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!

The Barking Mouse

A unique retelling of a Cuban folktale

Once upon a time there was a family of mice, la Familia Raton.

There was Mamá Ratón, who was Mama Mouse. And there was Papa Raton, who was Papa Mouse. And there were Hermano y Hermano Raton, who were brother and sister mouse.

La Familia Raton, lived in el Casa Grande, the big house. Actually they lived in a very little small tiny hole in the corner of el Casa Grande.

Mama’s, job was to do the cooking and the cleaning and laundry and ironing and sewing and to take care of Papa, Hermano, y Hermana. Papa’s job was to be the Papa. But also, every night when it was dark Papa Raton would creep out silently to la Cucina, the kitchen. Papa would gather up bits of bread pan and fruit, fruta, and cheese, queso that had dropped to ground. Sometimes Papa snuck into the cabinets through a hole he had chewed with his big front teeth and he would bring back seeds, semillas, crackers, galletas, cereal, cereales, or if la Familia Raton was especially lucky, peanut butter, manteca de maní. Papa Raton would then sneak back very silently to the little small tiny hole in the corner of la Casa Grande and Mama Raton would prepare the food and set the table.

One day Mama Raton said, “Did you know that there is a beautiful garden, el jardin bonita, in the back of el Casa Grande. It is a beautiful sunny day and I think that we should go on a picnic, ir de merienda. Everyone agreed and they were all excited. Mama packed a lunch and everyone went outside to la jardin and had a wonderful lunch.

It really was a quite beautiful and sunny day and after everyone had finished lunch Hermano y Hermana asked, “Can we go and play, jugar?” Mama y Papa said, “Yes, you may go and play, but whatever you do, stay away from the wall, la tapia, because on the other side lives el gato the cat, and he will eat you!”

Hermano y Hermana promised not go near la tapia and off they went to play. But you know how children sometimes are … they forget the things that they promise. And anyways, Hermano wasn’t even sure there really was an el gato. He had always heard stories about el gato but he’d never seen el gato. So, very slowly, gradually Hermano y Hermana got closer and closer and closer to la tapia until Hermano was looking right through a crack in la tapia. Hermano crept up slowly to the crack in la tapia and he looked through trying to see if there really was an el gato on the other side. All of a sudden a paw, pata, with sharp claws, las uñas, popped out.

Hermano jumped back as fast as he could. He was breathing hard and his face was all red. Hermano’s heart, la corazón, was beating so hard he held his hand to his chest. La pata del gato was reaching through the crack in la tapia but el gato could not reach Hermano y Hermana.

When Hermano y Hermana realized that el gato could not reach them they started laughing risueño and making fun of el gato. El gato is estúpido. El gato is muy feo. El gato is so lento, lento, lento. El gato is just afraid, asustado, of us. El gato is just a big coward, cobarde. Hermano y Hermana were laughing so hard that they didn’t see when la pata del gato disappeared back through the crack in la tapia.

Then hermano y hermana heard a sound. A very frightening sound. They looked up. Way, way up to the top of la tapia and there sat el gato smiling at them with his big yellow eyes, ojos amarillos, and his big sharp teeth, los dientes afilado. Hermano y hermana started running. They were screaming at the top of their lungs, “Save us, save us, el gato is going to eat us!!”

Papa Raton heard hermano y hermana and said, “Don’t worry, I’m not afraid of any old el gato.” Hermano y hermana ran behind Papa and hid. El gato was running right towards them. Los dientes afilado del gato were smiling and los ojos amarillos were shining. When Papa saw el gato Papa said, “Aye, protoger me” and Papa jumped behind Mama Raton.

Mama Raton said, “Don’t worry, I know just what to do.”

El gato was running straight towards la familia Raton. Los dientes afilado del gato were drooling and las uñas del gato were pouncing towards them and el gato was staring at la familia Raton with his ojos amarillos. Right when el gato got to Mama Raton, face to face, cara a cara, Mama Raton stared into los ojos amarillos and said, “GUF GUF GUF GUF!!!” (in English we might say bark, bark, bark – apparently Latino dogs speak Spanish as well as the humans)

El gato stopped in his tracks, turned around, ran all the way back to la tapia, jumped over to the other side and they never saw el gato again.

Mama Raton turned around and said, “See its always good to know a second language, lenguaje segundo.”

