I’m not even talking about what is a suitable story or how to tell it. Rather, I’m talking here about PROFESSIONAL standards: how we relate to those who engage us to tell stories, and to our listeners, students, etc.

This issue applies to performers, of course, but it also applies to story-educators, story-trainers, consultants in organizations, coaches, etc.

Are there values we don’t want to compromise?

I said, “No!”

I have opposed such discussions in the past. Why? Well, storytelling can’t be derived from standards. It comes from imagery, not from principles.

If you instruct people in the “principles of storytelling,” for example, you tend to get bad storytelling results. After all, if you didn’t know how to walk, suppose someone tried to teach you by saying, “Walking is just a controlled fall from one leg to the other.” That’s a true statement, but would it help you? Has anyone ever learned to walk from knowing that principle?

On the contrary, the strength of storytelling is that, in a society where we sometimes trust analytic thinking too much, storytelling can help put us back in touch with the value of experience. It can free us from our over-dependence on “standards.”

To make matters worse, to most storytellers the word “standards” suggests something prescriptive, judgemental, inflexible, and exclusionary.

So why would we need professional standards? Is there possibly a way to create them that doesn’t have these negative effects?

Karen’s Patience

Karen Dietz, former executive director of the National Storytelling Network and new chair of its Storytelling in Organizations special interest group (http://www.storytellinginorganizations.com) was kind enough to spend an hour on the phone with me, explaining why she thought this was not only a good idea, but an important one.

She said, “Look, Doug. We each have standards (or principles or values, whatever you want to call them). We don’t always know we have them, though. But as soon as someone violates our values, we think, ‘Wait a minute!’

“But what happens then?” she continued. “If it’s just our personal point of view against the attitude of the person who has hired us, we’re at a great disadvantage trying to stand up for our principles.

“But imagine this: What if we had a list of those values that we, as a community, all happened to agree on?

“Then,” she went on, “we could say to an organizer or employer, ‘What you just asked me to do violates a commonly held principle of the National Storytelling Network!’ That would make it easier to insist, since others would have supported my point of view.”

I said, “Sure, Karen, I’d like a whole community behind me. But who would come up with these standards? Wouldn’t the result be elitist and exclusionary?”

She said, “No, Doug. I’m not talking ‘top-down’ here. We need to find the values we already have. If each of us looks for the values we do hold, then we can search for the ones we have in common.

“I hope we will have a public discussion on which principles really represent our community. Even if there are only 3 or 4 values we agree on, it would be wonderful to know that we all agree on those.”

The Dark Side of Storytelling

I realized, once I had talked to Karen, that it was an important value to me that “stories must not be used to hide the truth.” I had never put that idea together with the word “standard.”

But one day I arrived at a conference where I had been hired to tell stories about the proceedings. Once I got there, though, I learned that an important part of the truth about the conference subject was considered “off limits” for stories. I thought, “Foul!”

But what was the foul line that had been crossed? I had never articulated or defended my unconsciously held value about not telling stories that lie through omission. As a result, I was unprepared to deal with it. If I had thought about it in advance, I would have handled that situation better.

Important for all of us?

Karen was talking mostly about the story work some of us do in businesses and other organizations. But I think the problem applies to all the work that storytellers do.

I want to begin thinking, for myself at least, what my standards are. And I’d love to hear some of yours.

This is issue #75 of “eTips from the Storytelling Coach” You can sign up for your free monthly subscription (complete with money-saving subscriber specials and announcements) in the upper right corner of this page.

Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room. One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs. His bed was next to the room’s only window. The other man had to spend all his time flat on his back. The men talked for hours on end. They spoke of their wives and families, their homes, their jobs, their involvement in the military service, where they had been on vacation.

Every afternoon when the man in the bed by the window could sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate all the things he could see outside the window.

The man in the other bed began to live for those one-hour periods where his world would be broadened and enlivened by all the activity and color of the world outside.

The window overlooked a park with a lovely lake. Ducks and swans played on the water while children sailed their model boats. Young lovers walked arm in arm amidst flowers of every color and a fine view of the city skyline could be seen in the distance.

As the man by the window described all this in exquisite detail, the man on the other side of the room would close his eyes and imagine the picturesque scene.

One warm afternoon the man by the window described a parade passing on the street below. Although the other man couldn’t hear the band, he could see it clearly as the old fellow by the window portrayed its every detail with the most descriptive words.

Days and weeks passed. The afternoon peeks into the outside world continued. Bright, sunny days, but rainy days too. Dark clouds rolling in and intense lightning bolts descending on the park. Pedestrians running for cover as the rain came in sheets, blown by a howling wind. It would soon be winter, they said, as they speculated as to whether or not the pond would freeze hard enough for skaters. Maybe there would be a Christmas tree on the frozen lake, and carolers too. They wondered how much snow they might get this year.

One morning, the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths only to find the lifeless body of the man by the window, who had died peacefully in his sleep. She was saddened and called the hospital attendants to take the body away.

As soon as it seemed appropriate, the other man asked if he could be moved next to the window. The nurse was happy to make the switch, and after making sure he was comfortable, she left him alone.

Slowly, painfully, he propped himself up on one elbow to take his first look at the real world outside.

He strained to slowly turn to look out the window beside the bed.

It faced a completely blank brick wall.  

For Lancelot, getting up in the morning and coming face-to-face with a dragon was as exciting as swatting a fly from his head.

