Terrible Beauty

Cúchulainn in battle, illustration by Joseph Christian Leyendecker

For the past few weeks, I have been preparing for a workshop I’ll be teaching at the NJ Storytelling Festival this weekend. The workshop will offer advice on how to keep focus through the telling of a long story. It’s a workshop I’ve taught once before and it’s about something that I do all of the time, but for some reason, I’ve been having a hard time putting it together for this event. Today, Friday, practically on the eve of the event, I think I’ve hit upon my problem. It has to do with the story I’m using as the center of the workshop.

Because the workshop is about working with lengthy texts, and because I like to practice what I preach, I’ve been working on a new story to present as a workshop model. The story, The Tain Bo Cuailnge, is the center of the much longer Ulster Saga. These are very old stories about the Red Branch Army of Ulster and its tragic young hero, Cuchulain. Many of the stories in this cycle are stories of war, and the Tain is particularly bloody and violent. This week as I worked on the story and the workshop, I asked myself, “Why are you telling this? Why on earth would you decide to offer the people who are taking your workshop such a terrible story?”

The questions stopped me. The story choice had been automatic. It is a story I love and that I have wanted to tell for a long time. It seemed appropriate for the workshop because it presents the teller just the kinds of problems that make many of us avoid trying to extract a meaningful performance piece from an epic tale. It is intricately connected to the larger story. The cast of characters is large and many of them come with a history that adds context to their actions in the episode of the Tain, but which is hard to include in the story without taking the audience out of the tale. Deciding which parts to keep and what to leave out of the center of the story is an exercise in, literally, picking your battles because, like many stories of heroic deeds, the Tain is, in part, about a series of combats. So why am I, a mother and grandmother and a modestly calm and peaceful person, so drawn to it?

The story begins in the bed of Queen Maeve of Connaught when she and her husband, Aillel, begin to argue about whether she is better as a result of her marriage and association with him. After establishing that they are equal in birth and temperament, they decide to measure their belongings, one against the other, to settle the point. At the end of this accounting, Aillel comes out ahead by one bull, a creature so wonderful and valuable that it has only one rival in all of Ireland, the eponymous Donn Cuailnge, the Brown Bull of Ulster. This discovery sets up a series of events that ends in the deaths of thousands of men, the loss of much property, and the destruction of the land. Woven through this tragedy are the stories of individuals: soldiers, fathers, sons, and daughters who get caught in the merciless rush of war, and these are part of what attracts me to the story.

There is Queen Maeve, herself – manipulative, ruthless and selfish, she is admirable for her courage and for her insistence that a woman can take her place to rule and fight among men. Yet, in spite of her insistence on her own autonomy, she doesn’t hesitate to use her daughter Findabair as bait for any man whose army or battle prowess might serve her purposes. Other compelling characters in the piece include Fergus mac Roich, a wise and powerful king who exiled himself from his kingdom rather than compromise his integrity, and Ferdiad mac Daire, a young soldier of Connaught whom Maeve manipulates into fighting his friend and foster brother, Cuchulain. And, of course, at the center of the story is Cuchulain, himself. He is a hero in the Greek fashion, the child of a god and a mortal, who is somehow able to maintain his courage, strength, and integrity in the midst of impossible physical and moral odds.

In stories like the Tain, as in Homer’s Iliad, I think that war provides the kind of exaggerated picture of human experience that we are used to finding in fairy tales where mothers are either child-devouring witches or exemplars whose goodness transcends even the grave. War allows us to view the virtues and foibles of men and women under a microscope. Nothing is subtle; everything seems either hideously deformed, intricately lovely, or heart-wrenchingly noble.

In the Tain Bo Cuailnge, Cuchulain stands at a ford in the river day after day, tirelessly meeting one enemy combatant after another, and each battle presents its own particular problem. Sometimes the challenge is physical: an enemy with the heads, arms, and legs twenty-eight men. At other times it is mystical or spiritual: the druids and satirists who fight with spells and curses, or the goddess Morrigan who seeks revenge for spurned sexual advances. But harder than any of these are the complexities of facing in battle men whose actions have earned his love and respect. At the end of the story Cuchulain is so covered in wounds that “if birds were in the habit of flying through human bodies, they could fly through his rended flesh.” Yet, he perseveres until he is sure that he has done all he can to defend his homeland from destruction.

When I first called the Tain Bo Cuailnge a terrible story, I meant an unpleasant, uncomfortable story, a sad gift to give at the opening of the Storytelling Festival. And it is that. But it is also terrible in way of W.B. Yeats's "terrible beauty" of April 1916, that is, awe-inspiring and wonderful.  It is a story that changes us by forcing us to think beyond our limited existence, to marvel at the deeds of those who came before us, to wonder about the lives of those who will live after us, and then to try to maintain our humanity in the face of these reflections. A good way to begin a festival day.

Diane Wokltein's Stories Touch Us All

Diane Wolkstein was a teacher, mentor and close friend. I miss her greatly.

