RABBITS IN HEADLIGHTS, BEWARE!
Have you ever wondered what it would be like trying to get any kind of sensible conversation or just an acknowledgement from a rabbit in headlights?
That is what it’s like trying to communicate with someone who has retreated into catalepsy, the conscious mind in overload totally overwhelmed and unable to move. That guy Adams had the name for it – going Tharn – now there’s a phrase; something we all know because we all go Tharn every so often. Every time we get ourselves into situations where something we hadn’t banked on happening happens and in a split second BAM! There’s no time, no sense, no communication between the brain and the limbs – no communication between the brain and the brain. Your poor unconscious mind clammering in the background trying to be heard but also entranced to the extent that on occasion it forgets to do the breathing thing!
That one thing that is after all, so important to our continued presence on Earth.
Meltdown can also be a positive place to start; although we find it hard to perceive this as so, it really is the beginning of everything. The various meltdown soups that have resulted in life itself are mirrored occasionally in the creative drive of a lot of artists. I say a lot of and not all, that is because I would be presumptive in the least to do so and let’s face it the artists in question would prefer to be ‘wil-o-the-wisp’ types whose creative urges are a mystery even to themselves. That’s what makes them tick – just don’t try to tell them that!
So here we are, back in the headlights. What is the positive thing? Well, for the rabbit he’s probably frozen in terror and is getting ready to leap to the great warren in the sky. I really couldn’t hazard a guess as to what would go on in a rabbit’s brain, I’m too much ingrained in the clichéd breeding thing. Oh, and of course the good old stand by ‘What’s up doc?’ from Bugs Bunny. I digress, but isn’t it fun? This is what doesn’t happen during meltdown, the mind cannot meander down tangent-dental, (there go the rabbits again!), paths. Everything becomes totally crystal clear, there is no past, no future, there is just this precise moment, and their will never be another like it. I can attest to this, trust me, I have been in the headlights of a car and it’s the most bizarre experience that anyone can have. Your imminent demise is hurtling upon you and the most inane thought goes through your mind. Mine was ‘God, he’s shifting it a bit…’ Then there was absolute peace and a feeling of being yanked out of myself, like some massive force that gave no sensation of mass removed me from the space I occupied just a nano second before the car was at zero point of no return.
And yanked I was! I had been wearing little suede boots, with elasticated sides; this was after all the eighties! They were still in the middle of the road in a ballet stance position and me; well I was on the pavement over a metre away. I don’t know, I cannot answer that question to your satisfaction, because it has never truly been answered to mine. The reason for that lies in my need for logical conclusions to logical problems – there are two of me in here, as there are for most people, (some have more than two but that then is a bigger state than Texas and I’m not talking about Alaska!) my logical self knows full well that the logical conclusion of this incident would have been fractures to the left leg and probably the skull and quite possibly the spine too – he was going quite fast; the man in the Volkeswagon Golf Gti.
The other part of me, my little friend unconscious mind person, is quite comfortable with the not so logical explanation that takes us into the realm of Spirit and belief systems.
A Foray into the Forest,with Leslie Marsh
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Faerie tales
Storytelling for the soul
Since we came together around a fire in the depths of caves, we have told each other tales. I would imagine that at first their would be not much in the way of “Once Upon a timing!” unless it was in picture form; which from the cave paintings we know is the case. The earliest of tales would be those of the hunt, as that would be the main undertaking of early man. Sustenance, food and clothing - shelter, wherever these were sought a battle would ensue for the prize, between different clans or tribes for territory between different families within those clans or tribes. The victorious would wish to pass on how it was done, and what not to do; more by example than conversation, as linguistics then was still very basic, body language was the main communication model, (as it remains today, verbal communication is still only 7% of our total communication).
The awe-inspiring adventures of the best hunters, the adrenaline filled battles with great beasts of the forest and plains, the knowledge of survival. I wonder, can you imagine what it would have been like to sit in the evening, listening to the snuffling…. snorting… hooting… howling…menacing growling of faceless, unseen and unknown predatory creatures of the night. The only source of light from the moon and stars of the vast, dark skies above and the sparking, sputtering, flickering fire; feeding itself ravenously on the kindling and logs, pockets of air popping…trans…forming the frame of the wood, as you sit…trans…. fixed, staring as the flames lick and taste the night air, straining to get as close as possible, so close that the hair on your legs and arms singe black and smell charnel, almost to the point of roasting, sweat…running…rivulets down backs almost broken having spent the light time hours foraging for logs for the great fire. Trans….ported to another plane with each plume of smoke as the embers glow white – bright to purple orange ribbons, casting shadows and changing the faces of all the people and even the face of the caves, making the known and familiar, unknown…unfamiliar…undone.
Sated after the food of the days hunt, waiting, watching, wanting the story to begin. Can you feel the anticipation bubbling deep inside the well of your being? You can, can’t you? As the Shaman, the wise one, the one with eyes to see in the darkest of darks, the keeper of the history of you, are the history, you are his…story. The greatest and best of the warriors, the one every other one trusts with the knowing of where there will be food and the when. The knowing of the seasons and the plants and trees that heal the wounds and cure the sick; as he stands in the glow of the fire, under the great starry skies, the anticipation becomes excitement, the bubbling becomes a rush, a torrent of gleefulness and awe. He will tell a story – he will be the warrior and he will be the great beast of the forest – he will tell the telling tale and the tale will tell itself to each and everyone in their own space and in their own talk. As the telling flows each one will become the wolf, the bear the deer, each one will connect with the Shaman and will relive the scene; at once victor and prey, honouring the sacrifice of life to give life, and each one will remember the most important thing.
The well being and continued success of the people depended upon the teller making sure this knowing was passed along in it’s entirety, and with each telling the richer the tale would become and then it would become integral to the survival and identity of the people; without such knowledge where would we be today?
