Story Paths

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I had a dream last night, in which my sister and I were guests in the house of a Shanghai family: card-carrying supporters of the Communist Party. I felt a gulf between us, that we could not speak across, because our brief conversations always stayed within a particular scaffolding of thought. Our hosts moved only within these thought structures, these bridges crossing troubled waters that they wished never to swim in.

In the dream, my sister and I had been rescued from a downed craft somewhere in the north of China. Our rescuers had brought to this clean and pleasant home, to wait for our two governments to work out our journey back to Canada. We were ragged strangers in this house, and though our thoughts could easily question the Communist Party and just about anything else, we lacked what our hosts had: belonging.

At first, I wondered why our hosts wouldn't dive off their bridges into the turbulent, wondrous waters of life. Then I came to understand that these bridges gave them what they needed. Not on the deepest level, perhaps, but could I say I had met those deep needs?

We had freedom of thought, my sister and I, but we would remain outsiders even when we returned home, for ours was a nation of outsiders, of individuals unwilling to fit into a universal social system. Instead of families, we had spread-out units. Instead of dependable helpers and dependable roles, we had individuals struggling to work out their roles.

At least our hosts, in some sense, belonged. At least, if they stayed on those bridges, they would receive the basic support they needed.

I feel the interesting question here is not, ‘Is this or that belief true?’ but rather, ‘Why do people believe what they do?’

Belonging, perhaps. A sense of safety, a kinship with the world. The assurance of a good afterlife.

What will they lose if they lose that belief? And what might they stand to gain if they let go of that belief?

Now, personally, I reckon that reality doesn't depend on our beliefs. If trees are sentient beings, they don't depend on my belief to become so. If gods are real, they don't need me to believe them into reality.

But here's another way to look at belief. If a fir tree is a sentient being, in fact, then my belief that it is so may open the channel between us, so that I can perceive the fir tree in a deeper way. If I believe this fir tree is just wood, that channel may shut.

The same goes for myself and other humans. If I hold the belief that this man across from me came to his decisions for good reasons, I'm open to hearing him. Those reasons may be mentally rational, or they could be more deeply rational: from within his emotions and psyche. Either way, my belief in the worth of his reasons keeps the channel between us open.

And so this brings us to another way to look at beliefs: as a web of openings and closings surrounding us. The openings allow parts of reality in, and the closings keep parts out. By adjusting these beliefs, our experience of reality changes.

By adjusting our beliefs, our experience of reality changes.

Many character arcs track changes in this web of belief. A character may be hold racist views, with no channel open for the humanity of certain other humans. But by rubbing shoulders with such humans, a part of our character's web that was closed now opens, letting in sunlight bounced off this other human.

Or, as the story progresses, an opening may close. This might be a tragedy, as events transpire to turn friends against each other as old prejudices cinch in to obscure their vision.

Yet a closing need not be a tragedy; a closing could be a character's protector. Picture a mother and her child. The child was born a girl, but isn't so sure that's who she is inside. The mother is intent on fitting her child into the same gender role that she was put into, so much so that she becomes abusive to her child. The child was born open to her mother, believing her to be a source of love and support, but gradually, this opening closes. When the child is old enough, they pull away, believing their mother to be small-minded and cruel to the core.

Well, the mother may not be cruel to the core, but this closing protects the child from further harm, and allows them to get some distance, to find some people who understand and support them. This closing, this belief that the mother is inherently bad, allows the child to step away and heal. Later, that belief may change and open, allowing the child to see their mother's own trauma, which formed her own belief web, her own shifting pattern of openings and closings. But in the meantime, the child has some space to heal.

Now, in this exploration of belief, I feel us reaching the limits of this web analogy. There are either holes or webbing. Open or closed. There is no part-way, no translucent parts, and no varied colors.

But belief is not just openness or closeness to reality. A fuller way to look at it might be this: beliefs are the stories that we tell about reality.

Beliefs are the stories we tell ourselves.

