Good to be home, safe and sound and know we have done good work.  Rave reviews for The Book of Spells and the Towards More Powerful Telling workshop; lots of good comments from kids and teachers in schools. 

On the flight back I had a window seat which I always organize if I can.  Partly that’s for the view and partly it’s because the journey becomes more real in its passing and thus less jarring on arrival. 

As ever, I was overwhelmed by the sight of the landscape underneath our feet.  First, there was that very particular range of colours that comes from the light of the prairies (yellows and pinks especially blended in the snow tones this time).  There were the squares of the fields and the snaking of the rivers, looping back on themselves almost in their flowing through that vast open land.  It all comes to an end so suddenly as you cross the line that marks the beginning of the bush which changes -- almost equally suddenly -- to Canadian Shield.  The Sleeping Giant was visible as we went over Thunder Bay; the sun shone on the waters of Lake Superior and then the glistening and glowing and the shore line disappeared beneath absolutely regionalized cloud.  More cloud appeared over Toronto.  We flew into Ottawa at dusk.

We bring much back with us but know there is one issue that is definitely going to require more mulling.  This has to do with a realization that came to us through the workshop – an awareness that so often it is the emotions we might describe as “negative” that tellers have to struggle so hard to bring forth.  There’s a holding back in the chest almost when it comes to such things as rage and jealousy, even though those things are crucial to the tales. 

But the voicing brings such energy, such release.  “I want to work with the witch,” said one of the tellers.  We tried this and that and finally undertook the strong resistance which involves physical pushing.  “I’m the good, good girl,” I said.  Suddenly, there it was -- “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”  Those who were watching and witnessing almost cheered.  All knew that what was happening in the here and now would not destroy the story’s subtlety; all knew what was happening would be rendered and rendered till it found its deep-down essence.  It would belong to the teller – forever and ever amen.

Now we prepare ourselves to do similar work with The Odyssey on the weekend coming up.  Odysseus himself is not always Mr. Nice Guy.  We have to find him, along with Circe, the Cyclops, Penelope, Calypso and the rest.

The picture?  That’s by 2wp’s designer and publicist Annette Hegel (web.me.com/annette.hegel)  She produced it while she was staying at our home when we were in Australia last year.  It's the view down the lake from my office window.  Our Christmas present to ourselves. 

Mostly I don’t expect “being 70” to bring about that much in terms of radical changes but I do believe it’s something that needs to be thought about.  I know all that stuff about “being as old as you feel” and “aging doesn’t matter” is garbage because aging does matter.  It matters a lot.  It is certainly not without its benefits.  For those of us on artists’ incomes, the old age pension is a liberating miracle of stability – not a ton of cash, of course, but something that does appear with absolutely unfailing regularity.  Then there’s the push to get on with things, to decide what you really want and make it happen.  Still that links up with the other side, because the push arises out of knowing that -- come what may -- time is running out.  Inevitably that’s a sobering thought. 

I know perfectly well 70 isn’t exactly what you’d call the end of the world but I do feel it merits some attention, some awareness, some sense of its situation in the pattern of my life.  I want to do some looking back and also some looking forward (as well as some just “being” along the way).  Oddly enough the back and forward seems connected with the development of my Who Wants the Dress? show.  A big part of that show comes out of the ways of my childhood and my unfulfilled longing to “be a boy.”  At the moment, the piece is an hour long and ends with my recognition of the fact that I am still a work in progress. 

What will the progress be?  I’m finding myself drawn to a second half involving a Music Hall star of my grandparents’ day.  Her name was Vesta Tilley and she made her mark as what is referred to as a male impersonator although her aim was not to convince people she was a man.  She sang and spoke as a woman.  She simply wore men’s clothing – top hat and tails of an impeccable kind.  Her specialty was masher roles i.e. acting like a toff.  The irony is that she was loved, approved of, lauded even in my family where I -- with my wish to wear boy’s clothing -- was seen as something of an aberration (hopefully, at best, going through a phase).  Where is all this going to lead?  Will I have to learn to sing and dance?  Perhaps “being 70” will show.

In the meanwhile, the Two Women are off to Saskatchewan on January 9.  We’ll be performing The Book of Spells.  A Love Story at Paved Arts in Saskatoon on Jan. 11 (http://www.2wp.ca/) and in a house concert at the home of the illustrious Kevin Mackenzie, Jan.19.  (Kevin -- http://www.storiesbykevin.com/ -- being the man to thank for getting us going on all this and doing so much of the organization.)  We’ll also be presenting our Towards More Powerful Telling workshop (http://www.2wp.ca/storytelling/) for the Saskatoon Storytellers Guild (http://www.sc-cc.com/groups/saskatoon.html) on the weekend of Jan. 14 and 15, rounding the trip out with tellings and readings for kids in libraries and schools.  It should be a good rich time and no doubt I will be writing more about the workshop and other aspects of note at some future point.

