidden

Recycling

Adventurers

Autumn is coming

Life and death

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Doing it anyway

"a walk in the rain" by Jeff Mendoza.
See more of his work here.

I spent this past weekend at the National Storytelling Conference (NSC), a wonderful gathering of colleagues and friends. It's packed full of workshops, keynotes, performances, and a whole lot of chatting with people I see only once a year. It's great.

It's also tremendously difficult. I first attended the NSC with Kevin and continued to attend them with him for the rest of his life. There are many memories and associations at the conference, as well as many moments when I desperately want to turn to him and say whaddya think? Going through the conference without that intimate connection, without that person to whom I can say anything, without Kevin, it's hard. Add to that the truth that the many people at the conference knew Kevin and love him still, it becomes something of a minefield.

It's something of a minefield but I go anyway. Why? I hear you ask. I ask myself the same thing, and each time I come back to the same realizations, some of which have to do with him and some do not.

1. Revisiting relatively safe places that are triggering can help me access good memories I otherwise might not be able to find. I see Kevin everywhere at the NSC. I see him laughing, listening, telling, moving, alive. I remember him more fully. 
2. I reminds me that I can still share things with him, I just need to listen differently for his response. I talk to him just about every day. At the NSC I talk to him even more. thinking things like Did you see that? or What do you think about that? or Hey, look who's here!
3. I connect with those who also love him, and remembering him together feels good. It helps me know I'm not alone in missing him.
4. The event has its own value and Kevin would be really pissed if he knew I avoided it because of him. Spending a weekend with people who love storytelling as much I do replenishes me.
5. The price of love is grief. Knowing this now, I can prepare. I can plan on enough down time, find people to catch me when I'm falling, avoid the things I know will be really hard (like singing May the Circle Be Unbroken and calling out the names of those who have died). I can make choices.

Five years on, I find grief is like the rain. It is unavoidable, but now I have a little more understanding of how I can cope with it. I can avoid it, but that doesn't mean it's not there. I can let myself be drenched and give myself over to it, knowing now that I will eventually dry off and emerge again. I can bring an umbrella and chose to walk in it anyway, knowing I will get wet but I'll be okay. I am certain that I couldn't process triggering events and places like this when I was only a year or two out. They devastated me. Now, sometimes I choose to walk in the rain.

I don't choose to do it anyway every time, there are some places I may never visit again, but I now know I can choose. Sometimes, anyway. Besides, Kevin would kick my butt if I didn't get into the world, let myself be seen and loved, tell my stories, and live.

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