STOP, I am your destiny, this is as far as you can go

One day a man was out walking when he was confronted by a wall which said, ‘STOP I am your destiny, this is as far as you can go’.  But the man changed himself into a mouse and he slipped through a tiny hole in the wall.  On he went guided by self confidence and his heart.

Later he found himself confronted by a river as big and as wide as the sea.  It also said, ‘STOP, I am your destiny this is as far as you can go’. But the man changed himself into a fish and swam to the farther shore, where he followed the path laid out for him by the sun.

Then one day he had to stop suddenly because a deep, dark abyss lay at his feet.  It also said, ‘STOP, I am your destiny this is as far as you can go’.  But the man turned himself into a bird, spread his wings and rode the wind to the other side, where he continued on his journey.

Sometime later he encountered a valley as long and as broad as the horizon, fertile with delicious fruits, beautiful flowers, majestic mountains, lakes and crystal waterfalls.  ‘STOP’ said the valley, ‘I am your destiny’ and the man replied ‘At last! How I welcome you!’

Grasping The Intangible - My Dad lives in the attic

One of the many things on my ‘to do’ list is to write an article, based on this title, on loss and death anxiety relating to people with learning difficulties.  As this is also ‘Dying Matters’ awareness week www.dyingmatters.org, I wanted to share some stories that I have used to explore these themes in Dramatherapy groups.

I have found that within organisations for people with learning difficulties, staff try and prepare individuals for some changes in their lives, such as staffing, going on a trip or new activities.  However the same does not seem true of death – a very permanent change!

In our society, we rarely speak openly about death - perhaps this is to protect us from our own feelings.  I have worked with people where death and other aspects of loss have evoked strong feelings of confusion and anxiety, perhaps even anxiety around their own death, and sometimes it has seemed as if their other anxieties may be linked to this.  I think we have to work towards facilitating an individual understanding of death, looking carefully at our collective discourse and speaking more openly about our own feelings and uncertainties.  We can rely upon the time-honoured techniques of storytelling and ritual to help us explore and experience our sense of loss in comparative safety.

A personal vignette

When I was three years old, my best friend at nursery school died from complications resulting from her having a hole in her heart.  I still have vivid memories of her mother coming into school, sitting on a chair as we sat on the floor cross-legged in a circle around her.  She told us the story of how the angels had come down while her child was on the operating table and carried her away.  They had taken her and now she was free from pain.

I remember feeling sad and at the same time comforted by these words.  I went away with these images bubbling around in my three year old mind and decided that I wanted to become an angel and take away people’s pain.  I understood you had to die to become and angel and I somehow knew that if I lay in the road, this is what would happen to me.  My memory of being dragged away from the middle of the road is less clear, but I think that this was my one and only attempt in pursuit of this idea.

How could that grieving mother have known the consequences of her words to my three year old mind?  Was this story intended to help us to understand what had happened or was it an explanation that she felt able to pass on to children? Was she protecting us from the sadness of the situation or protecting herself from our expression of grief?

The Stories

This is a list of some of the stories I have used in Dramatherapy sessions.

Please click on the links to read the stories.

The Matsuyama Mirror
https://www.scribd.com/document/93911794/The-Mirror-of-Matsuyama

Just Enough 

https://www.scribd.com/document/93912612/Just-Enough

How Night came into being

https://www.scribd.com/document/93912478/How-Night-Came-Into-Being

The Day the sea went out and never came back
https://www.scribd.com/document/93912354/The-Day-the-Sea-Went-Out-and-Never-Came-Back

The Raven and the Whale

https://www.scribd.com/document/93912110/Raven-and-the-Whale

From ‘Songs of Enchantment’ By Ben Okri

https://www.scribd.com/document/93911034/Songs-of-Enchantment-1

The Cow Tail Switch
https://www.scribd.com/doc/93911385/The-Cow-Tail-Switch

The Woodcutter

https://www.scribd.com/document/93911451/The-Woodcutter

Tsukina Waguma (The Crescent Moon Bear) - Healing the angry self

A tale from Japan

From Women Who Run with the Wolves – Clarissa Pinkola Estés

There once was a woman who lived in a fragrant pine forest.  Her husband was away fighting a war for many years.  When finally he was released from duty, he trudged home in a most foul mood.  He refused to enter the house, for he had become used to sleeping on stones.  He kept to himself and stayed in the forest day and night.

