The Mindful Storyteller

“It’s been a long time since somebody told me a story.” - Elderly Woman in Northeast Ohio

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Storytellers like myself will often tell you that our favorite section of the library is 398.2. In the Dewey decimal system, 398.2 represents the folk and fairy tale area of the library. If you like the Harry Potter series or The Lord of the Rings trilogy, if you’re a fan of fantasy or sci-fi books, please know that your favorite authors have steeped themselves in the works of 398.2.

We may think of fairy and folk tales as the domains of children, but that is only recent thinking. While the term “grim” did not, as is sometimes reported, come to us from the surname of the Grimm brothers who collected tales, the association is understandable: Many of Grimms’ Fairy Tales are indeed known for their grimness! While the lore of folk and fairy has always fascinated and enchanted youth, it was never intended to be especially for children. Folktales are simply the tales that folk told - and that some folks are still tellin’.

In her lovely collection of essays on fantasy, faerie, and folklore entitled Touch Magic, Jane Yolen writes, “The best of the old stories spoke to the listener because they spoke not just to the ears but to the heart as well.” The old folk and fairy lore were certainly entertaining, but they were always more than entertaining. They might be instructive - encouraging the community to reflect on its shared values. They might be illuminating - inspiring the heart to open to courage or vastness, to sorrow or compassion, to wonder or joy.

I write “were entertaining” and here I must correct myself. We so easily slip into past tense as we speak of the value of the folk story, as we think about the fireside storyteller. It is 2019 as I write this entry and two weeks ago, I had the pleasure and honor of sharing a couple of old folktales with a group of twenty-five or thirty willing listeners. There was one young child in the audience, a couple of middle-schoolers, some high school students, and lots of adults of various ages. The tales held them. They traveled to distant lands, encountered a magical bird, and heard lore of how a dead sheep’s shoulder bone could draw forth the fair folk. They entered the stories, just as I did, just as the tellers and the listeners did in the 1800s, and in the 1300s, and for time immemorial.

Years ago, an 85-year-old woman listened to a teller tell some old folktales. She came up to the storyteller after he had finished sharing the stories. She took his two hands in her two hands. Her eyes welling with tears, she stared into his two eyes as she whispered in a voice like prayer, “It’s been a long time since somebody told me a story.”

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When is the last time you visited the 398.2 section of your local library? There are lore and tales there from the peoples of the world. Find one old tale that does more than entertain you. Allow it to seep into your being. Consider reading it with feeling to a friend or loved one or even work at retelling it in your own voice. If you’d like to tell it to a child, that’s great - but also ask yourself, "Is there some adult I know who would be willing to really listen to this tale?" If there is, why not read it or tell it to them?

(Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

“The ground was hard, the air was still, my road was lonely; I walked fast till I got warm, and then I walked slowly to enjoy and analyse the species of pleasure brooding for me in the hour and situation. It was three o’clock; the church bell tolled as I passed under the belfry: the charm of the hour lay in its approaching dimness, in the low-gliding and pale-beaming sun. I was a mile from Thornfield, in a lane noted for wild roses in summer, for nuts and blackberries in autumn, and even now possessing a few coral treasures in hips and haws, but whose best winter delight lay in its utter solitude and leafless repose. If a breath of air stirred, it made no sound here; for there was not a holly, not an evergreen to rustle, and the stripped hawthorn and hazel bushes were as still as the white, worn stones which cause-wayed the middle of the path. Far and wide, on each side, there were only fields, where no cattle now browsed; and the little brown birds, which stirred occasionally in the hedge, looked like single russet leaves that had forgotten to drop.”  - Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre, Chapter 12.

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Story communicates across centuries, across the bounds of life and death.

Read a chapter of Jane Eyre, and you are thrown across 170 years (or more) - into the imagination of a young woman of the 1840’s. There is no one with whom you may sit and hear a first-hand account of life in the 1840’s. You can not sit and laugh or cry or sip tea with one person who breathed the air and walked the Earth from 1840 to 1849. They have died. Their children have died. Their pets have died. Their horses, their cows, their oxen - the squirrels and monkeys and elephants and gazelles and lizards that roamed this planet in the 1840’s - all gone. The little brown birds...like single russet leaves. Every one of them - gone.

