Learning to Slam

A Story Slam?  I’d heard of but never attended a Poetry Slam.  What’s a Story Slam?

This definition is from Norah Dooley of massmouth: “Based on a poetry Slam format and similar to American Idol, a story slam is a contest of words by known and undiscovered talent. massmouth posts a theme on its website and story slammers sign up on the night [of the Story Slam] to tell a 5-minute short story on the evening's theme, and a lucky eight to ten names will be drawn at random from a box. Other audience members may feel moved to join in on a judging team. There will be a team of 5 judges - interested amateurs, storytellers, theater people and anyone who loves stories. Each set of 5 stories will begin with a story by a sacrificial teller, usually one of the past winners. Listeners will be engaged in story improv games and other interactive entertainments between each 5 minute feature.

massmouth

Each of the featured 5 minute stories is judged on how well it is told, how well it is constructed and how well the story explores, connects and/or reveals some truth about the theme and, how well it honors the time limit.  The 2 highest-scoring tellers and 1 Audience Choice are awarded prizes. … Prizes will be awarded at each slam.”

 Stories Slams were beginning to work their way into the venue of Storytelling Conferences, when I attended both Sharing the Fire produced by L.A.N.E.S. and the Northlands  Conference produced by the Northlands Storytelling Network.  I watched and listened as my friend, Judith Heineman, prepared her slam story for Sharing the Fire and wondered if I could tell a personal story in five minutes.  At the Northlands Conference, I was invited to be a “Judge-in-Training” which meant sitting with the judges next to Judy Sima so I could ask questions about what she was doing and what the numbers meant.  I learned that you don’t want to be the first contestant.

Set the mic on FIRE

 Also at the Northlands Conference, the audience was invited to participate by telling “Filler Stories,” a one minute anecdotal story on the theme.  Well, I had some of those in my back pocket, but would they fit the theme.  I pondered…  One of the contestants told a story about playing games with her father.  Ah Ha!  That was one I could do!  So I volunteered to tell while the real judges deliberated out in the hall.

Venturing to the stage I began my story of playing Monopoly with my dad almost every weekend in the winter.  It was a dual to the finish with Dad usually winning.  Finally I figured out what his strategy was, tried it; and found it worked.  Then the real battles began.  Many years later, while attending the International Science and Technology Fair with my daughter, I heard a young scientist explain his project: “Winning Monopoly” to the group of assembled students and their adult companions.  It was the same strategy Dad used and I copied – exactly!  Scientific Proof which validated one ten-year-old's creative thinking skills. 

 

I’ve expanded that one minute anecdotal story and am now waiting for another theme to be Right.  Searching through the anecdotes of one’s life can be likened to a Treasure Hunt.  Once the treasure is discovered, it takes building and paring to discover the essential truth of the story.  Both a challenge and a discipline in building a good story.  That, I think, is the pull of Story Slam.

Copyright 2014 Julie Moss Herrera. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Julie Moss Herrera.

 

Anatomy of a Poem

The Harvest Moon on September 13, 2013, was to be full and bright, only a storm threatened viewing.  When the moon rose full and orange in the eastern sky, I did not see it.  I was telling stories to eager faced elementary students, and besides a thunder storm was raging outside. 

But by the time the storytelling was over, so was the storm.  The clouds were drifting apart exposing the moon to the earth below.  After driving home with moonlight in my face, I wrote:

“Last night the goddess moon finally slid gracefully from beneath the tattered remnants of clouds from the earlier storm, hanging, a luminous bright alabaster globe in the sky, bathing the earth below with radiant light, as in the west a few hardy stars ventured forth to wink and blink among the wispy clouds still floating there, and to the south lightning backlit the turbulent clouds still threatening the mountains.”

“Poetic prose,” one of my friends wrote on my Facebook page.  “Could you turn it into a poem?”

Normally I do not write poetry, preferring prose; but I took the challenge and changed it a bit.

“Goddess Moon slides

Gracefully from beneath

Tattered remnants

Of passing storms. 

Hanging, luminous, bright

An alabaster globe

Bathing the earth in radiant light. 

Across the sky hardy stars wink, blink

Among wispy clouds

Still floating there. 

And near the mountains

Lightning flashes

Backlit clouds

Threaten rain.”

