“Journey to Higher Ground”

 “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act but a habit.”

- Aristotle

This religious institution has a mission, “To seek inspiration and understanding, embrace all on their individual spiritual journeys, and serve our local and world communities.” We collectively worked on and crafted this mission statement to define our purpose and to describe how we will relate to each other and to the wider community. This is a powerful statement full of ambition: “to seek inspiration;” “to embrace our spiritual journeys;” and “to serve our local and world communities.”

 

Cascade Unitarian Universalist Fellowship is growing and maturing and our presence in the wider community is also evolving. Now the Social Action Committee has been rejuvenated by the energy and enthusiasm of a fellowship that is vibrant and alive, growing in numbers as well as enthusiasm, and is already active and committed to service within these walls and beyond. The Social Action Committee’s charter is to, “help turn the words in our … Mission Statement into action..” and to fulfill “… the vision of a Beloved Community, one social action at a time. ”

 

These are inspiring words and admirable ambitions. The Social Action Committee is one expression of our collective commitment to walk our talk. If we want to translate these ambitious new ideas into new actions; into practical applications that will create a visible presence for good within this fellowship and in the communities in which we live; if we genuinely want to live these words into being we need to be able to visualize a reality that does not yet exist. We need to see and believe in a future in this fellowship, in these communities, in this state and beyond that has not yet been realized. We need to dream in vibrant color. We need the perspective that can only be found from higher ground. These ambitious ideals call us to become something that is greater than the sum of our individual lives and purposes. Together we are more powerful, more brilliant, and more energetic than any of us are individually.

 

Albert Einstein was a genius, not because he knew more than everyone else, but because he could literally see more and see differently than anyone else. Albert Einstein redefined almost everything we understand today about how the universe works because he was able to see it from a new and different vantage point, a different perspective. Einstein was willing to abandon much of what had been long accepted knowledge about how the universe worked, and that has changed everything, forever.

 

If we are committed to seeking inspiration and understanding in new and different ways we will need a new bold vision; we will need a new perspective. If we keep sitting where we are sitting right now, then we will only ever be able to see what we can see right now.

 

Here in the Pacific Northwest our geography is relevant. We understand the importance of higher ground. Outside my front door I can see the Cascade Mountains and outside my living room windows I look down on the Columbia River. Higher ground is where you go to get the vantage point, the perspective of scale that is critical and essential for any journey into unfamiliar territory. That is just what we need to inform and sustain a potent, vibrant, energized presence in this building and in the wider community.

 

Lewis and Clark and the Corps of Discovery understood this. It is difficult for us to appreciate today, but Lewis and Clark were exploring completely new territory. Their mission was a simple one, find a water route from East to West. All of their education, training, and experience and simple logic convinced Lewis and Clark that once they crossed the continental divide they would see a gently sloping decline in elevation toward the Pacific Ocean, and most likely, a river route.

 

They were wrong; and not just wrong, spectacularly wrong. Instead of the gentle decline in elevation they expected, what they saw were mountains after mountains. The highest and most forbidding mountains that they had ever seen. Mountains higher than they even thought mountains could ever reach.

 

What I find most interesting about Lewis and Clark’s response to this crushing disappointment is that instead of turning around and going home, they pressed on to the West Coast and spent the winter in what is now Astoria, Oregon. Lewis and Clark walked that higher ground and were able to see the land stretched out before them from a completely different vantage point; a new perspective.

 

If we keep walking in the direction we are walking right now, we will only be able to embrace the vision and spiritual journey that we can see right now.

 

We have started that journey; we’ve started to dream in color. A couple of months ago Jennifer Bright led this fellowship through a series of workshops to identify and clarify just what this will mean to us in practical terms. And from that process two issues were chosen to be our focus – poverty and homophobia.

 

So, as a faith community, we have decided that what translating our words into action will mean for us is that we will be present with people living in poverty and minister to their needs; and we will stand on the side of love with our lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) brothers and sisters who are marginalized and oppressed.

