yyjStoryteller

Some places stay with us long after we’ve left them. It might be the smell of cedar after rain, the sound of gulls over the harbour, or the way light filters through old windows in the house where you grew up. Every place has its legends, if we are willing to listen. Landscape itself tells stories — in stones, in rivers, in trees. Some stories are whispered in the wind; others are carved into the land by generations who came before us. On the West Coast, the ocean tells stories of both arrival and departure, of courage and loss, of hands that built and hearts that stayed. The more I listen to the land I call home, the more I hear its layered voices. The human stories are only one part of it. There are the stories of the salmon returning each year, of the forest reclaiming what was once cut, of the tides repeating their ancient rhythm. A place becomes home when its stories become yours. You begin to see yourself not as separate from it, but as a small, continuing thread in its unfo...

  Not all stories move us to tears — some make us laugh until we can’t breathe. This week, let’s celebrate the lighter side of storytelling: the laughter that connects us, the small absurdities that remind us how wonderfully human we all are. We remember what makes us laugh. Maybe that’s why laughter is memory’s best friend. It loosens the heart, softens the edges, and helps stories stick around long after the punchline has faded. A funny story is never just about the joke — it’s about recognition. It’s that shared moment when we see ourselves, our families, or our friends reflected in the foolishness of being human. Humour makes us feel less alone in our imperfections. I’ve noticed that in every family, there’s at least one story that always makes an appearance at gatherings. You know the one — someone starts with, “Remember when…?” and everyone’s already laughing before the tale even begins. Maybe it’s about a burnt turkey, a mix-up at a wedding, or a moment of well-intentio...

Dear friends, Every age faces its own kind of silence — the moments when truth gets softened, rewritten, or ignored altogether. Yet storytellers have always found ways to speak, even when it was risky to do so. This reflection is about those moments when telling your story becomes an act of resistance — not through anger, but through courage, honesty, and love for what is real. Not every story is told from the winner’s seat. For as long as humans have spoken, those in power have tried to shape the story that is remembered — and to silence the ones that are inconvenient. But truth has a way of finding its voice. Sometimes it comes as a shout, sometimes only as a whisper. Yet even a whisper, if passed from one heart to another, can outlast a shout. When the official story is false, telling your own becomes an act of courage. It might be as simple as standing up in a meeting and saying, “That’s not how I saw it.” Or as daring as writing down the story your grandmother told you, even ...

  When Grief Finds Its Voice “Stories are medicine.” — Clarissa Pinkola Estés “The human species thinks in metaphors and learns through stories.” — Mary Catherine Bateson A story told in grief is a step toward healing. Sometimes we tell stories not to explain, but to survive. When words finally take shape around our pain, the chaos within begins to find order. The act of telling—of giving shape to the unspeakable—can be a kind of alchemy, turning sorrow into something we can hold, examine, and perhaps even share. Grief isolates, but stories connect. When we share our stories of loss or hardship, the burden lightens—not because the sorrow disappears, but because someone else helps us carry it. In the listening, we are reminded that we are not alone. Storytelling, in its deepest form, is not about performance—it’s about presence. It’s a way of saying: I have been there too. I have felt the cold wind you feel now. And somehow, I have found my way forward. So today, I offer th...

    “Stories are medicine.” — Clarissa Pinkola Estés “The human species thinks in metaphors and learns through stories.” — Mary Catherine Bateson A story told in grief is a step toward healing. Sometimes we tell stories not to explain, but to survive. When words finally take shape around our pain, the chaos within begins to find order. The act of telling—of giving shape to the unspeakable—can be a kind of alchemy, turning sorrow into something we can hold, examine, and perhaps even share. Grief isolates, but stories connect. When we share our stories of loss or hardship, the burden lightens—not because the sorrow disappears, but because someone else helps us carry it. In the listening, we are reminded that we are not alone. Storytelling, in its deepest form, is not about performance—it’s about presence. It’s a way of saying: I have been there too. I have felt the cold wind you feel now. And somehow, I have found my way forward. So today, I offer this thought: Has a sto...

When you share a story, you build a bridge.” — Unknown In a circle, everyone holds the center for a while.  Political activist Gloria Steinem said that  “A circle is the oldest form of democracy.”  Being in a story circle  is not about performance, but presence. Some tellers say that you do not choose the story, the story chooses you.  The story you tell today may be the story someone else needed to hear. Something to think about... Who would you invite into your story circle today? What story would you tell? Leave a comment  below: