Photograph by Deborah Lee Soltesz

Stories for Dark Times

Last week I sat down to write you about this exciting online course I’m teaching, which starts starting next Tuesday through the School for Sacred Storytelling. I thought I would also share some stories from my recent travels, which have been extensive – Israel, Jordan, Rwanda, Alaska, Mexico, then back to Israel for a beautiful family celebration of my father-in-law’s 95th birthday, capped off by a brief trip to Istanbul, before returning home to Berkeley. It has been quite a journey, with plenty of stories to share.

Then, on Saturday, like you, I woke to horrific news from Israel and Gaza, a tragedy that continues to unfold. Places where I had spent such peaceful times just a few weeks ago – like the courtyard of the Ottoman era home in Jaffa where we stayed, filled each morning with the fragrance of frangipane and each evening with sounds of church bells, the muezzin’s calls to prayer, and someone practicing shofar – suddenly became places of terror, sorrow, and grief. While the relatives we visited all survived the immediate attack unharmed, it is terrible time for them all, and for all of us, as we follow the news. Four have been called to war so far, one leaving behind a two-month-old baby. It is truly heartbreaking.

This, I realized, was not the time to share tales from my travels. Stories need to breathe, and there is no air for these now, though I am sure there will come a time. As for the huge and horrific story unfolding by the hour, it is hard to know what to say. While an essential role of a storyteller is to make meaning what happens in our lives, that process takes reflection over time, and it is far too early to even begin to see meaning in this madness.

* * *

Even in dark times, however – especially in dark times – it is important to find and tell stories that connect us to ourselves and to one another. Thus, I welcome you to check out my upcoming class, Finding the Stories That Shape Your Journey Through Life.

It starts on Tuesday October 17th, from 11-1 Pacific Time, running for six weeks, with a small group lab session between each class. We’ll cover essential storytelling techniques, then take time the time, space, and opportunity to sift through their own lives, finding treasures in the form of stories, seeing how those tales form the throughline of our journeys. Whether you’re an experienced teller or new to the art form, you are welcome to join. The school offers a fascinating array of storytelling opportunities as well, including a certificate program, focusing on storytelling that delves into the mystical, magical, and meaningful – check out their website.

While you’re here, I also wanted to share something that is at once tiny and hopeful. Like many of you, I’ve been glued to the news lately, and it’s been horrible. But if stories have any magic power, it is to remind us of what is good and beautiful in this world. With that in mind, I invite you to check the link to this little video my wife shared with me, which lit up my day.

While it is always important to notice moments of light, it is essential to do so in dark times.

Blessings,

At a time in our world when so many stories seem to have unhappy endings, here’s a tale with a happy ending – and an invitation for you to be part of it.

It was back in 2015 that my wife, Taly, and I traveled to Rwanda for a project I was working on about stories of women who were learning to grow coffee, rebuilding their lives as entrepreneurs as they recovered from the 1994 genocide.

While in Rwanda we traveled to Volcanoes National Park to see the mountain gorillas. Spending time with these magnificent creatures was truly a gift.

We stayed at a nearby village where we got to know some of the children including a boy named Pacifique. We got to talking and when he heard I liked stories, he shared some traditional Rwandan tales with me. He also told me a little of his own story and that of his sister, Jeannette.

Like so many Rwandan stories it takes place in the shadow of the 1994 genocide.  Additional hostilities led to their parents hiding in the jungle, where Pacifique and Jeannette were born. Pacifique’s right hand was twisted backwards during birth and, because of the lack of medical care, it remained that way.

Unfortunately, their parents were killed when they were young, so they have been raised by their grandmother.

We were so inspired by the two of them that we decided to support their education. Pacifique has a deep love of the mountain gorillas and Rwanda’s other natural attractions, and we have helped him to complete college so he is now beginning work as a tour guide. Jeannette, who is high school, loves to cook and dreams of becoming a chef.

Most inspiring to us was that both are committed to using their education to help others in their community and country as it continues to build and heal from its tragic past.

So that’s coffee, gorillas, and orphans…. but what about CDs?