His young wife was so excited when she learned her husband was coming home at last.  She cooked and shopped and shopped and cooked and made dishes and dishes and bowls and bowls of tasty white soybean curd and three kinds of fish, and three kinds of seaweed, and rice sprinkled with red pepper, and nice cold prawns, big and orange.

Smiling shyly, she carried the food to the woods and knelt beside her war-weary husband and offered to him the beautiful food she had prepared.  But he sprang to his feet and kicked the trays over so that the bean curd spilled, the fish jumped into the air, the seaweed and rice spilled into the dirt, and the big orange prawn went rolling down the path.

“Leave me alone!” he roared, and turned his back on her.  He became so enraged she was frightened of him.  Time after time this occurred until finally, in desperation, the young wife found her way to the cave of a healer who lived outside the village.

“My husband has been badly injured in the war,” the wife said.  “He rages continuously and eats nothing.  He wishes to stay outside and will not live with me as before.  Can you give me a potion that will make him loving and gentle once again?”

The healer assured her, “This I can do for you, but I need a special ingredient.  Unfortunately, I am all out of hair from the crescent moon bear.  So, you must climb the mountain, find the black bear, and bring me back a single hair from the crescent moon at its throat.  Then I can give you what you need, and life will be good again.”

Some women would have felt daunted by this task.  Some women would have thought the entire effort impossible.  But not she, for she was a woman who loved.  “Oh! I am so grateful,” she said.  “It is so good to know that something can be done.”

So she readied herself for her journey, and the next morning she went out to the mountain.  And she sang out “Arigato zaisho,” which is a way of greeting the mountain and saying, “Thank you for letting me climb on your body.”

She climbed into the foothills where there were boulders like big loaves of bread.  She ascended up to a plateau covered with forest.  The trees had long draping boughs and leaves that looked like stars.

“Arigato zaisho,” she sang out.  This was a way of thanking the trees for lifting their hair so she could pass underneath.  And so she found her way through the forest and began to climb again.

It was harder now.  The mountain had thorny flowers that seized the hem of her kimono, and rocks that scraped her tiny hands.  Strange dark birds few out at her in the dusk and frightened her.  She knew they were muen-botoke, spirits of the dead who had no relatives, and she sang out prayers for them: “I will be your relative.  I will lay you to rest.”

Still she climbed, for she was a woman who loved.  She climbed till she saw snow on the mountain peak.  Soon her feet were wet and cold, and still she climbed higher, for she was a woman who loved.  A storm began, and the snow blew straight into her eyes and deep into her ears.  Blinded, still she climbed higher.  And when the snow stopped, the woman sang out “Arigato” to thank the winds for ceasing to blind her.

She took shelter in a shallow cave and could barely pull all of herself into it.  Though she had a full pack of food, she did not eat, but covered herself in leaves and slept.  In the morning, the air was calm and little green plants even showed through the snow here and there.  “Ah,” she thought, “now, for the crescent moon bear.”

She searched all day and near twilight found thick cords of scat and needed look no farther, for a gigantic black bear lumbered across the snowfall, leaving behind deep pad and claw marks.  The crescent moon bear roared fiercely and entered its den.  She reached into her bundle and placed the food she had bought in a bowl.  She set the bowl outside the den and ran back to her shelter to hide.  The bear smelled the food and came lurching from its den, roaring so loudly it shook loose little stones.  The bear circled around the food from a distance, sampled the wind many time, then ate the food up in one single gulp.  The great bear reared up, snuffled the air again, and then disappeared into its den.

The next evening the woman did the same, setting out the food, but this time instead of returning to her shelter she retreated only halfway.  The bear smelled the food, heaved itself out of its den, roared to shake the stars from the skies, circled, tested the air very cautiously, but finally gobbled up the food and crawled back into its den.  This continued for many nights until one dark blue night the woman felt brave enough to wait even closer to the bear’s den.

She put the food in the bowl outside the den and stood right by the opening.  When the bear smelled the food and lumbered out, it saw not only the usual food but also a pair of small human feet as well.  The bear turned its head sideways and roared so loudly it made the bones in the woman’s body hum.

