I’m thinking about how much fun this collaboration has been with Peter and also looking forward to our upcoming first live presentation together… The Toonist and the Teller Together at our local library in Rio Rancho New Mexico.

I recently encountered this wonderful sentiment from Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi whose book,  from Aging to Sageing has inspired  me to further my explorations of Legacy.  The Reb says…”The only way to get it together is….together!”

May this new year bring my friends and colleagues a legacy of wonder, discovery and rich collaborations large and small! TTogether!

(This is a repost from last year- so in reflection and moving forward….)

It’s time to make some New Years resolutions.  Or is it? Maybe it will be more productive to sit together in the dark and gloom for awhile.  Consider the practice of karrtsiluni.  Here’s  Majuak_an Inuit elder from Diomede Island in Alaska, describing karrtsiluni to Arctic explorer Knud Rasmussen in his 1932  book The Eagles Gift.

‘What is karrtsiluni?’  I’ll tell you that now.  But you won’t get anything more from me today.’ In the old days, every autumn – we used to hold great festivals or the soul of the whale, and these festivals were always opened with new songs which the men made up.  The spirits had to be summoned with fresh words – worn-out songs must never be used when men and women danced and sang in homage to this great prize of the huntsman – the whale. And while the men were thinking out the words for these hymns, it was the custom to put out all the lights.  The feast house had to be dark and quiet – nothing must disturb or distract the men. In utter silence all these men sat there in the gloom and thought, old and young -ay- down to the very smallest urchin, provided he was old enough to speak.

It was that silence we called karrtsiluni. It means waiting for something to break forth.  For our fore-fathers believed that songs are born in such a silence. While everyone is trying hard to think fair thoughts, songs are born in the minds of men, rising like bubbles from the depths – bubbles seeking breath in which to burst.  ‘So come all holy songs.’”

I like this idea of silent, patient reflection in a spirit of homage to great life holy and full of awe.  So, let’s enjoy New Year’ eve, eat, drink and be merry, but hold off on those calendar driven resolutions tomorrow.

Let’s give ourselves some karrtsiluni time (skip the dark and gloom if you must).  Let’s think fair thoughts, alone and together, and may our new songs, rise to the surface and break forth, carrying us together in the great 2012 hunt for a life of meaning and contribution to each other and the planet.  I look forward to the  expression and celebration of these “new songs” together.

I have been so fortunate to have counted as friends and mentors, elders who well into their 90s remain vital and engaged with the world.  Every time we speak, Sid reminds us of how when he still lived in NM he, loved to sit around our fireplace and swap stories.  And  does Sid has stories.  In a few weeks, he’ll be traveling, yes traveling to Mankato Minnesota to take part in a memorial for the 38 Lakota braves who were hung in 1862 in the largest mass execution in American history. (Lincoln pardoned 265 but let the  38 executions proceed for what was called an uprising but was in reality a defense of their homeland. ) Sid has an intimate knowledge of this mostly unknown and shameful episode in U.S. history, having been asked a few years ago to translate the letters the unfortunate prisoners wrote home.  And he can tell the story of Wounded Knee as he heard it from those who were actually there. Sid was an apt and eager young listener around the pot bellied stove at trading post at Pine Ridge. Talk about being able to reach across time and appreciate living history!

Just today, I learned about another remarkable 90+ year old elder, Lenora Ucko who is also telling stories, building community and healing others by convening them to tell  their stories through her wonderful efforts at StoriesWork.org.  I sometimes wonder if I’ll still be traveling and telling if I am fortunate enough to reach that venerable age. Towards that end, I made a green kale and protein powder shake yesterday, but  later at the gym where I swim , I met a 90 year old who told me his secret is a shot of Scotch every day.

About 10 years ago when Sid Byrd was still living in Santa Fe ,I nominated him and he was honored as a “Living Treasure.” Now, sitting gratefully snug by my hearth, having kindled the fire with one small sliver of the newly arrived fat wood, I thought about my many treasured elder friends and drifted dreamily into a reverie about a treasure, and a story that has been told around the globe. Known as The Peddlar of Swaffham in England, or told as as a traditional Eastern European Jewish tale, the story goes back as far as the Arabian Nights and although I haven’t read it, appears in the plot of Paul Coelho’s novel,The Alchemist.