When I first read Jane Eyre, I was thrown across just 140 years, not 170. Thirty years have flashed past in an instant - and, by the time you read these words, the year 2019 may be a distant memory - as will I and our pet dog lying at my feet and the cherry tree swaying outside this window. We will all be gone - the tree, the dog, the writer.

My mother was born in 1929, her elder sister, my Aunt Eleanor, was born in 1921. They are the two remaining of the seven siblings who lived to adulthood. Our 12-year-old son Finnean listens to their laughter, hears stories of their childhoods and young adult years, sits at table with them and sips tea. If all goes well, Finnean will be my current age in 2063. At that point, there will be no one who breathed the air and walked the Earth from 1920 to 1929. One would have to be thrown across 140 years to reach them.

Embrace the magic of being able to travel across the centuries through the written word. What a gift we give ourselves when we sit down with a Bronte novel! We can sit and laugh and cry and sip tea and listen to the words and images, the dreams and fears, the reflections and hopes shared with us by Miss Charlotte Bronte, as she tells her Jane Eyre story from the 1840’s.

And Finnean and I can sit with his Nana and Great Aunt, sipping tea and listening to the words and images, the dreams and fears, the reflections and hopes of the 1920’s and 30’s and 40’s and beyond. Storing away these tales in our minds, continuing a tradition that even predates the written word - the oral tradition of listening, remembering, and re-sharing the tales.

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Are there old books and literature that intrigue you or touch your soul? If not, ask a good friend for some recommendations. Find an old story and read it - whether it be a novel, short story, biography, travelogue. And, each time, before you begin reading, note the year it was written. Reflect on the incredible fact that you are about to be thrown across decades or centuries! Enjoy the journey.

In this piece, we mentioned Finnean’s grandmother and Great Aunt Eleanor as two elders in our family. Who are the

“The sacred lore of tradition is a living, moving thing, flowing like water from one age to another, reforming itself from one generation to the next, adapting to the needs of the new...What beneficial traditions have you inherited? How do they work best now?” - Caitlin Matthews, The Celtic Spirit, p. 245.

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One of the great gifts we can give ourselves and our loved ones is to re-sacralize our lives. With every advertisement, we are invited into triteness. We are cajoled and tricked into sacrificing a worldview of sacrality for one of banality. We tread on the surface of sales and bargains and deals. We get excited waiting for the package to arrive - somehow forgetting the thousand other times we’ve felt this same passing thrill of the buy.

A sad effect of our consumer culture is that everything that does not involve buying and selling gets pushed aside. Every moment that you are not making money or spending money is wasted time. It is no accident that the sacred lore of our holiday traditions have been intruded upon by magnificent sales - too good to pass up.

Matthews is correct, the sacred lore of tradition is not static and changeless; it must be flowing, reforming, adapting - but it also asks for space and time. Folk tales abound wherein the hero falls into some land where the space-time continuum is broken, some sacred space “where time stands still.” Tradition requires such spaces -  devoted to family and friends; to ritual, good food, and togetherness; to not giving a hoot about sales, bargains, or deals. Tradition desires presence and story.

You may have, in the mix of your memories, numerous worthy traditions that can be revived, adapted, and renewed. You may have a past so overflowing with pain, that there are few, if any, worthwhile traditions that might be resurrected. And perhaps most of us hold a mixed bag of both unhealthy traditions that should be discarded and left behind, along with nourishing ones that can be modified to feed our souls, as well as the spirits of our loved ones. And we are creative - we can develop new ways, explore new models, try new rituals that may grow into tradition as they are repeated again and again.

