Where you can find us. A bit of what we do...part 1

We are based near Glasgow and work there and all over the West of Scotland bringing Shamanism and Faerie Tales to light in a new and interactive way. We also travel to such far flung places as the rest of the UK & Ireland, France and Canada to present workshops and attend conferences. If there is anything you would like to know please do get in touch we are available on Skype and by email see the web site. http://www.spiralheart.co.uk You can also see more of us at http://www.petitebearrousse.wordpress.com

The Tale That Is The Most Important Thing

Everyone has a favourite story. A story or a nursery rhyme that when heard or read whisks them back to the time of safety and security a nostalgia of sleepy time stories or the perhaps one time in school we all paid attention as one unit. What is it about stories? What is it we love so much? We connect through time and space with stories. We keep ourselves secure inside, with the knowledge that all will be well as long as the story is told and retold. Strangely though, often these stories are not how they began - they change with each generation - with each telling. We have many stories that we tell but one brings us to the path of curiousity again and again. It has changed and grown and become its own being from the time I read it as a little girl (I don't remember it being read to me)to the present day. There was a point in between where I had that wonderful Eureka moment, what some might call an epiphany, when I thought for the firs time consciously, 'What if...? That question is the adventurer question, the Quester's question, the heroes question. It is the begining of a journey of pure delight and curiosity. My 'What if...' was to do with the little girl in the red hooded cloak and how perhaps if we looked at it from a different perspective we might see things in a totally new way. As with all of these 'What if...?" questions I began a journey of discovery, wonder and magic. A path of initiation and rites of passage and I realised that if this was so then...'What if...' Thereby hung the tail of the Shamanic Faerie Tale events at Ladywell where we have revisited, Goldilocks, and The Selkie Wife and we have peeked into the life of Morag and her shenannigans with the Water Horse and even danced a little with Karen in her Red Shoes. Most recently we have enjoyed the company of Rumplestiltskin and the next on our journey is the Puss with the penchant for boots! The most interesting thing is who comes to hear, and not just to hear but to tell their story, by journeying into the tale. There are some who come every month, but there are those who come only once or twice, they love it but they have no need to come back, and there are some who are regular participants but will not fancy a particular story, and that is where the magic is, for it is all ways the people who will get the most out of the story who come to hear whichever is right for them at that time. Serendipity aside, we find ourselves wondering what the next story will be and oft times it is just as we are about to say goodnight to everyone that it will come forward and introduce itself. Sometimes I find myself wondering how on earth it will flow I have a long time since learned to let it be what it is and trust it will bring what it has to for whomever arrives to hear it. So if you have young children and you want them to learn in wonder and curiosity begin with a Faerie Tale, and then teach them the joy of 'What if...' and see where their imagination takes them. Tis the stuff that dreams are made of that we make real in time.