 

Steering committees were formed because this is still a Unitarian Church and nothing can happen without a committee. The Food Task Force is working on getting food into the kitchens of people who are hungry. This means a renewed emphasis on our Food Bank Sundays, which you probably have already noticed with toilet paper Sunday, Diaper Sunday, and Peanut Butter Sunday. Granted diapers and toilet paper are not technically foods, but they are a necessary component of the whole food nutrition process. They are also working on longer range plans for a community garden. They are exploring the idea of forming a food bank in East Wenatchee, as the only food banks operating now are all in Wenatchee. There have been discussions about volunteering at existing food banks specifically so their hours can be extended to accommodate the working poor who may not be able to access the service during their limited hours of operation. And they have discussed the viability of providing lunches to children, particularly during the summer months when children are not in school and receiving the free or reduced fee lunches on which they depend.

 

As for homophobia a steering committee has been formed to shepherd this fellowship through the process of becoming officially recognized as a Welcoming Congregation. The Unitarian Universalist Association has a formal process for a congregation to be recognized as a Welcoming Congregation - a religious home where intentional steps have been taken to become welcoming and inclusive to people of all sexual orientations and gender identities. The program was first begun in 1990 and grew out of an understanding that widespread prejudices and lack of awareness about lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) people existed within Unitarian Universalism that resulted in the exclusion of LGBT people from full participation in the life of the church.

 

This is what it is going to mean for us to translate our words into action. Turning these words into intentional, public, and meaningful actions will require, of course, more than just the vision of a reality not yet achieved. It will take a lot of work.

 

I still remember what it was like to work. I was a social worker in the field of child welfare for almost twenty years, but this was not been my only, or even my most important profession. At one time I had the perfect and most important job. From the time my daughter Becca was 3 until I was no longer cool, about middle school, I had the position of full time professional stay at home Papa. I recall one day in particular. I had given Becca her lunch and was getting her ready for her nap. Getting three year olds to take a nap is an essential function of the professional stay at home papa. Apparently; however, I was not doing it correctly.

 

Being my daughter and having been taught by example, Becca was unafraid to express her opinion, a characteristic that is much cuter in 3 year olds than it is in 16 year olds. Becca told me that I was not doing it right. Actually she said, “That’s not the way mommy does it.” Confident in my professional stay at home papa skill set, I calmly explained to Becca that I wasn’t mommy. Becca looked up at me and said, in the way that only three year olds can when they realize that their parents are idiots, “You’re the mommy now!”

 

Clearly, I needed a different perspective. I had to begin to see myself not as the professional stay at home Papa, but as my daughter saw me, the mommy. If I wasn’t able to gain the perspective of a three year old, I would always be “doing it wrong.”

 

If we keep standing where we are standing right now, we will only be able to understand what it means to serve our local and world communities in the way that we understand it right now.

 

We may not personally identify with poverty or homophobia, but don’t think that it does not affect us and that since it doesn’t affect us we have no duty to do anything about it. The reality is that, as Martin Luther King said, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” We are, in the Christian tradition, truly our brother and sister’s keepers.

 

More than that though, poverty and homophobia are daily realities for many of the people and families living in the Wenatchee valley. Our solidarity with vulnerable, marginalized people can do much to change the lives of a person or family. On our own our individual voices and actions have great power; but collectively our unified voice and witness can influence the arc of history. Margaret Mead famously stated that we should never despair of the little we can do because all great achievements in our human societies have been initiated by small groups of progressive thinkers who were willing to act.

 

I see great things happening, modern day miracles of justice, equality, and compassion stirring in the life of this fellowship. That can really only happen if we accept the challenge to join our voices and actions together and commit to addressing the poverty and homophobia in our own communities and beyond.

 

And that is it, bold journey’s into unfamiliar territory may expand us, individually and collectively, but only if we are willing to let go of the familiar, find an appropriate vantage point from higher ground,  and win a new perspective. Because if we stay where we are right now, then we will only be able to seek inspiration, embrace the spiritual journey, and serve our local and world communities in the ways that we seek, embrace, and serve right now.

 

How Drinking Coffee Became Patriotic

An original story loosely based on real history

Rocci Hildum

If you’re anything like me, which I sincerely hope for your sake you are not, and even if you’re not anything like me, you probably started this morning with a cup of coffee. Just where did that coffee come from? I don’t mean what brand you bought or what store or premium drive through vendor you patronized, I mean, who ever thought up taking the bitter berries of a tropical bush, roasting them, grinding them, pouring hot water over them, and drinking the results?

I’m a pretty curious guy, so I decided to find out. Naturally, I went to the Internet because everyone knows that if it is on the Internet it must be true. So this is the absolutely true story of the origin of coffee.

