Educating Ellen

(I'm re-posting my original tale here. It's based on the old folk-tale, "Clever Elsie")

Ellen’s mother and father taught her how to be a very clever woman and educated her for a lifetime of success in business. She dressed perfectly and learned her lessons well. Then, after college graduation she went to interview at VIC—a very important company. During the interview the Boss, who wanted the cleverest secretary he could find, sent Ellen downstairs for coffee.

Ellen was a hard worker and happy to comply. She took the stairs because the elevator was too slow and then she got into a very long line at Starbucks. She waited and waited and began to daydream. If she got this job she could earn 60K in the first year (on the low end, she had researched the salaries)—certainly enough money to buy a condo within 2 years. Then, at the current rate of appreciation in her favorite suburb, she should be able to sell it at a handsome profit and buy a house. Ellen smiled. She’d get a huge yard and adopt a Golden Retriever from the local humane society. She’d name it Bubkus—and Ellen would hire a dog sitter to walk him during her long work day. Ellen would make sure that the dog sitter had all the contact info so that if anything ever happened to her while she was at work, if she had an accident, or (God forbid) got hit by a train or something, the sitter could take Bubkas to her sister Dana’s, where he’d be well cared for and could play with the little ones. If the sitter didn’t have that contact info, she wouldn’t know what to do and would just take Bubkus to the shelter and he’d be stuck in a cage all over again. Which would be horrible! Yes, a dog sitter is a must and contact info in place.

How long the line was! What if her potential new Boss blames her for this lost time? Then she won’t get the house and perhaps he’d tell all of the other CEOs of the important companies, and then she’d never get a good job and she’d have to live with her parents for the rest of her life. No guy would want to be with a woman who couldn’t find a job and lived with her parents so she’d be an old maid too. And her family wouldn’t allow her to adopt Bubkus so he’d still be in the cage at the shelter! How horrible.

Finally, she placed her coffee orders and hurried to the elevator. It was full and she had many floors to visit before getting to her Boss at the penthouse. She tried to focus back on the interview and thought about good questions and answers. Then, she had a clever idea.

Upon arriving at his office, the Boss did seem annoyed.

“You’re back.”

“Sorry. There was a very long line at the Starbucks.”

“Yes, that’s why I sent you. I hate that line.”

“You don’t want to make coffee here in the office?”

“Certainly not. Why should I if there’s a Starbucks downstairs!”

“I was thinking….”

“Yes, well, let’s finish this interview, I’m running late now and—“

Ellen took a deep breath. “I was thinking that if you sent your secretary (me) everyday to Starbucks, depending on the length of the line and when you’d send me, that could take, according to my calculations, anywhere from 5.8 minutes if there is no line to 14.7 minutes for a long line. If you average these times out to be 10.25 minutes a day that would make—if taking a week off (roughly) for holidays and a week off for vacation, then, counting 50 working weeks you would have lost 2,562 minutes in a year. Since I plan on staying at this firm for a long time you could extrapolate that to 12,812 minutes in 5 years and 25,620 minutes in 10 years and 51,240 minutes lost after 20 years. Since there are 420 minutes in a 7 hour day then in 20 years I would have wasted 122 full days of work!”

The Boss was smiling even though his eyes were glazing over. Ellen continued. “Now you want coffee and someone needs to get it. What I could do is bring work with me. I am able to read in the elevator, I could go through company emails on the ipod while I wait in line or read over your notes for the week.”

Of course, after this, the Boss hired Ellen on the spot. They worked well together for a long time. Then one day the Boss said to Ellen, “I need to go to a meeting, can you write me up an introduction and some anecdotes for the conference next week?”

“Of course.”

Ellen loved this kind of creative work but she wasn’t feeling very well. She had a headache. Maybe I should eat? Yes, food might help. She ordered some takeout and had it delivered while she brainstormed some ideas for her Boss. She ate the food but was still feeling sick. What do I need? Some vitamins? She had some in her purse and took them and continued with her notes but she still felt ill What should I do? Maybe a little nap would help me? She thought about it and it seemed like a good idea.
She grabbed a cushion from the lobby, laid it on the desk and put her head down. Soon she was in a deep sleep.

The Boss was anxious to see what Ellen had come up with so after his long meeting he rushed to his mailbox but nothing was there. He looked for Ellen in the copy room but she wasn’t there. Finally, he walked down to her office and found her asleep, snoring, and even drooling on her desk.

“I see,” said the Boss. He went to is office and came back with a video camera. He turned it on Ellen, plugged it into the corporate-wide video system and left.

As the next workday started, Ellen awoke to the sound of loud snoring. She was stiff and disheveled and it took her a long moment to realize where she was, or even who she was. Gradually her vision cleared and on the tv monitor above her desk she saw the image of a woman sleeping, snoring, and drooling. It appeared to be a tape on a loop that repeated itself every 15 minutes. Who was that? Who? What? Is that me? Ellen saw the video camera, now stopped, sitting in front of her desk. The sound of snoring was horrible. Ellen tried to turn off the monitor but the tv was too high and only her Boss had access to the controls.

Ellen awkwardly got up and tried to straighten up. She moved slowly down the hall and saw that all the monitors above all the desks in all the offices were showing the same horrible tape. Sounds of snoring filled the hallways. Ellen ran to her Boss’ office. What are you doing?

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said.

“But you--?”

“I don’t know what you’re babbling about and I’m busy. Get out.”

Ellen ran from the office and was never seen again.

At least, that is the original version of the story. The other secretaries at work heard that poor Ellen had gone crazy and was institutionalized. But perhaps that’s just the story the Boss wanted them to hear.

I heard a different ending from Ellen when I met her and her lawyer in the Bahamas.
© Lewis-Barr 2008 Read more!

A new story for "Frau Trude"

Today's tale, “Frau Trude” is a change of pace. We've mostly been looking at happy endings-but not today!

I think the original fairy tale is more than a “mind your parents” cautionary fable. It speaks to the dangers of naïve and unbridled curiosity--a risk for all ages.

Jamie watched the shadows on the ceiling. Their movements depicted a battle between light and darkness. She was part of the story too. A valiant maiden, fighting for truth and freedom. Her parents (represented by the black smudge in the corner) were the cruel tyrants to be overthrown.

Jamie saw the entire saga playing simultaneously on the ceiling, in her mind, and in the cryptic lyrics pulsing through her ipod. She wanted to write it all down, but the mystical tale was moving too fast and she was very tired. She'd taken a higher dose of the shroom than before. Too much? She felt faint.

Eight hours later Jamie was ready for more. She'd be more careful this time to get the perfect dose so she could record the brilliant messages coming to her through the TV, the fish tank, the stars and most especially, the trees.

But when she went to find her stash (perhaps she'd just do the pot and save the mushrooms for another day) it was gone. Confiscated by her captors.

There was no use confronting them. They'd simply yell or lecture or threaten her. But what could they threaten? No prison was worse than this house. She'd warned them to leave her things alone. She'd warned them.

It was a Friday night and her tormentors were leaving. Perfect. She'd have a head start.

Jamie grabbed cash from her hiding places, and a duffle bag. She'd travel light. She couldn't hitch with a suitcase. Besides, she didn't need much. Just some more money.
A trip to the ATM proved lucrative. If she were frugal, she'd have enough for a month or more. She'd get a job with the fake ID Kira had provided.

In three days, she was in Berkeley. So poppin! If only she’d been born 30 years earlier. To be here during the summer of love? Epic!!!!

Her first evening in town, she found a party. Was she the youngest there? Hard to say. Most looked like college gowns but there were some townees--girls who looked 14. Jamie studied them. Could they tell she was in their grade? She tried to stand tall and stick out her chest. She told the group she was 17.