Saskatoon is where I first lived when I came to Canada from Britain in 1963 (even worked at CFQC Radio writing advertizing copy for a year).  I can’t say the adjustment to prairie living was easy.  Apart from anything else, my ex was a student and we had little money and before I knew it a baby was on the way.  Nonetheless, when I left after four years, I knew that I had been somewhere special, somewhere that was home to people of vision and strength.  I am, therefore, glad to be going back.

Snow at last and today it’s -20, the blue jays looking as if they’re wearing down jackets they’re so puffed up.  Yesterday, the wind had swept parts of the lake ice were clear; today the snow’s blown back again.  I got new snowshoes for Christmas and so far have not been able to use them (a slight matter of an over-enthusiastic burst of cross-country skiing just before New Year’s).  I’m itching to give them a try.  Carp all you like.  Winter is a great, great season.

New Year’s wishes to each and everyone from the enthusiastic life-livers at 2wp. 

Part of this, I think, has to do with the mysterious nature of our calling.  We actually don't know where so much of what we do comes from -- those ideas that pop up out of nowhere leading to fresh involvements; those times when everything all starts flowing in unexpected ways.  We're not even sure about the day to day stuff so there's always that suspicion we might wake up one morning and find it (whatever it is) has all gone away. 

There’s also the role of plain old fashioned exhaustion.  We’re so excited by the potentials, we simply run and run.  And the running of late has been so good.  It's been hugely satisfying to see that the work of 2wp is gaining acceptance; to have helped Flying in the Dark soar to fruition (or some such metaphor); to get The Odyssey rehearsals going and watch the tellers' excitement at their discoveries.  It's been grand to see that listeners are now coming to www.jansstorytellingclub.wordpress.com in growing numbers on a regular basis; to celebrate the fact that When Apples Grew Noses and White Horses Flew.  Tales of Ti-Jean has made the Silver Birch Express Award list.  (You can check that one out at www.janandrews/books/When_Apples_Grew.html)

It’s been good!  No, more than that, it’s been great!  Still, time is pressing.  We have to be gearing up for various other adventures on our lists. Above all, we have to get back to working on Dragon’s Gold which has its premier February 16 as part of the Ottawa Storytellers regular season at the Fourth Stage of the National Arts Centre (www.ottawastorytellers.ca/4th-stage-at-the-nac/).  We’ve already mulled extensively; we’ve explored sundry versions; we’ve decided who out of the three of us (the Two Women plus Katherine Grier) will tell which bit, but this is a piece of vast emotional sweep.  Jennifer and I are off to Saskatchewan for two weeks of performing and workshop-ing on January 7.  We can’t just wait till we return.

We have to find means to take ourselves back in time – back to the days when Odin and Loki and the old Norse pantheon walked the earth.  We have to inhabit the battle that gives Sigurd his triumph over the terrible dragon, Fafnir; we have to live with the disastrous effects of the draught of forgetting that deprives Brynhild of all that she has longed for; we must prepare ourselves for the funeral pyre that brings a culmination to the treasure’s curse. 

Not exactly Christmas fare, I hear you cry.  In a way, you’re right but I think too of what I put in this blog not long ago when I wrote of Pina Bausch – of how through art there may be transcendence.  We may walk the darkness in all its fullness; we may know its horror and still come forth thrilled at the knowledge that we are human, we are alive.

If only the porridge would clear!  Even as I write that I know I actually have a fair amount of faith in its going.  After all, I’ve been down this road before.  Who hasn’t?  And….and this morning I started re-learning Alan Garner’s The Stone Book for a post-Christmas performance.  It’s one of my favourite pieces and there it was – that thrill of anticipation, the tingling of delight that comes with the evocation of a great tale.  (www.2wp.ca/the-stone-book/)

Probably shouldn’t ignore the need to rest bit though.  Maybe have some sherry, eat some fruitcake, contact some old friends, bask in some old memories, walk in the winter woods, ski if we can just get some cold weather and some snow.  In other words…..have Christmas.