From an Article for Fifth Element Magazine

Shaman...What’s that?
The word Shaman comes from the language of a tribe in Northern Siberia the Tungus. It is a word that has many meanings the easiest of which is the generic ‘healer’ but the more interesting and probably closer translation is like the tag line, ‘The one with eyes to see in the dark’.
There are as many different types of Shamanism as there are peoples on this Earth and each one has their own unique way of dealing with their people’s dis-ease, problems and queries.
The most interesting thing about this is that it is the oldest belief system on Earth; perhaps even in the Universe (I’ll have to get back to you on that one!)
Cave paintings that have been found dating back about 100,000 years show the primitive lives that were led at that time and the mainstay of that life was the hunt, for without food there could be no tribe.
Across the world there were tribes in the same situations and at the same stage of evolution. The other thing they all had in common was their Shamans, and what they had in common was a central or core belief system.
Shamanism is an animistic belief system. It has all to do with how the animals lived and hunted and fought and survived on this great planet of ours. The Shamans drew parallels and observed closely the animals’ behaviour and their connection with their environment, this also set apart from the others of the tribe because they could do, see and know things that others did not.
An eminent anthropologist called Le Barre once said that there were Shamans before there were Gods.
One story which explains this well is the story of the arrival of the first ships on the coast of what is now the America’s. No-one could see the ships because they had no knowledge of what they were – they could not conceive of a vessel such as a galleon. However, one Shaman noticed a disturbance on the water and he drew from his experience of observing the water for fishing and the strange disturbance grew in size and shape before him and then he saw the new thing and went off to tell his tale to the chiefs of the people.
So it is more a lack of limitation of knowledge. An understanding that perhaps we have not yet seen all there is to see in the world and therefore some of us notice things a little differently.
This way of seeing things comes at a price. The Shaman is called in one of three ways:-
Near death experience
Mental trauma (mental breakdown)
Hereditary calling
The first two are really self-explanatory, the other way the Tungus describe a Shaman is as ‘the one with the mad eyes’. They say that the eyes of the Shaman burn bright in the dark. I suspect that is also when they are in trance. A severe shock or mental breakdown or a near death experience is going to give you a reasonably different outlook and it also is the way of being touched by Spirit. This is why the Native American Indians are very respectful of the mentally wounded and will almost revere them, some likening them to Heyoka medicine men/women whose medicine is to do everything backwards. These are called by the thunder spirits and are equally feared and blessed by their neighbours.
The hereditary Shaman: well you would think would you not that these guys would have a choice in this matter and to an extent you would be correct but not really. In order to refuse the office of Shaman they must take themselves off and be separated from their family and friends until the calling leaves them this separation can result in a mental breakdown so Hobson’s choice really.
So how does all this come to be happening in this neck of the woods?
The modern day Western Shamanic practitioner has experienced some of the above too. Spirit calls and when it does it kind of grabs you by the scruff of the neck and gives you a good shake...at least that was how it was for me.
There are just as many different Shamanic cultures here. Some of us follow Celtic ways or the Norse system, some are more Native American, and then there are the Peruvian/South American devotees and some are a little bit eclectic because the central – core belief is what really counts.
Why are there so many different ways to do this? Because there are so many different people with different needs and it is like choosing your doctor you want someone who ‘gets’ you as much as you ‘get them’.
The Shaman goes on what is called a Journey; this is done in what is called an ecstatic trance, which is a light to medium trance. It is not like meditation, for meditation the focus is inward the Journey trance is outward hence the word ecstatic which comes from the Greek ekstasis meaning outside. The journey is done to the beat of a drum. A particular kind of drum which will enable the Shaman to travel to one of the three worlds, these comprise of the Upper (Angelic, Divine realm), the Middle (the reality ‘next door’ the land of the Fae, healing and other change work takes place here) and the Lower World (where the Power Animals are found, a place of teaching, connection and healing).
The journey is usually made to the beat of a drum, but trance can be achieved in dance or by connecting to nature, stones, the Sami culture Joiks themselves into a journey that is a song with no words but that is another story. We do love our stories, and we use them for healing also. The faerie tales of old are the telling of journeys. They tell of quests and lessons, healings and challenges, rites of passage that we do not honour so much these days.
Also known as Shadow Walkers the Shaman’s task is to traverse the veils of these realities in order to bring back healing or messages for the seeker or client. In the beginning it would have been to find out where the herds would be for hunting, where the best water and shelter would be found and when it was time to move. They will talk to the ancestors and the other peoples who share this world with us. The Stone people, the Standing People, the winged ones and the beasts that crawl and swim. For everything has a Spirit and everything is of Spirit and therefore deserves and demands respect.
This is the dipping of a toe into a vast ocean; this subject spans the Universe, not just the globe.
Our path has taken us as far as Canada where we are part of the Wolven Clan and I have been ordained and initiated within that community. And really that is what it is all about, community. Respecting oneself and ones neighbours, being aware of the consequences of ones actions. Being responsible for one’s own lessons in life and understanding that dis-ease has a spiritual root as well as an emotional and physical root.
It really is all about connection, and a world wide web that is not the internet.
There is so much to tell and so much still to learn. For further reading I can recommend ‘The Sacred Hoop’ which comes out quarterly. There is so much information out there, it is all happening and these days we have no excuse to miss any of it. From the resurgence of the 13 Grandmothers to the exponents of Huna, Shamanic practice from Hawaii, (that is where the term ‘the Big Kahuna’ is taken from).
We at Spiral Heart are happy to provide information and help with enquiries should anyone want to know more. See our website for more info on some of the things Shamanic practitioners can do for you.




+ Leslie Marsh Spiral Heart Healing

Were you a ‘Listen/Watch with Mother fan? Did you then progress to Jackanory on television after school?

There was always a set time for a story, and we would all eagerly await the radio coming out of the cupboard or the walk to the TV room, wondering in hushed tones what the story would be as we made the journey along the corridor anticipating where we would ‘go’ today.

Teachers must have loved it, the only time when the average classroom of thirty boys and girls became one quiet, attentive and enthused body, all at once. Experiencing trance journey and multi level learning by living it. Allowing it to happen due to the safe environment they were in, and retelling the story of their journey to their parents when they got home.

