I recently celebrated 50 glorious trips around the Sun. A half a century through this wild ride we call a life. On this milestone date, I received a surprise from some dear friends. You know the types. The ones that are Olympic level gift givers and always somehow show up to the party packing the ideal present.
On the morning of my birthday, I unwrapped a gift that is so unexpectedly perfect that it cracked me wide open. On that morning, I was bequeathed a limited-edition set of Howard Terpning’s The Storyteller (circa 1989) — the print itself, the collector’s fine-art book, and even an old VHS tape that ties it all together. I am deeply grateful.
This treasure came from a friend who inherited it from her grandmother. It’s a piece that feels almost alive, humming with the same pulse that beats beneath my work on The Story of Us Project. Of course, there’s a great story behind the gift itself: My friend’s family legacy, the provenance, and the print have all converged into something deeply meaningful to my life, my podcast, this blog, and the meta-narrative I aim to explore through The Story of Us Project.
The Art & Its History
Howard Terpning (born 1927) is often called the Storyteller of the Native American in Western art, for his deeply rendered, respectful, narrative-driven oil works that portray Native American culture, history, and spirituality with dignity and nuance. In 1989, Terpning released The Storyteller print as a collector’s edition in a limited release of 1,500 signed and numbered copies.
The print features an elder (identified as a Blackfoot man) sitting cross-legged in the moment of his storytelling: his hand gesturing toward the sky and eyes alight with the spark of memory, children and a younger man gathered about him lean in, not just hearing, but inheriting, absorbing what we can only guess was the tale of the tribe, the land and their ancestors. Around them, the air glows with that ancient warmth that comes when a story bridges generations.
Howard Terpning painted not just a scene of the American West, but of a truth: that humanity survives through the spoken, the remembered, the retold. When The Greenwich Workshop released the edition in 1989 — it wasn’t just a piece of art. It was a cultural time capsule, carrying the wisdom of Native tradition and the reverence of an artist who understood that to tell a story is to hold back the dark.
What a honor to receive this as a gift. To me, this is not just art hanging on my studio wall. Its a duty to preserve and a moment captured by an artist of an ancient human impulse — the circle of listeners, the passing of knowledge — packaged in a way that itself speaks of value, of craft and of legacy.
Why This Gift Resonates With The Story of Us
Boy, do we love stories: Stories of origin and transformation, of collective memory, of how Humans become full in the world by sharing, listening, and remembering. The themes of The Storyteller mirror that exactly: an tribal elder passes along a story, younger generations receive – a symbolic act of legacy, culture, identity and connection. In my podcast, The Story of Us: From Cosmic Dawn to the Depths of Being, I aim to trace these lines between our universal roots and individual journeys; this artwork resides on my wall now like a sentinel of that mission.
- The elder figure pointing to the sky reminds me of our cosmic dawn — not just the Big Bang, but that moment when a human looked up and asked, “What’s the story here?”
- The circle of listeners represent each of us in the audience of history, waiting with bated breath for the next chapter to unfold.
- The fact that it’s a print, a reproduction of a painting, but in a limited edition, suggests the paradox: our stories are universal and repeatable, yet each print (each person) is unique, numbered, signed.
When I look at Terpning’s elder pointing skyward, I see both a tribal storyteller and maybe also one of the first astronomers — the ones who looked up at the night sky with wonder and awe. His gesture is the same as humanity’s eternal question: “Where do we come from?”
That gesture — that lift of the hand toward mystery — is the heartbeat of The Story of Us.
Our podcast and blog exist to explore how the universe tells itself through us — how creation, art, memory, and myth are all ways that humanity learns its own name. The elder’s stories are not so different from astrophysics or poetry or philosophy. Each is an attempt to bring light into darkness, to say: “We were here. We remember. We matter.”
In that sense, The Storyteller is the visual soul of our mission. It’s about the continuity of consciousness — how stars become atoms, atoms become life, life becomes language, and language becomes legacy.
The grandmother who treasured this print, the artist who painted it, and I who now receive it — we are all part of that same luminous chain. We are the ongoing story of being told by being itself.
In receiving this gift, I feel as though the story of my life, my podcast, and my blog has been symbolically endorsed. It’s a reminder: your age is not a milestone toward ending, but a station on the journey of telling. I’m now 50 years old, yes—but I’m still sitting in the circle, listening deeply, still ready to tell, still gathering those around me and pointing to the sky.
