Episode 48: On Stories, Creativity, and Other Lessons from "Somewhere Else"

Welcome to the Carousel of Happiness Podcast.

On today’s episode, we’re going to talk about a feature of the carousel called the Somewhere Else Wall. A stuccoed wall between the carousel and the gift shop that Scott designed in 2011. We’ll talk about how it was intended to represent a portal,  so to speak, between those of us who are here. And those of us who are somewhere else. 

In Part I of this two-part episode, you'll learn more about the wall, what it represents, and Allie will share her own personal experience with connecting to that place we call “somewhere else.” 

Next week, you'll hear from author, speaker, and evidential medium, Travis Holp. You'll learn about the value of messy stories, why signs matter, and how the stories we tell ourselves now can shape our future. Plus, you’ll hear from a professional medium about how we can connect with our loved ones on the other side, what death can teach us about life, and how being genuine rather than authentic is his suggestion for showing up as our best selves in this lifetime. 

The Carousel of Happiness is a nonprofit arts & culture organization dedicated to inspiring happiness, well-being, and service to others through stories and experiences.

Check out the carousel on the CBS national news! https://www.cbsnews.com/news/carousel-daydream-helped-marine-get-through-vietnam-war-he-then-made-that-carousel-a-reality/

If you enjoy the podcast, please consider visiting the Carousel of Happiness online (https://carouselofhappiness.org/), on social media (https://www.facebook.com/carouselofhappiness), or in real life. Or consider donating (https://carouselofhappiness.org/once-donate/) to keep the carousel and its message alive and spinning 'round and 'round.

If you have a story to share, please reach out to Allie Wagner at outreach@carouselofhappiness.org

Special thanks to songwriter, performer, and friend of the carousel, Darryl Purpose (https://darrylpurpose.com/), for sharing his song, "Next Time Around," as ou...

Transcript

Welcome to the Carousel of Happiness Podcast. I’m your host, Allie Wagner. 

On last week’s episode, we had a special edition of the podcast. We were joined by Guest Host, Sidse Powell, who’s been sitting down with business owners from the Caribou Village Shopping Center to share their memories and their stories.

On last week’s episode, Sidse sat down with Claudia Schauffler, owner of The Shop, a clothing store specializing in new and used mountain fashion. You learned how The Shop was Claudia’s plan for retirement, and how she made the jump from health care career to clothing boutique owner. 

On today’s episode, we’re going to talk about a feature of the carousel called the Somewhere Else Wall. A stuccoed wall between the carousel and the gift shop that Scott designed in 2011 with animals moving in and out of it. We’ll talk about how it represents a portal, a doorway, or a bridge, so to speak, between those of us who are here. And those of us who are somewhere else. 

On today’s episode, I’ll tell you more about the wall, what it represents, and I’ll share my own personal experience with connecting to that place we call “somewhere else.” This is part 1 of a 2-part episode where I tell you a story about how I started receiving messages from my mother who died in 2010. I’ll tell you what she told me, what those messages have meant to me, and how she’s helped guide me to a very important creative idea.

On today’s episode, you’ll hear about how one particular message from my mother inspired me to reach out to a professional medium to interview for this podcast. You’ll hear how excited I was to interview him. That is, until, the day before, when I completely lost my voice. 

Next week, I’ll share my conversation with that professional medium; author, speaker, and evidential medium, Travis Holp. You’ll hear what losing my voice taught me about the value of messy stories, why signs matter, and how the stories we tell now can shape our future. Plus, you’ll hear from Travis on how we can connect with our loved ones on the other side, what death can teach us about life, and how being genuine rather than authentic is his suggestion for showing up as our best selves in this lifetime. 

Let us begin with today’s story.

GONG

There’s a spot in the carousel house we haven’t talked about yet. A spot that, I must confess, is my personal favorite. On the north side of the building, between the carousel and the gift shop is a stuccoed wall with a large heading that reads “Somewhere Else.”

Below the sign, animals move seemingly in and out of the wall. The wall appears to be a thoroughfare of some kind. A passageway. Or a portal. You see a penguin marching confidently into the wall, while a giraffe peers out of it. Just above the penguin, a pelican flies out, wings wide, as a human foot walks in. In and out. Some animals here, on this side of the wall, and some animals on the other side of it, seemingly somewhere else. 

