Have you ever walked into a rummage sale and find something you didn’t know you were looking for?
I do.
Every.Time.
Look at this terracotta storyteller.
This is one of my favorites. EVER.
Because it is very southwest.
I cannot even begin to tell you how perfect it is. I was grinning from ear to ear when I saw it.
I cannot even begin to tell you how perfect it is. I was grinning from ear to ear when I saw it.
Storytelling has been an inherent part of many indigenous cultures today. Way back when we were in our Phoenix home, I had obsessed to have a figurine like this, but forgot about it.
And now, Victory!
It found me.
When I gaze at my storyteller, I can envision him and children gathered under the great wide canopy of a shamel ash tree. Some are perched on his lap. Others are sitting back on a flat tapestry-woven rug or just squatting on their haunches.
The storyteller strokes his chin at first. Then his frown of concentration smooths out into a smile. He begins to narrate the origin of entire nations, why animals look or act the way they do, and where or how entire cultural traditions originated.
Giggles fill the air. Or the children gasp when they hear about the sky that looks like it is on fire with sunset. When the horizon appears like the edge of the world. Or when a star falls on earth.
Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?
I think that applies to stories, too. They are like old friends.
And for me? My life is full of stories. That’s why I write my tales and pen my words. I want to keep them close.
So now I step back and look at our home.
My kachina grins at me, the pottery on the deck sparkles, the gourd vase whispers spring, and the storyteller eagerly waits to tell another tale.
It looks like home.
The storyteller strokes his chin at first. Then his frown of concentration smooths out into a smile. He begins to narrate the origin of entire nations, why animals look or act the way they do, and where or how entire cultural traditions originated.
Giggles fill the air. Or the children gasp when they hear about the sky that looks like it is on fire with sunset. When the horizon appears like the edge of the world. Or when a star falls on earth.
Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?
I think that applies to stories, too. They are like old friends.
And for me? My life is full of stories. That’s why I write my tales and pen my words. I want to keep them close.
So now I step back and look at our home.
My kachina grins at me, the pottery on the deck sparkles, the gourd vase whispers spring, and the storyteller eagerly waits to tell another tale.
It looks like home.
(To be continued)
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