children stories

The Strange Creature

A story from Zimbabwe

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Once there was a young boy who lived in a village in Zimbabwe in the south of Africa. He lived with his mom and dad who he loved very much. But his aunt also lived with them and she just seemed to live to tell him what to do.

All day long she'd be yelling at him. I want you to do this, I want you to do that! Nag, nag, nag! The boy was getting tired of it.

Sometimes he thought he'd go to the local medicine man and get some kind of herb or potion that he would put into his aunt's food that would shut her up. Or he'd dream that when he got to be older, and bigger and he had more bass in his voice, he'd go up to his aunt and yell at her like she'd always yelled at him.

But he didn't do any of these things because his parents had taught him to be an obedient young man, and to be respectful to his elders, and "Besides," said the father, "Yelling at you keeps her out of my hair so you're just going to have to put up with it!" And he did.

But one day she asked him to do something that he really didn't want to do. She wanted him to leave their village and to go deep into the forest and pick some fruit. Now the word was that in this area of the forest there were some caves. And it was said that in one of these caves there lived a Strange Creature, a creature with a big mouth and a big belly, who liked to eat human flesh! Needless to say the boy wasn't happy about going but he went, because he was an obedient young man.

So there he was, outside those caves that morning picking fruit. But all the while that he was picking fruit he was listening, do-do-do-do-do.... He had his monster raider going on. Suddenly, there was a rustling in the bushes......... then there it was, the Strange Creature. It had a humongous mouth, a big belly and really bad breath! The creature's breath was so bad that every time he roared trees caught on fire!

The boy ran as fast as he could. He ran so fast he would've left Marion Jones in the dust! But even though he was running faster than he'd ever run in his life, and even though the creature was really, really big, it was gaining on him. That creature was hungry and the little boy was going to be his breakfast. What was the boy to do?

The boy had brought a drum with him so he could signal for help if he found himself in some kind of danger. Don't you think he was in some kind of danger?

So the little boy climbed up a tree and began playing his drum. Perhaps you aren't familiar with the drum language so I'll translate for you. It means, "Help! There's a Strange Creature trying to eat me up!" That's a loose translation but you get my drift.

As the boy continued playing his drum, a peculiar thing happened with the Strange Creature. The creature started to dance and dance and dance. So what do you think the little boy kept doing? That's right, he kept on playing that drum. He played and played and played till the sun went down. Then the creature stopped for a second and looked at the little boy. Then, he boogied on back to his cave.

Well , what do you think the little boy did when the creature left?

He ran home. And who was waiting for him when he got there? You guessed it. His aunt ! And boy-o-boy was she fussing' up a fit!

"Where you been all day and where's my fruit?!?!" She started chasing the little boy all over the village. The boy had to dart here and dash there, and weave and bob. He put on some moves, Ricky Williams and Oscar Delahoya both would've been proud of. He hid until the next morning. That's when he told his father what had happened. The father knew his son was a truthful young man and believed the young man's story. He went to the auntie and tried to explain what had happened to her. Do you think she went for it? Nope. She said, "Ain't no Strange Creature! He made that story up. Where's he at? You better bring him to me!"

" No! "said the father, "we will go and see for ourselves."

So that morning, the mother, father, little boy and the auntie all went to go pick fruit and check out the Strange Creature story. The aunt thought it was all a bunch of nonsense, but she was not going to pass up an opportunity to do some yelling. Yelling was her life.

When they got to the area outside the caves, the little boy along with his mother and father began picking fruit and putting it in bags. The aunt didn't have a bag. Some might say she was a bag, but we won't go there. But she was definitely a greedy gut. She went up to a fruit tree and started scarfing down fruit. Juice and seeds and rinds were flying everywhere. You needed safety goggles on if you were standing within five or ten feet of her.

Meanwhile, the little boy had his monster radar going on. Suddenly, once again, there was a rustling in the bushes. Then he heard the loud, terrible noise again. "Roar!" the Strange Creature with the big mouth and the big belly and bad breath, moving fast. He grabbed the boy's father and swallowed him whole. He grabbed the mom and swallowed her whole. The aunt was so busy scarfing down fruit that she didn't even notice what was going on. The creature tip-toed over and swallowed her whole. Then he looked over at the little boy and said, "Cookie!" And started making his way towards the little boy. What do you think that he boy did?

Yes indeedy. He climbed up in a tree and started playing his drum. And what did the creature do? He began to dance. But the boy was upset, because he'd just seen his mother and father swallowed whole by the Strange Creature. But he wasn't upset about the aunt. That was cool. But because he was upset, when he played his drum he played it real fast. And because the creature had rhythm, he kept up with the beat.

Now if you've ever been in a situation where you've swallowed two or three people whole and then started to do some boogying, you might know what happened next. The creatures big old belly was shaking up and down and from side to side and he went, "Bbrappp!" Then suddenly it threw up the father, who was still alive and sucking air but very slimy. The boy said "Yesss!" And got back on that drum. He played faster and faster and once again the creature went , "Brappp!" And up came the mother. "Alright," said the little boy. Then he began playing his drum real slow. Why?? Beause he liked the aunt right where she was in the belly of the Strange Creature. But the boy's father said, "Son, you must play your drum fast. You must get your aunt."

But the boy began whining, "Aw dad. Do I have to? It's so peaceful. Can't we take the creature home instead?!?" "No son," said the father, "You must get your aunt back!" Well he was after all, an obedient young man. So begrudgingly, he played faster and faster and faster till the creature went "Brrappp!" And up came the auntie. The creature choked and gagged and spit cause the aunt tasted bad going down and even worse coming back up!

Well the creature kept on dancing, until the sun went down. Then what did the creature do? He boogied on back to his cave. When the creature left another strange thing happened, this time with the aunt. She wasn't yelling any more. Something about being down in the belly of that Strange Creature had chilled her out big time. And from that day on she never yelled at the young man again. And so they all lived happily ever after. And that's the end of that.

Commentary:

As storytellers, we have an appreciation for the power of story. Many of us make a point of collecting and developing stories that are not just entertaining but also have strong values. But you never know what in a story will have a profound impact on a listener.

"The Strange Creature" is a story I began telling in February 1993. I'd become a professional storyteller in July of 1992 and was intently searching for material. I ran across this tale in Children of Wax, a collection of African folk tales by Alexander McCall Smith. It was a fun story and because of the drumming and boogying that were integral to the story, it was perfect for my style of hyper kinetic telling. It quickly became my signature piece.