Different cultures and races had their own ways of doing this, the only permanent records being the cave paintings. Most indigenous peoples relied on the passing of the stories from one Shaman to the next or from parent to child, and so a large percentage of tribal history was lost when they became Christianised. The paintings survived, deep in caves and tell of hunts – but were they hunts that had already taken place or were they ‘telling’ their future hunt? Building success before the fact. What is known is that these paintings would be re- enacted in dance, a ritual story telling through movement; most likely preceding the cave paintings, perhaps in part the inspiration of the cave art.
It is believed that art came before conversation, but miming or mumming (still used in some African villages today due to the prevalence of diverse dialects), probably came first, as a more direct and immediate form of communication, necessity even then being the mother of invention.
The successful hunts would be danced again before new hunts were embarked upon. Pieces of wood struck together, someone blowing and sucking air into a hollow branch a wonderfully resonant noise would grow from the wood; the continuous drone of this coupled with the beating of sticks and stamping of feet, chanting of those without branches or sticks, the striking of a skin pulled taut on a frame, a steady pulsating, beat…heart…beat…drumming…thrumming…resonating, reverberating in the chests of those dancers and those who are yet to dance to the drum… beat… of their heart… beat… of the drum. The dancers mimicking the stance of the warriors, the stealthy but jerking steps, the hooting…huffing grunted commentary fixing each one, pulling them in to the beat of the dance of the heart of the beat of the dance. They see the prey – they become the prey – they know the prey - they stalk the prey – they kill the prey – they thank the prey, and all are fed, to live and dance another day. Whooping…whirling dervishes… learning as they dance their hunt, hunting the learning of the dance. Learning to shift…. to trans…form… shape…shift…trans…. send their thoughts and pray for the prey to give itself up to a successful kill. This way history is begun, a record being made and communicated to new eyes and ears and hearts. It is how we learned to let our spirits soar.
The tradition of story telling beginning as a guide to survival, danced in some cases and painted in most, but certainly celebrated regularly by all the people, becoming a social event a bonding event and a way to educate the next generation while venerating the generation before. Great battles re-enacted, great victories over nature itself, but still honouring the fallen be they warriors or animals – and did they differentiate the two? For when so connected was there a beginning of one and an end of another? But that is another story……
Not just the physical battles were recounted. More and more the people would listen to the Shamen of the clans when they recounted their journeys to the spiritual plains. These journeys were recognised as useful skills and were honed as such by the Shamen, ( men or women who had been ‘chosen’ to be the spiritual warriors of the people by virtue of their abilities in battle or their lineage, most times elevated to the role within the family unit, but still requiring to be proven in their expertise. A journey was the spirit being allowed to roam through different spiritual planes to gather information on anything from where to pitch a tent to connecting with the elders who had passed from the physical plain, to seek their guidance or to explain sudden ailments or runs of misfortune. They would return from these journeys and bring back information relevant to the well being of one person or for the entire clan and its future successes. That their information was good and true was imperative to the continued survival of the people. The truth of these journeys, and their relevance to the people was compounded by the rites of manhood. When a warrior would reach a certain age i.e. puberty, they would be sent out on their own vision quest: out into the wilderness for as many days and nights that it took to make a kill, make a fire, make a shelter and most importantly to have a vision.
For all you feminists out there, there were rites for the girls too in most societies. At menstruation the girls would be inducted to a moon lodge (in Native American Culture), a celebration of their womanhood and their power. Menstrual blood was sacred in many cultures and this was a more obvious sign of transition, therefore it lessened the need to go out and kill something, (after all – anyone who suffers from PMT will recognise the will to kill anything and everything –particularly anything human and male – at least once a month for the foreseeable as being enough to contend with!). Girl power was very big in the old days, and women were revered as life givers and were treated with deference and respect, they were equals in the Shamanic way of things and often there would be a working team – yin and yang, male and female. Working together for the good of the one; the ‘one’ being the tribe, they saw themselves as one entity each member being an integral part of the whole. Something we managed to lose sight of in our race for technological supremacy over Mother Nature.
With that in mind- coming onto Western culture, what on earth was with the Brothers Grimm? And how sanitised was Hans Christian Anderson (Danny Kaye notwithstanding)? What happened that we digressed so far from the dependence on nature? What on earth are these things about anyway – and why do we continue in this day and age to read them to our children and re-live them for ourselves? Does the Bardic tradition still haunt our psyche so much that we perpetuate something we no longer understand – or does our sub-conscious understand it all too well? That’s the kicker isn’t it? That which drives us on or under is the one who listens and absorbs the lessons of the faerie tale; for when we lost our dependence on nature we did not loose the ability to learn from a well told tale! Bible stories taking precedence for a long time still did not speak to the inner child the way that faerie tales could. Nor the tales told from the knees of the matriarch in many cultures especially the Celtic.
I suggest that it would be true to say that because of our loss of connection to nature – when we became towns instead of villages, cities instead of towns, strangers instead of families, units instead of communities, the need for education through stories became even more vital; and the way to a child’s primary survival mode is to give it something to worry about – gently of course – after all it did happen to someone else, didn’t it? Ask any Tibetan mother how she disciplines a naughty child. They don’t chastise, they don’t smack, they tell them a really Grimm story, a horror story to make the child aware of the dark side of life and how easy it is to fall foul of it.
That of course is where the magic kicks in. Jung would argue that magic is definitely not the word and we won’t even go to Freud (he had two sisters you know)! However we would like to put it, before the age of ‘OhmiGod they can’t mean to make me listen to this, do that, wear that, do that thing I did when I was like 10 or something’ (the 10 or something being the week before their birthday when they were only 12)!
