The Glow of Botanica Candles

¡Hola! Everybody...
I think I have a solid chance for an “affordable” studio apartment very close to my job. I’ll know for sure in a week or so if it’s a go...

Occasionally I repost the following. It reminds me of the good things about my childhood...

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-=[ Blackout Specials ]=-

Two or three things I know for sure, and one of them is that to go on living I have to tell stories, that stories are the one sure way I know to touch the heart and change the world.

-- Dorothy Allison

Come, gather closely, I am going to tell you a story – my story. Actually, it is only part of my story and this is no ordinary story but a story about story. So gather yourself, breathe softly… come listen, read…lean into this space, and be ready to receive the gift of story… an invitation…

It’s nighttime and the only glow in the room comes from the glass-encased candles bought from the corner “Botanica” -- storefront shops found in Puerto Rican neighborhoods that sell herbs and “magic.” Variously colored candle wax poured into long glass receptacles with images of the saints and the Virgin Mary inscribed on the glass and promising anything from good luck to financial success. Though it is dark and cold, we, my two sisters and I, sit in rapt attention before the figure of my father, who is in the process of telling us a story. Our mother is somewhere in the darkness preparing the “Blackout Specials” we have come to love so much. However, the real star tonight is the story. For it is the story we crave tonight. It is story time in the Rosario household and this is sacred space.

How many of us have experienced the relief and serenity after expressing our pain and sharing the burden of a sorrow with another? Life is too difficult, the day is too long, to carry our grief alone or keep our joys to ourselves. How many of us have spent long periods in solitary loneliness? Then, like anyone who has been alone and finally gets a chance to speak, we have so much to say to one another.

I come from a long line of storytellers (no smart remarks! LOL) and I believe firmly in the power of the story to change, to educate, to bring us to wholeness. I believe this because it is in the telling of the story that we find healing. It is the basic unit of human communication, this telling of stories. Since the dawn of time, we have gathered together to tell each other stories -- to share experiences, to ward off the darkness.

Tonight, my father is really into it and he’s telling us the story of “how the solar system was named.” He starts with Mercury, mentioning that it’s my planet, me being a Gemini, and tells the story of Mercury. He moves on to Venus and tells that story, and so on. They are his stories to be sure: part science, part classical Greek myth, sprinkled with Puerto Rican folklore, but it’s a great story and we laugh and giggle, and hold our breaths in anticipation.

There’s a television in the room, but it is turned off and no one cares, tonight is a “Blackout Special” called by our parents. In fact there are no lights on, all electricity has ceased to exist for us as we sit around the kitchen table, drinking the “Blackout Specials” (scoops of vanilla ice cream floating in orange soda). Tonight everything has been set aside. Beyond our the ramshackle tenement building we live in, modern life can be heard to be happening, but here at our humble kitchen table, we are into the story.

When we share our pain, fear, or the unmanageable aspects of our lives, we open up to the possibility of being more honest with ourselves. However, some people will tell only parts of their stories because they are looking only for validation. This is not the kind of sharing I am talking about. That kind of sharing is evident in the raunchy talk shows where fragmented people, suffering from lack of boundaries, go up in front of a national audience and humiliate themselves.

And we watch and pass judgment…

No, the kind of sharing I am speaking to happens within a truly respectful and spiritual meeting and includes our questions and the incomplete thoughts in our stories as well as the thoughts that are fully formed. The kind of sharing I am talking about is the kind when you tell on yourself for the purpose of creating positive change, not to stay stuck in pain.

“Blackout Specials” was where I first learned the importance of the story. It became a family tradition, one we passed down to our own children and hope will pass it on to theirs. My father was a consummate storyteller. He could gather all the children on our Lower East Side block on a mid-summer's day and have us sit fully engaged for what seemed like hours. As children, we loved those stories because as children we know intuitively that stories are who we are. It is the basic unit of our only human instinct: language. And as developing persons, we yearn story in the same way we yearn sustenance.

I remember when I first went back to school, in my late thirties, I was afraid of many things. Mostly I was afraid of making a fool of myself, and I felt out of place and awkward because I was much older than the other students. Because of this, I would not go to certain places at the university, one of them being the cafeteria. One day, as part of psych class assignment, I shared about this fear.

It so happens that one girl, who was overweight, was moved to share about her same fear of going to the cafeteria because she was afraid that people would look at her and judge her for being overweight. And as she shared, she began to cry. Then, one after another, other students began to share about their own fears. Others offered support and before we knew it, we became this story circle of sacred sharing. Eventually we all came to the same conclusions: that we were not alone in our fears (that it wasn't something that was “wrong” with us), and that if we looked closely at our fears, they were sometimes a wee bit funny and irrational at some level.

We all went to the cafeteria together and laughed about it.

That’s the kind of sharing I am talking about. Of course, some things need to be kept more private and shared only with those we trust deeply. Nevertheless, sharing is important because it is in the telling and the unburdening that we find true healing.

Eventually, we would call our own “Blackout Specials.” The only rules were that everyone had to tell a story and everyone had to respect each other’s story. When the speaker of the story had the floor, no one could interrupt. The story could be anything: a joke, a story of a found object, an event, whatever. The important part was that we had a way to share; that we could sit and listen to each other, in sacred space -- telling our stories to one another. The Blackout Specials make up some of the most memorable times of my youth. It is where I was allowed to sit in awe and wonder and learned that I too had a story. That my story was as important anyone else's story and that I had to tell that story somehow.

Since the dawn of time when our ancestors huddled around the fire to ward off the cold and darkness, we have told stories. Unfortunately, today the ones telling the stories -- the TV news and talk shows, Reality TV, the movies -- don't really give a fuck about respect or wholeness. We need to take back our stories and tell them to each other and pass them on to our children so that we will not lose this precious gift. As we talk, we unburden ourselves and learn from each other about closeness and vulnerability and what it means to be a human being.

Many years later, I’m walking down the street with my own son who was nine-years-old at the time. He too loved stories and when I would pick him up from school, we had a game we played. The game was that we had to tell the story of something new we learned that day. My son would run out of school and I will always remember the anticipation in his eyes as he would ask, “Well, Pops! What did you learn to day?!!” and I would share my story and he would share his.

In the year my father passed away, we requested that he lead a Blackout Special on Christmas Eve. My father was very sick at the time, but there we were, all the brothers and sisters with all his grandchildren, now all veterans of Blackout Specials themselves. We all took out turns, telling our stories. My son told the story of a scarf he and I found -- he created a history for that scarf. We each sat and listened in the warm glow of Botanica candles.

Then came my father, the legendary storyteller -- the creator of the Blackout Special himself -- in all his glory, in the rarest of forms telling the greatest story ever. It’s is a moment we all will never forget.