It all started a long time ago in Ethiopia. There was a young goat herder named Kaldi. Apparently herding goats is neither physically nor intellectually challenging work so Kaldi was taking his usual afternoon nap, which had been preceded by his morning nap and would be followed by his late afternoon nap. When Kaldi woke up he couldn’t help noticing that his goats were dancing.

Now not being a professional goat herder myself, I was unaware of this interesting fact – goats rarely dance without the assistance of an artificial chemical stimulant. Kaldi was surprised by this so he investigated and discovered that his goats had been eating the red berries of a small bush.

For reasons that make absolutely no sense at all to me, Kaldi decided to follow the example of his goats and he started to chew on some of those berries. The berries were bitter but produced a pleasant surge of energy and a mild euphoria.

That might have been the end of it, because you see, Kaldi had deliberately chosen the profession of goat herding precisely because he was a man with few if any physical or intellectual assets and even less ambition.

But fortunately for all of us, those berries found their way to a monastery where the monks first poured water over the crushed roasted berries and drank the resulting beverage, just what was needed for men who get up at 4:00 every morning. And that monastery was situated right on the silk and spice trade routes. The monks, being hospitable, as well as entrepreneurial, shared their wonderful discovery, for a small fee, with travelers passing by and essentially established the very coffee shop. The coffee shop was so successful that they expanded from selling individual cups of coffee to selling the entire coffee bushes themselves. This coffee thing got huge, which might have been a problem for men who have committed themselves to an austere life of intentional poverty, service to the poor, suffering, and asceticism … but business is business.

Coffee reached Europe by way of Arab traders and merchants. Now there were a group of tired cranky folks who stay awake nights worrying that someone somewhere might be having fun and they tattled to Pope Clement VIII. They wanted him to ban coffee because it was an “infidel threat” to civilized Christians. Pope Clement, in an uncharacteristic display of progressive open minded thinking postponed his decision until he personally sampled the beverage. After just one cup Pope C. baptized coffee as fit for Christians and was too good to waste on the infidels.

Coffee eventually got to America where a whole bunch of those tired cranky people came to live in peace … well peace for them, but not for their new neighbors, but that’s another story. Still at that time, very few people drank coffee because everyone knew that all civilized people drank tea, specifically the King’s tea supplied exclusively by the East India Tea Company.

The Colonists were loyal subjects of the crown so King George treated them like all the other royal subjects, he taxed them mercilessly, on virtually everything, including tea. Americans didn’t want to give up their tea so they relied on genuinely American attributes of innovation, adaptation, and black market smuggling. The first, but not last, example of American entrepreneurs capitalizing on the popularity of an illegal agricultural product smuggled into the country and sold illegally on street corners and back alleys. King George, never fully appreciating the subtlety and value of moderation, went too when he set the price of tea sold by the East India Tea Company tea so low that it was cheaper even than black market pekoe. 

Now Americans loved their tea but they soon learned to love a good fight and sticking it to arrogant oppressive monarchs even more. The Patriots rose up in protest … actually it was more like slinking about and whining. On December 16, 1773 about a hundred tired, grumpy Patriots dressed up as Indians, might as well be cautious and blame your mischievous civil disobedience on the local folks, and dumped the King’s tea into Boston Harbor. From that day on, it became an act of treason to drink tea and coffee assumed its rightful place as our national beverage of choice.

Ever since that day offering the weary traveler a warm cup of coffee has been the iconic expression of hospitality in the home of all true Americans and drinking coffee has been the solemn duty of all true patriots.

I Believe in the Power of Listening

Rocci Hildum

When I think back it seems like such a long time ago when I realized that I did not know what it was that I believed.

I was a Social Worker, mostly with children who are victims of violence and their families, for almost twenty years now and I think I have finally learned some things, including some things I believe.

One of the things that I believe is in the power of listening. I believe that this is the single most important thing I can do; certainly much more important than much of the minutiae and bureaucracy that seemed to fill up my typical work day before I retired. Now I have different minutiae and bureaucracy filling up my days, but at least it’s my minutiae and bureaucracy!

And the source of this insight came to me from what at the time seemed the most improbable of sources - children.

Children need to be heard. The world seldom listens to them but children have much to say. And they know how important it is because we tell them all the time. Yet rarely do we ever demonstrate by, well by listening. Children learn much more from what we do than from what we say.