In the fall of 1993, I was invited to tell stories to several groups of children at a spiritual conference in the San Francisco area. On that Saturday I told a variety of stories to these three different age groups. Among the stories told was "A Strange Creature."The kids had a great time.

On Sunday morning, a mother of one of the girls who'd attended my presentation approached me and said that her daughter had loved my stories, and wouldn't let her go to bed before telling her one of the stories. The story she chose? "The Strange Creature." Then she told her mother that I was a reason for her to keep living! Now I am someone who is not uncomfortable receiving praise but that was a bit much even for me. I asked her what that was all about.

The mother explained that her daughter had been in a deep funk for a couple of years. There'd been a divorce. They'd moved to another state which lead to the trauma of uprooting and making new friends. The mother had a new boyfriend.

All of this must have been a tremendous burden for this young girl. But something about listening to those stories, and especially "The Strange Creature", had pulled her out of that funk for a little while and for at least that weekend she was like any other ten year old again.

I have a variety of profound stories in my repertoire. I never considered The Strange Creature one of them. But on that day and at thatpoint in time, for that young girl it was very profound. You never know.

The Young Man, The Lion,
and
The Yellow-Flowered Zwart-Storm Tree

African Tale

A lion found a young man sleeping by a water hole. He took hold of him and lifted him up onto the branches of a yellow-flowered zwart-storm tree. There he wedged him in between the branches while he went back to the water hole to drink. The young man woke and tried to move but found that he was held fast. The lion returned and pushed his head more firmly between the branches. Noticing that there were tears running down the cheeks of his prey, the lion licked them away and then returned to the water hole to drink, for he was very thirsty.

While he was drinking the young man managed to escape and ran away. He made sure not to run directly to his home but disguised his spoor by running first this way, then that.

When he reached his home he told everyone what had happened to him, and the whole village worked to disguise his scent by wrapping him around with hartebeest skins, for they knew it was in the nature of the lion not to let its prey go.

The lion appeared near the village. The people shot him again and again, but he would not die. They threw children at him, but he ignored them and would not eat. They threw women at him, but again he ignored them and would not eat. They kept shooting with arrows and with spears, but he remained unhurt. He kept sniffing for the young man. The lion wanted the young man for it had licked his tears. It wanted no one else but that young man.

The lion attacked the houses and knocked them down. The people pleaded with the mother to give him her son. At last she said she would, but insisted the lion must die.

"Let the lion die and lie upon my son," she said.

The people gave the young man to the lion, and the lion killed the young man. The people shot at the lion once more, and the lion said, "Now I am ready to die. For I have the young man that I put in the yellow-flowered zwart-storm tree, the young man whose tears I licked, the young man that I have all this time been seeking. Now I have hold of him, for I am his."

And so the lion died and the people laid his body on the body of the young man.

Commentary

The young man is sleeping by the water hole. That is, he is in a state of non-awareness right beside a life-giving source of spiritual nourishment.

The lion (his spiritual guide, his god, his destiny) sees him and puts him in the tree (the cosmic tree of life). He is off the ground (the mundane world) and is waiting for his entrance into the higher world-the world of the higher consciousness.

The lion delays, knowing that the young man cannot be rushed but must go through certain phrases. The lion sees the first stirrings of awareness in the man. The young man's first reaction to his awakening in the tree is despair, sorrow, fear. He weeps. The lion licks away his tears. He tries to comfort him and goes away again, giving him more time to come to terms with his situation. The man does not want the fearful agony of awakening to the higher self. He runs back to his old ways, cunning enough to do everything in his power to avoid pursuit.

But he cannot escape his destiny. The lion will not take a substitute. It is that particular young man who marked, and only he will the lion take.

In the lion's final words we find the key to the whole story.

The lion and the young man are one. The flight and the chase are within the one soul.

Have we not all feared the awakening in the yellow-flowered zwart-storm tree, knowing that our lives will never be the same again and there is no way out but complete death to the world?

Some years ago I wrote a poem about the fearsomeness of the spiritual call that has helped me to understand this story.

The Christ

He will not come
as you expect,
swinging incense
and a Bible...

He will come
like a tiger from a field of daisies...
suddenly leaping
from the familiar
to the divine.

Incidentally, I'm not at all sure what a yellow-flowered zwart-storm tree looks like or even whether it exists in Africa, but the name works very well symbolically in this story. The yellow flowers suggest the golden brilliance of light-the fertile flowering of spiritual experience. "Zwart" is the Dutch word for "black," and "zwart-storm" conjures up for me images of those fearsome black storms that terrified me as a child in Africa. Those storms cleared the air after days and weeks, sometimes months, of sultry brooding weather that made it hard to breathe and dried the veld so thoroughly that it appeared parched and dead, only to spring alive again as soon as the storm broke.

The tree is a combination of light and dark-of gentle flowers and fierce and driving storm.

The Blossom Tree

A Tale from Tibet
Retold by Odds Bodkin

Editor's Note: This tale is a direct transcripton from an oral recording and can only suggest the full exuberance and artistry of the original telling, one which includes virtuoso musical accompaniment and a rich interplay of character voices. Purchasing information for the tape can be found at the end of the story.

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Long ago, in the holy city of Benares, in India, where tall temples stood reflected in a hundred quiet pools, and pilgrims, their feet weary, dusty, from the long trek to the holy city by the river would wander in groups into the shade beneath the great trees in the parks, in a city famous for its parks. In Benares, merchants built homes, like the palaces of kings.

The busiest place in all the city was the market. Children laughed and ran beneath the legs of pack mules standing in lines. Women brought out bolts of brightly colored cloth and spread them like the tails of peacocks on the road. There were great steaming bowls full of rice, chicken, and the smell of the dust mixed with the smell of the ganja and the dung and lifted in a great cloud throughout the city.

Out into this crowd stepped a tall man. His name was Patan-Pali. The most famous of all the merchants in the city. Patan-Pali, it was said, was brave beyond bravery. It was said that he alone would take an army with him as his pack train made its way northward to the Hindu kush where it would turn eastward to Cathay and westward to Arabia in search of spice. Patan-Pali who had great warehouses in the city.

Well, the man was about to put his foot into the stirrup when up ran a group of his his neighbors, all holding goblets of wine, the wine rocking back and forth in the rims of the goblets. His neighbors looked angry. They said to him,

"Patan- Pali..."

"Patan-Pali?"

" Patan-Pali!"

" Yes?" said Patan-Pali.

