The StoryField

Welcome to the Story Field

The universe is made of stories, not atoms, says the poet Muriel Rukeyser. Think about it. Every account we give of ourselves is a narrative of one kind or another. Every life form has a narrative shape by virtue of coming into being, existing for a certain period of time, and then passing out of existence. But no story and no life exist in solitude. All stories interweave. And no story is ever static. No matter how much we long to believe in a “perfect ending” we can be certain there is no final destination where nothing changes. (And if we view heaven as just such a place, then it’s sure to be the opposite of heavenly—a kind of hell realm of unrelenting sameness.) Since we ourselves are always changing, the story we live, and the story we tell, are always changing as well.

Here’s the question: if the universe is made of stories, what kind of stories are we telling? What kind of stories are we living? This is what I hope to explore on this site.

Learning about Right View from the Forest

Recently, my friend Faye Mogensen and I were invited to tell a story at the First Unitarian Church in Saanich (near Victoria). It was our second opportunity to tell "Big Trees," which we had prepared for the Storytellers of Canada/Conteurs du Canada conference in the Spring.

I was glad to tell it again, since we had laboured long and hard on the story, debating how we might evoke a feeling of reverence for the coastal forests, and for trees and forests everywhere. I provided a frame narrative and Faye shared three folktales from different parts of the world.

My narrator was a young woman, welcoming visitors to Seal Bay Park and Forest, a 1500-acre park near Courtenay on Vancouver Island. I introduced my character as MacKenzie, a youth at risk who was participating in a Youth Ecological Survey Project. 

Seal Bay Park is mostly second-growth Douglas Fir forest. It's a magical place, full of huckleberry bushes and salal. Steep valleys lined with sword ferns  lead down to the rocky seashore where seals lounge on the half-submerged boulders. Across the road, winding paths take visitors to Melda's marsh, where ducks and beaver can be spotted, coasting through the water, and blackbirds sing out as they balance and sway on the tall grass.

Local walkers, and those on horseback and bicycles, know the park well. On the west side of the road that divides it in two, there is a cairn and a plaque honouring two women whose dedication and vision led to the protection of many local green spaces, including this one. One of them was my old friend Melda Buchanan.

Melda came to Vancouver Island in 1932, when she was eight years old. I imagine her arriving with her family by steamship at the wharf in Comox. There she had her first sight of the giant trees, only they weren't standing tall, surrounded by other trees. The mighty trunks jostled against each other in a log boom near the shore. Exploring the area, in the early 30's, Melda would have seen huge areas of logging slash, at the edge of farmers' fields, evidence of more than twenty years of clearcut logging. Melda lived through the Great Fire of 1938, which started in a logging camp north of Campbell River and destroyed over 75,000 acres of forest before it burned out. She went east to study and became one of the first women meteorologists in Canada. When she returned to Vancouver Island in the 1960's, she resolved to devote the rest of her life to environmental protection and education. She believed that having a strong local park system would encourage people to care for the wilderness, even if they rarely visited more remote areas. 

In a time of climate uncertainty and disruption, I hope my stories will remind listeners to appreciate the trees and forests where they live. Stories can help us remember that we belong to the natural world. We can actively care for the environment where we make our home. We can make choices that support environmental protection in our cities, in our country and beyond.

In preparing the story, I visited Seal Bay Park a number of times, taking my sketchbook and walking slowly along the paths, looking for evidence of the history of logging here. I discovered one magnificent trunk of a cedar tree, with the springboard notches still visible, and from the hollow centre, a young hemlock growing up.

I became aware of other stumps dotted throughout the park, shaggy mounded shapes, covered with salal. There were also many nurse logs, fallen trees out of which other trees were now growing through the moss.

 The theme of our story was "Thinking Like a Forest."

What does it mean to think like a forest, in practical terms?

In one essential way, it means taking a long-range view, a view that leaps over the inter-personal challenges we face, or the dilemma of how to earn and spend our money, and considers the Garry Oak forest under threat of development, the eroding seashore, the problem of plastic pollution in the oceans, the loss of habitat. It means seeing our lives as ripe with potential to be of benefit to others, in every choice we make, in the way we live our lives every day. And when we die, if we have lived according to our highest aspirations, death is not the end of the story, because our legacy is one that continues to give. Just as I continue to be moved and inspired by the quiet resolve of climate activists in the past and in the present, and just as I continue to learn from the patience, generosity and kindness of my teachers, so I can also shine a light forward on the path. 