They are filters through which we see the world. They are prisms through which sunlight passes into our eyes.

We see the world through stories. What is a tree? A person? Wood? An ancestor? Is the earth feminine, masculine, neither, both? Kind, cruel, or indifferent?

What stories are your characters looking through? What stories are you looking through?

And so, instead of a web surrounding a character, instead of an orb with simple openings and closings, imagine, if you will, a constantly shifting dance of stained-glass panels. Each panel is a belief, each angle of that glass an angle through which the character can see the world, each color within that prism the emotional tone of that belief.

Picture a woman sitting in her living room. She sees a neighbor outside throwing a ball to his son. A red prism in her mind says this man is a bad father. A blue prism, another angle of her mind, reflects this man's fatherhood as another way of expressing his love for his son. A green angle of this prism reflects how a man can love his child in the same way that she herself loves her own child. A yellow angle of the prism tells her that this man is one of the good people in the world, a violet angle reflects on how she can come to love the man and his son, can appreciate their laughter, can open herself to feeling the joy between them, and all these colors twirl and twist as she leans back to peer at the neighbor and his son through a new angle, a new prism.

As the character’s beliefs dance and twirl within her, the colors change. Openness becomes closeness. Green becomes red. Yellow softens to blue.

Beliefs are fluid.

There is a dance of belief that happens within each of us, and within each of our characters.

Picture, if you will, a story in which a character opens themselves to a new belief. See them close off to an old belief. See them close off to the belief that they can never be loved, and open to the belief that they can. See them dance, twirl, and spin through all the colors and shades of the rainbow.

Now, you might think this is a recipe for moral relativism, but it’s a call to see the world through the eyes of others, in all its infinite shades and hues. To see that even when someone acts in a way we find reprehensible, that person is likely dancing through their own prism of beliefs. Understanding their dance of belief can help us navigate the complex terrains of human behavior.

And this, my friends, brings us to the power of stories, the power to shape beliefs, the power to challenge and transform beliefs. Stories are vehicles for empathy. They are journeys into the hearts and minds of characters who may be vastly different from ourselves. They invite us to step into someone else's gumboots, to see the world through their bifocals, to move our bones with their dance of belief.

In doing so, stories have the power to expand our own prisms, to deepen our understanding of the human experience, and other experiences. So, let us tell stories that illuminate the dance of belief, that explore the complexity of consciousness, that challenge and transform the filters through which we see the world. Let us tell stories that open hearts and minds, that weave connections across diverse perspectives, and that celebrate the beautiful, intricate dance of belief that shapes the tapestry of our shared reality.

Thank you for joining me on this exploration of the power of fictional and real faiths, the dance of belief.

If you enjoyed this episode, please share it with others who might find it valuable. And if you're interested in joining the weekly story gatherings where we play with the prompts from these episodes, do sign up for the premium membership for just 5$/month. It’s quite a deal. Until next time, keep weaving your stories, keep exploring the dance of belief, and keep shaping the tapestry of our shared reality.

Happy storytelling.

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Cosmology is a story of how all this came to be, which leads into what is real, or, in the words of our guest today, ‘what is allowed to be real.’

The world-view of a person and culture determines how they live in this world, and also the manner in which they die.

Sarah Kerr sees the world as full of living beings, human and other than human, in physical bodies and in other states. She helps those who are dying, and those who care for them, through this great transition, with the help of carefully crafted ceremonies.

Today we speak about the world-view that informs her work, a view which describes death as not a blank ending, but a crossing over. Those who stay behind can help this crossing through their love and grief, which can be channeled through ceremony.

Sarah says,

“As a sacred deathcare practitioner and a teacher, I’m passionate about helping my clients and students find the healing gifts that can accompany death and loss.

I’ve been in practice since 2012, and I love helping people meet death and loss in soul-based way. I have a PhD in Transformative Learning, with a focus on contemporary ritual healing. I’ve been a student of cross-cultural energy healing for almost three decades and have studied with many Indigenous and western teachers.

