The passing of Pete Seeger and Philip Seymour Hoffman, both in the space of just a couple of weeks, really hit me hard. On the face of it they are two very different men, with very different biographies. But as I listened to some of their old interviews on NPR, my sense of what we have lost just felled me. At first I couldn't quite name it, but then the full weight of it emerged in one word--storytellers. These men not only told stories, they embodied story.
The interview with Pete Seeger was a kind of banjo workshop. With a group gathered outside, and the seagulls punctuating his pauses, he talked about picking. His tone was characteristically soothing and kind, with a lyrical lilt that made you feel like you were a child on the carpet at story time. He shared some of the techniques he discovered, all-the-while demurring. He said that his books made it seem like he was an expert, when really he just experimented and shared it because people had asked. As he demonstrated each technique he sang examples of the kinds of songs that paired well with each combination of notes and cords. With each song he told the story of its place in history, and the experiences of the people who lived it. By the end of the interview it felt as though everything in the world was going to be okay. Not because everything was okay, but because this gentle man had collected all of the threads of so many heartaches, struggles, injustices, and sorrows and weaved them into songs. His songs danced onto the strings of his banjo, leaped off of his strings, and took us up into the melody of hope. He didn't tell stories, he lived them, breathed them, wrestled with them, and transformed them. Through his art he invited us in, making banjo picking and activism seem one in the same, and like something any of us ordinary humans could do.
Philip Seymor Hoffman bore a more painful countenance. Written on the lines of his face, in the asymmetry of his self-effacing frown-smile, and in the half-forgotten shadow of his beard, were the stories of struggle. While we don't know what it is he struggled with, we do know that he brought every atom of that struggle to the stage. In each of the characters he played he looked physically transformed. Not just the way some actors put on a few pounds or dye their hair. Hoffman incarnated the characters, transfusing their stories with the emotional DNA of his own story. His scripts seemed to dissolve as every line, expression, gesture and word became bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. His storytelling pulled us out of our complacent, self-absorbed heads and commanded us to see and feel deeply into the soul of all kinds of people, even those whom we thought disgusted and repulsed us. He forced us to acknowledge that in the "other" we could actually find pieces of ourselves. He didn't just act the story, he put blood and sinew on the bones of the story. He made dry bones rise up and dance before our very eyes.
As we reflect on the passing of these two very different but equally astonishing men, I hope we will accept the invitation to read more; to listen to others more attentively; to take in the details of stories that seem totally unlike our own. I hope that we will take up the call to consider our history, rather than just googling things pertinent to us in the moment. May we truly appreciate the value of sitting on the shore, with seagulls cawing, picking a banjo--learning for the sake of learning. May we immerse ourselves in poetry and plays, symphonies and film, seeking to understand for the sake of learning empathy. These two men called us back to our humanity and invited us to live into it more fully. Long live the storytellers!
The interview with Pete Seeger was a kind of banjo workshop. With a group gathered outside, and the seagulls punctuating his pauses, he talked about picking. His tone was characteristically soothing and kind, with a lyrical lilt that made you feel like you were a child on the carpet at story time. He shared some of the techniques he discovered, all-the-while demurring. He said that his books made it seem like he was an expert, when really he just experimented and shared it because people had asked. As he demonstrated each technique he sang examples of the kinds of songs that paired well with each combination of notes and cords. With each song he told the story of its place in history, and the experiences of the people who lived it. By the end of the interview it felt as though everything in the world was going to be okay. Not because everything was okay, but because this gentle man had collected all of the threads of so many heartaches, struggles, injustices, and sorrows and weaved them into songs. His songs danced onto the strings of his banjo, leaped off of his strings, and took us up into the melody of hope. He didn't tell stories, he lived them, breathed them, wrestled with them, and transformed them. Through his art he invited us in, making banjo picking and activism seem one in the same, and like something any of us ordinary humans could do.
Philip Seymor Hoffman bore a more painful countenance. Written on the lines of his face, in the asymmetry of his self-effacing frown-smile, and in the half-forgotten shadow of his beard, were the stories of struggle. While we don't know what it is he struggled with, we do know that he brought every atom of that struggle to the stage. In each of the characters he played he looked physically transformed. Not just the way some actors put on a few pounds or dye their hair. Hoffman incarnated the characters, transfusing their stories with the emotional DNA of his own story. His scripts seemed to dissolve as every line, expression, gesture and word became bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. His storytelling pulled us out of our complacent, self-absorbed heads and commanded us to see and feel deeply into the soul of all kinds of people, even those whom we thought disgusted and repulsed us. He forced us to acknowledge that in the "other" we could actually find pieces of ourselves. He didn't just act the story, he put blood and sinew on the bones of the story. He made dry bones rise up and dance before our very eyes.
As we reflect on the passing of these two very different but equally astonishing men, I hope we will accept the invitation to read more; to listen to others more attentively; to take in the details of stories that seem totally unlike our own. I hope that we will take up the call to consider our history, rather than just googling things pertinent to us in the moment. May we truly appreciate the value of sitting on the shore, with seagulls cawing, picking a banjo--learning for the sake of learning. May we immerse ourselves in poetry and plays, symphonies and film, seeking to understand for the sake of learning empathy. These two men called us back to our humanity and invited us to live into it more fully. Long live the storytellers!