She was hungry for a hit of something-pot, speed, something. But this group, however friendly, ignored her less than subtle hints. Did they think she was a NARC?

Crap! Here she was in friggin Berkeley, CA and no drugs??? A Monday night and no way to get high? She'd have to ditch this party. It was too bad, the guys were cute and the vibe was awesome. Everyone was beautiful and sexy and fun. She was meeting film people and musicians.

An older woman (was she 35?) sat in the corner, surrounded by a harem of eager, young guys. Frat boys? She was telling them a story and they were screaming with laughter. Were they high?

Jamie inched closer and smiled. The woman, Trudy, beckoned her closer. Trudy's eyes sparkled and her smile was like a bank of camera flashes. She sent the male harem away and cuddled on the couch with Jamie, asking her questions.

Jamie felt like a princess, chosen by the Queen to have a visit. She told Trudy her new improved bio-much more glamorous than the real thing. They shared pizza and coke and finally Jamie steered their talk to drugs.

“Are you looking to get high tonight?” The Queen’s smile widened. Jamie wondered if perhaps Trudy had bleached her teeth once too often. The shocking white glow now appeared almost blue.

“Yes,” Jamie whispered, “do you have something I could buy?”

Trudy pulled Jamie closer. “I have something very special for you. A mixture very powerful…”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Are you sure?” Trudy sang this question and then laughed.

“I'm not afraid.”

“Good. I didn't think so.”

Jamie swallowed the large pill and then lay down on the couch, her head on Trudy's lap. The light in the room began to dance and conversations looped back on themselves. She'd hear the start of a joke, then the end, then the middle, then the start again. The room seemed broken up into fragments of time and space. Jamie laughed.

“Right… be…. be… back…. right…” Trudy’s words echoed as she moved off the couch. She moved off the couch again and again. Finally, Jamie stretched out and closed her eyes to enjoy the music. Then she felt a tickle near her face. She opened her eyes and saw an enormous cat sitting near her head. She pulled her arms over her face.

Jamie peeked out through her fingers. The cat was still there. It was planning to scratch her. Jamie wanted to scream but she was too relaxed. Her body wouldn't move.

She peeked again. Now there were two cats hovering over her, large and cartoon-like. Jamie swatted the air and one cat scratched her hand. She pulled back again and covered her face.

She listened to the punk playing in the background. She tried to breathe deeply and focus on the beat. “Trudy?” She murmured.

“Yes, dear. Yes, dear. Yes, dear.” Jamie heard Trudy's voice echoing. She peaked through her fingers to look. The two cats and now 20 other eyes were staring down at her.

“Trudy?”

“Yes, dear, nothing to worry about….”

The eyes gathered nearer. Jamie felt herself lifted and moved to another room. The eyes followed close by. Then the room became white light as Jamie's mind when dark. ©Lewis-Barr 2008 Read more!

Story and thoughts on "Mother Holle"

Barb majored in theatre in college. After graduation, she waitressed and auditioned, auditioned and waitressed. She got small roles but never broke through to the top tiers of local casting.

The years passed quickly. Barb continued to waitress. She got married, had children, and shelved her dreams, “until the kids were older.” Depression haunted her days.

At 39, feeling stuck, Barb took up playwriting. Perhaps this would be the vehicle for breakthrough. She wrote diligently and networked. She won some contests but never achieved commercial success.

Now, at 49, Barb tells me she’s “stuck.” She dreams of flying and freedom but daily life offers no such liberty. She’s been a good mom, a good wife, a good neighbor. She performs a litany of daily tasks and ignores her frustrations and envy. She tells me “it’s too late, my dreams are finished.”

Fairy tales often show a hero lost, or stuck in an impossible place, with an impossible task. Then, a friend emerges or a door opens. What door can open for Barb (or myself), stuck in similar ruts of middle age? Where will the breakthrough emerge? Will it come from plunging deeper into the mundane duties of daily life?

Today’s tale, “Mother Holle,” is similar to “The Three Little Men in the Woods.” Both stories show heroines performing mundane tasks. We can see these tales as simply instructions to young girls—“be good, work hard, and good things will come to you,” But if MLVF is correct, these tales concern the psyche. The hard work of sweeping, cooking, or cleaning, is a metaphor of tending to our moods, feelings, and thoughts.

Today, I’ve thought of Barb as I journaled about my own regrets and yearnings. Like Barb, I long to burst through the requirements of daily life.

Today’s tale encourages me to keep working on my inner self and trust the process. Read more!

A story and comments on "The Three Little Men in the Woods"

Did you notice a theme last week? I was writing about holding silent and then jumped the gun on some blog posts. A synchronicity?

(If you don’t believe in synchronicities, that’s ok, consider this an apophenia moment).

I’ve been reading “The Three Little Men in the Woods” and trying to find a modern parallel. Found one in my experience at work yesterday. Weird. Another synchronicity?

If you want to read the fairy tale first, here it is.

Here’s my story.

I’ve spent most of my life in counter-cultural work (massage therapist, theatre director) or freelance, office-free positions (massage therapist, part-time college professor). My new job involves office work, and all the politics and personalities of a bureaucracy. Now, if I had to be in my windowless office full time, I’d be unhappy. But I’m blessed to be able to work half-time, and I find this new environment fascinating. I’m especially intrigued by the psychological/emotional churnings beneath serene surfaces.

When I walk through the corridors and cubicles of my new world, I visualize a minefield or the dark woods featured in many fairy tales. As a newbie, I cannot know of all the previous in-fighting or schemes between co-workers. My strategy is to listen well and watch for clues.

Perhaps it’s because of my previous travails, or my ego isn’t as involved in this work; whatever the reason, I have felt myself “centered” at work. When colleagues ignore a request or send me a cryptic email, I’ve been skillful at getting them to talk to me and express their fears. Because I’m generally happy and confident in this place, I can extend kindness. Without fail, when I offer a friendly response, I’ve seen my co-workers’ anger or defensiveness melt away.

Yesterday, however, I was the angry worker. “Betsy” was supposed to help me prepare some documents for publication. I had pressing deadlines and it seemed (to me) that she was passing the buck and doing little to help me. In the past, when faced with such bureaucratic tangles, I would trust that my colleagues were working with me. That trust in their good intentions brought out their best and together we maneuvered around obstacles.

But in this case, I deeply resented Betsy and her methods. I tried calling her but she wouldn’t answer her phone. My anxiety and anger increased and seeped into several emails we exchanged.

Before sending another frantic note, I called again. Betsy answered.

“I’m freaking out,” I said.

“You want to come down and look at the proofs I printed for you?” Betsy’s voice didn’t betray an emotion.

“No, I’m freaking out, can we just send them to the printer?”

“You don’t want to look at the proofs?” Betsy asked.

(This had been my passive-aggressive request—asking Betsy to quickly print another set of drafts for me.)

“No. They’re ok. I don’t want to take any more time.”

Betsy told me to email her the request.

“Ok, I’ll do that right now.”

I hung up. What had happened? Our contact had been brief but my impatience was palpable. I’d become possessed by some hysteric. Would I become the talk of the marketing department? Dana, my office-mate pursed her lips.

“You need to be careful to keep on their good side,” she murmured.

Crap. Have I screwed up this important contact? I was mortified but tried to stay positive. In the evening, I retold the saga to my hubby. This morning I read “The Three Little Men in the Woods.”

Like the hero in the story, I have had a cycle of good deeds. My kindnesses have produced more kindness in others and my mouth has been “dropping gold coins.” Feeling centered, I’ve been able to offer good judgment and well-timed words.

But there is another part of my psyche that got triggered by Betsy. Overtaken by the evil stepmother (my negative affect, or “complex”) my “Queen-self” is replaced by this other part of my personality. (Have you had this experience and wondered, “who was that person inhabiting my body?”)

