Laura Simms' journal entries take you behind the scenes.

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"Notes from the Field"

Oct. 24, 2001
Storytelling at P.S. 19, Lower East Side. TOPICS: A safe space for kids to be scared, knowing "safety factor" of story.

Read Laura's essays
"Thinking Like a Storyteller"
 
 

I had a phone call from a psychiatrist in Milwaukee who has been using the book STORIES TO NOURISH THE HEARS OF OUR CHILDREN IN A TIME OF CRISIS with her clients, and with children in a hospital. She took the book with her on vacation to Tuscany, Italy. The psychiatrist had made the journey with a friend from Israel who needed rest from the severe stress of unceasing violence that plagued her in Jerusalem. They decided to read one story each night before going to bed.

She told me that in a small village in a farmhouse that they had come upon accidentally while driving down narrow roads, a farmer served wine and talked, while his wife cooked dinner.  The couple made their living from offering meals and beds to travelers. The farmer said he wanted to practice his English. So they gave him the book to choose one tale and read a story aloud. The farmer picked “How the Site of Jerusalem Was Chosen.”

Falteringly, but earnestly he read the story. When he finished, he put his head down on the table and sobbed. They were deeply touched by the farmer’s tears. But  feared they had caused him pain. 

His wife, who knew English and was listening, said, “Please do not worry. These are tears of joy. It is my husband’s own true story. He is the poor brother in the tale. It is how we have come to have this house. I can not tell you how helpful it is to hear this story.” They left the book as a gift. The farmer said it was the best gift he could have received and was going to share it with his brother’s family. 

How do we know which story to tell and when to tell it?  It is the secret of all storytellers, because there is no single answer or formula for success. Yet, the greater the teller of tales the more easily and surprisingly the appropriate story comes to mind, or is chosen without plan. It is the role of the storyteller to cultivate an open heart in order to respond in a situation beneath logic’s façade. 

The preparation of the storyteller is to become familiar with the authentic meaning of story that is not always evident in the content alone. The meaning that arises in the reciprocal experience of bringing a tale to life that occurs on the invisible stages between teller and listener as the story unfolds. The meaning that is the story as conjured by the dynamic imagination of each listener’s own making. 

How do we learn to trust that moment and its inconceivable and invisible message?  How do we cultivate our awareness in order to rest our mind, breathe, and make a choice with  playful confidence? Years of study, and telling stories and listening to the stories that reveal to us our own stories, prizes us with this knowing. 

One of the gifts of the days following September 11th was a clearing away of unnecessary distractions. So many people responded directly from the intelligence of their heart’s knowing, with whatever means they had, in order to help another. The place of tenderness within is always present and available. And that is the place to seek and nurture in our lives.  Resting in that knowing we can listen to one another and appreciate our differences and commonality.
 

THE GIANT WITH NO HEART
(May 15, 2002)

I have begun telling the Norwegian fairytale of the “Giant Who Had No Heart.” Children of all ages love the story and listen intently to the adventure of the youngest most foolish son who set out to find his six brothers, who went in search of wives, and never returned.  The prince traveled on a worn out aging horse. Entering a forest, he  saved the lives of a Raven that could no longer fly, a Salmon that was out of water, and a Wolf that had not eaten in two years.  That of the air, that of the land, and that of the sea was ailing. 

His compassion was tested by the Wolf whose hunger could only be satisfied by consuming the horse that the Prince rode on. Reluctant to give up that which had carried him thus far, the Prince offered bread. However, the Wolf said, “If you feed me your horse, I will carry you on this journey.”  The old horse fell to the ground and the Wolf devoured it and gained strength instantly. He carried the prince through the forest to the house of the Giant Who Had No Heart who had turned the Prince’s brothers and their brides to stone. The Wolf served as his guide throughout the tale.

I encouraged questions after the story’s end.  One boy in the fifth grade inquired,  “Why didn’t the Prince’s horse speak like the Raven, the Salmon, and the Wolf?” What a fantastic question he asked.

It gave me the chance to explain something to them about stories. 