 

The Garden of Life

I've been visiting a Co-housing community this week in Courtenay. The window of the home where I'm staying looks out at the common garden, where there are espaliered apple trees, blueberry bushes, raspberry canes, a large bed with several kinds of kale, and fresh greens coming up. Yesterday I was invited to attend an impromptu birthday party for two residents. Held outside the common house, everyone wore crazy or colourful hats, cookies and cake were shared, and the resident dogs wandered about. 

This morning I'm thinking about tending and what we tend in a life. Here at the co-housing there is a conscious effort at tending community relationships, while also tending the physical environment. In my course, "Tending the Spark: Mindfulness and the Creative Life" we explore the link between a practice of mindfulness and creative expression, broadly defined. Every aspect of our lives, from the home we create alone or with others, to the work we do and the relationships we nurture have creative potential, especially when viewed through the lens of compassion and wisdom.

The Triple Gem

This morning a friend sent me a message: Birken was evacuated last night. Birken is Birken Forest Monastery, a Theravada Buddhist Monastery not far from Kamloops, perched on a hill, in an area where the wildfires are out of control. The last time I visited Birken was the summer of 2018. The whole coast was blanketed with smoke and the air quality in Victoria was worse than Mexico City. The drive from Vancouver Island towards the interior of the province seemed foolish, but I had been invited to come and record some of my stories, so I went. Now I am imagining the small community of monks and nuns and lay supporters, gathering their few belongings and getting out, leaving behind the structures that have housed them and countless guests over many years.

What do we put in our "to go" packs, in preparation for sudden departures? Beyond the material essentials, I started thinking about what is known as The Triple Gem - Buddha, Dhamma, Sangha.

 It seems that each day is a new departure (not just a new arrival, as in  Rumi's poem "The Guesthouse"). Each day we leave more of the familiar terrain of our lives behind, not just because of the truth of change, or because we are aging, or moving through different transitions in our lives, but because the climate emergency is real and the world is on fire.

To carry the Buddha, the Dhamma, and the Sangha in our hearts, when we are forced to leave behind everything we hold dear, what might that look like?

Words can be a conduit to calm, resilience, faith, and energy. Words that hold a long association, through devoted repetition, can act as a protection from habits of fear and anxiety. They show themselves to be a guide in times of doubt and confusion.

I take refuge in the Buddha. I take refuge in wakefulness, in presence, in kindness and compassion.
May I summon the courage of the Buddha to meet this moment of my life.

I take refuge in the Dhamma. I take refuge in the way things are, in the teachings that reveal themselves in every moment. I take refuge in non-harming, in generosity, in mindfulness. 
May I learn to let go, even as I engage in compassionate action for the good of all.

I take refuge in the Sangha. I take refuge in the awakened ones who have safeguarded the treasure of the Dhamma through the centuries and who safeguard it now. I take refuge in my community.
May I always remember that I am not alone. Caring for myself I care for others, and caring for others, I care for myself.

 By deepening my connection to these familiar Pali words, by unravelling their meaning for me, I empower myself to remember the gifts I already have in my "to go" bag.

Reading Aloud, A Gift of Love

Like many others at this time, my friend Jeanette’s daughter E. is working from home. With two young children, and her husband away during the day, she is finding it difficult. Earlier this week, while they were speaking on the phone, E. asked her mother to read aloud to her son, a five-year-old who loves books. 

During her visits every six weeks to see her daughter and family, Jeanette had been reading Julie of the Wolves by Jean Craighead George. Now she continued reading the story over the phone. (Internet connections from the island where Jeanette lives were not reliable enough for her to use Skype.) 

Amazingly, her grandson remained attentive for an hour, listening to his grandmother’s voice as they followed the story of Julie, a young Inuk girl growing up in Alaska. His Lego pieces were on hand, in case he wanted to build something as he listened, but he didn’t. He was content to be still, connecting to the story and his grandma through the remarkable medium of the human voice.

What favourite story would you choose to read aloud to a child in your life or a friend who lives far away? What story would you ask another to read to you?

When my brother and his family were living in Zambia, I recorded my father reading aloud a picture book by Don Freeman called Inspector Peckit. The story tells of a bungling pigeon detective combing the streets of Paris for a lost handbag. The cassette of my father reading the story arrived in Zambia and proved to be a wonderful way of connecting my dad with his  faraway grandchildren.

There is no doubt that stories are a powerful medium for connection. When story-sharing happens in real time, and when the voice of a loved one is the medium through which we hear the story there is added depth and resonance. The one we love is giving us this gift of story.