Luckily, as in the story, the Queen isn’t completely gone, she’s regressed to an animal that swims in waters (the emotions). Claiming my own emotional reality (“I’m freaking out”) is the best I can do with a negative affect. Using “I” statements is often the only tool I have to get me across these rough waters.

Of course, Betsy didn’t see the Queen-in-me, just a frantic duck in the water, but that’s the best I could muster. And owning “my stuff” meant less harm to our relationship.

I thought of the encounter throughout the day. It wasn’t until later, in retelling the story, that I realized my own shadow connection to Betsy (we share a “lazy” quality that I hate). This is probably why she triggered me. Laboring at this new understanding is like waving a sword of discrimination over the duck. By working at self-knowledge, I can regain my regal center and communicate with more grace.

And what about the title? Who are the three little men? While Jung might not agree, I see them as symbols of the Higher Self—a Trinity-God within who sets in motion the rewards and punishments we internally seek.

The final image of the story is fierce and one that I’ve read in other tales. To be trapped in a small barrel filled with nails reminds me of being trapped in our own tiny perspectives and tortured by my own projections and complexes.
Read more!

The Queen Bee

I’m revisiting today’s story, “The Queen Bee,” one of the many “Simpleton” or “Dummling” tales in the Grimm collection. I’ve previously looked at how these tales illustrate a healthy psyche—a person in tune with their instincts (the animals in the stories). Today I’m thinking of a more basic theme of these exceedingly optimistic fairy-tales. The stories (at least those I’ve read so far) say, not merely, “trust your own instincts and internal drives” but also “you can trust the World Spirit-God-Nature-the Universe” (whatever label you use). If you live simply, naively, and with an open heart, life works out.

That’s a radical thought. And a reassuring one.

I often feel like a Dummling in my own life. My choices tend to be counter-cultural. I'm slow to adopt (or even understand) the latest in technology or fashion. In clothing (when I’m not putting on a corporate trainer persona) I can tend toward frumpy. I often shop resale and dress for comfort. I’ve never had fashionable nails so that I can work in my garden or give my hubby a massage. I walk everywhere. And most importantly, I follow my instincts regarding my work. Majoring in Drama wasn’t the shrewdest business choice. And what is this blog anyway? How could it possibly help me in my life? I’m a Dummling in this, naïve and trusting.

Read a Dummling tale today. Would that the world was full of Dummlings! Read more!

The Seven Ravens

Today’s meditation is on The Seven Ravens (check out this cool site from National Geographic) from The Brothers Grimm. I had fun with the bird imagery…..

The O’Brien family produced seven sons in rapid succession. Each became a priest and rose in the hierarchy to become important clerics. The seven brothers, dressed in long black robes, analyzed and debated ecclesiastical law from their lofty posts in Vatican City.

Perched in this sublime world, the brothers rarely contacted their aging parents or their younger sister. Mary had disappointed them. Instead of earning a law degree, as they’d hoped, she’d dropped out of school and become a massage therapist. A massage therapist! How could she throw away her mind and become a new-age….yes, they would say it….prostitute!

They made excuses to avoid contact with her and many years passed.

Mary loved massage. She loved the way she felt when, focusing on a rock-like muscle, she felt it relax under her hand. Massage was movement—a dance of meditation—an exploration of time, space, and breath.

But the work was also unsteady and her money tight. Mary dreamed of visiting her brothers in Rome but such a trip seemed impossible.

Then, one afternoon, she received a call. She’d won a drum set from the “Starlight” raffle she’d entered. A heavenly gift! She quickly sold the set and bought airfare to Rome. But on her first day exploring Vatican City, Mary lost all of her little remaining cash. A pickpocket.

Mary sat at a café, disoriented. Should she go to the police? Call her family at home?

She noticed some young women in short skirts huddled near the street. Another woman was sitting on a bench, in distress. Mary walked over. The young hooker, Jolina, was in pain. Mary began to work on her shoulders and soon had worked on the entire group, earning enough money for food and lodging.

The next day Mary, with the help of her new friends, set up a small sign near a chair in the town square. “Backrubs: 1 euro for 1 minute.” She worked there all day, meeting tourists and locals in that glorious setting--until the police chased her away. For the next few days, as she searched for her brothers, Mary continued setting up her sign wherever she could--on more remote streets, or in hotel lobbies. She’d even visit hotel rooms. But this last choice was dangerous. Mary had to fight off several men who grabbed her. But through humor and quick thinking she was able to finish the massage without incident. But she was shaken. She’d have to find her brothers tomorrow or she’d go home. She couldn’t risk another disgusting encounter.

The next day Mary finally found the Papal Law Offices. She asked for her eldest brother—telling the clerk that she was there to provide glenohumeral joint (shoulder blade) therapy. She tried to sound official. This was the only anatomy she could remember. Remarkably, after a few minutes, she was escorted into a large conference room.

The first brother came in. He didn’t recognize Mary and was suspicious of her offer. But as soon as she began to work on his shoulders, he melted into a blissful mystic. He called his next brother who called the next, until Mary had refashioned each. They sat in a circle, eyes glazed. Their previous worries and duties had flown and they were now peaceful lumps of earth—happy in their current moment of no-thought.

Each in their own way felt a tiny rebirth to themselves. They resolved—they would not jump back into their “head-trips” and workaholic ways.

And then finally, they recognized their sister and her gift. They laughed and hugged and spoke for many hours, beginning a new journey of discovery. Read more!

Between Heaven and Earth--A short story

She was a television stereotype--the fierce medicine woman--a spindly powerhouse who pokes you with urns of pig feet and lichen. Clutching an old spaghetti jar filled with musty brown stems, she walks me through her sprawling home. Every room contains long tables covered with clear jars. Silent daughters organize the pungent merchandise recently harvested from a forest floor. I follow closely. We are discussing the fungus I’ve ingested. Have I taken too much? Bloody Mary (was she in South Pacific?) seems matter-of-fact and her daughters unconcerned. I shouldn’t worry. I am headed for a truly spectacular high.

I wake up reeling. It is 4:30am. Stumbling to the bathroom, I try to remain asleep. To get high on mushrooms in a dream? An altered state within an altered state! I must get back to sleep and find Bloody Mary. But it is too late. The dream is gone. I lie in bed and massage ideas for a short story.

Three hours later I am surrounded by high-end shops in a fashionable Las Vegas casino. Twelve college students, perfect specimens between 20-25 years, huddle close to hear me. The mall is loud. This section has been designed to resemble a Renaissance Italian village. Gondola drivers sing while paddling their obese tourists. But most of the rumble of noise comes from the crowds of happy consumers sipping coffee, eating ice cream, and browsing through expensive leather boutiques.

“The key to flying,” I begin, “is to focus the mind.” At “mind” I bring my thoughts to a still point in the center of my skull. I slowly ascend off the ground. Hovering ten feet above the group, I ignore the shoppers beginning to point. “Flying should be effortless—all that is required is the mental ability to hold oneself aloft. To help with focus, I sometimes start with a movement like this.” I bend each elbow and lightly push down each arm close to my sides, creating a streamlined figure. I rise higher. “To move in all directions: up, down, left, right, or a combination of these, simply dictate this with a CLEAR thought.”

A blond athlete stretches forth his hand and points. “What about this? This is how they did it in that Crouching Tiger movie.” He doesn’t budge. A shy brunette begins to rise.

“Movements are only important if they help you focus your mind,” I say. “Flight comes from the mind.”

“What about this?” The weightlifter is flapping his arms. Others laugh as two more slowly rise and join me hovering above.

“What do you think?” I say with a smile. A few more join the group overhead. “The rest of you keep experimenting. We are going for a practice flight,” I say. I lean forward and the others mimic me. We are now horizontal. I think “forward-up” and begin to glide along the manufactured streets of an indoor Italy. Since flying is a skill that one learns through personal trial and error, I do not lecture much. I do not even look back as I accelerate faster and faster. They will find a way to keep up.

