OzSome

The blooming flowers that once filled the thin glass vase are forgotten. I don’t remember the day I slid it into an empty place on the shelf under the kitchen sink, where it has sat for a decade and become the go-to location to rid a pocket or a purse of bothersome loose change.

I don’t have the answer for what drove me to resolve that when we got to a certain pivotal time in our lives, we would make a trip Down Under as a way to celebrate our family ties and individual accomplishments, and kick off the era of Whatever Comes Next. I can’t recall the moment I designated the vase’s content “The Australia Fund” to assist with this plan, but that’s what we’ve called it for what seems like Always.

Time and again we’ve filled the vase with pennies (so many pennies!), nickels, dimes and quarters, as well as a fair number of foreign currencies that deceptively resemble their U.S. counterparts. We’ve emptied it less frequently – pouring money into a bag to be counted, the sound of its flow like a small, silver waterfall – and each occasion with satisfaction that our efforts have literally added up to something.

The pivotal time has arrived. This year we’ve marked significant birthdays and graduations and anniversaries and other milestones. We stand at a wide open doorway, on the threshold of Whatever Comes Next. I’m exhilarated and scared. And now among our life events is this: the coins we collected and counted have mattered; they’ve continued to add up to something. I’ve combined them with money I’ve squirreled away from a decade’s worth of work endeavors. I’ve bought the tickets. I’ve made the plans. The inveterate road-trippers are going abroad; our children will use their passports for the very first time. As we like to say, “This is what we’ve trained for, people.” We leave today.

Amid the preparations – mixed with my wonderment that we’re actually taking this trip and my expectation that my children realize this journey is a gift and a privilege, a doorway of its own — I’ve been considering how one of the best, and worst, aspects of being human is our ability to dream. What a fantastic capacity we possess.

I know that each of us learns quickly and in her own way that not all dreams come true despite our dedicated efforts to make them so, and the pain of dreams deferred or unrealized powerfully affects a person, in deep and meaningful ways. I also have learned that sometimes our fulfilled dreams come with ramifications we didn’t foresee, outcomes we couldn’t possibly expect or prepare for.

But this aging, wanderlusty, optimistic pessimist and romantic can’t imagine a life without dreaming.

For me, collecting loose change in an old flower vase stowed under the kitchen sink has reminded me one can live her life to the fullest while nurturing the seeds of a dream. With planning, focus, work and a little luck, that dream may blossom and give life a range of new perspectives. (To state the obvious, my dreams are mostly of travel, of testing myself and learning new lessons, of meeting all sorts of people, of furthering my sense of awe about the marvel that is our planet. And writing about it all.)

Today, I hope that the past decade of investing in The Australia Fund has shown my kids a way to realize whatever dreams they may have. I hope it’s assured them that their dreams are worth working toward, and taught them to savor both the effort and the accomplishment. I hope they know that a dream can be planted in the smallest of places, seeded like the first pennies to clink against the bottom of a glass vase placed under the kitchen sink.

Whatever your own dreams may be, I hope you know this too.

I’m (still) a believer

I believe in magic. Real magic, not the smoothly modern manipulations that pass for wizardry performed by egotistic, power-hungry innovators deemed magicians in this savvy age, magicians whose pockets and skills sets brim with tricks, distractions, illusions and delusions scattered throughout a world more linked together than ever before.

I believe in the real magic of love in all its forms, allegiance, art, discovery, adventures big and small, youth, journeys, sorrow, music,age, proven facts and the artistry that went into proving them, the great outdoors, imagination, hard-earned wisdom, reckless dancing (of course)…and story.

I have always believed in the magic of story, although lately my beliefs have been sorely tested and challenged. Last night, I came across words that helped me remember this magic. Additionally appropriate on this 20th anniversary of the day the world learned about a boy named Harry Potter, I am refreshed and re-inspired.

So draw close. I will tell you the stories I know. You may tell me yours. There is so much left to hear. There is bountiful, beautiful real magic in this cold old world yet. More than you or I could ever predict.

