Comments on: Meaning and the Middle of America http://storycatcher.net/wordpress/2009/03/03/meaning-and-the-middle-of-america/ Stories are the voice of humanity Sun, 01 Aug 2010 07:14:58 +0000 http://wordpress.org/?v=2.5.1 By: Brenda Peddigrew http://storycatcher.net/wordpress/2009/03/03/meaning-and-the-middle-of-america/#comment-306 Brenda Peddigrew Fri, 06 Mar 2009 16:00:19 +0000 http://storycatcher.net/wordpress/?p=41#comment-306 Your comments about middle America echo strongly here in Canada. Each day the news brings word of hundreds of jobs lost: U.S. Steel closing in Hamilton, ON; GM Motors closing its Canadian plants: we are indeed linked, our two countries. In February I facilitated for two weeks in New Orleans, with 58 women from 14 countries. In the group with me as we toured the Lower Ninth Ward, still almost untouched from Katrina's destruction three and a half years later, were women from India and Pakistan who had been close to the tsunami. They were speechless at the lack of - not even restoration - but basic cleanup this far after the event. They kept saying "but this is the abundant United States of America!" Their implications are clear. So - stories need telling all over - and telling and telling. Then telling again. I love your statement, Christina - "as the people learn so the leaders will learn..." thanks for naming ways to make meaning with story again and again. Your comments about middle America echo strongly here in Canada. Each day the news brings word of hundreds of jobs lost: U.S. Steel closing in Hamilton, ON; GM Motors closing its Canadian plants: we are indeed linked, our two countries.

In February I facilitated for two weeks in New Orleans, with 58 women from 14 countries. In the group with me as we toured the Lower Ninth Ward, still almost untouched from Katrina’s destruction three and a half years later, were women from India and Pakistan who had been close to the tsunami. They were speechless at the lack of - not even restoration - but basic cleanup this far after the event. They kept saying “but this is the abundant United States of America!” Their implications are clear.

So - stories need telling all over - and telling and telling. Then telling again. I love your statement, Christina - “as the people learn so the leaders will learn…” thanks for naming ways to make meaning with story again and again.

]]> By: Lisa Connors http://storycatcher.net/wordpress/2009/03/03/meaning-and-the-middle-of-america/#comment-303 Lisa Connors Thu, 05 Mar 2009 15:23:12 +0000 http://storycatcher.net/wordpress/?p=41#comment-303 There once was a girl, wearing a cloak of womanhood, who spent long days alone in a beautiful tower-top room. From her windows she could see out to the South, and to the East, the rooftops of the nearest few houses of the tiny village in which she lived. And better still, through the web of the treetops she could gaze at the sky, and the sun and moon of the universe of which she is. The child of a goddess and a mortal man, this girl struggled mightily with how to wield her immense immortal powers to help save the lives of those in harms way while the towers of her father's land fell. Cloak wrapped tightly around her she, a bit reluctantly, left the quiet embrace of her room and braved the chaos, grit and wreckage to arrive at a gathering. There, other children of gods and mortals broke bread and drank long draughts from the cup of their collective connections. They laughed with delight as they filled in the holes wrought by mere mortal memories for one another. They sighed with bliss, basking in the glow of their god-given powers, growing stronger and lighter to carry as they touched around the rim of their circle. One proclaimed, "This is the moment we have been waiting for, for a very long time." This day. These times. What will we make of it, together? Back in her tower retreat, the girl gathered herself. She was grateful for the eyes she was born with, that could see both the distance and depths of the heavens as well as the details of each life that passed before her. For the hands that both create words and images that evoke and sweep dust bunnies out of the corners. And for the company of co-journers who await her and her powers always just a few steps from the tower. There once was a girl, wearing a cloak of womanhood, who spent long days alone in a beautiful tower-top room. From her windows she could see out to the South, and to the East, the rooftops of the nearest few houses of the tiny village in which she lived. And better still, through the web of the treetops she could gaze at the sky, and the sun and moon of the universe of which she is. The child of a goddess and a mortal man, this girl struggled mightily with how to wield her immense immortal powers to help save the lives of those in harms way while the towers of her father’s land fell.

Cloak wrapped tightly around her she, a bit reluctantly, left the quiet embrace of her room and braved the chaos, grit and wreckage to arrive at a gathering. There, other children of gods and mortals broke bread and drank long draughts from the cup of their collective connections. They laughed with delight as they filled in the holes wrought by mere mortal memories for one another. They sighed with bliss, basking in the glow of their god-given powers, growing stronger and lighter to carry as they touched around the rim of their circle. One proclaimed, “This is the moment we have been waiting for, for a very long time.” This day. These times. What will we make of it, together?

Back in her tower retreat, the girl gathered herself. She was grateful for the eyes she was born with, that could see both the distance and depths of the heavens as well as the details of each life that passed before her. For the hands that both create words and images that evoke and sweep dust bunnies out of the corners. And for the company of co-journers who await her and her powers always just a few steps from the tower.

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