He had lost track of the number of quests he had been on. Perhaps 157? His parents could give a perfect inventory of his awards, trophies and medals. His father could state the stats of the length of every dragon’s wingspan. His mother could share how many damsels in distress he had saved including the fabric and style of the ladies’ dresses.

A museum had opened to display the heads of the dragons Lancelot had slain. Princesses and duchesses entered these halls. They batted their eyes and flickered their fans to get Lancelot’s attention. He rolled his eyes and excused himself saying he had another quest to fulfill. A lady often fainted at these words.

“Another day with the dragons,” mumbled Lancelot to his horse.

After hum drumming for 13 miles, he and his beautiful steed halted outside the dark entrance to a dragon’s lair. Lancelot slumped off his horse and casually walked to the cave. In a voice with as much enthusiasm as a snoring bull, he cleared his throat to announce what he had announced for all 157 quests.

“Today you face judgment with my sword—blah, blah, blah—for it is I, Sir Lancelot, who seeks your head!”

Rumbles echoed inside the cave’s walls. The dragon rushed out of the cave and glared at the knight with its scales laid flat.

“RRAAARRRRRR! How dare you speak in such a tone! And saying, ‘Blah, blah, blah!’”

“After 157 quests you’d probably get bored, too. So you know the routine. I’ll wield my sword about a dozen times. We’ll run in two figure eights. You’ll throw around a few fireballs. Then, I’ll stab you in the heart and finally cut off your head.”

“If we do it your way, I don’t get a happy ending, do I?”

“Stop talking and let’s get to work! I have another ‘amazing’ quest to go on.”

“Well, don’t you have a sense of humor!”

Lancelot completed one turn around the dragon when he froze. His sword hung in mid-air. He had heard a word that he had not heard in years.

“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘don’t you have a sense of humor!’”

Lancelot lowered his sword and put it back in its sheath.

“Humor? Yes! Humor! Oh—thank you!”

Lancelot charged the dragon—not with a lance—but with open arms and gave the shocked creature a hug around its neck. As the knight raced back to his steed, the dragon watched, unable to move from astonishment. Perhaps that dragon is still frozen in place.

As Lancelot rode back home, he didn’t hum drum or haw or sigh.

He thought back to when he was a child, about the height of his father’s knees.

Trumpets had blared from the castle walls as word was heard of a grand festival complete with jesters and jugglers. He tugged on his mother’s sleeves.

“Can I go, mom? Can I go?”

“Of course, sweetie. Your father will take you.”

Before Lancelot could protrude his lips in disappointment, his father picked him up and placed him on his shoulders.

“Oh, we will go to the jousting tournament. I dare say you want to be a knight and fight dragons!”

Lancelot’s legs dangled around his father’s neck. He squirmed and wiggled to get back on the ground so he could run away to find the jesters and jugglers. His father only hung on tighter, convinced that his son was excited to see the knights.

Conquered, Lancelot placed his elbows on his father’s head and then placed his head in his hands.

After the jousting tournament, Lancelot and his father journeyed home. Lancelot turned his head towards the festival grounds. He saw a jester stuff some crazy things into a burlap sack, swing the sack over his shoulder, and continue down the path—away from Lancelot.

All through dinner, his father shared the amazing feats of the knights and Lancelot stared at his food until it got cold. When his father finished his story, Lancelot blurted out, “I want to be the royal court jester!”

His mother dropped a plate. His father dropped his mouth. No more was said.

Later that night, before Lancelot went to sleep, he heard his mother wailing to his father. “Oh, how can our son think of being a jester? To betray his lineage?”

Lancelot never spoke his dream out loud again and followed the course his father showed him. He became page then squire then knight.

“Yet, the dream will be spoken now!” cried Lancelot as he came out of his daydream.

Lancelot knew he must approach the king yet he could not simply march up to the king and ask to be a jester. Usually a knight asked to become a lord or a duke and be over his own palace. No one asked to be demoted as an ordinary citizen, especially to be a jester.

Lancelot rode to the closest kingdom. For his plan to work, he needed to have the palace buzzing about a traveling jester headed there. Lancelot went to the marketplace and approached several villagers.

“Hey, did you know there is a jester who wants to be a knight? Have you heard of such a thing?”

The people never had heard of such a thing and it wasn’t long before news reached the king. At once, the king requested that this jester come to his court.

When Lancelot heard of the king’s interest, Lancelot exited the palace gates and went into the nearby woods. Out of a burlap sack, he took out a bright costume he had made. While putting it on, he experimented voices he could use as a jester. He put some white powder on his face. Then he pulled out an old broom, his new “horse”, from the sack. He broke off a branch above him to be his sword.

Lancelot galloped along the path atop his trusty broom.

As he neared the kingdom, guards spotted him and announced the jester’s arrival to the king.

Trumpets sounded as Lancelot rode into the palace gates. Lancelot sauntered on his broom all through town and finally to the courtroom. The sight alone of the jester on his “horse” drew a large crowd full of curiosity.

Then Lancelot cupped his hands and mimicked the trumpets.

“Dodododo! Ah! Your majesty! I come before you to become a knight. My training is unsurpassable!”

“Is this so, Jester? How have you trained yourself?” mused the king as he twirled his beard with his fingers.

“I am an expert in the most strenuous exercise of all . . .laughter! Did you know ten minutes of vigorous laughter equals ten minutes of rowing a boat? Let me demonstrate.”

The jester turned to one of the king’s guards. The biggest guard was twice the size of the jester.

“May I borrow your sword? Place it on the ground?”

The guard’s sword was the same size as the jester.