Also rejoice in whatever natural phenomena our lake can bring us.  Saturday morning the temperature dropped suddenly.  In half an hour we went from open water to an ever-growing sheet of ice, rippled and dappled with the wind.  We could, quite literally, see the water thickening, we could see the cold catching the ice shards at the edges and holding them firm.  Then the sun came out and the temperature rose.  The ice began receding.  Half an hour later a substantial amount of it was gone.  We’ve never witnessed anything like this.  Maybe we won’t again ever.  All we can do is wonder at the world’s variability – its ever-changing energy and life.

Time then for the good wishes – to each and everyone of you, in any of the ways you happen to need or want.    

Flying in the Dark's

No one will ever know how hard this was for her.  If I have learnt anything from all of this, it is that living with disability means you have to prove your ability, over and over on a daily basis; you have to keep demonstrating how good your days are; always and always you may find yourself faced with the voices of pity, the voices that imply you are not just disabled but incompetent, the voices that seek to undermine.  You can't afford to admit that you have weaknesses; you are pushed to appear almost super-human, even though you may do that with a laugh. 

I didn't feel I could put this before but now it seems fitting to let it be known that Kim was wrestling with words and shapes and images almost until the last.  In this, she showed incredible artistic commitment, always coming back for more.   One of our sessions left both of us  shaken to the core.  We had thought it was "all right" and suddenly it wasn't.  Neither of us knew what to do but still she hung in. 

The work was hers and what she finally crafted -- in its simplicity, its grace, its laughter and its poetry -- had nothing to do with impositions from outside.  Having said that, I would note that the work Jennifer and I did  with her was what opened the doors.  I would also say this depth of work is rare but when I see what Kim achieved I am yet more convinced that storytelling must have more of it if the art form is to keep on reaching out to listeners and so grow.

I'm going to finish with some quotes from Flying in the Dark's admirers.  Before I do that, I would also point out that this is a show which has legs.  It can travel.  It could come to you if you would book it.  Just get in touch with 2wp at http://www.2wp.ca/contact/

On to the quotes: 

"A very moving performance, exceptionally honest."

"Kim, now I have the opportunity to tell you again how much I enjoyed your storytelling last Saturday night
in Perth.  When the lights dimmed and faded away, and your voice came out of the darkness as a small child, full of wonder and joie de vivre, I was enchanted, and I am pretty sure the rest of the audience was too."

"Kim is a great storyteller - gentle and vulnerable one moment then funny and raging the next.  She had me gripped from the first moment."

"In the second half you showed your adult self, the struggles that I share with you and the courage that you have and I have and that makes us equals. I was able to stop thinking of you as "the remarkable blind woman" and start learning skills from a remarkable but at times insecure just-like-me woman."

"Story telling is such a lost art - who knew it was alive and well in Ontario until you two came along?  And, do you know what?  It's just the same as being a child and listening with that tremendous focus, totally enchanted, totally in thrall, hearing nothing else, knowing nothing else."

"Thank-you, Kim, for that wonderful, funny, thoughtful, profound and totally entertaining show."  

Who Wants the Dress? is another interweaving of life and literature -- again with a story from Sara Maitland's Angel Maker (aka A Book of Spells).  This one's called Seal Self.  It's about a young man setting out alone from a small English village to gain his first experience as a seal hunter.  For this, he must put on women's clothes.  He is supposed to come back with a seal skin to prove his manhood; he returns naked and empty-handed, not knowing who he is.

It's a tale I care for deeply but the telling is by no means easy.  Just for the Seal Self story, I would be nervous but then there's what follows -- the tale that is my own.  That comes out of something that happened to me not long ago when I got to hear storyteller Ivan Coyote telling the story of her coming out.  I was so struck with how we had lived in different times.  When I was young, for instance, gay men were still subject to imprisonment; lesbian women simply didn't exist.  That doesn't mean I believe everything is easy-peasy now, but I do know it isn't the same. 

Ivan's story came at me in a storm of what ifs?  I'm still wrestling with those although luckily the turbulence is abating somewhat.  I think I have created a good strong piece but getting up and putting it out there shakes me to the core.  I've written about this before -- when the piece was called Meeting the Trickster.  I know I've said already how part of telling these stories has to do with a chance to speak to and for my generation and others, within and without the GLBT world.  It's all at the top of my mind though.  I can't quite think of writing about anything else.

That's how it is for me always with the big pieces that I don't do often.  Each time as I start the process of reclamation, I have to immerse myself, to walk the journey and walk the journey alone in my study before I can ever hope to walk it up on the stage there at the performance time. 

