Story and Maybe Not

Debbie Millman says that after years of offering her workshop on visual storytelling all over the world she has found that there are two main stories: of love or of loss/longing.

I have told myself and others that I am not much of a storyteller. That is both true and false. We are, as humans, all storytellers. I do not see myself as someone who relates stories well or with great relish.

A title I do claim, however, is listener. Listening is my wheelhouse and making sense of the stories people share feels like a calling.

So when a loved one I have not seen in several years takes the time to tell me parts of her story I never knew, I listen intently.

I learn about myself when I hear you tell me about yourself. My response to your story tells its own story. What you choose to share reveals another story about trust and intimacy. As I listen I become a part of your next stories.

I notice how age calls us to learn our stories by repeating them over and over. We tell the same story in different contexts to show that we know our own minds. We tell the same stories to confirm not only who we are but that we are. Often, the truth and the story do not need each other as much as we think they do.

Not every situation demands a retelling. That is a blessing.

If you listen, you may be surprised to hear which story your own voice is eager to tell.

To create a story from scratch, to build a world far from my own strikes me as by near impossible. I am grateful to the artists who manage it, who demonstrate what’s possible. I sit close and listen.


I began this post while I was still elsewhere but now I'm here, I'm back, I've returned.
Re-turn, to turn again. Where I find myself without knowing exactly what I'm looking for.
A moment passes and instantly we traffic in the past. What came before is neither news nor novelty,
it's memory - unreliable and fuzzy, a liquid relic in a leaky container.
A jumble of instances, experiences within and without, so much to remember and forget.
Re-member, to piece together again. An instinct with difficulty, this process.

I am back and I remember. I return and tell myself stories.
I am here in the now and it is already past. 
I return and pave the way to forget.


Story requires permission, right? Along the way to becoming it is subject to decision-making. The storyteller makes the rules.

What I hope you’ll hear could not be farther from my control. I release a story to the wind and its landing will always be a form of mystery. Understand: a feature, not a bug.

Author of fragments, assembler of impressions, writer/unwriter.

I’m back, I’ve returned and the exquisite dilemma of expression teases me with its dance.

White feathers displayed horizontally against black background,
image credit

In The Church of Grown Folks’ Music

Saeed Jones opens his memoir, How We Fight For Our Lives, and this happens:

“I Wanna Be Your Lover” comes on the kitchen radio                                                     and briefly, your mother isn’t your mother –

… Spinning, she looks at but doesn’t see you,                                                                           spinning, she sings lyrics too fast for you to pursue,                                                      spinning, she doesn’t have time for questions like:                                                               What is this nasty song and where did she learn                                                                    to dance like that and why, and who is this high pitched                                                      bitch of a man who can sing like a woman and turn                                                              your mother not into your mother but a woman,                                                                  not even a woman, but a box-braided black girl, …

( “Elegy with Grown Folks’ Music,” p. XI

My God, this scene. I can see it; I can see myself in my own kitchen caught in a revelry that envelopes me like a cloud when the right old school jam is on. One time I’m Chaka Khan singing “Sweet Thing,” the next time I am party to my own undoing while Barry White sets the stage. Grown folks’ music is right. It’s those tunes I knew and sang sitting on the back seat of my parents’ Chevy Impala and then later the station wagon.

WJMO – Cleveland’s soul station was on as long as my big brother was in the car. On the way to middle school, I memorized the lyrics to “You Are My Starship” in Mrs. Robinson’s carpool. I could sing all the songs but had less than a clue what they were really about. When I was maybe 7 or 8 our neighbor across the street, Mr. Bogan, liked to hear me sing “I’m Chairman of the Board” because I knew all the words and had it down. It always made him laugh and I was sure I’d become an actress one day.  My neighbors down the street, the Wheelers, their favorite song for me to imitate was “Can This Be Real.” Song imitations were my out-of-house social currency. Mimicry seemed to be a gift I had.

Like special aromas, the right melody can take us back to who we were in another time, practically in another life. Which how I can see Saeed Jones’s mother become the girl she was when Prince was brand new and “I Wanna Be Your Lover” was all any of us wanted to hear on the radio. I always dreamed of myself doing that silky hand dance to “Yearning For Your Love” with a handsome Black gentleman who would have all the moves and eyes only for me.  It never turned out quite like imagined, though. That young gentleman I envisioned never materialized and the consolation prizes who showed up lacked both moves and real interest. Alas, the hand dance of the century would not be my destiny.

When I allow myself to dip into my soul music revelry for real, I am usually alone, free to hit the high notes without shame, to shoop and swing like back in the day. I throw on a little nerve, some attitude, close my eyes and testify.

IMG_9592
photo by Alexandra Thompson

*For those who can’t get enough of these sounds, here’s a playlist I made earlier this year for #31DaysBIPOC

 

Welcoming Order into My Creative Chaos

A couple of  days ago I attended a wonderfully energizing presentation on learning and the brain. My colleague, Barbara Kaindl, who is a learning coach and memory trainer provided a host of useful tips and tricks for improving study habits while maintaining an enthusiasm for the process of learning.  Although the talk was designed for parents dealing with school aged children, I was struck by the number of tips I found thoroughly applicable to my work.  In a simple exercise she made an open and shut case for how much more efficiently the brain can operate when there is a recognizable order of things.  She showed us scattered numbers on a page something like this: (photo: http://fisforfirstgrade.blogspot.co.at/2011/03/who-likes-free-stuff.html)

and we had to find the missing number (unless you take 21, none are missing in the picture.). Then she offered the same set of numbers in a calendar format like this: https://edifiedlistener.files.wordpress.com/2014/09/39895-pumpkinnumbers.jpg(image: https://edifiedlistener.files.wordpress.com/2014/09/39895-pumpkinnumbers.jpg)

– no problem finding the missing numeral here (if one were missing).  In another example she had the group tell a story with a series of random words in order to demonstrate how much easier we found it to remember all 20 terms once they were embedded in a narrative of our own creation.

I left the event, fired up about what my colleague was bringing into the world and also celebrating my desire to do better:  To create more order in my work..

The scattered number image is a powerful one for me. It looks familiar – like a map of how my mind seems to want to work a lot of the time. I can enjoy jumping from topic to topic and decide where to go based on my internal brand of sequencing.  This approach has taken me far and also landed me in trouble on occasion. And I like it. It’s the kind of thinking that makes my days interesting and occasionally surprising.  At the same time, I can see how others – my family, clients, students – benefit from signs of order that help them know what to expect and how to approach things. This is where I can and will do better.

Writing up lists has helped. Keeping track of things on our family calendar also furthers the cause. Regularly circling back through my inbox to check for missed or overdue action items is a new habit.  And recently I collected and filed random papers that had piled up on and around my desk. That felt empowering. Part of this process involves giving a nod to my creative drive (which is all over the place) while gently stacking, sorting and prioritizing the evidence in ways which will help me find and use it later. My path to greater order is like walking on a see-saw. It’s a balancing act. I move in stages between the extremes. And when I’ve found that sweet spot in the middle where I control the ups and downs, I can hardly believe my good luck.  Balance is possible, if only for a moment.