The Healing Power of Stories

Why does telling stories, listening to stories, and sharing stories bring hope and meaning to human experience? I ask that question after falling under the spell of storytelling several times over the past few weeks.

On August 20th Frances and I attended a reading at Big Waters Cafe in Bayfield that featured writers published in the Love Stories of the Bay collection. About eight or ten of us--out of the 43 writers included in the book--read that night. And, though I'd previously read the stories in the book, this opportunity to hear each author read their own story using their personal vocabulary, intonation, and nonverbal cues made each story come alive in a new and exciting way.

I wasn't the only person who enjoyed the evening. Plans are now in the works for Love Stories' authors to appear at Stage North this winter. Not only will we read our stories, but our tales will be enhanced with lights, music, action.... More on that event later when details are finalized.

Several Saturdays back during my weekly cooking extravaganza I listened to one of my favorite weekend radio shows, This American Life. I heard the re-broadcast of "American Limbo" (originally aired 2/9/01), a segment about people who felt separated from the world, as if they were living on the outside of American culture looking in. I was captivated by a story about a family of eight that spent seven years evading police and the FBI. Entitled "The Family that Flees Together Trees Together," it described their experiences living in a treehouse and a leaky boat.

Ira Glass, the host, emphasized that, although the family was pursued by authorities because the father grew marijuana, both parents knew the importance of keeping their family together rather than submitting their kids to the foster care system while they served a jail term. And, said Ira, these kids seemed to turn out great.

The perspectives of the youngest son, now 21, were a sad commentary on the effects of TV and radio on the American psyche. He described people as "beasts" and "primitive thinkers" and went on to say that many people didn't understand the difference between right and wrong. He described how mean people can be to one another and explained further: They don't mind eatin' meat, smokin' cigarettes, spillin' motor oil in the water....

I heard and understood this young man's concerns because I, like him, don't watch network television. Being ignorant of the current state of broadcast news and entertainment I'm usually taken aback when I travel to where I have access to television programming. The evening news, for instance, is no longer news but entertainment. And the mainstream fare that fills the evening airwaves teaches, inculcates, and programs its viewers into a false sense of what's normal and acceptable. What's interesting is that these cultural teachings flood the subconscious ... no thought required.

And then ... I heard Kevin Kling tell stories on Minnesota Public Radio. Kevin, a playwright, humorist, author, and storyteller, is a favorite annual performer in Washburn, WI. I feel that I know Kevin even though I've only seen him perform twice at Stage North. Many years ago I attended Kevin's one-man show, 21A, based on his experiences riding the bus between Minneapolis and St. Paul. It was a hilarious portrait of eight or so idiosyncractic characters who shared the same bus ride.

I know Kevin's mother, Dora, who attends my t'ai chi chih classes. Let's just say that Kevin's storytelling abilities have a genetic component because, as Dora tells me when I comment on the similarities between mother and son, This nut does not lie far from the tree. Dora is a funny and entertaining storyteller in her own right and it's obvious that Kevin's skills have been developed and honed over many, many years of writing and performing, performing and writing.

Kevin's stories are autobiographical and describe situations from child- and adulthood that are both humorous and poignant. Anything can serve as subject matter for Kevin's performances from his experience running Grandma's Marathon in Duluth, to the time he and his brother helped Dad paint the house black and orange, to the night he and brother, Steve, stood on the rooftop in the midst of severe weather in search of tornadoes touching down.

Kling ascribes his profession to a conversation with an Ojibway medicine man who told him, You can survive anything if you have a sense of humor and a sense of self. That, my friends, says it all. When we tell each other our stories, we claim our place in this life. And when we hear the stories of others, we discover that our trials and tribulations, our successes, and our frailties are part of a shared human experience. Once again we reclaim our humanity and rediscover that we are all one....

For the Love of ... Silence

I wrote the following essay in April 2010 for inclusion in the book, Love Stories of the Bay. Local artist and graphic designer, Ros Nelson, conceptualized this project back in 1994; the book quickly coalesced after Ros invited local residents to join her in this 2010 collaboration.

Over 40 authors contributed to this collection that covers the gamut of life here on the Bayfield Pennisula in Lake Superior: discoveries made during walks in the woods, a 1,700 mile canoe adventure, butterflies, a great blue heron, a first love, a full-moon boat ride, and much, much more.

A portion of the proceeds from Love Stories benefits the Bayfield Regional Conservancy (http://www.brcland.org/), a not-for-profit regional land trust serving Ashland, Bayfield, Douglas, and Sawyer Counties in northwest Wisconsin. Please visit http://www.blurb.com/ to order your copy and to help us preserve the beauty and the spirit of this lovely bit of heaven on earth....