I have to make space, to shut out other people's endeavours and other projects although sometimes there will be miracles of inspiration that come light-leaping in.  Such a thing occurred on Tuesday, when Jennifer and I went to the movie Pina -- about the life of the great dancer, choreographer, Pina Bausch. Go see it if you can.

Here is a woman who changed the world, who risked and dared, extended her artistic reach and vision almost beyond believing; a woman who created wonders -- dances that are rivetting and utterly unforgettable, dances that leave her audiences changed.

She died very suddenly in 2009.  When we got home, we checked what others had written about her. We came on a remembrance created by actress and theatre director, Fiona Shaw.  Shaw talks about Pina's "wild freedom and imagination, bound by a remarkable discipline;" Shaw speaks of how Pina's dancers "danced from themselves."  Shaw says, "When you see the work -- the repetition of human love gestures, aborted wishes, rejection, inadequacy, desolation and absurdity -- you still come out thrilled to be a member of the human race."  (http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/jul/06/pina-bausch)

I think what Pina tells us is to go for it.  I think we all of us need to be trying to do that.

Pina herself asked, "What do you long for?  What is all this yearning?"  I think that's a question to stir the soul. 

It was a picture of my grandfather, dressed in his uniform, with his sergeant's stripes on his sleeve.  I presume it was taken just before he went away to the trenches of the First World War.  After my grandparents died and their home was broken up, I didn't see that photo for a long time.  My mother kept it somewhere.  Then, she hung it up.  She put it at the top of the stairs.  I saw it when I went to England to visit her. 

Right away, that photo gave me a shock because I realized that the face that was looking at me was not just the face of my grandfather, but also of my son.  We'd always been puzzled as to who on earth in the family he took after.  As I came to the top of the stairs, I knew.

He was about seventeen at the time and we had been watching All Quiet on the Western Front.  It had weighed heavily on both of us that he was almost at an age where -- if there was a war on -- he would be called up.  "What would you do?" I'd asked him.  He'd'd waited a moment before he answered.  "I think I'd have to go," he said.

It was what I'd expected and yet I hadn't been certain for my son was (and is) very much a man of peace -- the go-to for others when difficulties abound.  A man of peace, just like my grandfather who was, in truth, the kindest man I've ever known.  He loved to laugh and he loved to make others laugh with him, even though the jokes were mostly at his own expense.  He loved his garden, he loved to send us home with great bouquets of flowers.  He loved to be with children.  He had not the slightest hesitation in helping my brother and me tear up his lawn in scooter races (which he timed for us); clutter it with boxes, chairs, junk, as we created a series of trains.

I have no idea why his picture was what brought me my epiphany.  I just know I looked at it -- there at the top of the stairs, in my mother's house, so many years after his portrait was taken.  All of a sudden I could feel all through me: soldiers aren't just sent out to get shot.  Soldiers are given guns.  Soldiers are expected to use them.  Soldiers, wherever they come from, kill.

So, had my grandfather?  He'd certainly never talked about it but then he'd hardly talked about the war at all. 

I remember this on Remembrance Day, when there is so much mention of the fallen; when I am called back to my childhood, born in England in 1942, raised very much with the sense that we were the ones who'd suffered.  It somehow seems important that I keep this knowledge front and centre -- part of the recognition of all that war will do. 

I have to admit becoming a political lobbyist wasn't one of my life's expectations.  Still there I was on Tuesday, October 25 -- Arts Coalition Day -- storming Parliament Hill in the company of 100 other Canadian artists, pleading our cause for continued funding for the arts. 

There were over 120 meetings organized with MPs from all parties. My team (consisting of Boomer Stacey from the theatre organization PACT and Francine Schutzman from the Canadian Organization of Symphony Musicians) simply had to take on two.  Still it was a daunting prospect although both Boomer and Francine had participated last year.  Coming into the day I was worried.  I need not have been.  The Canadian Arts Coalition (http://www.canadianartscoalition.com/) made sure we were extremely well-prepared. 

In advance, we were told what we should actually be lobbying for.   This involved three crucial points the Coalition had made in its presentation to the Finance Committee during the pre-budget exercises.  At the day-opening breakfast a team from a professional group called Ensight Canada coached us in the presentation of  our "asks."  We were given leave-behind packages; we were provided with information on those we would meet.  This information included a description of the riding and of the MP's interests and affiliations.  There was also a list of Canada Council grants which had been awarded in the riding in the last twelve months.