“You may wonder if I can lift this sword! First, I will laugh. Hahahahahahahhahahahah! Now my muscles are ready.”

The jester seized the handle.

“To slay a dragon—gasp, gasp, gasp—it’s important—gasp, gasp, gasp—to intimate it by swinging the sword—gasp, gasp, gasp—a dozen times.”

The sword had not budged from the ground. The jester let go of the handle.

“Hmmm, it appears I shall have to increase my laughter exercise from thirty minutes to an hour for this sword! No matter, I will use my own sword!”

The jester swung his “sword”, the branch, several times and smacked his face a few too many times with the leaves.

The king furrowed his brows.

“Next it is required in a dragon battle to complete two figure eights to avoid tackle. Let me show you my figure eights that I learned through ice-skating. Guard, you will be the dragon.”

The jester took long awkward strides around the guard and completed the lopsided figure eights.

“Now watch as the dragon—guard, that’s you—blows his humongous fireballs!”

The giant guard stood at attention. Nothing happened.

“Ahem, now watch as the dragon blows his humongous fireballs!”
The guard still stood at attention. Nothing happened.

“Come on, guard, you are the dragon. Show me a fireball!”

The guard looked at the king, rolled his eyes, and blew a tiny puff of air from one side of his mouth.

“Guard, is that any kind of a fireball? Bigger! Bigger!”

The guard made a larger puff of air but was not about to do anything more.

“Hmmm, must be a baby dragon. Oh well. It is time to take my sword. . .”

The jester held up his branch.

“. . .and stab the dragon in the heart.”

The jester threw the branch like a spear and made a “tink” against the guard’s armor.

“With a strike like that, any dragon would plunge to the earth!”

The giant guard stood at attention. Nothing happened.

“Ahem, with a strike like that, any dragon would plunge to the earth!”

The guard still stood at attention. Nothing happened.

“Oh, guard! Please cooperate. Let’s try again.”

“With a strike like that, any dragon would plunge to the earth!”

Again the guard looked at the king, rolled his eyes, and slumped to the ground. The jester placed his foot on the “dragon” and pretended to saw the guard’s head as trophy. The jester lifted the imaginary head and exclaimed, “Ah! I have conquered!”

The palace erupted with applause and the jester gave a bow and threw out kisses to the ladies in the court.

The king was quiet. Then the king put his hand to his mouth. Finally, the king wrapped his arms around his stomach from all the laughter!

“Oh, Jester! Now I see how laughter is an exercise. Oh, my stomach hurts!”

After the king collected himself, the jester knelt before the king.

“I am ready to be knighted, oh king!”

“You? I enjoyed your demonstration, but I would sooner turn one of my knights into the royal court jester than have a jester become a knight!”

The jester smiled. “Do I have your word on that?”

“Yes, of course.”

The jester stood up straight and smeared the white powder from his face with the burlap sack to reveal Sir Lancelot.

“Oh king, I, Sir Lancelot, desire to be your royal court jester.”

The whole palace, which had once been full of roar and applause, became completely silent. Everyone waited to hear the king’s response.

After what seemed like hours, the king said, “I cannot have you lose your rank as knight!”

Lancelot drooped his shoulders.

The king continued. “So from now on, instead of being known as Sir Lancelot, you will be known as Sir Laugh-a-lot, my royal court jester!”

Upon hearing his dream spoken out loud, Lancelot picked up his trusty broom and galloped home, thinking of his next routine as a “normal” jester.

I was working at the local community college setting up short term job training for folks on public assistance, so I occasionally worked with the office staff of the various deans. The Dean of Instruction’s secretary had worked there forever and knew everything, so she was the one to ask if one wanted to get things done. However, she was not easily approachable and I found ways to get things done without her unless it was absolutely necessary. One day, she said something to me that not only changed our relationship, soon after it completely changed my life.

I came to work that day with a burn mark on my upper cheek. She noticed it and asked about it. So I said to her, “I had this big freckle on my cheek and I’d noticed that it was getting bigger over the last few years. The last time I asked a dermatologist about it, he said to ignore it, especially since removal usually left a scar that was even more noticeable than the freckle. Now that I have a new doctor, I asked again. He sent me to a dermatologist who said that I should get rid of it right away because these things tend to change into skin cancer. Before I could even ask him about a scar, he came at me with this blowtorch-looking thing and said he would remove it right now. So he went at me with the blowtorch and just burned it right off! (Demonstration and sound effects included.) Then he told me how to treat the wound and that was that. Now it just looks like a burn from a curling iron and it should heal soon and not leave a scar.”

The secretary chuckled at my story and commented that I was one of those persons who instead of just saying “I had a freckle removed” had to tell a whole dramatic story when answering a question. I had heard this about myself a few times and was aware of this trait but wasn’t sure how much it bothered people. I knew that sometimes I would still be talking and the listeners would have gone onto something else. I knew that often it took me a long time to explain things. On the other hand, I knew that when I had been an instructor this technique (or bad habit) worked well for illustrating concepts to learners. So I asked her what she thought about this tendency. Was it okay or was it something that bothered people? She answered, “We need people like you. We need people who can tell a story and make everyday life sound more interesting than it really is. My husband does the same thing.” That’s all she said, but it stuck with me. After that, I didn’t avoid her quite so much and I stopped feeling so self-conscious about how I explained things.