In a workshop I gave recently at the BC Mindfulness Summit, titled “The Listening Heart: Mindfulness and Storytelling,” I suggested that both reading and telling stories presents a remarkable opportunity to share in the discovery of mindfulness or mindful awareness. This practice is an invaluable skill in times of rapid change and unpredictability. Through a daily training in mindfulness, we learn how to open to this moment of uncertainty. Bringing attention to whatever is unfolding, with an attitude of genuine interest and care, we empower ourselves to make wise decisions about what needs doing and how we can best care for ourselves and those around us. Mindfulness allows us to act from a place of compassion rather than out of fear or anxiety.

In times such as these, with the clear direction to maintain social distance, it is tremendously important to stay connected to friends and family and to remember our rituals of connection. Story-sharing is one such ritual.

Six Ideas for A Story-Sharing Ritual

1. Arrive. Find a creative way of signalling that this is a sacred time, a precious opportunity to connect through story. Choose a cozy space in one corner of your home. Arrange the pillows, and settle in. Light a candle perhaps, or play a few notes on an instrument to welcome the story-listening energy to join you.
2. Protect the time and space from interruption. 
3. Choose the book you want to read, or select a favourite story to retell from memory.
4. Before beginning, arrive more fully and more deeply. Sit quietly for a few moments, noticing what’s happening within and around you. Share an observation about your sensory experience of the moment: a sound, a smell, a texture, a feeling of warmth or coolness. Share an observation about your interior landscape. 
5. As you read or tell the story, see if you can pause at intervals to discover the characters' sensory experience. Together imagine what they might be hearing, smelling, feeling, or seeing.
6. Savour the deliciousness of sharing a story with another living being. Allow some quiet moments of reflection when the story has come to an end.  One or two questions might open the way to an even deeper experience of the narrative. “Did the story make you think of anything?” “Who do you think might enjoy hearing that story?” “How do you feel right now?”

Story-sharing is a gift of love, whether we are reading aloud or telling a personal experience. Christina Baldwin sums it up beautifully in her book, Storycatching: Making Sense of Our Lives Through the Power and Practice of Story:

“As creatures of story, we long for story: not just wordiness but the quality of interaction story engages in us. As we practice the art of story catching, we can look for opportunities to insert story space into our daily lives. Story shifts us into connection…” 

 

 

Notice what you notice...

What are you noticing as you go through the day? What draws your attention?

 

The art of noticing seems simple.

 

It usually begins with sense perception: we take in sound, light, colour, texture, and all the many phenomena that meet our sense doors. We may also notice strong emotions. But the art of noticing doesn't need to stop there. It has great potential. It can extend to include an awareness of the very lens or frame through which we view and experience our outer and inner life.

 

Becoming aware of the lens is akin to planting a seed of wisdom. We begin to realize that our noticing may be coloured by some form of desire, or tinged with a shade of aversion, or obscured by the mist of confusion.

 

By recognizing the lens or frame as another temporary appearance, we see how it, too, is a construct. It is dependent on conditions, like the culture or family we grew up in, the current state of the world, or the person in whose company we find ourselves. Old habits are hard to shake, but once we are able to identify the attitude that is colouring our perception, it becomes easier to challenge that framework, and to allow clear seeing and mindfulness to do the work of letting go. Noticing fear allows us to recognize and learn about the nature of fear, without making it into my fear. Adjusting our frame, so to speak, allows us to view our experience with more spaciousness.

 

As we approach mid-March, signs of spring are everywhere: the buds, the blossoms, the first daffodils in bloom. Our attention is naturally drawn to colour and to change in our environment.

 

Lingering to take in the patterns of shadows on the street, or the lacework of branches overhead, stopping to breathe in the spicy scent of witch hazel...according to the science of well-being, this is not just good for us, it also builds resilience.

 

By really taking in what brings us pleasure and happiness, we are counteracting the negativity bias, which served us when we had to look out for predators, but isn't so useful in modern life, as it often means we are constantly on the alert. Thus we fail to appreciate what is good and beautiful in our lives. And what happens? We miss many opportunities to strengthen our hearts and minds, building resilience to meet the difficult and unexpected challenges that are bound to come. This is the core of Dr. Rick Hanson's book, Resilience. 

 

A friend sent me a link to a wonderful poem by Lemn Sissay. His playful use of language challenges us to celebrate the overlooked and to find beauty in unusual places.

 

To pay attention is a skill that we can develop. It might help us to recognize when we are skipping over the beneficial experiences in our lives. It may also help us to recognize the frame through which we view our experience and to understand why we are in such a hurry to get on to the next thing. Paying attention also invites us to move beyond categories of liking and not liking, extending our appreciation and interest to everything we do, until the whole field of awareness opens up.

 

The currency of our attention is a rare and precious gift. How are we spending it?