At the center of the wall itself, we see a big polar bear, lifting her cub up into the air toward a pair of outstretched grizzly bear claws on the other side. Next to the polar bear stands a sheep dog, Oberon, The Wonder Dog, to be specific, partly inside the wall, and partly coming out of it. 

The Somewhere Else Wall wasn’t built with the original Carousel of Happiness. It was a project Scott conceived of in the fall of 2011, after the carousel had been opened about a year and a half. Scott wanted to create a space that acknowledged that some of us are here, and some of us are “somewhere else.”

He doesn’t specifically say where this “somewhere else” place is. “Somewhere else” could be the place we go when we dream. “Somewhere else” could be a parallel universe we cannot see. “Somewhere else” could be where we come from, when we are born. Or it could be where we go, after we die. 

People of every culture and society have perceived and believed in such a place throughout the course of human history. And we all have our own special words for it. Heaven. The Afterlife. Paradise. Never Never Land. The Multiverse. Consciousness. The Field. Source.

Or, in the case of the Carousel of Happiness, Somewhere Else.

At the Carousel of Happiness the wall is a place of honoring and acknowledging our loved ones who are “somewhere else.” Inside the wall itself are two small openings Scott intentionally created as a place for people to place mementos or send messages to loved ones who are no longer with us. A man who lost his wife put her ashes in the wall. Two combat veterans placed an artifact from a friend they lost in Afghanistan in the wall. The polar bear protects photos of two women, sisters, who died young and whose mother wanted to honor their memory. All in the wall.

*

I’ve been thinking a lot this week about stories. I believe the stories we tell ourselves and the ones we tell each other are important. In telling stories, we craft the narrative of our own lives. In telling stories, we decide which details to include, and which to omit. In telling stories, we can be the star, the main character, or even the villain. 

Stories have always been a part of my life. For as long as I can remember, I have told stories. Stories to entertain. Stories to amuse. Stories get published. Stories to make a point. Stories to teach. Stories to understand. And yes, stories to hurt.

Stories that hurt me. Stories that hurt others. Messy stories. Stories without clean endings. Stories without clear beginnings. Stories on repeat. Stories on loop. Stories where the cast and scenery changes, but the root of the story remains the same. Stories where I learn nothing. Stories where nothing changes.

And I have this recurring story. One where it’s not safe for my voice to be heard. One where I need to be small and quiet in order to make those around me feel safe. 

It’s a story I learned from my mother. She told it to me everyday, like a bedtime story. She told it to me, through her words and her actions, that it was best for everyone if I just toned it down a little. Made a little less noise. Talked a little bit less.

And it’s a story that has repeated throughout my life in many ways. In the past, I have been unheard in relationships, not listened to at work. Even now, my dear husband can’t hear me most of the time. It’s not his fault, despite how grumpy it makes me. It’s my fault. This is my story, and he is showing me that story in real time. He is the mirror showing back to me what stories still linger within me.

The story that I need to be small and quiet to make others feel okay. The story that it is not safe to show who I really am. The story that it is best to figure out what someone wants from me and give them that, at the expense of my own truth.

And the thing about this story is that it’s on autopilot at this point. This story is currently a computer program running underneath the surface of my experience. Over and over again. Small and quiet keeps you safe. Hide yourself, you’ll be safe.

And even though I know on an intellectual level, a conscious level, that this story does not serve me, it doesn’t stop it from influencing my life in ways I wish it wouldn’t. That is because my sweet, little subconscious, bless its little heart, does anything in its power to protect me from being unsafe. That is its job.

Which is why I was not surprised when I lost my voice the day before I was to take a very big step in the direction of my most authentic expression.

*

Two months after the carousel opened, at the end of July 2010, I went to a friend’s house for a slumber party. We were all in our 20s, working for the government at the time, and work had gotten really stressful. So, we decided to get together and hang out, cut loose, and give ourselves at least one night without our phones being on. 

So, we turned off our phones, pumped up the jams, so to speak, and poured out the wine. We laughed, we ate, we danced, and we told stories.

The next morning, I woke up and turned on my phone. No calls from work, thank goodness, but there were 13 missed calls from my younger brother. Which is rare. In fact, any type of call from my younger brother is noteworthy, 13 missed calls was significant. 

And he didn’t leave a message, so I called him back. When he answered, I said to him, “What’s up with all the calls? Who died?”

“Mom,” he said to me.