*****
‘”You tell stories?” the man asks, the piquing of his interest almost palpable.

“Stories, tales, bardic chronicles,” Widget says. “Whatever you care to call them. The things we were discussing earlier that are more complicated than they used to be. I take pieces of the past that I see and I combine them into narratives. It’s not that important, and this isn’t why I’m here –”’

“It is important,” the man in the grey suit interrupts. “Someone needs to tell those tales. When the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There’s magic in that. It’s in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. From the mundane to the profound. You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone’s soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift… . There are many kinds of magic, after all.'”

–Erin Morgenstern, “The Night Circus”

It’s Alright, Bob

Bob Dylan at The White House, 2012

We’ve got plenty going on outside of Stockholm to grab our attentions, but Bob Dylan’s winning the 2016 Nobel Prize for Literature made an impression in the news firmament this week.

As it should. While I know there are those the world over who take issue with the Committee’s decision, I fall unreservedly into the “Hooray and Well-Deserved” camp. Why? Bob Dylan has been a Storyteller of the utmost skill, creativity, talent and expression throughout his many decades. Again and again, he has gathered us around humanity’s shared campfire and significantly contributed to The Songbook of Existence and Experience with his powerful lyrics and music about hate, fear, weakness, force, loneliness, prejudice, style, ignorance, inequality, corruption, persecution, strength, humor, hope, celebration, love. Through his long and enigmatic career and life, Dylan has constantly shown us that these stories belong to all of us, whatever our age, race, creed or station.

Our modern era has rediscovered and is reshaping the art of spoken stories; the vast and growing number of radio programs, podcasts, Live Lit nights and other performance events billed as storytelling in North America and around the world reflect this. What sets our era apart for me, however, is the emphasis on the individual and his/her/their experience(s). I point this out not to denigrate the practice. I believe the first step toward true empowerment is to embrace and tell one’s own story, to find one’s unique voice and speak clearly and loudly so that others may hear it and know of you. Those unique voices and stories – the AIDS Quilt, the Shoah Foundation Holocaust Project, Black Lives Matter come to mind – help move us all, push us if need be, toward empathy, understanding, acceptance and progress.

But stories first came into being to unite people, to illustrate how to beware danger, how to treat each other in community, how to respect what our natural environments possess and teach us. Before words were written or performed, they were spoken and sung: raw, imperfect lessons and truths delivered without the flourish and distraction of print or stagecraft. While this hasn’t always been to the benefit of humanity – I think particularly of the rampant gender inequities in many fairy tales that portray women as weak, harmful or both – we must remember the voices that tell stories about common experiences remain intrinsic to who we are. They, too, continue to enrich humanity’s Songbook.

The best stories are both contemporary and prescient, as many of Dylan’s songs are. They are electric, as Dylan shocked and showed us in 1965, and they are elastic, stretching through time and cultures to be honored and shared by different tellers, each bringing a distinct, respectful style to them. In fact, some of my favorite Bob Dylan songs are not the ones he sings (I get it. As much as I am a fan, I understand the limits of the human ear to some sounds.). His words remain so powerful they transcend a single teller, and our Songbook is better because of it. Listen to just one of these artists among the many and hear what I mean: Aaron Neville singing With God on Our Side; Nanci Griffith covering Boots of Spanish Leather (with Dylan on harmonica); Edie Brickell’s version of A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall; Adele emoting Make You Feel My Love; U2 belting out Maggie’s Farm; Jimi Hendrix shredding on All Along the Watchtower.

The Committee did not only choose a musician and a poet this year for the Literature Prize. They chose a Storyteller who has put his footsteps on the path traveled by skalds, griots, seanachies, Native Americans and other tellers throughout the world and time, a path that has wound its way to today. To me and to you. His stories are about us. None of us is exempt from struggle within ourselves, with each other, in our world: Even the President of the United States/Sometimes must have to stand naked.

