Table of Contents
Creativity Group
Six years ago Doug Lipman and I gave a Creativity Through Storytelling
Workshop in Hebron, Connecticut. We almost canceled because there
were only twelve registrants. Fortunately we did not. Doug and I
have met with that group now for six years. We meet twice a year
for a four day period. Working with these wonderful people has been
one of my richest experiences.
We met this January at Carol Burnes' Vermont farm. For four
days we were in a lovely farmhouse gathered around the fire, looking
out on a snowy hillside studded with black cows. We wrote in the
mornings and then read our writings. The writing was moving, poignant
and beautifully done. Then we played with voice, character, sound
and movement.
Over the years we have divided into groups of three or four
and created mini musicals, satires and skits. This time we gave
ourselves about half an hour and each created a mini detective
story. The detective stories were fun, but more than that they
were fascinating. I came away feeling that no one should go through
life without creating a detective story or at least a mini musical.
Working with two or three people intensely for anywhere from
five to thirty minutes creating an instant production is a thrilling
experience. You're on the spot trying to come up with ideas, characters
and movement. You're using language and figuring how to use your
body and the space while developing a structure. It's all done
so quickly that there's no time for much nervousness.
Why do we come together time after time? Because as one member
said: "The group totally confirms who I am at heart."
This has been such fun, so rewarding, I encourage you to form
your own creativity group. Creativity flows when we are at ease
and present in the moment. What a gift to have times in life when
we can truly be ourselves and be accepted for who we are.
Bermuda
In November I had the chance to perform "The Spirit of the Great
Auk" at the City Hall in Bermuda. It is a very beautiful hall and
I want to thank Kathleen Frith of the Bermuda Marine Biological
Research Station. I loved telling this story of the sea to people
who live surrounded by the sea.
The highlight of our Bermuda stay was visiting David and Helga
Wingate on Nonesuch Island. David Wingate has devoted a good deal
of his life to bringing back the Bermuda petrel, or cahow, from
the brink of extinction. In addition, as Bermuda's chief conservation
officer, David is restoring Nonesuch Island off of Bermuda to
its pre-colonial "native" environment.
David gave my wife Linda and I a long tour of the flora and
fauna of Nonesuch Island. Then in the afternoon, he took me to
a number of the rocky islands where he personally watches over
the cahow nests. The cahow burrows deep into the earth and keeps
its nest in total darkness. When the cahow were driven off "mainland"
Bermuda by people and rats, they found it far more difficult to
burrow into the rocky islands.
So David has constructed a number of artificial concrete nests.
He is able to lift up a top and look down into the darkness to
see if the nest is being used. Just seeing two Bermuda petrels
was thrilling. But the most unforgettable time was when the four
of us were sitting in David's boat in the darkness with the Bermuda
winds rushing about, looking for a petrel in the night. The petrel
is a night bird. I saw only one, but it was like watching winged
magic.
How rare a day it was. Spending all of that time with a man
who has dedicated his life to aiding a near extinct bird. David
reminded me both of Dick Wheeler and a dear friend, Sarah Reynolds.
David is a man of enormous knowledge, kindness, and humility.
In my mind, he too, like Dick Wheeler and Sarah, is a hero of
the planet.
If you know of other heroes of the planet, let me know. We all
must make allies. We mustn't remain in isolation. If we gather
together we can be a voice for change.
Family News
Linda, Ted, Laura and I spent Christmas on Sinclair Island in the
Puget Sound. Ted is at Western Washington University getting a Masters
in creative writing, so Laura, Linda and I flew out and hired a
boat to take us out to Sinclair Island. On a freezing cold December
23rd, we off loaded our luggage, said good-bye to the boat, and
carried everything into a frigid four room cabin. Linda and Ted
trekked off to find the well. There was a propane stove and a tiny
kitchen, so Laura began to make cocoa and I worked at starting a
fire in the fireplace.
An hour later, with our winter coats and hats on, we sat huddled
around the fire, drinking cocoa. We could still see our breath,
and Laura said, "We might as well face it. We'll have our winter
coats on all the time." But hours later it did warm up.
We had no phone, no electricity, and no running water. There
was a fine outhouse outside with a double door, so if you wanted
you could swing the top part open and look out on the water. It
snowed and was silent. For three days we laughed and read and
napped. I had secret fears that if some accident occurred we were
stuck. And what if the boat never returned? We might be there
until spring or early summer when we would finally be rescued.
Ah, the strange fantasies one has. It was a rare and wonderful
time to laugh and be together.
When we got home we were glad to have Laura with us for a couple
of weeks. Now she's back, busy as can be, getting her Masters
in interpreting at Gallaudet.
