Today I share a wonderful story from teacher, author, poet, mentor, artist Janaka Stagnaro that is perfect for a child experiencing fears. It is story medicine for COVID-19, and many of the other fears that hold us bound. As always, story medicine speaks to everyone, not just the children. ♥Karen
Wings
This story (inspired by St. Francis) is a reminder that it is the difficult people or the difficult situations that we find ourselves in, are, in fact, those circumstances that propel us into new states of awareness. We are finding ourselves as a species in quite a predicament. May we find our wings out of this. -Janaka
Upon the plains lived a flock of birds. All their days they lived on the ground, flightless, foraging for the abundant seeds of grass.
These birds considered themselves very fortunate to have so much food at hand, because deep in their collective memory ran the remembrance of days of starvation. And though they did not consciously recall the bitter times of the past, their thankfulness for their food was more out of fear than of joy.
Because alongside the fearful memories of the past ran the possibilities of the future. And to add to that fear of old was the fear of the present, the fear of what lurked hidden in the grass or behind a stone: snakes, foxes, cats.
All very much hungry, their eyes very keen. All very swift.
Yet, though their predators ran swift the birds still ran swiftest. Though not by much. All depended on the start of a chase—which one would get the better jump, the hunter or the hunted.
Thus the birds would constantly be peering up and around, between gobbles of seeds. And with each beak full of seed a sigh of relief would wash it down.
Only during the birth of the morning and during the fading hour of the day, when night and day would, for a short while, blend as one, did their fear cease to be; for so joyous would they be at this time, lost in song.
And even though the flock was defenseless during these times of celebration, none would fall prey.
Yet how briefly did this fearlessness last; for then would come day or come night, and with it the fear.
There was one amongst the flock that was slightly different than the rest. True it was slightly smaller, but its strangeness lay in its behavior.
Although it liked to eat as much as the other birds, it found its greatest joy during those times of singing. In its early youth it would sing at the times when all would sing, during that mysterious time of transition.
However, as the bird aged, it began to sing at all hours. For all the moments of the day became wondrous and mysterious to it, and it could not help but sing:
How beautiful was the sun, which sustains all life; that which causes the shadows to dance amongst the grass, the stones and the trees, giving those that cannot roam a chance to explore by their dark companions!
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| She Who Dwells Upon Arthur’s Seat © Janaka Stagnaro |
How magnificent the wind, its lonely song calling out between canyon walls, caressing all those in its path and giving movement to the trees and grass!
How lovely the ground, its smell so rich—the one seed that harbors the life of the grass, the trees, the stones, the mountains, and all that move upon it!
How awesome the night, with its glowing seeds, that forever lays the great silver egg, the moon, withdrawing it again and again!
Sometimes the bird would become so lost in its song its parents would have to remind it to take food. This embarrassed and worried the parents very much. While the rest of the flock felt only annoyance, especially during the night, when its song would keep them awake in fear that predators would hear.
One day amongst the grass, the bird sang while alone in praise of the generosity of the grass, for its seed and shelter. When all of a sudden, the bird was struck immobile, paralyzed by ineffable joy.
A vision filled the bird’s mind where it saw itself opening its wings and taking to the air. And soaring…soaring…dancing amongst the clouds. Kissing the sun and the moon, tasting freely the night’s sparkling seeds. Never had it felt so free; although it felt so familiar. So right.
And as suddenly as it came the vision ended, and the bird found itself back upon the ground. Overcome by tears, it cried aloud: “Oh, how I long to dance in the sky. To soar.”
And from within the bird heard a voice: “But you can. All you must do is spread your wings. And let go. Trusting in the wind.”
“How can I?” the bird replied. “Never in our history has one of the flock flown. Flight is not our way. I am no different.”
“No, you are no different,” replied the Voice, “but you will seem so. Deeper in your memory, past all times of fear, lies the time when all flew in the air. But one day you forgot, and upon the ground, you, the flock, have existed in fear.”
“I cannot fly,” the bird cried. This voice is madness, it thought. Yes, I am going mad.
“No, you are becoming sane,” the Voice retorted. “And you will fly. And your teachers will be those in disguise.”
Then, only silence.
The bird trembled after the vision and the voice. So shaken, it had even forgotten to sing. The others found this very odd, such quiet from one constantly barraging them and the world with song, day and night. Even though they welcomed the quiet at night, they had to admit they began to miss the bird’s song.
They grew worried. Days, weeks, passed in this way; the bird silent.
Then one morning, while the bird pecked among the grass, the memory of the vision filled its mind. And it once again saw itself soaring high.
As it envisioned itself flying above even the clouds, it unconsciously began to unfold and stretch its wings.