November 2002. From the moment we unloaded our possessions after hauling them up our quarter-mile driveway into deep woods in the Town of Russell near Little Sand Bay National Lakeshore, my partner and I knew that we would call this place home.

While we settled into our house we embraced the silence of our oak-maple-poplar-birch-cedar-hemlock property. After too many years of city living it soothed and comforted us. Aware of our magical surroundings we declined to hook up a television set and gratefully snuggled into the quiet. Soon, however, we grew irritated with the subtle white noise of our modern-day household: hot water heater, propane furnace, wood stove fan, ceiling fan, and refrigerator motor all sounded louder and more distracting than we’d ever realized.

Eventually our hours, days, and weeks quieted. The temperatures dipped below freezing, daylight disappeared, snow blanketed the landscape, and most living creatures—ourselves included—were invited into hibernation, quiet sleep, and peace.

In the midst of this silence I found space for thoughts and feelings, conversations, long hours of reading, for writing and contemplation -- for me. I didn’t take this gift for granted since virtually everyone I knew rush-rush-rushed through their lives at a hectic pace. No time for family. No time for meals together. No time for sleep. No time to breathe.

I continue to live wrapped in the protective cocoon of these woodlands because, true to my introverted nature, I enjoy the quiet, the changing weather patterns, the hidden sprouts that pop through leaf-covered earth in spring, the brilliant hugeness of green that surrounds me during summer, the peaceful drift of color that floats onto my front step as trees shed their leaves in fall, and the pure winter whiteness that drapes itself over house, trees, and driveway during long stretches of winter. Not only do I enjoy the beauty and quiet of nature, I thrive on it.

In this silence I’ve become better acquainted with the neighbors who inhabit this forest with me. I hear the leaf-crunch footsteps of deer as they graze their way close to the south deck of my house. I recognize the thud of a bird hurtling itself unwittingly into one of our glass windows and I rush to comfort it.

One spring before trees were fully leafed out my partner’s and my work-at-home day sparkled with excitement as we watched a wolf and then a black bear saunter along a path that circled our house. Later, during an afternoon break from my computer work, I walked outside and gazed up to view an eagle gliding overhead.

A common spring sound, the putt-putt-putt of male ruffed grouse flapping their wings in courtship, reminds me of my farm girl beginnings; the sound is reminiscent of a tractor starting. If it weren’t for the prevailing silence, I likely wouldn’t notice these sounds that quietly arise from my wooded yard morning ‘til night.

I feel pleased and honored to observe the lives of my nonhuman neighbors. During daily walks my partner and I search a nearby dirt road for tracks left behind the previous evening or during an early morning outing by a variety of winged and four-footed creatures that use this road as their pathway too.

Several years ago we glimpsed an ermine, still dressed in winter white, racing along a downed tree trunk. During a recent spring walk we spied a porcupine at the top of a tree near the marsh chewing its way through a branch it had snapped off.

In late spring 2009 we encountered painted turtles crouched along the dirt roadway near a small stream and wetlands. They laid their eggs next to the road, covered them, and retreated. We never saw the babies that emerged from these eggs but in some small way we felt like doulas urging these mothers on as they birthed a future generation.

Of course, these silent ventures into nature inspire an even greater appreciation for this beautiful natural world that surrounds me. Each spring I welcome the return of ruby-throated hummingbirds. Their miniature bodies and territorial battles provide hours of entertainment as my partner and I eat our breakfast on the deck beneath them and watch and listen as they race, swoop, and buzz around us. Spring also heralds the return of our beloved Eastern phoebes. We’ve come to know them intimately because of the nest they build over our kitchen window where they hatch two broods each summer.

Even though my partner and I pay the monthly mortgage we feel as if this 25-acre plot of earth, sky, and trees here on the Bayfield Peninsula has been gifted to us. Could it be that some special grace placed us here so that we may live each day drenched in peace and silence while we listen to the wind rush through trees, hear the howls of coyotes at dusk, and wake to a precious chorus of birdsong each morning?

Author Deng Ming-Dao captures the essence of silence—and my experience with it here in my woodland home—with these words from his book, 365 Tao, entry 261:

Seek silence.
Gladden in silence.
Adore silence….

     Once you find deep solitude and calm, there will be a great gladness in your heart. Here finally is the place where you need neither defense nor offense—the place where you can truly be open. There will be bliss, wonder, the awe of attaining something pure and sacred.

Hmm. Yes. Shhh.