Up until the day we repeat our own potty training and put a child’s imagination into a box, they have no boundaries. That’s why they can see wicked witches in a pile of clothes on a chair in their bedrooms – that’s why sometimes in the deepest darkest hour before dawn when we wake from that dream we can see that old hag for a second or two and our heart rate reaches mach II until we come forward from the depth of sleep and rationalise it all away, because until we do come forward that 6 year old is in charge, and their imagination is still pretty much out there, until we the adult take back command of the brain. It’s like flushing the toilet – whoops there it goes – bye bye and it’s forgotten until the next ‘dream’.
Stories speak to our inner child, they give warnings, ‘beware the thing that speaks so nicely, the thing that offers you all that you wish for no good reason. Beware the wolf in the forest – he may not be all he seems. There are giants and ogres and trolls who feed on your energy, your joy, they feed on you – and you will die because of this, and death comes in many different guises. Be aware that there are not nice people in the world and no matter how rich or beautiful you are bad things happen to everyone – BUT if you are resourceful and true of heart you can beat just about any bogeyman in the forest. You can best the wickedest of the wiliest…will sucking hope killing witches. You can remember all the charms and all the ways to win. All you have to do is to learn well the lessons, and I’m not sure if you know…. but…you are learning… as you sit here reading this, and you know you can – can you not? Believe that you can learn by listening to a story. Let me tell you how. Take my hand and come with me to a place that you know very well. It’s your place; it’s your playground. Let’s see where the wolf lives and where the Billy Goats’ Gruff go trip…trip… tripping over the bridge. Let’s take a walk in the forest, the sun is shining…. glowing warm and safe, the day stretches elastic young before us, the path is clear and I have a pretty red cloak, I shall let you wear it if you like, and a picnic for Grandma, there’s lots to eat and cool lemonade to drink, if we take some it will make the basket that much lighter. Shall we stay on the path or shall we just wander and see what happens? Isn’t it fun to explore? Take my hand, it’s just a short journey, and quicker if we go through the woods, there’s a place by a stream where a cottage sits – made of wonderful sweet things. I wonder…. if you are wondering…and it’s a good thing to wonder… just what those sweet things… could be and how would they fit on your tongue, and would they taste like the colour they are? Let’s go inside, deep inside the forest….
Once upon a time………………………………………………………..
Copyright. Leslie A Currie 2006
Storytelling for the soul
Since we came together around a fire in the depths of caves, we have told each other tales. I would imagine that at first their would be not much in the way of “Once Upon a timing!” unless it was in picture form; which from the cave paintings we know is the case. The earliest of tales would be those of the hunt, as that would be the main undertaking of early man. Sustenance, food and clothing - shelter, wherever these were sought a battle would ensue for the prize, between different clans or tribes for territory between different families within those clans or tribes. The victorious would wish to pass on how it was done, and what not to do; more by example than conversation, as linguistics then was still very basic, body language was the main communication model, (as it remains today, verbal communication is still only 7% of our total communication).
The awe-inspiring adventures of the best hunters, the adrenaline filled battles with great beasts of the forest and plains, the knowledge of survival. I wonder, can you imagine what it would have been like to sit in the evening, listening to the snuffling…. snorting… hooting… howling…menacing growling of faceless, unseen and unknown predatory creatures of the night. The only source of light from the moon and stars of the vast, dark skies above and the sparking, sputtering, flickering fire; feeding itself ravenously on the kindling and logs, pockets of air popping…trans…forming the frame of the wood, as you sit…trans…. fixed, staring as the flames lick and taste the night air, straining to get as close as possible, so close that the hair on your legs and arms singe black and smell charnel, almost to the point of roasting, sweat…running…rivulets down backs almost broken having spent the light time hours foraging for logs for the great fire. Trans….ported to another plane with each plume of smoke as the embers glow white – bright to purple orange ribbons, casting shadows and changing the faces of all the people and even the face of the caves, making the known and familiar, unknown…unfamiliar…undone.
Sated after the food of the days hunt, waiting, watching, wanting the story to begin. Can you feel the anticipation bubbling deep inside the well of your being? You can, can’t you? As the Shaman, the wise one, the one with eyes to see in the darkest of darks, the keeper of the history of you, are the history, you are his…story. The greatest and best of the warriors, the one every other one trusts with the knowing of where there will be food and the when. The knowing of the seasons and the plants and trees that heal the wounds and cure the sick; as he stands in the glow of the fire, under the great starry skies, the anticipation becomes excitement, the bubbling becomes a rush, a torrent of gleefulness and awe. He will tell a story – he will be the warrior and he will be the great beast of the forest – he will tell the telling tale and the tale will tell itself to each and everyone in their own space and in their own talk. As the telling flows each one will become the wolf, the bear the deer, each one will connect with the Shaman and will relive the scene; at once victor and prey, honouring the sacrifice of life to give life, and each one will remember the most important thing.
The well being and continued success of the people depended upon the teller making sure this knowing was passed along in it’s entirety, and with each telling the richer the tale would become and then it would become integral to the survival and identity of the people; without such knowledge where would we be today?
Different cultures and races had their own ways of doing this, the only permanent records being the cave paintings. Most indigenous peoples relied on the passing of the stories from one Shaman to the next or from parent to child, and so a large percentage of tribal history was lost when they became Christianised. The paintings survived, deep in caves and tell of hunts – but were they hunts that had already taken place or were they ‘telling’ their future hunt? Building success before the fact. What is known is that these paintings would be re- enacted in dance, a ritual story telling through movement; most likely preceding the cave paintings, perhaps in part the inspiration of the cave art.
It is believed that art came before conversation, but miming or mumming (still used in some African villages today due to the prevalence of diverse dialects), probably came first, as a more direct and immediate form of communication, necessity even then being the mother of invention.