And the “story of the story”? It wasn’t until many years later, when we became old enough to understand, that we realized how “Blackout Specials” came to be. You see, it was a matter of necessity. We were poor and sometimes my parents had to decide which bill to pay and sometimes the electric bill would go unpaid so that they could buy groceries. So my parents, in order to lessen our sadness, came up with the idea of the “Blackout Special.” On top of everything else, this taught us the most valuable lesson of lighting the candle instead of cursing the darkness. My parents put the power of the story in my heart.

May you be able to tell your story always…

* * *

And so it is with us here in the blogosphere: we tell our stories. Our stories of love and heartbreak, of our wishes and hopes. We tell of our gardens, of our victories and defeats, and in that way, we connect somehow in this world going so quickly into madness. We have no time to tell our stories anymore so we come here and cast our lines and we weave a web of stories.

And we listen, read, and tell…

Love,

Eddie

Sunday Sermon [Conflict]

¡Hola! Everybody...
In the beginning, when I first began to awaken, I had a teacher who called himself Mr. Colorado, but his real name (he once confided) was Big Bear. He was well named because he was a huge bear of a man. But even bigger, was his heart. I owe my life to him. During his last incarnation, he passed on this teaching to me...

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-=[ The Battle ]=-

It had reached the point where they were so angry, they decided to do battle. So terrible was their anger that they would not wait, but declared that the fight be fought now, right this moment, on the very spot of the disagreement.

Fox blamed Badger, Badger, in turn, was all for placing the blame on Cougar.

Jackrabbit hopped in anticipation, calling for Mole and for Mouse, and for Deer and Bear to fetch their arrows and their heaviest war clubs.

By the time Coyote arrived, the sides had already been chosen, the lines drawn, and the smell of hate and impending bloodshed hung heavy in the air.

Coyote listened to all the threats and the promised bloodshed. He walked out and stood between the enemies, solemnly declaring in a very soft voice:

“No, I cannot allow this great fight to happen just yet. There has been no battle preparation dance. There has been no pipe of cleansing. No, the Creation does not wish this battle to take place.”

Later, some said it was Bear, but oddly, no one remembers just who it was; and of course, Bear denied the accusation, but someone ran from one of the lines and struck Coyote dead.

And Coyote fell and lay there, very dead. And the cry for battle resumed, the menacing cries for blood again filling the air,

when, from the opposite end of the battle lines, Coyote again stepped out, dancing and wielding a huge club.

He ran to his dead self and struck a tremendous blow upon the body, then turned to face the creatures, shouting: “Who killed this person? Who struck him down before I did?!! Was that person purified? Did he sweat himself and think of the children? Did he dance to assure that the life cycle continue?”

Then someone from the back of one of the lines shouted “Enough with talking!” and ran to Coyote and struck him dead.

And again, later, no one remembered who or what struck the blow hat killed Coyote for the second time.

Then from the left side of center, Coyote ran out swinging a great club, struck at his fallen selves until all that remained were two bloody masses of fur and blood and broken bones, and twisted sinew.

Then Coyote danced the dance of victory over his own fallen selves, pledging their death to his own great anger. And Oh! How he danced!

“Now then,” said Porcupine, “how is it that this fool dances the victory dance, when it was not himself who killed himselves? Is it within reason for him to claim this dubious victory?”

Then Coyote demanded of all, “If I did not kill these two, then who killed them? Let him who killed them step forward and claim these deaths, so that I may kill him too in revenge!”

When no one stepped forward, Coyote declared, pointing to his dead selves, “Then obviously, these kills are mine!”

“It seems to me,” began Elk, who was immediately interrupted by Skunk, who similarly began, “It’s quite obvious to me that... ” “Now hold on a minute,” interjected Badger. And Coyote turned on Badger, shouting, “Ha! Don’t you realize you can’t hold on to a moment, let alone a minute?!!”

And in that way, they all argued, all the animal creatures, about the finer points of who might or might not claim a kill.

And the women-folk of these great warriors, at the urging of Coyote, prepared a great feast, so that these mighty warrior-scholars might continue their debate on full stomachs.

And soon, the anger gradually subsided and was set aside for the more important battle of words leading to reason.

And by this time, everyone now having forgotten about Coyote,

he,

Coyote, took his fallen selves by their tails and dragged them away uphill.

Then he took a good hot sweat bath and then sang a song of renewal known only to himself, and soon his other selves revived. “Now,” said one of them, “that’s what I call making your point the hard way. You know, it really hurt when you killed me.”

“Yes,” said the other self, standing up to stretch out the kinks in his muscles, “the next time this happens, don’t forget it will be your turn to be killed.”

“Hey, maybe this won’t ever happen again, huh?”

“Oh, it will happen again,” Coyote said, “Yes, it always seems to happen again.”

Then he merged into himselves and walked away, far away...

* * *

Love,

Eddie

A Nuyorican Christmas Story

¡Happy Holidays Everybody!
The following is a tradition with me, so you may have read it already. I post it in the humble hope that it will bring a smile to your lips and remind you of the important things in life -- the things that really matter.

Sometimes things happen in your life that affects forever the very way you perceive reality. Some events are negative, acting as baggage for all your later interactions. Others are life-changing epiphanies that work to make life more joyful. Which ones do you cling to?

Let me tell you a story...

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The Rosarios ca late 60s/ early 70s

-=[ The Empty Boxes ]=-

In the depths of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.

-- Albert Camus

It was a year I would never forget. I was about 16, in the process of reading every “great book” ever written, helping put out an underground newspaper, and young and full of life. My sisters (to my delight) had many beautiful friends and our home was the center of activities for our vast network of friends and family. It was a time of change and turmoil: the Vietnam War still raged and it seemed as if all the institutions we took for granted -- marriage and gender roles, the meaning of freedom -- were being questioned and reformulated. The strategies used by African-Americans and Latino/as in the struggle for Human Rights were being used by a wide range of groups: women were burning their bras and Gays were marching for their rights. In short, it was a time of change and the times, as the song went, were a’changin’.

This particular year, however, was a difficult one for my family: our stepfather was arrested because of a scuffle with police and sentenced to a year in jail. He was our breadwinner and that meant that our main source of income was gone. Compounding our financial difficulties was our mother’s pregnancy, she would eventually give birth to our youngest brother, Vincent, the following June.

As the oldest child, I had always felt a deep sense to protect my mother and siblings. I had to grow up pretty quick because it was expected of me to be more than a big brother; I had to be a power of example for those younger than I. Somehow, I felt I should be doing something to contribute and it was frustrating. What disturbed me the most, however, was when I caught my mother crying. Though I always resented having to be the adult in my interactions with her, my mother was nevertheless a strong woman who managed to make her place in a world that was both hostile and violent towards her. If she was despairing that meant things were really screwed up.