I sometimes like to run personal errands above the ground but today we are gliding for the sheer joy of speed and weightlessness. To fly is not to be a disembodied spirit but to feel one’s body as lean, light, and quick. We dart along the 3rd floor balconies that line the winding streets and I watch the shoppers from above. Bald heads, dark roots. From 300 feet up, everyone looks squat.

I make a sudden turn and quickly duck. The ceilings are covered with a danger--circling fans. We have entered the smoke-filled casino. I want to check my charges but need to keep my eyes focused ahead. Pit bosses flay and there is a sound of sirens. We move quickly above the shuffling crowd. I am desperate for the exit. I want the open air.

The doorways are too low to navigate, so we gently lower ourselves to the ground and walk through. Several of the students have been left behind at crap tables but the remaining few glow with gratitude. We think “up” and briskly rise into the brightness of a clear Nevada sky. My fingers stretch toward the translucent blue--always out of reach. So instead, my eyes drink in the cool and my hands swim in the unbounded space. I push out in every dimension . Pure, clear, infinitude. I am limitless and free.

--------------------
The soft, female drawl on the other end of the line is always patient, calmly explaining her procedure as my blood pressure rises. I rub my eyes. I’ve been on the phone for an hour, listening to inane commercials repeated endlessly, or even worse, left with no sound at all, wondering if the kind Southern clerk has banished me to phone limbo. After 15 minutes of enforced silence, during which I can neither focus on my writing, nor unkink my aching neck, I am tempted to hang up. But experience has taught me that this would be futile: I would be forced to return to the beginning of the same torture, or abandon the hope of medical care. On a messy sheet of paper I scribble half-baked ideas from my flying dream and wait.

I had finally succumbed to the idea of seeing a dermatologist—having exhausted my experiments with herbal concoctions—but first I was to be tortured with a bureaucratic rack. Kafka could not have come up with a more perverse system. I am told that I need a referral through my Primary Care Physician. But my PCP isn’t in their system. They are trying to fix this problem. Meanwhile, Brian can help me. I am transferred to Brian but receive a voicemail that boots me into an endless ringing line. I call the 800 number again. Lisa answers and wants to understand why my PCP isn’t in their system. “They” are taking care of the problem I say. I simply want to get in touch with Brian for my referral. “Sure, no problem,” says the soft twang. I am dispatched to a different office with voicemail that transfers me to the dial tone. I call again. Stacy answers and wants to know why my PCP…. “Do I have to explain everything? Can I just get a referral from Brian?”

“But Brian can’t give you a referral without the PCP’s approval.”

“But Lisa said…..”

“Lisa isn’t in this office.”

“Do you have a supervisor who can help me?”

“Sure,” sings the drawl.

I wait light years in the silent echo of an unattended phone. Kelly answers and we run the drill. I am persistent and these women are agreeable. They will allow me to waste their time as they waste mine. Kelly calls for Brian. Again the exhausting exercise of pretending to be patient while your morning slips into afternoon. More inane doodles on my indecipherable paper. This morning I was ready to write the great American novel; now I am constructing an illegible suicide note. Kelly returns. Brian won’t talk to me, he can’t help me, he wants me to leave him alone. I try to echo the reasoned tone of my captor. Surely, after several hours of waiting, someone can help me with a referral? Kelly explains a new scheme: we will call my PCP together. But first let’s decide on a dermatologist. I sigh.

It is rather sweet the way Kelly mispronounces the names of towns within 15 miles of my home. We pick one out of the mix and off she flies to battle another bureaucrat while I hold the line. I sit and wait. I am stuck in the torture I hate more than any other--held fast, unable to move, wasting time. Think, Ann, think! I can muster my resolve and concentrate, even with an appliance attached to my ear. I must make this moment count. I find a blank spot of paper and begin outlining a story idea. Crude thoughts accumulate. I gain a small amount of momentum as Kelly returns.

“I have a referral number for you. You can make your appointment.”

“That’s it? I’m free?”

Kelly sweetly drawls goodbye. I hang up, slightly dizzy. I want to finally run to the computer to write about my dreams this morning, but I should first call the dermatologist and make an appointment before this rash goes away on its own. A tired receptionist answers. “Dr. Hudson isn’t a dermatologist. Is this OneHealthPlan?”

“Yes, they referred me.”

“Their records are wrong. Dr. Hudson is an allergist. And she isn’t here anymore. I’m sorry.” Dial tone.
I take a deep breath. No problem. I have the referral number. I will just find another local dermatologist who is in the health plan and make an appointment with them. I’m sure that is acceptable. Especially when your dermatologist isn’t a dermatologist.

I ignore my writing files and jump online. There are plenty of doctors on the plan, I choose three women and write their numbers. Just one more call I coax myself.

Thankfully, the first woman is still practicing medicine but she has a 2-month wait. The second woman has moved. I stoically call the third. Dr. Hoag has a cancellation but it is unclear as to whether she is still in OneHealthPlan. I am told to call my insurance to verify she is a member.

I have stopped breathing. My body feels numb but I propel myself forward and dial. I can be brief. This will be over soon. Helen now answers and I explain that my previous referral was for a dermatologist who isn’t a dermatologist and now I found a dermatologist but we aren’t sure if she is in the plan. Helen listens. “Why isn’t your PCP listed in the system?”

I choke back stomach acid and ignore the question. Can she check if Dr. Hoag…..?

“You can’t use the old referral number for a referral to a different doctor.” Like her predecessors, Helen is professional but she doesn’t have a twang. Her voice doesn’t smile.

“But the old referral,” I weakly counter. We trudge through the same old ground. Helen never loses patience as she explains again and again that my administrative nightmare will not die. I need another referral. The doctor appears to be in the system at another address but she needs to check the current address. She will call me back.

I scream at the dog. My husband calls and I spew forth the acid I’ve been swallowing all morning. I pull my hair and screen my calls. I need a doctor.

In the evening, I’m again surrounded by my students. We fly over broccoli trees and examine the manicured laws as we near Lake Mead. I fly fast. Faster. Stretching myself in the boundless sky. Free. Read more!

Throwing the Frog

(a musing on the Brothers’ Grimm “The Frog King.”)

Guess which part of the story I focused on?
I love these tales to provoke my thoughts. Please know that my thoughts do not attempt to explain, decode, or explore all the incredible imagery in these stories. But I was very happy to find one way into one theme!

Moment of Truth
During the day, she’d think loving thoughts and imagine herself happy. She’d begin dinner full of “Donna Reed,” chopping and braising. But as his arrival-time approached, she’d become tense.

Natalie forced herself to kiss him, smile, and listen to his day, but soon was criticizing his every move. And all he’d ever done was care for her. She hated herself.

Tim was a gentle, loving man but lately, if she was honest with herself (seldom), Natalie found herself despising him. His sweet disposition made her skin crawl.

The more she pulled away, the needier and clingier he became. Then she hated him more and the cycle continued, until Tim cried and Natalie convinced herself she was cruel and insane. She would apologize and they would return to “normal.”

But when going to sleep or waking up, she found herself fantasizing his death or hers. A divorce (for many reasons) was out of the question.

Then, one day, thick in their hellish cycle, Natalie found herself pushing harder and harder.

“You aren’t the man I married, you’re a child!” She hated saying those words, but they felt true! She continued, not knowing what was coming. “I can’t be sexual with you, if you’re a child. And I hate that. I hate you for that.”

And there it was. The truth. She wasn’t despicable. She wanted to be with him. But he needed to grow up. To stop living only for her and step back into the causes and adventures he’d had before they were married. She wanted the courageous man she’d dated.