The Spiritual Wisdom of Horton the Elephant

Rocci Hildum

An Original Sermon

I have discovered that I am a spiritual nomad, journeying in search of spiritual wisdom, insight, enlightenment and truth. In my journeys I have learned that I often travel the same landscape, recognize familiar landmarks and meet the same obstacles and challenges … over and over and over again. I have met and re-met many companions on this journey. I rediscover ancestors and mentors and learn and re-learn important, and not so important, lessons.

One of the things that I have learned is to seek out mentors, people of spiritual maturity, to be my companions on this journey. I have also learned to judge critically those in whom I will place my trust and confidence in the matters of the Sacred and Mystical. 

I have been inspired and enlightened by the writings and teachings of many people whose names you may recognize; people like Thomas Merton, St. John of the Cross, Thic Nhat Han, Martin Luther King, Jr., and the Dalai Lama. I have also sat at the knees of less known and yet gifted persons unfamiliar to the world apart from their space in it. People like John and Margaret Jones who manage Camp Myrtlewood in Oregon and Joseph Helfrich a musician in Ohio and Tanaka, who I only know through story.

Here I will offer that the world has very definite opinions about the persons and institutions in which religious and spiritual wisdom is found. It has been my experience that the world is not only sometimes wrong as in mistaken, the world is sometimes wrong as in a lie.

Spiritual wisdom and insight and giftedness are found in lots of persons and spaces and experiences that are unknown, unrecognized, or rejected by the world. I have come to believe that some of the most inspirational and creative spiritual wisdom can be found in persons and spaces and experiences that are distinctly apart from recognized, established religion. By its very definition, established, dogmatic, religious wisdom stifles the creative and new.

So it has come to me that I also find spiritual wisdom in the most unlikely, and yet passionately true, people and spaces and experiences. I have been touched by the Sacred by a little girl who gave me a shell. I have found great spiritual truth in the Calvin comics and I have experienced the presence and movement of the Spirit in the desert of the state capitol. Many unlikely places are the very incubators of spiritual wisdom.

So it has come to me that one of my spiritual mentors and companions has been Horton the Elephant. Horton has become for me a teacher, a source of inspiration. Horton’s own example challenges me and guides me.

We know little about Horton the Elephant. The extent of the published material about Horton is contained in just two books written by Ted Geisel, Dr. Seuss, Horton Hears a Who and Horton Hatches an Egg. But even in these two short pieces, Horton’s spiritual wisdom speaks to me and this is what I want to share with you today.

Now what we know about Horton from Geisel’s writings is that

On the fifteenth of May, in the Jungle of Nool,

In the heat of the day, in the cool of the pool,
He was splashing … enjoying the jungle’s great joys …
When Horton the elephant heard a small noise.

So Horton stopped splashing. He looked toward the sound.

“That’s funny,” thought Horton. “There’s no one around.”
Then he heard it again! Just a very faint yelp.
As if some tiny person were calling for help.

“Some poor little person who’s shaking with fear’

That he’ll blow into the pool! He has no way to steer!
I’ll just have to save him. Because, after all,
A person’s a person, no matter how small.”

Did you get that? Most people miss it. But listen. Listen deeply with your ears and your heart and your soul. Listen with passion. Most people still don’t get it and to me it has become as obvious as an elephant splashing in a pool. Horton, hears the tiny person. There is no voice that is so tiny that it escapes Horton’s hearing. Granted he is an elephant and he does have pretty big ears.

We have ears. How often do we not hear. How often do we miss the voice crying out; even when it is so obvious - in our place of work, on the street, in the city hall, and in our own homes. People are crying. I have been challenged by this because I see the truth, the ugly painful truth that we most often miss the smallest voices.

From Horton, I have learned that no matter what

My listening and hearing I cannot forestall
Because a person’s a person no matter how small.  

But there’s something else here too. Horton, by advantage of his superior hearing and his spiritual wisdom knows how to listen. Horton heard that small, small voice of the Mayor of Whoville, which was located on a speck of dust. But then Horton saw the dust speck on which the residents of Whoville reside and which was slowly floating down toward the pool, the very pool in which Horton was at that very moment splashing.