I’ve made my own journeys through death and loss, into healing and resolution.

I offer myself in service to both the seen and the unseen world, and I work for healing on both sides of the veil.”

Here’s a talk Sarah Kerr gave about animistic and western world-views, in two parts:

A related conversation with artist Laura Burns

https://open.substack.com/pub/storypaths/p/river-songs?r=1ium1j&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web

Episode credits:

I just want to grieve song, sung by Hanna Elise

I hear the voices of the grandmothers, author unknown, found at http://www.prcupcc.org

A video about the great turning, part of the work reconnects with Joanna Macy

https://workthatreconnects.org/resources/the-three-aspects-of-the-great-turning-wtr-training-video-series/

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit storypaths.substack.com/subscribe

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I'm writing this and reading this while I'm sitting by the ocean, and it feels a funny thing to talk about history here because it is, of course, such a human idea.

Personal history is the story of my past, of my life. It could be the history of my ancestors, their journeys that led to me being here today. It could be the history of women obtaining the right to vote.

So already we see that the kind of story we get from the past depends on which part of the past we are inquiring into, and also who is doing the inquiring.

I've heard it said, and it's true, that this word history can also be read as his-story. And I've heard it said, and it's true, that the past-telling that we hear these in schools and popular media is a male-dominated view of the past, focused in particular on generals and politicians, the focal points of certain kinds of power.

This is one view of history. Not one I mean to discount, but let’s inquire into other views, for the stories we tell define us, and we define the stories we tell, so it's important to choose those stories carefully, and to have a wide sampling of stories, a rich microbiome of the past to inform our understandings of the present.

Let's look at the etymology of this word, history. The Greek word historia originally meant inquiry: the act of seeking knowledge, as well as the knowledge that results from inquiry. So you can see that this word originally wasn't about linking events together into a story of what happened, a story of the past, but was simply about seeking knowledge.

History is inquiry.

We might also use this word history as a verb: to history. The story that emerges depends on the seeker, their manner of approach, as well as that which they are approaching. The past is a vast place, and many stories can be found within its landscapes.

We know this from our own lives. Have you ever had a huge shift of perspective? Perhaps there was a moment when you came to see your mother or your father in a new light, a light that re-explained so many things that they had done and said. Have you ever re-looked at a pile of mistakes you made, not as indications of you being a bad person, but as indications that you were crying out for something you needed, or in the midst of learning something that you've now learned? Our view of the past can be a very flexible thing.

So when you're thinking about writing some history—for your character, for yourself, or for a culture—a good starting point is to ask yourself… what your starting point is. From whose perspective are you inquiring?

I'm sitting here by the ocean and thinking, what might history look like from the perspective of the ocean? A history of new creatures coming in and swimming around her waters. A history of changing temperatures, changing chemistry, of cooling and warming, of cooling and warming again. Of large parts of her becoming ice, then thawing, then freezing again.

Going back further, a history of that water shooting through outer space from a star. And somewhere near the end of this history, coming toward the present moment, we humans emerge as characters stepping from her waters onto the land, with our women carrying a little of that salt water sanctuary within their wombs.

From the ocean's perspective, we humans are not central, and I find it refreshing to consider a history in which we humans are not central.

It might also be interesting to look through the eyes of a creature who has lived through these great changes, like species of sharks who have continued for millions of years. And rather than look through the eyes of a single individual, to look through the eyes of the species as a whole, taken as a single being, moving through time. How might this being experience these coolings and warmings, as their habitat shifts, and they encounter other species for the first time?

How might a cold weather bird who lived through the Ice Age experienced the dwindling of those cold regions, as the earth warmed?

And so there are many histories, and even among human histories, it's refreshing to step outside of those commonly told. I was visiting a site on Southern Vancouver Island, where petroglyphs have been carved into the rocks by the inhabitants of that land many ages ago. There was a sign there for the public, describing some of the markings.