It was the most fortunate accident of my professional life that I learned that if I wanted to help people – a good thing is for me to let them tell me what they need. That would seem like a pretty obvious and simple thing, but like most everything else of any value in life, it is more difficult than it sounds.

Sometimes the truths that people need to share are plain and they shout them. Sometimes they whisper. Sometimes they are too private or painful to speak. Sometimes they are buried somewhere deep and safe. Sometimes people don’t yet know what they need or how to ask for it. And yet, if I listen, they will tell me.

I have seen this kind of deep, passionate, visceral listening be cathartic and heal wounds. I have seen this kind of listening bind together those who have been torn apart. And I have seen understanding and acceptance grow with this kind of listening.

This kind of listening we do with our eyes and hearts and souls as much as with our ears. This kind of listening is a deliberate and conscious choice. And this kind of listening means that even as we listen to the other, we must also listen to ourselves.

Generally we seem to be much more impressed by people who speak well, or at least loudly. And yet, somewhere deep inside of us all we know how important it is to really listen to each other “because after all, a person’s a person no matter how small.”

This is the listening to which I aspire and try to practice. I can tell you that I am still not always so good at it. But I am determined to keep trying. I want to become a great listener, a passionate, creative, involved listener. I want to make listening my very best thing and I want you to make it your very best thing too. Just imagine what kind of world it might be if we all wanted to make being a great listener our very best thing.

A Cracked Pot

An Original Retelling Of A Folk Tale from India

This is a story about how someone discovered something special within herself.

There was a man whose job it was to bring water from the stream to his master’s house. The master had a very large house and he needed a lot of water for his lovely gardens and for cooking and bathing and for entertaining his many important guests.

The man carried water from the stream in two large clay pots hung on each end of a pole, which he carried across his neck. He would put the pole across his back with the empty pots swinging and walk from his master’s home to the stream. There he would fill up the clay pots, lift the pole across his back and carry the water back. He did this every day, over and over again, so that the master always had plenty of fresh water

Both of the pots were almost exactly the same and were designed to carry water. One of the clay pots was perfect in every way for the end for which it was made. The other clay pot was exactly like the first one but it had a crack in it and it leaked. Every time the man would fill the two pots with water and carry them to the Master’s house, the perfect pot was always full and the cracked pot was always half full.

This went on every day. The man would carry the pots to the stream, fill them with water and carry the water back to his master’s home. And then he would do it again, and again and again, all day long. And on every trip, one pot was full and one pot was half full.

Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments. It was proud that it was perfect for the end for which it was made and it boasted loudly. The perfect pot criticized the cracked pot for its failures and told it how shameful that the Water Bearer worked so hard and the cracked pot was always only half full. The poor cracked pot was ashamed of its imperfection and was miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do.

After this went on for some time, the cracked pot was humiliated by its bitter failure. One day the cracked pot saw his reflection in the stream and was shamed by his imperfections. The cracked pot spoke to the Water Bearer. "I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you."

"Why?" asked the bearer. "What are you ashamed of?"

"I have been able, for these years, you fill me with water but when we reach the top of the hill I am only half full because of this ugly crack in my side. Because of my flaw, you have to work harder than you should and you don't get full value from your efforts," the pot said.

The Water Bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said, "As we return to the Master's house this time, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path."

Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun warming the beautiful wild flowers along one side of the path, and this cheered it some. Bees came and took nectar from the flowers from which they made honey. The flowers filled the air with a fragrant perfume and birds flew about the flowers singing. The pot had to admit that they flowers were beautiful. But at the end of the trail, the pot felt even worse because in the midst of all of this beauty it had again leaked out half the water. The cracked pot thanked the Water Bearer, “Thank you for pointing out the flowers to me. They did cheer me up. I enjoyed hearing the birds singing and the flowers smelled wonderful, but as you see I am still only half full.”

The bearer said to the pot, "My friend, you have misunderstood. Did you not notice that there were flowers only on your side of the path, but not on the other side? That is because I have always known about what you call your flaw. I could have gotten a new pot but I decided to take advantage of this feature of yours. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back from the stream, you have watered them. For these many years these flowers have decorated our Master’s home and brought fragrant perfume into his rooms. The bees have come to these flowers to make honey for his table and the birds sing to him. How much beauty and pleasure have been brought to our Master because of this thing that makes you special."