The successful hunts would be danced again before new hunts were embarked upon. Pieces of wood struck together, someone blowing and sucking air into a hollow branch a wonderfully resonant noise would grow from the wood; the continuous drone of this coupled with the beating of sticks and stamping of feet, chanting of those without branches or sticks, the striking of a skin pulled taut on a frame, a steady pulsating, beat…heart…beat…drumming…thrumming…resonating, reverberating in the chests of those dancers and those who are yet to dance to the drum… beat… of their heart… beat… of the drum. The dancers mimicking the stance of the warriors, the stealthy but jerking steps, the hooting…huffing grunted commentary fixing each one, pulling them in to the beat of the dance of the heart of the beat of the dance. They see the prey – they become the prey – they know the prey - they stalk the prey – they kill the prey – they thank the prey, and all are fed, to live and dance another day. Whooping…whirling dervishes… learning as they dance their hunt, hunting the learning of the dance. Learning to shift…. to trans…form… shape…shift…trans…. send their thoughts and pray for the prey to give itself up to a successful kill. This way history is begun, a record being made and communicated to new eyes and ears and hearts. It is how we learned to let our spirits soar.
The tradition of story telling beginning as a guide to survival, danced in some cases and painted in most, but certainly celebrated regularly by all the people, becoming a social event a bonding event and a way to educate the next generation while venerating the generation before. Great battles re-enacted, great victories over nature itself, but still honouring the fallen be they warriors or animals – and did they differentiate the two? For when so connected was there a beginning of one and an end of another? But that is another story……
Not just the physical battles were recounted. More and more the people would listen to the Shamen of the clans when they recounted their journeys to the spiritual plains. These journeys were recognised as useful skills and were honed as such by the Shamen, ( men or women who had been ‘chosen’ to be the spiritual warriors of the people by virtue of their abilities in battle or their lineage, most times elevated to the role within the family unit, but still requiring to be proven in their expertise. A journey was the spirit being allowed to roam through different spiritual planes to gather information on anything from where to pitch a tent to connecting with the elders who had passed from the physical plain, to seek their guidance or to explain sudden ailments or runs of misfortune. They would return from these journeys and bring back information relevant to the well being of one person or for the entire clan and its future successes. That their information was good and true was imperative to the continued survival of the people. The truth of these journeys, and their relevance to the people was compounded by the rites of manhood. When a warrior would reach a certain age i.e. puberty, they would be sent out on their own vision quest: out into the wilderness for as many days and nights that it took to make a kill, make a fire, make a shelter and most importantly to have a vision.
For all you feminists out there, there were rites for the girls too in most societies. At menstruation the girls would be inducted to a moon lodge (in Native American Culture), a celebration of their womanhood and their power. Menstrual blood was sacred in many cultures and this was a more obvious sign of transition, therefore it lessened the need to go out and kill something, (after all – anyone who suffers from PMT will recognise the will to kill anything and everything –particularly anything human and male – at least once a month for the foreseeable as being enough to contend with!). Girl power was very big in the old days, and women were revered as life givers and were treated with deference and respect, they were equals in the Shamanic way of things and often there would be a working team – yin and yang, male and female. Working together for the good of the one; the ‘one’ being the tribe, they saw themselves as one entity each member being an integral part of the whole. Something we managed to lose sight of in our race for technological supremacy over Mother Nature.
With that in mind- coming onto Western culture, what on earth was with the Brothers Grimm? And how sanitised was Hans Christian Anderson (Danny Kaye notwithstanding)? What happened that we digressed so far from the dependence on nature? What on earth are these things about anyway – and why do we continue in this day and age to read them to our children and re-live them for ourselves? Does the Bardic tradition still haunt our psyche so much that we perpetuate something we no longer understand – or does our sub-conscious understand it all too well? That’s the kicker isn’t it? That which drives us on or under is the one who listens and absorbs the lessons of the faerie tale; for when we lost our dependence on nature we did not loose the ability to learn from a well told tale! Bible stories taking precedence for a long time still did not speak to the inner child the way that faerie tales could. Nor the tales told from the knees of the matriarch in many cultures especially the Celtic.
I suggest that it would be true to say that because of our loss of connection to nature – when we became towns instead of villages, cities instead of towns, strangers instead of families, units instead of communities, the need for education through stories became even more vital; and the way to a child’s primary survival mode is to give it something to worry about – gently of course – after all it did happen to someone else, didn’t it? Ask any Tibetan mother how she disciplines a naughty child. They don’t chastise, they don’t smack, they tell them a really Grimm story, a horror story to make the child aware of the dark side of life and how easy it is to fall foul of it.
That of course is where the magic kicks in. Jung would argue that magic is definitely not the word and we won’t even go to Freud (he had two sisters you know)! However we would like to put it, before the age of ‘OhmiGod they can’t mean to make me listen to this, do that, wear that, do that thing I did when I was like 10 or something’ (the 10 or something being the week before their birthday when they were only 12)!
Up until the day we repeat our own potty training and put a child’s imagination into a box, they have no boundaries. That’s why they can see wicked witches in a pile of clothes on a chair in their bedrooms – that’s why sometimes in the deepest darkest hour before dawn when we wake from that dream we can see that old hag for a second or two and our heart rate reaches mach II until we come forward from the depth of sleep and rationalise it all away, because until we do come forward that 6 year old is in charge, and their imagination is still pretty much out there, until we the adult take back command of the brain. It’s like flushing the toilet – whoops there it goes – bye bye and it’s forgotten until the next ‘dream’.