“The horse that the Prince rode on came from his father’s stable. It was a domestic horse that grew old in our ordinary world. The old horse  took him to the edge of the forest. However, the forest was a realm of magic.  To enter the forest properly, and not be  turned to stone like his brothers, the Prince  had to show his generosity, as well as give up what he was accustomed to ride on.  He crossed into the forest by riding on a wild animal. The wolf had digested the domestic horse. That is what was needed to travel in the forest.

"His six brothers were to bring back a wife for their youngest brother, but they forgot. They did not show generosity. When they entered the magic realm, the forest where the Giant’s castle stood, they were turned to stone.” 

Until that moment, the gymnasium where I was telling the story was comfortable, but  was unsettled  with children’s  jittery movements, and continuous uncontrollable whispering to one another and commenting out loud between the stories. I had the feeling that they did not know how to settle down. They were not accustomed to sitting and feeling and listening as a visceral activity. Let into the “truths” of the story, they began to settle down. 

A girl raised her hand, “Was he afraid to lose his horse?” I asked “What do you think?” 

“He must have been afraid,” her neighbor answered. I added, “And he did it even though he was afraid, perhaps.” 

I told them another storytelling or life secret. I began by asking, “Would you like to hear a scary story? One that might make you feel afraid?” They shouted in agreement and sat up attentively. 

“I have to ask you a big favor, in that case. We will have to truly listen. I have noticed that you had a hard time concentrating on listening.”

I bid them all sit up straight and lift their arms up high. I lifted mine up too. “Keep your arms high and we will do something wonderful together to get ready for this story.”  If anyone started to sag I urged them to keep their arms up. 

“I think the reason why you are so jiggly is because it is late in the day and you have been indoors at desks a lot. So that is pretty normal. However, I also think you have so much television and computers and information and things to do and think about, you hardly have to time to simply 'be' in your bodies and listen during the day. Listening is powerful and pleasurable. When I was growing up we didn’t have as much media as you all have and so we learned to listen. I will give you an easy activity that you can do whenever you feel you are going too fast, or feel sleepy during the day. You can get yourself back into your body and have all the energy and inspiration you need.”

A forest of arms filled the room as they kept their arms up and then slowly took their arms down breathing in unison and moving with me. The room grew calmer. When they had taken their arms down, I congratulated them. It was as if they had drawn some sense of energy out of the sky where in truth they had just reconnected body and mind. Some of them wanted to do it again because they  liked it. So we did it once more.  Several of the kids who had been shuffling around and falling over onto their neighbors gave me the “high sign” to let me know they thought it “worked” and was “cool.”

Then in that place of listening, I told them a marvelous Korean Spirit story that was both scary (because it was mysteriously connected to the invisible threads of cause and effect, and interdependence in the world) and because I think it is a fabulous tale which puts them face to face with fear and transformation. 

I told “The Woodcutter and the Snake,” (available on Laura's audio, As Old as the World, Fresh as the Rain) a tale about the power of imagination and kindness to rebalance our world. They listened  totally involved. Before I left, I asked them to do the “arm exercise” again. I said, we are Disarming and charming. They clapped for themselves. 

So many of the kids stayed to chat, and to hug me afterwards. I was struck by their respectful and generous presence. We had truly make an important journey together. And they learned a skill with meaning for their lives. The importance of listening because it gave them power to be present. 

Much of the stress children feel is from fear arising from not having instructions about how to get back into the body and feel. No matter what the ongoing circumstance, or the level of confusion or stress in a situation, if children have the ability to join body and mind and listen, they can maintain awareness even in a difficult time. 

The Giant Who Had No Heart kept a Princess captive in his palace. Following the instructions of the Wolf, the Prince did all the Princess told him to do and together they discovered where the Giant’s heart was hidden: in the middle of a lake, on an island, in a tall tower, in a well, in the body of a duck in an egg.  If the Giant’s heart would not be found, he could never be destroyed or tamed or transformed. It was the heartless Giant, a force of nature without conscience, that kept the natural world and our world out of balance. 

Through the help of the Raven, the Salmon and especially the Wolf, the Prince found the heart. 

The children were given a choice as to the ending of the tale: Either the Prince squeezed the heart and killed the Giant and that was his end; or, the Prince replaced the heart in the Giant and the Giant served the Prince and the natural world. In both stories, he freed his brothers and their brides, married the Princess, and they all returned home to the King’s Castle passing through the forest where the birds were in the trees, the fish were in the water and the wolves were not hungry.

