Swimming In the Sea of Story
Walking around my backyard a few weeks ago, with the sun on my skin, the sea below and eagles calling across the bay, I slipped into a state that I used to inhabit as a child—an imaginative trance in which, even as my feet pressed down on damp grass, I found myself climbing up a steep bank, skidding on loose, dry soil, steadying myself against the rough trunk of an arbutus tree.
At first, as I scrambled up that bank, all I could see were spring-green bushes, their leaves rustling in the wind. Poplar saplings, with their sharp, citrus scent, brushed against my face. Overhead, a wide swath of cerulean sky.
Then, through an opening framed by salal bushes, I saw it: the Sea of Story. Glittering emerald and turquoise, carnelian and silver under a blazing midday sun, it stretched to the edge of the horizon. The air smelled like new bread and oranges, and the briny tang of olives. The sun stung my skin as I slipped and skidded down the bank and dove headlong into the water.
Now, in what we call real life, I can’t swim. But submerged in the Sea of Story I felt as happily at home as a seal or an otter. I dove down deep and my fingers left trails of phosphorescence through a sea that glistened like shot silk. Underwater, I opened my eyes, and gasped—in a turquoise light, stories glimmered and swirled and spun in the currents. Stories floated by, transparent as jellyfish. Some darted around in colorful schools; others bloomed and glowed in solitary splendor.
The sea magnified sounds, and in the distance, I heard singing. The throbbing heartbeat of drums. A deep gong resonated over a silvery shiver of bells. I turned to look for the source of the music. Behind me, I saw a man with scraggly hair and bad teeth kicking at a bed of coral and shouting furiously in a cockney accent at an old woman. She was bent over at the waist, gathering stones off the sea floor. Each time she picked one up, she murmured to it, kissed it, and placed it carefully in a woven basket slung over her arm.
After a while, the old woman gathered up her skirts and hobbled off on the trail of a giant clam. A swarm of children ran out of the shadows towards her, shouting and laughing as they chased a short, chubby boy around a tree whose branches, heavy with jeweled fruit, swept the sandy ocean floor. The children shrieked and giggled and in their gleeful chase, knocked the old woman down. Her basket of stones went flying, splashing in every direction.
I leaned over to help the old woman up when something cold and clammy wrapped itself around my waist and began dragging me into the shadows of an undersea cave. The thing that had me in its grip smelled of fish, cold and slimy, as tenacious as an octopus. I struggled and kicked and screamed out to the children to help me, but they were busy playing and didn’t hear my cries.
As the children’s voices receded into the distance, my eyes adjusted to the gloom and I could see the walls and roof of a rough cave that glowed a dim, emerald green. A deep chuckle echoed from somewhere in the shadows, and a woman’s voice, as cool as mint, said: To swim in the Sea of Story you have to open your arms wide.
Who are you? I shouted. You kidnap me and drag me here and now you’re talking in riddles! Show yourself.
You humans are all so impatient! she replied. Not to mention impolite. She snorted and hawked and harrumphed, and then said: I am the Guardian of the Sea of Story. This grotto is my home. You’re here because you asked to know yourself, to know the world around you. All real knowing begins with story.
Look around. All the stories that have ever been told live in these waters. People have fished here for them since before the world began. They’ve shared them with each other around campfires, under starlight, in dreams and visions. They’ve whispered them in the ears of sleeping children and sung them in the dark of winter in the igloos of the Inuit. For thousands of eons, people have shouted and chanted and danced and played with Stories.
I peered into the shadows where the walls of the cave met the sea. The woman’s voice was a clear bell that rang and rang again all around me. But all I could see was a wild, emerald light dancing across the water.
The woman chuckled again. You won’t see me until you come face to face with yourself, she said. Start by looking in the nursery.
The emerald light flickered and blazed for a moment in the farthest corner of the cave.
In the nursery, you’ll find embryo stories waiting to be born. You can choose any story that speaks to you. Nourish it, grow it in your heart and in your belly. Give birth to it. Then live with it.
She made that hawking sound again, and spat. I distinctly heard her spit.
But first, she said, drop that bag of stories you’re carrying in your arms. Release them into the sea that is their home.
Her cut-glass voice set my teeth on edge. I opened my mouth to say something sarcastic, but there was a heaviness in my chest that tugged at me. I looked down and saw that I was clutching a great big, prickly bundle of stories tightly against my chest. So tightly that my arms ached. The bundle of stories squirmed and wriggled and sharp thorny edges of it dug into my heart.
Where did these stories come from? And why hadn’t I ever noticed them before?
The woman’s voice, neither young nor old, emerged from the deepest part of the cave. Open your arms, she said, kindly. Let your stories go. They have work to do. There was a hint of laughter under those cool tones.
Trembling, I dropped my squirmy bundle. The stories I’d been holding so tightly wriggled free and swam away towards the mouth of the cave. My arms felt empty, and cold. I felt suddenly naked, unprotected.