Jacked in to the Universe, the story a scart lead connection to the mainframe of the void, where the unconscious mind downloads information by the mega bite. Boys and girls in a journeying trance, enraptured, enthralled, engaged, being in the story, real time. Get the picture?

The power of metaphor bridging the generational gap and more; we tell our lives through stories.
If we look more closely from our new perspective, as adults, and take one story, you know, the one with the wolf who has the big eyes and the little girl with the grandma who may well be tougher than she looks, and take it in the context of a Shamanic journey, what new lessons would we learn? What if we could take that idea and apply it to other journeys that we take in life? Would we not then have a better idea what stories we would like to tell? When we would like to tell them and how they would better benefit both the teller and the listener; because you know we listen to every tale we tell. What if we could make our story better, truer, like another little girl who found the one that was ‘just right’ or so she thought at the time?

When we journey for people who come to us for help, they tell us their story, we then bring them back another story that they will connect to so that they may continue their journey towards a happy ever after. Not everyone gets there, we know this, but the meat in the middle holds the beginning and the end of a story together; it is always the journey, not the journeys end that our seekers are striving to understand.

As Shamen we tell our truth, we tell our story, your story, his – tory. We find wisdom and learning in places that others have forgotten they’ve been. The warp and weft of the tale makes a rich tapestry that we weave as we go.

So let’s explore this one story of a little girl’s journey through life, she is after all a warrior just like us. Let’s re tell her tale and find out things we perhaps forgot we knew by seeing them through Shamens eyes, and then as we always do, share our thoughts and feelings on the experience.

Shaman eyes – all the better to see you with…

the Write Retreat

If you are thinking of retreating it pays to get it right, WRITE?


There are times in our lives when, let’s face it, we need to take a step back. We need to take stock. We need to take time to breathe. Far too often our conscious mind says “Well yes, of course you want to do that but let me just say – NO! Not now, not in the next little while and just NO! You have so much to do – there are a hundred thousand things that are all clamouring for your attention when and if I give you a spare five minutes to even look at the possibility of dealing with them.”

Now that is when, and I mean right at that second you really do need to stop.

Serendipity led to meeting @Katherine Parris at a Writing Conference in August this year,
Katherine has a place in France, Brittany to be precise.
Not only does she have a place in France but she is opening her doors to writers and their families who perhaps feel the need to stop for a bit, take stock for a bit, but want to continue to have the opportunity to be writing at the same time – should they feel the urge.
Katherine is the proud owner of +‘The Write Retreat’ and it does exactly what it says on the tin.
On arrival we were struck by the total lack of noise. The air was easier to breathe and the pace was chaotically slow.
Walking into the Narnia cupboard would be similar I think – it is an assault on the senses to experience the total lack of forward motion that is France at its most laid back.
No sooner had we put the cases down than the wine began to flow and we were introduced to the family that would be ours for the duration of our stay, indeed we feel that we have become part of that growing family and are honoured to be so.
There is opportunity here. So much to see and do if you wish it, from the Menhirs to the Dolman, you are never more than two hours away from a coastline so there is ample to do for family who may not share your writing bug.
Perhaps it is your wish to make a full retreat and write that opus or Oscar winning screenplay? Then the annexe is the place for you. Flexible to the extent that it is up to you whether or not you interact with the family or live in splendid isolation, the choice is always yours.
The Write Retreat has to be experienced in all its wonder. The schoolhouse quietly situated on a main street, waiting expectantly for the arrival of the inspired and inspiring. The most amazingly eccentric but phenomenal restaurant bar that is Ghislane’s where in this the 21st Century you can have five courses and a litre bottle of good house wine for the princely sum of 13 Euros. The sleepy hamlet that is Kerivoa where the night sky is as blinged up as a hip hop DJ lottery winner with stars that shine and sparkle as Mozart and the Beatles would say, like diamonds in the sky only so much brighter and so much more beautiful.
Anyone who writes, has written, wants to write or is suffering from white page angst should go there.
The warmth of the welcome is out classed only by the feeling of belonging that occurs as if by magic. The rapport that springs from long acquaintance has been somehow concentrated and added to the air you breathe and the water you drink there.
Go to Kerivoa, get +the Write Retreat and breathe deeply. You will be inspired and recharged and you will return.

connecting the dots

Fae-rly Interesting

So, what is it with the fascination with the Shining Ones? We tell tales of them and wish on them and claim they are living at the bottom of the garden, and some may well be if we are very lucky. All these things and more we tell to our children. Stories of Wicked Witches and Wiley Wolves and quite psychotic mother goats’ who slit open stomachs and place rocks in there before allowing the recipient to drown themselves in a well due to their new weightiness.