Within the year I had to leave that job to take care of my ailing parents. After my mother passed away I had some free time so I checked out the local storytelling guild and found a new calling. I was amazed – and still am amazed – that there is a place for people who answer questions with a story; that people actually want to hear me tell stories about everyday life; and that I can dig into the stories that I like to tell over and over again, find the kernel of Truth in them, and share that meaning with others. Now I’m telling my stories and writing my memoirs, I’m telling the stories of people who are gone or who can’t tell their own stories, and I’m helping seniors remember and tell their stories. All because I can’t answer a question without telling a story, and I finally claimed that as good.

I had just celebrated my 40th birthday. I had a mortgage, a family, 4 boys, a wonderful, supportive wife, two jobs, and a lot of people who enjoyed my paycheck. I was just finishing my 15th year as an elementary school teacher teaching the 6th grade at a small Oklahoma school. I was also getting ready to start my 5th year summer at my second job as a paramedic at a hospital-based ambulance service.

When I had finished my Masters degree, my summers were now mine. Since so many people expected a check every month, I started to look for a way to supplement my teacher salary. I happened to know a lady who had worked at school who was also a part time EMT with the county hospital. From visiting with her, I decided that maybe that would be something for me.

I took my first class, and I was hooked. I finished the class, and passed the National Registry Test and became a certified EMT. I got my first job at the service where my friend worked. I worked that summer as a fill-in for people on vacation. Then, when school started, I would work on weekends, as needed. Time went by, and the service I worked for began to advance their service to a higher level of care. So did I. The service soon became a Paramedic Life Support service. I went back to school at night and became a full-fledged Nationally Registered Paramedic.

I was getting ready to start my fifth summer, and standing there looking at a balding man who was becoming aware of the passing of time. I don’t think I was much different from any other man who finds himself facing the realization that as one gets older the years seem to shift to a higher gear and come faster than you ever thought they could. I believe it’s called a Mid-Life Crisis. I told my wife that when she turned 40 I would trade her in for two 20s. She said, “Honey, you’re not wired for 220!” I wasn’t the type of guy to buy a sports care, chase wild women, or dye my hair, or in my case, buy a wig. I was worried whether I had made the right decisions in my life.

As a teacher, I spent my first 10 year had been spent as an elementary teaching principal. This lasted until a budget crunch. My school went from 2 principals to one. I decided I would go to the classroom because I had a second job that paid as much as got for being principal. When the time came to go back to the principal job, the qualifications had changed and I was no longer certified. That was fine with me. I had advanced to a Paramedic, and I was able to keep the wolves away from my door. I was even thinking about going on in the ambulance service and maybe, even working full time as a director. As I said, time passes, and things change. My new principal at school felt threatened by the ex-principal, me. Medicaid cuts put the small hospitals and their ambulance services in danger of closing. So there I stood looking at the stranger in my mirror while my world seemed to be falling apart around my ears. This is also the time that I really started looking at my relationship with God. I was raised in a home where church was a very important part of our lives. When my wife and I married, we dedicated ourselves to do what God had planned for us. Don’t get me wrong, I have missed my share of Sundays that I should have been in church, but we were never far from God. He had been good to us, and we knew it. We had what we needed, and we were blessed. With everything that had happened, I wondered if I had made the right decisions in my life. Was I really doing what I had promised to do? I wasn’t afraid that God was failing me, but that I was failing Him.

The call came in as a “baby not breathing.” This is a call that a paramedic hates to get. A critical child call could go “sour” in a heartbeat. Adults we worked on often, and had reason to be confident in our skills. But a child was something else. It was a great relief upon our arrival that the child was breathing. This was not the first time that we had dealt with this child or her family. She was a twin and had been born way too soon. She and her sister had multiple problems. I had run on a call for her twin sister. She was transported to a larger hospital, and soon passed from this life. Now this very young couple was faced with the possibility of losing this baby too.

They were out at the bowling alley, one of the few places they could go and take her apnea monitor which sounded an alarm when her oxygen level dropped too low. That was what had happened, so they had called us.

This was a very sick little girl. If you have ever been around a child with her condition, you would notice the bluish tint to her skin. The skin is almost slimy with a thick sweat. There is an acidic type smell due to the body chemistry.

She was breathing, but not very well. The monitor was buzzing. The young mother was crying. She was saying that they shouldn’t have tried to go anywhere because they had already buried one baby. Would they also lose this one?

When you’re young and trying to take care of a sick baby, there are a number of things that make you feel guilty. What did I do wrong? Did I take something that made my baby so sick? Sometime the family is critical of the young parents trying to take care of a fragile life.

Not that this family was not supportive, but they were not in the hearts or the minds of the young parents desperately trying to hold on to their beautiful baby girl.

My partner that day was my favorite partner to work with. He knew the town well, and he told good jokes. We shared the opinion that very sick people need to get to the hospital and a doctor as quick as possible. We called it “Boogey Time.” This decision would be made without a word being said. A look was all that was needed from either one of us, and we were moving. Everything we did, we did on wheels. We started our oxygen, established our IV, got ready for intubation, if needed, and did our vitals. Now we’re in the truck. Color us gone! The boss wasn’t always happy with these methods since billing information wasn’t part of the “Boogey!”

The hospital was only about three miles away, and I wasn’t looking forward to trying to put that intertrachial tube into her little airway. I noticed that that wouldn’t be necessary because she already had a tracheotomy. Our oxygen monitor showed that her level had come up a little, and she seemed to be breathing easier. Since we were about three minutes out, I called in my report. They said they were aware that we were on the way, and they were ready.

The ER is usually kept informed by the pediatrician anytime we have a critically ill child. There are standing orders so the ER doctor wouldn’t have to contact the pediatrician before starting treatment. There are also orders as to how far to carry out resuscitation of one of these sick children.