So while new layers of styles, words and sounds have evolved and emerged since Dylan’s heyday to enrich, broaden and empower our lives, they do not diminish Dylan’s significant contributions. For the next few days at least, I plan to celebrate the talented practitioner among us by going through Dylan’s extensive catalog. I will play songs sung by him and versions of his songs that others sing. I will examine and assess lyrics, revel in the poetry of them and listen to the stories he is telling.

Hard Rains are still falling. It’s best to know our songs well.

A Story Runs Through It

Once, on a summer evening years ago, a friend told me how her father put the advice of an ancient Stoic philosopher into his own words, “You’ve got two ears and one mouth. So you should listen twice as much as you speak if you want to learn something about people.”

That can be a difficult task for a storyteller. But this summer, I closely heeded that advice. I took some time and listened well to the people around me. As a result, I was rewarded in spades, with excellent stories from engaging tellers, regaling me with all sorts of tales, shared in their own voices and in their own words.

I am so blissfully full after such a summer, and I’m convinced that my slowing down to listen for a while has made me a better storyteller for the tales I will spin in the coming months to adults and children alike.

The stories ran a wonderful, breathtaking gamut. About the damage war does, especially to its heroes. About the thrill a young girl felt on summer days watching White Sox greats like Nellie Fox and Minnie Minoso play at Old Comiskey. About a shopkeeper, generations ago, who established a name for himself and his family in a small Western mining town, far from the shores of his native Ireland. About an island named after a Native American princess by the white man who loved her. About freezing cold shipwrecks and greedy pirates on the wide, fresh waters of the Great Lakes. About a teenager’s brief foray into a life of petty crime and about the memorable lessons parents can teach with a little patience and a lot of imagination. About the centering influence of a family farm, and the unwavering comfort of melting ice cream served up at kitschy parlors that have existed for decades on country back roads.

Various tellers shared several modern day murder mysteries, filled with violence and horror and life-changing sadness. Explorers spoke of trekking through tall forests and canoeing down long rivers to eventually camp around self-built fires and swat away copious mosquitos. Artists and craftswomen and men lovingly outlined the processes of creating their original, unique works with their own hands.

From abroad came vignettes about children receiving bikes for the first time in their poverty-riddled lives, enabling them to better trek miles to school; taxi-driving tests in Jordan; dog vaccinations in Africa and the challenge of operating on a giraffe. About xenophobia in South Africa and the intense efforts underway there to combat it. There were even sci-fi tales about life on other planets and an imaginary road-trip companion named Steve who only shows up during long car rides.

The stories were essentially about what stories are always about: Heroines and Heroes, imagined and real. Love, Exploration, Adventure. Sickness and Sorrow and Redemption. Hilarity and History. We are each still trying to make sense of the world, to come to terms with our life’s progression. And story, told across a table, a couch, a campfire, a classroom or a water cooler still helps us do this in a way that no other medium of human communication can.

To its credit, today’s various social media powerfully connect us (including me) with friends and strangers, and bring to light a multitude of the world’s ills and triumphs on a much larger scale than ever before. I appreciate this technology; such knowledge is power and those connections valuable. But the paradox is that we have potentially endangered some of our treasured relationships, coming to rely on brief messages and symbols of like or dislike to sustain the relationships, understanding and compassion that can only flourish through shared stories, uniquely told and heard. That takes time like I had this summer. And two very focused ears.

Beyond the Pale

Note to the reader – I’ve been working with students on fables this trimester, and we’ve discussed how fables impart valuable lessons, sometimes with humor. So I offer this story as a fable, with the following moral: “She who is not comfortable in her own skin may suffer much pain trying to be in someone else’s.”

At long, long last summer is a comin’, as the ancient saying goes. And with it, tanned legs, tanned arms and – curse you, ‘80s midriff fashion resurgence – other various tanned body parts.

I will have none of it. All this season means to me is that it’s the time of year I break the bank again and invest in copious amount of sunscreen, which I will proceed to lather onto and all over myself at all hours of the day, ceasing only when the sun hits the horizon and the first night star appears.