Were these the play station games of their times. Was the story of Baba Yaga the equivalent of Grand theft Auto or whatever it is called?

Probably not, because unless I miss my guess there is an element missing in the latter, the moral tale, the warning to all who ‘play’ that they are going to be virtually made responsible for the carnage they make on the screen. Which part of it makes them think about consequences of choices?

If, as posited by Deepak Chopra et al, what we think we project and manifest then perhaps the reason we have so much violence and disharmony in the world is the constant onslaught of bloody adrenalin fuelled imaginings of one person that is connecting with the punters who play their game. What does one win with these things anyway? If it is a sense of achievement that is the prize surely it is society at large who should be thinking about just how low the bar of this particular achievement is set.

Instead of finding things to do it is an automatic response to get to a games machine or a computer, this is not just restricted to the younger end of the spectrum either, so in the morphogenic field it is not surprising that we are in the midst of scenes from Mad Max.

This sounds like I’m preaching that this is abnormal. Unfortunately being human kind of predisposes us to violence. We are after all the biggest predator on the planet.

The idea that what can be imagined can become manifest in the physical is nothing new; look at the communicators in Star Trek, good old James T. Kirk getting out his prehistoric mobile phone to get himself beamed up by Scottie. We already have the mobile phones and they have been working on the beaming up thing for quite some time. The boffins are busy boys particularly since the Quantum Theories came into their collective consciousnesses.

String theory now there is a fascinating one, but the Quantum theory small as it is… well now it is throwing up some very interesting posits of its own. It is proving the faerie tales of old, it is challenging the scientists dogmatic grasp on what reality is.

It is proving Magick exists and that it has been with us since we began to ‘string’ two thoughts together (pardon the pun).

So if that is the case and the Shining Ones exist in the Universe adjacent to this one, and they have areas of overlap couldn’t we perhaps concentrate on filling our younger minds with adventures in Quantum land where just any and every permutation of any given situation is possible and is happening in another Universe concurrently with this one.
Get a large Kit-Kat and cup of whatever you have and discuss that at tea break – see what happens.

Then just for fun, think about all the other ways the conversation could have gone and it will have somewhere. My head is now opening up to possibility and it’s a bit of a rush you should try it – no drugs required just imagination and if I can imagine it well – let me tell you a story about that…

I want to journey you a story...

Were you a +‘Listen/Watch with Mother fan? Did you then progress to Jackanory on television after school?

There was always a set time for a story, and we would all eagerly await the radio coming out of the cupboard or the walk to the TV room, wondering in hushed tones what the story would be as we made the journey along the corridor anticipating where we would ‘go’ today.

Teachers must have loved it, the only time when the average classroom of thirty boys and girls became one quiet, attentive and enthused body, all at once. Experiencing trance journey and multi level learning by living it. Allowing it to happen due to the safe environment they were in, and retelling the story of their journey to their parents when they got home.

Jacked in to the Universe, the story a scart lead connection to the mainframe of the void, where the unconscious mind downloads information by the mega bite. Boys and girls in a journeying trance, enraptured, enthralled, engaged, being in the story, real time. Get the picture?

The power of metaphor bridging the generational gap and more; we tell our lives through stories.
If we look more closely from our new perspective, as adults, and take one story, you know, the one with the wolf who has the big eyes and the little girl with the grandma who may well be tougher than she looks, and take it in the context of a Shamanic journey, what new lessons would we learn? What if we could take that idea and apply it to other journeys that we take in life? Would we not then have a better idea what stories we would like to tell? When we would like to tell them and how they would better benefit both the teller and the listener; because you know we listen to every tale we tell. What if we could make our story better, truer, like another little girl who found the one that was ‘just right’ or so she thought at the time?

When we journey for people who come to us for help, they tell us their story, we then bring them back another story that they will connect to so that they may continue their journey towards a happy ever after. Not everyone gets there, we know this, but the meat in the middle holds the beginning and the end of a story together; it is always the journey, not the journeys end that our seekers are striving to understand.

As Shamen we tell our truth, we tell our story, your story, his – tory. We find wisdom and learning in places that others have forgotten they’ve been. The warp and weft of the tale makes a rich tapestry that we weave as we go.

So let’s explore this one story of a little girl’s journey through life, she is after all a warrior just like us. Let’s re tell her tale and find out things we perhaps forgot we knew by seeing them through Shamens eyes, and then as we always do, share our thoughts and feelings on the experience.