I couldn’t see her face because of the oxygen mask. At the hospital we changed to a different mask. When I took the large mask off, I thought I saw a smile on her face. Respiratory therapy was called since the baby had a tracheal tube that she breathed through.

I went about getting my truck back into service. When I finished, I went back to check on my patient. By now the respiratory therapist had suctioned her out and her oxygen saturation had returned to normal.

That’s when I saw it. When she looked at me the most beautiful smile come onto her little face. It was a smile that can only come from a child, a smile that can melt the hardest heart, a smile that says, “Hi, I love you!” I went to her, and she took my finger in her tiny hand. Her eyes sparkled full of life. I talked and played with her until X-ray came to take her.

When they brought her back, I was busy with another patient. An ER nurse I had known since I had started working at the hospital came over and asked me what I was going to tell my wife. I asked her what she was talking about. She said, “What are you doing to tell your wife about your little girlfriend?” She said that the little girl’s eyes had followed me everywhere I went. I looked at her lying in the bed, and again that smile greeted me. It was the sweetest smile I have ever seen. This was the way it was every time I saw her.

Her name was Megan. Megan always had a smile for me. There were many other times that Megan was brought into the ER, but even during the worst times she always had that beautiful smile for me. I soon also got to know her parents. After all I was their daughter’s first boyfriend. They were feeling guilt, anger, hopelessness, fear, and pain. I shared some of their pain and the love of their little girl.

The end of the summer was the last time I saw my little girlfriend, Megan. Her dad had gotten another job in the next county. I just happened to have some friends who worked at the hospital in that county. I knew I would miss seeing her, but I also knew she would be well taken care of.

School started and I went back to working part time for the ambulance service. I decided I would only work every other weekend. I was getting my truck ready for my weekend shift when a unit from the town where my little girlfriend, Megan, had moved to brought in a patient to ER. As was our custom after they gave their report and off loaded the patient, we would help get their truck back into service. On this day the paramedic on the truck was also a part time paramedic for our service. We were exchanging shoptalk while the other medic finished his paperwork. She asked me if I remembered the little girl that we had run on when the family lived here. I said yes, and I was anxious to hear how she was doing. When I asked, she reached out and touched my arm. Softly she said, “I guess you haven’t heard. We lost her last week.”

Now medically speaking, it was no surprise. Megan had so much working against her. My friend said that the family was doing as well as could be expected. To tell the truth I didn’t know how to feel. I thanked her and went about my business.

Now I knew why one of my students and her sister hadn’t been at school that last week. You see, it just so happened that Megan’s aunt, Dusty, was in my class. She loved to talk about Megan. I had gotten close to the whole family. This happens in a small town.

When I went back to school I wasn’t quite sure what I would say to Dusty. When the class came in she came up to my desk. She said, “Mr. Armstrong, have you heard what happened?” I said I did, but I didn’t know in time to go to the funeral. Dusty said her sister asked her to do something. She wanted to apologize for not letting me know, but that so much was going on that they forgot to call. I told her that I understood. Then she took out a little picture. There it was – that beautiful little smile. Dusty said that her sister wanted me to have this picture. She also wanted me to know how much they appreciated my kindness to them and their little girl. I took the picture, and made up an excuse to step out of the room for a minute.

Today I look in my mirror, and I don’t see that old bald man wondering what his role is in the big picture of life. When I look in the mirror, I see a man blessed. I see a man who was shown what is important by a beautiful little girl and her young parents.

We all have a place in this world. We are each a piece of a beautiful picture. When all of those pieces fit together they paint a picture of God’s love for us. We are each an important part of that picture, caring and loving each other. This was what Megan taught me. She wasn’t here on this earth very long, but she was able to show me her part of the picture and mine. It has been said that when God takes a baby to heaven that baby becomes an angel. If that is true, then I carry an angel in pocket and always will.

At one time the plants existed peacefully in the Garden of Eden, but when Adam and Eve were cast out, there was chaos in the world.

Oaks and pines shoved each other’s trunks to get a better position of the sun’s rays and caused battle scars called “knots.” Those can still be seen today. Roses formed thorns to rip the leaves of other flowers and prevent others from taking their portion of the sun. Bark was just another name for armor while branches and thorns pierced like spears and arrows.

Seedlings never had a chance to get a taste for light. Casualties mounted from the greed and finally many flowers retreated to the meadows and to the fields. Trees and shrubs of the forest rejoiced in their victory but quickly turned on each other—the war far from over.

Refugee flowers could not rest long as dandelions soon dominated the fields.

When the moon appeared, all plants curled and clung their branches and leaves together so as to have enough energy to battle and fight once more when the sun rose.

One gray flower grew weary of this forever battle. She never bloomed for she never reached the light. The slightest nudge from a stem plunged her face first into the ground.

While in this position, she contemplated the possibility of becoming some kind of underground plant such as the potato or the carrot. Then she would not have to fight above ground. She slowly lifted her face and swung her bud downward into the dirt to dig a home underneath, but the presence of clay made one of her petals fall from the force. She was about to try a second time until she remembered that even underground plants need the sun.

She glanced at the red rose with thorns that seized petals of other flowers and wore them as medals of war. No one could conquer the rose.