Even in his pain, his denial, and his tears, Tim knew she was right.

A wave of relief swept over her. There were more struggles ahead but, with the truth told, the spell was broken. Read more!

The Old Man Made Young Again

Why are some broken by adversity and others made stronger?



That is one of the themes in today’s story-- “The Old Man Made Young Again.”



The central image--a person burning in hot coals-- is also found in the mystical alchemical tales of late Medieval Europe. Here’s an illustration from the period showing the King redeemed through a container of fire.



But today’s story reminds me that I mustn’t “play with fire.” If we aren’t ready to undergo our transformation, we may, like the children in this tale, be born prematurely or undeveloped. Read more!

The Sisters of Sundance--Part 3 (of 3)

(This is the final segment of an adapted Brothers' Grimm story started below).

And just at that moment, three homeless women came into view. At least, Jan assumed they were homeless, based on their bizarre, layered attire. She thought of the three “weird sisters” in Macbeth—she’d written a report about them for her Composition class. Were they sisters? They were young—in their late 30s. The blonde was bone thin. She had several pairs of fancy dress gloves, one over another, white, black, red--on each hand and several elegant dresses of different styles and lengths layered over her thin frame. Her cowboy boots were decorated with lace. Was this an attempt to coordinate the ensemble? The brunette was stout. She wore large army boots which stuck out under the bulky, green trash bag pulled over her head. A glittery, green scarf was wrapped around her neck. The last sister had shaved her head and was dressed for much warmer climes. Her tiny arms hung out of a small, black T-shirt with an image to ward off the evil eye. Her camouflage cargo pants were covered in bulging pockets and she wore old spiked golf shoes.

For a brief moment, Jan forgot about her problems.

“What you looking at?” shouted the brunette.

“Sorry. Nothing.” Jan, despite herself, started to cry.

“Look what you did now, Nina, you made her cry,” said the T-shirted one.

“I did not. Shut up,” said Nina.

“What’s wrong, honey?” The T-shirted one ran up to the window.

“Annie, what are you doing, they don’t want us around here!” The blonde was now running in place.

Annie scratched her shaved head and turned to the other. “She’s crying. She needs help. What’s wrong, darlin?”

Jan couldn’t decide who was worse off, the sisters or herself. She was moved by their care, and what did she have to lose? She grabbed some cans of juice, and some snacks, and sat with the sisters in the park, telling her story.

They listened attentively, even if Carrie insisted on running in place, Annie continued to scratch, and Nina occasionally moaned. At the end, Carrie did a cartwheel and made a proposition.

“We can help you, honey,” she said. “But you have to treat us well. You can’t pretend you don’t know us when the big shots come around….”

“We used to be big in this town too.” Nina was now biting her nails as she spoke.

Carrie continued. “I’m great at organizing, Nina loves to clean, and Annie can type like the wind, right Annie?”

Annie made typing motions over Carrie’s head.

“We can start tonight, if you want. You just have to be our friend. Invite us to a premiere or two…”

Jan looked at the sisters. They were odd and had clearly lived a rough life on the streets. Still, what choices did she have? She let them into the office and went to bed.

The next day, Jan got to the room early, afraid that Stephanie would find the sisters and freak. But at 9 am (this was early for Jan) the sisters were gone and the room was immaculate! Papers were organized into tagged files and these were alphabetized and already boxed. Stacks of perfectly typed letters sat next to labeled envelopes and all the surfaces had been scrubbed clean!

Stephanie walked in with a few papers in her hand.

“Jan! Wow! That’s incredible! Amazing! Terrific! Here I was ready to send you off with these papers and look what you’ve done! You must have worked non-stop! You take the rest of the day off, dear. And here are tickets to the premiere tonight. You’ve earned them.”

“Thanks, Steph. Any chance I might have three more? I have a couple of friends who’ve been very supportive since I got here.”

Stephanie was delighted to give Jan more tickets.

Jan searched all day for the sisters and finally found them sleeping in the park. She gave them the tickets and said she’d meet them at the theatre.

For once she was thrilled to be invited to a gala. She primped the rest of the afternoon and got to the tiny cinema early, to watch for celebrities. But the sisters hadn’t arrived at the start of the event, when “Bob,” or Mr. Redford (as she was instructed to address him) began his remarks. They still hadn’t arrived when the movie ended.

“Jan! Jan!” Stephanie was walking toward her, with Mr. R! “Jan, I’d like to introduce Mr. Redford. Bob, this is our new intern, Jan. She is awesome.”

Mr. R smiled and, even with their colossal age difference, Jan felt herself swoon.

They chatted for a brief moment, and Jan was shocked when Mr. R stayed chatting, even when Stephanie was pulled away. Then suddenly, the three sisters arrived.

“Jan, dear, Jan,” they sang together, “thank you for the tickets!” They ran up to her.

“Mr. Redford, may I introduce my friends, Annie, Carrie, and Nina?”

Bob smiled. Carrie began running in place, Annie scratching, and Nina picking her nails. But then each began to tell their story. The theatre emptied but Bob would not be moved. He cried as they told how their lives had unfurled. But other stories were howlingly funny. They each described their psychiatrists and their different diagnoses: “obsessive-compulsive,” prone to panic attacks,” and “neurotic.”

Finally, Nina wanted to go “home.” They made promises to take their medication, hugged or patted Jan goodbye, and ran off.

The next day Bob called Jan to his office.

“You know those three sisters? They're willing to sell their stories and I’d like you to spend your time interviewing them. Write me up some notes, you can start the treatment. You could even try your hand at the screenplay if you want. Do you think you might know someone who could take over your jobs for you, in the meantime?”

Jan smiled. She did. Read more!

The Sisters of Sundance--Part 2

(The first part of this reworking of the Grimm tale starts on the post below.)

Jan was trapped. And paralyzed inside. She couldn’t think of an escape and so, a week later, she found herself in a cramped and cluttered administrative office of the Sundance Institute.

Stephanie, the breezy executive director, gave her a tour.

“Jan, we are so thrilled you were willing to take us on! As you can see, we’re in desperate need of your organizing skills! And your housekeeping!”

Stephanie’s laugh was light and carefree—was it a carefully choreographed display to distract Jan from the filth surrounding her? Even if she worked everyday for a month, Jan could never scrub this place clean.

Stephanie pointed to three stacks—each at least 10 inches high--of paperwork. “These contracts need to be re-entered into the system and these are letters to answer for Mr. Redford. There are forms for the fan mail, something for the agents, here are police forms—if you find notes from crazy stalkers… No! I’m not kidding!” She laughed again and moved to the computer. Jan watched Stephanie’s long, frosted fingernails daintily tap the keyboard. “Here are the files. I’m sure this will make sense once you get into it. This room, over here, we have file folders and boxes. You should have everything you’ll need. Cleaning supplies are in this closet.”

Jan struggled to keep her own plastered smile in place and her tears repressed until Stephanie finally pranced out of the room. Then, Jan locked the door, collapsed into a grimy chair and cried into the evening.

The next day Jan sat in the scummy space, overwhelmed and appalled. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t….she had neither the skill nor the will. To clean, and organize, and administrate? Jan found a sticky radio and turned it up. She locked the door and tried to think but her brain wouldn’t work. All she could do was cry.

On the third day, Jan again sat immobile. At lunchtime, Stephanie knocked on the door.

“Jan? You in there?”

Jan sat motionless.

“Hello? Hello?”

Jan heard the sound of a key and watched the door open. Stephanie was bringing another huge stack of paperwork.

“What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

Looking into Stephanie’s mirrored sunglasses, Jan caught a glimpse of her own red, swollen eyes and tear-drenched face.

”I…I…” Jan could only stutter.

