I keep thinking about the idea that we’re all just blips in the history of the universe. I pondered it recently, sitting by the bed of a river near my house, watching the flow of the stream that will eventually deposit into the Tennessee River, on to the Ohio River, and ultimately down to the Mississippi. In the beginning it’s just a trickle of water. Each one of us is like the little trickles. 
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Watching the water, I thought about Siddhartha, one of my favorite books. It’s about a young man who goes on a long journey. On his quest for happiness, he meets a merchant and has a relationship with a woman. Then along the journey he meets a fisherman whose job it is to run a ferry that takes people across the river. One night the river current is too swift to cross safely, so the young man sits and talks to the ferryman. The ferryman tells him that all the things he needs to know about life, he can learn by watching the river. The man looks into the river and he sees ripples. The ferryman tells him that the ripples are teachers. Each individual ripple that comes to the surface lasts for just a moment before it vanishes back into the flow. Every life form follows a similar pattern, moment to moment. We’re all part of a continual flow.

My friend, Gwenda Ledbetter, a 93-year-old storyteller from Asheville, has a philosophy that I like about continually paying attention. Every day, she writes a story or a poem and emails it to her entire network. She tells us what’s happening with the Canadian geese that she observes through her condo window. She discusses the change of colors in the leaves in the trees, and the relationships between the animals. She shares reflections. Sometimes she relates the subject to bigger issues like climate change. 

I thought about Gwenda’s emails as I walked alongside the river in the woods near my house. The moss reminds me of the kind I’d see on rocks back in Scotland when I would go for walks. When you see moss attached to rocks or trees, you know the air is good because it can create a surface where moss can grow. I think of a walk I took a couple of years ago in the forest near here, a two-day hike along the Appalachian Trail.  It rained the whole time. Some carried food, while others carried the large tarp for the group’s campfire. It took the entire team working together to make our way. Doug Elliott, a storyteller and expert forager, joined us for part of the hike. He told us stories about the lore of the forest, and stories about the animals and life in Appalachia. At one point, we passed a spot that had been devastated by a forest wildfire. The sides of the trees were blackened. The open space looked like a barren valley, scarred and worn through. But Doug encouraged us to look closer and see even in this very spot, there was life emerging. Nature was renewing itself.
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In Appalachia, we have a tree called the Table Mountain pine. It’s a type of “fire pine,” one of several species that rely in part on fires or the aftermath of fires to propagate. The pine cones are almost glued shut with resin, even after the seeds inside mature. The intense heat of a forest fire can melt the resin, which releases seeds that are then distributed by thermal winds. Other pine species have tough coatings that can lay dormant for years waiting for fire to release their seeds, either through fire itself or a chemical reaction in the soil.
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In nature and in life, the destruction of one thing can mean the growth of another. It’s all ultimately part of the same story if we take the time to observe. Sometimes our moments of greatest struggle can be the memories we cherish most. Like my friend Gwenda Ledbetter and the ferryman in Siddhartha, I’ve been trying to pay attention.

The first time I visited America was in 1988. I was 12, traveling with my family, who had saved for years to give us a classic American vacation. We went to Disney World, Sea World, and New York City, where my father took us to see the Statue of Liberty. It felt cinematic, like the films I’d grown up watching.

Worldwide, we recognize places through iconic monuments we see on postcards and Wikipedia, even if we don’t know them well. As a kid, I saw the United States, as the Statue of Liberty, but now, after 13 years of living, and raising a family in a place I now call home, I associate this country with the image of the humble kitchen table.

The space around the kitchen table is, in my mind, the best place for sharing stories from the heart. A place to create empathy and cultivate compassion for others’ experiences. The U.S. is full of these stories, bursting with struggle, perseverance, sorrow, joy, celebration, and more.
Behind every story is a desire to love and be loved.

Most Americans welcome newcomers and are curious about different cultures. I’ve been invited to many dinners & potlucks and shared stories over meals with friends in my home. Hospitality and kindness are values I know that most Americans embrace.
Recently, my friend Lynn Borton and I discussed storytelling as a gift of hope on her “Choose to Be Curious” podcast and what if this kitchen-table storytelling could be expanded to our town halls and community gatherings, perhaps it could help us rise to our potential as a nation by making sure there’s room for everyone to grab a seat at the table.

Lynn informed me our conversation has been picked up by Pacifica Radio Network and will be distributed to non-commercial community radio stations starting November 6. So many kitchen tables! — around the country. I hope you’ll pull up a chair and listen with us. 