"Patan-Pali, I will ask, yes I will, Patan-Pali, we are very curious..."

"Yes, very curious..."

"Curious about what?"

"Yes, we are curious. Ah, well, we understand that you have no family and that you have great storehouses full of things, eh, some of which, eh, hold our own things. And are very curious...who you intend to leave in charge of all your wealth, eh while you are gone?"

Patan-Pali looked at his neighbors and gestured down the line of pack mules to a simple herdsman pulling tight the strap of a stirrup and said-

"Jigme-my friend-he will watch over my things."

The merchants looked at him. "Jigme? Jigme!"

"Jigme is poor," declared one.

"Jigme is a simple herdsman!" said another.

"That is impossible-Jigme! Patan-Pali, the well of poverty is deep! Besides... Our things are kept inside your warehouses, you cannot leave a poor man in charge of your wealth. By the time you come back, he will be the rich one, you will be the poor one, yes, Patan-Pali, what do you think of that?"

Patan-Pali looked at all his angry neighbors and said, "Jigme is my friend. I trust him."

"We will not accept this decision Patan-Pali. We think that we should ask someone else in the city..."

"Yes, in the city."

"Yes, there is a wise man who is visiting Benares, everyone is talking about him. 'Buddha' or 'the Buddha' they call him-he sits in the palm grove, the palm grove. He speaks of impossible things. We should ask the Buddha.

"Yes, ask the Buddha!"

"Patan-Pali, you must come with us."

"Very well."

And so across the city Patan-Pali followed his angry neighbors. And they came to the palm grove and there they found, seated among his disciples, a great wide man, with a smile upon his face.

The angry merchants walked up to the Buddha...

"Ah Buddha... Patan-pali intends to leave his great wealth in the care of a simple herdsman!"

Said Patan-Pali "But I trust him Buddha!"

The Buddha turned and gestured them all to sit. My friends, come, I will tell you a story. Sit. Relax..."

Long ago in this very city, the city of Benares, there once lived a great king and his name was king Brahmadatta. King Brahmadatta was beloved by all the people in Benares for instead of taxing people or making war, King Brahmadatta loved to garden. Yes! Grew plants! And of all the plants in the city known for its parks and its gardens, his favorite of them all was the Blossom Tree.

How do I describe the Blossom Tree? Why, even when Benares was but a small village by the river, people say the Blossom Tree was already an ancient plant. Some people believed that the Blossom Tree's roots went so deep that they went to the realm of the demons. Others believed that the Blossom Tree's great boughs touched heaven itself.

But King Brahmadatta, he loved the Blossom Tree because to him it was a poem for life. Every spring the little leaves would push themselves from the branches. The Blossom Tree would thrive and live a full life all during the long summer. But then, the monsoons came, the Blossom Tree would seem to lose its leaves and seem to die. Ah, but, King Brahmadatta knew that, just like a person, the Blossom Tree was only sleeping in bed and that when the spring came again, so would its life. But for all the time king Brahmadatta spent beneath the boughs of the Blossom Tree, he never once noticed the little kusha grass, the soft green kusha grass -or the little cameleons, the little lizards who go running, running, who change their colors lived. No, King Brahmadatta only had eyes for the Blossom Tree.

One day the king was seated in his great throne room, with his wife, the queen, sipping tea, when something fell (plop!) into his tea.

"Something has fallen into my tea!" he said. It was white. It floated. It fell another bit. He looked up. It was plaster beginning to fall from the ceiling.

"Plaster!" he said.

Suddenly there was another great rumble in the palace.

"The palace is going to collapse!" he cried. For, making its way across the ceiling was an immense crack! And the crack was widening! And great chunks of plaster were falling all across the great throne room!

"Carpenters, builders," he cried, "Quickly! Go out into the parks, into the gardens, hurry, we must repair the palace!" For he had noticed that there, in the great wooden pillar, which held up the entire palace, there was a deep crack.

So into the parks the carpenters and the builders ran. They searched from park to park, tree to tree, measuring, trying to find a great tree great enough to replace the pillar.

But it was not long before one of the head carpenters returned to the king and fell on his knees before him.

"Your majesty-King Brahmadatta-it pains me to report that there is only one tree great enough to replace the pillar."

"Well what is it? What is it?" asked the king.

"It is... the Blossom Tree."

The king looked at the builder. "The Blossom Tree?" he said.

"The jewel of Benares? The most beautiful tree in all of India? No, no, there must be another."

"There is no other, king."

"Poor King Brahmadatta. He did not know what to do. Either he could save the Blossom Tree and let his palace collapse. But he could not do that. His servants, his family lived there. The people needed to see the king in the palace.

Or, he could chop down the most beautiful living thing in all of India.

It was too much of a decision for the king so he went that night out into the park to the Blossom Tree itself. Its mighty branches rose above him. And he could feel its immense spirit surging from the earth, up its trunk, out its boughs, out its leaves, down into the earth, into its roots again, up its trunk, out its bough, out its leaves, into the earth. And he prayed to the spirit of the mighty tree for an answer. But the spirit of the Blossom Tree said.... nothing.

And so King Brahmadatta decided to chop it down.

As soon as the idea entered his mind, the breezes blowing past his ears heard it, and they whispered it to the birds. And the birds in horror flew away and whispered it to the leaves. And the leaves whispered it to the sun. And the sun whispered it to all of the universe until soon, all creation knew that in the morning the beautiful Blossom Tree was to die.

And deep in the park that night, the mighty spirit of the Blossom Tree herself, who had lived in her home for thousand of years, looked around. And the spirits of the other mighty trees, magnificent trees, joined her. And they said,

"What will you do?"

"Yes, what will you do?"

"You must leave your body tomorrow morning, what will you do? They are going to chop you down!"

And the Blossom Tree spirit said, "I have lived in my body for thousands of years! I do not know how to live in another body! What will I do?"

"Well" said the others, "You should try this."

"No, no, no, you do that!"

"No, no, Blossom Tree, you must do this to save yourself."

"No, no, no," said another tree, "Do this!"

"No, no, do that!"

"Do this, do this!"

"Do that, do that!"

"Do this!"

"No, do that!"

But although the proud spirit of the other trees had something to say, in her heart she knew that they could not help her. And so, all alone, in the darkness of the night, the Blossom Tree spirit wept.

Night passed. All alone she waited, when in the darkness, an hour before dawn, in the lawn, there came a tiny voice-

"Blossom Tree!"