Here’s the gist of it.
A poor and humble man, let’s call him Yankel, has a vivid and detailed dream of making a long journey to the  the capital city and finding a treasure buried beneath the foundation of a bridge. Nice dream he thinks, but alas, just a dream.  But after he has the same dream a for second and then a third night he can no longer dismiss what now seems like a call to action. HIs wife prepares humble provisions for his journey and off he goes to search of the treasure.  He’s never been to the capital before, and to his amazement, everything, down to the last detail looks exactly like it appeared in the dream, including the bridge.  Unfortunately, the bridge is guarded day and night.  Yanekl realizes that although he may risk having to share the treasure, or perhaps even lose it entirely, he’ll have to tell the guard about the dream.  When he does, the guard ridicules him.  If I went  traipsing about like a fool, following every dream I have, I’d make my way to the village where you came from, find a man named Yankel, dig under his hearthstone and find a treasure there.”  Ivan doesn’t need to hear any more. He turns on his heels, heads back to his village, digs under the hearth, finds the treasure, then uses his new found wealth to build a house of worship for the community.  The greatest treasure, so the story tells us can be found close to home.

Well, it’s now the season of gifts and giving so lots of treasure and shiny toys for old and young to dream of finding under a tree.  I once interviewed a number of people to find out about the best gift that they ever received.  One young waitress didn’t hesitate for a moment before responding eagerly.  She told me that her father had been in an accident and couldn’t work for several years.  The family fell on hard times and so there was no money for gifts.  Her grandmother who was living in the household at that time told her, that because she was the one who had shown interest and asked questions, that she would take a weekend with just the two of them and tell her granddaughter her life story. That, was the  granddaughter’s best gift ever.

So… before you make that long and arduous journey to the mall or travel through cyberspace to the far off  Land of Amazon…If you looking for priceless treasure, here’s a clue.  Look close to home. Share your stories with the people you love and and ask them to share their stories with you.  Treasure each other!
(If you need any more encouragement for such efforts, click on the Endangered Stories Act page here)
And as always, I’d be delighted if you’d use the comments option to tell a tale about a time you received a treasured gift.)

Now it’s time to put another log on the fire… Just have to decide whether to reach for the kale or the scotch.

Although my somewhat dazed expression in this photo from 1950 may not reflect it, I’ve had a lifelong love of reading, which I attribute in no small part to my mother’s lifelong love of reading.  As of this writing, mom has been continually engaged with the same book club for well over 40 years!

I got my first library card when I was about three.  There I stood looking up at Ms. Heitman from her perch at the reference desk at the Finklestein Memorial Library in Spring Valley N.Y.

“ May I have a library card?” I asked (I’d already been instructed in the difference (between may I and can I?)

“How old are you?” asked Mrs.Heitman,

I counted on my fingers…”Three!”

“Can you write your name?”

“No.”

“You have to be able to write your name to get a library card at The Finklestein Memorial Library.”

“I’’ll be back!”

And I was , and motivated as I was it was within a few weeks. I’ve been haunting libraries, and surrounding myself with books ever since.

Our son Chris has been visiting us this week, which among other things presented an opportunity to look through family photos.

This photo of Chris and Renee’s daughters, Maya and Raina is a treasure.  Maya is eleven, Raina is one and to see Maya reading to Raina is a treasure. Maya is reading a book we gave to her some years ago.

Now here’s a picture of Liz and I reading to Maya when she was about 2+.  We’re reading  one of the Golden Book classics, Big Brown Bear, published in 1948  the year of my birth. It’s the first book I have a clear memory of and which in another post I’ll credit with pointing me to ten years of adventure in Alaska (that as they say is another story)

So there’s a lineage here of the love of books and reading.