Stories speak to our inner child, they give warnings, ‘beware the thing that speaks so nicely, the thing that offers you all that you wish for no good reason. Beware the wolf in the forest – he may not be all he seems. There are giants and ogres and trolls who feed on your energy, your joy, they feed on you – and you will die because of this, and death comes in many different guises. Be aware that there are not nice people in the world and no matter how rich or beautiful you are bad things happen to everyone – BUT if you are resourceful and true of heart you can beat just about any bogeyman in the forest. You can best the wickedest of the wiliest…will sucking hope killing witches. You can remember all the charms and all the ways to win. All you have to do is to learn well the lessons, and I’m not sure if you know…. but…you are learning… as you sit here reading this, and you know you can – can you not? Believe that you can learn by listening to a story. Let me tell you how. Take my hand and come with me to a place that you know very well. It’s your place; it’s your playground. Let’s see where the wolf lives and where the Billy Goats’ Gruff go trip…trip… tripping over the bridge. Let’s take a walk in the forest, the sun is shining…. glowing warm and safe, the day stretches elastic young before us, the path is clear and I have a pretty red cloak, I shall let you wear it if you like, and a picnic for Grandma, there’s lots to eat and cool lemonade to drink, if we take some it will make the basket that much lighter. Shall we stay on the path or shall we just wander and see what happens? Isn’t it fun to explore? Take my hand, it’s just a short journey, and quicker if we go through the woods, there’s a place by a stream where a cottage sits – made of wonderful sweet things. I wonder…. if you are wondering…and it’s a good thing to wonder… just what those sweet things… could be and how would they fit on your tongue, and would they taste like the colour they are? Let’s go inside, deep inside the forest….
Once upon a time………………………………………………………..
Copyright. Leslie A Currie 2006
Faerie tales
Storytelling for the soul
Since we came together around a fire in the depths of caves, we have told each other tales. I would imagine that at first their would be not much in the way of “Once Upon a timing!” unless it was in picture form; which from the cave paintings we know is the case. The earliest of tales would be those of the hunt, as that would be the main undertaking of early man. Sustenance, food and clothing - shelter, wherever these were sought a battle would ensue for the prize, between different clans or tribes for territory between different families within those clans or tribes. The victorious would wish to pass on how it was done, and what not to do; more by example than conversation, as linguistics then was still very basic, body language was the main communication model, (as it remains today, verbal communication is still only 7% of our total communication).
The awe-inspiring adventures of the best hunters, the adrenaline filled battles with great beasts of the forest and plains, the knowledge of survival. I wonder, can you imagine what it would have been like to sit in the evening, listening to the snuffling…. snorting… hooting… howling…menacing growling of faceless, unseen and unknown predatory creatures of the night. The only source of light from the moon and stars of the vast, dark skies above and the sparking, sputtering, flickering fire; feeding itself ravenously on the kindling and logs, pockets of air popping…trans…forming the frame of the wood, as you sit…trans…. fixed, staring as the flames lick and taste the night air, straining to get as close as possible, so close that the hair on your legs and arms singe black and smell charnel, almost to the point of roasting, sweat…running…rivulets down backs almost broken having spent the light time hours foraging for logs for the great fire. Trans….ported to another plane with each plume of smoke as the embers glow white – bright to purple orange ribbons, casting shadows and changing the faces of all the people and even the face of the caves, making the known and familiar, unknown…unfamiliar…undone.
Sated after the food of the days hunt, waiting, watching, wanting the story to begin. Can you feel the anticipation bubbling deep inside the well of your being? You can, can’t you? As the Shaman, the wise one, the one with eyes to see in the darkest of darks, the keeper of the history of you, are the history, you are his…story. The greatest and best of the warriors, the one every other one trusts with the knowing of where there will be food and the when. The knowing of the seasons and the plants and trees that heal the wounds and cure the sick; as he stands in the glow of the fire, under the great starry skies, the anticipation becomes excitement, the bubbling becomes a rush, a torrent of gleefulness and awe. He will tell a story – he will be the warrior and he will be the great beast of the forest – he will tell the telling tale and the tale will tell itself to each and everyone in their own space and in their own talk. As the telling flows each one will become the wolf, the bear the deer, each one will connect with the Shaman and will relive the scene; at once victor and prey, honouring the sacrifice of life to give life, and each one will remember the most important thing.
The well being and continued success of the people depended upon the teller making sure this knowing was passed along in it’s entirety, and with each telling the richer the tale would become and then it would become integral to the survival and identity of the people; without such knowledge where would we be today?
Different cultures and races had their own ways of doing this, the only permanent records being the cave paintings. Most indigenous peoples relied on the passing of the stories from one Shaman to the next or from parent to child, and so a large percentage of tribal history was lost when they became Christianised. The paintings survived, deep in caves and tell of hunts – but were they hunts that had already taken place or were they ‘telling’ their future hunt? Building success before the fact. What is known is that these paintings would be re- enacted in dance, a ritual story telling through movement; most likely preceding the cave paintings, perhaps in part the inspiration of the cave art.
It is believed that art came before conversation, but miming or mumming (still used in some African villages today due to the prevalence of diverse dialects), probably came first, as a more direct and immediate form of communication, necessity even then being the mother of invention.
The successful hunts would be danced again before new hunts were embarked upon. Pieces of wood struck together, someone blowing and sucking air into a hollow branch a wonderfully resonant noise would grow from the wood; the continuous drone of this coupled with the beating of sticks and stamping of feet, chanting of those without branches or sticks, the striking of a skin pulled taut on a frame, a steady pulsating, beat…heart…beat…drumming…thrumming…resonating, reverberating in the chests of those dancers and those who are yet to dance to the drum… beat… of their heart… beat… of the drum. The dancers mimicking the stance of the warriors, the stealthy but jerking steps, the hooting…huffing grunted commentary fixing each one, pulling them in to the beat of the dance of the heart of the beat of the dance. They see the prey – they become the prey – they know the prey - they stalk the prey – they kill the prey – they thank the prey, and all are fed, to live and dance another day. Whooping…whirling dervishes… learning as they dance their hunt, hunting the learning of the dance. Learning to shift…. to trans…form… shape…shift…trans…. send their thoughts and pray for the prey to give itself up to a successful kill. This way history is begun, a record being made and communicated to new eyes and ears and hearts. It is how we learned to let our spirits soar.