There on the sign, it said, ‘These were carved in pre-history.’ And somebody, bless their soul, had gone ahead and scratched out the prefix ‘pre.’ In other words, who’s saying it's pre-history? That marker is often between textually illiterate and textually literate, but why set the marker there? It shows the biases of a textually literate culture, which may not be as literate in other ways as cultures who are not textually literate.

These older cultures may be literate in mythical language, in reading seasons, in animistic relationship with stars. Their history is not a collection of events one after another, like connecting the dots. Theirs is a history of relationship with the beings and great powers of the world, and it need not be linear.

The connected-dots version of history speaks of a linear view of time.They say history is written by the victors, but really, that's just a certain history. And some histories are not written at all.

We often find ourselves in an uncomfortable relationship with history. It may be that the history we're handed is not the way we would tell the story, that it does not include the people we think are important. There may be events that are presented as wonderful, lit by the best studio lighting, which, when that lighting is taken away, are revealed to be horrendous.

Take the setting sail of Columbus for the New World. As it's framed, a young, adventurous boy, curious to see the world, set out and found a new land. That's some studio lighting and makeup for you. A more barefaced account reveals Columbus as a sociopath, obsessed with gold, and willing to destroy entire people in order to get it.

From the perspective of the Taino people, he came to their shores not as a youthful adventure, but as a vicious plague.

We find ourselves in a time of competing histories, and perhaps all times are such. It's up to each of us, and us together, to consider our relationship with the past. Whose eyes are we looking through? Oppressor, oppressed, creature, land, ocean, sky, a star shining on our planet.

Which histories are you called to tell?

Here are some prompts.

Explore viewing your life from different angles, moving your perspective from the usual one to look at the same events in different ways. Try considering the view of another person involved in a contentious part of your life, or the perspective of the house you lived in at the time, or a nearby tree, or a stone.

Recently, I returned to the school that I attended up until about the age of eleven. I sat on a bench near the trees that had watched me play as a kid. I felt them wondering what I'd been up to in the meantime. They hadn't seen me for many years, after all, and I’d been on some adventures. They were curious about other trees in other parts of the world, about streams in those places, about rainfall. They had never seen the ocean, so they wanted to know about that.

Consider your life from the perspective of a tree that was born before you were, and that you’ve seen throughout your life journey. You might consider your whole family from the perspective of the lands that they moved from, or the lands where they arrived, from the people they left behind, or the people they met.

A business story prompt

Trace the history of your business to back before modern times. Now, you might be involved in something that seems very modern, very recent. Here I am typing on this fancy computer, a modern device that didn't exist fifty years ago, but its roots were there.

What are its roots?

Look at your business and consider the roots. For example, now we might look at the experience that a person has on our website, moving around this digital space. This has its roots in architecture and space design, in creating spaces that are ergonomic, and designed for particular uses.

We send emails. Previously, that were telegrams, or letters. When the U.S. Postal Service first came into operation, people delivered letters between towns on horseback.

A coliseum is a predecessor to social media, where many people gather in a huge crowd, and everyone can see everyone else.

And here I am, creating a podcast. This has its roots in oral storytelling, and in people standing up and sharing their point of view in town squares.

What are the roots of what you do? You may find that this inquiry helps you to redefine your relationship with your work, and the tools of your work, in a holistic way.

And so here we are, resting in a warm cabin after our journey together. You can take this time to consider what's alive in you after hearing this talk and to reflect on the story prompts. Now these prompts are not homework but possibilities. You might respond by journaling, by speaking about them with a friend or colleague, or speaking about them with yourself while you're walking or driving.

You might push back against these prompts or come up with better ones. You can share your thoughts in the comments on Substack.

Or even better, let’s explore these prompts together. I'm hosting weekly gatherings where we play with stories for an hour. That's included for premium subscribers at just $5 a month. Or you might just want to let this all go, and roll along with whatever pleases you.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit storypaths.substack.com/subscribe

Learn more about Tamara Strijack’s offerings here.

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This is the latest conversation in our Play Matters series.

