“The tea ceremonies of Japan are conceived in the spirit of the Taoist earthly paradise. The tearoom…is devoid of ornamentation. Temporarily it contains a single picture or flower-arrangement…The simplest object, framed by the controlled simplicity of the teahouse, stands out in mysterious beauty, its silence holding the secret of temporal existence.” – Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, p. 155.
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In one of the Irish stories that I tell, an important scene takes place on a particular hill in the southwest of Ireland. When I visited Ireland, I spent time on this very hill. I hesitate to say more. Why?
I know an incredibly talented storyteller whom I have always viewed as the consummate teller, nearly flawless in our craft. Yet, one time I saw her share a particular story for which I held a depth of knowledge that she did not have; her performance was still powerful and moving, but I found myself only thinking, “She did a pretty good job on this.” I understood what elements she had missed.
I share stories from across the globe. Certainly, there are sometimes cultural or local elements that are lost through my retelling; much can be lost through our “translations” of the tales. Good storytellers, however, can often compensate for missing elements by adding little worthy pieces to the tale. The key is to add just a little and not overcompensate. (The aforementioned talented storyteller added a few little elements that uplifted her telling.)
I had told the Irish story involving that particular hill before I ever visited the site. I continued to tell if after the visit. Afterwards, something more was present in the tale. I did not simply add details to my description of the hill in the later tellings, it was not as straightforward as that. I just “knew something more” and, ever since that visit to the hill in Ireland, that nebulous “something” has poured into my telling of that Irish tale and out to my listeners.
Initially, after returning from Ireland, I would mention visiting that particular hill – but, in time, I found it better to not mention it. (This may be part of what lies behind my hesitancy to say much about it here.) There is energy in mystery (see néart in Irish, lungta in Tibetan). John O’Donohue, an Irishman, said, “The human imagination loves suggestion rather than exhaustive description of a thing.” There is value in the silent “knowing” of things, value in knowing when it is best not to say too much. This, too, is part of the storyteller’s gentle work.
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While speaking here of folktales, the same holds true of family stories. We need not share everything when telling a tale – whether we are sharing a folktale from a stage or a family anecdote in the kitchen with friends. In fact, holding back and not sharing certain elements may make the telling more compelling. Think of a story you tell or would like to tell and imagine “holding back” certain elements or details. What might you keep private, held in mystery, or simply unrevealed? There is magic and power in the unknown. Let that energy reside below the surface. Let it remain hidden and undisclosed. Your listeners may not whiff a hint of what was unsaid, but they may sense a certain power or energy (néart, lungta) in the tale.
(Music: Courtesy of Adrian Von Ziegler, “Sacred Earth.” )