In the economy of the world there is never any shortage of people who are eager to point out our flaws. But if we can and will allow it, and if we listen and look deeply inside of ourselves, we may well discover that the very things that the world counts as our flaws are the source of great beauty and pleasure. Know that in our weakness we find our strength. Don't be afraid of your flaws. Acknowledge them. Embrace them. Celebrate them, and you will share the beauty that can come from only you.

I Believe In The Power of Listening

When I think back it seems like such a long time ago when I realized that I did not know what it was that I believed.

I was a Social Worker, mostly with children who are victims of violence and their families, for almost twenty years now and I think I have finally learned some things, including some things I believe.

I believe in the power of listening. I believe that this is the single most important thing I can do. Certainly much more important than much of the minutae and buracracy that seemed to fill up my typical work day.

And the source of this insight came to me from what at the time seemed the most improbable of sources - children.

Children need to be heard. The world seldom listens to them but children have much to say. And they know how important it is because we tell them all the time. Yet rarely do we ever demonstrate by, well by listening. Children learn much more from what we do than from what we say.

It was the most fortunate accident of my professional life that I learned that if I wanted to help people – a good thing is for me to let them tell me what they needed. That would seem like a pretty obvious and simple thing, but like most everything else of any value in life, it is more difficult than it sounds.

Sometimes the truths that people need to share are plain and they shout them. Sometimes they whisper. Sometimes they are too private or painful to speak. Sometimes they are buried somewhere deep and safe. Sometimes people don’t yet know what they need to share. And yet, if I listen, they will tell me.

I have seen this kind of deep, passionate, visceral listening be cathartic and heal wounds. I have seen this kind of listening bind together those who have been torn apart. And I have seen understanding and acceptance grow with this kind of listening.

This kind of listening we do with our eyes and hearts and souls as much as with our ears. This kind of listening is a deliberate and conscious choice. And this kind of listening means that even as we listen to the other, we must also listen to ourselves.

Generally we seem to be much more impressed by people who speak well, or at least loudly. And yet, somewhere deep inside of us all we know how important it is to really listen to each other “because after all, a person’s a person no matter how small.”

This is the listening to which I aspire and try to practice. I can tell you that I am still not always so good at it. But I am determined to keep trying. I want to become a great listener, a passionate, creative, involved listener. I want to make listening my very best thing and I want you to make it your very best thing too. Just imagine what kind of world it might be if we all wanted to make being a great listener our very best thing.

A Bowl For You

A Folktale with versions found in Rumania, Italy, Germany, Ireland, and Nepal

A unique retelling by Rocci Hildum

Source: Retold by Allison Cox

Copyright 1994

Healing Heart Project

There was a family of potters who worked hard to make a living. There was a grandfather, who had been a potter for a very long time. The grandfather had once been known as a very skilled craftsman who made the finest pots in the land. The grandfather had carried clay from the hillside, shaped pots, mixed glazes, and cut wood to keep the kiln hot. The grandfather taught his trade to his son and together they taught the daughter in law to shape the pots.

As the grandfather grew older he could no longer carry the heavy clay from the hillside. He was no longer strong enough to pump the pedal of his potter’s wheel. Grandfather was too old to cut and carry firewood for the kiln.

Grandfather started to spend his days in the workshop teaching his young granddaughter how to shape the pots and mix the glazes. Grandfather taught his granddaughter his craft. Grandfather held Granddaughter’s hands to teach her how to hold her hands and how to shape the pots. Grandfather taught Granddaughter how to pump the pedal of the potter’s wheel. Grandfather helped Granddaughter mix the glazes in shades of blues, reds and purples and greens and together they painted the pots and bowls with intricate designs.

And as they worked, Grandfather told stories and Granddaughter listened and shaped the clay. And gradually the stories started to shape the clay. And gradually the stories became a part of the pots and bowls and things that Granddaughter shaped.

So when Grandfather told a story about great sailing ships that set off across the seas to explore the world, Granddaughter shaped a pot, long on one side that was painted with bright stripes flaring like banners flying in the wind across the sides.

And when Grandfather told a story about a tiny bird building a nest in the spring, Granddaughter shaped a delicate bowl the beautiful blue color of robin eggs.

The more Grandfather told stories, the more Granddaughter listened. The more Grandaughter listened to Grandfather’s stories, the more the stories shaped the pots. The more that the stories became a part of the pots and bowls that Granddaughter shaped, the more popular they became. People admired the things made by Granddaughter. They could see and hear and feel the stories in the clay. Many people wanted to buy the things made by the granddaughter, even more than those made by her parents.