Shaman eyes – all the better to see you with…

Expertise in Exercising Futility

And the rest is history…

I fell in love once, just the once. It was that gut wrenching, brain melting, breath stealing, swept off your feet thing.

You know that one, the one that the romance novels make a ton of money out of telling you about. Describing it is very unsatisfactory for a writer – and I hope that some of the above is recognisable to most if not all who read this, cause it should happen at least once in your life.

But be aware that it really doesn’t happen the same way twice!

So that initial thing is like the first hit of a drug and I’m told that is why it is called ‘Chasing the Dragon’,
Afterwards your body and brain remember the feeling, it is no longer something new, so maybe if we change the recipe slightly…?

The recipe, the dose the ingredients all play a part in how we get hooked on things.

So does the timing. Mr Jagger once posited that ‘you can’t always get what you want, but you might just find you get what you need’.

Great sentiment, very wise words the problems arise when we don’t recognise the thing that we need when we need it and go of like Parzival looking for something perfect, just what we think we want, that if we can just get hold of it everything will be just as it should always be.

That one time love thing…it lasted a very long time and was not entirely reciprocal. Not entirely, he was very fond of me, how crushing is that?

Amazingly if you are in the brain zapped stage of the neural peptide explosion (which is the chemical reaction of the brain to the new stimuli) you will find that you can forgive such insignificant things and resolve to wait it out until he or she suddenly realises that you only draw breathe because they are in the Universe.


I had an excuse…I was only twelve.

Mind you that excuse was only viable for the first year or so, all the way through adolescence if the hormone thing is the driver of these debacles. There are other more insidious drivers that push on beyond what hormones can do.

The rest of it, all thirty odd years of it, waiting and wondering, being patient and saving my heart for him and him alone, led to my being very alone a lot of the time, which wasn’t a problem really I had my work and my writing and my love for him stronger than ever and re-enforced every so often with a call or a postcard with more words on the address than on the message. If he keeps in touch he must love me…So I can’t really be with anyone else, not seriously cause it wouldn’t be fair to do that and then when he turns up on my doorstep…

Maybe he did love me; maybe it was his ego that was being stroked, maybe if I’d been a little more…

He did say to me once, ‘if only you had been older when we met…’ this was when I was 17 – it took him that long to crack on he’d been seriously interested at all, but then he was 27.

Ah those words were worth another five or six years of devotion easily!

And so it went on. Until over the course of time when he’d finally cut me off completely and I could only wonder where in the World he was and if he was doing alright, if he was still alive even.

Eventually I began to do my own thing and to get back into the world step-by-step, bastard-by-bastard.

I was lucky, I have a very strong will, that helped me through the ‘knight in shining’ phase, and the fall out afterwards.

That is possibly why we should change the endings to some fairy tales and say that the happy ever after doesn’t always come the way you expect it too or when you expect it to, and sometimes if we are totally blind we miss it completely and keep on looking for holy grails.

Some of which are very promising until looked at up close… when you find the tarnished and not so perfect parts off you go again.

What happened to me? Oh well, I stopped looking and went off and did something else instead and interesting things started to happen.

I don’t really regret the time I spent locked into the dream, I learned a lot about human nature there, and I learned how strong I could be. I also learned a lot about men… some of it was even good!

I never did have that neural peptide rush again, quite possibly I never will, I think I prefer to be able to actually talk to the man I’m with not just sit there in awe totally ga-ga! Waiting for him to say something profound like ‘geez the sauce’

In saying that, men can and do get themselves tied up in the most amazing situations. Sometimes they don’t want to take responsibility for themselves so they take it for you, if you let them!

They can be led on just as easily as we, even though they know it’s really putting their heads on the block, if this would just happen, if that would take place and until that time I can wait. Wait for what, a person to love you so much they can’t bear to be without you for a nano second longer…?

If such is the case, where are they? There should be no obstacles human or otherwise that would stop you from being together and certainly nothing on this earth or off of it would entice you to be with someone else in the meantime, unless deep down you know that it is just stardust and dreams. Perfection is what we make it.
We make ourselves happy or we make ourselves miserable – the amount of work is the same, so says Carlos Castaneda, and he is absolutely right!

Anyone who professes to love another to the extent that they are soul mates, and meant to be and anyone who accepts an offer of such magnitude, by the very nature of the love they profess to share would move heaven and earth to be together right NOW! It is their responsibility to each other, and to the Universe that is putting them together, or is it just that there is a lesson to be learned…

Ah, once upon a time…

The Hundredth Monkey

Mariko Makes a Discovery

Mariko sat by the tree line looking onto the beach; the rest of her family were foraging for food and the younger members were larking about, as they were wont to do.