What do I do now, I whispered.
Why, swim around until you find a new story you want to follow, she replied. Or—and here her voice dropped into a deeper register—you can call the stories that are your heart’s companions, and they will come to you.
Feeling foolish, I mumbled into the darkness: Here, stories! Here, stories!
No, she cried. If you want your stories to find you, you must call them with all the love and longing in your heart. They must know you need them. You must want them more than anything in the world. When you can’t live without them, they will come to you. Call them like a child calling his mother in the middle of the night. Like a lover calling her beloved when he returns from a long journey. Like your lungs calling your breath home.
I stood with my back against a sturdy fir tree in my back yard that morning, and sent my voice and my heart out across the water. Calling my stories home. Hearing them in the cry of wild geese that echoed over the bay.
Every morning since then, I call—and then I listen. Most days, a story finds me. It slips its hand in mine. It becomes my playmate for hours or days or longer. It helps me discover something about who I am, who I can be.
Together we carve new paths through our beautiful, tragic, funny world. We right wrongs, sing of old sorrows and emerging joys. We get to know our neighbors.
We enter the hearts and lives of friends and enemies. We understand the language of people who live in faraway places, and discover they are as close as my own breath. As familiar as my heartbeat.
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I’m. Just. Blown. Away. This must be the most beautiful, soul-searing story I’ve read on the internets ever.
Thank you Hiro for illustrating the beautiful power of a story that’s true, transient and heart-called.
Beautiful, just beatiful.
Such a beautiful post, Hiro.
“They must know you need them. You must want them more than anything in the world. When you can’t live without them, they will come to you.”
To me, these stories seem like those deep facets of myself, waiting to be discovered after years of being buried and hidden.
I can feel that it’s time to start calling them. And the most important part – listening to them when they come to me.
Thank you for writing this.
xoxo
Victoria
Victoria Brouhard´s last blog post..What’s Happening, Hot Stuff?
Julie, thank you. Since you’re an artist, your stories are pictures we could play with. I’d love to see some of them.
Victoria, yes, call them! You have such powerful stories to share, once you discover them in the nursery of your own heart, and bring them to life. I look forward to hearing them.
Love to you both,
Hiro
Hiro Boga´s last blog post..Swimming In the Sea of Story
Wow. What a wonderful story found you. Thank you so much for writing it down, Hiro, for giving it a voice so that I could hear it. Thank you….
As I sit here I notice an old old story I have been telling for some kind of forever, to do with how I always have to to wait… how my heart is far away and I have to wait for it. I’m terrible at waiting. I have no patience and then I blame whatever/whoever I think is making me wait.
I wonder what story would find me if I let go of my waiting stories? They sure are gnarly ones. I just went for a long walk and I noticed how old and heavy a story that one is.
Curious…
Heidi Fischbach´s last blog post..Babbling fool on the 83
Heidi, maybe you have many hearts. One that’s in the story you carry around, which is far away and for which you must wait.
And one that’s nestled deep within you, which calls out to a new story. A story in which all your hearts come swimming swiftly back to you from wherever they are, in the Sea of Story.
Want to share a new story about your heart here with us? We’ll hold a space for you as you call it home.
Much love, Hiro
Hiro Boga´s last blog post..Swimming In the Sea of Story
“I felt suddenly naked, unprotected.”
Exactly! That’s it!
In case you can’t tell, that sentence really struck a chord with me… it brought to the surface the fact that I’m afraid I’ll be (or feel) naked and unprotected if I release the old stories I’m clinging on to, even though I know they’re not serving me well and I sincerely want to replace them with new ones. I’ve been working on (or more accurately: struggling with) replacing the old ineffective stories with ones that would let me move forward, with very little results. You may just have given me one of the keys I needed to finally be able to make it happen. Thank you, Hiro.
Josiane´s last blog post..When life hands you lemons *and* makes the lemonade
Hiro I am utterly and completely speechless. I’m afraid anything I can say in praise will sound dull and tinny next to this gorgeous writing, next to your gorgeous life.
Even so, I’m going to make a request. If it ever seems right, I would love to hear this story coming through the sound of your voice. Please think about recording it. Then I could click the play button, sit back with eyes closed and join you in the sea.
Mahala´s last blog post..Meditation Beyond the Cushion
Josiane, struggling just pulls the knots of the rope tighter. Maybe your naked, unprotected self can find a new story to wear?
Mahala, thank you, dear heart. Both for your kind appreciation, and for the wonderful suggestion to record this post. :-) I’ll see what I can do . . .
xo Hiro
Hiro Boga´s last blog post..Swimming In the Sea of Story
Your writing makes me long for more. Thank you for inviting us into your heart.
Laurie Foley´s last blog post..The Secret to Finding Your Egg
What an incredible journey I just took with you! I’ve been in that cave a while now, stories swimming away. My voice seems so small to call out to the new!