Yes, I said a bit, not nearly enough.  The friend who issued the challenge read it and made a few suggestions, leaving everything up to me, as it should be.  So after a few more Facebook chats the final product lies below:

 

Moon Goddess             

©Julie Herrera 2013

Goddess Moon

Glides beneath

Tattered remnants

Of passing storms,

Hanging – luminous

Alabaster globe

Bathing earth in

Radiant light.

Hardy stars across

The sky wink, blink

Amongst wispy clouds

Still floating there,

Above mountains

Lightning flickers,

Backlit clouds

Threaten rain.

All of that and a call for submissions for "The Conejos Writers’ Circle Book" prompted me to take another look at a longer poem I attempted to write a few years back which was rejected for different  anthology.  The two versions follow directly:

 

TRANSITION

By Julie Herrera

When the darkness reaches forward gobbling up the light,

When the dull browns of the fields turn to gold and shadows lengthen,

When the clouds of dust on the dirt roads add to the beauty,

When wheeling flocks of raucous cranes and geese call to each other as they look for a place to settle for the night,

When some fly so close to the mountains, they look like the shadow of a giant helicopter, 

Only to be seen for what they are as they fly south far enough to leave the mountain aside,

When clouds go from white to bright yellow and gold to orange,

When the clouds fade to pink and grey sometimes with a violet cast,

When the Sangres turn pink,

When the sun gives one last glorious burst of color over the western mountains,

When the moon starts to brighten.

Then is a sense of peace,

Then is a time to reflect as the cares of the day slide from the shoulders,

Then is the most beautiful time of the day,

Then is a time to behold,

Then is a time to reflect on the beauty of nature,

Then is a time to see the wondrousness of God,

Then is the time called dusk.

DUSK

©Julie Herrera 2013

When darkness reaches forward gobbling up the light,  

Sandhill cranes against the San Juan Mountains

Dull browns turn gold, shadows lengthen,  

Clouds of dust, beauty add;

When wheeling flocks of raucous cranes, geese

Call to one another looking for places,

Settle for the night;

When clouds turn bright yellow, gold and orange,

Colors fade to pink and grey, a violet cast,

The Sangres turn pink;
 

When last glorious color bursts over mountains,

The moon imperceptibly brightens.

Then comes a sense of peace,

Cares slide away,

Gaze at beauty.

Then, a time to contemplate,

A time named dusk.

So in writing a poem, I learned to tighten up the language, to cut out the unnecessary words.  It was a challenge and an exercise in discipline.  For instance in the Transition/Dusk piece what prompted me to write it all down in the first place was the cranes that “look like the shadow of a giant helicopter…”  As you can see when reading “Dusk” the helicopter of cranes is gone.  Writers must learn to “kill their darlings”; but one might also think of it as the darlings giving birth to an idea which needs to be molded, then they don’t have to be killed just given the

opportunity to grow and stretch, to become what they were intended to be.  After all that’s what we do with our children, isn’t it?

©Julie Moss Herrera 2014

 

Have you Ever Wondered Why There Is No Year of the Cat?



Fan showing the Chinese Zodiac

In Chinese Folklore, the story of how the Chinese Zodiac came into being tells about rivalry, competition and cooperation amongst the animals vying for an honored place in the zodiac.  If you are an aficionado of cats, you may ask yourself’ “Why no cats?  Isn’t the cat a lucky animal in Asian cultures?”

 

maneki-neko

It is true that cats are considered lucky, especially in Japan where the maneki-neko or beckoning cat originated.   You may have seen a maneki-neko in Asian business establishments because it represents a wealth and prosperity feng shui cure.  If you know nothing about feng shui, it literally means wind and water, which we think of as harmony.  Practitioners of feng shui take the bagua, “a grid that reveals how the different areas of any building [or space] you occupy are connected to specific aspects of your life,” and place that grid over homes and businesses to let the owners know how to arrange their belongings to the best advantage.  So the maneki-neko in a business is placed near the entrance to welcome good customers; in a home it should be placed in the southeast (to the right of the entrance) part of the bagua, the wealth and money area. 

 



Jade Emperor

But to get back to the Chinese Zodiac story which begins with the Jade Emperor who ruled the Heavens.  On his birthday he arranged for a swimming race to be held across a fast running river.  The first twelve animals to cross the finish line would have a year of the zodiac named for them.

 Rat and Cat, good friends back then, were afraid they might not stand a chance as they were not good swimmers.  “Let’s ask Ox (water buffalo) for a ride!  He’s a wonderful swimmer.”  So they asked; and Ox, who was easy going and kind as well as a good swimmer, complied. 

