of the Stories
the laser printer; before Güttenberg’s press; before the monks, quill in
hand, sitting in deep silence at their copying desk; before dancing Arabic
swirls; before Greek vowels animating the wine dark sea; before the calligraphy
of Pali sutras; before the solid Hebrew block like aleph-bet; before Sumerian
wedges in wet clay tablets; before delicate hieroglyphs illuminating papyrus
scrolls; before the elephant god Ganesh invented letters; before the oracles saw
the yin and yang in cracks on turtle shells; before the Neolithic artist, so
taken by the beauty of an object, that he incised it onto a femur; before the
earliest hunters rubbed their hands in fat and charcoal, pressing them against a
flickering tallow-lit wall deep inside the earth; before the antler of a deer
flaked a flint point to deadly edge; there was story.
stories we need live in the mineral world. They must be mined by going deeply
into the realm of the earth, and into the realm of ourselves. They must be
carried to our people, and told again and again, serving as mirrors for our
lives and our culture. Animated by the fire of the living breath they cross
worlds and vast stretches of time, spark us into action, or lead us along the
path of self-reflection. They may have never happened, but they are happening
all the time. And for as long as this is so, they will live in the world of man.
we tend to forget – the flower of the lotus a constant temptation. And some of
the stories go underground, below the surface of memory. Like the myriad shelled
creatures of the sea, they die, but their shells sink to the bottom of a deep
and vast ocean. Eons upon eons. Deposited in thick layers, and under the weight
and pressure of the waters above, they once again become stone. With patience
they wait for upheaval of the shifting plates below. And they rise.
of us, those in tune with the minerals inside and out, seek the stories, gather
them and hold them close, and tell them, whatever the risk. With the embers of
their hearts they warm them, until they crack, and reveal the treasure within
– Beauty, that opens the eyes of others wider than before, endowing them with
the chance to see what has never and has always been. Igniting their hearts and
minds and awakening the ancient stories echoed in their own bones; and bringing
what is needed into light.
an ancient tribe of hunters, savoring the riches of their labors, in communion
around a small fire that shelters them from the night; the keeper of the stories
cracks the rich marrow from the bones, and lovingly nourishes his people.