March 9 2024
The three of us spend a lot of times on screens. I look at my phone a lot. The boys look at my phone, the tv, and the computer screen. If I were to write out an essay about that, you’d likely nod your head and relate.
It’s 6:44am. Waits just woke up and walked out to me on the couch. We sat for a minute, him on my lap, and I felt him squirm towards the computer. Last night he and Murphy made new skins (characters) in Minecraft and I know Waits is pining to play the game with his new skin. So after just minutes of being awake he’s on the computer — because I let him. Then Murphy wakes up and comes out. Same thing happens.
You know how it goes. You feel bad about it, you feel ok about it, you have seasons with boundaries and fewer screens and seasons where it all falls apart. It’s ok.
But this isn’t about that.
This is about something ancient, mystical, vulnerable.
Sometimes, after we brush our teeth and after “Murphy, go pee. No, right now. Murphy go pee. MURPHY GO PEE IN THE TOI TOI RIGHT NOW OR I SWEAR I’M GOING TO PUT YOU ON THE ROOF.” After all that we get the drum off of the wall and climb into bed together, Murph on my right and Waits on my left, all of us on our backs looking up and out into the dark. I start a beat, my story beat. BUM, bumbumbumbum BUM, bumbumbumbum BUM. I speak. “We welcome the story into the room. We say, ‘Welcome, story’ and ‘Thank you, story,’” (the boys say it with me). They are quiet. They are listening. The story comes in, having traveled for however long it’s been told, sometimes hundreds of years, sometimes thousands.
“Once upon a time. Once under a time. Once around a time. Once behind time. Once when people weren’t doing hard time. Once, there was a brother and a sister who were orphans in their village…”
At work in the shop I wear headphones and listen to myths and fairytales being told by great storytellers. The Orphan Boy and the Elk Dog. Faithful John. The Firebird and Princess Vasalisa. Iron John. The Spirit in the Bottle. The Maiden Tsar. I’ll listen to the same story 10 times in a week, allowing it to get into me, work me over. Doesn’t matter if I’m paying full attention — sometimes I can’t, but I know the story is seeping in.
Then I bring the story home. No need for notes. No need to tell the story precisely as I heard it. The boys don’t require that, neither does the story.
“The orphan girl, the sister, was beautiful and lovely and helpful in village. The orphan boy, the brother, however, was deaf in both ears, and therefore was not as helpful in the village and not wanted by the villagers.”
When I first started telling stories to them the words came out all janky and disjointed. I was nervous, aware of my monotone voice. Aware I was mixing up details. Just keep practicing. It’s all practice. You’ll get better. Let the spotlight be on the story. Let the drum create the rhythm. Allow the story to do its work as it’s done for generations. The boys need a good story, not a good storyteller.
Their breathing deepens. Not yet asleep, they are envisioning the characters and the landscapes in their imaginations. No screens to tell them what to see or where it’s going. They ask questions. They tell each other what they are hearing and seeing.
I tell them of an orphaned boy that goes off on a quest to find a spirit animal in a mystery lake in order to bring that spirit animal back to his village for good fortune in farming and hunting. The boy faces trials, fears, the unknown. He meets strange characters, obtains a magic belt, a medicine robe, and half a herd of spirit animals. The boy grows from timid to bold along his journey. He goes through an initiation, stepping from boyhood into manhood.
Deeper breaths. One of them drifts into sleep, one is on the cusp. I keep drumming, keep speaking, even a few minutes past the point where they are both asleep to let my voice and the story inform their dreams.
I crawl out of their bed, go to my room, hang the drum back on the wall, and thank God and the story. Then I sleep.
Oh yeah but first I look at my phone for 20 minutes.