One of my favorite stories is ‘I’m Tipingee’ from her collection, The Magic Orange Tree.( You can hear this story on the SAI YouTube Channel ) It is a story of community, among other things, and it has brought community to me through the telling of it.

‘Tipingee’ became a favorite of an elementary school in Glen Rock, New Jersey. For 12 years I told stories in this K-5 school. I taught students and teachers how to tell stories. The school year of stories culminated with a school wide storytelling festival. Everyone, students and teachers, told stories for an afternoon. Before splitting up into small mixed age groups, the school population would gather to start the afternoon with an annual telling of Tipingee. Everyone knew the story; everyone chanted and sang as one. Imagine 350 kids and teachers listening so quietly and then bursting into “I’m Tipingee. She’s Tipingee. We’re Tipingee, too.” We all delighted in the experience together. Diane writes of this extraordinary community in the introduction to the 20^th anniversary edition of The Magic Orange Tree.

Professionally Tipingee has broadened my community as well. I tell ‘Tipingee’ in tandem with other tellers. With Elizabeth Nordell (SAI) I tell an English/Creole version. With Julie Pasqual (SAI) I tell an English/Sign Language version. In this way we spread the story to others.

‘I’m Tipingee’ will always have a special place in my heart. I thank Diane for bringing it to our storytelling community that we may pass it on.

--Julie Della Torre

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Diane Wolkstein grew up one town over from where I live, so when I first started appearing in local storytelling events, audience members often asked if I knew her.  I didn't at first, but when the opportunity availed itself to take a series of workshops with her I signed up.  I trekked in and out of a bitterly cold New York City to her apartment on Patchin Place in Greenwich Village.  There I was warmed by the stories shared and by her welcoming smile.  Her collection of Haitian stories, The Magic Orange Tree, is a legacy Diane Wolkstein gifted not only to the storytelling community, but story lovers everywhere.

--Ellen Musikant

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          There is a photo somewhere in my parents’ house of me, as a little girl, climbing on the statue of Hans Christian Anderson in Central Park.  One of the many advantages of growing up in NYC is that Central Park, and all of its marvels, were available to me anytime I wanted.  I did not attend any of Diane's storytelling there, but years later, when I heard about it, I could imagine my younger self, sitting listening to her, with the background of that beloved statue.  And, the year she asked if I - me, Julie Pasqual - would actually tell a story there, well, my heart about burst in pride.  It was an "I made it moment," just the fact that she knew my name floored me, but that she also thought that I was good enough to stand before that statue and tell to audiences that had cut their storytelling teeth on her, and Laura Simms, and other great and wondrous tellers, well - I was stunned.  It was another couple of years before I felt like Diane and I really talked, and that was about one of her passions - the people of Haiti, I had recently returned from working with a community there, and I could see the love she bore the brilliant, joyful residents of that troubled region.  We sat on a subway one day - I literally almost running into her, and swapped stories of the many smiles, and bright eyes we had seen on our visits.  Though she hadn't been in years, Haiti - as Haiti does - had not left her soul.  Some people just tell stories, some just write them, some just collect them.  But, Diane did this and more - she lived them with a full-hearted passion that set the bar high for all of us that have come after her, because of her.  If I ever get to stand before that statue and tell stories again, I hope her light will feel my soul, and guide my telling.

--Julie Pasqual

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When I was first starting out as a storyteller, I found in the library a copy of Diane’s The Red Lion. The tale is from Persia, and recounts a prince’s journey to face his greatest fear, which he must do to succeed his father on the kingdom’s throne. The prince runs away several times before summoning the courage to meet the red lion. And, of course, he is triumphant – but in a surprising way. I always enjoy telling this hero’s journey tale, especially to those on the cusp of adolescence preparing to face their own red lions. It has helped me face red lions of my own. I never had the pleasure of hearing Diane tell this story and I wish I had. The times I did hear her tell I could sense the passion she felt for storytelling and her intense desire to share it. She will be missed.

--Maria LoBiondo

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 I was in Diane’s physical presence only 5 or 6 times, yet her work has had a deep influence on me as a storyteller.   She was a model of grace and power in her telling and a model of dedication and scholarship.   As have other SAI tellers, I’ve found stories from The Magic Orange Tree especially compelling.  My favorites are “The Name” and  “One, My Darling, Come to Mama.”   The first for its sauciness and the second for much more.

  “One, My Darling” has sparked profound conversations among students.   How is it, many wonder,  that Philamandre, despised and neglected by her mother as a child, does not hesitate to lovingly care for her mother when the woman appears years later.    

  Although I rarely tell this powerful story to young children, I did tell it for a second grade class I had grown to know well.   At the close of the story, a hand shot up.  

  “Why,” demanded the boy, “is she so kind to her mother when her mother was mean to her?”  

     Before I could respond, another hand flew up.  It was Allora.  “I know.”

    “Tell us,” I said.  Allora stood to explain.

    “Philamandre was kind to her mother because she did not want to be like her mother.”   