All this proved crucial in postioning ourselves.  I was also helped by the fact that Jennifer Ferris, SC-CC's Vice-President, and I had spent the previous day at a meeting of National Arts Service Organizations hosted by the Canada Council.  (SC-CC stands for Storytellers of Canada-Conteurs du Canada for those who don't know!)  The highlight of the day had been the opening speech by CEO Robert Simard.  He had talked with incredible clarity in an all-out effort to help us understand the government's position (the big thing being that balancing the budget by 2014 is non-negotiable) and gain insight into a language by which submissions might be made. 

The biggest part of the message was that the Conservatives have in fact put more into the arts than any other government and that (whether we agreed with their methods or not) we needed to start in recognition and acclamation of this.  It was also stressed that positive approaches would be more useful than adversarial ones.  This was not what I had expected but, in this spirit and maintaining our awareness of the bottom-line, unshakeable requirement for fiscal restraint, we went forth.

Both our meetings were with Conservative MPs and both went well.  I cannot tell where it will all lead but I do know that a collegial atmosphere was established and I did have a feeling that this has the potential to serve us well.

At the end of the day, there was a reception hosted by the Deputy-Speaker, Denise Savoie.  The mood was celebratory.  The Honorable James Moore, Minister for Canadian Heritage, made his enthusiasm obvious.  He spoke of his recognition of the arts as being essential both to the economy and to quality of life.  He did it with heart. 

Part of me still wants to be somewhat sceptical (not being a card-carrying Conservative and all!).  Nevertheless,  I am extremely glad to have been a participant.  I also think I learned a lot.  I suppose I had imagined we would be called upon to rush to the barricades.  I was pleased to experience this other method of seeking to achieve our aims.  It's a method I've always used but always in other places.  I think I believed "the Hill" would be different.  I saw it didn't have to be.  That meant a lot.  Indeed, I have plans to approach my local MP -- whose name was not on the meetings list -- to see what might be managed.  I'll let you know how that turns out. 

I've heard a large number of stories by now but never one quite like this.  The Battle of the Trees reminded me of a Celtic knot, an intricate weaving of elegant patterns where mystery is evident but where everything proves to be connected in the end. 

Connectedness is, in fact, very much part of Christine's artistic vision in this creation.  She's exploring how seeming disparities come together, how unrelated events touch upon one another, how coincidence is crucial to life.  The lynch pin is a story, related in riddle form, in the poetry of the ancient Welsh poet, Taliesin. The battle is against Arawn, King of Annun -- the underworld; on behalf of his king the magician, Gwydion summons the trees to his aid. One by one, he names them and, one by one, they pull out their roots and march forth at his call (shades of Tolkien's Ents)

But the story does not start in these long ago days.  It starts in the Great Storm in Britain in 1987 -- a time when 18,000,000 trees were destroyed in the space of a few hours.  It involves the work of Robert Graves and his passion for the White Goddess; the uncovering of a ritual tree circle on the Norfolk coast -- a circle constructed 4,000 years earlier when the site was not coast but part of a forest, far inland; it takes us to Taliesin's birth and to the summoning of the boy Merlin to come to Britain's aid. 

Christine does not claim to be a fluent Welsh speaker but she has the music of the language within her.  The names of the trees form an incantation in that language; there are portions of Welsh poetry to heighten the overall sense of landscape and occasion.  Truth to tell, Christine is also a fine folk musician.  Her singing and fiddling are threaded through all.

Those who came to listen went home delighted.  Christine is staying with us and Jennifer and I have been plying her with questions ever since.  We would like to keep her around a lot longer but tomorrow we must take her to the bus station and send her on her way.  She'll be touring in North America until November.  It will be some weeks before she'll be home in the U.K. once again. 

listen to Christine's interview on CBC's "In Town and Out"

http://christinecooper.info/

Trailer for The Battle of the Trees: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=snb0u1O-duI

Flying in the dark is what we were all doing when Jennifer and I started intensive work with Kim on her new 2wp show.  We all of us knew there was good material in the script a-plenty but we also all knew it wasn’t coming together in quite the right way.

The work Jennifer and I do is exploratory.  Yes, I’m good at finding plot lines and building dramatic arcs but we believe that often there are preliminaries in terms of opening doors through voice and movement to emotional variety and depth. 

Truth to tell, Kim is one of the most positive people in the world.  She lives with joy and relish and finds humour in much that would otherwise be dark.  All that was there.  It was there in abundance but something was missing. 

We got her to shout, a clarion call of commitment to who she is.  We then suggested she try an exercise we’ve found to be among the most powerful in what we have to offer.  It has to do with claiming, with saying, “I am…” and then letting whatever words rise to the lips come out.

