“Imagination is the…priestess who against…the wishes of all systems and structures insists on celebrating the liturgy of presence.” – John O’Donohue, Eternal Echoes, p. 217.
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We may think of the dreamy storyteller as anything but present, but are they? As a teller of tales, I spend much more time listening for story than I do in the telling of story. Listening takes place in boundless spheres. Of course, we hear story in the books and articles we choose to read and in the films and shows we choose to watch. We also hear story in the conversations that we are privy to – whether it’s a two-minute exchange with an acquaintance in line at the coffee shop or intentionally sitting down with a beloved aunt for two hours on a Saturday morning. Where else does story touch us?
In one seminary class, our professor sent us outside – with notepads and with open eyes, ears, and hearts. The instruction was to go outside, listen, and come back with an original poem. It need not be good, but it must be written. Did G-d speak to us? Did the campus pond, the sycamore, the passing squirrel whisper poetry in our ears? I can only say that “in listening, we heard” …and recorded.
Of course, rather than some external source, it may be argued that we listened for our own imaginative musings. Debate about the source of the poem or story may interest your intellect, but of relevance to the storyteller is this: In listening, we hear.
And: Listening requires presence.
Every storyteller I have met is a mammal and mammals tend to enjoy being outdoors. There’s lots going on outdoors. Temperatures vary. Winds pick up or slow down. Birds are singing or silent or absent. The variety of species of insects within a mile radius of you right now is mind blowing. Storytellers, like most mammals, are very curious creatures.
They listen for story.
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Borrowing from my professor’s playbook: Grab a notepad and a pen or pencil. Put on your coat and warm hat if it’s chilly outside. Bring an umbrella if you wish, but get out there. Speak no words. Listen. Find a spot your drawn towards and, in silence, pay attention with your eyes. Listen with your eyes. Listen for at least seven minutes, then write (record) for at least eight minutes: a poem, thoughts, observations, maybe the beginning of a story. It need not be good – just listen, hear, and record.
(Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, “Sacred Earth.” )