My sisters and I helped by working at a local supermarket after school. I worked delivering groceries and my sisters staffed the cash registers. Of course, me being the radical in the house, I was promptly fired for calling the owner an Uncle Tom and an oppressor of his own people. Sometimes we would get our groceries because my sisters would not charge up the register when my mother shopped. Things got worse at the onset of the holidays. We called a family meeting and we all agreed that, with the exception of our youngest brother, Edgar (who was eight), we would forego gifts for Christmas. My mother didn’t take this too well and it pushed her to her dark side, often succumbing to bouts of sadness interspersed with rage. What Nuyoricans called ataques de nervios (nervous attacks).

We made do just as many other poor families did at that time: welfare augmented by small-scale attempts at entrepreneurship. Sometimes my mother would buy a bottle of rum, or some other item, and raffle it off at the Bingo parlor: if everyone paid in a dollar, she would be able to earn a profit and still offer a decent prize. We also had an extended family and they would help as best they could, though they too were often financially extended and living from paycheck to paycheck.

In short, it was getting to be a really sad holiday season. The house became less full, as our situation served as a basis for shame and as we gradually dropped off our activities with our friends the ensuing quiet was disturbing. Then one day, the Friday after Thanksgiving, we took out the old artificial tree. We all share a warped sense of humor and my sisters and I started joking about how lonely the tree would look without any gifts. Soon we were cracking each other up, trying to outdo each other by coming up with the most twisted reason why we should, or shouldn’t, put up the Christmas tree.

In the end, we decided to put it up and, while playing traditional Puerto Rican Christmas songs, we slowly got into the spirit of things. Soon enough, the house rang out with laughter and song and friends were called up to come and help. I don’t know if my perception is clouded by bias or the passage of time, but I swear that that old tree never looked so beautiful. We really put our creative energies into fixing up the house too: we gift wrapped doors, put up mistletoes, strung lights on the windows -- we created the best display on that Brooklyn block.

Still, the tree did look “lonely” or bare, without gifts. So someone, one of my sisters I think, came up with the idea of collecting empty boxes and wrapping them up as gifts. Of course, as is usual in the Rosario household, we took it to an extreme. Our rather large tree was soon dwarfed by a mountain of elegantly wrapped “gifts.” People would visit and comment on how “beautiful” the tree was and we would secretly laugh because we knew they were only saying that in part because of the many “gifts.” It was our own little private joke.

I have to admit that while our circumstances were extremely difficult that year, I can’t remember a more joyful holiday season. Soon our apartment sang once again with the sound of young people engaged in the daily activities of life. We came to believe that the tree radiated joy, that it attracted people, and it was true that many people would come and visit. I guess maybe everyone else was having a hard time and the joy in our house was sort of like a warm fire to ward off the chill of winter in America. The tree became almost like another family member that we tended to and nurtured. People would visit and you could tell immediately that the joy was infectious. The “joke” was a constant source for new comedic material and we would create even more elaborate “gifts” to put at the base of that tree.

Nuyoricans celebrate Christmas Eve -- Noche Buena. Christmas day is for the kids and for the adults to nurse hangovers. That year, a huge Christmas Eve party, attended by everybody-and-their-mother, capped that holiday season. The owner of the supermarket where my sisters worked contributed the ingredients so that my mother could make her famous pasteles (a Puerto Rican plantain/ meat dish) and pernil (pork suckling). All our friends and family attended and the party lasted well into Christmas morning. I don’t think it snowed that Christmas, but I remember that the party became the basis for several legends -- a storytime delight to be recounted for years to come. It became a marker for community events as in BC and AD: Before and After “The Christmas Party.”

The party itself was rambunctious -- more rambunctious than normal. The reason why poor people can party is because they know all too intimately the ups and downs of life and whenever the opportunity arises, they party with an almost religious fervor. Of course, there was plenty of drama that Christmas Eve. Someone was caught playing his wife dirty, a woman was accused of being a husband stealer, old jealousies and rivalries were re-ignited, and quite a few made fools of themselves. There was my step father’s aunt, who insisted on flashing her panties at everyone and poor old Frito who would never live down the fact that he got so drunk he pissed on himself.

The p[arty was a microcosm of the full catastrophe of the human condition in all its shining glory. In short -- a good time was had by all.

Finally, Christmas morning came, and it was time to clean up the house and dispose of all the “gifts.” I started collecting the empty boxes to throw them out, but our mother stopped me.

“You can’t throw out the boxes!” she yelled out, an alarming note of hysteria in her voice.

We looked at one another, fearing our mother was about to have another ataque de nervios, but then we saw the smile on her lips.

We had to tear through all the empty boxes in order to find the real gifts my mother had embedded into that huge pile. I will never forget my gift that year though I have had many richer Christmas’ since: it was a digital watch with an LED readout that were fairly new and trendy at the time. I know it didn’t cost much, maybe $5, but I treasured it and wore that watch for a long time.

Why this story?

For one, the experience taught me a lesson that was the greatest Christmas gift of all: that you always have a choice with how to respond to adversity. Yes, the fact remained that we sometimes were hungry and our clothes weren’t the best. There were times we couldn’t afford basic needs or even school supplies. But we learned to face these hardships with humor and strength of character. That year could easily have been much worse, but facing our hardships in a realistic but joyful way -- that lesson would stay with me for the rest of my life. For me, this is the taste of life itself. The One Taste.

So, if you ever catch me smiling, try to remember where that smile comes from It comes from the knowledge that essentially material gifts are usually empty. I smile because I know the pretty boxes are empty but my heart is full…

Happy Holidays! You are loved. May you all know true happiness.

Edward-Yemíl Rosario © 2004

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[The above is an edited version of a story from my unpublished memoir tentatively titled, 704 E. 5th St.: Ataque de Nervios and Other Stories (or some shit like that). Please, if you feel moved to share this story, feel free to do so, but I ask that you attribute the story appropriately -- with my name attached. Otherwise, I will have to sue your broke ass! LMAO!]

Noche Buena

¡Hola! Everybody...
Storytime! LOL

The following is fiction. While it is based on actual events and is the foundation of one of the stories in my forthcoming book of short stories tentatively titled Ataques de Nervios (Nervous Attacks) or 704 E. 5^th St. (or some shit like that), I have taken liberties with parts of the story, the characters, and timeline.

* * *

-=[ Noche Buena ]=-

“Never let your sense of morals get in the way of doing what’s right.”