The woman trembled, but stood her ground.  The bear hauled itself onto its back legs, smacked its jaws, and roared so that the woman could see right up into the red-and-brown roof of its mouth.  But she did not run away.  The bear roared even more and put out its arms as though to seize her, its ten claws hanging like ten long knives over her scalp.  The woman shook like a leaf, but stayed right where she was.

“Oh, please, dear bear,” she pleaded, “Please, dear bear, I’ve come all this way because I need a cure for my husband.”  The bear brought its front paws to earth in a spray of snow and peered into the woman’s frightened face.  For a moment, the woman felt she could see the entire mountain ranges, valleys, rivers and villages reflected in the bear’s old, old eyes.  A deep peace settled over her and her trembling ceased.

“Please, dear bear, I’ve been feeding you all these past nights.  Could I please have one of the hairs from the crescent moon on your throat?  The bear paused; this little woman would be easy food.  Yet suddenly he was filled with pity for her.  “It is true,” said the crescent moon bear, “you’ve been good to me.  You may have one of my hairs.  But take it quickly, then leave here and go back to your own.”

The bear raised its great snout so that the white crescent on its throat showed, and the woman could see the strong pulse of the bear’s heart there.  The woman put one hand on the bear’s neck, and with her other took hold of a single glossy white hair.  Quickly, she pulled it. The bear reared back and cried out as though wounded.  And this pain then settled into annoyed huffs.

“Oh, thank you, crescent moon bear, thank you so much.”  The woman bowed and bowed.  But the bear growled and lumbered forward a step.  It roared at the woman in words she could not understand and yet words she had somehow known all her life.  She turned and fled down the mountain as fast as she could.  She ran under the trees with leaves shaped like stars.  And all the way through she cried “Arigato” to thank the trees for lifting their boughs so she could pass.  She stumbled over the boulders that looked like big loaves of bread, crying “Arigato” to that the mountain for letting her climb on its body.

Though her clothes were ragged, her hair askew, her face soiled, she ran down the stone stairs that led to the village, down the dirt road and right through the town to its other side and into the hovel where the healer sat tending the fire.

“Look, look!  I have it, I found it, I claimed it, a hair of the crescent moon bear!” cried the woman.

“Ah good,” said the healer with a smile.  She peered closely at the woman and took the pure white hair and held it out toward the light.  She weighed the long hair in one old hand, measured it with one finger, and exclaimed, “Ah.  Yes!  This is an authentic hair from the crescent moon bear.”  Then suddenly she turned and threw the hair deep into the fire, where it popped and crackled and was consumed in a bright orange flame.

“No!” cried the young wife.  “What have you done?”

“Be calm.  It is good.  All is well,” said the healer.  “Remember each step you took to climb the mountain?  Remember each step you took to capture the trust of the crescent moon bear?  Remember what you saw, what you heard, and what you felt?”

“Yes,” said the woman, “I remember very well.”

The old healer smiled at her gently and said, “Please now, my daughter, go home with your new understandings and proceed in the same way with your husband.

Thoughts

I think this is a wonderful story that can be used to explore issues around anger and rage.  It shows that our anger is worth listening to in a way that does not need to leave us feeling helpless – that it can teach us something. 

Rage can result from loss of power and control and this seems to be a reality for many people I work with.  Through this story we can explore many facets of anger, from the husband’s rage at the beginning to that of the bear - the bear holding both rage and compassion at the same time.  The story tells us that perhaps we need something from the instinctive world to enter new territory and unveil meaning.  This all takes great patience, which for me is described beautifully in the process of taming the bear.  The hair can act as something more tangible to return with and remind us what we’ve learnt. 

In Women Who Run With The Wolves, Estés writes “In Zen, the moment the hair is thrown into the fire and the healer speaks her simple words, that is the moment of true enlightenment.  Notice that enlightenment doesn’t occur on the mountain.  It occurs when, by burning the hair of the crescent moon bear, the projection of magical cure is dissolved......We can have all the knowledge in the universe and it comes down to one thing: practice.  It comes down to going home and step-by-step implementing what we know.  As often as necessary, and for as long as possible, or forever, whichever comes first.”

The Tree That Survived The Winter by Mary Fahy - A tale for transitions

The tree awakened earlier than usual one morning and stretched her arms toward the horizon as if to invite the early rays of dawn into her world. She shivered with delight, wiggling her roots in the muddy earth, which had only recently yielded its frozen hardness.