"Who is it," she said.

"Blossom Tree! It is me-spirit of the kusha grass."

"Oh, little kusha gras, you cannot help me."

"Blossom Tree, I have an idea..."

"What is your idea, little kusha grass?"

And the great spirit of the Blossom Tree leaned over and listened to the tiny voice of the kusha grass.

The next morning two axe-men, brothers, made their way through the dark city. For all the people of Benares were dreaming fitful dreams, for they tossed in their beds unsure what darkness was about to happen. And there were no cries of little birds for all the birds had wrapped themselves in leaves so as not to see the terrible deed. And the sun did not wish to rise but instead hid itself beneath dark clouds on the horizon. For all of nature was mourning the Blossom Tree.

The blades of the axe-men swung past their ankles as they entered the park as walked up to the great trunk of the Blossom Tree. And although they did not want to chop it down, one of the brothers knelt down and felt the tree for a place to chop. But he said-

"Brother, brother, something is wrong here! Feel the trunk here. It is rotten."

"No, brother, that is impossible. It was fine yesterday."

"No, no, no, feel here, feel here! Do you feel it? It is soft! The Blossom Tree has gone soft here!"

"It was fine yesterday!"

"I know it was fine yesterday but look it is rotten here! And over here, too... I feel it! It is soft! And way up here it is. And down here and all around here!"

"Brother! Brother! The Blossom Tree has gone completely rotten-in one night! It is a miracle! It is a miracle! It means that it will not work for the pillar!"

"Yes."

"It will not. We must tell the king-"

"-the king-"

"Yes, the king."

And so swiftly, through the city the two axe-men ran and they found king Brahmadatta with his face in his hands. And they said, "King, the Blossom Tree has gone rotten - in one night! We cannot chop it down."

"No."

"No"

This caused the king to begin to think. And swiftly, his mind raced, trying to think of something to do, when suddenly an idea flew into his mind. And he said,

"Call the carpenters and the builders! And send them out in to the city to bring back three trees, great trees. And we must bind them together with binds of brass and make one strong pillar. Now hurry!"

And so out into the parks the builders and the carpenters ran. They felled three mighty trees. And they bound them together with bands of brass. And they replaced the pillar of the palace. And as soon as this was done, out of the leaves stepped the little birds. And they spread their wings. And the sun rose up above the city, awakening all the people. And the people shook the sleep from their brows. And as if a great weight had been lifted, they made their way out to live another day.

But back in the park, the spirits of the other trees stared at the Blossom Tree spirit and asked,

"How did you do that?"

"What did you do?

"How did you go rotten in one night?"

"Is it possible to go rotten in one night? And even if you do go rotten you must leave your body anyway!"

"What happened?"

"How-what-did you do that?"

And the spirit of the Blossom Tree looked at all the others, so proud, so magnificent, and she said,

"Last night, all of you told me what to do. But you could not help me at all. The little spirit of the kusha grass, the kusha grass no one ever notices, spoke to me. And the spirit of the kusha grass is friends with the little chameleons who change their color. The spirit of the kusha grass called the little chameleons, thousands of them, to climb up upon my back. Their little bodies were soft. I am not rotten! I am as strong as ever!"

The spirits of the trees were amazed. And then the blossom Tree spirit spoke one last time.

"Henceforward then, we will not choose our friends and judge them in any life not by their magnificence or their will or their fame. But instead we must choose our friends for their faithfulness and the depth of their love."

And so the Buddha finished his story. And each of the merchants, one by one, rose and looked about him. And wandered off across the city. wondering what it was in life he might have missed. But the merchant Patan-Pali bowed low to the Buddha and thanked him. And the wise man in the palm grove winked.

Patan-Pali turned and made his way across the city and leaving Jigme, his trusted friend, in charge of all his great wealth, loaded his pack train out of city gates, across India, northward through the Hindu kush, eastward to Cathay in search of silks, and westward to Arabia in search of spice.

Commentary:

"Can Stories Teach Peace?"

First of all, what is peace? Absence of conflict? When you consider that the universe is a tissue of infinitesimal conflicts of creation and destruction, probably not. Conflicting air temperatures circulate the planet's air supply and magnets wouldn't exist without their conflicting polar energies. Even our sense of vision is a byproduct of contrasts across the retina--without those conflicts of light and dark, we go blind.

So, is a fluttering leaf less at peace than a still one? Probably not. When nations are at peace they still argue bitterly about small things. So if we question our metaphors for peace-stillness, tranquillity, ease, relaxation, quiet--beneath the surface we see that they are really just names for rest periods between times of activity.

Peace is something very different. Peace is well-governed activity. Peace accepts contrasts and conflicts and does its best to live with them. In our bustling, imperfect, multicultural world, peace can't be taught by telling people to be peaceful. Peace can only be taught by developing respect for the lives of others. For other races and societies, other religions, and other linguistic groups. And by pointing out the universal experiences we all share, no matter how different we may appear.

It is in pointing out the universals we all share that storytelling can be a powerful tool. Over the years I've collected hundreds of stories from cultures ranging from the Australian Aboriginal to the Classical Grecian. Yet all these tales highlight universal human virtues like honesty, respect, perseverance, courage, compassion, and loyalty. Unlike morals, which vary explosively between groups, these universal virtues tend to be required learning in just about every culture, from quiet village to crowded city.

The Blossom Tree, a Tibetan folktale about a tree, a king, and the faithful kusha grass nobody ever notices, is about the loyal meek helping the powerful strong; but so is The Mouse and the Lion, Aesop's famous tale of a lion nibbled from a stout net and saved. The Tale of the Tree, a Bantu folktale, is about perseverance and memory; but so is my four-hour version of Homer's The Odyssey. The Little Shepherd, an Italian fairytale, is about courage and cleverness, but so is Theft of Fire, a Maidu Native American tale about brave animals stealing back fire from Thunder himself. Abe Lincoln's Letter to his Brother, wherein Abe refuses his sibling another loan is about responsibility and honesty, but so is The Honest Man and the Gold, an old Jewish folktale from the Midrash.

By listening to these universal tales, children recognize that what is valued in their culture is valued in other, profoundly different ones - cultures from far away, where people look and seem to behave very differently. They learn about other folkways and beliefs in a good light. They are entertained through their imaginations. And the hidden message is: at the level of the human spirit, we are all the same.