The gray flower looked at the ground. Sharp-edged rocks surrounded her and a pine tree nearby was bleeding with sap from the last encounter with an oak tree. She stretched with one of her leaves and took some of the sap and rubbed it up and down her stem. Then she picked up some of the sharp-edged rocks and glued them to her. The first rock she placed on herself tore through her stem. She closed her eyes at the pain. She put on another rock and another rock and another rock. She glanced at the rose with tears in her eyes and finally pulled the rocks out. She was not meant to have thorns.

While healing from the cuts in her stems, she looked at the hardy dandelion. He could grow anywhere and everywhere and could squeeze through clay and stone alike. The dandelion even looked like the sun.

The gray flower lifted pebbles to strengthen her leaves and stem until finally she could advance to stones. She spied a stone as big as her head and wrapped her leaves around it. She could feel part of it lift from the ground and then she heard a terrifying rip. It was her stem. It had bent in half. Now the gray flower was forced to face the ground. Her spirit was gone and she knew she was doomed to extinction.

She curled closer to the ground and dreamed before she would die. She felt warmth on her cheeks and could feel her tightly closed bud open. Her petals were no longer gray but shone silver underneath the . . . she opened her eyes and saw not the glorious sun above but the majestic moon. She turned and saw the other flowers, shrubs, and trees sleeping. She alone rejoiced and bloomed during this peaceful night.

Few know of the beautiful silver Moonflower, but those who stroll along a path under a full moon shall never forget her.

Cliff was a participant in the senior adult day program that I manage in Shelton, WA, a small rural town whose economy is based on forestry and fisheries. Cliff had lived in Shelton his whole life. He’d operated a garbage service there. His grown kids worked in construction and shellfish canning. He was a little crusty around the edges, but we loved him. Sometime in mid-life he’d had a stroke that seriously disabled him. His wife had cared for him for many years and after she passed away his daughter cared for him. Somewhere along the way he’d started attending an adult day program that is designed for seniors with conditions that keep them from being independent.

Cliff’s whole left side no longer worked and he was stuck in a wheelchair. His mind was still sharp as a tack, though, except when medications or fatigue got to him. He always liked a joke or a story or a comment that was a little risque. (Maybe he liked them a lot risquÈ, but we never went there.) And he wondered about this work that I did, often asking why I was working here if I had a college degree and all that experience.

A couple of years before, I’d left my best-paying high-powered job. I’d left it to return to my parents’ home so that I could spend time with my Dad who was on that never-ending downward spiral caused by Alzheimer’s disease. Mom wasn’t sure I should come because it was so stressful to take care of Dad. And I agreed, it was stressful, but a different kind of stress than I had experienced managing a training program for a big company. Eventually Dad needed to be moved into a care facility and Mom passed away and I ended up working for Senior Services. That’s how I arrived in the presence of Cliff. Cliff who wondered what I was doing helping “old half-baked” people (his words) eat their meals, read the newspaper, go to the bathroom, tell a few stories, and crack a few jokes. Good question.

But it was easy. It was easy because I was one person connecting with one other person who needed me. And this happened with other seniors in the program,too. They needed me so that they could go on with their lives with dignity. They needed me to celebrate their rich and varied experiences in the past and to affirm their lives in the present. Sometimes they just needed me to help them do simple daily things.

Like the day lunchtime arrived and Cliff was hungry. The hot lunch from the Senior Center smelled good. But for some reason that day, Cliff kept sliding down in his chair and leaning to the left. My assistant and I repositioned him in his wheelchair, propped up his left side with pillows, did all we could to keep him upright, but he just kept sliding and leaning and couldn’t eat his lunch. So I asked if he wanted me to hold him upright and he said, “Yes, please.”

I stood there, propping Cliff up so that he could eat his lunch, wondering to myself, “What am I doing here?” And I knew. It was easy. It was easy to help this man who had lived so long and done so much and today just wanted to eat some lunch. He needed me and I could help him. It didn’t matter who I was, what my resume said, where I’d come from, how much education I had, or how much money I made. It didn’t matter if I’d reached my potential, if I was self-actualized, if I’d reached the pinnacle of success. It didn’t matter that this job is not valued by society. It did matter to the families who sent their loved ones to a safe and positive place so that they could have a break. But most of all it mattered to Cliff. He wanted to eat lunch.

Now, Cliff is gone from this earth, but I still remember him. I remember him as the person who helped me discover how easy it was to let go of all the reaching and striving that had driven me for so long, and just stand still serving another human being.

Copyright (c) 2006 Randi Moe

After about 11 years looking in, searching around, studying, visiting and practicing so many different spiritual paths, I finally returned to Judaism. And the signposts that helped me find my way back was stories and storytelling.

Rabbi Ted Falcon is a wonderful storyteller and his telling Hasidic stories back in the early 1980’s was one of the main reasons I cam back and stayed.

And that by itself is a big breakthrough. However, the really big breakthrough , for me as regards the path of the storyteller, was the story that came to me as a member of the choir in Rabbi Falcon’s congregation at that time, Makom Ohr Shalom: A Place for the Light of Healing.

This was 1986. It was the second day of Rosh Hashanah—the Jewish New Year. It also happened to be, through an accident (there really are none) of the Jewish calendar, a calendar based on the lunar cycle,and the recent leap year that that particular Rosh Hashanah second day was also my own personal New Year: my birthday. That would not happen again until THIS past year, 2005, when for the first time since 1986, my birthday would fall on the second day of Rosh Hashanah And it was not just another birthday, but it was my 30th birthday—certainly a landmark year for most of us.

So there I was sitting in the tenor section of the Congregation Makom Ohr Shalom choir and Rabbi Ted was leading us in one his wonderful guided meditations. And normally, when we were doing these meditations, I went along with wherever Ted was going.