In this case, the task was “I am blindness.”  We were all of us surprised at the result.  We were even more surprised when Jennifer asked Kim to breathe, speak one word about the experience, breathe and speak again.  What came first to this oh, so positive person was “tightrope;” hot on its heels was “display.”

More work followed as Kim took on some of the characters in her story – characters who had come to be mere symbols for her but now emerged as three dimensional beings with full lives.  The experience was rich but, of course, also hugely disturbing.  Apart from anything else we had to physically explore why tightrope?  Why this image Kim has never “seen?”

As I drove Kim home, I knew she was exhausted.  The next day she emailed us to say she had a  sense that things were moving within.  What she didn’t tell us until later was that anger was emerging -- anger at what she has had to face in her life in ways sighted people don’t have to; anger at the dis-abling manner in which she is so often treated in the sighted world.  Anger and then groundedness: a more fulfilled awareness of what she has so vibrantly achieved.

This story isn’t over.  We’re still not quite sure where the script will go.  We just know Kim is writing to us with a muscle-y clarity that will make her performance leap into life as none of us has quite anticipated; a clarity that will allow her to evoke and make vivid the tale that, from the beginning, has been hers to tell.  And yes, of course, there will be laughter – in truth she seems to be laughing even more. 

Once....not so very long ago I was listening to a panel discussion on CBC about what we should do should we happen to make contact with alien beings or should those beings land.  To my amazement I learned that there are protocols for this -- rules about who should be contacted if some grad student, keeping watch by some telescope in the reaches of the night, comes up against what he/she considers to be a signal from another world. The protocols having been described, there was a lot of discussion as to the appropriate behaviour on the aliens' actual arrival.  Various members of various learned societies discussed how we would, of course, want at once to question them as to how they had got here, what technology they had used.  Through all of this the eminent physicist who was also on the panel held silent.  Finally, he had his turn.  "That's all very well," he countered, "But surely, assuming we can talk to them and so on....surely we should show them some courtesy.  We should do what the Phaeacians do when Odysseus appears, weary and unknown, among them.  We should offer them food and a place to rest; we should honour and welcome them, show them our home at its best, before we even consider bombarding them with all the things we want to know."

Hearing that then reminded me of when I had been in university, ploughing my way through some obscure academic paper in some illustrious journal in the cause of researching for an essay.  Seeking distraction, I turned to the journal index.  A title that claimed to offer thoughts on The Odyssey caught my eye -- a title that promised something less academic than that which I was seeking so studiously to avoid.  And there it was -- the description of how an eminent classicist had found himself wounded and in hospital in the Korean War.  He was in a ward reserved for officers but, when she found out what he did, one of the nurses told him he had to go to visit the enlisted men.  "They're all reading The Odyssey she assured him.  They're all talking about it all the time."  He was sceptical but she was insistent and so he went.  What she'd told him turned out to be true and the men he met had no trouble explaining why Odysseus' story was at the top of their minds.  "It's our story," they told him.  "The story of us, getting back from the war.  Ten years Odysseus was away, ten years it takes him to get back.  That's how it'll be.  That's what we're facing now."  They then went on to pick out various episodes they believed exactly mirrored experiences they had had.

I couldn't forget that.  I couldn't forget it ever.  It's why, when I started the series of epic tellings in Ottawa, The Odyssey was where we began.  It's why I've been so moved each time we've brought the story to our small bit of the world.  Here I am again too, burrowing once more into the text as I begin the edits which our time frame will necessitate in preparation for our first gathering of tellers, October 2.  June 16 2011 -- when we step onto the Fourth Stage of the National Arts Centre in this wondrous collaboration between Ottawa Storytellers and 2wp -- is a long way off but this is a big project.  We want to make the most of it and live it to the full.

Each time there's something that comes at me differently.  This go round I'm struck by how -- ten years on from Troy -- this is still so much a war-torn world.  Menelaus, himself, took eight years to be returning; there is the fate of Agammenon referred to over and over in so many different contexts; there is the sorrow for dead comrades; there is the grief for dead sons.   "I would give up all my riches," says Menelaus, "If I could have my dead comrades back."

When we get together we will talk of some of this, knowing that the story will be different for each of us (as it will for each of our listeners) and yet striving to build the common ground that will help us in the setting forth.  I am hoping for a truly wondrous day of early October weather so we can sit out on the porch, looking out over the setting for our weekend epics, breathing in lake and sunshine and the changing of the leaves.