To engage our minds in the art of story telling is to splash our hearts onto the canvas of life.
Nearly each morning we take a drive along the familiar way thru town and over the bridge that leads to the Marina Park. We crest the hill and revealed before us lies the mysterious and majestic Sleeping Giant, certainly a wonder of the world.
“Good morning Sleeping Giant,” we say in unison and are intrigued by how we will discover him today. Will he be resting neath a crystal clear of blue or shrouded in a cloak of misty cloud?
Each greeting is anew and begins a tale of how this man came to lie where canoe-paddling adventures were surly awed to find him. To the first native eyes, would that not be considered the profound sign one endured ache and sought life for?
The boys and I share our versions of the Giant’s legend, each one more elaborate than the last.
On this particular morning it leads to discussions of the first people, relates to our studies on nomads and farmers, and finally flows to a sharing of the native’s belief in Great Spirits and the connection between all living creatures and the earth.
I am dazzled by their questions and profoundly grateful for our classroom.
We walk talking, and then… The boys rush ahead to kick ice chunks from the melting hills to smash on the shores of frozen Superior.
Profound or simple and raw, the moments are precious and unforgettable.
Long live the storyteller and the legends of old and new that shape the beings we become and the wild workings of a grand imagination.