Looking for ways to continue this venture, we came up with CDs for a Cause. (Click the link to see Joel tell the story in a video)

The idea is simple: You donate whatever amount you choose and you 5 of Joel’s six CDs (one is going out of print soon..) with all proceeds supporting Jeannette’s education. The normal cost for five CDs would be $75, plus another $15 for tax and postage.

But you can donate what you want, and everything beyond expenses will go to support Jeannette’s education.  Use the button below and, once you donate, send an email to to let him know that you’ve donated and where you would like your CDs mailed – note they make great gifts!

Even if you don’t want CDs you can still donate to the cause using the button above. In that case, just send an email to saying that you’ve donated but don’t want CDs.

We’ll keep supporting Jeannette’s eduction with the proceeds from sale of CDs, and if additional money comes in we’ll support the education of other kids in Rwanda.

Thanks so much for helping give this story a happy ending!

When Does the Night End?

There’s something unusual about Hanukkah this year, and I’ve been trying to figure out exactly what it is.

Of course, there’s always something unusual about Chanukah – it’s a quirky holiday, starting with the spelling of the word. In Dreidels on the Brain, I managed to spell it 67 different ways!

Though we can’t agree on the spelling, the translation is unambiguous. It means rededication. It goes back to the story of the holiday, of the Maccabees triumphing over the armies of Antiochous, then returning to Jerusalem to rededicate the temple.

“Rededication” always seemed like a clunky name for a holiday – until this year. And maybe that’s what’s unusual: In 2018, the name of the choliday is suddenly relevant. Because the spirit of rededication is everywhere. Since November of 2016, we have been fighting an epic battle against greed, arrogance, hypocrisy, xenophobia and all-around-pig-headedness.

The very same forces against which the Maccabees battled, these have made for dark times in America. And yet, in the face of this darkness we have seen something remarkable. In the months leading up to our midterm elections, people have not given up. Far from it, they have redoubled their efforts – and rededicated themselves to saving our democracy.

We have a long way to go to reverse the damage and set America back on a path toward the future. Even so, this Kchaanukah, we have something to celebrate. Toward that end, here’s a story to remind us of our direction as we work to heal our country and this world. Time is sacred in Judaism, and from this, many questions arise.

One that our sages have pondered is exactly when one recites the first prayers of the morning. And so a group of students asked their rabbi this question: When does the night end?

“Is it when the morning star appears?” asked one.

“No,” said the rabbi. “That is not it.”

“Is it the first moment you can look at your tallis (prayer shawl) and distinguish the blue from the white?”

“No,” said the rabbi. “It is not that either.”

“Perhaps,” said a third, “it is when you can see the lines on the palm of your hand?”

“No,” said the rabbi, shaking his head. “I will tell you. When you look at your neighbor’s face and recognize it as your own. Then, at last, the long night is over – and the day has begun.”

A version of this story appears in The Beggar King and the Secret of Happiness.

2017 was a banner year for hatred in America.

The election at the end of 2016 seemed to lift a large rock from America’s psyche, causing haters that had largely been hiding beneath to slither out into daylight. Emboldened by leadership that signaled approval with winks, nods and dog-whistles, they took to the streets. Hate crimes spiked. Confederate flags flew. Nazis marched.

It was the worst of America on parade.

This is not a new story. Time and again throughout history, leaders have arisen, drunk in pursuit of their own wealth and power. They pick fights, call names, and pit people against one another, jettisoning truth and decency, harnessing instead intolerance and ignorance.

Thus they fan the flames of fear, and hatred fills the air.

That all this is happening in America is no longer a surprise. What is surprising, to me at least, is just how pervasive this hatred has become – especially among those of us who are not usually hateful. Like most storytellers, I am hard-wired for optimism. I make a point of seeing the best in people, often to a fault. Yet over this past year, I spent more time hating than any other year in my life. Not just hating. Detesting. Despising. Loathing. Abhorring. I ran out of words for it in my thesaurus.

These feelings grew daily as I read the news, as though watching a series of horrific automobile accidents from which I could not look away. And I’m pretty sure I am not the only one who felt that way.