Can stories teach peace? Not directly. But if we can teach our children these universal virtues, then peace will be the natural outcome, no matter what petty conflicts our children encounter.

he Woodcutter and Death

A Tale from Nepal

Retold by Alida Gersie

Once there lived an old woodcutter. He was very poor and could scarcely make ends meet. One day he went into the forest and gathered a lot more wood than usual. As he bent down to lift the bundle onto his shoulders he found that he was too frail to raise the heavy weight. He sighed deeply and cursing his age, said: "If only I were dead." Suddenly someone stood next to him. A strange voice asked: "Did you call me?" The woodcutter felt a great fear. "No, no I didn't", he lied.
Ignoring the old man's clumsy deception Death made himself known. He explained that he had simply come, because he had been called. The woodcutter became less frightened and looked at Death. He found it very hard to believe that this was really Death himself. Seeing his doubt, Death pointed at an old woman who bathed in a nearby pond. The woman suddenly fell and died. This immediately brought the woodcutter to his senses. He at once remembered why he had wanted to die, and asked Death, now that he was here, if he could please give him a hand and lift the bundle of wood onto his shoulders. Death gladly obliged. The woodcutter was ready to hurry home, when the thought came to him that he might ask how much longer he had to live. As he left, Death answered: "Five years to a day."
That night the woodcutter did not sleep very well. Tumultuous thoughts haunted him. Early the next morning he returned to the forest. He looked for a big, big tree. And when he found it, he cut a single hole in the bottom of the tree. Then he started carving out the inside of the trunk. He carved for five whole years.
Then Death returned. Just as he said he would. The old woodcutter promised to come along, but, he said, before he was ready to leave the world, he so much wanted Death to see what he had carved as a gift for the people who would live long after he had died. They went to the woods. Deep into the woods they went. Death climbed into the tree-trunk. Proudly the woodcutter showed him round. When Death was in the top of the tree-trunk house, the woodcutter hastened down, crept outside, jammed a log into the entrance hole and hurried home.
Time passed. People and animals gave birth, but Death came to no one. Hunger and illness resided everywhere, yet nobody died. Even the gods became alarmed. They approached the Lord Shiva, the great one, who, donning the garb of a human being, decided to come to earth. He went immediately to the old woodcutter and asked him if he still wanted to go on living.
The poor woodcutter was by now even older and weaker, and so ill that he could hardly leave his resting- place, let alone return to the forest where Death was locked inside the tree- house. Quietly the old woodcutter acknowledge that, at last, he was ready to die. Then the Lord Shiva helped the old man to get up. Slowly they walked to the forest. They went deep into the woods. Then he opened the tree and released Death. Death was shaken by his ordeal in the tree. He pleaded with the Lord Shiva to make him from now on invisible, so that people could no longer devise ways to stave him off. "So be it", Lord Shiva said.
From that day onwards Death has been invisible to humankind, though he sees all of us. And the woodcutter, he died.
© Alida Gersie, 2003

Commentary

How we too might long to have the choice to lock death away inside the trunk of the tree of our life. Incarcerated, until the day we are willing and ready to surrender to its might. In this benign tale the woodcutter endures no punishment for his attempt to do away with Death., The Greek Sisiphys who likewise attempted to remove Death's power by stealing the pen with which Death writes the names of the dead in a book, must to this very day push a heavy boulder towards the top of a hill. When the top is reached, the rock falls back, and the labour of Sysiphus begins all over again.

The story tells us that once the woodcutter encountered Death his life was forever changed. He went into the woods and from that day onwards worked inside the tree. We do not know whether he tried to create his 'magnum opus', the greatest of all his works, for those who would come after him, or whether he designed the lockable space with the sole aim of immobilizing Death.

What we do know, though, is that the kind of mortal existence he chose for himself during the last five years of his life was far removed from the fellowship of other people. He went into the forest, and dwelled alone. Thus he devoted his life to death; his work became an acknowledgement of the temporal character of human contributions. When the tree died, his life's work would die. Thereby the old woodcutter succumbed to the wonderland where death is not only a danger, but above all a lure. Unable to surmount his fascination with death and dying, he paradoxically entombed himself. Our woodcutter failed to win back life, a human life, an earthly life. Heidegger says that 'death is a strange and unhomely thing that banishes us once and for all from everything in which we are at home." Though we may be banished, we still have to find a way of returning to a simple human existence and to human relationships. The lure, dread and fascination with death must be overcome. Only then can our earth and we breathe and thrive.

A Tale from China

A long time ago in ancient China a farmer went to market. He had luscious pears to sell and was determined to ask a very high price. Once he had found a good place in the market, he cried out: "Pears, beautiful pears...!"

Whilst he called attention to his goods, an old ragged-looking monk approached him. He humbly asked to be given one of the pears. The farmer said: "Why should I give a pear to you? You're as lazy as anything and haven't done an honest day's work in your life." As the monk did not walk away but repeated his request, the farmer became more and more angry. He called him the nastiest things under the sun.

"Good sir, " said the monk, "I cannot count the number of pears in your wheelbarrow. You have hundreds of them. I have only asked for one pear. Why has this made you so angry?"

By then a large crowd of people had assembled around the farmer and the poor monk. "Give him a little pear," someone suggested, in the hope that this might solve the problem. "Do as the old man asks, for heaven's sake it is only a pear," another one remarked, but the farmer wouldn't hear of it. "No is no is no," he said. Finally an elderly man bought one of the pears and handed it reverently to the old monk.

The monk bowed, thanked the elderly man and said: "You know that I am a holy man. When I became a monk I gave up everything. I have no home, no clothes which I may call my own, no food other than what is given to me. How can you refuse to give me a single pear when I ask for it? I shall not be this selfish. I invite every one of you to eat one of the pears that I have grown. It shall be an honour if you accept my invitation."

The people were startled. Why had the monk asked for a pear if he had so many pears with him? He did not seem to carry anything. What did the old man mean?

The monk ate his pear with great concentration until there was just one small pip left. He quickly dug a hole in the ground, planted the pip and gently covered it with earth. Then he asked for a cup of water. One of the people in the crowd handed him the water. The monk poured it on the soil. Hardly any time had passed when the bystanders saw some green leaves sprouting from the earth. These leaves grew very quickly. The people were astounded. In front of their eyes stood a small pear tree with branches and more branches and leaves, more and more leaves. Where the old monk had planted the little pip only minutes ago, there was now a small pear tree. It continued to grow faster and faster. They could see it grow.