I am too speechless to say much more than Thank You!
Lynne Tolk´s last blog post..Love the Inner Cry!
Lynne, your voice is always just right for your stories to hear you. Thank you for sharing yourself.
Laurie, *hug*.
Hiro Boga´s last blog post..Swimming In the Sea of Story
I didn’t do my writing ritual first thing this morning… I checked the dreaded email but because it’s a holiday in the US there wasn’t much but there was an email with you with you most recent post in your signature line and so I came here and all I have to say is:
thank you.
I’m going to read again and then go write.
Thank you.
Jennifer Louden´s last blog post..Writing Again – The Ritual
This is gorgeous, Hiro. And it eerily reminds me of a painting I’m working on! I’ll let you know when I post it.
leah´s last blog post..CED Challenge Check-In: May 25 – May 31
Jennifer, anytime you’re writing it’s cause for celebration. So yay! :-)
Leah, I love your artwork and can’t wait to see your painting. Will you post a link to it here so we can all see it?
Love, Hiro
Hiro Boga´s last blog post..Swimming In the Sea of Story
This is the story of your work, its core essence. So much how I experience working with you. You gently suggest I release one of the stories I clutch, help me unfurl my claws from it, then gently assist me to start finding a new one. And I trust aligning with you in that process because I have such a deep knowing that you have been in each role: story carrier, story releaser, story guide.
This speaks to the core of my soul, and the soul of our work in the world.
Christine Martell´s last blog post..Letting go of fossilized dreams
Christine, thank you! You are such a beautiful, powerful, creative light. You and your art inspire me.
Hiro Boga´s last blog post..Swimming In the Sea of Story
Oh Hiro,
I feel a bit teary, coming to the end of this delicious story, feeling its depth and power. It’s truly inspiring. Thank you
xxx
Yollana´s last blog post..How to avoid feeling like a fraud when you’re good, but not perfect.
Hi Hiro – so nice to find a treasure just down island from me.
This lovely post brought to my mind Salman Rushdie’s book “Haroun and the Sea of Stories.” If you haven’t read it, I think you’d enjoy it. Here’s a quote: ““Anybody can tell stories….Liars, and cheats, and crooks, for example. But for stories with that Extra Ingredient, ah, for those, even the best storytellers need the Story Waters.”
Yollana, thank you. Hugs and love to you.
Lianne, you live just up the Island from me, and know Vicky! Lovely, small world. :-)
Hiro Boga´s last blog post..Swimming In the Sea of Story
As promised, here’s the link to the Dive Deep painting I mentioned: http://creativeeveryday.com/creativeeveryday/2009/05/dive-deep-talking-to-the-animals-in-your-art.html
leah´s last blog post..Whale Tales
Beautiful woman,
Do you write books?
I would like to read a Hiro Boga book.
Now you’re going to learn to swim, aren’t you?
Franis Engel´s last blog post..Influences in Thinking
Leah, your painting is so powerful, and so very beautiful. Thank you for posting the link to it. Last year, a pod of gray whales swam through the strait in front of my house, on their spring migration. They are incredible beings. Your painting resonates with their essential mystery.
Leonie darling, I have indeed written a couple of published books, and am in the process of writing another. I’d also love to read a Goddess Leonie book, filled with your stories.
Franis, yes! :-)
Hiro Boga´s last blog post..Swimming In the Sea of Story
Hiro,
Catching up on my emails and have just sailed into this wonderful cove of creative juicy-ness…
I love everything about your Sea of Story story…its heart, its poetry, its magic, its wonder, its truth.
Thank you for reminding me that I can release the stories I have…and then swim around to find more.
What a gift you are to share your beautiful spirit so fully with all of us!!
love and light,
Shannon
Shannon´s last blog post..Monday Musings: Opening Up to a New Week
Hiro,
That is beautiful.
Truly.
The BEST (adult)bedtime story/mythic fable I’ve ever read.
“Feeling foolish, I mumbled into the darkness: Here, stories! Here, stories!
No, she cried. If you want your stories to find you, you must call them with all the love and longing in your heart. They must know you need them. You must want them more than anything in the world. When you can’t live without them, they will come to you. Call them like a child calling his mother in the middle of the night. Like a lover calling her beloved when he returns from a long journey. Like your lungs calling your breath home.”
Lyrically, exquisitely, stunningly, unavoidably true. And sooo much better than the gruff and grumbly ‘get out of your story’ stuff so common these days.
Brava, Ms. Muse. I declare this the most meaningful post of my week, and my heart thanks you.
Lissa Boles´s last post … Betcha Didn’t Know…
This soooo wonderful. I’ve come back over and over to read it. It does something…reminds me of something I used to do. It tickles my soul. Somehow it makes me feel like, just for a moment, I have found and tapped into ‘my thing’, which I’m trying to discover. It was a wonderful peaceful feeling and memory and filled me with joy.
Thank you.