-- Isaac Asimov (1920-1992)

It’s so cold she can’t feel her feet. She’s wearing only slippers in the midst of a raging Nor’easter. She’s afraid and her threadbare coat hardly protects her from the 40-50 mile per hour winds. It’s Noche Buena -- the night before Christmas -- and she’s alone, keeping vigil outside a home in the Italian section of Lower Manhattan, But she’s here because her kids are in need... there’s no one around and she despairs. Her feet ache...

Galo left with Gangster and told her that if she saw anyone, she should whistle. Now she wonders if she can whistle, her face is frozen, and they’ve been gone so long. What if the police come?

Finally, they come rushing out the building with stuffed pillowcases and she runs along with them. She falls, she can’t feel her toes. Gangster and Galo pick her up and they make their way hurriedly back to the Puerto Rican section, which takes too long and she’s crying, she’s in agony. Galo stops to look at her feet and mutters, “Shit!” under his breath.

They hurry home.

They finally get home and by now, she’s crying in agony. Galo takes off the slippers and thinks she has frostbite. She cries, but tries to stifle her cries, fearful she’ll awaken the children. Unbeknownst to them, her oldest son watches through a crack in the bedroom doorway. He’s afraid.

They call Galo’s sister, who takes one look at the stuffed pillowcases and looks down at the young mother, as if noting her lack of moral standing. Galo asks her to look at her feet and the sister says it’s not frostbite, but that she should go to the emergency room anyway. The young mother refuses, afraid. Afraid of the consequences of the act she just helped commit and afraid of what they may say about her toes that throb with pain now.

They give Galo’s sister a gold watch from the stolen loot, and she’s delighted. It’s an expensive watch, very pretty. She gives the young mother another condescending look and admonishes them for behaving in such an un-Christian manner. The young mother says nothing and thanks her for looking after the children.

Christmas was good that year. There was good food, there were a few gifts under the tree, and my mother seemed so happy though we noticed that she limped a little when she walked. She had a brand new pair of boots, the only concession she made for herself. She made sure to get her precious children gifts from “Guzman’s” -- the toy store on Avenue C. I remember I got a James Bond attaché case, complete with gadgets and it even shot rubber bullets if you pressed a hidden button. I also got a chemistry set that I used for hours upon hours... She made sure we got our gifts before Galo and Gangster would leave with the bulk of the loot, returning only when the money was spent on drugs. She didn’t even get herself a decent coat. She made sure we had warm coats, gloves, scarves, and long underwear.

I never knew why she was crying that wintry night all those years ago. I thought they were fighting... But I am not surprised at her sacrifice -- what she went through for what she thought would make us happy because somehow she always made it right, even if it meant compromising her values or her reputation. She didn’t care, only her children mattered. Still, she was ashamed and part of the reason why I have perfect posture today is because she taught us to walk tall, with our heads held high.

Most importantly, she taught me what really matters...

Love,

Eddie

What Really Matters, pt. IV [Silent Night]

¡Hola! Everybody...
This year has a lazy blog year for me. I remember I used to write new blog every day. I will be gone all day...

The following story seriously questions the assumption that the masses are merely stupid sheep easily led to the violent slaughter -- the marginalized of the margin of profit.

* * *

-=[ Silent Night ]=-

As everyone who makes the effort to wade through my tortured prose already knows, I love stories. I come from a long line of storytellers (no smart remarks. LOL!). In bygone eras, the responsibility of storytelling fell upon the shoulders of those we loved -- those who had our interests at heart. Today, our stories are told by highly paid, hair-sprayed teleprompt readers following the dictates of their corporate masters. They are otherwise known as journalists, TV news reporters, movie and video directors, etc.

Believe me, they don’t give a damn about you or me, nor the “truth” (whatever that is). Their God is the bottom line -- the margin of profit. Just between you and me, the vast majority of people in the good ole USA did not kill someone, set fire to their children, committed a series of rapes, or slapped his or her wife or husband. Most of us didn’t even trample someone else in a mad rush to buy a video game. While crime stats decrease, the news reporting on crime increases. I once got in trouble at my job for suggesting that we set a bare-breasted woman on fire if we wanted to garner media attention for affordable housing. If it bleeds, it leads, as the dictum goes.

The fact of the matter is that our world – our reality – has very little resemblance to the noise we see on the Idiot Box. Nevertheless, we buy into it. Yes “we” -- that means you too. It means that your children, or the children of your community, are buying into whatever the media is selling these days. The message is most often violent sex mixed with a message to consume: buy! buy! buy! It’s funny how conservatives are so repressed about the human body, but fail to see the obscenity in the brainwashing (and medicating) of our youth to convert them into mindless consumers. This is the God of the newer, improved Christianity. It’s Corporate Christianity and will solve all the world’s problems as soon as we take all other leaders, shoot them in public (preferably during prime time, EST), and convert them.

So, today, I will tell the story and I hope that you, in turn, tell the story to someone else. Maybe, just maybe, we can convince our children to sit at the table, hear, and tell our stories just once – just for today. I guarantee you our stories are infinitely more interesting than anything on “reality” TV. I'm sayin’, am I the only one that sees the irony in the phrase? Reality TV?!!

Here’s my story... it is true (it’s yours too)...

* * *

What we preserve in the larger human story determines what we believe is possible in the world.

On Christmas Eve in 1914, two lines of homesick soldiers, one British, one German, were dug into the trenches on the Western Front in the middle of World War I. Now, you have to understand that WWI was considered the “war to end all wars.” It was one of the vicious wars because in those days, you had to look your enemy in the eye as you stabbed or shot him. You were as likely to die from starvation, exposure, and disease as you were at the hands of the enemy. So, there are these two lines and between them was a fire zone called no-man’s land. On this moonlit, snowy night in a God-forsaken frozen landscape, the Germans lifted army issued Christmas trees sparkling with tiny candles over the edge of their trenches and set them in plain sight.

The British shouted and cheered with delight. The Germans began to sing “Stille Nacht… ”and the British began to sing along with “Silent Night.” This encouraged the Germans and they set down their guns in the moonlight and heaved themselves from their trenches carrying candles, cake, and cigars toward their enemies. The British responded in kind, carrying steamed pudding and cigarettes.

These men met in the middle of the forbidden zone, exchanged gifts, sang carols, and played soccer. This seemingly spontaneous truce eventually extended for hundreds of miles among thousands of soldiers. The really funny thing was, having seen each other’s humanity, they could no longer shoot each other…

The war essentially stopped.

Horrified, commanders on both sides had to transfer thousands of men to new positions until the enemy became faceless again, something killable, not a brother -- not a human being.