She sensed something was different. Her roots seemed to be extending further and more firmly into the soil. Her arms seemed to embrace more of the world, not with the timid gestures of a sapling afraid of tangling with the wind, but with the freedom of knowing that the wind could not topple her.

"I have survived the winter!" she marvelled aloud.

"How wonderful," whispered the dawn, who had a facility for appreciating new miracles no matter how often they occurred. She swirled around the tree in a ritual of blessing, enveloping her gently, making her feel very special.

"How very different this feels," mused the tree, for a few short weeks ago the melting earth beneath her roots had sent shivers of panic through every single branch, She had cried out in alarm then, sensing that she might sink into the earth] and lose herself. often during the cold winter...., while she had trembled with anxiety she had felt an inner voice -- a small but steady voice -- which remained fluid and alive when everything else in her seemed paralyzed.

But now -- now! -- she was filled with the realization that her inner life was in harmony with the world outside. She relaxed the tight fibres of her being which she had unwittingly held rigid during the cold gray months.

"I have survived the winter!" she exulted.

"You have survived the winter!" the birds echoed, hopping eagerly from branch to branch, bouncing on the tender extensions of herself that the tree had not even noticed.

"Oh!"

This one word, spoken softly and reverently, was all the tree could manage as she examined the white buds beginning to show through the tips of her branches, once held hard-clenched against the winter winds.

I have survived the winter," the tree sighed, "and I have grown!"

Days passed, and the energy within her fairly exploded, spilling out into dusters of lovely blossoms. She watched each day as they grew larger and more beautiful.

A blush of pink coursed through her petals. The tree stood speechless.

You have survived the winter because you are, and were, and always will be very much loved," said the sun. "For that small place deep within you that remained unfrozen and open to mystery, that is where I have made my dwelling. And long, long before you felt my warmth surrounding you, you were being freed and formed from within in ways so deep and profound that you could not possibly know what was happening."

"I...I...I had hope," she whispered, noticing that the words seemed to come from that inner space deep within her.

"Yes, you had hope," sparkled the sun. You trusted in life and that is what enabled you to grow. For if you had no hope and trust in the centre of your being, you could not have blossomed into you."

This was almost too much joy for the tree to hear. No words would come, and no words were necessary.

Weeks passed and the tree became a part of life in the meadow. She caught the kites of children who gathered nearby, and happily tossed them back again.

"You are a good sport," they said to her. "We will call you Friend."

A young couple sat in the shade of her thickening leaves and spoke of their love for one another. "This is a special place," they said, and they left their initials on her toughened bark.

"We shall call you Keeper of Secrets," they said to her.

A tired woman, bent with care, walked silently through the meadow, oblivious to everything except her own worries. She did not notice the tree.

"Come and rest for a while," whispered the tree, but she finally had to toss a piece of fruit onto the path before the woman saw her. Wearily, the woman sat and ate the fruit, and pondered deeply. The tree could feel the woman relax as she rested against her trunk.

Finally the woman stood up. "Thank you," she said and embraced the tree. The tree winced, for the woman had touched a spot that had not healed from the winter's ravages -- a spot that remained vulnerable even though the spring and summer months had been good to her. The woman seemed to notice and caressed the spot thoughtfully. At that moment there was a oneness -- a sense of understanding between the troubled woman and the tree.

"I will call you Hope," whispered the woman, and touched her again with affection and gratitude.

Long after her fruit had been shared and she began noticing touches of scarlet in her leaves, the tree still carried deep within her the memories of all her experiences.

"Who could possibly have imagined all that has happened to me?" she said to no one in particular.

And then addressing herself to the sun, she said, "...except you!"

"Have you seen? Have you heard?" she asked eagerly. "I am needed! I am wanted! I am named! Aren't they beautiful names? I am called Friend, and Keeper of Secrets, and Hope."

"Indeed," replied the sun, splashing a smile across the evening sky. "And what is the name I have given you?"

"You named me?" the tree asked, astonished at her lack of awareness. "Long before you were a seedling," the sun replied solemnly. "What do you call me?" she asked. Watching the sun slide behind the farthest hill, she stood motionless, waiting in the promise of the newly-painted sky.

"What do you call me?" she asked again in the stillness of the night. The small voice from within said,"You are called Faithful."