But spending one’s days filled with hatred is no way to live. Not wanting more of the same for 2018, I have been sifting through stories that might reframe all this. The one I’ve found is a Sufi tale, from the mystical branch of Islam, which seems fitting, as Muslims are one of the groups that have been targeted by haters. As a Jew, I feel compelled to speak out against that hatred.

Sufis tell teaching tales, which tend to be brief and thought-provoking – you may know stories of Nasrudin, the trickster, who will be the subject of an upcoming blog.  This story, however, is a modern tale about a dervish. I believe it is by the wonderful writer Idries Shah, although I have not been able find it in any of his books. If anyone knows the source, I would appreciate you letting me know, and I’ll amend this post. It’s called “The Patient Dervish.”

The Patient Dervish

There was once a dervish who sat at the side of a road, meditating.

So deeply engrossed was he that he did not see a young prince riding by, seated upon a throne high atop an elephant, surrounded by his royal retinue. Seeking to have some fun, the prince pointed to the dervish. He then picked up a can and hurled it, hitting him squarely in the back.

The prince and his entourage laughed and continued onward. But the dervish jumped up and called out to him.

“Your highness!” he said. “May you find true fulfillment and genuine happiness!”

A bystander approached the dervish.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the dervish.

“I saw the whole thing!” said the man. “He threw a can at you for no reason! And yet you blessed him, wishing upon him true fulfillment and genuine happiness! Was this meant in irony, because his soul is so corrupt?”

“No,” said the dervish. “It was not.”

“Then perhaps,” said the man, “it was because you knew he could never have these things, and thus your blessing to him was really a curse?”

“No,” said the dervish. “It was not that either.”

“Then why?” asked the man. “I do not understand.”

“Gentle student,” said the dervish. “Perhaps it has not occurred to you, but if someone had true fulfillment and genuine happiness, they would have no need to throw cans at dervishes sitting on the side of the road.”

In 2018, then, let us resolve not to descend into hatred. Nor can we simply chase haters back under their rock. Perhaps, instead, we can find compassion and create solutions for their plight, even as we take their weapons away. And, difficult though it may be, let us extend this compassion to cold-hearted princes riding atop elephants, even as we work together to remove them from their thrones.

If you enjoyed this story, consider passing it on to a friend.   You might also like Joel’s other blog posts, including “Finding Light in the Darkness.”

Many years ago I was invited to tell stories at a benefit for Amnesty International. It’s an organization I’ve long admired for their tireless work on behalf of those who might otherwise be forgotten. In preparing for the show I came across a snippet of a story that has always stuck with me. I’d like to share it with you.

It was toward the end of World War II that a resistance fighter sat alone in a dark prison cell. After being captured he had been tortured, starved, abandoned, and was waiting to die.

One night the door to his cell opened. Someone shouted words of abuse at him, then hurled something into the darkness and closed the door. Feeling around on the dirt floor, he found a loaf of bread. Ravenous, he tore it open and discovered something – a matchbox. Inside were  several matches and a scrap of paper. Lighting a match, he read a single word on the paper: Corragio!

Courage.

He never did find out who wrote the message.   But he lived through the war, and credited that box of matches – and that piece of paper – for giving him the strength, hope, and courage to survive.

Whether you celebrate Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Christmas or the Winter Solstice, this is the season to peer into the darkness in search of light. This year, I believe, we have an abundance of darkness, taking the form of intolerance, arrogance and hatred.

Here’s to the brave women who are telling their stories, speaking truth to power – and to the men who are joining them.  May their actions inspire all of us to shine light into the darkness and heal our world.

Corragio!

You’d be hard pressed to turn over a stone in Ireland without unearthing a story beneath it.    Such is the beauty of a country that seems built for stories, that bubble up from the land itself and work their way into every aspect of the culture, from the language to the music to the humor, but mostly to the people.

Ah, but keeping track of those stories is another matter altogether.   Thus I was quite intrigued when I visited University College Cork and gave a guest lecture in their folklore department.  As you might imagine, it’s a robust department, and keeping track of tales is part of what they do.