    Students have also responded deeply to “White Wave,” a Chinese folktale that Diane published with beautiful illustrations by Ed Young.  I tell the story in my own words, but frame it by telling the children how Diane found the story and include, as well, the way she ends the story:

    Many years pass.  Finally nothing remains of the young man, the shrine he built for a goddess and the moon shell in which she once lived.  

   Nothing remains except the story.  That is how it is with all of us; eventually what remains of our lives are our stories. 

--Luray Gross

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   My story has something in common with the experience Julie Della Torre recalls. It includes a tale from Diana’s The Magic Orange Tree and there is community singing, too. However, the community in my story is one that feels far away from a Glen Rock elementary school.

 Almost fifteen years ago, I began telling stories in the Morris County Youth Detention Center. When I introduced myself to my first audience of about twenty teenage boys, they scoffed at the idea that I had anything to offer them, but as any storyteller would expect, most of them changed their minds somewhere during the first five minutes of the first story. After that, I taught storytelling workshops at the detention center every week and, although residents came and went, there remained a consensus that Storytelling was, ‘okay.’ That is, it was okay to listen to, discuss and, sometimes, retell stories, but most kids drew the line at active participation as tellers or listeners.

   One day, maybe five months into the program, I invited my friend and colleague, Mary Rachel Platt, to be a guest artist at the facility. The boys who were in residence that day had been there for a long time and most of them were frustrated and worried. They walked into the classroom and slumped into their seats, each one wearing the sullen expression that only teenagers can achieve. Mary began her telling with “Cric, Crac,” the ritual we all learned from Diana to introduce a Haitian story. Her friendly ‘cric’ was greeting with a rolling of eyes, so she just started the tale of Tayzanne, a magical fish.

   There is a song that recurs throughout this story. Its words are simple, but the melody is haunting. By the first time Mary sang it, the boys were engaged in the story. When the song was repeated for a second time, I thought I heard it softly echoed by someone else in the room. I truly didn’t believe my ears, but at the third repetition, the echoing voice was stronger. More voices joined in until, when Mary finished the story by singing the refrain one last time, she was just one voice in a choir made up of every boy in the room.

   Tayzanne is not a happy story, but it was the story those boys needed that day, a tale to take them away from their own worries, if only for the time it took Mary to tell it. There is a lot of Diana in this memory. She truly understood the power of story to describe and mold cultures, preserve rituals, and change lives. From her I learned to forget myself, the teller, and trust the story to catch and hold its listeners.

--Paula Davidoff

Storytelling and Technology

January 2013 SAI blog post

Maria LoBiondo

 

If you, like me, are tiptoeing your way into using digital technology and are alarmed by the prevalence of electronic screens in our midst, you may find a recent book some comfort.

 

Jonathan Gottschall’s The Storytelling Animal: How Stories Make Us Human is a breezy summation of research and musings on why we love stories. An English professor at Washington and Jefferson College, Gottschall defines story broadly, including folktales, dreams, video games, and reality TV. He argues that we humans can’t live without story and that technology may change the form stories come in, but not their essence.

 

There’s a lot in this book that sounds familiar but I enjoyed Gottschall’s take on it. The paradox, the author says, is that stories in all forms are pleasurable and may temporarily free us from our troubles, but without some kind of conflict you don’t really have a story: “Beneath all the wild surface variety in all the stories that people tell—no matter where, no matter when—there is a common structure… Stories the world over are almost always about people (or personified animals) with problems.”

 

You knew that, right? But one conundrum that hasn’t been solved is whether stories serve an evolutionary purpose. Gottschall considers many theories, all still conjecture. What no one seems to doubt is that stories are part of what make us human, and that they are good for us.

 

Gottschall calls stories “flight simulators,” allowing us to safely train for big challenges in the social world. A fascinating example refers to research on “mirror neurons” that may help explain how newborns as young as 40 minutes old can imitate facial expressions and manual gestures. These neurons may be the basis of our ability to run powerful fictional simulations in our heads.

 

Gottschall also addresses the idea that story as we know it—mainly in the form of fiction—may disappear. He most surprised me with his suggestion that as digital technology evolves our attraction to story in ever more varied forms may morph into an addiction and take us over completely.

 

As a storyteller, my fear is that the bells and whistles of technology will mask the depth of what story can bring when we connect face to face through sharing and listening. Nourishing the human connection, allowing stories to nourish our hearts and minds, must never be allowed to fade away.

 

Maria believes that a story is a gift from heart to heart between teller and listener. A professional writer and editor, her love of fairy, folk, and wisdom tales has been lifelong, although studies leading to her bachelor’s degree in education from Boston College and years as a preschool teacher deepened her appreciation.

Maria’s life experiences have included work in low-income communities with the Jesuit Volunteer Corps in Utica, N.Y., and Providence, R. I., and participation in artist Judy Chicago’s needlework effort, The Birth Project.

She has told stories for the past 13 years at several venues, including Princeton’s Littlebrook School, the Princeton Montessori School, the Catholic Community of St. Charles Borromeo in Montgomery Township, and the New Jersey Storytelling Festival. She is a member of the Princeton Storytelling Circle.