"You are called Faithful" blinked the evening star, as if to reassure her. 

Notes

Time is limited today, but I wanted to share this story continuing the theme of transitions and transformation.

A story from the mountains of Mexico exploring transformation

The Bone Woman

There was a young girl who married an old, old man who treated her badly.  He worked her hard, beat her, starved her, and cast her off when she gave him no children, leaving her in the desert with no food, or water, or shelter.  The young wife hid in the meagre shade of rocks by day when the sun was fierce.  By night she walked, crying for she could not find her way home.  The nights were cold.  Wolves prowled the hills and vultures flew above her head.  She was hungry, thirsty, weary and she walked till she could go no further.  Lying down, she wrapped herself in a long white skirt.  She said “Let the Bone Woman take me, for I am spent”, and she died.  Wild animals ate her flesh.  Her spirit watched over the white bones and knew neither sorrow nor fear.

The bones lay in that secret place until the moon was full once more.  Then the Bone Woman came and put them all in her woven sack.  The old woman took the bones up to her cave high in the mountaintop, then laid them out beside the fire.  She sat and smoked.  She smoked and thought.  She smoked and thought for a long, long time.  Then she began to sing.  “Flesh to bone!  Flesh to bone!  Flesh to bone!”.  The Bone Woman sang and before long the bones began to knit themselves together, covered in flesh.  Where the girl had once been red and rough, now she was soft and smooth.  Her skin was as gold as daylight and her hair as black as night.  The Bone Woman sang and sang.  She blew a puff of tobacco smoke.  The young woman’s eyes flew open and she sat up and looked around her.

The cave was empty.  The ashes were cold.  The old Bone Woman had disappeared.  All that was left were tobacco seeds, and she put them in her pocket.  She left the cave and started for home, following the rising sun.  She knew she would find her village walking this way and so she did.  She came upon her dwelling at last.  The place was dark and deserted now.  “That old man has died, that poor wife has died.  Come away from that place,” the people said, for they didn’t recognise the lovely young woman who came to them out of the west.  They gave her a name, a fine set of clothes, a new dwelling place, a goat, and a hen.  They taught her human speech, for she had forgotten all that she knew.  She planted the Bone Woman’s seeds and tended the new plants carefully.  In time she married and gave her young husband many gold-skinned daughters and black haired sons, and her children’s children’s children still grow tobacco in that village today.

Notes

I discovered this story within a newspaper article concerning rites of passage.  The author refers to it as a story from the mountains of northern Mexico.  I couldn’t find any other references to it - I call it The Bone Woman. 

The bone people from the old Spanish land-grant farms and the Pueblos are said to bring the dead back to life.  There are stories of an old woman whose sole purpose is that of collecting bones.  The woman is referred to by many names: La Huesera (Bone Woman), La Trapera (the Gatherer) and La Loba (Wolf Woman).  La Loba is said to have principally collected wolf bones, which she would take back to her cave and sing to create their flesh.  The wolf would then run out of the cave and in doing so transform into a laughing woman!

This story speaks to me of rites of passage and transformation – shedding flesh to get closer to our inner world.  Anthony Stevens (1990) writes that ‘[t]ransition from one quarter to the next is a time of potential crisis for everyone’.  He continues to say that each passage is a separation from previous circumstances and a rebirth to the new.  Primitive societies developed rituals to help individuals through these transitions and powerful symbolism of these ensured that archetypal needs for that particular stage in the individual’s development were met. 

I have mainly used this story in training settings, however I think it provides an opportunity to explore thresholds and those less predictable transitions.

Just Enough - A Traditional Russian Tale of Loss

Adapted by Elisa Pearmain (www.healingstory.org)

Once upon a time there lived a tailor's son named Joseph. He worked beside his father in his little shop cutting and stitching clothing for the wealthy folks in town. As he grew older Joseph began to dream of making something special for himself to wear. He pictured a warm coat made of colourful fabric. For many years he saved the few coins that he got from helping his father. Finally he had enough to buy the cloth that he wanted.

Joseph went to the market and bought the piece of cloth he had been dreaming of. It was a warm gray with bits of gold and silver and even a little crimson here and there. That night while his father was sleeping, he went to the shop. He laid out the pieces of fabric, and made a careful plan. He measured, then he cut and he stitched. After several nights of working, the young man had made himself a fine coat. When the tailor saw the work his son had done he felt proud. “You are a tailor now in your own right,” he said. “You have done fine work.” Joseph loved his coat. It was warm and colourful and everyone looked at it. He wore it everywhere, and the seasons past.