Gradually Grandfather could no longer hold his hands steady to help shape the clay. Grandfather’s hands were not steady enough to mix glazes or paint pots and bowls.

Grandfather felt so strange sitting idle in the shop where he had worked so hard for so many years. Grandfather began to tell his son and daughter-in-law how to improve the shape of their pots, or how to make the kiln burn hotter or where to dig for the best clay. Grandfather made suggestions of how they should mix the glazes and what colors to paint the things that they made. And Grandfather told his stories.

“Father,” said his son, “You have taught me well how to be a potter and I have been doing it for these many years. Together we taught my wife, your daughter-in-law, to be a potter and together we have been potters for these many years. You do not need to continue to teach me as if I was a child.”

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable sitting in the house, by the fire, instead of spending your days in this cold, damp shop?” asked the daughter-in-law. “Besides, you keep knocking over the pots and bowls with your cane. We cannot afford to lose our work.”

So Grandfather started to spend his days in the house while the rest of the family worked in the shop. It was lonely in the house during the day.

In the evenings, when the family returned to the house, Grandfather was eager to know how their work was going. Grandfather asked his daughter-in-law, “Are the pots and bowls selling well?”

Grandfather was disappointed to learn that the family was not selling as many pots and bowls as they had been.

 “Where are you digging the clay, my son? Are you keeping the kiln hot enough? How are you mixing the glazes?”

The son and daughter-in-law would respond, “Stop badgering us with your questions. You have worked hard and you deserve to rest. You do not need to worry about the pottery any more.”

But the old man couldn't stop asking about the pottery. Making pots with his family had been his whole life and so every evening when they sat down to dinner he would question them more. One night, he asked, again, for the third time that week,

"Are you sure you're digging the right kind of clay. You're not letting that clay dry out too much before you use it are you? Are the colors bright enough?"

The son exchanged looks with his wife and said,

"I wish you paid as much attention to your eating as you do to telling us what we do wrong. Look at yourself. You have half of your meal spilled down your shirt. It's disgusting."

Grandfather looked down at his shirt. His hands shook so much any more that he often spilled his meals on his clothes.

"I can't even get the stains out of your shirts or the tablecloth anymore when I do the wash," added his daughter-in-law.

Grandfather looked at his shirt and at the table. Indeed, Grandfather was embarrassed and ashamed to see that his clothes and the tablecloth were stained from the food that he had dropped. Grandfather looked at the faces of his son and daughter-in-law and they could see his shame. Grandfather slowly rose from the table and with his cane in one hand and his bowl in the other, tottered over to his chair in the corner by the fireplace. Grandfather sat there to finish his meal alone. Grandfather balanced his bowl and spoon with one shaky hand and kept his other hand on his cane to balance himself.

Granddaughter got up to join Grandfather.

"You sit back down and finish your food right here at the table. I wish you were as concerned about your work," her father told her angrily. "We haven't sold one of your pots in a long time. You're just not working as hard as you used to."

The girl looked up at her father and said,

"To shape and paint beautiful pots, I need Grandfathers' beautiful stories."

“You need to concentrate on your work and stop being distracted by listening to those foolish stories,” said her father.

From that night on, grandfather continued to eat his meals in the corner in his chair. He would balance his bowl with one hand and spoon his food with the other. Since his hands shook, he would sometimes loose his grip on the bowl and his dinner would drop to the floor, the bowl crashing to pieces.

The daughter-in-law became angry, " I can't keep making bowls just so you can break them.” Grandfather sat in his chair with tears in his eyes.

A few nights later, grandfather was telling Granddaughter a story, sitting together in his corner, when the girl's mother walked up to them with a wooden bowl in her hand.

"Here, I bought this at the market today for you. Maybe now you won't break your dinner bowl anymore."

Grandfather felt the shame and embarrassment rise in him again and he just sat. Granddaughter took the bowl from her mother and looked at it, turning it over and over in her hands.

"Grandfather, may I borrow this? " she asked.

Grandfather shrugged sadly and the girl set off to the pottery shop.

In a little while, Granddaughter returned with a block of wood and a knife and started to carve the piece of wood, seated on the floor in Grandfather’s corner.

“Tell me a story, Grandfather.”

Grandfather started to tell a sad story.