Why? Because I burn. Badly. Wholly. Painfully. Like a perfectly boiled Maine lobster arriving just out of the pot, still steaming, to your plate. If Chicago has its two seasons of Winter and Construction, I spent most of my youth between the seasons of Pale and Fried. Pale, in my case, meant the almost total lack of any pigment anywhere on my person, save for my hair and my freckles, and due to my 75% Irishness. Fried, in my case, meant nights often made sleepless by summer skin red and hot to the touch and insides shivering with cold from the pain. Fried meant winning contests with my siblings over who could peel the biggest layer of skin from their flaking shoulders without breaking it. And win I did. Again, and again, and again.

So when did I finally learn my lesson that it was better to forgo a tan and cover up? When did I finally decide to forgo the quixotic pursuit of evenly-bronzed skin and instead try to keep myself unburnt by any means necessary?

I trace it to the end of my freshman year in college. The university I attended in northern California is at least 45 minutes inland from the nearest beach, but it is, after all, California. I had landed in the university’s only all-female dorm and shared the chagrin that most of its residents felt at being stuck there.

But there were perks. One of those perks was a small stoop outside the dorm that overlooked a sand volleyball court; if you closed your eyes and cranked the boom box on a sunny afternoon, it almost felt like the beach. And as the summer of 1987 began, it was the perfect place for all of us – including my delusional self – to “lay out” and “get some color.”

The routine was straightforward and pretty universal. Head out to the stoop every day in the mid-afternoon. Spend a half-hour on one side; half-hour on the other. Check with the other girls to see if tanning was going along evenly; advise if straps needed to be adjusted or body parts slightly shifted. Repeat if necessary or as long as one could stand it.

Within two weeks, my stoop-mates all began to gain a golden tinge to their skin. I, on the other hand, remained a ghostly white. “You’re really, really white. That’s okay, though, because it looks good on you,” offered one friend by way of a compliment. But it became clear to me that more drastic measures were required, so I soon developed a plan.

This is the part in the story where I offer several caveats. One, these were the days before comprehensive sunscreen or self-tanning lotions, so I had very limited options for safely obtaining sun-kissed skin. Two, I was a Midwestern girl who wanted a West Coast tan to show off to friends during my first summer home from school. Three, I’ve never been good in Chemistry.

My plan was to combine a handful of SPF lotion with a handful of the Mother of all Suntan “Lotions”: baby oil. And then to smear this unscientifically measured or proven formula all over my legs, arms, shoulders, back, chest. And then to go sit in the sun, on the stoop, for as long as it took for some color to show. All the while thinking that, somehow, I’d both be protected from a burn and get a slight but even tan.

After the requisite hour, it was clear I was going to look like a skunk, or a zebra. Only my stripes were red and white. And painful.

That night, repeating the familiar “burn and shiver” cycle as I lay in bed, I resolved to never again devote any time in my life to laying out in pursuit of a tan. (Full disclosure: I found it boring and tedious anyway.) This is not to say that I haven’t been sunburned again – but those instances have been caused by lack of forethought or insufficient supplies. And this does not mean that I haven’t lounged in a chair underneath a sunlit sky; I do but I am usually equipped with a big hat, a coverup and a towel or two across my legs. (Seriously. There are witnesses.)

I admit that I am envious from time to time of my friends and family who do not seem to suffer from the rays of the sun as I do and who manage to shake of the pale of winter during the warm months and gain a glow during sun-filled days. But I know it’s not worth it. Besides, even after all these years, I still have a friend who reminds me that I am pale but that it looks good on me. And I’m comfortable enough in my own skin to take that compliment.

 

Pitching a Wang Dang Doodle

The Art of Science Learning Initiative moved into a new phase today as we began to grapple with the many and complicated issues that surround urban nutrition. The program’s organizers again melded art and science discussions and activities throughout the day to prompt us to think innovatively about this specific challenge. It made utter sense then that, during this session, we had the Blues.