I’ve been thinking a lot about legacy gifts recently and suddenly I pictured Maya and Raina, together someday far in the future, two venerable old sisters, poring over a family heirloom- this photograph of the two of them, and a rendering of the moment by my incredibly talented artist friend Peter Menice. Peter recently created this Dig Into Reading poster for me for my 2013 Summer Reading Library Tour.  I figured this could make a great Christmas gift for the girls and Peter was just the person to pull it off. 

Let me just say that when I presented the idea to Peter it was a like lighting a firecracker with a short fuse.  Peter just about exploded with enthusiasm and burst of possibilities.  That’s Peter always ready willing, eager and ready to take an idea or concept, collaborate, create, and find an opportunity to express his passion and find a way to bring his core and essence to his life and work. (Find Peter at PeterMenice.com)

So Peter proposed to go beyond the simple idea of the commission I offered, and turn this into a deeper collaboration.  He’s going to not only do the art work, but document his creative process as the piece develops, and share it with his circle of friends and colleagues through his website and Facebook connections.   I’ll do the same here at the Storytellers Campfire.  Let’s see how that photo of Maya and Raina becomes one of Peter’s interpretations and creations.

“The best way to to squeeze the wine out of good fortune is to dance on it with ready feet.”  So I have heard.  What good fortune to have a friend like Peter, What good fortune to have been given the legacy of the love of reading.  What good fortune to have    had an opportunity to pass it on.  What good fortune to watch my granddaughters grow,  and to be  truly curious kids and what greater good fortune can there be than to see their love for each other.

So here’s to the love of books and reading, here’s to families reading together, and here’s to the creative and collaborate spirit. I invite my friends and readers to follow as Peter renders this though his imagination, spirit and talent.

I really welcome and encourage comments, reflections, memories that this process may spark and would also be grateful to those who see fit to share this post/process with folks who you think might appreciate it.  Thanks!

“All true living is encounter.” (Martin Buber)  Storytelling is an encounter and the relationship between the equally important storyteller/story/listener. It’s not all about YOU!  That should make you feel a little easier already.  You’re ego is not your storytelling friend!

Look for and tell stories that you truly love.  It makes telling them infinitely easier.
You do a disservice to the listeners, yourself, the author, and/or story if you tell  or read stories that you really don’t like yourself.

Other than the odd troll that pops up once in a great while, you’re listeners want you to succeed.  They are on your side. They also  want you to  invite them along on a journey where they can feel  that they are  being  safe and well cared for. Your comfort level will be contagious. Share what you love and enjoy sharing, and that will come across, share your anxieties about  perfection and that is what will come across. (Thanks to Mike Seliger)

Tell the story as if you are offering and unwrapping a gift for the listeners.  (Thanks to Liz Mangual for this and so much more!)

Consider using threshold rituals like bells, candles, ritual beginnings and endings.  “I stepped on a pin and the pin bent, and that’s the way the story went.”

The best way to learn to tell is to tell.  Tell the story you love over and over again. Then tell it again.

Don’t stress over memorizing the exact words unless it is a literary tale.  Create roadmap of the key points of the story, know them well, see them in your mind and  even  draw them on paper if you are a visual thinker.

When you find yourself stumbling at the same point in the story- consider adapting or rewriting that part of the story.

Stories don’t always “land” where you plan or hope they will.  Your listeners will hear them in ways you may not have expected.  Stories may offer understandings about the way things are, but they are not well suited to giving lectures

Remember the “storytellers secret.” If you hear a story you like, tell it to someone the same day you first heard it.  Tell it before the sun comes up the next day and you will remember it for the rest of your life.  (Thank you George Bright from Cornwall)

Use the Pizza Principle- crust, sauce and cheese are necessary and sufficient.  Everything else is topping.  Start with what is necessary to make the story coherent. Then add the ‘toppings’ judiciously.  (Thank you Michael Parent)

“… And the best story-tellers are men and women who seem to be giving us in the stories they are telling fragments of their reverie:  no matter how exciting the incidents they relate there is always reverie behind them….  And the art of the story-teller, I think consists in giving spontaneity to a series of happenings. Think of Steve Irwin the Crocodile Hunter, the Frontera chef Rick Bayless, or even better, a five year old telling you  what happened on the playground. They epitomized this kind of presence.  (Thank you Padraic Colum)

Okay my teller friends out there.  I encourage you to put some more logs on the story fire here in the comment section.  Thanks!

