by Heather Plett | Nov 7, 2011 | Creativity
Sometimes I let myself get stuck in the wrong stories.
Stories like:
– I would accomplish more if I had a nice office with big windows letting in the natural light. And a nice art easel. And more space for bookshelves.
– It’s okay to want what I want… in fact, I’m probably ENTITLED to a bigger space with natural light. I can’t create without it. Why do I bother trying?
– If I had a beautiful healing room like my friend Diane, I could host story circles in my own space and wouldn’t have to be satisfied with a rather ugly room in the back of a church. In fact, I shouldn’t bother hosting any more circles until I have the right space.
– If this house weren’t falling apart, with peeling linoleum in the kitchen, broken chairs in the dining room, and ugly carpet in the living room, I’d feel more comfortable hosting people here and I could do more of my work in-person.
– If only… (and the list could stretch to 101 more items)
It’s not that it’s wrong to want those things. It’s just that it’s wrong to let myself get stuck in the limitations of wanting them too much. When I get stuck in them, I forget to be grateful for what I have. I forget that I too can be resourceful and make new things out of old, like the people I’ve seen in the poorest parts of the world, making shoes out of rubber tires, or spoons out of seashells. I forget to treat the gifts I’ve already received with reverence and respect.
I let my house get messier “because it’s not good enough to host people in, so why should I bother keeping it clean?”
I let my tiny storage-space-turned-studio become a dumping ground for clutter “because it’s too small, cramped, and windowless for me to create in, so why bother?”
Last week, I knew that it was time to loosen the grip those limiting stories were having on me. I spent Friday morning clearing the clutter out of my tiny windowless space that used to be a storage room in a dark corner of our basement. It’s a space I poured my creative resourcefulness into last year before I quit my job, putting cheap fabric and old paneling on the wall and free hand-me-down carpet on the floor.
And now I am grateful for it again.
I finally did some creative work in this space again (see the mandala in my last post), and now my head is buzzing with new ideas.
Here’s my tiny space, with my creativity board in front of me and my art supplies and favourite books within easy reach.
On the ceiling by the light hang the butterflies that told me to write a book.
Here’s a corner of my creativity board, with elephants from Tanzania (oh how I loved seeing them in the wild!), a dried leaf from the centre of the labyrinth at Tranquil Spirit (my friend Diane’s healing space), and some of my creative meanderings.
One of my favourite trinkets, a gift from my sister that reminds me to continue to stare with wonder at the many possibilities that this big, wide world has to offer.
Another corner of my creativity board, with a photo of my sister and I backpacking around Europe many years ago.
My favourite view – lying on the floor looking up at the iridescent fabric hanging from the ceiling. This space – though it may not seem like much – is sacred space.
Here’s Maddy, who is delighted when I let her into my creative space so that we can do some co-creating (which we did lots of this weekend). She made a special magic wand for me. On its handle it says “be magical”. I’m going to wave it around the room whenever I need to make old stories disappear, or I need to make new things out of old things that no longer serve me.
One more view… the entrance to my tiny space, where I painted a tree of dreams (follow the link to see a video of me painting it) and Maddy painted a magical character out of her favourite book, Harry Potter.
by Heather Plett | Nov 4, 2011 | Beauty
the cloth that covers the table at the centre of our story circle each week
A story has emerged for me lately that has helped me define myself. It is that of a woman carrying a basket and filling it with story threads as she wanders.
Last week I was on a conference call with a circle of women planning a women’s gathering for next summer. We’ve been wrestling with what to name our gathering, and someone mentioned the words “weaving wisdom”. We all liked it. I shared with them the fact that lately I have seen my role in life as “weaving story threads into a tapestry of wisdom”. Each of the women in the circle is also a weaver of some kind.
With weaving on my mind so much lately, it shouldn’t have come as any surprise that last night’s writing prompt was a spool of thread. I’d brought brown bags for each of the people in my creative writing circle and inside each brown bag was an ordinary item that the holder had to write about and possibly use as a metaphor for her/his life. I chose the last bag.
