“I like the troll carrying her head on her arm!”
“Me too: Butterball!”
“I like Elephant and Rabbit!”
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| "I like the troll carrying her head on her arm!" |
My storytelling colleague Maria and I are back for another evening
visit with children in transitional housing at Home Front, an amazing
non-profit near Trenton, NJ. The
children’s exclamations are sweet music, for both stories the children
mentioned are among those we told during our last visit, a challenging one that
sent us both home exhausted.
The children’s enthusiasm reminds me again that even when a
workshop or classroom session is marked by disruption and detours, something
valuable – sometimes something wonderful – is usually happening.
The difficulties that night had been due to circumstances
beyond anyone’s control. Our regular
room was unavailable, and the only space left was a small nursery lined with
shelves of toys. Twenty children and
several adults squeezed in at the appointed time. Within seconds, kids were
eagerly grabbing things from the shelves, and we were hastily stowing others as
far out of reach as possible.
But tonight we are back in a spacious room with only a
circle of chairs, a clearing that will be filled with story, with listening,
with questions and comments and with the hilarity of games that engage us all
in moving and imagining and laughing.
Tonight our theme is Clothing, with apparel either central
or at least peripheral to the action in each story we tell. We begin with a chanted tale from England in
which a lonely old woman sits spinning by her fire. Suddenly a mysterious visitor arrives, but it
arrives part by part, beginning with two big feet that set themselves down by
the fire. Undeterred throughout, the
woman sits and spins. Finally she beats it
out the door, then sits to spin once more, still alone, but at least not
devoured by this apparition.
Although this story
is a stretch for our theme, we’ve begun here confident that the rhythms, and
opportunities to clap and tap them out, will engage the group. Along with a sung refrain, they surely do
keep us all together. Most delightful
are the grownups in the room wholeheartedly joining in.
A few weeks later, I’m working at a small school where I’ve
been doing poetry residencies with 3rd, 4th, and 5th
graders for many years. Each day I have
time to offer storytelling - simply for
delight - to one group of first or
second graders. Today I’ve come to Mrs.
H’s second grade room. The children are
ready, each sitting in his or her assigned spots on the carpet. I say hello, ask if there are any children
new to the school this year and meet Ryder.
Then a boy in the back row pipes up, “You don’t look any
older than when I saw you before.” The
remark strikes me as odd, especially because last year was the first time we
met. A veteran teaching artist, I’m a
bit flattered as well; at home, the mirror assures me of the passage of
time. Soon I’m launching a troll tale
from Norway, the comment nearly forgotten.
Later I remember the moment, and its larger significance
occurs to me: It is not that I haven’t
aged, it’s that these stories do not
age. Encapsulating universal dilemmas, challenges and joys of human existence,
they are timeless. I am just lucky to
still have an opportunity to share them with yet another group of listeners.
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