As she sat there just dreaming of nothing in particular a thought occurred to her.

It would not be long before the tourists would come, and in order that they would have contact with Mariko and her family the boat men would carry buckets of potatoes cooked and ready to eat. Mariko’s family were getting quite lazy with all this free food around, this was Mariko’s honest opinion; it did not bode well for the future of the little ones she thought. One day they would stop bringing the potatoes and what would they do for food then. There was not that much variety on the island, and the potatoes were a very welcome treat. Hot and soft they filled the belly nicely till tea time; beyond that even sometimes, having eaten too much the youngsters would flop to sleep until the next morning.

Mariko was very wise. Her Great, Great, Grandmother had been very wise too, and it was said that Mariko most resembled her from all her relations, Mariko would do great things, she realised that depending on the boat men to bring them potatoes was not a good thing. Lately they had begun to be late, and there were less people with them to visit with the family. Mariko knew that something must be done to encourage the people to come back so that they would have potatoes every day, all summer long.

The great water lapped at the shore, and the sun twinkled on the wavelets, and Mariko sat and watched and waited for the thing. She waited and she watched, still and silent as the noise around her lessened and her focus of attention was just so, and then it happened. She could see the answer, just as Great, Great Grandmother had seen in her time. All at once Mariko knew what to do.

It was time for the boats to come, bringing the people and of course the all important potatoes.

Mariko waited for the optimum opportunity to present itself, and perhaps she would make it happen should that be necessary.

There they were, coming around the headland.

She was very excited, but knew that she must appear totally at ease. The element of surprise was tantamount.

As the boat men climbed down from the prows of their crafts and lifted the buckets full of potatoes onto the sand the people left in the boats all stood waiting expectantly – and oh today would be a wonderful day for them and for us Mariko thought.

Distributing the potatoes was not a beautiful thing to see, they were more or less thrown on the sand for the family to pick up when they emerged from the tree line as they were doing now.

Unseen, Mariko made her way along one side of a boat and picked a beautiful potatoe from a bucket. Making sure she was in full view of the people on the boat she showed them the potatoe and sniffed it, wrinkling her nose she dipped the potatoe into the water and washed it.

The people loved this – there was a little macaque washing her potatoe before she would eat, how divine – quickly take photos!
How clever it was this little monkey – how entertaining to see – quick, quick give them more, make sure they are all sandy and gritty so they will wash them. They are so like us when they do these things are they not?

The rest of the family saw what was going on and copied Mariko after a while, some not all; it would take a while to convince them all.

The most wonderful thing though that Mariko found, was that dipping the potatoe in the water gave it a better taste. Very savoury – little did she know but she had just salted her potatoe! What a discovery, they tasted better after they had been in the water.

Later just before nesting down, Mariko thought of her Grandmother, who had discovered the hot springs so long ago. Using them to sit in when the snow was deep and the temperature so low that her old bones would hardly move without singing a terrible shrieking song.

So on an island off Japan, there is a troop of Macaque monkeys who wash and salt their food in the sea in summer and who bathe in hot springs to lessen their discomfort in the winter.

Mariko, just as her Great, Great, Grandmother had been, was the hundredth monkey.

Is that a Gun in your pocket....

OR A SNUB-NOSED IRRAWADDY DOLPHIN?


I saw a wonderful thing today. I saw something that re-enforced my belief in the power of the story!

There I was, bored, doing my ADDH exercises (extreme telly channel hopping), when my finger became suddenly cataleptic, my subconscious had found something intriguing.

It was a programme on the Animal Channel, Action Planet I think and it was half way through, but I got a little bit of info from the bar at the bottom of the screen so I stuck around to see what would happen.

My patience was rewarded.

The programme was about a team of people trying to bring the snub-nosed river dolphins back into the conscious awareness of the villagers around the river, in a bid to save this most endangered species.

There was a bit about the team not getting on – well humans do that – and some bickering, which was really not that attractive from an ambassadorial perspective.

But the main part was the fact they were in Cambodia, they did not really speak the language and their mission was to raise the awareness of the plight of the dolphins and make the villagers realise what they were about to lose.

How did they do it?

They did not preach at them. They did not shout and scream at them. They did not plead with them.
They put on a spectacle; they acted out a story, the legend of the snub-nose dolphins and how they came to be.

The surprise that the team got was the turnout for their ‘play’.

In a place with no television, radio or telephones the amount of people that turned up for this ‘entertainment’ was outstanding!

The risk was that they were using a very old and venerated tale and the older villagers would judge these foreigners on how they interpreted it.