Here’s my story about the thread inside my brown bag…
The Weaver
For years she’d carried her basket, not sure what it was for or why she’d been gifted with it as a child.
Though she didn’t understand its meaning, she knew it was important. She knew she was meant to carry it.
As she went through life, she found herself attracted to colourful story threads everywhere she went. Each story thread that was offered her was lovingly tucked into her basket.
She was a wanderer, this woman. She could barely keep her feet from moving. Europe, California, Kenya, India, Nova Scotia, Ohio, Bangladesh… she went wherever the stories called her to go.
Everywhere she went, she added new threads to her basket. Stories of courageous young women in Ethiopia. Stories of devastated villages in Bangladesh. Stories of justice workers rescuing young girls from sexual slavery in India.
Her basket threatened to overflow with all the threads she carried, and yet it never got heavy. She loved those stories dearly and spent time with them every chance she could.
Still, though, she wondered… what was the purpose of all of this? What was the use of all of these threads? What was she meant to do with them?
She began to ask the wise people in her life. “What do you think I’m meant to do with my basket?”
“Hmmm….” those people would say. “It just looks like a tangled mess to me.” Or “You have to find the answer in your own heart.” Or “Have you talked to God about it?” Nobody could give her an easy answer.
And so she continued to wander and gather more stories. But her heart became heavy, for she knew that all of this was meant for something.
Then one day, there came a distant whisper. “Have you tried weaving those threads together and making meaning out of them?”
Hmmm… really? Was she meant to be a weaver? But these were just tiny snippets – how could she make anything meaningful out of loose threads? And… what if she didn’t have the skill to weave them properly, or even to know which colours to line up together? What if she messed up and damaged the threads that had been entrusted to her?
She picked up a few threads and played with them wistfully. Could she trust the wisdom in her hands to make something out of this tangled heap?
Soon she realized, though, that without much effort at all, she’d lined up those first few threads in a way that made the colours dance. Yes. That looked right. The stories took on new meaning and beauty when she placed them together. She added a few more… and then more. Someone slipped a new thread into her hand. Ooooohh…. that one looked so lovely with the others!
Before she knew it, she was weaving. The threads were slowly being shaped into a beautiful tapestry in her hands.
She worked for hours, lovingly caressing each thread as she added it to her work of art. When she finally looked up from her work, she saw that she was being watched by eager eyes. Several of the people standing nearby were reaching out to her. In their hands were new threads.
“It looks so beautiful,” said the people watching her. “Will you teach us how to weave?”
This shocked her. “You want ME to teach you how to weave? But… I’m just playing with threads…I’m not sure I know what I’m doing!”
“Oh but you do!” they said. “You need to trust the gift in your hands. The world is desperately in need of more tapestries.”
And so she gathered her willing new friends into a circle. Reverently, and in awe of what she had begun, she lit a candle and rang a bell. “Start by telling us a story,” she said, and slowly and tenderly the people in the circle began pulling threads from pockets near their hearts. The threads were beautiful and each one was different from the last. Some were sparkly and bright, others were rough and well-worn. All were rich in colour and texture.
Before the end of the evening, a new tapestry had begun to form. “We’ll come back next week and work on it some more,” said the friends, excitement in their voices.
And so they did, and each week the woman marvelled at what she had helped to shape.
by Heather Plett | Oct 20, 2011 | Uncategorized
It’s been another amazing trip. I met with a lot of interesting people, attended a workshop that is closely aligned with the work that most excites me, lined up some new work (which may result in another trip to Toronto soon), was treated to a reiki session by an amazing husband and wife team with gifted hands, built a website for a dear friend and mentor, walked a labyrinth, drove through the beautiful countryside alive with Fall colour, did some advance planning for an upcoming women’s gathering, sat in circle with some of the passionate people at Occupy Toronto, laughed harder than I have in a long time, and heard a lot of personal stories.
