Thinking about stories this morning. There are library books due back and piles of books needing a shelf and tea in my cup so I took a moment to read before sorting. No news there perhaps.
On Saturday, we went to the museum for the storytelling festival. The festival was popping up all over the city on the weekend, but the museum seemed the place to be – close to home, known and loved, and within cycling distance. We found a Russian folk art workshop where the kids and I learned to drawn square-bellied Russian horses with wonderfully curled tails, using fat red markers and thin black ones, and lots of spirals and stars. We didn’t notice when the Spouse wandered off. When we found him later, he was set up in the corner with a needle and a hoop, embroidering a leafy vine on a large blanket. I wish wish wish I had my camera. He might give his quilting mom a run for her money…
In another room, there was a wide patchwork quilt spread out on the floor. The fabrics were bright with stripes and polka dots, and shiny with sequins. Enticing. And when the kids sat down, the storytellers gathered. It was magic. And those wonderful moments when you sit back and watch your kids utterly caught by the web of something beautiful, and you know that you’re caught, too. One played a flute and we sang lullabies. One told the story of a magic porridge pot which Blue thought sounded delicious. One had us all echoing like geckos, hungry for mosquitoes in the night. And one told us a story of a misty hillside and a herd of listening deer who were fed and milked by the makers of dreams. That was the one that caught my girl, and she whispered it to me later to be sure she could remember it all. I hope she does.
When the stories were over and the quilt folded away, we spoke with one of the storytellers, thanking her for the magic. She thanked us, too, and said that our children were such good listeners that they must hear a lot of stories at home. I thought that was a wonderful observation. Of course, stories are good for imaginations, stretching our ways of seeing. And of course they help us to see the strength in goodness, justice and kindness. But I like the thought that, on top of all that, they help us to listen. That the practice of telling stories to our children helps them to be ready to hear more, ready to receive. A good case for storytelling in church. Storytelling as church, too, perhaps.
I’ve been reading Mudpies and Melodies lately. It’s a lovely blog by Kim and Shaunna – have you discovered it yet? They have a great Monday feature they call Read to Me Mondays. That’s where I learned about Mary Casanova’s One-Dog Canoe (that’s great title, isn’t it?) and Barbara Reid’s The Party (we also have her Noah’s Ark story, Two by Two – mesmerizingly detailed illustrations.) The aim of the feature to share as parents some of our favourite kids books. So, thinking of the richness of listening and the magic of a shared story, here’s my own contribution.
Harry and the Bucketful of Dinosaurs, by Ian Whybrow and Adrian Reynolds. I know. It’s franchised. It’s been spun out into a series of books and a television program. And your family already knows it. But bear with me here. This first book is wonderful.
The story is that Harry finds an old box in his grandmother’s attic and inside there are dinosaurs. He takes them down stairs, he unbends and fixes and washes them all, and claims them for his own. Then he goes to the library and learns their names. This is the important part, because it is a story about love. He loves them and calls them by name.
“You are my Scelidosaurus. You are my Stegosaurus. You are my Triceratops.”
And when they go missing, because kids’ toys go missing, he has to go looking for them. Harry and his Nan end up at the train station where they talk to the Lost Property Man
“The man said, ‘Dinosaurs? Yes, we have found some dinosaurs. But how do we know that they are your dinosaurs?’
Harry said, ‘I will close my eyes and call their names. Then you will know.’”
That’s a story I want my children listening to. Call it allegory if you like, but it’s gospel, isn’t it? We are known and called by name. We are loved with open hands. We are sought out. Unbent, fixed, and washed clean. And again and again called by name. That’s our story.