One afternoon when Joseph had been buying cloth in the market for his father, it began to rain. It was a cold rain. People were running. He saw a young woman, about his age. She was wearing only a thin shawl to keep her from the cold. She looked so sweet that Joseph took off his coat and offered to let her wear it home. She liked his face too, and within two years Joseph and Anna were married.

Joseph made his own tailor shop in the basement of their small apartment. He continued to wear his coat. He wore it, and he wore it and he wore it, until he had worn it out. What a sad day that was as he held his coat up, turning it round. He spoke to Anna in a sad voice, “This old coat, it has meant so much to me, it was my first dream come true, it made my father proud, it helped me to meet you, but now there is nothing left, nothing…”

But then he stopped, “Hee hee”, he laughed out loud, “There is something left, just enough…” and instead of throwing the coat in the rag bin, he took it to his workbench and he began to measure, and to cut and stitch. By morning, he had made a lovely jacket.

He loved that jacket. He wore it everywhere. Soon his wife gave birth to twin girls. When they were a year old he looked outside one night and saw the first snowflakes falling. “Come on girls,” he said, picking them up and tucking one into each side of his jacket and buttoning them in. “We will go taste the first snow flakes of winter.” The girls laughed in amazement as the big flakes melted on their noses and tongues. Joseph was so happy; he danced round and round holding his two darlings under his warm jacket.

Yes, he loved that jacket. He wore it for years. He wore it and wore it and wore it, until one day Anna remarked to him that it was all worn out. That was a sad day as he held the jacket up. “Old jacket, you've meant so much to me.  I'll never forget how I danced with the twins in the first snow. But there is nothing left, nothing….”

But again he stopped, “ Hee hee, what is this I see? There is just enough here, just enough.”  And instead of throwing the jacket into the rag bin, he went to his workbench and began to measure, and to cut, and to stitch. In the morning he had made a cap. It was a lovely cap with a small brim and a lining to keep his head warm in winter.

He loved that cap. He wore it everywhere. Time past and then his girls were thirteen years old. It had been a hard year. There was a famine in the land, the crops were poor, even the rich were not buying new clothes. The tailor's family had very little to eat, mostly potatoes, cabbage, or a carrot from Anna's garden, but never anything sweet.

One day they went into the forest at the edge of the town to collect firewood. All of a sudden Anna began shouting, “Berries, come see all of the berries!” The family stuffed their faces with berries, but there were still more. “If only we had something to carry them in, I would make a pie.” Anna said. What did they have to carry them in? Joseph's cap! The cap was filled to brimming with beautiful black berries. Their purple juice left a permanent stain, but the taste of a berry pie after so much hunger was worth it.

The years went by again and Joseph continued to wear his hat until one day, he looked at it, and he realized that it was all worn out. He held the cap, turning it round, “Old cap, you've meant so much to me, but now there really is nothing left, nothing, Hee hee,” he laughed. “There's enough here, just enough.”  Instead of throwing it away he went to his workbench and cut and stitched, until he had made a bow tie.

What a handsome bow tie it was. He wore it everywhere. He wore it to his daughter's weddings, and the births of his grandchildren. When his first grandson was old enough to speak he sat on Joseph's lap and played with his bow tie. “Grand Papa you have a butterfly on your shirt”, the boy cried. From then on every time he played with the grandchildren he would take off his bow tie and pretend that it was a butterfly.

One day when Joseph's hair had long been gray, he came home from the market and took off his coat. “Where is your bow tie?” Anna asked him, for he was never without it. He felt for it, but it was gone. “It must have fallen off.” As fast as his old legs would let him, he jumped up retraced his steps through the market place. He went back to every shop asking at each stall. Everyone knew of his bow tie, but no one had seen it. “I won't give up,” He told Anna. “I have to find it.” It was not until late in the night that Anna was finally able to guide old Joseph home, sad and weary. He got into bed without his supper.

