In a similar way, I believe storytellers also experience the world differently.  While others see mere a series of insignificant moments passing, a storyteller hears stories – moments of insight, of struggle and relationships.  Stories worthy of telling and retelling.  The challenge of crafting a story from an everyday moment is much like that of creating a beautiful photograph – in both cases one must first see the potential in their subject and then create an effective composition around it.

On several occasions recently, I have come across the following tip:

“One of the most necessary skills for a storyteller, is the art of listening.  To improve your storytelling you must practice listening, and practice it often.”

I understand this to mean listening with a storyteller’s ear.

I will be doing a lot of listening this month, from the conversations on the bus, to the school ground chatter relayed to me late in the afternoon.  (My kids would readily say I do need practice when it comes to the latter.)  I’ll be listening for potential subjects for a new composition.

I’ll also be taking in the Ottawa International Storytelling Festival, Naked Narrative.  It is an impressive line-up, including Jan Blake, Stephen Tobolowski and Michael Kusugak.  I can’t wait to sit back and listen to others who have spent years, even decades, developing their own ear for stories. And while I do, I will be growing mine.

(By the way, you can find my fabulous photographer friend at www.photographybyramin.com)

It was a summer of stories, although not exactly the stories I had expected.  I had intended to devote significant time to researching and writing historical stories.  Instead, I was busy living new ones.

After several years of attempting to arrange a family reunion, this year my husband was successful.  28 people came together from 3 continents – brothers, sisters, cousins, young and old.  Many seeing each other for the first time since being separated by the consequences of conflict almost three decades ago.

We gathered together under the hot, Mediterranean sun of Antalya, Turkey.  There were dozens of memorable moments, of stories that will be told and retold, as we did all the things that families do.  But there is one in particular I delight in telling.

We call her “Khaleh” which means “Aunt” in Persian.  She is loved for her kind and gentle nature, and her smile.  One day, she decided to join the others in the pool.  This may not seem remarkable, except that Khaleh has never swam before.  Not even once, in all her 72 years. And she lives in a country where women are told it is immodest to wear a bathingsuit.  To do so would be illegal.

She borrowed a swimsuit, and as we all watched, she lowered herself down the ladder.  And for the next two hours, she waded and splashed and paddled along with everyone else.  She smiled the whole time.  The next day she did it again.  I was so moved by her courage.

The night before we were leaving she said to her sister, “I watch you. You put your face in the water so comfortably.  I want to learn to do that tomorrow before we leave if we have time.”  But before we knew it, the taxis came to take us to the airport.

As I throw on a jacket to go and watch a football game, summer already seems so long ago.  I am worried that so many details of our experiences will be lost and forgotten.  I need to hold onto them, and the only way I know to do that is to tell those stories.

I don’t know whether Khaleh will ever get her wish to swim again and learn to go under the water.  I certainly hope she does.

The proposal to join 17 other storytellers in telling Homer’s epic Odessy over 12 hours at the NAC 4th Stage had overwhelmed me like no other.  Nonetheless I dutifully learned the book of Circe, and participated in the preparatory workshops which began in September, even giving up a particularly warm afternoon on the May long weekend.

But over the months as we prepared for the performance, I couldn’t help but wonder – would anyone give up an entire day in June (a beautiful, sunny one too as it turned out) to come and hear the story?  Would we be telling the story to ourselves?

On the morning of June 16th, before the NAC staff had unlocked much of the building, the storytellers gathered in the lobby.  It was early, but we were ready.  We were SO ready.

When the 4th Stage theatre was opened we filed in and began making ourselves at home in the green room.  The doors barely closed behind us when they were opened again, and others began filing in.  The audience literally began pouring into the theatre!  It was a near sell-out.

And therein lie the gift in this for me.  You see, I am quick to tell people that I am a storyteller because I have experienced the power of stories.  But there is power, and there is power. Sure, some people had come because they love the Ottawa StoryTellers (or because they had a sister-in-law performing)…but most came because this story holds meaning for them.  Centuries later, it continues to be as compelling and relevant as it was during Homer’s days.

As the story unfolded over the hours, each and every storyteller hit their mark.  For many, it was the best performance I have seen them give.  It was truly thrilling. And as Ellis Lynn Duschenes brought us the battle in the hall, and Jan Andrews told of reunion with Penelope, I was on the edge of my seat, savouring every word.  I have copied some of the audience members’ comments below.  Clearly, they were as taken with the experience as I was.