Horton didn’t wait for someone to tell him that the tiny voice was at great peril. He didn’t form a committee or join a focus group (not that there’s anything wrong with that). Horton didn’t seek out someone else to make sure he was really hearing a tiny voice. Horton, because of his own spiritual maturity knows that he is hearing a tiny voice and knows that that tiny voice is on the dust speck he is seeing and he further knows that that dust speck is heading right to the pool and that there’s not enough time for a committee to form or for a poll to be taken (not that there’s anything wrong with that). Horton did not hesitate, he gently caught the dust speck in his trunk and set out to find a safe place for that dust speck to be.

And so Horton continues to teach me spiritual truths. Horton teaches, not forcefully, not sermonizing, but by his gentle, compassionate example that it is not enough to listen, we must see. We must see what is right before us. We must see what is tiny and what the world thinks of insignificance because there is life and beauty and sacredness in all of this, even on a dust speck.

And seeing and hearing we must trust that what we are seeing and hearing is true.

And we must see and know when life is at peril of harm. And sometimes that life is too delicate, too fragile to save by some energetic, vigorous intervention. Sometimes the gentle touch is what is needed, especially with children and animals and the wounded and the hurting and dust specks. And Horton doesn’t then sit down and say look at me, I saved the dust speck, I, and I alone heard the tiny voice, and saw the dust speck and at great personal risk grabbed that tiny voice from certain destruction. No, the path that Horton teaches me is quiet, as well as being true and honest and compassionate.

And so I have learned that

If I learn how to listen

And I learn how to see
Tiny little lives will become obvious to me
And tiny lives must not drown
For the ignorance or apathy of us all.
Because a person’s a person no matter how small.

This is where all of Horton’s problems start. The world is not ready for people living on dust specks and much less for people to hear people who live on dust specks and even much less for people who talk to people who live on dust specks and they’re really, really not ready for people who act to protect people on dust specks. The world, even the Horton’s world, can’t hear and can’t see anything of significance in that dust speck and are not willing or able to take Horton’s word for it. Horton faces organized opposition and resistance, even violent opposition.

“Humpf!” humpfed a voice. ‘Twas a sour kangaroo.

And the young kangaroo in her pouch said, “Humpf!” too.
“What, that speck is as small as the head of a pin.
A person on that? … Why, there never has been!”

The Wickersam Brothers came shouting, "What rot!

This elephant's talking to Whos who are not!
There aren’t any Whos! And they don’t have a Mayor!
And we’re going to stop all this nonsense! So there!”

Horton alone stood firm in protecting the Whos. Ultimately the Whos were saved from certain death by being boiled in Beezel Nut Oil by Horton’s intervention.

It was more than just his intervention; however, it was also his faithfulness. Horton would not be swayed from what he knew to be true. Having heard the Whos Horton was compelled to act. What a great illustration of a spiritual life. Having heart the suffering of others are we, can we also be compelled to act.

Granted, we are surrounded by a cacophony of sounds and sights of the oppressed, marginalized, downtrodden, and forgotten or ignored. It would be easy to become overwhelmed by the magnitude of the problems with which we can be confronted.

So it is fortunate that we don’t have to be perfect. Horton illustrates for me that we don’t strive for perfect, just consistency. Horton is not perfect, but he is consistent and predictable. Horton acts on behalf of the Whos and in so doing leaves us an example of a life engaged in the vital business of being compassionate.

So, please, learn to listen. Learn to listen with your ears and your eyes and your heart and your soul. Listen to everything all around you, and when you hear that small voice calling for help; when the universe leads you into some place you’ve never been before where the oppressed live, then what will you do?

The Gift of Story

An African Folk Tale

retold by Rocci Hildum

We are people of the story. We love to tell our stories. We have told our stories for a long, long time. We tell stories to remember important things and important people. The old ones tell stories to the young ones to teach them how to behave and to explain why some things are the way they are. Sometimes we tell stories just for fun.

But if you can believe it there was a time when there were no stories at all. In all of the places and times and people there were no stories to be told and no stories to be heard. This is an African story about that time.

Now, at that time there were no stories to be told and no stories to be heard. In all the places and times and people there were no stories to be told and no stories to be heard. The people could not remember important things and important people. The old ones had no stories to teach the young ones how to behave or explain why some things are the way they are. There were no stories to tell just for fun.