I've spoken with a board game designer about the theory of game design, and by extension, play-space design.

I've spoken with a man who goes into prisons, who brings creative exercises into those difficult, stifled places, helping people unlock their hearts.

I've spoken with a woman who brings play into ceremony and alternative education.

I've spoken with an indigenous woman who brings play into her work of decolonization, cultural renewal, and intercultural bridge building.

And now, I'm happy to bring you a conversation with my good friend Tamara Strijack, who works in education and child and adolescent support.

She is a counselor and educator working on Vancouver Island, near where I'm living now, and she specializes in childhood and adolescent development. In the last 25 years, she's worked as a mentor, counselor, youth leader, program director, and group facilitator. And she's now mainly a parent consultant. She also offers workshops and teaches university courses for teachers and counselors in training.

She's a mother of two and the daughter of Gordon Neufeld, and she works in the Neufeld Institute.

In this conversation, we get into why play is so vital for human well-being. How it is such a mistake to consider it something that children do just to pass their time. It's an integral part of what we need to be healthy and grow at every stage in our lives, not just childhood. And it can be a space to practice what we might then do within the greater field of our life.

Play is vital for these reasons and more.

We also speak about how to craft zones of play for children and adults, although for adults, we might not call them play zones, we might call them something more official sounding. These can be physical spaces, but perhaps more importantly, they are emotional spaces.

As you listen to this, I invite you to consider where in your life you have place spaces and where you might want to create or enhance play spaces.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit storypaths.substack.com/subscribe

(Art by Jessie White, Seeds of Spells)

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I've recently returned from an ancestry workshop, which was deeply moving. Combined with other ancestry work, and discussions about ancestry that have gone on in my life lately, this is opening up a channel for a deeper history of myself, a deeper sense of self.

Perhaps you’re on your own journey into ancestry.

I am of the many beings who have walked before me. They are part of me, with myself as an individual self being the tip of the finger of a body, a great body of ancestors.

For me, raised in an individualistic culture, this is quite a paradigm shift.

For most people, for most of our time here as humans, it’s more usual.

By the way, the lady putting on this ancestry workshop is named Pulxaneeks. She's a First Nations lady from the Xanuksiala First Nation, here in the Salish Sea.

You can find out about her work here.

I recommend her workshops, in-person and online.

Now, I'm going to dive into ancestry as a way of understanding a character.

This character might be yourself, or someone you know. It could be someone in a story you're writing. It could be a fictionalized version of yourself, or someone you know.

When I think of Ancestry, I think of many rivers flowing into one, many creeks coming together into one.

And what is that one river into whom they flow? That is the one who is living now, who is acting on the stage of this world. And these many streams collecting in the watershed, of course, are the different lines of genealogy that have coalesced over decades, centuries, and millennia, into that one who is walking the earth today.

Into us.

And each one of us is such a river, flowing into the future.

In this workshop, Pulxaneeks’ partner Scott led us in a practice that I'd like to share with you.

Here’s the practice.

Touch your fingers to your neck so you can feel your pulse.

Feel that drumming, feel that rhythm.

You might even tap that rhythm on another part of your body, on your chest or leg or somewhere else, feeling that rhythm, and knowing that this pulse has been pulsing since you were born, all the way back to the start of your life.

Pulsing, pulsing, pulsing, since you were born, and yes, before you were born. That pulse was shared with you from your mother's pulse; it was activated by your father's pulse.

That pulsing went on in the body of your mother, of your father, throughout their whole lives, and back to when they were in the wombs of their mothers…

and their mothers…

and fathers….

pulsing back,

back, back,

back.

This pulse goes back thousands and thousands and thousands of generations, into the time before there were humans, such as we know ourselves now.

Now, when you're considering the ancestry of a character—that is to say, the stories that flow into the story of that character's life—you may want to pick one or two streams, because it branches out pretty quick.

Each of us has two parents, and together they have four parents. Altogether they have 8, then 16, 32, and it gets complex pretty quick.