 The river was swift and rather deep, but Ox was strong.  Rat and Cat cheered as he took the lead.  Close the far side of the river, Rat crept up behind Cat and suddenly pushed him into the water where Cat began to flounder.  Then climbing onto Ox’s head Rat jumped to the shore before Ox could step upon the land, and proudly presented himself to the Jade Emperor.

 “Ahhh...,” said the Jade Emperor. “The first year of the zodiac will be named after you, Rat.”

Calendar from May Wa Restaurant

Ox was tricked into second place, but he was content with the second year of the zodiac being named after him.  The rest of the animals followed in this order: Tiger, also a strong swimmer; Rabbit, who hopped across the river on stones and then floated on a log; Dragon, who was not first because he helped the others by providing rain and pushing Rabbit with a little extra breeze; Snake who rode across on Horse’s hoofs; Horse, who is now fearful of snakes; Goat, Monkey and Rooster, who shared a raft and arrived together; Dog, who had taken the time to bathe in the river; and Boar, who ate and rested before coming.  Twelve animals in all.

 

Comet

As for Cat, pushed into the water by Rat, he finally crawled out of the water wet and bedraggled, but was too late to have a year named after him.  Cat has taken his frustration out on Rat and his cousins the mice ever since.


(In some versions Rat promises to wake Cat; but fails to so, which is just as devastating to Cat.)   
 

So now you know why there is no Year of the Cat.  

 

 Some other interesting notes about Chinese New Year.  The Chinese New Year follows the lunar calendar, thus changing from year to year as to when it begins.  The celebration lasts fifteen days, ending with the Lantern Festival.  The whole fifteen days are known as the Spring Festival.

 

This year begins on January 31.  It is year number 4712, the Year of the Horse.  Each animal has special characteristics attributed to it.  If you want to know what your zodiac animal is click here .  There are also other interesting articles about the Chinese Zodiac on this website.  Here's another website with fun activities.

Karen Chace, a storytelling friend, has a wonderful blog.  Click here for her offering of stories about horses.

Another interesting blog about the Year of the Horse can be found here.  To quote from it, "...grab a fistful of mane, hang on to the reins, cast your old cares to the wind and let out a whoop of delight–Yeeehaaw!"

Redbirds

photo by paul davis

 

Redbirds a.k.a. Cardinals (cardinalis cardinalis) were frequent visitors to my home in northeastern Ohio where I grew up.  That bright flash of red announcing the male and his paler counterpart and mate.   They came in the winter to feast on seeds we left in the large feeder my father constructed.   The Redbirds were not alone, but they were the brightest spot in the feeder alongside the flashing blue of jays, the grays of juncos, the soft browns of sparrows and the stark black and white contrast of chickadees.  Even the brown fur of an occasional squirrel could be seen among the feathers. 

 



photo by paul davis

We watched, along with the cats, from the window as the flashing colors came and went all winter long.  Those winters were long in the Snowbelt that stretches between Cleveland, OH, and Buffalo, NY.  They were also gray on most days for the lake effect snows dumped plenty of white stuff on the ground which can’t be done on a bright, blue sky day.  But for all the stark trees against their background of white, always there was that flash of red.  A reminder that the world is not always seen in black and white and shades of gray.

  


photo by paul davis

Of course, we did not spend all our time sitting at the window watching the Redbirds and their friends.  Most weekends found us out-of-doors, bundled against the cold, riding down the big hill behind our house on our toboggan.  That was especially fun when Dad came along.  He was heavy enough to take the toboggan all the way to the creek that ran through the valley at the bottom of the hill.  Before the saplings were big enough to stop us with a BUMP, we came perilously close to a soaking on more than one occasion.  Winter birthday parties always ended up with rosy cheeks and cold noses, hands and feet, as well as a lot of whooping and hollering.  And hot chocolate when we finally went inside.  Still, sometimes, sometimes, there was a flash of red through the trees.

 

photo by paul davis

Once walking the back roads home after school through the muffled silence of big, fat, falling flakes of snow, a Redbird crossed over the road directly in front of me.  My friend saw it too.  We stood still in the gathering dark and watched as the red flash disappeared into the woods calling, “Whoit cheer, whoit cheer, cheer-cheer-cheer!”

