We, as a human species, are standing at a crossroads. The name of this crossroads doesn't really matter. Different people will describe it differently, no matter what the signposts say. What DOES matter is the fact that each and everyone of us, now more than ever, is facing a monumental choice -- and that choice has a lot to do with the kind of lives we want to lead.

Some people call the crossroads the intersection of Light and Dark. Some call it the crossroads of Right and Wrong. Others, call it Life and Death or any other pair of words that give shape to the polarity of our lives. But no matter what words we use to describe where we stand, a choice is definitely before us and a choice needs to be made.

Heroes in all stories face this same choice. Do they take the high road or the low? Do they accept help from a stranger or go it alone? Do they face the beast head on or sneak out the back? That's what makes stories interesting. The intrigue. The unknown. The conflicts navigated by the hero and, of course, how that hero deals with the obstacles that inevitably head their ugly rear along the way.

One choice we all have, as teller of tales, is the choice between revolution and revelation, two words that sound almost exactly alike, but conjure up very different images in the mind.

Let's start with "revolution". Why is revolution a concept storytellers need to be mindful of? Because every truly great story IS a revolution -- both in the sense of revolving around a core theme and being an uprising, of sorts -- a conscious taking on of an old way of being that needs to be overthrown, enabling the hero to be saved from the burden of whatever it is that has kept him or her down and out: fear, doubt, hesitation, greed, selfishness, powerlessness, tunnel vision, assumptions, confusion, envy, or any of the other obstacles that prevent human beings from being on top of their game.

Simply put, storytellers are revolutionaries, taking on whatever systems or structures are no longer working. Being a revolutionary can be a very exciting path -- energizing, absorbing, and highly purposeful. But being a revolutionary -- pushing back against an existing order -- is only half the story. It's easy to fight against "the wrong", but it takes an entirely different mindset to live "the right".

Which is precisely why a lot of revolutionaries who end up in power don't make good leaders. They don't necessarily have what it takes to SUSTAIN their apparent breakthrough. And because they don't, they become ripe targets for the next revolution, now fighting valiantly for yet another cause.

Which brings us to the word "revelation" -- the act of revealing, the disclosing of some kind of timeless truth or wisdom. Good storytellers are not just revolutionaries. They are revelationaries, too.

What do storytellers reveal? Two things: access to feeling and the re-cognition untapped wisdom of what it means to be a fully conscious human being -- curious, awake, aware, adaptive, resilient, creative, reflective, responsive, kind, compassionate, evolving, generous, grateful and a whole lot of other words you can find in your nearest thesaurus.

That's why we tell fairy tales to our children. We want them to gain access to the wisdom they will need as they mature. And that's why we go to the moves, watch TV, or read a book. We want the experience of breakthrough, resolution, and wisdom made real -- even if the path to these noble aspirations are filled with conflict, obstacles, and angst.

You can't have one without the other. Revolution and revelation go hand in hand. If you have any doubt, all you need to do is read about the lives of some of the great souls who have walked this earth. Buddha had to leave his entitled life as a Prince and endure countless hardships as an ascetic monk before his enlightenment came. Jesus, Gandhi, and Martin Luther King, too, all revolted against the existing order, but they did it in a way that brought revelation -- not only to themselves, but to countless others, too.

The "Hero's Journey" is what Joseph Campbell called it -- the path all of us are on, regardless of the name we give it.

As a storyteller, your responsibility is to increase the odds of other people going on this journey -- not only joining the storytelling revolution, but riding it as far as possible until the revelation comes.

My 2018 book on this topic
My 2015 book on the topic
Fuggedabout it! Sometimes all you need is poetry

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 06:24 PM | Comments (0)

Sometimes, and I don't know how, life seems to conspire in curious ways to help me experience something I need to experience -- something not to include in a book I will never write, but because the experience, itself, in all its full glory, will serve me for the rest of my life and however many in the future are coming to me, in case you believe in that sort of thing.

But let's get back to business, shall we? The following story about the better part of a day in my life is a kind of radioactive isotope of longing implanted deep within me years ago and still radiating out -- not just for my own healing and delight, but for anyone in my general vicinity who might be open to what it is I am about to share with you.

I can't quite remember when I decided, out of the blue, to call the very Australian Ray Belcher, who, at that time in his life, was living in LA and full-time engaged as the head of Prem Rawat's production services. Ray, God bless him, always seemed, to me, to be hanging ten on the great wave of life -- some one, over the years, who I had collaborated with here and there and I thought (as I sometimes do), that it would be fun for the two of us to meet for lunch.

"Yo Ray," I said, dialing his number. "It's Mitch here, bro. I'm in LA. How about we find some time to go to lunch today?"

"Perfect timing, mate. This is your lucky day. Prem is scheduled to come to the office today for a meeting. Why don't you stop by? We can go to lunch before and then I can see if I can get you in."

What the meeting was about didn't matter in the least to me. After 45 years of bathing in the vibe around this man, he could read the phone book for all I cared. In Swahili. It really didn't matter to me what the content of the meeting was about. Just like it doesn't matter if it's robins, starlings, or sparrows in the trees overhead when I go for a walk. Birdsong, baby, birdsong and wings!

I got there as fast as I could and had the tuna on rye. Ray had the Turkey and Swiss. Both of us had celebrational cappuccinos and some buoyancy. At moments like this, however, food doesn't really matter all tha much, so we paid the bill and hightailed it back to the office.

"Hey Mitch," exclaimed Ray, "go ahead and put your jacket on a chair in the meeting room, then take a seat in the room just on the other side of the wall. All I have to do is put your name on the list. That's it. Then I'll come back and get you when it's time."

Cool. Super cool. Beyond Celsius and Fahernheit versions of cool. Happy day. Most happy, happy, Red Sea parting day. So I took a seat, as requested, and sat. There was one other person in the room, a woman about my age who was also waiting for Ray to come and tell her it was time to take her seat in the other room.

This wasn't the time for small talk. Neither of us really cared where the other one lived, what we did for a living, or what we thought of LA. None of it mattered here in the room next to the room where Prem would soon be speaking.

"How fortunate am I!" I thought. "I travel 3,000 miles across the country, randomly call Ray for lunch, and now, any minute now I'm going to find myself in a room with my favorite person in the whole world."

Can I get a witness, brothers and sisters? Can I get an amen?

And then, the door opens. It's Ray. I can tell by the way he approached me that the news wasn't good.

"Hey Mitch," Ray began, with as much compassion as he could muster. "I put your name on the list, but I just found out this is a meeting only for the people on the production team. Sorry mate. Just sit tight. I'll come and get you when the meeting's over.

In the Jewish tradition, there's a phrase for this kind of phenomenon: "Oy vey!"

In the Buddhist tradition, if you listed just right, you could have heard the sound of one hand clapping.

And so it was. And so I sat. Me and the woman of approximately the same age, sitting next to the room where Prem would be speaking. Yes, we could hear, through the wall, the rise and fall of his voice, and a lot of laughter, but not his words -- and yet, somehow, someway, even in this moment when disappointment could have easily had its way with me, I felt like I was in the right place at the right time -- the poet in me penless, the dancer without shoes.

There was nothing to do but BE and listen as carefully as I could through the wall, hoping to catch a word or two or three.

Was there a party I hadn't been invited to? No. Absolutely not. The party I wanted to attend was attending to me, castle as it was of a thousand rooms and me in one of them. Yes, there was a wall. Yes, I could see it. And yes, there were other people not more than 20 feet away with a seemingly a better seat than mine, but I had exactly what I needed -- the welling up of longing in my soul, the aspiration of my heart, the invisible quivering of love.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 06:26 AM | Comments (0)