Whether you revive old traditions or create fresh, original ones, do not be surprised if you find your worthy traditions imbued with story. When the space-time continuum is broken, when we create places for ritual and togetherness with family or friends, when we break bread together and forget our roles as money makers and consumers, then rich storytelling, deep story listening, and new tales emerge. Tradition re-sacralizes our lives.

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What comes to mind as you think of “traditions”? Can you identify three traditions from your childhood or younger days that fed your spirit? If so, what were they? Think of a friend that you admire and enjoy. Ask her or him about the traditions they grew up with. Can they name three good ones?

Are there traditions alive in your life right now that are worth continuing? Are there ones that should be dropped? Fresh traditions develop over time - often slowly - as we explore new possibilities or play with new ways of doing things and then decide to make some things seasonal or annual events. Do you have any thoughts on new activities that you would like to try as you spend time together with family or friends?

(Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

“Look [at the man who is]...the slave and prisoner of his own opinion of himself...Public opinion is a weak tyrant compared with our own private opinion. What a man thinks of himself, that it is which determines, or rather indicates, his fate.” Henry David Thoreau, Walden, p. 7.

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There is an Iraqi folktale of a man who is possessed by an evil jinn. Though he does not wish to, because he is possessed the man speaks horrible words that destroy beloved relationships and even cause the deaths of loved ones. Many of us may recall times when we uttered horrible words that damaged relationships, as if we too were possessed by such a jinn. One friend struck a chord with many of us when he said that he often speaks to himself about himself with that horrific voice of the evil jinn. What stories about ourselves do we tell to ourselves?

The Buddhist leader Thich Nhat Hanh says, “Knowing that words can create happiness or suffering, I am committed to speaking truthfully using words that inspire confidence, joy, and hope.” As we speak to ourselves about ourselves, are we telling stories of joy?

You are the teller of your stories, only you know the full range of the tales. Yes, we all have stories in our histories that show our weaknesses, our pettiness, our moments of immaturity, selfishness, and mean-spiritedness - but we all have other true tales about ourselves, as well. You know the stories that capture moments when you were really present for a loved one in their time of need; those times when you did something creative or extraordinary that even surprised yourself; those untold  anecdotes where you acted with simple kindness even though nobody was aware of what you did and the positive impact you had.

You have stories about you that are not tyrannical; you have tales of yourself that inspire confidence, joy, and hope. You need not broadcast these positive tales to the world with braggadocio, but please whisper these beneficial stories to yourself - not just for your benefit, but for the world’s benefit - because as you recognize and accentuate your own positive tales, you will be inspired to add to that litany. We can “add to the good” by focusing on the uplifting stories in our histories.There are tales of loving kindness that mark your being here on Earth. Tell these stories to the one listener who needs to hear them the most: yourself.                                                                    

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You are the “resident expert” on the stories from your biography. What are some of the tales from your life that elucidate hope, joy, compassion, and confidence? Tell yourself one of your uplifting tales.

Try to remember some of these stories when you are feeling down-hearted or discouraged with yourself.

(Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

“I think an instinct for selection goes with the art of storytelling… There is…[this] very personal relationship that exists between all storytellers and the stories they tell...I am firmly convinced that certain storytellers are allergic to specific stories...Herein lies a part of the storyteller’s integrity, to be honestly aware of this and say: This story is not mine...This intimate relationship between story and teller must be reckoned with.” - Ruth Sawyer, The Way of the Storyteller, p. 151-152.

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It is as if we are strangely compelled to tell some stories while other tales strongly repel us - and we pay dearly if we tell the ones we should not. There are curious metaphysics at work here. I recall an evening in Flagstaff, Arizona - telling a sacred story in order to impress. Afterwards, there was a sickly feeling - deep in the gut. A sense of the wrongness of the motive. A dishonoring of the tale.

Another time, in performance as a professional storyteller, stories were told to nurses and hospital workers - but the storytelling missed the mark, widely. Stories with humor that had - at other times, in other contexts - been connective tissue, lightly weaving teller and listeners together in a bath of laughter - here, fell flat. The nurses and hospital workers - at least on that particular day - needed something else, something more, perhaps stories of redemptive hope or gentleness - but such tales were not brought forth. And the teller experienced the consequences of failing to tell the tale that wanted to be told.

