Spring, once again.

Last year I talked about sakura and posted images of the stunning fragile blossoms in my local park. The same trees will bloom and the same crowds will come to claim their spots under the boughs.

Recently I went to the park very late at night and sat under my favourite cherry tree — the very same tree that appeared in last year’s April Brief. I examined the branches at first — a handful (perhaps 5%) of the buds were opening into blossom. The tree still looked winter bare. I sat, drifted into reverie, letting my mind wander. A dog approached, looked surprised and uneasy about finding me, sniffed the air and backed away cautiously, the owner chuckling. I let the night absorb me, watched the moon and stars, felt the warm southerly wind that was bringing spring and thought about nothing in particular.

Before I knew it 2 hours had passed by; the dog walkers were long gone and only the wind and night birds were there to make sounds. As I stood to leave, hand on massive trunk I turned to look once more at the branches all around me; it seemed as though half the tree had come into full bloom in the time I had been there.

Spring had reached out to the tree on that southerly wind and I was left with a deep feeling of connection and a satisfaction in knowing that in sitting there I had in some way been a part of the changing season.

‘Even sleepers are workers and collaborators in what goes on in the universe.’ Heraclitus.

Living in deep time.

The event I describe above fits neatly into the concept of ‘deep time’ as explained in Oliver Burkeman’s book ‘Four Thousand Weeks’ — where he quotes writer Gary Eberle.

‘We slip into a realm where there is enough of everything, where
we are not trying to fill the void within ourselves or the world.

The clock does not stop, of course, but we do not hear it ticking.’

As Burkeman sums up;

‘The boundary separating the self and the rest of reality grows blurry, and time stands still.’

This of course describes being present in the ‘moment’, the ‘now’. Something I have talked about before when discussing the power of awe. The state that transports us away from our thoughts (often regrets and misgivings) about the past and our expectations (often worries and anxieties) about the future and plants us firmly in the present, mind cleared, focused and seemingly connected to and a part of all that is magically unfolding around us.

This is awe. And I believe that a sense of awe is one of the main components of engaging, effective, transformative communication.

It might seem a tall order to imbue our communications with awe. But that is how I opened this Brief — a short story about something that happened to me not a grand work of fiction like Moby Dick or The Lord of The Rings but, a story containing awe all the same.

I could have simply said ‘I sat under a cherry tree for a couple of hours and when I got up to go half the blossoms had opened in the time I had been sitting there.’ That is a description of what happened — it is factual but lacking in emotional connection. And where is the feeling of awe without that emotional connection?

However, a small personal account, told with characters and a little action, ending in the revelation that I felt part of the unfolding beauty of the seasons and feeling awe — connected because it was written in a way that enabled you to imagine yourself in that situation, experiencing the things I had experienced and thus engaged brought you a little closer to the awe I felt and/or the memories of awe you have felt.

I believe (or at least want to believe) that story caught your attention, drew you in, got you to this point and that now you are beginning
to think a little differently about both awe and storytelling.

Stories are important because we have been telling them, in one form or another for over 127,000 years. Stories for the greater part of human existence have been the means with which we have expressed ideas, transferred knowledge, shaped culture and set the rules we choose to live by — our brains are hard-wired to listen to stories.

The power of awe and the power of storytelling is universal.

Stories can be a magic spell — a charm cast to enchant those around us; add awe and the charm becomes irresistible.

If only we used such charms more.

The Power of Storytelling

‘There is so much work to be done; this ship has to be virtually rebuilt every day.’ Robert Hobman FRGS, Expedition Leader — The Sarimanok

Awe can take many forms and be different things to different people. It not only manifests when we are faced by the immense, powerful, incomprehensible nature of our world but also in the kindness or determination of people, in observing profound effort or achievement, in witnessing personal sacrifice or heroic deeds or being subject to the kind of collective experience we may find through religious practise or cultural events.

Here are two films that contain two very different types of awe. The first makes me feel awe at the sense of historical achievement, the depth of time and the longing to understand how our ancestors lived and interacted with the world and the great lengths they went to in order to satisfy their needs and expand their understanding of what was around them.

I also feel awe at the achievements of these modern day adventurers; well aware of the danger they are in yet still fully committed to replicating an ocean voyage from 2500 years earlier — all the while showing unshakeable faith in their hand-built ship, unbelievable fortitude towards the challenges they face and incredible empathy for each other.

Although I have never really been a sailor, I love being on boats, being at sea and most of all in and beneath the sea.

I grew up on tales of the oceans as my Grandfather was a sailor in The Royal Navy during World War Two and in the merchant navy before and after the war. I was lucky enough, as a child, to be introduced to the world’s oceans listening to his stories of sailing off the coasts of Africa and Southern Europe or escorting convoys across the war-time North Atlantic. But my most profound introduction to the world’s oceans was by crossing The Equator (Crossing The Line) myself by ship on two separate occasions; North to South and four years later South to North — another story perhaps.

The second film continues with the theme of sailing.

The sense of awe I get from the second film is not awe at the achievements of the sailor Paul Johnson, who spent his life sailing all over the world, nor at his single-minded determination to live life on his own terms (often seemingly with scant regard for others) but rather a sense of absolute awe at how the people he has chosen to spend his last days amongst, and to whom he has probably given very little of anything, provide him with everything he needs (both physically and emotionally) as he comes to terms with his fading memories and approaching end.

It is a sad but quite beautiful, touching film that I would deny anyone not to be moved by.

And if any story can best exemplify the most wonderful aspects of human nature, this might well be that story.

And how wish I could have shared these films and my love of the ocean with my Grandfather.

Nicholas Raistrick | Communication Strategist, LABtokyo

Nicholas founded LABtokyo 10 years ago with the express commitment to helping people communicate to their highest potential.

We work with private individuals and corporate groups by delivering training and coaching programmes specifically designed to enhance all facets of interpersonal communication.

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