That last part is what fills me with the greatest happiness. Hearing the stories of what wants to emerge from people is at the heart of everything I do, whether it’s teaching people to write, helping them step into personal leadership, facilitating workshops, coaching individuals in transition, or writing for non-profits. That’s what brought me to Toronto and why I spent two days learning about narrative coaching with David Drake.
The stories that emerged this week were amazing, as they always are. I heard a story of escape from China and immigration to Canada. Another story of what it’s like to break new ground in a community as an inter-racial couple. A story of being a pioneer and doing work nobody has dreamed of before. A story of building a healing room and creating a labyrinth in the backyard to bring more spirituality into the world. Several stories of anger, frustration, and restlessness over faltering systems that no longer serve the people at the heart of them. More than one story full of the pain of shattered relationships. A story of what it’s like to leave a priestly calling for the emerging truth of a same sex relationship. A story of feeling the pull of the land and a calling to build a unique farm/spiritual centre/learning space. A story of the deep desire to bring a child into the world knowing what challenge that child will face having two fathers. A story of performing comedy in Barbados and emerging into a career in film. A story of the power of dream analysis. Several stories of the dreams and fears of building new businesses while following the longing of one’s heart. Many stories about the challenges of letting go of old limiting stories that don’t serve anymore. A story of a near-death experience in India and the resulting life change that’s emerging. Stories, stories, and more stories.
Each and every story enriched my story-gathering heart.
Sharing stories. Hosting stories. Sitting in circle and letting the stories weave into each other. THIS is my work in the world.
I am a listener. A harvester. A weaver. A host. A wanderer with a basket full of story threads that weave themselves into colourful tapestry.
It is that calling that has led me to something new and exciting. Together with my dear friend Desiree Adaway, another story-gatherer, I am launching something brand new called Global Listeners.
Desiree and I want to build a community of people who will be listeners for the stories emerging in this world. We want to help people learn to listen more effectively so that the stories can transform us. We want to help people become better leaders and change-makers through the power of listening. We want to invite people to join us on listening journeys to hear stories of other cultures.
Our mission is to enrich the world through listening.
To launch this new dream, we are hosting a free learning call on The Power of Deep and Soulful Listening. We invite you to join us next week for the call. Please sign up at the new site.
Whatever work you do in the world, whether you’re sweeping floors in a hospital, leading a large technology firm, teaching schoolchildren how to write, or driving a city bus, your work can be enriched by the power of listening.
Please join us in the circle.
by Heather Plett | May 16, 2011 | journey, Uncategorized
A man walks through a doorway.
It seems simple enough. “Just the facts Ma’am.” Just a man. Just a doorway.
Except that it is NEVER just a man or just a doorway. There are stories stuck like glue to both man and doorway.
Is it a man whose exit marks the abandonment of a family? Is it a doorway in a home that they really couldn’t afford and now his wife is left with mounting bills and three kids to feed?
Is it Nelson Mandela stepping through the doorway of a prison into freedom and into his world-changing destiny?
Is it one of the men who stepped through the doorway into the holy of holies at the ancient churches of Lalibela while I had to stand outside because I was the wrong gender?
Is it Neil Armstrong making history by stepping out of the doorway of the spacecraft and onto the surface of the moon?
Every man has a hundred stories. Every doorway has a hundred more. Every person impacted by the action has another hundred through which they interpret the walking, the doorway, and the man.
We forget that sometimes. We want a person’s actions to mean exactly what we interpret them to mean. We want the words we read (or write) to mean the same thing whether they’re read by us or a person across the world.
We want everyone to understand the world through OUR stories and we neglect to try to understand how theirs differ from ours. Thinking we are right, we impose our beliefs, our ethnocentricities, our fears, and our boxes on them.
But it doesn’t work that way. Your doorway never looks like my doorway. Your fears never look like my fears. Your stories were shaped by different circumstances.
Today I seek the grace to not judge or belittle other people through the lenses of my own stories, and to embrace the beauty of a tapestry of stories threaded throughout the world.
My favourite view – lying on the floor looking up at the iridescent fabric hanging from the ceiling. This space – though it may not seem like much – is sacred space.
