A STORYTELLER MINING FOR GOLD

August is a good time to interact with your grandchildren before they begin activities for the coming school year. Earlier this month I shared a meal with my grandson and wrote about it. This past week I visited with my granddaughter who was preparing to go off to college for her first adventure alone in the greater world.

When my granddaughter was born eighteen years ago, I decided to keep a journal describing our relationship–we had a regular play day every week. The journal adventure lasted for eight years. Recently I found it among my own journals that go back more than fifty years. The question occurred to me: Should I give the work to her now or save it until she is older? I decided now was the right time. I wanted her to consider the idea of starting her own journal record.

While reading the entries about our relationship fourteen years ago–when my granddaughter was four years old–I discovered one sentence that suggested the beginning of a new story.

Journal entry, October 10, 2003
Pap, are you going to Heaven to be with Reggie? (I am Pap and Reggie was a family dog who had died)

This entry sparked my imagination and I started to write……

Granddaughter: “Pap, when you die, will you be with Reggie in Heaven?”
“I don’t know”, I responded. “Where’s Heaven?”
She paused a moment; then pointed up and said, “Up in the sky with God.”
I pondered another moment and then responded, “What’s it like up in the sky?”
“You’re high above the clouds”, she responded.
“Oh”, I said, “that sounds cool. I could look over the edge of a cloud and see where you live.”
She laughed and said, “Oh Pap, you’re kidding me.”
Seeing the beginning of a good story, I continued to play: “Yes, and maybe you could come to visit with me, Reggie and God! You could ride on Pegasus up to the clouds!”
“Who is Pegasus?”, she asked.
“You don’t know Pegasus”, I responded.” Good, then I will tell you a story of the winged horse.”

Long ago in the ancient land of Greece there lived a beautiful girl of ten years. Her hair was as black as the midnight sky and her eyes were as blue as a cloudless summer sky. Her name was Sofia, which meant in ancient Greece, one of great wisdom and a lover of story. This name was given to her by her grandmother, not by the parents who brought her into the world. You see the day she was born, a great earthquake struck the village where her family lived. Her father, mother and only sister were all killed. Miraculously the girl was found alive in the rubble of the family home and she was given to the grandmother to be raised to adulthood.

The girl’s name was well chosen. From an early age she showed a preference for listening to stories told by the old people who gathered near the spring called Hippocrene. One cool winter’s night Sofia sat near the spring as the sky shifted through shades of red growing progressively darker. An old man worked over a gathering of twigs to build a fire and extend the fading light on the hillside of Mt. Helicon. Then an old woman stood up to catch the light from the fire and propose a question:
“Do you know the story of Pegasus, the flying horse?”
“Yes, yes, yes” cried several voices. One called out, “Tell the story of the hero who rides the beast!”
Sofia watched the old storyteller position herself to advantage in the firelight. Bending forward, she extended her hand from a multi-colored shawl wrapped around her shoulders and began a tale of a terrifying monster that was mounted by the hero, Bellerophon.
“It was like harnessing a summer thunderstorm that sweeps down from Mt Helicon”, said the old woman. “Only the bravest dare try such a feat.”
And when the old storyteller came to the description of Bellerophon’s attempt to ride Pegasus up to Mt Olympus, all eyes looked up to the heavens. But they all knew the tragic end to the story, how Zeus stings the mighty horse and the hero falls back to earth and suffers a crippling injury.
When the storyteller paused, an old man called out, “It was the fault of the horse, Pegasus. He feared the great god, Zeus.” The other listeners shook their heads in agreement. And one called out, “And the hero suffered because of the cowardly beast.”
Sofia, who was seated on a rock outside the ring of firelight, called out to the story listeners. “Why do you blame the horse for the hero’s misfortune? Blame the hero for his arrogance.”
One of the listeners turned to Sofia and called out, “Quiet girl, you ruin the story.”
“But it is true,” she responded.
Now all heads turned from the fire to the child crouched like a wild creature on the rock outside the ring of light. The storyteller called to Sofia and said, “My child the old love stories of mercy and forgiveness, while the young love stories of truth and justice. If you wish one day be a teller of tales, know your audience.”

