Storytellers.

A bit later and a wee bit brighter this campervan morning. Self care Sunday means that traffic is almost absent. A Magpie on the hunt and Crows scratching out calls in the Oak. A spread of Starlings in the Ash, chirping Robins heard but not seen. A pair of Blackbirds visit the small pool of water in the nook in the Oak for a drink and then quickly disappear. Cockerel cries and the detritus of humanity in the air. There is a slight chill, it’s not a thick one, but you can feel it penetrating layers, cloud thick, solid and white, almost stationary overhead. A lovely day drumming yesterday and once again meeting people who experienced community music making for the first time and wondered why they hadn’t done it before. Reflecting on some of their stories again and the desire to share them. Always a lovely experience regardless of content. As I sit reflecting on their need to tell, my willingness to listen, their content and planning a quieter day ahead. I often wax lyrical in my counselling sessions about working with and changing the narrative of your, or the story. It’s also vaguely frightening how we take on other people stories. The ones that tells us who to hate, who to abuse, who to kill. Those that tell who to love and who is right. I own that in my early days I was ridiculously open to other peoples stories. I allowed them to formulate my judgement of people or experiences with out actually diving deeper into the actual evidence, feelings or presence of the person, people or experience in question. Here we are now, being rode roughshod over by some faux intellectual story tellers trying to tell us who to hate etc. How susceptible some of us are to these story tellers. Conversely one of my favourite singers in the folk genre is the Canadian artist Loreena McKennitt. She talks of the storytellers ( The Hakawati ) of the coffee houses of Damascus. The coffee shops packed to hear a famous storyteller who has traveled far to tell old traditional stories of folklore and of history. Stories dating back thousands of years. They takes their seat and tell tales of victories won, foes vanquished and lessons learned. The heavy silence as their every word are hung onto, the smell of coffee and the air full of the mist of tobacco smoke. Now that’s the storytelling I would like to encounter. Lovely days people.

“ After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.” Philip Pullman.