Thanks to my friend and colleague Mike Seliger for making a connection with my sad saga of lost keys and alerting me to this gem of a story that I suspect may not be very well known these days.  In the spirit of my call in The Endangered Stories Act to find story treasures and keep them from going extinct, I offer here, this brief summary and recommend the full text which in now in the public domain and can be found in Henry Beston’s The Firelight Fairy Book.  (http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/19207) Theodore Roosevelt certainly didn’t think he was wasting his time with this delightful book.  He wrote the introduction and bought copies for his own children.

Bobo is a classic simpleton with a good heart. A princess, looking for some fun at someone else’s expense, brings him to her land, whereupon Bobo provides one and all with amusement as they send him off on one after another fool’s errand. Bobo does have one friend, a kind and understanding kitchen maid named Tilda.

One day the princess sleeps late, and upon waking announces that she has lost half an hour.  Bobo gladly volunteers to find it.

As he sets out on his quest, we learn that other intangibles have been lost.  One man has lost his reputation, another his temper. But most importantly, a King has lost his daughter to the fairies. Seeing that Bobo is traveling far and wide in search of the lost half hour, all enlist his help, with the Kind of course offering half his domain for the return of his daughter.

A shipwreck on a deserted island, a pair of magic shoes, an encounter with Father Time and his twelve sons, the water of wisdom, a fierce dragon…all the elements of a classic hero tale unfold in this wondrous tale, and you won’t be surprised to learn that all’s well that end’s well.   The lost half hour is found, but to learn how it’s used you’ll have to go to the source.  And having gone there, you may be left with a rather obvious question.

Think of your most precious wasted minute or hour.  What would you do, if you could have it to live or spend over again?

Let us also consider our own fool’s errands and the time that we think we have wasted, only to learn that we’ve picked up a lesson or two along the way…that we know something that we didn’t know that we knew, and there it is, just when we need it and for just what we need it for. As for me, I think I’ll continue on with what seems at times to be this fool’s errand of the storytelling life, and keep an eye and ear out for stories lost and found. Maybe one will be that lost key I’ve been looking for!  Maybe those lost hours of reverie, day-dreaming and wonder will prove their worth after all!

“I’ve lost my keys” replied Mullah, when one of the curious onlookers asked about the object of his search.
“Let me help you,”said the man, and it wasn’t long before a half dozen more good Samaritans joined the search in ever widening circles. But their efforts were to no avail. The keys did not appear.
“Mullah, are you quite sure you lost the keys near here?” one of the search party asked, when it became obvious that the keys were nowhere to be found.
“Oh no, no no, not here, I didn’t lose the keys near here,” Nasruddin replied, not looking up, as he continued crawling around on all fours. “I lost the keys in the house.”
“Then why in the world are you looking for it them here the street?” asked one of a now incredulous member of the ad-hoc search party.
“The answer is obvious,” said Nasruddin. “The light is much much better here.”

Several weeks after the incidents of 9/11 I was drinking coffee at one of the sidewalk tables outside  the French Hotel, a favorite java joint in Berkeley.  I looked up from the book I was reading and was alarmed to see an Arab looking man, fast approaching, obviously distressed, and furtively looking first one way and then the other.  As hard as I tried to avoid falling prey to stereotypes and jumping to conclusions, I felt a gathering anxiety about his behavior and purposes, and then even more anxiety when I realized he was making a beeline to my table.  A few seconds later, he was looking straight in my face and informed me…that he’d lost his keys.
Whew! Here now was a chance to redeem myself (in my own eyes) and transform myself from a paranoid and suspicious neighborhood watcher to a helpful citizen.  Living the storied life that I do, my next thought was to remember Nasruddin and his keys.  “Let me help you look,” I offered.  “Do you think you may have left them here near the cafe?” I didn’t have to wait for a response.  I’d risen from my chair, ready to jump into action.  No sooner did I stand up then the keys appeared.  Right on the chair where I’d been sitting!”