The tradition of story telling beginning as a guide to survival, danced in some cases and painted in most, but certainly celebrated regularly by all the people, becoming a social event a bonding event and a way to educate the next generation while venerating the generation before. Great battles re-enacted, great victories over nature itself, but still honouring the fallen be they warriors or animals – and did they differentiate the two? For when so connected was there a beginning of one and an end of another? But that is another story……
Not just the physical battles were recounted. More and more the people would listen to the Shamen of the clans when they recounted their journeys to the spiritual plains. These journeys were recognised as useful skills and were honed as such by the Shamen, ( men or women who had been ‘chosen’ to be the spiritual warriors of the people by virtue of their abilities in battle or their lineage, most times elevated to the role within the family unit, but still requiring to be proven in their expertise. A journey was the spirit being allowed to roam through different spiritual planes to gather information on anything from where to pitch a tent to connecting with the elders who had passed from the physical plain, to seek their guidance or to explain sudden ailments or runs of misfortune. They would return from these journeys and bring back information relevant to the well being of one person or for the entire clan and its future successes. That their information was good and true was imperative to the continued survival of the people. The truth of these journeys, and their relevance to the people was compounded by the rites of manhood. When a warrior would reach a certain age i.e. puberty, they would be sent out on their own vision quest: out into the wilderness for as many days and nights that it took to make a kill, make a fire, make a shelter and most importantly to have a vision.
For all you feminists out there, there were rites for the girls too in most societies. At menstruation the girls would be inducted to a moon lodge (in Native American Culture), a celebration of their womanhood and their power. Menstrual blood was sacred in many cultures and this was a more obvious sign of transition, therefore it lessened the need to go out and kill something, (after all – anyone who suffers from PMT will recognise the will to kill anything and everything –particularly anything human and male – at least once a month for the foreseeable as being enough to contend with!). Girl power was very big in the old days, and women were revered as life givers and were treated with deference and respect, they were equals in the Shamanic way of things and often there would be a working team – yin and yang, male and female. Working together for the good of the one; the ‘one’ being the tribe, they saw themselves as one entity each member being an integral part of the whole. Something we managed to lose sight of in our race for technological supremacy over Mother Nature.
With that in mind- coming onto Western culture, what on earth was with the Brothers Grimm? And how sanitised was Hans Christian Anderson (Danny Kaye notwithstanding)? What happened that we digressed so far from the dependence on nature? What on earth are these things about anyway – and why do we continue in this day and age to read them to our children and re-live them for ourselves? Does the Bardic tradition still haunt our psyche so much that we perpetuate something we no longer understand – or does our sub-conscious understand it all too well? That’s the kicker isn’t it? That which drives us on or under is the one who listens and absorbs the lessons of the faerie tale; for when we lost our dependence on nature we did not loose the ability to learn from a well told tale! Bible stories taking precedence for a long time still did not speak to the inner child the way that faerie tales could. Nor the tales told from the knees of the matriarch in many cultures especially the Celtic.
I suggest that it would be true to say that because of our loss of connection to nature – when we became towns instead of villages, cities instead of towns, strangers instead of families, units instead of communities, the need for education through stories became even more vital; and the way to a child’s primary survival mode is to give it something to worry about – gently of course – after all it did happen to someone else, didn’t it? Ask any Tibetan mother how she disciplines a naughty child. They don’t chastise, they don’t smack, they tell them a really Grimm story, a horror story to make the child aware of the dark side of life and how easy it is to fall foul of it.
That of course is where the magic kicks in. Jung would argue that magic is definitely not the word and we won’t even go to Freud (he had two sisters you know)! However we would like to put it, before the age of ‘OhmiGod they can’t mean to make me listen to this, do that, wear that, do that thing I did when I was like 10 or something’ (the 10 or something being the week before their birthday when they were only 12)!
Up until the day we repeat our own potty training and put a child’s imagination into a box, they have no boundaries. That’s why they can see wicked witches in a pile of clothes on a chair in their bedrooms – that’s why sometimes in the deepest darkest hour before dawn when we wake from that dream we can see that old hag for a second or two and our heart rate reaches mach II until we come forward from the depth of sleep and rationalise it all away, because until we do come forward that 6 year old is in charge, and their imagination is still pretty much out there, until we the adult take back command of the brain. It’s like flushing the toilet – whoops there it goes – bye bye and it’s forgotten until the next ‘dream’.
Stories speak to our inner child, they give warnings, ‘beware the thing that speaks so nicely, the thing that offers you all that you wish for no good reason. Beware the wolf in the forest – he may not be all he seems. There are giants and ogres and trolls who feed on your energy, your joy, they feed on you – and you will die because of this, and death comes in many different guises. Be aware that there are not nice people in the world and no matter how rich or beautiful you are bad things happen to everyone – BUT if you are resourceful and true of heart you can beat just about any bogeyman in the forest. You can best the wickedest of the wiliest…will sucking hope killing witches. You can remember all the charms and all the ways to win. All you have to do is to learn well the lessons, and I’m not sure if you know…. but…you are learning… as you sit here reading this, and you know you can – can you not? Believe that you can learn by listening to a story. Let me tell you how. Take my hand and come with me to a place that you know very well. It’s your place; it’s your playground. Let’s see where the wolf lives and where the Billy Goats’ Gruff go trip…trip… tripping over the bridge. Let’s take a walk in the forest, the sun is shining…. glowing warm and safe, the day stretches elastic young before us, the path is clear and I have a pretty red cloak, I shall let you wear it if you like, and a picnic for Grandma, there’s lots to eat and cool lemonade to drink, if we take some it will make the basket that much lighter. Shall we stay on the path or shall we just wander and see what happens? Isn’t it fun to explore? Take my hand, it’s just a short journey, and quicker if we go through the woods, there’s a place by a stream where a cottage sits – made of wonderful sweet things. I wonder…. if you are wondering…and it’s a good thing to wonder… just what those sweet things… could be and how would they fit on your tongue, and would they taste like the colour they are? Let’s go inside, deep inside the forest….