Almost a hundred years later, scholars are still studying this event, reading soldier’s journals and letters that refer to it, seeking to understand “the breakdown of the military mindset,” or seeking to understand how a spontaneous peace movement could spread even in the cold heart of war.

* * *

And that’s my story. You will hear countless other stories today. Very likely stories of death and unspeakable cruelty. You will no doubt hear stories justifying, in the name of global economics or war, the starvation and killing of innocent men, women, and children. You will hear much talk of “just” and “unjust” wars... You will see or read approximately 80,000 messages today with the agenda to get you to buy something -- most of this will fly under the radar of your awareness. But if you remember anything, remember this story because it is true and it speaks to who we really are and the essence of what it means to be a human being.

Love,

Eddie

What Really Matters [Tio Jaime]

¡Hola! Everybody...
I don't know why, but I'm in a storytelling mood these days. I wrote this right after my Uncle passed away. This story is based on true events. Some of the details have been changed, but the story is true...

* * *

-=[ Tio Jaime ]=-

“If we evolved a race of Isaac Newtons, that would not be progress. For the price Newton had to pay for being a supreme intellect was that he was incapable of friendship, love, fatherhood, and many other desirable things. As a man he was a failure; as a monster he was superb.”

-- Aldous Huxley (1894– 1963)

“Cpl. Jaime Rosario, present arms!

… silence

“Cpl. Jaime Rosario, present arms!

… silence

“Cpl. Jaime Rosario, present arms!

… silence

There is a faint sound and I realize it’s Taps playing in the background. I don’t know where it’s coming from, it’s barely distinguishable. It’s a crisp, clear November morning and each time my cousin’s husband, a member of the US Army yells out, “Cpl. Jaime Rosario, present arms!” (or something like that), the ensuing silence is like a knife into my heart. The shock reverberates through me like a shot in the dark of night and my tears well in eyes before rolling down my cheeks.

It breaks my heart…

It’s Christmas morning early 1960s in New York’s infamous Lower East Side. My three cousins, Edgar, Miriam, and Jenny are young children and they’re crying because there are no gifts under the tree for them. They are crying not because they didn’t get what they wanted, but because they thought they had done something wrong for not getting any gifts at all. There is no heat in the apartment; it’s cold, and the oven is on full blast, barely making the kitchen bearable. Water is boiling on the stove. My aunt Sylvia cries silently, not knowing what to tell her children.

We all lived in the same building on the Lower East Side: 704 E. 5^th St. I liked to joke that if a bomb had been dropped on “704,” the Rosario’s would have ceased to exist because we all lived in that building. I was only half kidding. It was a rat-infested building -- a cold water flat -- and the bathtub was situated in the kitchen. It wasn’t uncommon to be eating dinner while a family member bathed. We saw that as normal. The apartment had no toilet; we had to share one down the hall with the apartment across from us. The owners were derelict in everything except one: they were prompt in collecting the rent.

Too many of us lived in that two-bedroom apartment, togetherness in those days was a little different: having your own “space” wasn’t an option. We were working poor, children of first generation Puerto Ricans, factory and garment industry workers, janitors, washerwomen. There was just one TV, owned by my uncle, Jaime, and all the children would all gather at his apartment to watch King Family Christmas Specials on this HUGE monstrosity of a TV that had maybe a 9-inch screen. Togetherness was different in those days: it was cold and huddling together on my uncle’s big bed was also about keeping each other warm. To have your own space in those days meant you freeze your culo off.

Tio Jaime bursts into my aunt’s apartment and yells out, “Why is everybody crying?” My cousins, through the gaps in their sobbing tell Tio that they didn’t get any gifts and they don’t know why because they had been good. My uncle looks around, and in his own comical way, he opens his eyes in wide exaggeration and yells out, “Aha! Here is the problem!” Pointing to the closed, securely latched window by the fire escape, he explains that the reason Santa Claus didn’t leave any gifts was because that, “Sangana mother of yours forgot to unlock the window and he couldn’t get in! C’mon! He left your gifts at my place and told me to make sure I came and got you.”

We never knew until many years later what Tio did -- not until we became older and understood what had happened. Unable to bear the sadness of his nieces and nephews, he sacrificed so that everyone would have at least a little something for Christmas. Many years later, my cousin Cynthia, Tio Jamie’s daughter, would joke that her Barbie died of starvation that year because they gave Miriam the Barbie Oven -- you know those ovens with the light bulb inside that let you bake muffins and stuff like that?

We could never really thank Tio because he hated for these acts to be known. For him, it wasn’t being valorous or a committing a good deed, it was what had to be done -- nothing extra, he might say. He did this many times, more than we would ever know.

Togetherness was different in those days, I think, because to have your own space meant your loved one would not receive a simple Christmas gift. It wasn’t an option…

Many years later, as a student at a university, I began a preliminary study on fatherhood within the Puerto Rican context and what I read in the research literature troubled me because it didn’t jibe with my own experience growing up Puerto Rican in New York City. While it was true that my own father was often absent, I also had the luxury of surrogate fathers like Tio Jaime who offered a conscientious model of masculinity.

“Cpl. Jaime Rosario, present arms!

… silence

By now, my cousin’s husband’s voice is cracking with emotion and he too is crying because there is no answer. My heart breaks open and it seems that there’s a hole in my life and the crisp November wind blows through it mercilessly.

It breaks my heart…

My uncle served in the military and was part of that famous Puerto Rican unit, the 65^th Infantry Regiment.

A Company, 1^st Battalion…

Tio never talked about his service, but my cousin’s husband discovered that he participated the famous landing at Inchon, Korea to free surrounded US Troops. His unit received the Presidential Unit citation, The Meritorious Unit Commendation, and two Republic of Korea Unit Citations. My uncle detested violence and he was wounded during the war for which he received the Purple Heart Medal.

But that wasn’t what Tio was about. I’ll always remember Tio Jaime for his raunchy sense of humor. He was like the Puerto Rican Sid Caesar -- hilarious. He always had a good joke that would make you laugh from the belly. He was more about humor and facing life’s hardships with a laugh. Smiling in the face of adversity is how I will always remember Tio, forever thanking him for that gift.

“Cpl. Jaime Rosario, present arms!”

… silence

Love,

Eddie

Blackout Specials

¡Hola! Everybody...
I’m having some difficulty catching up on my work since coming back from vacation. My tendency towards procrastination doesn’t help. LOL!

The following is a repeat. I think it’s worth it...

* * *

-=[ Blackout Specials & the Glow of Botanica Candles ]=-

“Two or three things I know for sure, and one of them is that to go on living I have to tell stories, that stories are the one sure way I know to touch the heart and change the world.”