Not only did they have the villagers in the audience, but all the local schools in the area closed for the morning so the children could attend and the local Buddhist monks were also a part of the audience.

It went down a treat, the children loved it, the monks seemed amused by the whole thing and the elders of the villages smiled kindly – all applauded at the end.

What’s the big deal? None of these people spoke the others language, there was a smattering of Cambodian during the play but that was really the only spoken words in the whole thing. By gesture and mime the story unfolded to an audience entranced and enraptured by the events taking place before them.

But the story, the story got through to them, to a new generation that now when they see the dolphins in the rivers remember the legend being told to them; of how the dolphins came to be and their connection with the villagers themselves and how sad would it be to lose that connection.

Keeping these thoughts in the minds of the villagers it is more likely they will think of the dolphins – and things may change..

Fables Flowing Fluidly Telling Timely Tales

What is a ‘fable’ and is that where the word fabulous comes from?

Is it a fairy tale or is it something different? What’s the point in it at all, what does it ultimately do?
Aesop, now there was a guy who knew his fables, or were they parables, and does that become com – parable?
Language is cool is it not?

So, when you’ve gone away and had a look at the fables of Aesop and quite a few others, (some of the Chinese ones are excellent), come back and ask the questions above again. What connections have you made since first reading the questions above?

Someone in my company recently asked what on earth I was doing fiddle arsing around at a story telling course, and how could I believe that in doing so it would make my therapeutic skills any better. In reply I asked another question, ‘when was the last time someone told you a leaning forward, ears fully open, eyes wide, hang on every nuance of word and movement, story?

They could not remember, and thinking of that – take it one step farther when was the last time you told a leaning forward, ears fully open, eyes wide, listener hanging onto every nuance of every word you say and every move you make, story?
Can you remember a time now when all your disbelief was suspended and time itself actually stopped; because the place that you were in had no clocks or watches, only talking goats and trolls and wolves and little girls with red hooded capes and bears that liked porridge?
Think of it now and tell me – do you recall being stressed at all? Do you remember all the things that the main character had to go through on their particular journeys?

I remember that they all had things in common. They were good and kind and used their skills and wits to get them to where they needed to go. They recognised the less than totally positive characters that dwelt within the story of their journey and dealt with them by using the resources that they had and they were not afraid to ask for help, nor were they afraid or too selfish to offer it to others; and in doing so gained a new perspective on taking things at face value and the needs of others being a strong indicator to their actions. That by positively treating someone differently to how they perceived they would be dealt with would make a change in their world to the extent that it would have a domino effect upon others they encounter, sometimes just by taking the time to tell a story…by telling your story…

Wondering how wonderful things could be if we all remembered how to tell our stories…makes me realise that magic happens, it happens all the time and we don’t even see it; we don’t look for it we look at our feet or over the shoulder of the person in front of us locked in our own prison towers behind great hedges of thorns. Suffering from the curse of amnesia we can’t remember how to make a happy ending – until someone reminds us, and we remember how to say ‘Once upon a time..’

It's Not What You Say, It's The Way That You Say It

Language Patterns

Does ‘assume’ really make an ass out of you and me?


Presuppositions abound in our language, and for the most part they are learned behaviour. This is a belief of mine, and I believe this because we learn our language from our parents first and foremost, and let’s face it – we like to mimic. I, therefore assume that since my first model of the world was recognisable to me all my presuppositional language came form my parents telling me how it should be.

When we do come into contact with others outside of our ilk, it is likely to be in the nursery or even on some occasions later than that at primary school; when the parent hands the reins over to another adult who the child can only assume has the same values and beliefs as the parents because they trust this teacher person to look after the child.

The first influence is the adult teacher, we assume. More likely the first influence and the first experience of peer pressure will occur on the playground – we kind of forget that. Children recognise children and respond accordingly.

NLP tells us that it is important to listen to speech, the inherent qualities and concepts that are the assumptions in the others world.

Here is where the internal representations are questioned and the structure their model of the world is assailed on a daily basis and you know, don’t you, that learning is easy…


Leslie Currie 29/01/2007

Quantum R.T.A’s

Stop the World…



Where were we? Ah yes, I just want to go back a little – to the ‘yanking’ episode – there I was, I assume that at least I was to all intents and purposes – like – there…somewhere! I am making this assumption due to the fact that I have a memory of everything in the world stopping; just right out of the blue I’m aware of being ‘up there’ suspended in space and time. Totally safe, not at all bothered about where the meat and bones of me would be found, because to be sure, there would be no way I could be this light and still be in my body…could I?