In the meantime you can also view the original episode on Lynn’s podcast directly, here.

​For days at the close of September 2024, Hurricane Helene rained sadness and pain for 600 miles across our region with catastrophic impact. In neighboring counties, parts of our own in Tennessee, across the mountains in western North Carolina, and beyond, the magnitude of the destruction is devastating.  Some have described this as a once-in-a-1,000-year event. A Tennessee civil engineer suggested that the only place anywhere in the world, that could withstand rainfall like this without serious consequences is the ocean.

An image keeps returning of a place close my heart. It’s located just a stone’s throw from where my wife and I were married, on the banks of the ancient Nolichucky River, which flows through this region from one of the oldest mountain ranges in the world. It’s a place that holds meaning for many communities—especially for those who live there, who have been displaced from their homes, or are experiencing the loss of loved ones. The image is of Unicoi County Hospital, where just a few days ago, staff and patients had to be rescued from its rooftop.

Some years ago, when the hospital was still in the concept stage, I worked with hospital staff, trained volunteers and medical teams on a project with a group of teens. It was a unique arts, heritage and health collaboration that resulted in the hospital receiving a storytelling designation—the only one of its kind in the world.

The capsule was placed inside the hospital as part of its launch, with the goal of being opened in 25 years (2044)—a decision made by the junior board. Everyone involved received a special key, so that when we come back together, it could be open as a group. I placed my key on my sacred home mantel shrine.

Whether or not this time capsule is eventually recovered, I believe what these young people created, has become a story itself, one that is now part of a much larger narrative—another kind of Appalachian time capsule—connected to the values, traditions, and history of this region. It involves the story unfolding right now, of how people, in crisis, are helping one another—delivering food, checking on neighbors, holding someone suffering in their hearts, making gifts and donations, or praying for those impacted. These are the kind of stories that will live in the hearts and memories of a people, for generations to come.

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​At age 8, witnessing the bias colonial narratives used to teach that some races were superior to others, I led my first protest against imperial oppression, with a classroom walkout.
 
At age 9, inspired by the evil fighting badass Ewoks from Star Wars’ Return of the Jedi, using my dad’s garage tools, I attempted to make a flying bike, in which children like me, and Ewoks, could take on the dark forces of evil empires, and the far-right neo-Nazis skin heads, that hanged out near our school playgrounds.
 
At age 10, I invented a series of futuristic style burglar alarms (and other inventions) and submitted them, one after the other, to BBC’s Tomorrow’s World. A British TV show showcasing cutting edge new inventions…
 
In response to the latter- I received this rejection letter. But thanks to the stories of my freedom fighter grandparents, the wisdom of my refugee immigrant parents, the songs of Bob Marley, and other social justice s/heroes, I’m thankful I was encouraged to still think big, to go complex on my designs, and to pursue the path of big vision systems change thinking, in collaboration with others. In fact, tackling unjust systems, building a better and fairer world, with others - is my community. My Ewoks!
 
Walking home from school with my own 8-year-old daughter, from the ground she picks up a fallen tree branch holding a few leaves. She holds it, looks at me and tells me this is only flag she wants to swear her allegiance to. The flag of nature, she calls it. She wants to change the way the world works. She wants to make a difference. She’s thinking big. So of course, I’m like, you go girl!
 
Never let a passive aggressive rejection letter, or system of suppression, tell you otherwise. Let’s follow the hearts and instincts of our children and the inhibited wonderous change-the-world child that resides in all of us. Let create a world where we can become the story of a world, we wish to see. Think big. Think bold. Now, and for generations to come.

13 years of living and working in the United States, and what I have observed is this: as a diverse nation, the United States is very much a story in progress. It’s a vibrant, multifaceted tale, but it also has deep flaws that are holding us back from being all that we can be. I’ve had the opportunity to witness this dynamic firsthand many times. I happened to be in Baton Rouge when Alton Sterling was killed. And I’ve been here for the reckoning after the murder of George Floyd, watching peaceful candlelight vigils in the face of the violent rise of white supremacy. It’s very clear that across the country, we’re still grappling with the legacies of slavery and the Civil War. These events weren’t really so long ago, and we all need safe spaces for reflection and dialogue as we contemplate them.

The act of sharing our stories can also play a critical role in challenging dangerous extremist ideologies. More subtly, it challenges our perspective on society and history. Especially as our understanding of culture is always growing and expanding. There’s always room for more stories and more perspectives. There’s so much to gain and nothing to lose.