Once upon a time………………………………………………………..
Copyright. Leslie A Currie 2006
Storytelling for the soul
Since we came together around a fire in the depths of caves, we have told each other tales. I would imagine that at first their would be not much in the way of “Once Upon a timing!” unless it was in picture form; which from the cave paintings we know is the case. The earliest of tales would be those of the hunt, as that would be the main undertaking of early man. Sustenance, food and clothing - shelter, wherever these were sought a battle would ensue for the prize, between different clans or tribes for territory between different families within those clans or tribes. The victorious would wish to pass on how it was done, and what not to do; more by example than conversation, as linguistics then was still very basic, body language was the main communication model, (as it remains today, verbal communication is still only 7% of our total communication).
The awe-inspiring adventures of the best hunters, the adrenaline filled battles with great beasts of the forest and plains, the knowledge of survival. I wonder, can you imagine what it would have been like to sit in the evening, listening to the snuffling…. snorting… hooting… howling…menacing growling of faceless, unseen and unknown predatory creatures of the night. The only source of light from the moon and stars of the vast, dark skies above and the sparking, sputtering, flickering fire; feeding itself ravenously on the kindling and logs, pockets of air popping…trans…forming the frame of the wood, as you sit…trans…. fixed, staring as the flames lick and taste the night air, straining to get as close as possible, so close that the hair on your legs and arms singe black and smell charnel, almost to the point of roasting, sweat…running…rivulets down backs almost broken having spent the light time hours foraging for logs for the great fire. Trans….ported to another plane with each plume of smoke as the embers glow white – bright to purple orange ribbons, casting shadows and changing the faces of all the people and even the face of the caves, making the known and familiar, unknown…unfamiliar…undone.
Sated after the food of the days hunt, waiting, watching, wanting the story to begin. Can you feel the anticipation bubbling deep inside the well of your being? You can, can’t you? As the Shaman, the wise one, the one with eyes to see in the darkest of darks, the keeper of the history of you, are the history, you are his…story. The greatest and best of the warriors, the one every other one trusts with the knowing of where there will be food and the when. The knowing of the seasons and the plants and trees that heal the wounds and cure the sick; as he stands in the glow of the fire, under the great starry skies, the anticipation becomes excitement, the bubbling becomes a rush, a torrent of gleefulness and awe. He will tell a story – he will be the warrior and he will be the great beast of the forest – he will tell the telling tale and the tale will tell itself to each and everyone in their own space and in their own talk. As the telling flows each one will become the wolf, the bear the deer, each one will connect with the Shaman and will relive the scene; at once victor and prey, honouring the sacrifice of life to give life, and each one will remember the most important thing.
The well being and continued success of the people depended upon the teller making sure this knowing was passed along in it’s entirety, and with each telling the richer the tale would become and then it would become integral to the survival and identity of the people; without such knowledge where would we be today?
Different cultures and races had their own ways of doing this, the only permanent records being the cave paintings. Most indigenous peoples relied on the passing of the stories from one Shaman to the next or from parent to child, and so a large percentage of tribal history was lost when they became Christianised. The paintings survived, deep in caves and tell of hunts – but were they hunts that had already taken place or were they ‘telling’ their future hunt? Building success before the fact. What is known is that these paintings would be re- enacted in dance, a ritual story telling through movement; most likely preceding the cave paintings, perhaps in part the inspiration of the cave art.
It is believed that art came before conversation, but miming or mumming (still used in some African villages today due to the prevalence of diverse dialects), probably came first, as a more direct and immediate form of communication, necessity even then being the mother of invention.
The successful hunts would be danced again before new hunts were embarked upon. Pieces of wood struck together, someone blowing and sucking air into a hollow branch a wonderfully resonant noise would grow from the wood; the continuous drone of this coupled with the beating of sticks and stamping of feet, chanting of those without branches or sticks, the striking of a skin pulled taut on a frame, a steady pulsating, beat…heart…beat…drumming…thrumming…resonating, reverberating in the chests of those dancers and those who are yet to dance to the drum… beat… of their heart… beat… of the drum. The dancers mimicking the stance of the warriors, the stealthy but jerking steps, the hooting…huffing grunted commentary fixing each one, pulling them in to the beat of the dance of the heart of the beat of the dance. They see the prey – they become the prey – they know the prey - they stalk the prey – they kill the prey – they thank the prey, and all are fed, to live and dance another day. Whooping…whirling dervishes… learning as they dance their hunt, hunting the learning of the dance. Learning to shift…. to trans…form… shape…shift…trans…. send their thoughts and pray for the prey to give itself up to a successful kill. This way history is begun, a record being made and communicated to new eyes and ears and hearts. It is how we learned to let our spirits soar.