Some of the most potent stories in my repertoire are those that were initially dismissed - yet they kept floating back, asking to be heard again and again - until they became part of my litany of stories.

There is a strange, magical interplay of time and place and teller and tale ...and, of course, listener. Inherent in this is an invitation to see each story as living matter - as a being with a will of its own. If tales communicate - and, of course, they do - why not imagine that each tale speaks to the teller, telling her if she should be told, if you are the one to tell her, and also if this is the right time for her to be told. Yes, this all asks for a bit of imagination in the storyteller - but, are we not in the imagination business?

Who among us has not had the experience of telling a story and later wincing with the thought, “Ugh, why did I tell that story tonight?” While you may be less likely to review and reflect upon it, you can also probably point to times when you told the perfect story for the moment - “the story that needed to be told.” Maybe a friend even said to you, “Wow, that was just the story I needed to hear.”

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See stories as living beings. They know if they should be told, when they should be told, and who should be the one(s) telling them. Stories communicate. Slow down and mindfully listen. If you tell stories in performance, open your subtle senses to know what tales to learn to tell - and when to tell them. And all of us, in everyday conversations, can allow for pauses - creating enough space to ask, “Why is this tale coming to mind? Should I share it? Why or why not? Does this tale really want to be told right now?” Mindfully listen to what the story is telling you, before you decide if you should open your mouth and speak it.

(Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

“When I was a kid, most stories had one basic message: If you’re strong, if you’re brave, if you’re honest, everything will turn out all right. It’s a good message, but we can add other important messages. One I include quite often is that if we work together, we can accomplish things that we can’t do alone. Another is that if the world is going to last, we must make better choices about how we live. And if we all do our part, a hundred years from now our grandchildren will be making up their own stories and retelling the ones we’re making up today.” - Pete Seeger, Pete Seeger’s Storytelling Book, p. 209-210.

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We are at a moment of cultural and environmental crisis. In terms of mental health, most humans in modern society are largely disconnected from their roots in the natural world; we are suffering mentally, emotionally, psychically, socially, spiritually, and we continue to further disengage from our relationship to nature and our identity as nature’s own. Along with our human health, we are blinding ourselves to the greater health of our planet. Three strangely complementary systems of rejection and denial are at work: 1) There is the simple denial that there even is a problem to be confronted in the health of our planet, our ecosystems, and the lives of our plants, animals, and humans; 2) There is the denial that humans have much if anything to do with the health of the Earth and/or the problems that our Earthen environments are currently facing; and 3) Even among those who accept our Earth’s health problems (and are even deeply troubled by them), there is a third, subtle, treacherous denial at work: the world-wise denial that anything can be done to alleviate our Earth’s problems; a sickly, sophisticated embrace of our powerlessness; a focus on our impotence as “a given;” a negating of all worthy efforts as foolhardy, “too late,” “not enough,” or simply impossible. Sardonic wins. Everyone loses.

The potential for stories and storytelling in the healing of our planet and ourselves is paramount. It may be that the sardonics have it right, maybe humans will offer too little too late in the healing of our planet - but, if there are positive possibilities for wholeness and healing, storytellers must be among the physicians. And even if our efforts do not lead to the best or hoped-for outcomes, they may lead to better outcomes than would otherwise result from no effort at all. And even if “the results” are negligible, the true storytellers know that the storytelling is never “in vain.”

Stories are for the benefit of listeners. Those who hold and remember and recall worthy stories receive nourishment long after the teller has departed. A nourishing story is food. Sometimes a tale is health-giving, providing needed sustenance. Sometimes we are beyond the possibility of good health, but the worthwhile story still provides something - an easing of pain, a soothing of anxieties, an acknowledgement of loss, or maybe some positive unknown for future generations; stories are sometimes elixirs with restorative powers that ripen in times beyond the present. Worthy stories are needed food, feeding us, our children, and our descendents in times of want and hunger.