There were no stories to be told and no stories to be heard because Nyame, the Great Sky God, owned all the stories. Nyame kept his stories in a golden box that he kept locked, and he kept the box right beside his throne. Nyame would not share his stories with anyone, he kept them to himself and so that in all the places and in all the times and in all the people there were no stories to be told and no stories to be heard.

Now, Ananzi, the old man who is known as the Spider man because he is magic and can change into a spider, decided that he should like to purchase Nyame’s stories. Ananzi spun a great web up to the sky, from the middle of his village to Nyame’s throne. Ananzi climbed all the way up the web until he was standing before Nyame’s throne and bowing down before the Great Sky God, Ananzi said to Nyame, “O Great Sky God Nyame, I have come before you to tell you that I should like to purchase your stories.”

Nyame, that Great Sky God, looked down at the old and little Ananzi for a second and then threw back his head and laughed and laughed. “Ananzi, you are so small, so small, so small. How is it that you shall be able to purchase my precious stories.”

Ananzi looked up at Nyame and asked, “What is the price that you ask for your stories?”

Nyame thought to himself for a moment and then said, “You will need to bring me Osebo, the Leopard of terrible tooth.”

Ananzi nodded his head and Nyame thought to himself, “He agrees too easily, this is too small a price for my precious stories.”

Nyame thought for a moment and said, “And you shall need to bring to me, Mmboro, the hornet whose sting is like fire.”

Ananzi nodded his head and Nyame thought to himself, “He agrees too easily. This Ananzi is clever; even this is too small a price for my precious stories.”

Nyame thought for a moment and said, “And you shall need to bring to me Mmoatia, the fairy that men never see.”

Ananzi nodded his head and said, “The price that you ask is fair. I shall bring you the price you ask for your stories.”

Nyame threw back his head with a great booming laugh. “Ananzi, you are so small, so small, so small. How is it that you shall pay this price that I ask?” But Ananzi didn’t say anything. Ananzi just climbed back down his web to the middle of his village.

The first thing that Ananzi did was to go in search of Osebo, the leopard of terrible tooth. Ananzi ran along the jungle paths until he found Osebo, lying in the sun in the middle of the path. Osebo saw Ananzi and said, “Ananzi, my friend Ananzi. You are just in time for lunch. You are just in time to be my lunch.”

Ananzi smiled at Osebo and said, “We shall see what we shall see, but first let us play a game.” For Ananzi knew that Osebo loved to play games.

Osebo said, “What game shall we play.”

Ananzi thought for a moment and said, “We shall play the binding binding game.”

Osebo said, “And how do you play this game.”

Ananzi explained, “I shall take the creeping vine and I shall bind you by your foot and by your foot and by your foot, and when you are all bound I will untie you and it will be your turn to bind me.”

Osebo smiled a great smile and said, “Yes, let us play the binding binding game.” For Osebo was thinking to himself that when it was his turn he would eat Ananzi.

Ananzi took the creeping vine and he bound Osebo by his foot and by his foot and by his foot and by his foot. And when Osebo was all bound tightly so that he could not move, Ananzi stepped back and looked at him and said, “Now, Osebo, you are ready to go and meet the Great Sky God Nyame.” And Ananzi hung Osebo, the leopard of terrible tooth, from a banana tree.

Next Ananzi went in search of Mmboro, the hornet whose sting is like fire. First Ananzi got a calabash gourd, which is a hollow gourd used to carry water. Ananzi filled the calabash gourd with water and Ananzi took a great, large leaf from the banana tree. Ananzi took the calabash gourd and the banana leaf and went to find the nest of Mmboro, the hornet whose sting is like fire. Ananzi stood by the nest of Mmboro and held the banana leaf over his head and poured water from the calabash gourd onto the leaf. Then Ananzi poured out the rest of the water over the nest of Mmboro. Ananzi cried out, “Mmboro, Mmboro, it is raining, it is raining. Shouldn’t you fly into my calabash gourd so that your delicate wings will not be tattered?”

Mmboro cried out, “Thank you, thank you Ananzi, for saving my delicate wings,” and flew into the calabash gourd. When Mmboro had flown into the calabash gourd, FOOM! Ananzi put a stopper on the gourd. Ananzi held up the gourd and admired it and said, “Now, Mmboro, you are ready to go and meet the Great Sky God Nyame.” Ananzi hung the calabash gourd in the banana tree next to Osebo the leopard of terrible tooth.