My mother, Barbara Lee Hinson, died 15 years ago at the age of 55.

*

For the longest time, my mother was featured in many of my stories. Usually as a villain. Alternatively, as a martyr. But typically as an excuse for whatever naughty thing I was doing at any particular moment.

But all that changed one day, last year, when we welcomed a delegation from Colombia to the Carousel of Happiness. The visiting group was comprised of military and police officials whose job it was to address the human side effects of the war on drugs in that country. The PTSD. The broken families. The lost loved ones.

And Scott said something to the delegation that day I really needed to hear. Now, it’s been a while and I don’t want to put words in his mouth, but what I remember from that moment is his encouragement not to hold on to that definition of being a victim. While it can be tempting to hold on to our identity as a person who has been wronged, that clutching keeps the victimhood active in our present moment. This, by the way, is now my own interpretation of what he said. That clutching to your identity as someone who has been wronged keeps you tied to that thing that done ya wrong. Right now. Now matter how long ago the original event took place. It still maintains its power over you if you hold on to it like a life raft, which is what I was still doing at the time.  

Again, this is me paraphrasing what I heard that day. 

And I realized at that moment, that while both my parents were gone, their impact on my life remained the same because I was holding on to my identity as a victim. As a person who was wronged. I wore that name tag like a badge of honor.

And each moment I used them as an excuse to not live the life I was born to live, I didn’t feel good. And when I felt that negative emotion, I blamed them for it.

But the truth is, I was the one responsible. Not for the original thing that happened decades ago, but for using that thing as the excuse not to live my life fully right now.

That’s on me.

So, I decided to set it down. Set down my identity as a victim. A person who was wronged. Because carrying it around was getting heavy. It was unwieldy. It was no longer sustainable.

*

Shortly after that day with the Colombians, something happened that changed everything. I was writing in my journal, as I do every morning, and, out of nowhere, I heard a voice. The voice came from inside my head and it sounded like my “voice,” but I knew for a fact it did not belong to me.

So, I kept writing, turning my pen toward this voice. I scribbled down questions and waited for it to answer. I asked questions like, “who are you?” and “am I going crazy?”

And that’s when I saw my hand write the words, “it's me, your mother.”

*

And in that moment, I felt a wash of relief. My entire body relaxed. I took a big, deep breath. And I knew, without any doubt, that it was true.

Since then, my mom and I have had several conversations. She gives me pep talks when I need them. She gives me grief when I need it. It’s like old times, but way, way better. Because I know now that she was in a lot of pain when she was in her physical body. And the pain she felt when she was alive is no longer active. I know now she’s free.

Free to be the mom I always wanted her to be. Free to be the mom she always wanted to be. Not being in a physical body has allowed her to not get bogged down in her humanness. In her form now, she can show up for me in ways she just simply couldn’t when she was alive.

In our conversations, she’s told me about what it was like for her during difficult times in our lives. She has shared with me how painful some of those things were for her.

And what’s interesting is that all of that sounds kind of sad, but the experience of hearing it felt so incredibly healing. As a result of our conversations, I’ve been able to tap into a level of compassion for her in a way I never could access when she was alive. It was all too close. Too real. And I was too young.

There’s something about connecting with her now that allows me to access her from a place of pure love. That is the advantage to connecting with your loved ones in spirit, in my opinion. The channel cannot be opened without love.

And holding that love at the same time as you hear about the pain, somehow transmutes it.

For the most part, I’ve kept our connection to myself until now. Sharing it only with a few people because I know grief is complicated and we all have our own, unique beliefs about what happens when we go “somewhere else.”

And I want to be clear, you don’t need to believe a word I am saying. If this story feels like it’s butting up against your beliefs in an uncomfortable way, please stop this episode. Immediately.

I’m sharing this story not to convince you, but because it is mine to tell. Because it belongs to me. And I have an undeniable need to express this story in this lifetime. And working for the Carousel of Happiness has opened me up, just like it has opened so many people before me.

Not necessarily in this way, of course. But I think that’s the magic of the carousel. The carousel meets you where you are. The carousel, if you want it too, can guide you toward your version of who you want to be.

I’ve always known there was a carousel-type project for me slated in this lifetime. Not necessarily a carousel, of course, but a lifelong expressive project that feels unique to me. I am not a builder. Not a carver. But I am a storyteller. I am a feeler. I am a connector of dots, a searcher of meaning. I sit with stories the way Scott has sat with wood. Making decisions. Do I cut this detail out? Does this one still work. Moment after moment, chiseling away what does not serve and sculpting a new story.