A full moon rising over the ridge of Mt Helicon now reminded the teller of stories that the evening was spent and it was time to rest. She found a satisfactory ending to the gathering as the fire burned down to a bed of red coals. One by one the listeners got up and faded into the dark shadows that now surrounded the fire. When only Sofia remained, the old storyteller went to her and sat down on the rock beside her. For some time, they both looked at the last embers of the fire; but neither spoke a word.
Finally Sofia looked to the old woman and asked a question: “Are your stories true? Is there a real horse with wings that allow it to fly through the air?”
The woman looked up to the night sky, which now displayed a full moon over the spring of Hippocrene. She reached out and touched Sofia’s arm and said: “The story tells us that it is only on nights when the moon is full that Pegasus comes down to earth. He comes to our spring of Hippocrene to drink from the sacred waters. Now the old woman stood up, loosened the multi-colored shawl from her shoulders and wrapped it around the young girl, then she silently disappeared in the dark shadows.

Sofia stood up and looked after the old woman, but did not follow her back to the village. Instead she went to the spring and stood by the water’s edge. She looked into the dark water and saw there the reflection of a full moon overhead. For a long time, she stared into the water and allowed her imagination freedom to create. She imagined Pegasus coming down from Mt Helicon to drink at the spring of Hippocrene.

And so it was true. By the light of the full moon, the mythical horse came down to touch the world of humans. By the reflection in the spring’s dark waters Sofia followed the path as Pegasus came near, hovering in the air above the water. She was amazed by the creature. It was much smaller than the beast described by the storyteller. Its diaphanous wings were better suited for carrying a small child than a grown man.

Sofia wondered about the truth of her Pegasus. Was this a dream? Then she heard the sound of hooves striking hard rock as Pegasus landed; followed by the slurping of water as the winged horse drank the waters of the sacred spring, and finally the exhaling of air as an expression of joy and refreshment. Momentarily Sofia considered an attempt to leap on to the back of Pegasus, to ride the wild horse into the heavens like the hero, Bellerophon. Her thought complete she reflected, ‘maybe some time, maybe some night when I am older and wiser.’ With that thought, Sofia pulled the multi-colored shawl tight around her shoulders and dropped down to the ground by the spring to dream of riding the wild and wonderful horse.

It was there her grandmother found her sleeping, the shawl still around her shoulders. “My child, here I find you. Half the night I have been looking for you. Why are you sleeping here by the spring?”
“Grandmother”, said Sofia, “I wanted to see the flying horse, Pegasus. The old storyteller said the creature comes to the spring on nights when the moon is full. And it is true. Grandmother I saw the winged horse, but she is not as the storyteller tells. Pegasus is smaller, more delicate and gentle as a spring rain, not at all like a summer thunderstorm.”
Grandmother took Sofia into her arms and squeezed her tight to her breast: “My child the night is cold. Come, a warm bed awaits us.”
“But Grandmother, do you believe it is true? Do you believe that I saw Pegasus, the flying horse?”
“Sofia”, said the grandmother, “long, long ago, when I was a child like you, I heard the story of Pegasus. Like you I came to the spring when the moon was full. I too wanted to catch a glimpse of the magical creature, but…..”the woman’s words fell silent.
“And?”, asked Sofia gently of her old grandmother.
“And I saw nothing of the beautiful winged horse.” Now the old woman looked into Sofia’s eyes and said, “But that does not mean that I do not believe the truth of your story. We can honor truth that we do not share.”
Sofia hugged her grandmother and said, “Let’s go home to our warm bed.”

…..”So there you have a story of Pegasus the flying horse. Did you enjoy it?”, I asked my granddaughter.
“Pretty good story, Pap, but I wonder if Sofia ever did ride Pegasus.”
“Well, I guess we could make up a story about her riding the winged horse”, I said.
“But then it wouldn’t be true”, she responded with assurance.
I paused a moment. “I think it would be as true as your story of Reggie being in heaven with God.”
“But that is true”, she assured me. “My mom said it is true.”
“Well”, I said, “I agree with the grandmother in the story. I honor the truth of others even when it is not my truth. So if you want to think that I will someday be up in heaven with God and Reggie that is fine with me.”
“OK Pap,but I want you to stay with me as long as you can.

……..So ended the imagined conversation with my four year old granddaughter and the story I created from it.

As a storyteller I liked to think that every conversation holds the potential for discovering a new story. I am like a miner in the California Gold Rush of 1848–the next shovel of dirt will expose a treasure. So I continue to talk and to engage with everyone who crosses my path in life!

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