“I know it’s overwhelming, and I’m sure you miss your sweet Mother. Many of our interns have a tough first week. But Jan, if you can’t do this, I’ll have to send you home. I hate to do that, especially because it’s late now. You know we’ll have to charge you for your airfare both ways, and the week’s housing stipend. And some other charges. I told your mother this.”

Jan nodded.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Stephanie continued, with her practiced sing-song tone and toothy smile. “If you haven’t cleaned this room up and finished all this paperwork, I’ll have to put you out on the streets. Sorry….”

This was it. The end of the road. Jan went to the window. Should she escape first or wait until dark? Or at least until after dinner? Should she grab the blankets from her cot and find a place to sleep outside? Homelessness. That was her future.

TO BE CONTINUED Read more!

The Sisters of Sundance--Part I

Sorry I haven't had time to compose Grimm-influenced stories lately--been hectic with some corporate training events. But I finally had a moment---here's the first part of a new tale (also visit some older completed tales below....)

Based on the Brothers Grimm tale, “The Three Spinners.”

She tried to forget her mother, sitting in the other room circling want-ads. For Jan. “She wants me to move out, I’ll move out!” Jan practiced this mantra with ferocity. But under her bravado she wondered how she’d manage. She had a bit of money left (a fraction of the largess she’d been given 3 years ago when she managed to graduate) but not enough to live on. But she’d gotten her AA. She’d done that, hadn’t she? Couldn’t her mother give her credit for anything?

And now this stupid networking event. She’d been building toward “being sick” all week but now this fight and the threat! She had to go, to appease the monster and maybe if her mother thought Jan was “at least trying,” she’d be left in peace to…..? That was the problem. What did she want to do? Besides shopping, texting, or hanging out?

Jan’s best friend, Tina, couldn’t understand tonight’s dilemma. The theatre fundraiser sounded like a blast—free food, drink, a band? So what if Jan’s mother would drag her around, “like the prized heifer at the county fair,” selling her to the highest bidder? Jan stopped protesting. Tina couldn’t understand how it felt to be the daughter of a controlling, ambitious, double-Capricorn named Heather. No, she wouldn’t go. She couldn’t go through another public degradation.

But they were in the car together that evening, dressed up (although Jan purposely wouldn’t style her hair or wear earrings—a tiny act of rebellion). Both seethed in silence. Jan felt a genuine headache emerging. How would she survive this evening?

Heather transformed into her loveliest self as they entered the ballroom. Beaming with laughter and lavishing praise on her “exquisite” daughter, she mercilessly marketed Jan as prospective employee or spouse to whoever would cross their path. Finally, after Heather’s third cocktail, Jan was able to wander off and hide in the corner near the band.

Driving home, her mother seemed especially cheerful. Was it simply the alcohol?

“I got you a job.”

What?”

“I got you a job, my darling daughter. It doesn’t pay much. In fact, it might just be an internship, I’m not exactly sure, but, I signed you up and you leave for Utah, next week.”

Should she even bother with a reply? No. Better to ignore Heather when she’s talking crazy.

“If you don’t go, I’m changing the locks.”

Jan felt dizzy. She watched the streetlights pass over her head as the car rushed toward the only home she’d ever known.

“It’s for the Sundance Institute. You know, Robert Redford’s place? You’re going to love it.”

Jan tried to keep her voice monotone. She wanted to sound bored and hide her inner chaos “What am I supposed to be doing?”

“Lots of things. I told them that you “type like the wind, you're a professional organizer and a meticulous housekeeper.” Heather laughed. “It’s a bit of a stretch. But they aren’t paying you and you’ll do well enough. It will be great for your resume.”

“I suck at all those things. I can’t type!”

“You typed your papers in college…. You’ve got a week to brush up”

TO BE CONTINUED Read more!

The Natural (Wo)Man

I heard Joseph Campbell tell of struggling to get his work accepted in academia. Because his work is now so revered, we might not realize (or have forgotten) that for a long time his studies were ridiculed. Was he treated like Simpleton in today’s story, “The Queen Bee?” (for another similar Simpleton tale check out the classic “The Three Feathers.”) It must have taken great courage to ignore the politics and intrigues that surrounded him and risk (if not his job), his reputation, and likelihood of promotion.

So while he was writing about the hero’s journey, Campbell was living it—risking much to be true to his vision and calling.

Another story of fighting the status quo is told in an article in Fastcompany.com. Navy commander D. Michael Abrashoff was given command of the USS Benfold. Abrashoff says, “All I ever wanted to do in the navy was to command a ship. I don't care if I ever get promoted again. That attitude has enabled me to do the right things for my people instead of doing the right things for my career.”

Abrashoff recognized that when Navy officers succumb to career pressures they make poor choices for their people. Abrashoff decided to simply care for his crew in novel (but common sense) ways, such as finding time to periodically talk to every sailor on his ship. He responded to their needs without following standard procedure. (When he learned that credit-card debt, not housing, was hurting his crew he brought financial counselors aboard.) Abrashhoff risked his career to follow his own inner voice and he revitalized not only his ship but the entire Navy. Read more!

Monster of the Deep

(Based on the Brothers' Grimm tale, “The Water-Nixie”)

Michele was tired. She shouldn’t have had the 3rd (4th?) glass of wine. She curled up on the couch and closed her eyes. Saturday night and she couldn’t even make it to 9 pm?

The next morning, struggling to conceal her dark circles with make-up, Michele re-composed her old resolve. No more drinking. Or maybe, no more than 1-2 drinks? (That might be more do-able). She took three more aspirin and drove to church, full of self-hatred and vows to improve.

When she was honest with herself (after the DUI), Michele saw the escalation of her drinking. Weekend wine with dinner had evolved into daily shots (hidden in fresh orange juice) starting as early as noon. She blamed her job—she was now expected to do the work of three people. She needed an escape hatch from her daily grind. Some light-headed sleepiness—was that too much to ask for after a 10-hour day?

Then, in early September, Michele missed an important meeting. Hung-over, she had mixed up her dates. Later that same week, she lost some sensitive paperwork and forgot three conference calls she’d arranged. She scrambled for excuses and began blaming her co-workers. Finally, the CEO told Michele to take a week off and “get herself together.”

Monday morning she went to Mass, but by evening Michele had convinced herself that one drink “wasn’t a problem—she just had to limit herself to one—to take the edge off.” By Thursday, she was back to two (large) glasses. Saturday night she called the CEO at home. She was going to check into a clinic for a month.

The staff discussed Michele’s resistance during the first week. She complained about the meetings and sat silent during individual sessions. She denied her feelings and refused all the “psycho-babble.” She was bored.

Then, during the third week, Michele started to cry. She cried during the meetings and private sessions. The staff called it a “breakthrough.” But would the crying stop? Could she return to work? And why was she crying? It had something to do with her mother (they said). But she knew there was so much more to discover. She’d opened the dike of her craziness and now they wanted her to go home? Couldn’t she stay another month?

“No.” The staff knew how she felt, this was normal, she shouldn’t feel dependent on them, blah, blah blah. They wanted her to go back to work, go to her AA meetings, and do her phone check-ins faithfully.

Another Saturday night. Surrounded by cups of different herbal teas, Michele is looking into her mirror, crying. She couldn’t go back to work. She was ugly, and there was nothing she could do about it. She was ugly.

During the last week, when they’d done the “mirror exercise,” her therapists and group-members had assured her that she was not ugly. They had all laughed together through her tears at the ridiculous notion. But tonight it was clearer than ever—she was terribly ugly. She had to accept that. Maybe if she accepted it? Her crying slowed down. She looked at herself in the mirror. She noticed every flaw and concentrated on it. Could she accept this ugliness? Could she accept that this is what others saw when they looked at her? Michele took a deep breath. She could. She could accept it. She was ugly (in some ways). That was her lot in life. She’d have to accept it and others would too.

