To get into the Phoenix Zoo you must cross a bridge over a long lake. Pigeons walk along the bridge, strutting out of your way as you cross, while turtles bask on half-submerged logs many feet below.
Whenever I used to visit the zoo, I would notice the pigeons and turtles, but only in passing. I was on my way to the entrance, taking out my wallet to buy my ticket, thinking about what I’d like to see, planning my route around the park.
Once inside, I’d start out briskly in the direction I’d planned. But as I walked I began to feel my pace slacken. I became aware of the sounds of the many animals around me, and of children’s voices on the breeze. The colors of the merry-go-round blended with the colors of people’s clothes as they passed by. The smells of popcorn and cotton candy slowed my steps as I passed by the concession stands. As I continued on my tour, I found myself stopping at cages and enclosures I hadn’t remembered seeing before, captivated by an exotic bird or curious about some small mammal scurrying around.
As I slowed from a stride to a stroll I began to feel the freedom of choosing not only where I went, but how I’d get there, and at what speed. I could even stop if I chose, and just gaze at the life in front of me. There was always something surprising to see—a free-roaming peacock sitting in a tree preening its feathers, a group of lemurs hiding under a bush, staring at me as if I were the exhibit. Over the span of an hour or two, the world seemed changed, brighter somehow, richer and fuller of wonder.
But the biggest change came as I exited the zoo and re-crossed the bridge. Suddenly those pigeons walking near me on the bridge were exotic, exquisite things. I was transfixed by the iridescent flashes of purple and teal as they strutted in the sun, the muted metallic sound of their cooing. And the turtles, oh the turtles! I could now see how each had a unique pattern on its shell, could see how there were tiny silver and sable fish swimming near them in the water. I realized that it wasn’t the world that had changed. It was me. I thought I’d come to the zoo to see the animals, but I’d really come to have my senses sharpened, to have my life intensified.
Storytelling is like going to the zoo. Whether you’re perusing your own mind for ideas, searching for the images and forms to craft your bit of life into a story, or listening deeply to the story of another and entering into their crafted world, you think you’re engaging in looking at something outside yourself and how it changes. But it’s really you that’s changed.
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