This has been a focus in recent collaborative and imaginative planning conversations with many partners lately, including peacebuilders, and artists, addressing disinformation and social justice activists, human and immigrant rights defenders, and policymakers. It’s been a pleasure to facilitate these storytelling and narrative sessions and lead deep-dive conversations on cultivating our stories to meet this moment. One of those organizations includes The American Folklore Society (AFS) which also happens to be my primary professional organization, that includes many of my mentors, elders, friends, and brilliant colleagues. It is a community and movement, close to my heart.

A couple of weeks ago, I was thrilled to learn that my folklorist peers had nominated and selected me to join the executive board of our national society! I’m especially honored to join the board this year, as this November we’ll be gathering around 900 scholars, cultural workers, activists, artists, and educators, from across the nation and around the world for the 136th annual meeting taking place in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Our 2024 theme: Crossing the Global Storm: Networks, Solidarities, and Communities in Struggle.

I’m excited about this theme, particularly as it relates to the idea of a story in progress, the chance to give back to my field, offer perspectives, and help build solidarity with communities in need.

If you are interested in participating, please let me take this opportunity to invite you to join us in Albuquerque! If you’re new or a first-timer, reach out, as I’d love to welcome you personally.
AFS News:

By Kiran Singh Sirah
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It’s been quite an international week, engaging in discussions on story and narrative change for various peace initiatives with colleagues and justice activists in cities across Australia, Europe, and North America. I've had the pleasure of connecting with some of my favorite rabble rousers at Appalshop and the wonderful folks at Welcome America. However, a special highlight this week was the opportunity to present at an international celebration much closer to home, right here in my base of Johnson City, Tennessee.
 
Last night, I was honored to deliver the keynote celebration speech for graduating students of the Mary V. Jordan Multicultural Center on the theme of “Resiliency Endeavors Excellence.” I aimed to inspire but also offer practical tips and ideas they could use. I condensed my storyteller’s journey talk and training into a 30-minute keynote, outlining five actionable steps to transform personal origin narratives into stories that evolve possibilities from imagination to reality, for the world they envision.
 
The essence of this talk centered on the idea that when we share a story, we may not fully grasp its impact on others, but that doesn’t diminish its significance. Stories are living things that shape our understanding and motivate us to take action. Storytelling, much like peacebuilding, is a broad and nebulous movement to which we can all contribute and benefit from. We don’t have to strive to change everything ( or end all wars) all at once; each of us can contribute a little each day to make our communities better places to live. If a story moves your heart, it's likely to move others' hearts too.
 
I hope my message resonated!
 
Following my speech, I was grateful to sit among cheering family members and friends, witnessing around 200 students walk the stage and be inducted into the Diversity Scholars Society. Each graduate wore a multicultural stole symbolizing inclusiveness of ethnicities, races, cultures, and the values of the Center. I especially enjoyed the post-ceremony celebrations, listening and learning through one-to-one conversations, about the next chapters of their storied journeys.
 
Photos thanks to Charlie Walden.

By Kiran Singh Sirah

Over the years, I’ve appreciated learning ways people make sense of the world, chart pathways for healing and discovery, for our community. I often reflect on a conversation with an artist from Sierra Leone I met in a Brooklyn restaurant some years ago. Over dinner, he told me that the word for “medicine” in his village back home was “story.”

Just a couple of years ago, Tom Belt, an elder and citizen of the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma, hosted us at a gathering on top of the Shaconage- “land of the blue smoke,” otherwise known as the Great Smoky Mountains. Mr. Belt talked about stories as the cosmology of his people in a place where his people have told stories for over 12,000 years. And how it took a 1000 miles and 150 years for him to return home.

During the pandemic, I also learned so much about the art of listening from my friend Daniel Kish. Blind from early childhood, Daniel is a world expert on echolocation and famous for developing a technique that uses tongue clicks to produce soundscapes as a way to “see” and understand an environment. He describes it as establishing the knowns within the unknowns, building points of reference, like navigating by the stars and making it into a story. We still talk regularly and share sound clip recordings via WhatsApp to one another when we’re in different places.

Last week, these interactions came to mind as I shared them in detail, with three days leading a series of narrative reflections, conversations, with a community of artists, veterans, healers, creative community storytellers from West Virginia, all gathered to envision the home they too wish to move from imagination to reality.