The Spirit of the Great Auk
Flannery O'Con-nor felt that one of the great dramas in life was
that grace is offered and usually refused. I wonder how often we
are offered gifts in life that we don't accept. Perhaps we're too
busy to notice we're being given a gift.
I'm thankful Dick Wheeler gave me the chance to work with him
years ago. Before Dick started out on his 1500 mile kayak trip
from Newfoundland to Cape Cod, he gave me a call and said he thought
I might be interested in his journey. I'm glad to say I asked
Dick to come over. When Dick finished his journey he worked with
the Nova television people, making a fine documentary of his trip.
But he didn't stop there. He thinks that an artist can move people
in a way that a documentary or a lecture cannot.
I worked with Dick for three years creating the story. Dick's
journey changed his life. He's dedicated to making people aware
not only of the plight of the sea, but of the need to see ourselves
as part of nature. Dick sees this as a spiritual challenge.
I want to thank so many people who wrote about "The Spirit of
the Great Auk." It is crucial for any artist to know that his
or her work moves people. I will mention only two. Emily and Cliff
Cole wrote, "I believe that you have created one of the most important
environmental statements of our century."
Melanie Judge and Tom Parker wrote, "The story of the Great
Auk captured our thinking, our perspectives, our feelings; you
told OUR story even though we live in Montana and work with grizzly
bears and loggers in the mountains, not birds and fishermen in
the ocean. Our townspeople secretly say the same thing, 'Tell
Them not to make us cut the little ones, the last little trees;
let them recover.' Yet publicly they unite for the sacred rights
to take as much as we want whenever and how we want. We live your
story . . . every day."
How I Came To Storytelling
I started making up stories for my little brother and sister when
I was 13 years old. Mickey was four and Chris was three. We'd sit
in the back seat of the car driving to Cape Cod and I'd say, "Mickey,
let me see your hand." I'd take her tiny hand, look at her palm,
and see a bump or a crease which would set my imagination going.
"Mickey, look at the line in your hand. It looks like a river. Once
upon a time, there was a river of milk that flowed into the cave
of the thousand eyes. One day Mickey and Chris were sitting on a
great green leaf which was floating down the milk river."
As I told the story I'd watch Mickey's face and pick up the
action when her interested flagged. "A red bird called out warning
the children. Beware! Don't go into the cave of a hundred eyes!"
I told hand stories only to Mickey and Chris and other children.
I'd never tell them to my friends or to adults.
I wasn't aware of it but we were surrounded by stories. My Uncle
Jackie would drop into the kitchen and start telling funny stories
about all of the politicians he knew. And we loved it when Uncle
Jackie got his words mixed up. He'd say things like, "I got a
lot of ankles in the fire." And Mother would tell stories of her
students, people she'd meet in Boston, of sales people. She'd
say things like, "There's a man on Marlborough Street who shines
only one of his shoes." Her eye was as sharp as Dickens'. And
when we were still in elementary school, Dad got us acting in
plays with him at the Footlight Theatre in Jamaica Plain. We loved
being on stage in front of an audience and we loved the odd characters
that hung around the theatre. It was as if the theatre basement
gave birth to wonderful strange people.
Then there were the stories we were living. Gram was on the
third floor of our huge old fashioned house. We sensed that hers
was a story of another era. We could not fathom Gram had ever
been a young woman who had fallen in love and raised a family.
It was shocking and hilarious to think that Gram had been born
when Jesse James was still alive. So stories got mixed up. Gram
and Jesse James were in the same story.
Then there were the huge stories like the parting of the Red
Sea, the Burning Bush, Mary and Joseph and the birth of Jesus.
We were bathed in stories.
And the radio stories. The Lone Ranger was brought to us by
Cheerios. He and Tonto led interesting lives. I wondered if he
took his mask off at night as he and Tonto told stories by the
campfire.
People themselves were stories. Barbour the fruit man in the
village was a rough old potato who took care of the town drunks.
Mrs. Barbour moved like blue lightening amidst tangerines and
apples. Mr. Paine, the stationery man, had a water mark stamped
on his soul.
I was telling hand stories but was unaware that I was swimming
in a sea of stories.
To be continued. . .
Couldn't Walk
Last summer I swam in the sea every day. I walked, and during vacation
began to ride my bike. I was going to get in shape. Inspired by
a woman who bikes instead of driving, I decided to bike everywhere
in Marshfield. I biked to church one Sunday morning, then biked
several miles to the beach where I swam, then biked home and made
bread. Later that day I felt a pain in my groin.