 

I have lived in two of the seven (yes, seven!) states where the cardinal is the state bird – Ohio and Illinois.  Now I live in Colorado and have for over half my life.  I miss those flashes of red.  Yes, there is still a bird feeder outside the window.  It is visited by redwing blackbirds and sparrows mostly as the magpies prefer dog food over seeds.  But the bright flash of red is missing as cardinals do not live here. 

 

So I thank my friends who send their pictures my way brightening my winter days with a flash of red.

 

© Julie Herrera 2014

Lucky Me – Stories My Mother Told Me



Mom & Me

My mother, my mother told me stories, sang me songs and read to me every day when I was little.  She told stories about her life, her brothers and sisters, her mother and father.  She read fairy tales and folktales from a set of books we called the Red Books which were part of the deal when she purchased a set of encyclopedias when I was about three or four.  By the time I needed to use an encyclopedia they were pretty much out of date, but I still have the Red Books.

A few times when Mom told us, my sisters and me, folktales and fairy tales she made up little songs to put into the stories.  The one I especially remember is The Three Billy Goats Gruff and I use those little ditties when I tell that story.  I loved listening to Mom tell and read stories.  I wanted to remember the stories she told; so I retold them to my imaginary brother, his name was Bother, when he would come to visit me.

From http://www.bbc.co.uk/cbeebies/misc/stories/

I remember sitting in the rock garden overlooking the valley that was next to our rural Ohio home.  Brother lived in the Valley.  When I called, “Brother, come up!” sometimes he would be there, and I could practice telling Mom’s stories since he never seemed to be around when she told them.  Brother was a good listener.

My grandpa was an engineer for the gas company in Iowa.  The family moved a lot, and Mom told us stories about all the places she lived.  One I particularly remember is about when she and her older brother got in trouble for throwing crab apples at the trolley.  Her older brother taught her how to play basketball.  These were the olden days, remember, and girls played by different rules in basketball than boys did.  They couldn’t cross the line in the middle of the gym.  But Mom learned to play boys’ rules.  Basketball was a big deal in Iowa even back then.  Mom was on the Girls Basketball Team in High School.  The whistle blew a lot when she was on the court – every time she crossed that middle line!



Mom & Daddy

As we got older, Mom’s stories were sometimes about when she met my dad.  It was a blind date, but they weren’t dating each other.  Daddy’s sister went to the same Nursing School my mom did.  She volunteered her brother as a date for a dance.  Mom’s good friend did not have a date; so…  The day after the double date, Daddy stepped way out of his comfort zone and called Mom to see if he could take her out.  She said, “Yes,” and that was it.

Mom is gone from my life now.  It’s been a number of years.  But those stories she told me, read to me, and the songs she sang to me are still part of me.  They always will be! 

Happy Mother’s Day to my very first storytelling mentor – MY MOM!

 

Fear of the Unknown

 

Franklin D. Roosevelt

"So first of all, let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself --  nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed effortsd to convert retreat into advance."  --Franklin D. Roosevelt




          The month of March brought fear back to me in vivid memory as we waited to see what the prognosis would be on my husband’s open heart surgery.

            I’ve had heart problems most of my life, since I was a youngster stricken with rheumatic fever.  Although that was not the diagnosis at the time, the doctor did come every day for ten days with a huge shot of penicillin.  It got so I didn’t want to see him anymore; I still don’t like needles.  I wasn’t really physical as a kid, but back in those days it was okay for girls not to be athletic; so I contented myself with quieter activities like reading.

 

With permission of Drugs.com

            Age 23, I had my first genuine physical since I was 10.  Diagnosis: Heart murmur in the mitral valve.  Then fluid started collecting in my lungs at night when I was trying to sleep – scary not being able to breath.  The doctor thought it might be asthma.  I bought an over the counter inhaler which didn’t help at all.  There were nights when I slept in the recliner because lying down was impossible.  Finally, with a little detective work, we figured out the trigger was salt.   That led to the diagnosis of Mitral Stenosis.  The mitral valve had been damaged by the rheumatic fever 20 years before and had degenerated more through the ensuing years.

http://www.drugs.com/cg/mitral-stenosis.html

            Over the next four years, my energy waned along with my weight.  I had been slender, but was now downright skinny weighing only 106 pounds.  I was told we had to wait.  It wasn’t “bad enough to operate.”  So how “bad” did it need to be?  I thought I was dying.  At 26, an echo cardiogram (the computer took up most of the room and the monitor was small with only green on black imaging; now the computer and monitor which shows the heart in vivid colors fit on a cart) and a cardiac catheterization showed that my mitral valve was almost completely useless as the opening was the size of a pencil instead of a large sausage.