So on my fiftieth birthday, I’m not counting years. I’m counting storytellers.
Each one who came before me lit a small fire and whispered across generations, “Remember who you are.”
This painting now hangs near my microphone and reminds me that The Story of Us isn’t just a project. It’s a calling.
To gather the lost, the luminous, the human.
To listen deeply and to speak with reverence.
To ensure that even when the relics are gone, the stories still sing.
A Friend’s Grandmother and a Legacy
This particular print carries another story within it — one that feels like it was destined to find me. It once belonged to a friend’s grandmother, a pretty incredible lady with a deep love for art, history, her family and the power of storytelling. A proud Jewish woman who moved to Arizona and became deeply involved in Native American culture even serving as a docent at the small local museum in her retirement community. Many years ago, when it became necessary to move her to Kentucky, The Storyteller came with her.
Unfortunately, my friend’s grandmother passed away only a few months ago at the age of 99, but the print found its way to me with perfect timing. I regret that I could not have met her, shown my sincere gratitude and taken the time to really hear her story. I hope that her family’s hearts rest peacefully knowing it has a cherished place in my home and that, I too, will one day find this treasure a worthy owner.
From her loved ones, I’m told that my friend’s grandmother likely saw in the storytelling traditions of Native Americans the same resilience she carried within her own family — a lineage nearly erased when their relics were destroyed in the Holocaust.
All that was left for her, for them, were the stories they passed on to others. The photos and heirlooms lost, the land gone, yet the voice and the legacy remained. She understood that storytelling was the only way her family could hold on to identity, memory, and connection. She preserved anecdotes, names, small traditions, oral history and, with her last words, reminded them to “live it up, because when you look back you won’t believe how fast it went.”
I’m told that this print of The Storyteller was one of her most prized possessions. I choose to believe that, maybe, this painting embodied exactly what she held dear: the elder speaking, the children listening, the culture passed on to the next generation. Perhaps when she engaged with Native American culture, she likely found echoes of that same human pattern: the sharing of myth and reality, memory and place. So when this print came into her life, it wasn’t just decor—it became emblematic of what she stood for: the survival of narrative, the power of voice, the honor of legacy.
I like to imagine that her passion for storytelling wasn’t just aesthetic; it was deeply spiritual and rooted in survival. That for her, stories were not entertainment; they were resurrection. Every tale retold was a defiance of silence. Every name remembered was an act of rebuilding the world- one story at a time.
So she cherished The Storyteller. It wasn’t just a painting — it was her mirror. The narrator, the circle, the firelight — they all reminded her that even when artifacts are lost, the telling keeps us whole. (and “It doesn’t cost a penny to tell a story”)
Now, decades later, this sacred object has been passed into my hands — from a woman who believed in the saving power of stories to a man whose new passion is to trace the great human narrative, from cosmic dawn to the depths of our conscious being.
This set comes to me with that full biography attached: the artist’s intent, the story of publication, the grandmother’s journey. The baton has passed. I will ensure that the story of this print lives. on I’m honored to carry this story forward.
I want to say thank you — to the friend, to the grandmother, to the artist, to the unseen storytellers who carried the torch. This gift is wonderful not only in its beauty and scarcity, but in its alignment with what I do: host friends, collect stories, amplify voices, connect the cosmic with the quotidian.
Turning 50 is not a finish line; it’s a vantage point. With this piece now in my possession, I recommit to telling the stories that matter: our individual journeys, our collective arcs, our deep roots, and our unfolding futures. I’ll lean into the pause, lean into the circle of listeners, and point once again to the sky — to what’s next, to the stories yet unheard, to the echoes yet unsung.
To the grandmother who believed, to the artist who painted, to the universe that continues to tell itself through us — thank you.
Together, you’ve given me the greatest birthday gift possible: a reminder that storytelling is sacred, that memory is a form of love, and that our stories — however humble — are how eternity remembers us. ” I will cherish it in good health”.
The fire burns on.
The circle widens.
The story continues.
So here’s to the next chapter. Here’s to the wise old tellers of tales, to the young who listen and pass it forward, to the hour when a print gets unwrapped and a new story leaps into being. Here’s to you and me, still part of the story of us.
Thank you for being part of the journey. Let’s keep listening. Let’s keep telling.
— Jeff
P.S. If you ever find yourself looking at that print (or the VHS!) with me, bring your story. I’ll supply the circle.
The Story of Us. 
Leave a comment