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| Blue Mountain at Sunset © Janaka Stagnaro |
And the bird cried out in pain; the vision swept away. The bird saw the source of the pain, and looked dumbfounded at its outstretched wings. They felt as if made of stone, and with the slightest movement—so atrophied were they—pain shot through its body. After only a few attempts at flapping the bird gave up, exhausted in its efforts, moving the wings consciously a fraction.
Yet they had moved; its wings had opened!
Day after day it tried, the wings moving a little more with each attempt. The pain diminishing.
The others of the flock, even its parents, thought it very queer now, no longer worried by its silence, and began to keep a distance from the bird. However, the bird did not notice, which soon annoyed the others, so intent was it on the spreading of its wings.
Finally, the day had come when the bird could spread its wings out wide, flapping painlessly. It wept at this accomplishment, as it looked to the sky.
And the sky called: “Come and dance in me.”
And to the cliff of a plateau the bird sped. Standing upon the cliff the bird looked out over the land, and could see the horizon where land and sky became one.
“Fly,” whispered the wind. “I will not let you fall. For it is but I who am your power. And I can never fail.”
But the cliff towered so high and so far would be the fall. And the heart of the bird trembled.
And from the cliff it turned, feeling ashamed and low.
Yet, after only a short distance, out of a bush in front leapt a bobcat. The bird wheeled around and dashed in the other direction, running parallel to the cliff.
However, the bobcat had had too much of a jump and was gaining fast. The bird knew it had no chance. And to its fate it was ready to surrender.
Then it remembered the cliff. And its wings. And the promise of the wind.
As the bird could feel the hot breath of the cat as it closed for the kill, the bird cut one last time in the direction of the cliff.
And with its wings spread wide the bird jumped.
And the wind whispered: “Welcome.”
And with a great uplift of air it bore the bird high into the sky. As all the fear blew away with the wind, the bird dropped to fly over the cliff, where the cat was slowly moving back into the bush; its stomach empty.
And to the bobcat, which the bird had once feared and had called a foe, it now sent the cat a blessing and called it friend.
When the cat disappeared the bird flew in search of the flock, to remind them what they had long forgotten.
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| Oh the Vistas we Can Climb © Janaka Stagnaro |
–This story is taken from Silent Ripples: Parables for the Soul by Janaka Stagnaro
About Silent Ripples
About Janaka
Janaka Stagnaro is a Waldorf teacher, author, poet, artist and storyteller. Janaka has written 5 books for adults, 1 youth and older book, and 3 children books. He also leads workshops and guides individuals in their personal growth.
Janaka says of his journey: “It was not until hiking alone in Nepal, after a few years living in Africa with the Peace Corps, that I lost my identity with my mind. I was felled with a Mighty Stroke of Love. I became absorbed by this Loving Force. When it passed nothing mattered more than regaining that state. I now had a purpose–to BE THAT. Eventually my path led me to many countries and to many teachers. Yet I must say that ‘A Course in Miracles’ and connecting with the Christ, then to the teachings of Ramana Maharshi, have helped me to go or become aware of that State beyond the mind. Then, years later, Rudolf Steiner’s teachings of Anthroposophy and becoming a Waldorf teacher assisted in integrating my Awareness into the world of forms.
“Today, after over 20 years of a conscious Process, I think I may say that I am feeling at home in the world and that I no longer am running from it. I find much joy in working on this amazing planet, bringing some good to it, and reveling in playing at the arts and finding pleasure in seeking the Truth. Not out of making me someone more worthy, but out of freedom because all this is what my Soul wants me to do.
“If I must define myself I must say that I am a Divine Being, due to my Intrinsic Nature in God, working at the art of becoming a Human Being and with all the struggles that entails.”
From Janaka, On his artwork–
While serving in the Peace Corps in Cameroon, West Africa, I began teaching myself how to draw and paint in 1984. In 1993, I began my formal training in the arts while studying to be a Waldorf teacher, an educational system for children that incorporates art in all aspects of education. I enjoy working with a variety of media, including oils, watercolors, pastels, and pencil. For the most part my work is spiritual or visionary in nature as I see my artwork as part of my spiritual pathway and as a vehicle to help people heighten or alter their perceptions of the world around and within. My style might best be described as impressionistic/expressionistic due to my strong use of colors. Much of my work is very intuitive, bringing forth images out of the play of colors. Or I may take a quick sketch of a landscape or a face and then tweak it into a movement of colors and line to break out of the confines of my eyes’ “reality.” My mission as an artist, besides artistic exploration and having fun, is to help adults overcome programming from childhood that they are not artistic, and to continue to teach children to be artistic in everything that they do. It was not until I was 24 years of age that I was able to override that subconscious mental tape that only artists create, so who was I to draw or paint? My work has been represented by galleries in Corvallis, Oregon; and in Palm Springs, Salinas and, Carmel in California. Major influences are: Van Gogh, Turner, Nicholas Roerich, Michelangelo, Marsden Hartley, Allen Hirsch and so many, many more.