-- Dorothy Allison

Come, gather closely, I am going to tell you a story – my story. Actually, it is only part of my story and this is no ordinary story but a story about story. So gather yourself, breathe softly… come listen, read…lean into this space, and be ready to receive the gift of story… and an invitation…

It’s nighttime and the only glow in the room comes from the glass-encased candles bought from the corner “Botanica” -- storefront shops found in Puerto Rican neighborhoods that sell herbs and “magic.” Variously colored candle wax poured into long glass receptacles with images of the saints and the Virgin Mary inscribed on the glass and promising anything from good luck to financial success. Though it is dark and cold, we, my two sisters and I, sit in rapt attention before the figure of my father, who is in the process of telling us a story. Our mother is somewhere in the darkness preparing the “Blackout Specials” we have come to love so much. However, the real star tonight is the story. For it is the story we crave tonight. It is story time in the Rosario household and this is sacred space.

How many of us have experienced the relief and serenity after expressing our pain and sharing the burden of a sorrow with another? Life is too difficult, the day is too long, to carry our grief alone and keep our joys to ourselves. How many of us have spent long periods in solitary loneliness? Then, like anyone who has been alone and finally gets a chance to speak, we have so much to say to one another.

I come from a long line of storytellers (no smart remarks! LOL) and I believe firmly in the power of the story to change, educate, and bring us to wholeness. I believe this because it is in the telling of the story that we find healing. It is the basic unit of human communication, this telling of stories. Since the dawn of time, we have gathered together to tell each other stories -- to share experiences, to ward off the darkness.

Tonight, my father is really into it and he’s telling us the story of “how the solar system was named.” He starts with mercury, mentioning that it’s my planet, me being a Gemini, and tells the story of Mercury. He moves on to Venus and tells that story, and so on. They are his stories to be sure: classical Greek myth, sprinkled with Puerto Rican folklore, but it’s a great story and we laugh and giggle, and hold our breaths in anticipation.

There’s a television in the room, but it is turned off and no one cares, it’s a “Blackout Special” called by our parents. In fact there are no lights on, all electricity has ceased to exist for us and we couldn’t care less, as we sit around the kitchen table, drinking the “Blackout Specials” (scoops of vanilla ice cream floating in orange soda). Tonight everything has been set aside. Beyond our kitchen, modern life can be heard to be happening, but here at our humble kitchen table, we are into the story.

When we share our pain, fear, or the unmanageable aspects of our lives, we open up to the possibility of being more honest with ourselves. However, some people will tell only parts of their stories because they are looking only for validation of their pain. This is not the kind of sharing I am talking about. That kind of sharing is evident in the raunchy talk shows where fragmented people, suffering from lack of boundaries, go up in front of a national audience and humiliate themselves.

And we watch and pass judgment…

No, the kind of sharing I am speaking to happens within a truly respectful and spiritual meeting and includes our questions and the incomplete thoughts in our stories as well as the thoughts that are fully formed. The kind of sharing I am talking about is the kind when you tell on yourself for the purpose of creating positive change, not to stay stuck in pain.

“Blackout Specials” was where I first learned the importance of the story. It became a family tradition, one we passed down to our own children and whom I hope will pass it on to theirs. My father was a consummate storyteller. He could gather all the children on our Lower East Side block on a mid-summer's day and have us sit fully engaged for what seemed like hours. As children, we loved those stories because as children we know intuitively that stories are who we are. It is the basic unit of our only human instinct: language. And as developing persons, we yearn story in the same way we yearn sustenance.

I remember when I first went back to school, in my late thirties, I was afraid of everything. Mostly I was afraid of making a fool of myself, and I felt out of place and awkward because I was much older than the other students. Because of this, I would not go to certain places at the university, one of them being the cafeteria. One day, as part of psych class assignment, I shared about this fear.

It so happens that one girl, who was overweight, was moved to share about her same fear of going to the cafeteria because she was afraid that people would look at her and judge her for being overweight. And as she shared, she began to cry. Then, one after another, other students began to share about their own fears. Others offered support and before we knew it, we became this story circle of sacred sharing. Eventually we all came to the same conclusions: that we were not alone in our fears (that it wasn't something that “wrong” with us), and that when we looked closely at our fears, they were sometimes a wee bit funny and irrational at some level.

We all went to the cafeteria together and laughed about it.

That’s the kind of sharing I am talking about. Of course, some things need to be kept more private and shared only with those we trust deeply. Nevertheless, sharing is important because it is in the telling and the unburdening that we find true healing.

Eventually, we would call our own “Blackout Specials.” The only rules were that everyone had to tell a story and everyone had to respect each other’s story. When the speaker of the story had the floor, no one could interrupt. The story could be anything: a joke, a story of a found object, an event, whatever. The important part was that we had a sharing space where we would sit and listen to each other, in sacred space -- telling our stories to one another. The times of Blackout Specials make up some of the most memorable times of my youth. It is where I learned awe and wonder and learned that I too had a story. That my story was as important anyone else's story and that I had to tell that story somehow.

Since the dawn of time when our ancestors huddled around the fire to ward off the cold and darkness, we have told stories. Unfortunately, today the ones telling the stories -- the TV news and talk shows, Reality TV, the movies -- don't really give a fuck about respect or wholeness. We need to take back our stories and tell them to each other and pass them on to our children so that we will not lose this precious gift. As we talk, we unburden ourselves and learn from each other about closeness and vulnerability and what it means to be a human being.

Many years later, I’m walking down the street with my own son who was nine-years-old at the time. He too loved stories and when I would pick him up from school, we had a game we played. The game was that we had to tell the story of something new we learned that day. My son would run out of school and I will always remember the anticipation in his eyes as he would ask, “Well, Pops! What did you learn to day?!!” and I would share my story and he would share his.

In the year my father passed away, we requested that he lead a blackout special. My father was very sick at the time, but there we were, all the brothers and sisters with all his grandchildren, now all veterans of Blackout Specials themselves. We all took out turns, telling our story. My son told the story of a scarf he and I found -- he created a history for that scarf. We each sat and listened in the glow of Botanica candles.

Then came my father, the legendary storyteller himself -- the creator of the Blackout Special -- in all his glory in the rarest of forms telling the greatest story ever. It’s is a moment we all will never forget.

And the “story of the story”? It wasn’t until many years later, when we became old enough to understand, that we realized how “Blackout Specials” came to be. You see, it was a matter of necessity. We were poor and sometimes my parents had to decide which bill to pay and sometimes the electric bill would go unpaid. So my parents, in order to lessen our sadness, came up with the idea of the “Blackout Special.” On top of everything else, this taught us the most valuable lesson of lighting the candle instead of cursing the darkness. My parents put the power of the story in my heart.