Silence fell in the marketplace as the tree burst into flower and the flowers slowly turned into large, sweet-smelling pears. The monk's face was aglow with pleasure. He picked the pears one by one, and handed them to each person who had witnessed the pear tree's miraculous growth. He handed them out and handed them out until everyone had been refreshed by a delicious pear. Then the monk took his axe and before the people even realized what was happening, the pear tree was cut down. The monk simply picked the tree up, put it over his shoulder and went on his way.

The farmer had watched the scene in amazement. He had not been able to believe his eyes when the pear tree grew out of the ground so near to his very own wheelbarrow which was full of pears. He looked at the barrow. It was empty. Not a single pear was left in it. One of the handles of the barrow was missing, too. Then the farmer knew what had happened. The old monk had used his pears to create the wonderful pear tree.

Of course the monk was nowhere to be seen. The pear tree which the monk had picked up with such great ease was found a little further down the road. It was the missing handle from the wheelbarrow. The farmer was in a towering rage, whilst the crowd laughed.
© Alida Gersie, 2003.

Commentary

Many stories evoke in the listener quite contradictory responses, like interest, irritation, amusement or puzzlement. When I use a story such as "The Magic Pear Tree" in my work as a drama therapist and organisational consultant, I incorporate the telling of the story in an overall session pattern . This pattern consists of various newly designed creative expressive techniques . These techniques are related to an identified problem within the story. This problem engages, but does not necessarily match, a difficulty that the client encounters. I design these creative-expressive techniques to help the client to develop a new take on his/her difficulty in an unexpected way. In other words: the client's doing of the activities problematises an identified issue that has long been resistant to change. The doing of the activities casts this issue in a new light. It also enables the client to practice new, more productive ways of dealing with something that was previously difficult for them. I call this the "therapeutic storymaking" approach to working with folktales and myths. Every folktale or myth contains a particular take on difficulties or issues.

The story of Magic Pear Tree story raises, amongst others, the following issues:

• The reliability and unreliability of our perceptions
• How to deal with someone's charismatic or hypnotic powers
• The morality of tricking somebody
• what one thinks about seeking and enacting revenge
• how to clarify the extent and boundaries of one's generosity
• what to do when one witnesses to a questionable event
• how to request someone's help or support
• the dynamics between a group and an individual.

When I have identified in which issues a client wants to resolve, I select a pertinent story and design the accompanying set of creative-expressive activities. I call this set of activities a "storymaking structure". The activities include innovative ways to make visual images, listening to a folktale or myth, writing and telling new fictional stories, and the creation of movements or dramatisations. During the 'therapeutic storymaking' session the linked creative-expressive activities become gradually but systematically intermingled with reflections on the person's experience of his/her life and on how the client has understood his/her life till now. In this way the client is enabled to re-weave the connections between their experiences of the private, the personal and the public realms, between forgotten, hidden and shared stories.

THE HARE AND THE TORTOISE

Once upon a time, a hare went to a pool to quench his thirst. As a matter of chance, he saw a slow-moving tortoise over there and mocked at him. The tortoise felt pinched and challenged the hare for a race.

The hare accepted the challenge with a smile. The next morning, they both met at the starting point and the race began. As expected, the hare went far ahead of the tortoise.

After covering more than half of the distance, he started feeling bored. As the tortoise was quite far behind, the hare thought of taking some rest. So he stopped and began eating blades of green grass. Having his had fill, he felt asleep. Nearby, he saw a shady bush and laid down under it.

As for the tortoise, he constantly moved along at his slow pace and overtook the sleeping hare. He reached the destination point and won the race.

When the hare awoke, it was fairly late. He feared that the tortoise might have passed by him. So he ran at a break-neck speed but reaching the destination point, was highly disappointed to find his rival already there as a winner.

This story, therefore, teaches us that, one who moves steadily though slow, is never a looser. That�s why we say, �Slow and steady, wins the race.�

The End..

The Harper in Fairlyand

A Story from Celtic sources

The King, Sir Orfeo, could play the harp like no one else. When he played, birds stopped singing, just to listen. It was a small harp, one he could tuck under his arm and take with him wherever wanted.

On afternoons when the weather was sunny and fair, he and his queen, the Lady Heurodis would go into the palace garden. They would spread a blanket to sit upon, lean against a tree and eat their mid-day meal. Then he would play his harp and she— and the birds —would listen.

One such a day they seated themselves beneath an apple tree and leaning as usual against the trunk. Its blossoms were open, with the sweet smell pouring out. The Lady fell asleep. The king called two servants to come and guard her. “Protect her well”, he whispered, then went back to the palace to do the things that kings must do.

The servants stood under the apple tree, one on each side of The Lady, when at once, both at the same moment, they sneezed. When the sneeze happened, they both blinked. Their eyes closed for just an instant — there was no stopping it — and when they opened their eyes, she was gone. In just that instant, she was gone. The servants looked behind the trees, the bushes, the flowers, inside the palace and out. She was nowhere.

There was no way out of it, they must tell the king.

“What do you mean, gone?” he said. “How could that be? Tell me what happened!”

The servants told about the sneeze and the blink. As he listened to them finish the story, Sir Orfeo was already taking off his crown. “I know what’s happened. It’s the Fairy Folk. They have taken The Lady. When they see something they want, they make you sneeze, and in that blink, the Fairy Folk take what they want. My Lady has been taken by the Fairy Folk. Well, I don’t want to sit on the throne without her beside me”. As he took off the royal shoes, he called for the Lord Counselor. “I’m going away to find the Lady Heurodis. I want you to lead the country until I come back. And I won’t come back, until she is with me”.

He took off the clothes that made him look like the king that he was, and put on the ordinary clothes of a peasant. He took no bundle of food or weapons. All he took was his harp, tucked under his arm, as he walked away from that place.

For days, weeks, months, he walked and he looked. He ate only the nuts and berries he could find. He washed in the streams, he slept on the ground. He lived the way an ordinary traveling peasant would do. But each night, before sleeping, he’d lean against a tree and play his harp. The wild creatures would come to listen, the furry ones and the feathered ones. They were his only companions in all that time.

One morning, as he was still on the ground, just waking, he heard, then he saw, 50 horses walking by. Sitting on each horse, was a beautiful lady. He knew by the way they sat, so still, that they were the ladies of the Fairy Folk. In the midst of them, was his own Lady. He moved to wave, so she would see him. But he forgot how he looked. In all that time, no one had cut his hair, nor trimmed his beard. His clothes were torn from the briars. He did not look like the king that he was. And, she did not know him by the way that he looked.