It was an experience of a lifetime.

“The telling of the Odyssey is an epic undertaking. The storytellers were truly masterful and the story, well it’s not surprising that it has been around for more than 2000 years. Such beautiful images in the mind, created by Homer’s perfect turns of phrase. But most importantly, it is the passion of the storytellers and the delivery of the story with their full life force that holds the listeners in such a state of excitement.”

“Fantastic experience! I loved simply listening and hearing Homer’s words. What a story…”

“Was doubtful at first that I would be able to last the whole 12 hours, but after only the second set I was hooked. Excellent show.”

“What an epic and wonderful undertaking! I’m thoroughly enjoying the show. What an amazing chance to be involved!”

“Absolutely riveting! The storytellers bring Odysseus home with grace worthy of Homer.”

I poured myself a cup of tea, and sat down to figure out what was eating me up.  That’s how I deal with I’m-not-sure-what’s-wrong.

After a bit of reflecting, I recognized it – I was grieving the end of hockey season!

No one would have been more surprised at that than me.   I had NEVER had any use for hockey!  While I was growing up, hockey occupied my father (and more importantly our only television set)  every Saturday night, leaving me to entertain myself.  And during public skating, the hockey players always crowded the rest of us on one side of the blue line, intimidating us with their speed and their loud shots. Hockey was nothing but an annoyance.

So when my son started playing his first season, I was convinced it would also be his last.  As I drank my tea, I was puzzled – when exactly did that change?

It wasn’t the high of winning – everyone from that Novice C team remembers we didn’t win a game all year.  And it certainly wasn’t the speed of the game, as most of the kids were still learning to skate, let alone puckhandle.

Perhaps it was the day I came home and found my son’s will, written in a seven year old’s script  on a kermit the frog notepad.  It was one sentence, in which he bequeathed (to this day I have no idea where he learned this word) his hockey equipment to his best friend Josh and to Coach Steve. Or perhaps it was the day I told him he had been invited to go to a Senators game – his first – but that he would have to miss his own hockey game to go.  I thought he would be thrilled to see his heroes, but instead he burst into tears saying, “I can’t let my team down, they’re depending on me!”

That was six springtimes ago.  I still love hockey.  I already dread the day that will inevitably arrive when we won’t have any smelly hockey equipment in our house.

So this summer I will be working on a set of true hockey stories. I can’t wait to start the research.  Stories that have elements of history, culture, and character.  Stories that come from Canada, and which will leave no doubt that hockey…is our game.

Do you have a favourite hockey moment?  maybe a memory from Hockey Night in Canada, or something that happened to you as a kid while you were playing?  I’d love to hear about it!

The best thing is…by the time the stories are finished, another hockey season will be upon us!

The school pulled together three very different literary presentations for their students and families.  Lou Hood  told the story of her fabulous book “Around the World in a Blink of an Eye”, and the mission of their organization to promote literacy and education among children in the poorest regions of the world.

In honour of the historic day it had been in Egypt I told a delightful Egyptian folktale. The audience was fantastic!

But in truth, it was Emily Edwards who stole the show.  Emily is a young author from Fitzroy Harbour.  She is only in Grade 9, having just graduated from St. Michael’s last year.  She was so poised and composed as she talked to the audience about her journey into writing and then read  two beautiful and moving poems, followed by an excerpt from her first book.  (yes, that’s right - her first book!)

I was filled with awe watching her young talent, and with admiration for the teachers who encouraged and nurtured her – including one who went against the grain and let her stay in many recesses to work on her book.  She spoke about her aspirations for the future, and her desire to be a journalist.  She had three reasons.  Even at that I was impressed – I think in grade nine I only knew I didn’t  want to be a scientist!

She explained the three factors which pulled her towards journalism…the first is that there is no limit to the topics one could write about; the second is that each time you write a story you learn at least one new fact or come to one new understanding; and the third was that with each new story you would meet at least one new person.

As I drove home along the peaceful highway, I reflected on what Emily had shared.  I thought about each reason she had given, and how it plays into how I feel about the stories I craft and tell and write.  On each account she was right.  Really, I couldn’t have said it better.

Remember her name.  Emily Edwards. I have no doubt you will hear it again.