Many of us have ancestry from different parts of the world, so depending on which part of that branch we follow, we end up in very different parts of the world.

Just choose one stream for now, and you can always go with a different choice next time. And as you’re thinking of this strand going back in time, I invite you to consider the land in which they roamed, in which they worked and loved and sang.

Was there deep winter? If so, did it draw people inward, perhaps to make intricate art that took much time to create, and to tell intricate stories? Was there a harvest time, a drying time, a preserving time? Or was the land of these ancestors a warmer land, that made for easier travel, and different harvests coming at different times throughout the year?

All this you might feel from this drumming pulse and feel this in your own blood and bones as you imagine your own ancestors, or the ancestors of your character.

Did the ancestors of your ancestors watch the moon and stars, for navigation and to mark the passing of the seasons? Was there deep forest, perhaps not so different from forests you’ve walked in.

Imagine them stepping out of their shelter, feeling the air on their skin. Into a light breeze, a heavy wind? What scents were on that breeze? And how did they move through their day? What did they eat and drink, and how did they prepare this? Perhaps there were communal cooking times, and these were times to share stories: of spirits and ancestors, of animals and other communities.

As you sit with these ancestors, I invite you to ask them if there's a story they would like you to know. A story they've been waiting for you to listen to, that will give you strength, that will give you a clear view, a story that will give you courage to make a move, make a change, a story that will give you solace and rest. Whatever is needed for you in this very moment.

Then sit quietly and listen for a spell. See if there's a story that comes. A story that's waiting for you to hear. And as you hear the story, you might ask them for guidance for a certain situation in your life, or the life of your character, or someone she you know.

And as you sit and wait, you might feel the connection of that heartbeat that goes back, back, back. Thousands and thousands of generations into the past.

And as we're sitting here and as you're thinking of the ancestors, you might consider that their lives, their stories, their challenges, their joys, their sorrows, all these things are woven into your body, your being, your spirit.

What are the qualities that you've inherited from them? And what are the stories that you might want to let go of?

And if you'd like, you can thank your ancestors for the gifts that they've given you, for the strength, for the resilience, for the wisdom, for the love. Whatever it is, you might want to thank them.

And as we bring this practice to a close, I want to express my gratitude to you for joining me on this journey of exploring ancestry, of connecting with our roots, and of weaving stories that connect us to the past, the present, and the future.

Pulse, pulse, pulse…

If you found value in this practice, I invite you to share it with others who might benefit from it. And if you'd like to explore more storytelling practices, you can join me in the weekly story playshops, where we dive deeper into the art of storytelling and creativity, included for premium subscribers, at just $5/month.

Thank you again for being here, and until next time, happy story weaving.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit storypaths.substack.com/subscribe

Which real-life story does this remind you of? Comments here (paid subscribers): https://storypaths.substack.com/p/67d05587-82ae-4533-bb51-fd1c1041e9c6

Termites of the garden. The first dawn in the garden was simple but intense. Intensely hot. And next came the torrential rain. Massive plants sprouted up, followed by great beasts lurching about the land.

Gradually, many kinds and sizes of creatures came to make their home there, and they endured through hot and cold spells, and then for a time, all was more or less peaceful.

In the second dawn, moments before sunrise, an odd sort of termite appeared. They burrowed beneath the soil, taking nutrients right from the grasp of hungry roots. They dug deep into clay, with which they constructed mound after mound after mound, tunnel after tunnel.

A fraction of an instant before sunrise of that second dawn, if you looked out over that garden, you could be forgiven for saying it wasn't a garden at all, but a city of termites.

Which real-life story does this remind you of? Share in the comments, and if you’d like, I might share you story in a future newsletter.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit storypaths.substack.com/subscribe

Pulxaneeks website, including upcoming events.

I’m glad and grateful to be presenting the following guest. Her vocation is as an Indigenous relations consultant, which is to say she helps settler folks like myself learn to be in good relations with the original peoples of this land.