The following Saturday, Michele had dinner with some of her co-workers. They toasted her week’s sobriety with Cokes and a tomato juice. They noted her new energy and “glow.” It was true, Michele had never felt so good. When her mother’s scolding voice spoke in her mind, reminding her of her flaws, Michele quietly said “yes.” “Yes, she was flawed, broken, ugly. Yes.”

As they sat around the table Michele’s friends wondered what new lotion or makeup she was using. They each privately envied her “new look ” and her flawless complexion. Read more!

The Three Languages

Have you ever found yourself wandering in the (metaphorical) dark woods? Afterwards, did you discover that all the twists and turns and scrapes had a purpose? These glimpses of insight are a blessing to me—and often feel spooky at the time. In those fleeting moments I discover my own Hero’s Journey—the mono-myth Joseph Campbell explained to the world.

My adventure has taken me down many different paths (playwriting and directing, public speaking, teaching, writing, and massage). Surprisingly, each one has converged in this new space.

Over a year ago, I immersed myself in Jungian psychology (described in January 08 article). Meanwhile, I began a new career pursuit (see article above)--exploring corporate training. Within that quest, I discovered corporate storytelling and the spooky moment mentioned above.

Today, my interests can still feel worlds apart. But even if I don’t understand how writing tales converges with presenting training in “Time Management,” I am compelled to follow my Muse down this path. I love using the Brothers Grimm fairy tales as a meditative koan for my day and also as a structure for writing new stories.

Amazingly, it was weeks into this new project when I suddenly recalled that my favorite Jungian author—Maria Louise Von Franz (I’ve read just about everything she has written)—was primarily known for her work with fairy tales.

Reading today’s story—The Three Languages—reminds me of Von Franz’s work. My own interpretation (below) comes from what I learned from her. This is the first time I'm offering any interpretation. The stories below, on early posts, don't have any analysis. Feel free to offer your own thoughts and opinions on those stories (and this one too).

Before reading on, (spoiler alert--my interpretation of the story follows this paragraph) perhaps you want to read "The Three Languages" from the link above? Then you can come up with your own interpretation before you read mine.

Here are my thoughts on the this classic tale.
We begin with a father who thinks his son is stupid. The child is not at all like his father. Is Dad a businessman who has an artistic, daydreaming child?

The father is determined to make the son more like himself. He sends him off to school three times and the boy comes back educated—but not in an area the father values. The son learns to listen to nature both within and outside himself--- the language of dogs, birds, and frogs. He learns to discern his own instinctual self--who he is as an individual. He learns to hear his deepest self, what he needs and values.

The father is so enraged by the son’s independence and new values that he disowns him.

But the story makes clear that following one’s own inner voice is well worth the sacrifice. The son is able to bring healing to others (freeing the town and then becoming Pope), and wealth to himself, represented by the treasure and the marriage (also a sign of the integration of masculine and feminine within the Self).

What are the instinctual voices, gut feelings, or intuitions in ourselves that we need to notice today? Read more!

The Changling

(Adapted from another "Elf Story" from the Brothers Grimm--third story on this link)

Donna loved her son. Really she did. But lately, just lately, she….found it hard to use the L word. She fantasized…..escape. Away from him, somehow….away.

What had happened to Adam? This was much more than the “terrible twos.” He bit her, screamed at her—and these were his good days. The bad days? No. Donna never admitted what really happened behind closed doors. Not to her best friend. Not to her co-workers. Not that she had co-workers. Donna had been forced to quit her job. No sitters could stand to be with the boy.

It hadn’t always been that way. Six months ago, at 18 months, he was still a charmer. And then? Suddenly the love of flinging, and fighting, and feces.

But the disgusting surfaces and bodies covered in brown were not the most disturbing change. Donna was most horrified by how she felt about her son. She never admitted her hateful thoughts—even to herself.

She was convinced he would grow out of it. But as the months wore on, Adam’s aggression only intensified. He destroyed entire rooms of furniture. He devoured a refrigerator full of food, then threw it up and….. Donna forced it out of her mind. Then, one day, Wendy, a neighbor, heard screams and came to the back porch. Donna stood in the wreckage. Her secret was revealed.

After helping clean up, and soothing Adam with huge mugs of chamomile and honey, Wendy offered advice.

“I had the same problem with little Tim, believe it or not.”

Wendy did not believe it.

“Remember Bonnie, next door to me? She was a midwife, and a teacher, and a Reiki master, and I don’t know what else. She told me what to do. Come here.”

They moved out of earshot of Adam, who had fallen asleep on the floor, clutching a large soiled blanket.

Wendy continued. “You have to buy a child’s chemistry set. Then find a glass ornament, or glass egg. Find a way to balance the egg on top of the burner and then, boil water in the egg. Show Adam the boiling water. He’ll laugh. It worked for me.”

Was Wendy crazy? Or simply baiting her? Donna tried to smile and looked at her neighbor who was gazing benevolently at her.

And, maybe because she was so tired, Donna heard herself say, “Do you still have your chemistry set? Could I borrow it?”

Wendy’s smile vanished. “No! No! The chemistry set is the key and Tim… No! I’m sorry! You can find one online or even at a resale shop.” She looked at Adam. “I’d do it as soon as possible.”

Wendy rushed away, now suddenly afraid of losing her own way. And Donna, in a rare moment of quiet, took Adam into the car and ran to the toy store.

He woke up surrounded by a tower of boxes. Donna was searching for a certain glass globe. Where was it!?

“Please honey, be careful with those.”

“Santa coming?”

“Not quite, yet, honey, but soon… You like these ornaments?”

Adam’s eyes were aglow. He had never been so near these dainty pieces. He gently clasped an heirloom glass-Santa, from Donna’s childhood. He shrieked with pleasure.

“That’s from Nana. Isn’t it pretty?”

They looked through the boxes all afternoon, and Donna told stories of Christmases past. Adam didn’t comprehend the words but he understood the gist—both through her smile and the lilt in her voice. They laughed together that day, and many future days after that, when mother and son looked for the glass globe somewhere hidden between lights and tinsel.

©Lewis-Barr 2008 Read more!

Elf Magic

(A contemporary adaptation of one of the Brothers Grimm "Elf Stories"--2nd story listed here)

Kate lived on a farm. She’d been hired to watch the property and tend a family’s small agri-business. She had no family of her own. She spent her days alone and silent, tending the organic vegetables, milking the goats, and cleaning the home. In the evenings, she treated herself to reading books of romance, or mythology, or psychology. Afterwards, over a cup of tea, she’d look at the stars, trying to learn their names. And later, in the quiet of her bed, she’d fantasize of possible tomorrows. Her sleep was filled with fantastic dreams.

She worked this way for 7 years.

Then, one evening, while falling asleep after a long day of harvesting and processing pickles, an idea popped into Kate’s head. It was a wonderful story for a movie. In an instant she saw it--the entire film. But she was exhausted. And she wasn’t a writer. Kate tried to stop imagining each scene and willed herself to go to sleep.

The next day, while weeding, or shoveling, or tending to the bees, Kate saw the movie even more clearly. Was it something she had seen before? No, the idea was new and unstable—the images morphed, transformed, and grew. More and more details emerged until Kate felt she was living a parallel life: one on the farm, and one in a fairytale kingdom in her mind. Soon, the elves from the story started talking directly to Kate, asking her to help them tell their story to the world. But she wasn’t a writer!

After a week of images, when she started talking back to the elves, Kate knew she had a problem. She had to stop these daydreams. The elves begged her to contact an agent in Los Angeles. But she didn’t know any agents! The elves wouldn’t be refused. She had been given a great honor to help birth their tale! She had to go to L.A. They’d take care of the rest.