But this time, I went somewhere else. Some side way off the main path. And wherever that was, I received something, a gift, I had never received before, nor ever received since. I heard a story that the Rabbi was not telling. It was a complete story with a beginning, middle and end. There was no creative struggle or any of the usual process I experience while creating a story. No, this story came right through as if it was being told to me. I had never heard it before and as far as I know it had never been told or written anywhere else. Just inside me at that moment, like it was being dictated. Or as I said, it was being told to me. Inside.

I later decided that it was. That whatever an angelic encounter was, this was as close as I was probably ever going to get.

I kept thinking of the story for the rest of the service and as soon as I could, I wrote down a little note to myself so I would remember it. I wrote on the front cover of my copy of the meditation book/prayer pamphlet/songbook that we used: “Invisible Mezuzzah”.

This story has turned out to be one of my favorite stories to tell. That mystical experience of receiving the story led me, just a few weeks later to want to audit a class Rabbi Ted was teaching at the University of Judaism (UJ) in Bel Air, which led me to fall in love with that campus there in the Santa Monica foothills, which led me to register as an undergraduate in the UJ’s Lee College, which led me to apply to rabbinical school, which led me to be a rabbi now (and also to meeting my wife, but that is another story). Which led me to start a congregation here in Northern California, which led me to a trip to Israel…

But wait. There is something that comes before that.

Being at the UJ, also led me to spending a Shabbat (Sabbath) retreat there on campus in the dorms, and chapel setting with one of the great master storytellers of our generation, Peninah Schram. Peninah spent that Shabbat with about 10 students (there were few living there anyway and most of them did not stay around for the Shabbat). In one of the student lounges, she told us a story. And it was great.

Then she asked the students to tell a story. Only two of us were willing: a rabbinical student, and me (still an undergrad at that time).

The story I told was “The Invisible Mezuzzah”. Afterwards, Peninah told me that it was a great story and that I was a very gifted storyteller.

Well, after my head stopped spinning and I came back to earth, I though about this whole new concept of storytelling as an “art form” (I had heard of it and I had told stories in educational settings for years, but I had not thought of it before as an actual art form). And that haunted me throughout my rabbinical school career (which lasted 6 years AFTER finishing the 3 years needed to complete my undergraduate work since I had never completed my bachelor’s degree as a music student in my early twenties) and my first few years as a rabbi (since 1996, my ordination year).

Now, last year, in December 2004, I led a group of 10 of us from our little 30 member household congregation here in “lost” Jewish world of Solano County, Northern California on a tour to Israel, as part of a much larger group of people from Southern California.

Close to the end of that tour, I, along with one family from our congregation, was on a bus, that had been for most of the tour, occupied by the rabbi, his wife and child and his congregants from a very wealthy and large synagogue in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the US. It was mostly a very pleasant bus. However, the children on that bus had been given a free pass to make as much noise, move around freely on the bus and basically do anything they wanted. It was decided that it would be a “kid friendly” bus—that on that bus, they would let “kids be kids”. Which basically meant in that situation that the children had a license to scream, carry on and do anything they wanted, as long as nobody was killed. This was a problem for the Israeli tour guide, as the most he could hope for most of the way, while he talked to us about the sights and interesting background, was a low roar.

Well, we were on our way to Tzefat (aka “Safed”), the mystical city of Israel, which has a very rich legacy in the development of Jewish mysticism known as Kabbalah.

Since I love that city, maybe even more (or certainly as much) as Jerusalem, I felt inspired. I asked the other rabbi, if I might tell a story to the bus through the bus PA system. He said “Sure, but since it is a ‘kid friendly’ bus, don’t expect them to actually listen or be quiet while you tell it. And we can’t really demand that they do, since the agreement with parents was they had the freedom to “just be kids”. I said okay.

And then I began to tell them the story of the “The Invisible Mezuzzah”. And about 1 minute into the story, you could hear a pin drop. Well, actually you could hear the sound of the bus engine, the outside ambience and me telling the story. And that was really the first time you could hear those first two since we had entered the bus. To be fair, there was a few moments of laughter from the children and the parents at points in the story, I often expect laughter. They listened to the entire story and afterwards, there was a moment of silence and then applause.

A few minutes later, we arrived in Tzefat.

After we disembarked from the bus, the man who was the husband and father of the only other family from my congregation (all the others had left that bus after the first day we rode with them. They could not take the “kid friendliness”), said to me, “Rabbi Steve, I want to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

No horse heads or contracts at gun point, I hoped.

“I will pay all the costs for your first storytelling CD. I think that you are a great storyteller and I think your stories need to be heard. Whatever it costs, I will put the money up. You can pay me back if and when the CD pays for itself and then the rest is yours.”

Well, that experience was certainly a breakthrough. And it was based on a story that had come to me at an earlier breakthrough, 18 years earlier. In the Jewish tradition, the number 18 stands for “Life” because in Hebrew letters are numbers and the letters “yud” and “Het” are the 10th and 8th letters respectively and they are the same letters for the word “chai” which means life. And in between the receiving of that story and its 18th year of life, was that telling of it in that little student lounge back at the UJ in Los Angeles before I entered rabbinical school.

I am now working on that first CD and on the first of this year (2006), I had my first official storytelling performance at a local United Church of Christ church. I have another performance scheduled this month and two more at a local Episcopal Church in February. My feet are now firmly on the storytelling path.