Whose lapse, I wonder was greater, the absent minded suspected terrorist, or me, so oblivious to my environment, that I neither saw nor felt the keys when I sat down on them?

Now, at risk of illuminating a character fault that is well known to friends and family, but perhaps not known to readers of this blog.  I offer this sad story, as a cautionary tale.

A few weeks ago, I turned the key in the ignition of my car and heard something snap.  After that, the key simply pivoted in it’s lock and the engine would not turn off.  Luckily, Luis, my father in law was willing and able to come to the rescue.  It would be no big deal he said to replace the ignition. A trip to Auto Zone and twenty some dollars for the part later and Luis had the old one out in a matter of minutes… BUT, it turned out that the problem was deeper…a 10c spring in the steering column was broken and the ignition could not be properly set in.  Long story short (this part anyway) the entire steering column would have to be replaced.  Here, I offer some good news. You no longer need to rely on either the overpriced dealer or mechanic and the local U-Pull junkyard  to replace an expensive part.  Google what you need, and the whole world of junked cars becomes available.  A week later, a beautiful steering column, complete with all wiring harnesses, ignition switches and a a single key was delivered for the relative pittance of fifty dollars and change, shipping included!  Luis, had it all installed in half a day and I was on the road again having saved many hundreds of dollars.

On the road that is until yesterday, when I lost the one key that came from the eBay steering column. I spent several frantic hours scouring the house…and another surveying the garden where I’d been working the previous day.  I checked around the horseshoe pit in the backyard.  I called the restaurant where I’d eaten the previous night.  All to no avail. Then I remembered that that replacement ignition that we were not able to use and I’d forgotten to return.  Ah…what a relief!  The solution was at hand! Just, admit to Luis that I’d lost the key and hadn’t had the foresight to make a duplicate, and ask him to remove the ignition assembly that now had no key, and slap that extra ignition into the new steering column.   Easy enough. So we both thought.

3 hours later, after trying a half dozen solutions that included fashioning makeshift tools, and all to no avail, Luis was using a high speed drill to blast out what had proven to be an otherwise immovable object.  I have never, ever seen Luis fail to solve a mechanical problem, but this one was truly baffling him, and the drill was the tool and method of last resort.  A slip of the drill could have resulted in damage that would require yet another complete steering wheel, but he has the hands of a surgeon, and the patience of Job, and little by little the stubborn part fell away and late in by afternoon, all was well again. Everything except my self esteem was back together and the key worked like a charm.  Luis was a good sport about all the extra work, and amenable to a visit to the local pub for a thank you beer and some nachos. I learned more about his 50 year career as an auto-body mechanic, starting as a boy in Puerto Rico and working on Rolls Royces, Mercedes, Corvettes, and Cadillacs in the Bronx and Queens.

We drove back to the house in Luis’s Jeep and I remembered that I’d been having an intermittent problem with brake lights.  Luis suggested we take a quick look, and take a quick look we did.  Luis pumped the brake pedal, and I went to the rear of the car, and there…were the missing keys…dangling in plain sight, from the lock of the wagon’s rear door.  Luis never said a word, or if he did, I didn’t hear him.  I was too busy, flattening my forehead with the palm of my hand, and blathering a sheepish and pathetic apology.

I’m going to look for a connection between these three stories, but first I’ve got to find some better light.

In a shady corner of the great market at Mexico City was an old Indian named Pota-lamo. He had twenty strings of onions hanging in front of him.
An American from Chicago came up and said:
“How much for a string of onions?”
“Ten cents,” said Pota-lamo.
“How much for two strings?”
“Twenty cents,” was the reply.
“How much for three strings?”
“Thirty cents,” was the answer.
“Not much reduction in that,” said the American. “Would you take twenty-five cents?”
“No,” said the Indian.
“How much for your whole twenty strings?” said the American.
“I would not sell you my twenty strings,” replied the Indian.
“Why not?” said the American. “Aren’t you here to sell your onions?”
“No,” replied the Indian. “I am here to live my life. I love this market place. I love the crowds and the red serapes. I love the sunlight and the waving palmettos. I love to have Pedro and Luis come by and say: ‘Buenos dias’, and light cigarettes and talk about the babies and the crops. I love to see my friends. That is my life. For that I sit here all day and sell my twenty strings of onions. But if I sell all my onions to the customer, then is my day ended. I have lost my life that I love and that I will not do.”