http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/medical/IM04430

            Then when I was almost 28, it was time.  I was scared.  What would happen?  Would I be scarred for life?  Would I die?  My wonderful surgeon explained the whole operation to me – a closed heart commissurotomy which is rarely performed anymore.  He would make an incision under my left breast, stretch my ribs apart, and clean the valve with a small scalpel fitted over his finger.  That was still scary.  We toured the hospital.  That was a little bit reassuring.  My pastor visited with me a number of times to help reassure me.  On November 12, 1975, I presented myself at the admissions window of St. Luke’s Rush Presbyterian Hospital in Chicago, Illinois.  I was as ready as I would ever be.

            I woke up with a tube in my throat.  I could not talk.  The nurses in ICU told me to bang on my bed if I needed something.  My ribs ached something fierce!  Pain meds allowed me to doze in that semi-awake state through the weekend.  I have a few vivid memories of isolated incidents during that time.  Mostly it’s a blur.  The next week was better.  Tubes had been removed; I could talk and walk around.  My ribs still hurt, but not as bad unless someone made me laugh.

            As I recovered, I gained strength.  By that summer, I was playing tennis, running around the track at the local high school, and enjoying as sense of freedom.  Carrying the air-conditioner up from the basement was so easy – not the painful trip to carry it down.  I wondered if it would work since someone had obviously taken the heavy motor out of it.

 

            The operation was said to last five to seven years; I knew I did not want to lose two years of my life again.  But after the seven years was up, I was still going strong and running after two kids!  Luckily my operation lasted 25 years.  In 2000, I had a balloon valvotomy performed.  No long recovery, I only missed a week of work instead of eight weeks.  A medical advancement well worth waiting for.

            But all that worry, anxiety, and fear came flooding back early in March when my husband told me of his fears.  I believe the fear of the unknown is the hardest fear to overcome.  It is not until you are on the other side that it dissipates.

Waiting ...

I’ve spent a great deal of time waiting the last two months.  Waiting can be exhilarating, tedious, a practice in patience, tiring, full of anticipation, frustrating.  It all depends upon the circumstances surrounding the waiting and whether or not the person waiting has any control over why they are waiting or what they are waiting for.

Waiting to recover from an illness is frustrating.  Your mind is ready to go full-tilt, but your body must have time to recover before it can run smoothly again.  Much of my waiting during the winter has been this.  It’s like taking the car in for service to have one thing fixed and being told there are three other repairs that have to be done now.

Waiting for a Gathering or Meeting (as in meeting another person) that is anticipated to bring great joy and delight is a practice in patience.  We can put our time to good use in preparing for the arrival of Joy.  We can be mindful of how we are proceeding with our wait.

Julie and Cathryn

Jessica Baris and me

Daoist Temple in Chinatown

Waiting for an Event that is sure to offer more than advertised is exhilarating.  Everyone loves getting a good deal, don’t they?  I waited all of January and a bit of February for such an Event.  It proved to be well-worth the wait.  Thanks to Storyteller, Cathryn Fairlee, for her invitation to spend Chinese New Year with her and my cousin, Peggy, for a great time in San Francisco!  Also while in San Francisco, I was pleased to meet in person Wakeful Storyteller, Jessica Baris, whom I had just met a few days earlier via Skype thanks to Buck Creacy and his World of Storytelling Radio.


Waiting for a well-deserved Reward that is having difficulties putting in an appearance is frustrating.  Most of us desire our promised rewards on time.  Come on, we deserve it, don’t we?



Waiting for a Gift is full of anticipation.  Anticipation is titillating, exciting and makes the waiting all seem worthwhile.  





Denver International Airport

Waiting in an airport as I was doing when I wrote this because flight connections did not work (the wind gods plotted on high resulting in a five hour wait) is tedious and tiring. But at least I had something to occupy my mind (my book to read was with me instead of in my suitcase and the internet is free!) and could take a walk to exercise my body. I could have been bored or surreptitiously eaves dropped on others' conversations and watched people scurrying about. Which is, of course, way more fun than being bored!  I wish I had known about the quotation from Diane Wolkstein which is on the window in the B Concourse (thanks to Regina Ress for letting us know about this wonderful tribute) because I would have gone to see it.  Now I must wait until I fly again!

So there are all kinds of waiting.  What do you like or dislike waiting for?

© Julie Moss Herrera, 2013