“Uncle Percy” figured prominently in my family’s folklore.  He was my grandmother’s first cousin, and a career criminal.  In 1960 he made history by becoming the first person to escape from Manitoba’s Stony Mountain Penitentiary by going over the wall.  Not only was his escape sucessful, but he evaded capture for almost a year – living undetected among the Manitoba people in a homemade cabin in the woods near the town of Eriksdale.  A prairie folk hero of sorts.

I never met Percy.  But at every family gathering, there were stories.  A few hundred kilometers away – where Percy had lived while out on the lam – stories of Percy’s questionable activities and gentle spirit abounded.

In the 1990′s local business owners from Eriksdale decided to rebuild Percy’s cabin in the woods as a tourist attraction.  Unbeknownst to them, a local school teacher had developed a fascination with Percy’s story, and was considering writing a book about his life.  The decision to rebuild the cabin convinced him that the time was right to begin.

Over the next few years John Warms undertook hundreds of interviews – tracking down prison staff including the cook, the guards and the wardens; following up with local folks who remembered seeing a stranger sitting alone in the coffee shop, or who chased a man trying to break into the garage during the night; and sitting down with many of Percy’s relatives to hear of their experiences with him.  Perhaps most impressively, he connected with the inmate who helped Percy plan and execute his daring escape.

In 2001 ”Over the Prison Wall” was published. That Christmas I found a copy under the tree with my name on it.

I have always wanted to visit the cabin in the woods…but with Eriksdale being 350 kilometers from my hometown, it required a daylong roadtrip to Manitoba’s interlake region. Finally today – with my dad’s help – we made it happen.

John met me at the local coffee shop, and together we talked about all things Percy, as well as the extended Moggey family, and the twists and turns of recreating a historical story.  As he described Percy’s incredible talent, his love for children and animals, and his quiet, no nonsense character, his eyes conveyed his admiration for the unusual protagonist.  He explained what he heard most often from the  local people was their wish that Percy had been left alone, for “he wasn’t hurting anyone”.

Together we then went to the cabin in the woods.  It is a testament to Percy’s incredible resourcefulness.  Hidden among the trees on a small piece of land almost entirely surrounded by a slough, it was the perfect spot for the fugitive.

With John guiding our way, we traveled back over 50 years to the days of Percy’s woodland adventures. I could see him so clearly…carefully collecting logs for the cabin…laying in bed listening to radio reports that he had been sighted in towns near and far…taming the squirrels that shared the woods with him…and on that historical day when he was finally discovered, offering the police officers a cup of tea.

It was hard to force myself away from that peaceful spot back into the car for the long journey home.  There is so much history there –  that of a community, a notorious criminal, and most importantly to me, of a family legend.  I know I will come back.  Next time I will bring the kids, because the stories of our families need to keep being told.

The concert was being held at St. Paul’s College at the University of Manitoba.  It has been almost 20 years since I was a first-year law student at U of M, so needless to say I couldn’t remember where the building was – or more importantly, where the parking lots were.  Fortunately, it was incredibly easy to find, with parking just across the street.  The parking was even free (as we discovered after paying for two hours and printing our stub).

As soon as we stepped out of the car we could hear someone calling out “Storytelling festival!”. We walked toward the voices…two young girls of maybe 12 years, were standing outside the door of St. Paul’s College calling out to one and all that the storytelling festival would be starting momentarily.  It was a lovely welcome!  My mom commented that they were definitely future storytellers.

We had no idea what surprises would follow.  It was an eclectic group of storytellers, to say the least.  We heard Tetiana Bielousova from the Ukraine tell a delightful folktale for children, complete with audience members playing the old farmer, his wife, the dog, the mouse and of course, the turnip!  We listened as Agnes the clown (Sue Proctor) sailed the spoon family across the sea on a boat of celery with the orange citrus sun on the horizon. Sr. Cyril Mooney from India moved us with stories of the “rainbow children” who study at her Loreto Day School in Calcutta.  Ian Ross brought his well-known “Joe from Winnipeg” character, and let us know that we were in the right place at the right time.  He was right about that.

But perhaps the most surprising performance of the evening was that of Noah Buchholz from New Jersey.  He told his story – the story of his birth, his family’s discovery that he was deaf, and their response, including the stories they told him and the advice they shared.  Noah’s story was performed in American Sign Language, and translated simultaneously by an interpreter.

