In the ancient Norselands, the wisdom and legacy of the people was preserved by Skálds.
These poets and masters of lore maintained the sacred connection between everyday folks and their ancestors, heroes, and gods. They gathered their countrymen in feast halls and around fires, drink deep of the Mead of Poetry, and chanted songs of brave warriors and great deeds.
We know their descendants. Tolkien. Martin. Rowling.
Among the Celts, they were called Bards.
On the East bank of the Thames River, the greatest Bard of all time gathered his countrymen in cramped playhouses, drank deep of the smells of blood and mud and shit, and companies of players brought his poetry to life. Kings and maidens and fools and bastards leapt into being where once they were merely words scribbled on a page: whole worlds birthed from imagination. How appropriate that one of these playhouses was named The Globe.
We know his descendants. Sondheim. Disney. Lin-Manuel Miranda.
Among the Mali, they were called Griots.
In ancient West African empires, they employed song, dance, and rhythm to preserve and impart the wisdom of the ages to the next generation.
We know their descendants. Wu-Tang. Grandmaster Flash. Jay-Z. Common. Biggie and Pac. Lin-Manuel Miranda.
They come from many places. They go by many names. They all have one thing in common.
They speak worlds.
In the beginning was the Word. The Word was God and with God from the beginning. Through Him all things were made; nothing was made without Him.
This world we live in is a Spoken World, created and maintained and broken and healed by story. This blog is a tiny island in the sea of ether, a cave in the mountains where one lone storyteller with a laptop tells the tales that he knows, that he remembers and guards and crafts. Tales of long ago, tales of now, tales of never and forever.
All are welcome here. The cave is bigger on the inside.