Granddaughter carved the block of wood, pausing every once in a while and comparing the block of wood to Grandfather's bowl. And as Grandfather told the story, Granddaughter shaped the block of wood and listened to Grandfather’s story. And as Grandfather told the sad story, the story started to shape the block of wood, the story started to become part of the wood.

The girl's parents were setting the table with the evening meal. Her father came over to see what his daughter was working on.

"What's this? Have you given up on pottery altogether and decided to take up woodworking?" her father joked.

"Oh no, Father, but I thought I'd better learn how to shape a wooden bowl, " the girl answered, keeping her eyes on her whittling. "One day you and mother will be old and your hands will be unsteady, and you will need wooden bowls too.”

The husband and wife looked at their daughter in shocked silence and then they turned to see tears in each others’ eyes. This time, it was their turn to shake, as they slowly sank to their knees and begged Grandfather to forgive them.

From that day Grandfather ate his meals at the table with the family, from a pottery bowl made by his family.

Every day Grandfather joined his family in the pottery shop again. The old man would spend his days in the shop, sometimes dozing in a chair, but usually telling stories.

And while Grandfather told stories, Granddaughter, and the son and the daughter-in-law would listen and they would shape the pots. And the stories began to shape the clay, the stories became a part of the clay.

So when Grandfather told a story about a great dragon with shining green wings, the daughter-in-law listened and shaped a deep shining green bowl with handles that stretched wide.

And when Grandfather told a story about an enchanted princess with long flowing hair and eyes that sparkled, his son would shape a long slender vase that sparkled in the sunlight.

The pots and bowls began to sell well again. The family lived on together in this way for many more years, not always in harmony, but certainly with more caring than before.

“Hey, Mr. Pig Story Man”
by Rocci Hildum
June 5, 2008

I had a wonderful time at the Northwest Folklife Festival at the Seattle Center over Labor Day Weekend, May 23 – 26, 2008. It is always a dilemma when I am at a festival like that choosing which performers I want to see. Every choice is a choice not to see another wonderful performer. That is why I was so happy when I went to the Story Swap on Monday May 26, 2008 in the Center House Theater. There was a smallish crowd, but a crowd who had made the choice of all the music and dance and crafts and food to come to hear stories.

I had told stories in the Center House Theater on Sunday and the audience was wonderful. I had a great reception and told three of my favorite stories, including one that has some amusing audience participation. But I intentionally saved my very favorite story for the Story Swap.

I told The Absolutely True Story of the Three Little Pigs. I originally wrote this story for a friend of mine who was working on developing a land trust in Leavenworth. Ever since it has been one of my favorite, and apparently one of my audience’s favorite stories.

Later on Monday I was rushing past the Center House on my way to a workshop when I heard someone behind me calling, “Mr. Pig Story Man, Mr. Pig Story Man.” I have been called many things, some of which would not be appropriate for inclusion here, but I had never been referred to as Mr. Pig Story Man before. However, seven years of college and two degrees has prepared me well to be able to make certain logical inferences based on carefully considering all of the available information and evidence. I inferred that someone who did not know my given name was actually calling for me.

I stopped and turned around to find a woman out of breath running after me. She told me how much she had enjoyed my story. We exchanged business cards and agreed that we would keep in touch.

As I have reflected on that little incident, which lasted perhaps one or two minutes in an otherwise very busy and eventful weekend, it occurs to me how much power the right story, at the right time, and to the right audience can have. Of all the entertainment and connections I made that weekend this one will probably be the one I most remember, especially now since I am writing about it. But I suspect that my new friend will also remember this incident, probably more so because she may be reading this right now.

We never know when or who or how our favorite story will touch someone. What lasting impressions our words may have. And so I have decided that from now on, my favorite story is the one I am telling right now … not this story about the woman calling me Mr. Pig Story Man, I mean the story that I am telling at any given moment will be my favorite story.

I know that when I tell The Absolutely True Story Of The Three Little Pigs everything that makes that story my favorite, or at least that did make it my favorite, gets reflected in how I tell that story. There is just a little more animation, a lift to my voice and a sparkle in my eye. I love all the stories I tell, but what if I told every story as if it were my very favorite story?  What if every story reflected my love and appreciation for that story’s unique gifts and joys? Why, who knows what might happen, I might be walking somewhere some day and hear someone calling behind me, “Mr. Ananzi Story Man, Mr. Ananzi Story Man.”

I think that would be a wonderful compliment!