for the bard in you

'An enchanted adventure of timeless wonder.Kevan’s bardic sensibility enabled us to enter an otherworld of myth and magic full of synchronous meetings and turnings of the ways. We re-enacted timeless myths and welcomed in the summer in style. Fantastic weekend, fantastic hospitality and gentle, inspired guidance from a true bard!’

Jo’s Story

Participant on Way of Awen weekends

I began my storytelling training journey on the WOAD pagan storytelling workshops run by Kevan Manwaring, otherwise known as Tallyessin. These were advertised in the Lapidus newsletter and I knew immediately that they were the right workshops for me! Since recently moving to a rural landscape I have made a stronger connection to nature which has inspired my writing, but I wouldn't call myself a pagan or witch for that matter! - Maybe a wizard, but I think we're all word wizards!

On my first WOAD workshop, The Voice of the Wind, I learnt how to bring the story's words from page to performance. The technique was called Climbing the Beanstalk and we ended the weekend workshop in a pub called the Giant s Rest, a rather symbolic fairytale like experience! We also needed to bring (along with waterproof clothing, walking boots and water bottle) a blue cloak for our initiation ceremony on top of the hill by The Long Man of Wilmington. I made my simple yet effective cloak and decided to stick a different artefact on it for every story I tell: feathers, shells, bells and other offerings from nature.

At the spring equinox we trooped up the steep hill, in blue painted faces in our cloaks or blue armbands. The wind was so fierce you could lean against it and I feared we wouldn't reach the top. If this was to be our initiation as bards and storytellers then I guess the heavens weren't going to make it easy for us! In a sheltered spot we stopped and formed a circle. We each called down a different element and they arrived in their hoards! There was almost a storm. The sky was a patchwork of black, grey and red. One by one we stood in front of Kavan to make our Bardic vow which we had written individually during the workshop. Blessed symbolically with the silver belled branch we were given our Bardic names. These came to us all intuitively during the weekend. I was now Zanista!

I took my story into the world and performed. I noticed how the words kept changing every time I told 'La Loba', how I put emphasis on different aspects of the same story, how I understood something different at every telling, and how the audience always responded in some significant or unconscious way. The story spoke to us all. My initiation into storytelling had marked a distinctive turning point in my journey.

I have just returned from my second WOAD weekend workshop, Voice of the Fire or 'how to put passion and energy into a storytelling performance'. This was a wet but beautiful Beltane weekend at Blackboys youth hostel, a hut in the middle of a forest which had its own story to tell. We were told how the hut was originally built to accommodate refugee children from the Basque area of Spain during the Spanish Civil War. On my arrival at the hostel I met a Spanish woman from exactly the same area who was fascinated by this story and its coincidence with her own stay. The warden also told us the story of the name Blackboys which comes from the charcoal making days of the village and the word itself has two possible origins: 1) 'Black Bois' meaning black Wood (French) which reflects the colour of the trees after charcoal burning and 2) the colour of the charcoal burning 'boys' faces. Storytelling had already begun in this magical woodland hut in East Sussex!

On our first evening we sat beside the hearth of a glowing fire warming ourselves and bringing alive our stories and poems. Due to limitations in space we sat with other hostellers and travellers who sat in silence, engrossed in books and magazines, resting tired swollen feet from walking and cycling in the cool April sunshine. And then something changed, altered, transformed. A book was passed around, a story of other lands, other realms, other times. Our small storytelling group read words aloud one by one. Noses of fellow hostellers started to poke out from behind pages, heads appeared. An air of curiosity and intrigue blotted out the initial irritation with our presence. People wanted to join in, read a page or two, remembered reading to their kids at night; indulging themselves in another world. Faces lit up, came alive. Everyone was drawn into the images evoked. All animated now, we sparkled with the mischief and wonder of the words on the page. We were all storytellers and we were all the audience.

The second night brought more wonder than the first. As the evening progressed a small fire was gradually built outside with damp kindling collected from the forest. A family with three girls arrived on the scene. The girls helped to collect wood, their mother wafted the smoke to make fire. They volunteered to do all our washing-up in return for a night of storytelling! Gradually other hostellers gathered around the growing fire; some donated logs and kindling, others brought food and drink. And then the storytelling began. 'Everyone has a story to tell!' Kavan stated to start off proceedings.

From small beginnings sprang a tree of life! From people's shyness and reluctance to take centre stage, parents and children gradually began to step forward one by one, taking the storytelling staff and standing or sitting by the roaring fire. We heard stories of camping and holiday disasters, a love song, a small boy sang Twinkle Twinkle Little Star; a teenage girl inspired us with the words of an anonymous poem. We stood in front of the fire, lit up by a shining torch burning behind us, with an almost full moon and a hundred stars above us. The night ended when two owls hooted, a male and a female calling to each other, and we watched as the cindering fire died a natural death. Within the embers I saw a crocodile with glaring red eyes and a mouth that breathed out smoke. A woman holding her son wrapped in a blanket saw it too and we watched together as its eyes glowed in the dark until they disappeared forever. From this small gathering our fellow hostellers reflected on the community experience that the fire and the stories had brought them and the lack of this in their everyday lives where the distraction of TV provides the only modern-day hearth. The night was an unforgettable magical event for all.

The course ended with a visit to the Green Man or Jack-in-the-Green festival in Hastings where the Green Man or Jack of the wintertime is killed off to set free the spirit of summer. And within this powerful and magical festival I saw the symbolism of death and rebirth as the grand procession marched through the streets. The ravens decked in black feathers drumming a haunting beat, the Morris dancers, samba band and giant effigies of the green man. But what struck me most was the sight of two giant skeletons being carried through the old town of Hastings for then I knew that old La Loba was at work and soon a truly alive wolf would be born and set free into its natural habitat!

For stories live on, and once they have been awoken they are here to stay. Watch out and beware, for they will not remain unnoticed. They bring us our truth so that we may never forget who we really are!

Extract from ‘The Secret Life of The Story’,  by Jo Monks
LAPIDUS, #8, Summer/Autumn 2004