Whether one is a Blues fan (as I am) or not, Chicago is indisputably one of the world’s greatest capitals for the sound. And I saw today that the message underlying Blues music is an excellent fit for the challenge that we Fellows face as we try to develop workable solutions to address this city’s inequalities in urban nutrition.

One of the day’s presenters offered this view: Rock music is analogous to acting since most rock songs address themes and experiences that appeal to listeners en masse. And Rock songs often maintain a distance between the musician and audience, between a past experience and the present song. While Rock songs help us experience sympathy or empathy, we can go on living our lives pretty smoothly outside of them.

In contrast, Blues music is storytelling. The deceptively simple sound and structure of a Blues song stops time to tell you right now about the singer’s specific troubles and demands that you listen with undivided attention. It addresses a wrong and how that wrong makes the musician(s) feel. A Blues story challenges each listener directly to understand the pain and identify with it, whatever it is, because you know you’ve felt it too at some point in your life: the unfaithful woman, the unreliable man, the raw deal.

Blues music is a little bit angry, blatantly provocative and kind of suspicious, too. But a Blues singer also lets you know that the wrong hasn’t yet gotten the best of him or her; that the singer is going to survive and prevail to live another day and sing another song. It always seems to contain the notion that “I may be down and out, but I ain’t beat yet.”

These stories are likely why the music is so compelling to me. I often find myself nodding my head in agreement with a Blues song or listening to a random “Oh yeah” or “Uh huh” shouted out by an audience member who gets it, who’s been to the place of pain where the singer has traveled and back again, who can share that story and speak about survival.

So it is with Chicago. Many of the residents in a city as diverse, populated and segregated as this one – and rife with well-intentioned projects that often stop short of successful, sustained fruition – have the Blues. There’s all sorts of angry, provocative and suspicious floating around these days about the growing interest and attention to food issues: its costs, its variety, its quality, its availability.

But today, at the “Museum of Science and Industry Blues Club”, this storyteller took note of the links between Chicago’s music and the message it sends. I even expressed a few “Oh yeahs” and “Uh huhs” as we shared songs of our own creation. And I left realizing that Chicago Fellows are going to take a good hard look at the issue, call out to our audience to come along with us and to see what can be done so we can all sing another song.

Or, ask the inimitable Koko Taylor put it, we’re gonna pitch a Wang Dang Doodle.

Beyond the Buzz

It’s been less than a week since the pilot workshop on storytelling fundamentals for professionals and I’m still turning over the session in my mind. From my interactions, it’s clear that yes, we are all being encouraged to be better storytellers in our work lives, but answers to the questions of how we do that, why we do that and when to do that remain very open-ended.

The relentless chorus that encourages us all to use story does an enthusiastic and exhortative job of extolling the importance of storytelling, the significance of storytelling and the impact of storytelling on our missions, values, teams, products, pitches, content, brands, performance, clients and leadership (among other things). Informative and entertaining anecdotes bolster these points. But, for all the press currently given the issue, I sense we’re still glossing over the thoughtful, time-involved process that it takes to develop an effective story – lessons about story that we learned in grammar school. Good stories exhibit similar, basic characteristics and underlying, important structures. At the very least, we have to re-familiarize ourselves with those elements; to make our stories even better we need to fully understand and explore what those elements are and how to use them in this age before we’re off and running with tales to tell.

Granted, sometimes, instead of a moving moral or a thought-provoking metaphor you need to deliver the straightforward power of blunt truth, pure facts and objective data. But in an age flooded with expendable information and technology, it is important to be able to know how to deliver both exceptionally well: essential data that drive a point home and valuable, well-constructed stories that humanize your professional interactions. How prepared are you?

Press Hard

January 1996. A winter like this one: snowy, blowy and days of unrelenting freezing cold. I had just hurriedly moved back from Madison, Wisconsin to start a long-sought job at one of the best reporting boot camps ever known to humankind: City News Bureau of Chicago. The irascible, cruel, manic, cynical, lifelong-fellowship-inducing wire service was legendary for turning cub reporters into actual journalists, although the experience of going through it could wear away everything that a newcomer believed was shiny and good about work and humanity into a sharp, bitter point that was tempered with fleeting moments of redemption, compassion, humor and justice. It was my dream to work there.