He picked up his harp and began to play. She knew at once the music, knew it was him. But a spell was on her and she could not wave nor even smile. As the horses moved on, he followed after, hiding from bush to tree. They came to a mountain, and he thought they would go one way or the other. But no, a tunnel opened into the mountain, and the horses moved on into that tunnel. It was so dark, nothing could be seen — not even a hand before the face. Sir Orfeo followed the sound of horse’s hooves on the stone floor and he ran his hands along the cool, damp stone walls of the tunnel.

When he came out of the darkness, he was in the land of the Fairy Folk.

As beautiful as ever it is imagined to be, that's how beautiful it was to Sir Orfeo. There, across a meadow, he saw the castle of the King and Queen of the Fairy Folk. Around the castle was a garden, and sitting on the ground, leaning against an apple tree was his Lady, sleeping, just the way she was when she'd been taken. He tried to speak to her, to touch her, but the spell was still on her. So he went right into the castle, walked right up to the King and Queen of the Fairy Folk, and without even being asked, began to play his harp.

His music was so grand, that the King and Queen stopped what they were doing, to listen. From all over the land, Fairy Folk came to listen. Sir Orfeo played happy music, for he had found his Lady. He played sad music, for he had no idea how he would get her from there. When he stopped, all the Fairy Folk were silent for a moment. Then as if they were one, they took in a deep breath, and let out a sigh of satisfaction.

The queen of fairies, leaned toward the king of mortals and said, "Sir, we have never heard anything so lovely. We hear fairy music, and yours is even more grand." She looked at her King. They nodded to each other, as if speaking without words. Together, they said, "We want to give you a reward for playing that music. Just ask for what you want. We will grant any wish, we promise".

Without a moment to hesitate, Sir Orfeo said, "I know what I want. There is a beautiful lady sleeping under an apple tree outside your castle. I'd like her to come away with me."

The Queen sat back. She looked at the King. They both looked hard at Sir Orfeo and they both said, "No!" The Queen explained, "You, sir, looking the way you do, all tattered, scraggy - no, I don't think so". Sir Orfeo reached up to feel his mussed, tangled hair and he looked down at his torn, dirty clothes. The King of the Fairy Folk said, "A beautiful lady like her to go away with one looking like you….that wouldn't be right now, would it?"

Sir Orfeo looked into the eyes of the King, then the Queen, and said right back at them, "You made a promise. And for you to go back on your promise - that wouldn't be right now, would it?" And so his wish was granted.

He went out of the castle, right to the garden, right to the apple tree. The spell was gone now, and he could touch her on the shoulder. She opened her eyes and took his hand as she stood. Together they walked across the meadow, away from the Land of the Fairy Folk. In the tunnel, they listened to their shoes on the stone floor and felt with their hands, the cool, damp walls, 'til, there they were, back in their own land again.

To their own castle they went - walking and talking - telling each other of their adventures in all that time. There in the garden, their apple tree was still standing. Its branches were so full, the apples nearly touched the ground. Even so, they tip-toed past it, being careful not to sneeze.

As luck would have it, the Lord Counselor was standing outside the castle. "Welcome, Lady Heurodis! Welcome back. You, all tattered and scraggy, you go around to the back door." Sir Orfeo played his harp, and the Lord Counselor knew that sound. "Oh, your majesty, I'm sorry. I didn't recognize you, but I know your music. Welcome back, your majesty."

Sir Orfeo went into his rooms. He washed, the barber came to trim his hair and shape his beard. He put on the clothes that made him look like the King that he truly was.

From that day on, Sir Orfeo and Lady Heurodis ruled wisely and carefully, together. But never again did either of them sleep under an apple tree.

The Tree of Creation

A Folktale from Spanish and Mexican sources

Once upon a time, long, long ago, yet not so long ago, there lived a child who had a heart full of love, a head full of ideas and dreams, and all the ways of a growing child. In essence, he was an amazing and wondrous little human being. And yet sometimes his parents, although they loved him dearly, found him so difficult they felt they could not bear to live with him for another hour. One day, after the mother had fed the child, washed the pots, swept the floor, and started the soup for the next meal, she settled down in her chair to rest for a minute. But the child whined for more food. The mother didn't see how the child could still be hungry, but she gave him some bread. As he grabbed it, she was surprised to see how different the child looked. It seemed to her that the child's mouth was bigger than it had been before, and somehow misshapen. The bread was not enough, and the child pulled on her skirts and demanded more. His hunger seemed like a wild thing and the mother felt as if it would devour her, so she put the child in his bed. He howled and raged so loudly and for so long that her head felt as if there were shards of glass splintering inside.

As soon as the father arrived home, the mother told him of the child's terrible behavior, but the father wasn't too concerned. He went to see the child, who had escaped his bed and was sitting by the hearth, covered with ashes, playing with a gourd. The father held out his arms to the child, his son, but the child, fascinated by the gourd, ignored him and continued shaking the rattle. Laughing, the father scooped the boy up in his arms, but the child wiggled and screamed to be free. And so it went for the rest of that evening and the whole next day. Nothing the parents did or said pleased or comforted the child.

"He is not sick," growled the father. " Just willful."

The mother sighed. "He's different. He doesn't love us anymore. I wonder what we have done wrong?"

At that moment the child looked up at the parents and stared at them, and it seemed to them that their child knew something they did not know and saw something they could not see and they felt afraid. "Let's get rid of him," said the father, "before he causes us any more trouble." The mother wrung her hands and cried, but she followed the father and together they took the child to the forest and left him.

At first the child was frightened, but he soon discovered a large purple seed. He smelled it, licked it, shook it, and was about to throw it away, but some feeling told him that this odd-looking furry seed was something more than it seemed. As he had seen his parents plant before, the child buried the seed in the ground. Within a short time, a sturdy, graceful tree sprang up from the earth.

The child called out:

Grow, grow, my bountiful tree,
Grow fruits and nuts to nourish me.

And indeed, the tree grew delicious fruits and nuts, which the child ate with pleasure. And the child's hunger was satisfied.

When a torrent of rain lashed through the forest, the child called out:

Grow, grow, my guardian tree,
Grow thick branches and shelter me.

And indeed, the tree developed thick, arching branches, and the child stayed dry and warm.

Eventually the child fell asleep, but in the middle of the night he awoke in fright and cried out:

Sing, sing, my sweet singing tree,
Sing a song like my mother's for me.

And indeed, the tree lullabied the child with songs of leaf and wind, and he was soothed.