I thought a day or two of rest would take care of things. It
did not. I was on the road for most of the next four months and
the pain just kept getting worse. It turned out I had a pinched
nerve. I went to an acupuncturist, chiropractors, a homeopath,
and a medical doctor. The doctor gave me pain killers and said
modern medicine could not heal a pinched nerve. At the Touchstone
Theater in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania I'd limp onto the stage and
sit for the two hour performance. I was now walking so strangely
everything hurt.
It's incredible not to be able to walk. I looked with envy at
the people who walked down the sidewalk. I thought they should
be leaping with joy. They should be singing. They can walk! Why
aren't those jerks smiling!
I performed in Bermuda after which Linda and I planned to celebrate
our 30th wedding anniversary. I had one great day but then the
pain was such that we had to go home.
Nothing had healed me, and so, encouraged by a dear friend,
I called a Christian Science practitioner. I am not a Christian
Scientist but my friend is so deeply spiritual, I had total trust
in her. The practitioner said on the phone, "You know we are made
in the image and likeness of God." I know that phrase from the
Old Testament but it was startling to hear it. What could that
extraordinary phrase mean?
I read the prophet Jeremiah who tells us that God says "You
have been with me everlastingly." How stunning. If I am loved
by God, why don't I know it? Is there something in the way?
Julian of Norwich, fourteenth century English mystic, says wrath
gets in the way of knowing we are loved. So what was my wrath?
What was making it painful to walk, to move forward in life? Ah
ha! I finally realized that in the summer I had high hopes that
a publisher would accept a book I'd worked very hard on. When
the publisher said it needed work, lots and lots of work, I ignored
my disappointment and it went underground. I was angry and hurt
and pretended I wasn't. The wrath was still there waiting to be
acknowledged, expressed and let go of. It pinched me.
Acknowledging and dealing with the wrath took time. I shouted
and prayed and did yoga. I basked in the kindness of the Revels
cast in Houston. I rested when I could. By the end of December
I was finally able to walk again. Now when I'm walking along I
think, "I'm walking! Smile!" And I do!
Steel Festival
There will be a Steel Festival in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania which
will run from September 9-19, 1999. The festival is to celebrate
all that steel making meant for almost a century and a half in Bethlehem.
The great blast furnaces went silent on November 18, 1995 and a
long era came to an end.
Bridget George, Jenny Gilrain and their colleagues at Touchstone
Theatre felt that steel making and life in Bethle-hem during the
steel years should be celebrated. They teamed up with Deb Sakarakis
at Lehigh University, and together they conceived of The Steel
Festival, which will include a great dramatic production call
"Steel Bound" to be performed at the steel mill. Ysaye Barnwell,
of Sweet Honey in the Rock, will lead members of the community
in song. There will be workshops, a play, walking tours, lectures
and panels. I will perform my new story, which at the moment I'm
calling "Pouring the Sun."
Over the last three years I've interviewed about 75 steelworkers
and their families. I talked with professors and historians. I
talked with management and labor. I talked with women who worked
in the steel mill during World War II. In fact I interviewed so
many people that I became overwhelmed, because the story could
be about every one of them.
The South Side of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania was home to thousands
of immigrants who went there and found work in the steel mill.
Three times a day, steelworkers would pour down the steep hills
and into the mills. Back in the twenties and thirties, you could
hear steelworkers speaking Italian, German, Polish, Greek, Hungarian,
Russian and Spanish . . . So what would my story be about?
I had the good fortune to interview John Waldony. John's memory
is extraordinary and I appreciated his deep sense of humor and
justice. He said to me, "The best thing that ever happened to
me was joining the union."
John introduced me to his sister Mary. The story I finally settled
on is about John and Mary's mother, who at 18 years old left a
small farm in Poland and came by herself to the United States.
Her story seemed to capture the story of thousands of people who
came to this country and whose lives became intertwined with both
the steel industry and the labor movement.
As with most stories, the process has been very much like riding
a wild horse. One moment I'm in the saddle, then suddenly I'm
thrown to the ground. Sitting on the ground feeling sore and hurt,
I know I have to get up and get back on the horse. It's then that
I think of Mozart. How did he do it with such ease and such grace?
And beauty! After working on the story for almost a year, I think
I have a sense of what the story is about. So if you're anywhere
near Bethlehem in September, come by.
Widening Circles
Rainer Maria Rilke wrote some of the most extraordinary lines. He wrote,
I live my life in widening circles
That reach out across the world.
I may not ever complete the last one,
but I give myself to it.
I circle around God, that primordial tower.
I have been circling for thousands of years
And I still don't know: Am I a falcon,
a great song or a great storm?