Our Earthen home is in need of healing. We are in need of healing. Storytellers are not the only doctors, but we are influential physicians, essential specialists. Healing and inspiring stories provide needed medicine. In the midst of the storm, we storytellers must be calm, mindful,  selective; we must mix, concoct, and share the finest medicines available to us; we must experiment and continue to learn, searching all the shelves of our medicine cabinets, drawing from all of our history and training, for the right prescriptions and dosages in this time of needed healing.

I saw Pete Seeger tell tales and sing stories at the National Storytelling Festival years ago. In between tales, he paused, looked at the crowd and stated it simply: If huma

“In the stories we tell let the spoken word be...of a compelling and imaginative nature. Let it...charm the ear and arrest the mind, to build with perfection and delight…[to be] in itself...worth remembering. But let there be substance equally good.” - Ruth Sawyer, The Way of the Storyteller, p. 156-157.

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Ruth Sawyer says that our stories should be substantive. The Zen Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh writes, “Seeing that words can create happiness or suffering, I am committed to speaking truthfully using words that inspire confidence, joy, and hope.” Are we committed to sharing or ingesting wholesome, substantive stories that speak truthfully and inspire confidence, joy, and hope? How many films have we seen that expose us and our loved ones to more horrific violence in the first fifteen minutes than anyone should be exposed to in an entire lifetime? Do we ever speak of the value of stories that are “wholesome”? Do we even utter the word “wholesome” except when speaking with irony or in mockery?

Many will argue that the term “wholesome” reeks of some past era when people practiced outer forms of politeness while subtly (and not-so-subtly) supporting violently oppressive systems and structures that elevated only a privileged few.  Past and current oppression, systemic and otherwise, must be addressed - and, in fact, story is a key tool in educating and informing people about such injustices, but need we conflate wholesomeness with oppression?

Do people avoid speaking of “wholesomeness” because it alludes to privilege or do we avoid the term because it seems naive, absurd, childish? Perhaps we have grown so harshly sardonic that to speak of stories promoting basic goodness, as Ruth Sawyer and Thich Nhat Hanh suggest, is to risk ridicule, to risk being seen as unsophisticated. Speak of the value of “wholesome stories” and you may be seen as a simpleton who still thinks people can be “all nicey-nicey.”

C’mon, who ever speaks of “wholesomeness” as some positive trait and virtue these days? In just one of Thich Nhat Hanh’s books, he mentions “wholesome” ninety-eight times, but then his thinking was forged through his compassionate, nonviolent efforts at peace and healing within the fire of the Vietnam War. Perhaps someone who has experienced how brutal people can become when their cultures are destroyed and the people are immersed in violence, terror, and war, may recognize that wholesomeness is a value that should not be easily dismissed. Ninety-eight mentions in one book.

Ruth Sawyer says that we need stories that are compelling and imaginative, stories that “charm the ear and arrest the mind,” delightful tales that are “worth remembering,” and she adds emphatically, “Let there substance be equally good.” She follows this up by speaking of stories that evoke wonder, highlight daring, and bring laughter - but that is not all. Sawyer also calls for “stories that stir one within with an understanding of the true nature of courage, of love, of beauty...Stories that bring our minds to kneel in reverence; stories that show the tenderness of true mercy, the strength of loyalty, the unmawkish respect for what is good.” In other words, Ruth Sawyer tells storytellers that the wholesome story is needed. Thich Nhat Hanh agrees.

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You may have encountered wholesome stories through films, books, or conversations with family and friends. Recall a wholesome tale that touched you and watered beneficial seeds in your spirit. Take time to reflect on the story. What did you learn from it? How did it touch you? What details stand out? What brings this particular tale to mind?

Think of a wholesome story that you might want to share. It might be a story from your own life, maybe it’s one that you’ve  read or heard from a friend. It might be a story that you’ve often reflected on, perhaps it’s one that just popped up. Muse on this tale. What details stand out? Why not share it with someone?