Or we could say, my life as a storyteller is now fully born, after a long pregnancy period. I see the receiving of the gift of that story and then the telling of it, first at the UJ to that small group of students and Peninah Schram and then on that bus in Israel on the way to the mystical city of Tzefat, as being the three biggest landmarks or road signs on my storyteller path. I only now am entering into this life long passion and love of mine with full force. And it is the story of the journey of the story of “The Invisible Mezuzzah” that carried me here.

May it carry me, accompanied by many other stories and story angels forward on the path of the storyteller.

Soon after, I went to an intensive three-week clown workshop led by Bob Berky. I was psyched to show off and strut my stuff to him and to the others. Up until now, I had received only positive strokes from my telling, and I was fully expecting similar raves. Bob was an excellent instructor, but he wasn’t a gentle, sensitive coach like Doug Lipman. Basically, I got slammed and I took it really hard. Yes, I was good at animating the story, but I was told in no uncertain terms, that there was no connection to the audience, that I may as well be up there performing for myself. I don’t know if he used the word masturbatory or not, but that was the harsh gist of it.

I distinctly remember riding the bus back from that workshop, and writing myself a note about the key lesson I had painfully learned. The same asset that I had of being able to “get into” the action of the story was a potential liability. Yes, I was enjoying the story myself and I was a good craftsman, but the art was missing if I wasn’t keying in with the audience and inviting them to enter the story with me. The art and joy of performing is in being aware of the audience and feeling them throughout the telling. In a way, it was good that I had such a poignant lesson so early in my performing career. It’s almost as if I had to start all over, but with a new awareness that I believe has informed my work ever since.

The crux of my story is that it was a critical outside eye that enabled me to have this pivotal breakthrough. What I received was not the feedback that I was expecting, but it was exactly what I needed. Would I have welcomed that critique if I had had a clue as to what was coming? I can’t say for sure about then, but I know what the answer is now. After performing for nearly thirty years, I know how crucial it’ll always be to workshop new pieces and to solicit honest, candid critique.

I use the outside eyes of a small group of colleagues with whom I meet monthly. Judith Black is among them, and over the years, a great bond of respect and trust has developed within the group. We no longer need to pussyfoot with each other. We ask for what we’re looking for when showing our works-in-progress, and we are open to whatever comes back. Granted, when Judith and I coach others with whom we don’t have as much of a history, we are much gentler with our observations. But now if one of us just wants to know what’s not working and where the weak spots are, that’s what we’ll get pointblank. This candor may not be for everyone, but it works for us and makes our process that much more efficient. Sometimes, we find ourselves working on a wobbly “baby” that hasn’t yet found its legs. When that is the case, we are comfortable admitting our vulnerability, which is kindly taken into account when we ask for feedback.

Sometimes you know what you need and can ask for it. Other times you may not have a clue. When you do invite a respected eye for whatever input they are willing to share, you are opening yourself to all kinds of breakthroughs that may have entirely eluded your radar. Take those new bearings and fly with them.

However, in the monastery there was a novice, the youngest of the monks, and the first of his family to enter the monastic life.

The novice was causing the Abbot a lot of concern and heartache, with his behaviour. He was not attentive in lessons; he was disobedient to the rule. But the Abbot saw, in the novice, the seeds of greatness; and this deepened his concern.

As the Abbot went about his daily routine, he was aware of the young monk’s presence within the community. He would hear of the novice laughing during meditation, sleeping late and not attending to early morning duties. He would see the young man distracting others, and yet at others times he was nowhere to be found.

Increasingly, the Abbot felt under pressure from other monks to deal with the young man: to ask him to leave or to teach him a lesson. The Abbot had tried everything he could think of, reflecting on his apprenticeship within the traditions of the order.

One night the Abbot dreamed of a way through. ….

The following day, before first light – before the darkness had begun to pale – he arose and went to the novice:

“Come with me” he said, to the sleeping form. There was no reply.

The abbot, moving closer to the sleeping form, took him by the hand and gently raised him

“Come with me” he repeated and led the boy from his sleepy place.

“Where are we going, Master?” the novice asked.

The master replied not.

They passed through the monastery gates and started the climb to their destination, the novice grumbling, cold and stumbling as he went.

“Why are we doing this?” said the novice and “I don’t see the point”.

The Abbot smiled, observing how the path passed beneath his feet, noticing the roughness of the stones, the dew wet grass sweeping his ankles. He observed the wild flower meadow, bathed in the soft early morning light.

They continued the climb, through to the edge of the forest

And as they continued forward the novice was aware of baleful eyes of a large Tiger staring from the undergrowth and could smell his feral smell

“Come” said the Abbot, “there is no fear here” and moved away

The novice was left wondering, but followed his master

“Why are we journeying?” (the novice asked). The Abbot paused and listened. The novice paused but could hear nothing other than the sounds of the forest.

They moved on and came to a clearing where the Abbot raised his eyes to see a magnificent cascading, rainbow-wreathed waterfall. The novice looked up, too, but the Abbot moved on, climbing up the side of the falls.

“Where are we going?” he plaintively asked.

The Abbot sat on a large flat rock on top of the mountain and looked all around, smiling at the novice he said “What is there here?”

“I can see the rock and the moss, but they are not as beautiful as the grass in the fields…. I can see the wild flower, but it is nothing to the flowers in the meadow…. I can see the mouse, but that is not as magnificent as the Tiger, and the small trickle on the mountain here is nothing compared with the torrent of the falls”

“And so in all this there is nothing? Is there no more?”, asked the Abbot

“The only other thing I see, Master, is our path”