The next day he refused to get up. “What's the use,” he said, “My bow tie, is gone. The cloth that I loved is gone, now there is nothing left. Nothing. I have been through so much with that cloth, I feel as if I have lost someone near and dear.”  Joseph did not hear it, but now it was his wife who laughed quietly. She put on her shawl and went to her daughter's homes. “Bring your children,” she said. They all came and plopped down on the bed. “Oh I can't play today,” said Joseph, “I am too sad, I have lost my bow tie, I have lost so many dear memories.”

“Tell us about the cloth dad,” said one of his daughters, “Your grandchildren do not know all of the stories.” “Oh, it is too sad.” He said. “Please Grand Papa,” The children begged. “Alright, I will” he said slowly. He told them about making the coat, and making his father proud. He told about putting the coat over the young woman in the market and meeting his wife. He told about dancing in the snow with his two young babies. He told about the cap full of berries. As he recalled all of these memories the tears fell slowly down his cheeks. He told about wearing the bowtie to his daughters' weddings and the births of his grandchildren. And his eldest grandchild chimed in, “You made your bow tie into a butterfly Grand Papa. Maybe it flew away.”

Old Joseph was quiet for a while. “Yes, it seems that my beloved bow tie did fly away, but you have helped me to see that the memories I have that are so dear to me did not. There were just enough memories left in this old noggin to make a story. And that story will never be lost if you will help me keep it.” Then Joseph the Tailor hugged his family close and got out of bed. His story was passed down through many generations.

Notes

I have told this story in a variety of settings as a way of exploring individual’s experience of loss and grief.

Using this story with people with dementia seemed to provide opportunities for individuals to reconnect with aspects of their lives that had been important to them, and have these personal stories witnessed by others.  In reconnecting with the object of our loss, perhaps we can redefine our relationship with it and allow it to live on.

I told this story in a session with an individual who has a learning difficulty and mental health problem.  The idea of death and loss at times seems to overwhelm him and his referral was based on exploring these issues.   As this story contains familiar and tangible objects, he was perhaps more able to relate to it.  He appeared to follow the process of the story, seeing the object reduce in size without losing its value and finally disappear.  He appeared to connect with Joseph’s despair and this in turn seemed to allow him to connect with and share emotions/pain around his own losses. 

I also took this story to a Dementia Care Home Managers’ Conference.  The number of delegates and the size of the space available meant that two sessions were run.  I repeated the same session with each group.  While there were many factors that will have influenced their responses, the dynamic and outcome of each group experience was significantly different.  The first group seemed to respond with lots of playful energy and humour – their shared stories appearing light and often funny.  The second group’s response seemed to connect with the pain of loss and the group supported those whose emotions seemed very raw.   For me this gave a snapshot of the many different ways we may respond to loss and grief and how ‘Just Enough’ can facilitate this journey.  

Beginnings: A Creation Myth from China

Once there were only gods and goddesses on the earth.  It was a beautiful place, but very lonely.  The goddess Nu Wa wanted people around her.  Although her tail was that of a dragon, her upper body was of female form.  She wanted to talk to people. She wanted to love people and share their thoughts.

One day she sat by the Great Yellow River.  The bed of the river was very muddy.  After a while she reached down and scooped up some mud in her hand.  She started to make something.  She made a head, a body, some arms and hands and fingers.  She stuck them all together. Then she made legs.  It took a long time and she worked carefully.  When she had finished the mud figure, she sat it down by the bank of the Great Yellow River. She then breathed life into it and gave it a push.  It tried out its new arms and legs.  Soon it was dancing.

‘Mother’ it shouted gleefully, ‘Look at me!’  Nu Wa was very happy.  She set about making more mud people.  She decided to find a quicker way of making them so she could fill the world with people.  She found a stick and stuck it in the mud.  She shook it very hard so the mud fell in small drops.  Each droplet was dried by the sun and became a person.  Some became men and some became women.  Nu Wa told them to go together and become families to fill the world.

My Thoughts about the story

I have often told this story to begin a group for people with learning difficulties. For me it conjures up a beginning of group formation – an exploration of “me” and “other”. There are images of loneliness and the potential of being part of something.  I also like the story’s earthiness, connecting us to the natural world.

I think it has the scope for movement with touch work, body awareness and sculpting.  I have also invited people to create their own beings from clay.

Some versions of this story say that some of the scattered mud didn’t form properly, so that could evoke the theme of difference and disability.

The story could also provide an opening for working with the themes of the mother and feminine energy.