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“When I spent a winter at Princeton...I used to visit an old man who lived near the campus...He was a mathematician, a friend of Einstein’s. Every time I came, which was usually at night, he would open the door for me and take me in close to the fireplace. Then his wife would offer me a cup of tea and we would spend an hour just sitting there. After that, I’d bow to him and go home. That happened many times. I knew in advance that whenever I came, the same thing would happen. Yet I always came, because it was very nice and very rewarding. We need to learn again how to be silent...Silence can be more intimate than talking. It is a way of being that makes your doing, your action, deeper and more effective.” - Thich Nhat Hanh, The Art of Power, p. 156.

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Inspired by the Zen Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh’s story of his silent nights with the mathematician, our family has, over the past twenty years, sometimes experimented with “Silent Tuesdays.” We put the word out to friends and family that we’ll be hosting a silent gathering at our house on a particular Tuesday evening. That night, we greet people with a smile at the door. With a gesture, they are invited to come in, sit, relax, meditate, pray, maybe read a spiritual book - and, after about an hour, we have tea. We sit and enjoy our tea together, then folks are invited to wash out their cups and depart. All of this happens in silence, from the greeting to the good-byes, with a few hand gestures, smiles, maybe a hug as someone is leaving, and no words.

The paint that the storytelling artist uses is words, but the canvas is silence. We dwell in a cacophony of words, both spoken and unspoken. In the past (and perhaps still in some cultures), there was room for silence. The canvas was clean, unspattered. Today, our minds and the air are full of sounds - internally, the drum beat of our incessant thoughts, externally, the thousand and one ceaseless voices calling for our attention in every moment. We need to be selective in which internal and external voices we give credence to, but more fundamentally, we are called to create the space for silence.

We are infatuated with machine metaphors to describe ourselves and our ways, but we have much more in common with oak trees and radish plants than we realize: Sunshine, clean water, rich soil, some space, some nurturance, and silence allow for growth and provide us with much that is needed for joie de vivre, the joy of living.

We humans love story. One of the great fortunes of life is to share our worthy stories and to listen to the tales of others that challenge, enchant, and inspire us. And there is also the gift of silence - not just silence so that we can think and reflect (though this, too, has deep value), but the precious gift of a silence so clear that we are free of thoughts. In such silence, we are simply here. Alive. Present to the experience of the moment. This is richness...and it somehow sweetens the telling and listening when the space for story opens again.

This is the work: mindfully creating space for silence, for story, and for silence again - in an ongoing circle of health and growth and well-being.

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Do you create the space for silence to manifest in your life? In the life of your family? How might you create such times and spaces? Perhaps a dialogue with loved ones about silence - and its potential value, maybe even drawing from Thich Nhat Hanh’s experience described above, could be an entree into possible practices of silence. An invitation: Schedule a time for fifteen minutes of silence three times this week. Do not busy yourself with silent activities during this time. Simply open yourself to enjoying the silence - maybe going for a little stroll through your neighborhood or just sitting in the kitchen, perhaps enjoying the flavor of your coffee or tea, either alone or with a friend. You may find that your mind is racing with thoughts in the silence (and that’s okay), but cr

“It is not necessary to make an effort to think in a particular way...We just think with our whole mind, and see things as they are without any effort. Just to see, and to be ready to see things with our whole mind...This  is called mindfulness.” - Shunryu Suzuki, Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind, p. 115.

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The work of the storyteller is “just to see...without any effort.” There is some strange reciprocity that exists between your mind’s eye and the mind’s eye of another. If we allow our minds to truly envision the scenes as we share a story than our listeners are quite likely to see, as well. Conversely, if our telling of a story is “just words” unaccompanied by imaginative vision, then our listeners will only receive words, not images; there is likely to be little or no vision manifesting in those who might attempt to listen to such words.