It brought to mind another story, very much in the same vein, by B. Traven, best known as the author of The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, In a short story called Assembly Line, a savvy businessman discovers an Indian who makes marvelous baskets and sells them for a pittance.  The businessman returns to New York, finds a buyer willing to take thousands of baskets and returns to share the good news with the humble and seemingly naive craftsman.  Much as in Seton’s anecdote, the basket maker offers no discounts…in fact the greater number of baskets ordered the higher the price will be for each one. With deference but ironic humor, he gives the businessman quite a lesson in economics, explaining how the entire village’s economy will be ruined if he agrees to make and sell thousands. Everyone would be making baskets, no one would be working the fields, the price of food would go up, and the farmers turned assembly line workers would not longer be able to afford the food they used to grow.
But what is more important he continues,  “I’ve got to make these canstitas my own way, and with my song in them and with bits of my soul woven into them.  If I were to make them in great numbers there would no longer be my soul in each or my songs…and this would slowly eat up my heart.  Each has to be another song which I hear in the morning when the sun rises and when the birds begin to chirp and the butterflies come and sit down on my baskets so that I may see a new beauty….”

I woke up this morning, wanting to share these two stories, and at the same time wondering how I might make a connection or segue to current events here in my own realm.  Then a bus pulled up.  Looking across the street from where I was having my afternoon coffee, The Million Acts of Kindness Bus pulled up and there was no way I was going to head home without seeing and hearing what this was all about.

Let me introduce you to Bob Votruba and his canine traveling companion Bogart by way of their web-site. (http://www.onemillionactsofkindness.com/) Bob is an ambassador for peace and kindness.  The tragic Virginia Tech shootings set him on his path. Please, take a moment to read his story.  He’s been on the road and living in the bus for three years, and plans to continue for another seven.  He speaks clearly from his heart and passion about the need for kindness in the world.  He has woven this vision and put it into action and into the fabric of his life. Support his journey, and explore how you can make his journey for kindness your journey. Here is a man who knows something about the value of life…his and others.

Well, that’s how it works.  You start thinking about how you spend or sell your life, and out of the blue, you get a kick in the butt or a pat on the back as the case may be. You hear a story, you meet a real hero, and if you’re lucky, a butterfly might even flutter by and remind you of your own beauty and potential to make a difference!

(I relish comments… perhaps someone inspired you today?

Back in 2005 there was an article in Orion Magazine called Charlotte’s Website (Why children shouldn’t have the world at their fingertips)  I highly recommend it for anyone concerned about our relationship to  nature, ourselves, and each other.http://www.orionmagazine.org/index.php/articles/article/159/
The cartoon also evoked this snippet from the poetry of Nanao Sakaki from Break The Mirror. From “Future Knows.”
“At a department store in Kyoto
One of my friends bought a beetle
For his son, seven year old.
A few hours later
The boy brought his dead bug
To a hardware store, asking
“Change battery please.”

Okay, I know you are reading this on a computer, and I’m online as I write it.  Here’s the deal.  I’m going out for a walk. I just barely glimpsed my first butterfly of the season the other day.  I’ll be on the lookout for signs of life.  I’m not bringing any batteries. Later on, I’ll get back to the book I’m reading.

Hope you’ll take a walk today, or encourage your children to unplug long enough to  take a walk or read a book.  Happy exploring to you!

And for more from the curious and insightful mind of Shannon Wheeler- http://www.tmcm.com/tmcm/

Please visit my other web-site http://www.storyconnection.com where with my partner Liz Mangual we showcase some of the ways you can engage us with your school, library, or organization.