We walked by the lake, had conversations from morning to late at night, explored stories to preserve, uplift, disrupt, and reimagine to create a world that feels just and inclusive. We even got to play and drum and sing together one night by the firepit. That’s when I looked up at a night sky full of stars, and I thought of my friend and prepared a sound clip to send.

I am grateful to my friends from the Riff Raff Art Collective, its partners, and friends, for providing this space and for trusting me with their hearts and minds, allowing me to facilitate, and for being open also to the uncomfortable alongside the imagined possibilities for what a better, fairer community can look and feel like.

Most of all, I appreciate the chance to share this mutual aid ancient art and practice for our modern world. In the call and response tradition of our blessed ancestors, elders and teachers.

Thanks to the Riff Raff Art Collective, its partners and my West Virginia friends for providing this creative space. I’m also looking forward to returning soon and seeing what unfolds!


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By Kiran Singh Sirah

Final day in O’ahu, Hawai’i, and I am so very grateful for the wonderful connections this week. Every encounter has been greeted with the warm embrace of Aloha, meaningful exchanges, invitations to homes, story sharing, and learning opportunities, for creating a better and fairer future for our world.
 
One beautiful human was the ASL interpreter from Maui, who interpreted my plenary talk this week for the Center for Disability Studies Pac Rim International conference. An incredible woman dedicated to the recovery of both Deaf and non-Deaf communities from the devastating fire that occurred months ago on Maui. As she talked, I could see clearly that her work helping to tell her community's stories, was sacred work.
 
There have been many other “talk story” moments, with disability rights, indigenous justice, and human rights activists, to a meeting a new friend yesterday, Dr. Maya Soertori-Ng, a remarkable peacebuilder, and her dear elder friend, Donna, whom Maya affectionately calls her Hanai mama. My connection with Maya began weeks ago, following an introduction from a mutual friend who suggested we should both meet. Maya suggested a cozy coffee shop that served excellent Kona coffee and matcha lattes, so that’s where we met.
 
Maya graciously gifted me a beautiful purple Lei and some hand-picked bananas from her garden, and I presented her with one of my elephant watercolors. Our conversation covered life, family, community, our late mothers, the places we call home, and the individuals who continue to inspire us.
 
It was only earlier this week, however, that a new friend in O’ahu mentioned, "You do know that’s Barack Obama's sister you’re meeting, right?" … I had no idea! It was undoubtedly a cool connection. But what was more fascinating was learning the scope and impact of her educational, peace, and justice-building work, from Ceeds of Peace, the Peace Studio, and a girls' empowerment sister program she’s cultivating alongside her brother's "My Brother's Keeper" initiative and with the Obama Foundation itself. Our discussion, like many conversations this week touched on "Kapuna" (ancestral and elders' wisdom and teachings), as well as climate justice projects designed to bring hope in today's challenging and troubled world.
 
As I reflect on all these experiences over the coming days, weeks, and months, I will be holding these memories close to my heart. I will cherish them for a lifetime. As a folklorist elder once explained to me, every encounter is a chance to not only give and share what you know- but more importantly, it’s a sacred moment- a gift to receive.
 
 

Yesterday was World Thinking Day, and I'm grateful to my friend Lynnea, t of Girl Scouts of Southern Appalachias, for inviting me to speak to a group of Girl Scouts earning their World Thinking Day badge.
 
Often, we want to make the world better, but can feel powerless, unsure of how or where to begin. What impresses me about the Girl Scouts (and Girl Guides around the world) is their proactive approach—initiating activities, participating in group discussions, and envisioning possibilities for the changes they wish to see.
 
I also had the opportunity to share stories about the sheroes in my own family, particularly my late mother, reflecting on her fearlessness and love for all. I appreciate the thoughtful questions the Girl Scouts had.
 
Earlier this week involved some tough but necessary breaking the silence conversations with many of my global peacebuilding peers. I know maintaining hope can be challenging, especially when we’re witnessing the dismantling of so much historical good work by some not-so-nice individuals globally. Nevertheless, what sustains my hope is the presence of these young emerging leaders in our midst. They’re consistently imagining how to make the world a fairer and better place for everyone.
 
I am also proud to have earned my World Thinking Day badge on the same day they earned theirs! … I have placed it on my sacred shrine—as a reminder to hold onto hope, and thinking, as a crucial starting point for imagining a world that is possible.

Thanks to Girl Scouts and Girl Guides worldwide for your creative and imaginative thought leadership! If the Girl Scouts aren’t giving up, then neither am I.