Lastly, Ananzi went to find Mmoatia, the fairy that men never see. Now, Ananzi knew some things about Mmoatia. Ananzi knew that Mmoatia loves to dance before a particular tree in a particular spot in the jungle. Ananzi knew that more than anything else Mmoatia loves the sweet yams. And Ananzi knew that Mmoatia is very very proud.

Ananzi went to that particular tree in that particular spot. Ananzi carved a little wooden doll holding a bowl and filled the bowl with the sweet yams, the best sweet yams anyone had ever tasted. And Ananzi covered the entire doll with sticky gum from the Gum tree. Ananzi tied a creeping vine around the neck of the doll and hid in the bushes and waited.

By and by, Mmoatia came dancing down the path to the tree and saw the gum baby. Mmoatia loves the sweet yam and asked the gum baby, “May I taste some of your sweet yams?”

Ananzi, hiding in the bushes, pulled, just so lightly on the creeping vine, so that the Gum Baby nodded her head.

Mmoatia took the bowl from the gum baby and tasted the sweet yams. “Oh, these sweet yams are so good. May I eat the rest of the sweet yams?”

Ananzi pulled on the creeping vine, just so lightly, and the Gum Baby nodded her head.

Mmoatia ate the rest of the sweet yams and gently placed the bowl back in the hands of Gum Baby. “Oh, your sweet yams were very, very good. Thank you for sharing your sweet yams with me.”

And Gum Baby was silent.

Mmoatia is very proud and was offended that Gum Baby was silent. “Do you not answer me when I thank you?”

And Gum Baby was silent.

Mmoatia was getting angry and demanded, “If you do not respond to me when I thank you, I shall slap your crying place!”

And Gum Baby was silent.

And Mmoatia was angry and slapped Gum Baby’s cheek and Mmoatia’s hand stuck fast to Gum Baby’s cheek. Mmoatia was very angry, “Let me go or I shall slap you again!”

And Gum Baby was silent.

And Mmoatia was very angry now and slapped Gum Baby’s other cheek. And Mmoatia’s other hand stuck fast to Gum Baby’s cheek.

Now Mmoatia was furious. And Mmoatia pushed with her foot and with her other foot and in a short while Mmoatia was stuck by her hand and her hand and her foot and her foot and Mmoatia could not move.

Then, Ananzi came out of the bushes and said to Mmoatia, ““Now, Mmoatia, you are ready to go and meet the Great Sky God Nyame.” Ananzi went to the banana tree and took Osebo, the leopard of terrible tooth and the calabash gourd with Mmboro and the Gum Baby with Mmoatia and spun a great web from the center of his village up to the sky, to the throne of Nyame, the Great Sky God.

Ananzi he laid his treasures before Nyame and stepped back, “Oh Great Nyame, I have brought you the price you ask for your stories.”

Nyame stared at what was laid before him and was astonished. Nyame called everyone in his court, “Come and see the great thing that Ananzi has done. Ananzi has paid the price that I have asked for my stories; and they shall be his stories. From now on these stories shall be known as Ananzi stories.”

Nyame took the great golden box with all of the stories and handed it to Ananzi. Ananzi climbed back down his web to the center of his village. Ananzi set the golden box down in the center of the village. With his hands on either side of the box, Ananzi gently, just so gently, lifted the lid of the golden box. And stories flew out of the box; the most wonderful stories.

Stories to help people remember important things and important people. Stories for the old ones to teach the young how to behave and to explain why some things are the way they are. Stories to tell just for fun. Happy stories and sad stories and funny stories. All kinds of wonderful stories flew out of the golden box. They flew to all the places and all the times and all the people.

So that in all of the places and in all of the times and in all of the people there were stories to be told and stories to be heard. Even today in every place and time and person; even now in this place and time and in all these people there are stories to be told and stories to be heard.

And this is the story of the gift of story.

SOURCE: A Story A Story An African Tale retold and illustrated by Gail E. Haley, Atheneum, 1970 ISBN 0—689-70423-2

Take a Breath

An Original Inspirational Message

Rocci Hildum

I was raised Roman Catholic … and left the Roman Catholic faith when I left home. I have experimented with various other Christian denominations and non-Christian spiritual paths and disciplines, until I found a home in the Unitarian Universalist tradition and Buddhism. I learned that Unitarian Universalism isn’t an either or religion; it’s an and religion. When I was Roman Catholic my choices were limited to being Roman Catholic or being something else. As a Unitarian Universalist Buddhist my choices are to be Unitarian Universalist and Buddhist and Native American shamanistic and Taoist …That works for me and it feels like home.