Toward that end, they’ve created a an online “memory map” with stories collected from the city of Cork, which is particularly rich in folktales.  The great thing about it is that you get to travel around the city and hear older folks share tales, and their voices are as great as the stories.  Have a listen!

http://storiesofplace.org/neatline/show/stories-of-place#records

And if you’d like to take that tour through music – and smell! – have a listen to John Spillane’s song Prince’s Street/Follow Your Nose.  I got to share the stage with John at the 2016 Cape Clear International Storytelling Festival and fell in love with his songs of Cork.  This one is particularly powerful, as it weaves in a a journey by nose through Cork recited by playwright and novelist Conal Creedon, which is simply magical.

By the way, on this trip I learned that Cork was once the producer of 40% of Europe’s butter.  Those at the top of the butter supply chain grew wealthy and lived like Princes – hence the name of the street, Prince’s Street.

Like I say, in Ireland, there’s a story to everything.

You never can tell where a story will lead.

Back in 1984, during my first storytelling tour abroad,  I remember arriving at the Zurich train station and making my way out to the nearby town of Kilchberg, where I’d been booked to tell stories at The American International School of Zurich. Having never been in Switzerland before, what struck me was that it looked exactly how I thought it would look, with it’s quaint houses and sweet villages, old men with suspenders riding bicycles down the streets, and koo koo clocks in the shop  windows. And what first struck me about Kilchberg was the smell; it’s the home of Lindt chocolate, whose factory is down by the lake, and the smell wafts upwards to the school.

At the school I met an English teacher by the name of Chuck Kruger, an American expatriate who had left the United States years before, not wanting to live in Nixon’s America. When I told him I was a storyteller he looked baffled.

“You mean you’re a writer?”

“No,” I explained.  “I travel around and tell stories.  Like in the old days.”

“Well I’ll be,” he said.  “I’ve heard of traveling storytellers, but never actually met one.”

After the school assembly, Chuck invited me to visit all his English classes and tell stories.   Over the years I became a regular visitor to the school, and always stayed with Chuck, his lovely wife Nell, and their family in nearby Freienbach, where we would sit telling stories until late into the night.  Chuck loved stories as much as anyone I’ve ever met.

“You know what I’m going to do, Joel?” he asked on one visit.  “Some day I’m going to start a storytelling festival, to bring storytellers from all over the world together to share stories. And you’ll be the first I invite.”

“Sounds great,” I said. “Here?”

“No, no,” he laughed. “Are you kidding? Some place warm.”

“You mean the weather?”

“No, I don’t care about weather – I mean the people.  Nell and I are thinking of Ireland.”

On my next visit he announced that he and Nell had traveled to Cork, Ireland, where they’d met a real estate agent who’d said he had something special to show them. They traveled to the southernmost port of Baltimore, and took a boat to an island called Cape Clear, the southernmost island in Ireland.  On the boat down, the estate agent explained that the southernmost 60 acres of the island – including two houses – were for sale. Even before seeing the land, he was smitten.

“I have two loves in my life,” says Chuck.  “One is my wife Nell, who I’ve been married to for over 50 years.  The other is Cape Clear.”

It was in 1992 that they moved, and in 1994 that they started the first Cape Clear International Storytelling Festival.

True to his word, Chuck and Nell invited me to share stories, and what a festival it was, and island in time.   In 2016 my wife, Taly, and I finally had the chance to return to this Island of Stories, and again, to lead a workshop in October of 2017.  This last visit was bittersweet, however, as health concerns have forced Chuck and Nell  to leave the Island and return to the United States, now living in a Quaker Community in Pennsylvania.  You can read all about Chuck and Nell and the festival in this article in the Irish Examiner.  Chuck has written extensively about the island, with award winning books of essays and poems.  While you can pick them up in the shop on the Island, it may be easier to find your way to them here.

While Chuck and Nell are doing well in Pennsylvania, the island misses them dearly.  Nell explained that when they came to the island and fell in love with it, they’d thought they had found the place where they would some day die. “In fact,” she said, “what we’d found was a place to live.”

And it was a great life they lived there, and a great gift they gave – one of the truly beloved storytelling festivals in Ireland, a destination for storytellers and story listeners from around the world.

As they say in Ireland, Chuck and Nell, Go Raibh Míle Maith Agat!

And, for the rest of us, we raise a pint of Murphy’s to you both – Slainte!