May you be able to tell your story always…

* * *

And so it is with us here in the blogosphere: we tell our stories. Our stories of love and heartbreak, of our wishes and hopes. We tell of our gardens, of our victories and defeats, and in that way, we connect somehow in this world going so quickly into madness. We have no time to tell our stories anymore so we come here and cast our lines and we weave a web of stories.

And we listen, read, and tell…

Love,

Eddie

Silent Night

¡Hola! Everybody...
Okay, Bush sure looked silly dodging shoes yesterday. Where are the conservative pundits that claimed we would be greeted as liberators?

::blank stare::

Another week, another dollar. I’m hoping to take some time off during the holidays...

* * *

-=[ Silent Night ]=-

As everyone who bothers to read already knows, I love stories. I come from a long line of storytellers (no smart remarks! LOL!). At one time, the responsibility of storytelling fell upon the shoulders of those we loved – those who had our interests at heart. Today, our stories are told by highly paid, hair-sprayed teleprompt readers following the dictates of their corporate masters. They are otherwise known as journalists, TV news reporters, and then there are, of course, the movie and video directors, etc.

Believe me, they don’t give a damn about you or me, or the “truth” (whatever that is). Their God is the bottom line -- money. Just between you and me, the vast majority of people yesterday did not kill someone, set fire to their children, committed a series of rapes, or slapped his or her wife or husband. Most of us didn’t even trample someone else in a mad rush to buy a video game. While crime stats decrease, the news reporting on crime increases because those in charge believe violence sells. I once got in trouble at my job for suggesting that we set a bare-breasted woman on fire if we wanted to garner media attention for affordable housing. If it bleeds, it leads, as the dictum goes.

The fact of the matter is that our world – our reality – has very little resemblance to the noise we see on the idiot box. Nevertheless, we buy into it. Yes “we” – that means you too. It means that your children are buying into whatever the media is selling these days -- most often sex mixed with the message to consume: buy! buy! buy! It’s ironic how conservatives are so repressed about the human body, but fail to see the obscenity in the brainwashing (and medicating) of our youth to become mindless consumers. This is the God of the newer, improved Christianity. It’s Corporate Christianity and will solve all the world’s problems as soon as we take all other leaders, shoot them in public (preferably during prime time, EST), and convert them.

So, today, I will tell the story and I hope that you, in turn, tell the story to someone else. Maybe, just maybe, we can convince our children to sit at the table and hear stories just once – just for today. I guarantee you our stories are infinitely more interesting than anything on “reality” TV. I’m sayin’, am I the only one that sees the irony in such a phrase? Reality TV?!!

May your Higher Power save you… and here’s my story...

What we preserve in the larger human story determines what we believe is possible in the world.

On Christmas Eve in 1914, two lines of homesick soldiers, one British, one German, were dug into the trenches on the Western Front in the middle of World War I. Now, you have to understand that WWI was considered the “war to end all wars.” It was one of the vicious wars because in those days, you had to look your enemy in the eye as you stabbed or shot him. You were as likely to die from starvation, exposure, and disease as you were at the hands of the enemy. So, there are these two front lines and between them was a fire zone called no-man’s land. On this moonlit, snowy night in a God-forsaken landscape, the Germans lifted army issued Christmas trees sparkling with tiny candles over the edge of their trenches and set them in plain sight.

The British shouted and cheered with delight. The Germans began to sing “Stille Nacht… ”and the British began to sing along with “Silent Night.” This encouraged the Germans and they set down their guns in the moonlight and heaved themselves from their trenches carrying candles, cake, and cigars toward their enemies. The British responded in kind, carrying steamed pudding and cigarettes.

These men met in the middle of the forbidden zone, exchanged gifts, sang carols, and played soccer. This seemingly spontaneous truce eventually extended for hundreds of miles among thousands of soldiers. The really funny thing was, having seen each other’s humanity, they could no longer shoot each other…

The war essentially stopped.

Horrified, commanders on both sides had to transfer thousands of men to new positions until the enemy became faceless again, something killable, not a human being -- not a brother.

Almost a hundred years later, scholars are still studying this event, reading soldier’s journals and letters that refer to it, seeking to understand “the breakdown of the military mindset,” or seeking to understand how a spontaneous peace movement could spread even in the cold heart of war.

And that’s my story today. You will hear countless other stories today. Stories of death and unspeakable cruelty. You will no doubt hear stories justifying, in the name of global economics or war, the starvation and killing of innocent men, women, and children. You will hear, in the name of the Free Market, that's reasonable to allow 3 million jobs to disappear. You will see or read approximately 80,000 messages today bombarding you with the agenda to get you to buy something -- most of it will fly under the radar of your awareness. But if you remember anything, remember this story because it is true and it speaks to who we really are and the essence of what it means to be a human being.

Love,

Eddie

Blackout Specials and the Glow of Botanica Candles

¡Hola! Everybody,...

I didn’t realize the internet ate this one up, so it never migrated to here from my other sites...

* * *

-=[ Blackout Specials and the Glow of Botanica Candles ]=-

“Two or three things I know for sure, and one of them is that to go on living I have to tell stories, that stories are the one sure way I know to touch the heart and change the world.”
-- Dorothy Allison

Come, gather closely, I am going to tell you a story – my story. Actually, it is only part of my story and this is no ordinary story but a story about story. So gather yourself, breathe softly… come listen, read…lean into this space, and be ready to receive the gift of story… and an invitation…

It’s nighttime and the only glow in the room comes from the huge glass-encased candles – bought from the corner “Botanica” -- storefront shops found in Puerto Rican neighborhoods that sell herbs and magic. Candle wax poured into long glass receptacles with images of the saints and the Virgin Mary inscribed on the glass and promising anything from good luck to financial success. Though it is dark and cold, we – my two sisters and I – sit in rapt attention before the figure of my father, who is in the process of telling us a story. Our mother is somewhere in the darkness preparing the “Blackout Specials” we have come to love so much. However, the real star tonight is the “story.” For it is the story we crave tonight. Its story time in the Rosario household and this is sacred space.

How many of us have experienced the relief and serenity after expressing our pain and sharing the burden of a sorrow with another? Life is too difficult, the day is too long, to carry our grief alone and keep our joys to ourselves. How many of us have spent long periods in solitary loneliness? Then, like anyone who has been alone and finally gets a chance to speak, we have so much to say to one another.

I come from a long line of storytellers (no smart remarks! LOL!) and I believe firmly in the power of the story to change, educate, and bring us to wholeness. I believe this because it is in the telling of the story that we find healing. It is the basic unit of human communication, this telling of stories. Since the dawn of time, we have gathered together to tell each other stories -- to share experiences, to ward off the darkness.