Suzuki tells us that mindfulness is effortless seeing that is accomplished with “our whole mind.” This may seem contradictory: effort is not required, but “the whole mind” is called into play. What does this mean? Seeing with our mind’s eye (or, for that matter, with our physical eye) is effortless work. We read a compelling novel and the images just pop up; the scenes play out through our mind’s eye. There is no effort.

Mindfulness also calls for wholeness, for a synchronization of body and mind. As a mindful storyteller shares their tale, they invite themselves into an immersion. They bring to bear the body, mind, and spirit as one - as a single unified whole. When this unification is successful within the teller, something more may happen. The listener’s body, mind, and spirit may then be “pulled into” the story, as well - thus creating an atmosphere of “shared experience” that softens the hard edges of separateness that keep us distinct from each other.

This immersion is deep, but there are layers here. If body, mind, and spirit are at one within the story, can we simultaneously be mindfully present within the room, within the physical space where the story is being told? Can we be both in the story and mindfully present in the room?

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What does the term “mindfulness” mean to you? What does it mean to you to be mindfully present to story - as a listener or as a teller? Have you had experiences of “mindful presence” as a storyteller or story listener? Have you encountered times of “shared experience” where the tale is vividly present to both teller and listeners? How does this complement - or contradict - the greater, general ideal of being mindful and present?

(Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )

“The painter works with his colors, mixes them, tries out effects, knows before he begins just what his box and palette can provide him with. He leaves nothing to chance...He feels for a divine relationship between what he wishes to say and the colors in which he wishes to say it...It would seem as if for those artists [known as storytellers who are] dependent on words alone for the expression of their art, words made audible, there would be both delight and intelligence in acquiring sufficient material to work with freely.” - Ruth Sawyer, The Way of the Storyteller, p. 140.

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How often do we talk about vocabulary, the words we use and how we use them? We are perhaps fearful of arrogance. Why use a complex term when a simpler one will suffice? There is also the risk of exclusion. Jargon has often been used to separate the insiders from those on the periphery. Our words separate us by class or level of formal education.  We risk the misperception that good grammar is a direct indicator of a “bright person” or a skillful mind. But can an expansive vocabulary also move us toward a subtlety of expression - moving us beyond the thick contentiousness of black-and-white thinking?

In a literature club for 6th graders, we are currently reading a Walter de la Mare book from 1929. The book is written for children, yet the vocabulary is not “dumbed down” for young people. Tread, entreaty, verges, inflamed, canopy, mounting, enraptured, salutation, kindled, wrath, straggling, vanguard, illumined, sombre, abiding, apprehensive, apparition, portend, reconnoitre, mounded, nought, wherewith - these words are found on 1 of the 420 pages in de la Mare’s book. What do you think? Has our working vocabulary declined over the decades?

The richness of the palette, as well as the artists care and use of the colors, is elemental to the painter’s work. It is the stuff of her vocation; the substance shaped through her creativity. For storytellers, our concrete material is words. Our stories are shaped in words. Ours is an oral art, a living art, an ephemeral art that appears and disappears on the breath of the teller. Because of this, it is both the selection of words and the sundry ways we make them manifest that gives creative form to our stories. Our pacing, inflection, tone, and other vocal choices and characteristics shape the telling of tales, but it begins with the words we choose and use.

As I share old folk tales with children (or adults), I often keep much of the rich vocabulary intact in the retelling. Why? Language holds power. And beauty. You need not know the meaning of every word to appreciate the story as a whole. Even if we cannot identify every color the painter has used, we may look upon her art with gratitude - knowing that the painting could not be what it is without the specific array of color carefully chosen by the artist.

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How do you think of words? Do you see an expansive vocabulary as simply “a way of showing off” or can words help us move towards subtlety and nuance of meaning? And can our selection of words add beauty?

Are you open to expanding your vocabulary? Where do you hear unfamiliar words? What books, articles, and stories do you read that offer rich, flavorful, zesty words? Do any of these words make it into your speech or the stories that you then share?

(Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, "Sacred Earth." )