That week, I was starting at the bottom of the heap, as all the new hires had before me. After all, they had to break your naïve wrong habits and ensure you replaced them with the experience-proven right ones. As a rookie, I spent just one week shadowing a veteran who had about a year on me at the job and on the streets, and he was testing me at every turn. I knew that if I lasted that first week without balking, maybe I’d have a future at City News, in the business. So for a week, I did what he challenged me to do: I made the call about the tragic accident. I pried information from the cop at Central who did not like reporters. I went to the dicey neighborhood with the dangerous building as night began to fall to ask about the crime. I was a bundle of nerves and I loved it.

The following week, let loose on my own, I got called to cover a multiple alarm fire at a warehouse in the south suburbs. After the week I’d had, the assignment should’ve been easy, standard procedure. These were the days before cell phones, smart phones, tablets, GPS; I was stationed closest to the fire’s location, so when the main office heard about it, they buzzed my pager. I found a pay phone, called the editorial desk, got the few details about the fire that they had gleaned off the scanner and was off to the scene. Driving there, the unambiguous rules about what I needed to do ran through my mind: get to the scene first, find out what’s going on first, report it first. But, above all, get it right.

Although the firefighters had contained the blaze by the time I got there and it looked like I was the only reporter around, I still needed to learn what had happened – causes, warehouse contents, suspicions, possible injuries, etc. I crossed over to one of the engines and started to ask my questions, doggedly writing the answers in my narrow, spiral-bound reporter’s notebook with a ball point pen. It was so cold, my fingers grew stiff as I tried to take notes. It was difficult to write, to talk.

And then the ink in my pen froze.

If I’d learned one thing that first week on the job, I’d learned that “The ink in my pen froze” was a wholly unacceptable excuse for not being able to phone in a story to the rewrite desk. I balked momentarily, glanced up at the fireman I was talking to, nodded my head and looked him in the eyes to keep him talking and then pressed down harder on the paper in that notebook than I’ve ever pressed on anything in my life. I kept up my interview until I had all the information I needed and then ran back to my car, where I knew I had an old wax pencil. (I have no memory of why a wax pencil was in my car, but I was beyond grateful for it.)

Sitting in the driver’s seat, holding my breath, I gently started to color over my indented notes. The words that I’d etched into that reporter’s notebook – quotes, details – started to appear. Coupled with the information and details I’d gathered from paying attention and observing my surroundings as I stood on the scene, I had my story. Crisis averted, work reputation intact, I phoned it in and moved on through my shift.

Looking back, I had a story in more ways than one. Circumstances challenged me to do my job in a different and creative way. As a result, I kept my professional pride and stayed on my desired career path.

As I continue my work as a storyteller, which has been a natural outgrowth of my years as a reporter, I need to remind those looking for ways to creatively improve and humanize their communication skills to heed some basic reporter boot camp advice: pay attention to what you’re doing, care about getting the details right, believe that you have a unique story to tell, and then take a chance and tell it your way. Press hard, and believe that success will result from your efforts. You’ll be glad you did.

Go With the Flow

I’m guessing that little about today went as expected for the Art of Science Learning program leaders – bad weather, a low participant turnout, a late-afternoon building evacuation that cut short the session and left us standing out in a parking lot during a snowstorm, watching a snowplow driver very thoroughly do his job – but that’s exactly what made the session worthwhile for me.

A little background: We came out of another Polar Vortex ahead of the weekend and headed into 24 hours of steady snowfall that made for dicey travel conditions. I appreciate that organizers took this into account and encouraged participants, who come from all over Chicagoland, to make their own choices about traveling to the session.