The harvest was in and the bees were tended. She had come into some extra money unexpectedly. Perhaps it was time for a vacation? She could get someone to watch the animals while she was gone. A change of pace might be just what she needed. Clearly, she had lived alone too long. And if, in the course of events she met an agent? No, that was the craziness talking. She had a friend to visit. That was all she was doing. It would be nicer than a trip to a psychiatrist. Still, just to shut up the elves in her head, Kate packed her story notes.

On the plane ride she found herself next to a movie producer. She debated whether or not to tell her fantastic tale but, given the startling coincidence, and the high pitched yelling of the elves in her head, she acquiesced. John listened patiently, gave her his card and told her to visit him in two days.

Hollywood was an intoxicating mix: mountains, ocean, Grateful Dead parties, surfing, celebrity sightings, funky canyon hideaways, and New Age hedonists who shared a myriad of sensual pleasures with Kate.

She began to learn the business of Hollywood: meetings for screen treatments, meetings for financing. Meetings in hot tubs, at sushi bars, and while jogging on the beach.

A week after their first meeting, while she was packing her bags to go home, John called. He had arranged another conference for Friday, couldn’t she stay? Kate thought about the farm and her duties. The elves sang sweetly in her mind. Couldn’t she stay??

Maybe another week.

Back on the plane, Kate sat in a daze. The elves’ story no longer occupied her mind. Now she replayed visions of new friends and all she’d learned about movie-making. And a final image--her name on a check for $6 million.

It was a stifling, humid day when Kate got home. She was surprised at how flat the land looked. No one was around and the garden looked terrible. She didn’t even put her things away but merely laid them at the door and rushed to water the crops. Then, still in her traveling clothes, she began to weed. A man approached. What was she doing?

Kate looked at the man. She didn’t understand the question. And then she realized—all the meetings! The farm now belonged to someone else. She had been gone over a year!

©Lewis-Barr 2008 Read more!

Educating Ellen

(Based on the old folk-tale, "Clever Elsie")

Ellen’s mother and father taught her how to be a very clever woman and educated her for a lifetime of success in business. She dressed perfectly and learned her lessons well. Then, after college graduation she went to interview at VIC—a very important company. During the interview the Boss, who wanted the cleverest secretary he could find, sent Ellen downstairs for coffee.

Ellen was a hard worker and happy to comply. She took the stairs because the elevator was too slow and then she got into a very long line at Starbucks. She waited and waited and began to daydream. If she got this job she could earn 60K in the first year (on the low end, she had researched the salaries)—certainly enough money to buy a condo within 2 years. Then, at the current rate of appreciation in her favorite suburb, she should be able to sell it at a handsome profit and buy a house. Ellen smiled. She’d get a huge yard and adopt a Golden Retriever from the local humane society. She’d name it Bubkus—and Ellen would hire a dog sitter to walk him during her long work day. Ellen would make sure that the dog sitter had all the contact info so that if anything ever happened to her while she was at work, if she had an accident, or (God forbid) got hit by a train or something, the sitter could take Bubkas to her sister Dana’s, where he’d be well cared for and could play with the little ones. If the sitter didn’t have that contact info, she wouldn’t know what to do and would just take Bubkus to the shelter and he’d be stuck in a cage all over again. Which would be horrible! Yes, a dog sitter is a must and contact info in place.

How long the line was! What if her potential new Boss blames her for this lost time? Then she won’t get the house and perhaps he’d tell all of the other CEOs of the important companies, and then she’d never get a good job and she’d have to live with her parents for the rest of her life. No guy would want to be with a woman who couldn’t find a job and lived with her parents so she’d be an old maid too. And her family wouldn’t allow her to adopt Bubkus so he’d still be in the cage at the shelter! How horrible.

Finally, she placed her coffee orders and hurried to the elevator. It was full and she had many floors to visit before getting to her Boss at the penthouse. She tried to focus back on the interview and thought about good questions and answers. Then, she had a clever idea.

Upon arriving at his office, the Boss did seem annoyed.

“You’re back.”

“Sorry. There was a very long line at the Starbucks.”

“Yes, that’s why I sent you. I hate that line.”

“You don’t want to make coffee here in the office?”

“Certainly not. Why should I if there’s a Starbucks downstairs!”

“I was thinking….”

“Yes, well, let’s finish this interview, I’m running late now and—“

Ellen took a deep breath. “I was thinking that if you sent your secretary (me) everyday to Starbucks, depending on the length of the line and when you’d send me, that could take, according to my calculations, anywhere from 5.8 minutes if there is no line to 14.7 minutes for a long line. If you average these times out to be 10.25 minutes a day that would make—if taking a week off (roughly) for holidays and a week off for vacation, then, counting 50 working weeks you would have lost 2,562 minutes in a year. Since I plan on staying at this firm for a long time you could extrapolate that to 12,812 minutes in 5 years and 25,620 minutes in 10 years and 51,240 minutes lost after 20 years. Since there are 420 minutes in a 7 hour day then in 20 years I would have wasted 122 full days of work!”

The Boss was smiling even though his eyes were glazing over. Ellen continued. “Now you want coffee and someone needs to get it. What I could do is bring work with me. I am able to read in the elevator, I could go through company emails on the ipod while I wait in line or read over your notes for the week.”

Of course, after this, the Boss hired Ellen on the spot. They worked well together for a long time. Then one day the Boss said to Ellen, “I need to go to a meeting, can you write me up an introduction and some anecdotes for the conference next week?”

“Of course.”

Ellen loved this kind of creative work but she wasn’t feeling very well. She had a headache. Maybe I should eat? Yes, food might help. She ordered some takeout and had it delivered while she brainstormed some ideas for her Boss. She ate the food but was still feeling sick. What do I need? Some vitamins? She had some in her purse and took them and continued with her notes but she still felt ill What should I do? Maybe a little nap would help me? She thought about it and it seemed like a good idea.
She grabbed a cushion from the lobby, laid it on the desk and put her head down. Soon she was in a deep sleep.

The Boss was anxious to see what Ellen had come up with so after his long meeting he rushed to his mailbox but nothing was there. He looked for Ellen in the copy room but she wasn’t there. Finally, he walked down to her office and found her asleep, snoring, and even drooling on her desk.

“I see,” said the Boss. He went to is office and came back with a video camera. He turned it on Ellen, plugged it into the corporate-wide video system and left.

As the next workday started, Ellen awoke to the sound of loud snoring. She was stiff and disheveled and it took her a long moment to realize where she was, or even who she was. Gradually her vision cleared and on the tv monitor above her desk she saw the image of a woman sleeping, snoring, and drooling. It appeared to be a tape on a loop that repeated itself every 15 minutes. Who was that? Who? What? Is that me? Ellen saw the video camera, now stopped, sitting in front of her desk. The sound of snoring was horrible. Ellen tried to turn off the monitor but the tv was too high and only her Boss had access to the controls.

Ellen awkwardly got up and tried to straighten up. She moved slowly down the hall and saw that all the monitors above all the desks in all the offices were showing the same horrible tape. Sounds of snoring filled the hallways. Ellen ran to her Boss’ office. What are you doing?

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said.

“But you--?”

“I don’t know what you’re babbling about and I’m busy. Get out.”

Ellen ran from the office and was never seen again.

At least, that is the original version of the story. The other secretaries at work heard that poor Ellen had gone crazy and was institutionalized. But perhaps that’s just the story the Boss wanted them to hear.

I heard a different ending from Ellen when I met her and her lawyer in the Bahamas.

--Laura Lewis-Barr is a writer, speaker, and trainer. She has taught and consulted at colleges in California and Illinois since 1991. Need a presentation, day of storytelling, or communications training? Contact info for Laura can be found at www.elgin.edu/corporatetraining or using lauralewisbarr at Yahoo address. Read more!