And, to get right down to it, who was I at that split nano second of freeze frame? I had some kind of animation, I could sense myself being ergo I must be making some movement; we are never perfectly still, until of course rigor steps in! And that sure as hell wasn’t on the menu, please and thank you to whoever or whatever, and wasn’t it just too perfect that that did not matter at all.
Absolutely no concern for my predicament and the World was just there and I was – not…but yes…could there be another explanation? Did I jump or was I pulled? Was this an out of body experience or was my one and only Soul about to discover the Thodol Bardo was spot on and there were things and places and spaces and times yet to be traversed. Was I about to get the answers to all the questions? Was there part of me out there to be met and returned to?

Had I dropped through the veils of realities and become suspended in limbo? I am hearing myself guffaw as I write this that is too romantic even for me! Or is it? Perhaps that is the whole point.

The Universe had me, by the scruff of the neck – it had picked me up and held me aloft in this daze of space. There was a choice to be made and only I could make it. Oh it’s ultimatum time and you’re gonna leave here, I can see that glazing over in your eyes…

CLARITY! The Universe has the capacity to be a bit of a ‘tough love’ aficionado and as the time thing unravelled before my rapidly glazing eyes I began to see where I’d gone wrong…or at least I thought I had.

Once upon an end of bastard Wednesday, I trundled my way back home entertaining the idea on one hand of getting changed and going out and meeting up with the boys from Judo, on the other hand, however, the more tantalizing idea was to give it a miss, jump into a long hot bath and go to bed and sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep until old Rip called Uncle and confessed to cat napping! The closer the bus got to my home the more I felt I wanted to stay there. I wanted to see the guys and once I got my lazy arse in gear I’d most likely have an excellent time, I thought, then I thought, no – you need to stay at home just stay at home see them on Saturday it’s not too long to wait.

And so it went on all the way into the house, up to the bedroom, into the bathroom and while back on the bus to go back into town.

Closer and closer feeling more and more uneasy, just stay on this bus it’s the circular, you don’t even have to get off your seat, stay on, go home you will not be having such a good time if you continue on here…
I had another opportunity to leave afterwards when a friend called into the pub and offered to put me up for the night. For some reason staying was the only option and so that is what I did.

And, there I was, things getting dimmer below me, no feeling of trepidation just a natural kind of hankering to be going on…

Until, just when I thought everything was going to be finally right, the Universe (or Universal Representative even) let me go!

That’s right – it dropped me and I banjoed my brain off the tarmac of the pavement in one great WHAP!

It took a little bit of time for me to realise that it was actually the pavement and not the middle of the road, which had been my last map reference so confusion ruled.

Since I’ve always been the kind of practical type, my immediate thought after what the fu…??! Was to make a body check – wiggle toes, yes still ten, extend ankles – good no problem there though my feet were quite cold, the knees bent and in the right direction – big relief and then the back was fine but oh! Oh! There was this big, wet, lump on my head where it had – as only it can - in Glasgow – kissed the pavement!

Out of nowhere crowds of people arrived, where do they come from by the way? It was after midnight the streets had been empty, is there like a callout crowd, you know someone presses a button and an alarm goes off and beepers are beeping everywhere and all these people drop everything and rush to be instant rubberneckers at accident sites?

The icing on the cake was the arrival of the police. I don’t get a panda car or a beat cop - no… I get a mini bus full of them going on duty, and they took my shoes from the middle of the road I’m sure that should’ve been evidence! Of what I’m not sure, that the car was going so fast that I can jump higher than Daley Thompson with a 10ft pole, that the guy actually did see someone for a split second in his headlights a gal gone ‘tharn’! (He hadn’t been so sure, he slewed to a stop and sent his passenger out to make sure – all I remember of that was ridiculously high heels and blonde hair and whining, not from me, I hasten to add!) That came later when they picked the tarmac out of my eyebrows and forehead with enormous tweezers while asking me how much I had had to drink.

No other marks at all.

When I finally got home… well that is another story and when I know you well enough to introduce you to my Mother, you will read it then.

A couple of years or so afterward I attended a seminar given by the transport police on fatal accidents. There was a picture of a Volkswagon Gti with the windscreen smashed in when the body of the victim hit it on her way over the length of the car.
The guy in front of me said, ‘No way was anybody walking away from something like that’.

I tapped him on the shoulder and said, “ I beg to differ, it can be done, but it’s best not to try it without the aid of a Universal Representative on hand”.

See you down the rabbit hole…

Life,but not as we know it, Quantum RTA's

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.

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

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