This involves far more than introducing people and smoothing communications. For folks like myself to be in good relations with indigenous people, there’s groundwork to be laid: a reckoning with history, both recent - in the colonisation of these lands - and ancient: the colonisation of the colonisers’ ancestors and land. There’s ancestral work to be done, and a reckoning with the fact that hurt people hurt people, and a seeking of the origins of that hurt.

Serious work, this healing work. So serious that you can’t do it without some play.

Who is this guest?

Allow me to introduce Pulxaneeks, from the Eagle clan of the Xanuxlia Haisla First Nation.

I’ll give a wee introduction, then say a little about different kinds of introductions.

To say she’s an ‘indigenous relations consultant’, is true, yet far too brief an introduction. It’s convenient to say on an elevator full of busy people, but too short to say to people who are not busy, and want to know more deeply about those they’re introduced to.

Listen on for her introduction, full of the rivers of ancestors flowing into her, both ancient and recent. Full of land and heart.

You might learn something about your own deep rivers of ancestry.

Other interviews with Pulxaneeks

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https://storypaths.substack.com/p/7233d334-6564-4d50-bf60-2a022a34140c

This episode captures the essence of our first story workshop, a weekly gathering exclusively available to our premium subscribers for just $5 per month. Joined by my friend Loke Keihanaikukauakahihuliheekahaunaele-Keanaaina, we explore the lessons from migrating monarch butterflies. Together, we discuss the impacts of trauma across generations, how individuals navigate healing collectively, and the importance of embracing one's identity within a community.

Loke’s late husband is a native Hawaiian man, and she is creating a book of stories he wrote and spoke. You can find more about this project here.

Also here’s a great interview with Loke. It’s Episode 6:

Do join us for these weekly workshops, where we delve into the profound wisdom hidden within stories.

If you’re not already on Substack, you can sign up at the link below and become a premium subscriber for $5/month.

Happy creating.

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Can you guess which real-life story this is?

A river once flowed freely, a source of abundant fish for the people, until a monstrous presence established its lair at the headwaters.

This creature voraciously consumed the fish and discharged bolts of lightning that struck distant places. The people, deeply connected to the river and its inhabitants, waged a prolonged battle against this monstrous force. They even formed alliances with former adversaries.

After a protracted struggle, they succeeded in breaking the monster's dominion. As it perished, its body disintegrated. The waters, once constrained, flowed freely again, and over time, the fish gradually returned.

Which real-life story this might this be? Leave your thoughts in the comments.

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Here's the associated article, with pictures. You can add your comments here: https://storypaths.substack.com/p/9e7267ab-518f-4599-beff-0530e80208f6

Welcome to the Story Paths newsletter and podcast. This is a Storyteller’s diary edition.

As I tell the tale of this one life, may it help you to tell your tales.

If you missed the first parts, I spoke about why I abandoned my town and family twenty years ago, falling into a descent after my father's death.

My journey paused as I took a spiritual path, lacking resources and support for the dive into adulthood. I found myself alone in a new place, a leaky trailer in a Pacific Northwest winter. As I tread water in the sea of grief, writings and new friends were able to offer just enough support.

Prompts

(Take one, none, many or all. I suggest you write a response, or speak it aloud, or discuss them with a friend, or just think about them)

-Imagine a scenario where you reconnect with someone from your past after many years. Write a reflective piece exploring the conversations, feelings, and lessons that unfold during this reunion. Dive into the emotions, the changes in both of you, and the wisdom shared or gained from this unexpected encounter.

-Craft a story about a character who is thrown into a difficult personal journey but unexpectedly halts their descent due to unforeseen circumstances. How does this pause affect their life, relationships, and understanding of themselves? Explore their internal conflicts and eventual return to their journey with newfound wisdom.

-Craft a story about an entrepreneur who begins a project that will not be complete for many years. Illustrate the journey of revival, highlighting how this gap may have been necessary.

I'd love it if you share your thoughts in the comments.

Until next time,

Theo

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit storypaths.substack.com/subscribe