I just thought you should know a little about my personal spiritual journey because I think it is important. What is most important isn’t where I’ve started or where I’ve found myself today, but that I am a committed seeker; willing and able to ask questions that may have difficult answers or may have no clear answers at all. That is the kind of searching that I believe cultivates a free and responsible search for truth and meaning.

More than anything else, I think that people who are on a spiritual journey are seeking inspiration. We live in a time where true inspiration seems to be a very limited commodity. There is a lot of trivial inspiration on the television and in books, but precious little authentic inspiration. To the point that I believe many people don’t even remember or know what constitutes true inspiration anymore. People want a spiritual life but don’t know where to go, what to do, and how to recognize it if they accidentally stumble into it.

The root of the Spirit can be found in the Greek word that is translated both as wind and breath. The Eastern concept of chi is also translated as wind, breath, or power. This seems like a good place to start.

But you know I recognize this word inspiration from my previous life. Before I was a social worker I was an athletic trainer. In fact, my formal education is in the health arena. I once taught biology and anatomy at the college level. I wasn’t a very good teacher, but I was a good student and I remember about inspiration.

Inspiration is also the word that means taking a breath. That vital act of transferring oxygen from the ambient atmosphere into our lungs and ultimately into our blood stream is an act essential to all animal life. Breathing is the very essence and evidence of life.

That concept of taking a breath really does not accurately describe the process by which oxygen enters our lungs. Taking a breath makes it sound like it is a much more active process than it really is. In truth, we don’t take a breath as much as we receive a breath. Allow me to explain.

In your chest there are two large sacks for collecting and transferring gasses – the lungs. Attached to the bottom of the lungs is a large muscle, the diaphragm. When the diaphragm contracts it pulls the lungs downward; lengthening them; and creating a negative space. Ambient air enters the nose and/or mouth and fills that negative space.

That air travels to little small sacks in the lungs that have a permeable membrane. Those sacks exchange gasses with blood flowing around them by the simple process of osmosis; gasses move from an area of higher concentration to an area of lower concentration. Oxygen, rich in the air in the lungs transfers to the blood vessels and carbon dioxide, rich in the blood vessels, transfers to the little sacks to be expelled. When the diaphragm relaxes the lungs contract creating a positive space and the oxygen depleted air is expelled. It is elegantly simple and beautiful, and we do it hundreds and hundreds of times a day, usually without giving it any thought whatsoever. It is a miracle of life.

I like the idea of creating negative space; space that cries to be filled with something of substance. And it happens naturally because we create the space to allow it to happen. It is, I believe, the same for our spiritual lives. We become spiritual, or more accurately, we recognize our spirituality; we are filled with Spirit because we create the space for the Spirit to fill us. It is not so much about what we do as it is about making sure there is a space in our lives to be filled. And this is what I think inspiration really is.

Imagine a balloon. You can fill that balloon with air and as it fills you can see it expanding; changing; becoming bigger and different. Sometimes you require assistance to get your balloon filled. You might turn to a neighbor and ask for help. That is perfectly appropriate. We all need help sometimes, why not with one of the most vital and important aspects of a meaningful life?

And once you have that balloon all filled up you can tie a knot in the end and capture that inspiration. It becomes all yours. You can do with it what you like. Your big, round, shiny balloon advertises to everyone all around you that you have been inspired. We can make our inspiration our gift to each other, our family and friends, our community, the universe.

And yet, this isn’t quite right either. This way we all have our individual packets of inspiration trapped; isolated. They are pretty to look at, but that inspiration is separated from us by a non-permeable membrane. Nothing gets out; nothing gets in. There is no way for our inspiration to touch or nurture our family and friends, our community, or the universe. No, no, this is just all wrong; but it is what happens a lot of time. We are so wrapped up in our own search for inspiration, we work so hard to get it and then we want to keep it to ourselves. Capturing our inspiration required so much effort that we don’t want to let it go.

If we could just manage to release that inspiration into the world imagine what might happen. How magnificent that might be to see all that inspiration co-mingling, to use Thich Nhat Han’s phrase, inter-being with all of us.