They graciously respected the choices made but, as there is a schedule to adhere to in this yearlong adventure, the day’s events went on as planned: one morning session and one afternoon session, dedicated to further exploration of how to address “the water resources” issue.

So, this afternoon, I was part of the small group that made its way to the Museum despite the blustery conditions. And in the brief session time we had, I again found myself making connections between art and science, between this program and my work as a storyteller.

On occasion, I’ve gone into a storytelling engagement with set expectations about my audience and solid plans for the stories I am going to share. I’ve done my research, asked my questions, developed a program. But once I begin, once I start to speak and gesticulate, to move around the room and make eye contact with listeners, to (perhaps) react or respond to comments mid-story, I sometimes have to recalibrate my expectations and plans. I have to absorb the moment but stay in the “now” while I engage with what is happening. I am most aware that I must keep the momentum flowing so that when my storytelling ends, we all have gleaned something valuable and unique from our time together.

So it was today. We found our way through the Museum, sat down at tables and began to talk. We moved around the room in very deliberate, dance-inspired ways, becoming more comfortable with ourselves and each other in that space and time. In small groups, we then delved into our own ideas about addressing water issues; we thoughtfully spoke and listened to each other. Together, each group developed new ways of sharing information based on what was happening right then.

When we suddenly had to leave, we rolled with it. We lived the advice once given to me: “Be the river, not the rock.”

Again, the truncated events of today were not what the program directors had in mind. But that doesn’t negate the session as an enriching experience. We moved along the altered and unexpected path laid out today, and rather than looking back, we are going to keep moving ahead no matter what.

It occurred to me as I drove home, surrounded by snow that will (someday) melt into water: sometimes, you just gotta go with the flow.

Picking Up STE(A)M

I’ve been thinking a lot about innovation and invention these days as a willing participant in the Art of Science Learning initiative at Chicago’s Museum of Science and Industry. During our first week in early January, program organizers prompted our diverse group of 100 “fellows” to work together to demonstrate — to ourselves and each other — what innovation means and what it can look like.

As we began to talk about innovation, a young woman scientist in our group told a story handed down through generations in her family. My storyteller’s ears perked up as she told an amazing story that simply and powerfully demonstrated innovation. The scientist spoke of her great-great-grandmother who, while fleeing Russia at the beginning of the last century, broke off a chair leg for use as a rolling pin: she had to move quickly and she had to travel light, but she knew she would have to feed her family no matter where she landed. The young woman said the chair-leg-turned-rolling-pin is still in her family, still a rolling pin and the best one around in her experience.

My colleague’s story called to attention that often innovation is born of necessity, sometimes with a sense of urgency, but always with a willingness to see something ordinary very differently than the rest of the world might see it.

Last week, we sat back to hear and understand the conditions of an improv jazz performance and then, working in groups, created our own musical improv. It was a noisy, nuanced, expressive experience that reminded us about the fundamental factors that we already know but often forget when we try to solve problems: we need to listen to each other closely, carefully and respectfully. We need to respect each other’s unique styles and abilities. And we need to see our current circumstances differently, despite the fact that they sometimes seem entrenched and defined.

So just two sessions into this yearlong Art of Science experience, I have already learned much and find myself open to even more insights. This initiative is unprecedented in its effort to encourage participants to find solutions to real-world problems by combining efforts across science, technology, engineering and math. But program organizers have added Artistic exposure and expression to this STEM mix with the fervent belief that we benefit with this added, key component; we just may discover and develop more comprehensive, longer-lasting solutions when parties from different fields, disciplines, interests and careers come together.

And it’s so true. None of us operates in a vacuum of circumstances, experiences, feelings or knowledge. We must take what we know, think, feel and express from a variety of fields and repurpose, refashion and re-view all that rich human content to move forward.

Boulton and Watt’s steam engine inarguably was a component, an invention, an innovation that helped launch humankind into another era of creativity, discovery and expectations, of questioning and challenging long-held beliefs and systems. I am hopeful this program continues to do the same for myself and my fellow participants. We are now, in a sense, picking up steam.