It was spellbinding.  I didn’t want it to end.  The story was not just in his hands, or his expressions.  The story was in every part of his being.  I had never seen anything like it.  Sometimes to enjoy a story I’ll close my eyes and just listen.  With Noah’s story, I didn’t want to blink for fear of what I’d miss.

It was a superb way to celebrate mother’s day.  I had given my mom the gift of surprise.  And I had given myself the gift of inspiration.

The invitation arrived in my inbox while we were visiting my brother-in-law’s family in Israel last summer.  I was on holiday, and it was hot.  I wasn’t thinking about stories so much.  So chew on it I did.

I had to overcome my own fear of the epic tale – stories so much LARGER than the “small moment” stories I often tell.  There is nothing small about Odysseus, or his journey home!

In the end, the thrill of being a part of something so unique and exciting outweighed my fears.

Then it came time to immerse ourselves in the story.  I had to find my connection to Odysseus.  It was difficult.  After all, I pack lunches in the morning, and he sacks cities!  I needed help looking deeply into the story. Was the warrior Odysseus in the football coaches we had encountered over the years?  Partly.  Was the wearisome Odysseus in my recurring dream of never being able to get where I was trying to go?  Yeah, he was there too.  But still he seemed so much larger than life.

Then I found it.  A simple request made of the King Alcinous -

Ah, this was a man I could relate to after all!  A confounded stomach?  Now we’re talking.

18 of us. Each with our own connections to the story.  Pulling together to bring Odysseus home.

An epic storytelling adventure unlike any other.

As a young adult, I always avoided funerals and memorials.  I had been excused from attending them as a child, and so they always seemed to me to be affairs for the very grown up.  The thought of them filled me with dread.

As a certain point however, I had to face the fact that I was in fact a grown-up, and that I had responsibilities to the community around me.  Those responsibilities included sharing others’ grief when there was loss, just as much as it meant sharing in their joy.

And that’s when I came to realize…that at the heart of every memorial service and program, is a beautiful and touching life story. It matters not which faith or cultural group the person belonged to, for around the world we honour those who have passed before us by remembering the stories they lived.  Often, individuals whom I hadn’t known well – or even met – during their lifetime, became real to me through the stories shared; stories which stayed with me.

I no longer dread such occasions.  They are an opportunity to connect with those around me over smiles and tears, and the story of a life well lived. And every time, I am a better person for it.

I usually explain that finding new story ideas is one of the most challenging aspects of being a storyteller.  Then I go on to say that my stories come from various sources – my favourite ones being my own family, and the pages of history.

But this week, a story literally fell into my life.

I had been asked to tell stories at a staff training event.  While brainstorming the types of stories that would work best, one of the managers suggested I might craft a story about Hélène Campbell.  Turns out that he knew Hélène’s family, and offered to put me in touch with her if I was interested. I was somewhat skeptical.

You see a storyteller can only tell a story that they have a deep connection with.  Because of this, a story that works for one storyteller, may not work for another; a story you told three years ago, you may not have told since.

I agreed to think it over.

I had heard about Hélène on the radio.  She is a 20 year old woman from Ottawa who is currently living in Toronto waiting for a double-lung transplant.  She has caused a media storm, in her efforts to raise awareness about organ and tissue donation, getting Justin Bieber and Don Cherry to tweet about the cause, and even appearing on the Ellen show.  I had heard about her, but I knew very little about her.

I went home to do my research, and discovered her website:  alungstory.ca.  On it she had posted various videos, including the clip from the Ellen show.  In a matter of minutes, I realized I had been offered an incredible gift.

Everything about her moved me…her openness in sharing her journey, her creativity, and especially her joy.

Immediately I contacted the manager and let him know that indeed, I would be very interested in crafting a story about the remarkable Hélène!  A few days later I was driving down the 401 to Toronto, to meet the girl who inspired me.

In person, she was just like the girl in the videos.  Hélène welcomed me into her apartment like I was a long lost friend.  She had an infectious smile, eyes that sparkled, and a beautifully unpredictable sense of humour.  Her physical presence was tiny.  But her spirit hardly fit inside the room.

The time with Hélène and her mom was something I will remember always.  I hope the story I tell honours her.

But I won’t always tell it…once she has recovered from her surgery and can take deep breaths again, she will tell her own story.  And it will be amazing.