The next day, when the child became restless and lonely, he called out:

Grow, grow, my strong, proud tree,
Grow a branch like my father's knee.

And indeed, the tree molded and shaped a branch like the father's knee, and the child climbed on and was transported to the wondrous places in the father's stories and was delighted.

Now in the meantime, not a night had passed before the mother's heart began to feel as empty and barren as a river without water, while the father's mind whirled like rocks swept around in a storm. There they sat, in their silent, lonely, tidy, little house, wondering what in the world had possessed them to take their beloved child to the forest. Full of remorse and regret, they rushed back to the woods and began to search. At the place where they had left the child, the parents discovered a magnificent tree, rich with fruit and sweet with flowers. Enchanted, the parents climbed up onto the tree to smell the flowers and taste the fruit. Suddenly the child, who had been watching from high in the tree, called out:

Bow down, my fine, good tree,
Bow down and uncover me.

And indeed, the tree shuddered and sank close enough so the parents could see the child. The parents looked at the child staring up at them, and it seemed to them that this was the most beautiful child they had ever seen, the most precious child in the whole world. The mother remembered how the child had blossomed when she had first held him close to her body. And the father remembered the faint little mewling that evolved into a lusty cry. Still standing near the tree, the parents began to tell the child the story of his birth and of each awe-filled day that had followed as he grew. Soon they were filled with the joy and wonder of that time. Weeping, the mother begged the child to forgive them, and the father held out his arms and lifted the child down.

And the child called out;

Dance and sing, my magical tree,
Honor this reunion of my parents and me.

And indeed, the tree swayed and whispered and showered the child and his parents with flowers and songs. And there was forgiving, loving, and understanding.

In harmony, the mother, the father, and the child returned home. And whenever the child began to look different to the parents, they would travel back to the forest and stand before the Tree of Creation and call out:

Heal, heal, our fine, wise tree,
Heal our hearts so our eyes can see.

And indeed, the tree would soothe the parents and sing to them and shower them with flowers and fruits and, most important of all, with memories of the child's arrival. And the parents would rush home and find the child as precious as the day he was born. And so it was.

Commentary:

As an adoption social worker, it is my responsibility to forge a solid relationship with special needs children, aged 3 to 14, who have been abandoned or abused by their biological parents. By the time I meet these children, they have been made legal wards of the juvenile court, and the legal rights of their parents have been terminated permanently. I strive to gain their trust and guide them to accept new adoptive parents. Usually these children have been in several temporary foster homes, and they often exhibit difficult behaviors because of the trauma and loss they had suffered.

When I started in this job, I often took children to local parks because these were practical, peaceful places for us to get to know each other. I found myself sharing my zeal for stories and my affection for trees with the children. Weaving folklore and facts, I taught the children how important trees are because they give us oxygen, food, shelter, shade, books, beauty, and inspiration for stories. Originally I told stories primarily to bring "my kids" pleasure. If I could teach them something valuable about nature, or influence their language skills, that would be a bonus. However, I began to notice that many of the children responded most strongly to the characters or parts of stories that reflected their own struggles. Since stories had been a staple of my childhood and I had experienced them as sustenance to my spirit, I began to cautiously experiment with little stories that incorporated a problem or event in their lives.
Gradually, there in the realm of our imaginations and in the natural verdant protection of pines and maples, chestnuts, dogwoods, yellow chains, and a dozen others, the stories of "Greenie," a little tree who is taken from his home in the forest, sprang to life. Starving for some safe way to experience and sort out the events and feelings that have caused them so much pain and confusion, the children seemed nourished by these explorations of loss and sorrow, discovery and transformation. They relished these stories and seemed never to tire of going on an adventure with Greenie. Although Greenie was sometimes confused and often frightened, he never, ever gave up and always found ways to solve his problems. Within himself he had good ideas, but he learned (usually the hard way) how important it was to ask the elements or animals, and occasionally humans, for help. Sometimes the only thing that worked was magic.
I soon gained enough confidence to introduce storytelling into the foster parent training classes as well as the adoption preparation classes I was conducting and began searching for traditional stories that would offer opportunities to explore these feelings and provide a model for solutions. I discovered that many cultures around the world tell stories that depict parents struggling to deal with children who are difficult or different in one way or another, whether as a result of physical disfigurement, disease, deviant behavior, or some other reason.. A common motif is returning the child to nature to be cared for or absorbed into the universe and transformed into a different living thing -- a tree, a river, a plant -- which, in turn, is returned to parents and tribe. As a result of the advice from or experience with these beings or forces of nature, the parents come to realize the value of the child, and their tender feelings for the children are reawakened.
My retelling of "The Tree of Creation" is specifically designed to address the dynamics of parental anger. I reserve this story for adult listeners and recommend that my foster parents and adoptive parents find other stories to share with the children. This adaptation was influenced by my own poignant memories, bestowed by my mother, who had often told me how impatient my short-tempered father became with me when, as a baby, I cried or fussed. He would bustle out of the house, seeking the solace of the garden, and go to the tree that he and my mother planted to commemorate my birth. Within minutes he would return carrying a leaf or a blossom, which he said reminded him of the beauty and preciousness of his daughter.
Because trees have always been a source of strength and meaning for me, and since the little tree Greenie has nurtured transformations within so many children, I continued using the symbol of a tree to germinate growth and change in these foster and adopting parents. After using "The Tree of Creation" in several trainings, I learned through trial and error that this story was most effective when used in conjunction with music. The melodic messages seemed to bypass the defenses and reach deep within the listeners. It was almost as if the music would sing the story in the heart and soul and then instruct the mind about what was really important. I have played classical music as well as Irish and Mexican lullabies before telling the story.
After telling the story, I often invite the listeners to write down uncensored feelings, memories, or issues that the story awoke in them. I reassure the group that this free-writing would be private, and they would not be required to share unless they so chose. Inevitably, the response was enthusiastic and insightful.
One issue that surfaced repeatedly in every class was the foster/adoptive parent's usually illogical, but persistent, fear that the child's behavior was a result of something they had done wrong or of their not being a good enough parent. To obtain a new perspective, I sometimes suggested we do a round robin about "What we did wrong to our kids," in which all the parents added a reason that explained their failure.
Of all the stories I have told, "The Tree Of Creation" has offered the brightest pathways for parents to explore the demands of caring for difficult children. The tale has sparked many ideas about how parents could help themselves remember "the blessed nature of our children."