And it’s been through the course of this podcast that I’ve had the…ahem…opportunity to notice where my old stories linger. Where I’ve been clinging to identities and beliefs that no longer serve.

And as my husband will tell you, it’s been a bit bumpy. Clumsy. Awkward. Dare I say, sometimes unpleasant. I am in the “Rabbit the First” zone of my creative expression, as it were. But, I’ve fumbled my way through, using the carousel as an energetic guidepost if you will. Using Scott’s story as a way to relate to my own. 

But I still didn’t know what my “carousel” was. What my lifelong creative expression was.

Until, one day, my mom told me.

About a month ago, my mom told me she wanted to help me write a book. A memoir, to be specific. But a different kind of memoir. Not one that looks backward toward what happened, but one that looks forward. A reverse memoir, so to speak. One where I can use my storytelling skills to change my life in the future, rather than use them to recount events that happened before.

And the memoir specifically is about a skill I have. An ability. A unique-to-me gift I had when I was younger but stopped expressing because of a story I was told. 

By my mother.

Who, it turns out, also had this skill. This gift. But it wanted more from her than she was willing to give in this lifetime. The gift did not feel like a gift to her, it felt like a crushing burden. And in her lifetime, she did what any mother would do, she tried to protect her daughter from the same pain. 

Until now.

I appreciate you holding space for this story even if it sounds vague. Even if it doesn’t make sense. As I am discovering, the messages I receive from “somewhere else” sometimes aren’t that specific. Sometimes they sound like riddles. Sometimes I only get fragments or pieces, only to forget them. I’m told it’s because I’m still learning how to listen, how to connect. And the better I get at it, the clearer the messages will become.

But, for right now, what I know is that I’m writing a book. About me and my mother. About what we as human beings can create here, in this lifetime, with the help of our loved ones “somewhere else.” 

*

Three days after I received that message from my mother, I had a bold idea. There is a medium I follow on Instagram that I really like. His name is Travis Holp and when I found out Travis was going to be doing a live mediumship demonstration as part of a metaphysical fair down in Lakewood, I sent him an email. Out of the blue. Explained who I was and that I wanted to interview him for this podcast.

Why? I dunno. Because I wanted to. Because it sounded fun. Because three days before I had the idea, I received a very cryptic and prophetic message from my mother on the other side. Surely, talking to a professional medium would be a good idea?

And what I’ve personally learned from Scott is how important it is to just go with it. Whatever “it” is. If it sounds fun, if it’s what you want to do, if it amuses you or lights you up, chances are pretty good the outcome will be good. 

Why? Because that’s what he did, over and again, making choices that didn’t necessarily make sense to anyone else, but felt good at the time. Some of the most beloved details in the Carousel of Happiness are silly little details Scott just added because he wanted to. 

So, I sent an email to Travis, and within minutes, he responded. he loved the idea and thought it would be fun to record the podcast live at the event.

Great! I had never done a live podcast before, but it still sounded fun. A little scary, I’ll admit, but mostly fun. Travis checked with the event’s organizer to see if it’d be okay and, wait for it…it turns out, the organizer, Ari (Airy) Hunniford, is from Nederland. She graduated from Nederland High School the exact same year as Scott’s daughter, Colleen.

Are you kidding me? This was obviously a sign. 

So, plans were set into motion. I buzzed around all week, getting myself ready. Organizing my equipment. Reading Travis’s new book. Planning my questions. 

And everything was perfect, until Friday. The day before the interview. While it is true I had gathered all my equipment and organized all of my questions, in the process of doing so, I had lost something very important. My voice. Yes, that would be the one thing you really need to record a live podcast. 

But I came into work that morning, my mouth full of cough drops and my head full of denial. 

When I arrived, Pat took one look at me and sent me home. Yeah, it was that bad. 

So, there I was. The day before what felt like a very important day, lying in bed wishing to get back the one thing I needed to do the one thing I wanted to do. 

On next week’s episode, I’ll share the rest of the story. How the interview went, what we talked about, and how the experience fundamentally changed my relationship with stories.

In the meantime, take care. Be well. And, as we like to say at the Carousel of Happiness, “don’t delay joy.” And we’ll see you next time around.