And so we can imagine that we want to release that inspiration back out into the ambient air, our environment. We could try to untie that knot, but you know how difficult that can be. There is an easier way. We could pop our balloons. It is noisy; it’s messy; and sometimes we need some help with this part of the process too. But that’s the way that a spiritual life goes; sometimes it’s challenging; sometimes it makes a lot of noise and a big mess; and sometimes we need some help.

But once we’ve popped our balloons and released our inspiration into the world invariably it makes us smile and laugh. Perhaps we laugh at the noise or mess. Perhaps we laugh because it reminds us of our childhoods. Perhaps we laugh because it’s fun. But we all know that it feels good.

And that, I submit, is a very good metaphor for a spiritual life. We are spiritual beings living a physical existence and all we have to do to recognize and celebrate and share that spirituality is to make enough space; take a breath. Take a breath; breathe deeply and often; and be inspired. Miracles can happen.

The Cricket

an original retelling of a folk story

By Rocci Hildum

Here is an absolutely true story about two friends of mine.

Antonio and Rudolpho were good friends. They were good friends but they had not seen each other for a long time. Antonio lived in the big city of Seattle where it is very busy and noisy and there is always something happening. Rudolpho lived in the country where it is quiet and slow. One day, Ruolpho decided that he would like to visit his friend Antonio. Rudolpho made the trip over the mountains to Seattle and when Rudolpho knocked on Antonio's door Antonio was so glad to see him. Antonio wanted to show Rudolpho all the wonderful things in Seattle.

Where do you think Antonio took Rudolpho? Antonio took Rudolpho to see the Space Needle, and Rudolpho had never seen anything like that. From the top the people on the ground looked like ants and Rudolpho could see the mountains and the ocean. Antonio took Rudolpho to see the Pacific Science Center, and Rudolpho had never seen anything like that before. Antonio took Rudolpho to the Aquarium, and concerts, and ball games and Rudolpho was amazed, he had never seen things like this before.

Then one day Antonio took Rudolpho to one of his favorite spots, The Pike Street Market. Have any of you ever been to the Pike Street Market? The Pike Street Market is a very busy place. There are people playing music and people reading poetry and people buying things and selling things and kids running around and these people throw fish around. It is a very busy and noisy place.

Rudolpho was fascinated. He had never seen anything like this before. All of a sudden Rudolpho stopped. "Listen."

Antonio looked, "Listen to what? How can you hear anything in here is is so noisy. There's children running around and music and poetry and people throwing fish, how can you hear anything?"

Rudolpho said, "You have to listen!"

Rudolpho listened for a moment, cocked his head to one side, and then said, "A cricket."

Antonio was astonished. "That is not possible. There is so much noise in here, there's music and poetry and kids running around people buying and selling things and people throwing fish, how could you possibly hear a cricket? Besides, I've never even seen a cricket in Seattle!"

Rudolpho listened and then he bent down towards a planter and picked up a little cricket. "See, a cricket." Then Rudolpho put the cricket back.

Antonio said. "That's amazing, how did you do that? Teach me how you did that, I want to trick my friends too!"

"There's no trick."

"There's got to be some kind of trick!"

"No, no trick, watch," Rudolpho took three brown pennies from his pocket and in the middle of the Pike Place Market with people buying and selling things and music and poetry and kids running around and people throwing fish, Rudolpho dropped those three brown pennies on the ground, PLINK, PLINK, PLINK.

The music and poetry stopped. People stopped buying and selling things. Kids stopped running. And people stopped throwing fish. Everyone was looking at Rudolpho,  Antonio and those three brown pennies.

"See," Rudolpho said, "You just have to know what to listen for."

So, that's what I want to tell you. Decide what you will listen for. Choose the things that are important and then listen. Make listening your best thing. This world needs people who know how to listen. Listen with your ears and your heart and your soul. Listen to all the music and poetry and stories all around you. But especially, listen to all the music and poetry and stories that come from inside of you, because they will be especially true.

Source: Spinning Tales, Weaving Hope, Stories of Peace, Justice and the Environment, Ed. Ed Brody, Jay Goldspinner, Katie Green, Rona Leventhal and John Porcino of Stories for World Change Network, Philadelphia, New Society Publishers, 1992, pg. 201.