Tonight, my father is in really into it and he’s telling us the story of “how the solar system was named.” He starts with mercury, mentioning that it’s my planet, me being a Gemini, tells the story of Mercury. He moves to Venus and tells that story, and on and on. They are his stories, to be sure: classical myth, sprinkled with Puerto Rican folklore, but it’s a great story and we laugh and giggle, and hold our breaths in anticipation.

There’s a television in the room, but it is turned off and no one cares, it’s a “Blackout Special” called by our parents. In fact there are no lights on, all electricity has ceased to exist for us and we couldn’t care less, as we sit around the kitchen table, drinking the “Blackout Specials” (scoops of vanilla ice cream floating in orange soda). Tonight everything has been set aside. Beyond our kitchen, modern life can be heard to be happening, but here we are into the story.

When we tell about our pain, fear, or the unmanageable aspects of our lives, we open up to the possibility of being more honest with ourselves. However, some people will tell only parts of their stories because they are looking for validation for their pain. This is not the kind of sharing I am referring to today. That kind of telling is evident in the raunchy type talk shows where sick people, suffering from lack of boundaries, go up in front of a national audience and humiliate themselves.

And we watch and pass judgment…

No, the kind of sharing I am speaking about happens within a truly respectful and spiritual meeting and includes our questions and the incomplete thoughts in our stories as well as the thoughts that are fully completed. The kind of sharing I am talking about is the kind that you tell on yourself for the purpose of creating positive change, not to stay stuck in your pain.

“Blackout Specials” was where I first learned the importance of the story. It became a family tradition, one we passed down to our own children and whom I hope will pass it on to theirs. My father was a consummate storyteller. He could gather all the children on our Lower East Side block in the middle of the summer and have us sit rapt with attention for what seemed like hours. As children, we loved those stories because as children we intuitively know that stories are who we are. It is the basic unit of our only human instinct: language, and as developing persons, we yearn story in the same way we yearn nurturance.

I remember when I first went back to school – in my late thirties -- I was afraid of everything. Mostly I was afraid of making a fool of myself, and I felt out of place because I was much older than the other students were. Because of this, I would not go to certain places at the university, one of them being the cafeteria. One day, as part of psych class assignment, I shared about this fear.

Well, one girl, who was overweight, started sharing about this same fear about going to the cafeteria because she was afraid that people would look at her and judge her for being overweight. As she shared, she began to cry. Then, one after another, other students began to share about their own fears. Eventually we all came to the same conclusions: that we were not alone in our fears (that it wasn't something that “wrong” with us), and that when we looked closely at our fears, they were sometimes a wee bit funny and irrational at some level.

We all went to the cafeteria and laughed about it.

That’s the kind of sharing and telling I am talking about. Some things need to be kept more private and shared only with those we trust deeply. Nevertheless, sharing is important because it is in the telling that we find true healing.

It got to the point when we would call our own “Blackout Specials.” The only rules were that everyone had to tell a story and everyone had to respect each other’s story. When the speaker of the story had the floor, no one could interrupt. The story could be a joke, a story of a found object, an event, whatever. The important part was that we had a sharing space where we would sit and listen to each other, in sacred space – telling our stories to one another. Those times – these Blackout Specials – make up some of the most memorable times of my youth. It is where I learned awe and wonder and learned that I too had a story. That my story was as important anyone else’s story and that I had to tell that story somehow.

Since the dawn of time when our ancestors huddled around the fire to ward off the cold and darkness, we have told stories. Unfortunately, today the ones telling the stories -- the TV news and talk shows, the movies -- don't really give a fuck about sacredness or our health. We need to take back our stories and tell them to each other and pass them on to our children so that we will not lose this precious gift. As we talk, we unburden ourselves and learn from each other about closeness and what it means to be a human being.

Many years later, I’m walking down the street with my own son who was nine years old at the time. He loved stories too and when we would come home from picking him up at school, we had a game we played. The game was that we had to tell the story of something new we learned that day. When my son would run out of school, you could see the anticipation in his eyes as he would ask, “Well, Pops! What did you learn to day?!?!” and I would share my story and he would share his.

In the year my father passed away, we requested that he lead a blackout special. My father was very sick at the time, but there we were, all the brothers and sisters with all his grandchildren –now all veteran Blackout Specials themselves. We all took out turns, telling our story. My son told the story of a scarf he and I found – he created a history for that scarf. We each sat and listened in the glow of Botanica candles.

Then came my father, the legendary storyteller himself – the creator of the Blackout Special -- in all his glory in the rarest of forms telling the greatest story ever. It’s is a moment we all will never forget.

And the story of the story? It wasn’t until many years later, when we became old enough to understand, that we realized how “Blackout Specials” came to be. You see, it was a matter of necessity. We were poor and sometimes my parents had to decide which bill would be paid. Food had a higher priority, so if it was the electric bill or food, food won out. So my parents, in order to lessen our sadness, came up with the idea of the “Blackout Special.” On top of everything else, this taught us the most invaluable lesson of lighting the candle instead of cursing the darkness. My parents put the power of the story in my heart.

May you be able to tell your story always…

* * *

And so it is with us here in the blogosphere: we tell our stories. Our stories of love and heartbreak, of our wishes and hopes. We tell of our gardens, of our victories and defeats, and in that way, we connect somehow in this world going so quickly into madness. We have no time to tell our stories anymore so we come here and cast our lines and we weave a web of stories.

And we listen, read, and tell…

I want to know who you are. I want you to know who I am. I want to hear your stories and I want you to hear mine. Each of us has someone who put the story in our heart. That person can be a teacher or parent, usually an ordinary person who becomes, as author Christina Baldwin says, “extraordinary through the power to touch another life.”

There are very few rules in this storytelling. We can start with these simple ground rules: Mostly that we respect and honor one another’s stories. That we will not share these stories without permission, and that we treat the space of storytelling as something sacred. Also, we’re not looking for technically proficient writing – just tell the fuckin story, no need to be a novelist. We all have stories, I see them around here everyday.

Tell me a story (Adapted from Christian Baldwin’s Storycatcher: Making sense of our lives through the power and Practice of Story):

Take a family heirloom or artifact – a photograph even, and write down its history. Where did it come from? How old is it?

Describe the place where you come from: what is the landscape? Who lives there? Use all your senses to describe the way you remember this place.

Describe one of your earliest memories. Who was with you? Bring in all five senses. Do you know if this an actual memory, or a story you have heard?

Describe your relationship with your grandparents or your elders. How involved in your life were they

What do you know about their own growing up?

Love,

Eddie