The tradition of story telling beginning as a guide to survival, danced in some cases and painted in most, but certainly celebrated regularly by all the people, becoming a social event a bonding event and a way to educate the next generation while venerating the generation before. Great battles re-enacted, great victories over nature itself, but still honouring the fallen be they warriors or animals – and did they differentiate the two? For when so connected was there a beginning of one and an end of another? But that is another story……
Not just the physical battles were recounted. More and more the people would listen to the Shamen of the clans when they recounted their journeys to the spiritual plains. These journeys were recognised as useful skills and were honed as such by the Shamen, ( men or women who had been ‘chosen’ to be the spiritual warriors of the people by virtue of their abilities in battle or their lineage, most times elevated to the role within the family unit, but still requiring to be proven in their expertise. A journey was the spirit being allowed to roam through different spiritual planes to gather information on anything from where to pitch a tent to connecting with the elders who had passed from the physical plain, to seek their guidance or to explain sudden ailments or runs of misfortune. They would return from these journeys and bring back information relevant to the well being of one person or for the entire clan and its future successes. That their information was good and true was imperative to the continued survival of the people. The truth of these journeys, and their relevance to the people was compounded by the rites of manhood. When a warrior would reach a certain age i.e. puberty, they would be sent out on their own vision quest: out into the wilderness for as many days and nights that it took to make a kill, make a fire, make a shelter and most importantly to have a vision.
For all you feminists out there, there were rites for the girls too in most societies. At menstruation the girls would be inducted to a moon lodge (in Native American Culture), a celebration of their womanhood and their power. Menstrual blood was sacred in many cultures and this was a more obvious sign of transition, therefore it lessened the need to go out and kill something, (after all – anyone who suffers from PMT will recognise the will to kill anything and everything –particularly anything human and male – at least once a month for the foreseeable as being enough to contend with!). Girl power was very big in the old days, and women were revered as life givers and were treated with deference and respect, they were equals in the Shamanic way of things and often there would be a working team – yin and yang, male and female. Working together for the good of the one; the ‘one’ being the tribe, they saw themselves as one entity each member being an integral part of the whole. Something we managed to lose sight of in our race for technological supremacy over Mother Nature.
With that in mind- coming onto Western culture, what on earth was with the Brothers Grimm? And how sanitised was Hans Christian Anderson (Danny Kaye notwithstanding)? What happened that we digressed so far from the dependence on nature? What on earth are these things about anyway – and why do we continue in this day and age to read them to our children and re-live them for ourselves? Does the Bardic tradition still haunt our psyche so much that we perpetuate something we no longer understand – or does our sub-conscious understand it all too well? That’s the kicker isn’t it? That which drives us on or under is the one who listens and absorbs the lessons of the faerie tale; for when we lost our dependence on nature we did not loose the ability to learn from a well told tale! Bible stories taking precedence for a long time still did not speak to the inner child the way that faerie tales could. Nor the tales told from the knees of the matriarch in many cultures especially the Celtic.
I suggest that it would be true to say that because of our loss of connection to nature – when we became towns instead of villages, cities instead of towns, strangers instead of families, units instead of communities, the need for education through stories became even more vital; and the way to a child’s primary survival mode is to give it something to worry about – gently of course – after all it did happen to someone else, didn’t it? Ask any Tibetan mother how she disciplines a naughty child. They don’t chastise, they don’t smack, they tell them a really Grimm story, a horror story to make the child aware of the dark side of life and how easy it is to fall foul of it.
That of course is where the magic kicks in. Jung would argue that magic is definitely not the word and we won’t even go to Freud (he had two sisters you know)! However we would like to put it, before the age of ‘OhmiGod they can’t mean to make me listen to this, do that, wear that, do that thing I did when I was like 10 or something’ (the 10 or something being the week before their birthday when they were only 12)!
Up until the day we repeat our own potty training and put a child’s imagination into a box, they have no boundaries. That’s why they can see wicked witches in a pile of clothes on a chair in their bedrooms – that’s why sometimes in the deepest darkest hour before dawn when we wake from that dream we can see that old hag for a second or two and our heart rate reaches mach II until we come forward from the depth of sleep and rationalise it all away, because until we do come forward that 6 year old is in charge, and their imagination is still pretty much out there, until we the adult take back command of the brain. It’s like flushing the toilet – whoops there it goes – bye bye and it’s forgotten until the next ‘dream’.
Stories speak to our inner child, they give warnings, ‘beware the thing that speaks so nicely, the thing that offers you all that you wish for no good reason. Beware the wolf in the forest – he may not be all he seems. There are giants and ogres and trolls who feed on your energy, your joy, they feed on you – and you will die because of this, and death comes in many different guises. Be aware that there are not nice people in the world and no matter how rich or beautiful you are bad things happen to everyone – BUT if you are resourceful and true of heart you can beat just about any bogeyman in the forest. You can best the wickedest of the wiliest…will sucking hope killing witches. You can remember all the charms and all the ways to win. All you have to do is to learn well the lessons, and I’m not sure if you know…. but…you are learning… as you sit here reading this, and you know you can – can you not? Believe that you can learn by listening to a story. Let me tell you how. Take my hand and come with me to a place that you know very well. It’s your place; it’s your playground. Let’s see where the wolf lives and where the Billy Goats’ Gruff go trip…trip… tripping over the bridge. Let’s take a walk in the forest, the sun is shining…. glowing warm and safe, the day stretches elastic young before us, the path is clear and I have a pretty red cloak, I shall let you wear it if you like, and a picnic for Grandma, there’s lots to eat and cool lemonade to drink, if we take some it will make the basket that much lighter. Shall we stay on the path or shall we just wander and see what happens? Isn’t it fun to explore? Take my hand, it’s just a short journey, and quicker if we go through the woods, there’s a place by a stream where a cottage sits – made of wonderful sweet things. I wonder…. if you are wondering…and it’s a good thing to wonder… just what those sweet things… could be and how would they fit on your tongue, and would they taste like the colour they are? Let’s go inside, deep inside the forest….
Once upon a time………………………………………………………..
Copyright. Leslie A Currie 2006
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