I let them decide which ending was better for today’s world. 

Most of the six classes in the gym chose the latter ending.  So did I.

What Did You Do to My Head?
Middle School in Queens, NY

I was telling fairytales in a middle school in Queens, New York. The kids were shuffled into a gymnasium in disarray, and coerced to sit on a cold floor in front of me. Since it was unusual for an artist to be invited to this particular school, I attempted to do my very best and make a strong connection to the students and their teachers. There were only about 60 people huddled chatting and distracted in this gigantic ugly space. There was no need for a sound system, so our relationship was ultimately not obstructed.  Presence, voice, story, heart, opened.  I felt the warmth begin to encircle us as the kids fell quickly into an alert dynamic listening. Little by little they sat up, their eyes widened, their faces relaxed as their imaginations -- activated and responded -- making our joint event alive with intelligence. However, one girl seemed visibly shaken. She literally was trembling, but involved. 

When the stories were over the teachers swiftly moved the kids out of the gym. I was left slightly bereft since our connection had been so viscerally intense. Then, as I gathered my belongings,  the trembling girl walked toward me, breaking away from her class and the teacher. “What did you do to my head?" she shouted as she walked toward me. 

Tears streamed down her cheeks. “What did you do to me? Did you put me in a trance?” 

“What happened?” I asked. 

“I couldn't see you. All I could see were pictures of the story. It was really frightening. What did you do to me!” 

My heart ached. Here in front of me was a child who had no experience of her imagination. No trust in her own inner power to visualize, to feel, to fall under the spell of the waking dream that nourishes us with our own ceaseless source of inuitive knowledge.  How can someone make sense of their world and their life without an imagination? 

“I didn't do anything to you,” I answered gently -- attempting to help calm her down with the sound of my voice. She listened.  “You were experiencing your own imagination.” 

“It was scary,” she said. 

“Did you have a lot of feelings during the story?” 

She nodded. 

I took her to the librarian to inquire if they had readings or storytelling in the library. There was none of that occurring in the school. I begged the librarian to read to the girl, to speak to the girl, to offer her chances to meet her mind and learn to trust her heart. 

It was shocking  to realize that a generation of our children may not be familiar with the workings of their own minds and hearts.  Such disengagement can only render them victims of endless belief in other's images and thoughts, unable to contain overwhelming or complex feelings, and unable to respond to their own needs or others. Without imagiation these children may grow up without cultivating the muscles of communication, reflection. They may easily be trained like pavlovian pets to react, to act like, or ignore anything but the version of themselves they receive outside themselves. In this absence of connection to life and one's self is born the seeds of violence and apathy that are haunting our world. To keep protecting this projected outer learned  image of what they should be is a constant busyness of fear and defense. 

Amadou Hampate Ba, an African statesman in UNESCO once said, “There is a little peace. There is a big peace. But there is no little quarrel. Even a matchstick can burn down an entire village.”

That they may be swept into a disembodied illusion of projection, peopled and colored by the limited images and information thrown at them via television, internet, and film. is terrifying.  No small loss of heart and imagination should be overlooked by those of us who have committed ourselves to genuine communication. 

All these thirty-three years of storytelling and my work with youth in crisis, I have realized that the power of the imagination and the heart cannot be destroyed. And that regardless of circumstance and the amount of passive commercial driven out of body media children are exposed to, the intelligent imagination and the open heart can be uncovered and activated. Like the heroes and heroines in the vital fairytales of the world, what is unbalanced can be brought back into balance. The story provides an internal journey that is trasnformative. 

Storytelling is a indirect and immediate method of  starting to heal this rupture in our children. It is also a means of  protecting the reality of our world. With an awakened imagination that spontaneously joins the mind, the body and the heart, in the responsive reciprocity of authentic storytelling, a child can excercise the flacid muscles of being and responding, listening and feeling. They breathe in the unspoken lessons of interdependence as they experience the entire world of the story within themselves. 

I call upon us all to bring more and more living creativity to children as a life enhancing activity not only for their individual health, but to keep compassion and wisdom alive in our world. --Laura Simms