Tag Archives: storytelling

Righteous riffs

No Pressure ….

Went to a storytelling thing in the city a few weeks ago. 

Flew solo … something I normally don’t do. 

Usually my inner voice prepares a convincing list of reasons it’d be better for us to stay on the couch. 

Something about the event’s theme — Bridges — made me think of a small story that might be worth telling. 

I’m never really sure of such things. 

Inner voice likes to remind me I could be full of shit. 

Might be a story only I want to hear. 

Which is among the reasons I appreciate the event’s drop-your-name-in-the-hat approach.

Lets the universe decide.

Was late peeling off work.

Got there about 10 minutes before it started. Place was pretty packed. 

I made a beeline to the front to see if they were still taking names. Saw Jacob, the event’s producer. He asked if I wanted to tell a story. 

“Thinking about it,” I said. 

“Awesome. We only have two people so far, so you’re guaranteed a spot.” 

Gulp. 

Didn’t expect the universe to decide so quickly. 

But then, Jacob did this thing. 

He looked me in the eyes, put his hand over his heart, and said, “And I’d consider it a personal favor if you could shake the bushes and get a few more people on stage.” 

“I’ll do my best,” I said.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I was flying solo … and that I didn’t know a single other soul in the place. 

Not to mention the event was starting in like five minutes. 

“And don’t forget that you’re a socially awkward introvert,” my inner voice chimed in.

Yeah, that too. 

But, there was just something about the way he asked me. 

Heard someone describe it once as “the happiness of being called upon.”

I had just enough time to grab a beer before things started. 

While waiting for the bartender’s pour, I noticed a person at the other side of the bar chatting with some friends.

I don’t know if this makes sense, but have you ever seen someone smile … and, just by the way their smile lives on their face, you can tell they’re a character? 

So I notice such a smile, and then a second later, hear the owner saying to her friends, “You know, I’ve been coming to these things for two years … and I have yet to put my name in the hat.” 

A second later we make fleeting eye contact. 

And I blurt out from across the bar, “TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT!” 

My inner voice does a spit take …  “What the fuck are you doing?”

And I’m like, oh … what the fuck am I doing?

“Sorry,” I say. “Um, don’t mean to intrude … but you should totally do it.” 

And she says aloud to herself, as much as to her friends (and, um, me I guess), “You know, I was actually thinking of something … 

“ … but I don’t have it worked out or anything.” 

“Don’t overthink it,” I volleyed back across the bar. “They’re actually looking for storytellers. I think tonight’s the night.” 

“I … I’m not prepared,” she said. “I’d have to be prepared …” 

But then … she reached into her pocket. Pulled out her phone. 

“I’d at least have to put some bullets down … to see if I even have enough.” 

I grabbed my beer and went to find a seat. 

As I passed behind her, I said, “No pressure … but just so you know, I’m preparing myself to witness history.” 

The place was pretty packed. Saw a couple open rows in the back. 

Spotted a guy sitting on the aisle, also flying solo. I asked if I could sit next to him. 

“You look familiar,” he said. “Have you told a story before?”

We got to chatting. I learned that he was a friend of Jacob the producer. 

“Have you ever gotten on stage?” I asked.

Nah, he said. Shook his head for emphasis. 

Let a couple seconds pass.

“You know, I was kinda’ thinking of something on the way over,” he said. 

“Dude … you should totally do it,” I replied. “I think tonight’s the night.” 

“Ah …” he started walking it back in his head. 

I wasn’t going to let him off the hook.

“They’re actually looking for storytellers. Jacob told me … they don’t have enough.”

“Really?”

“Don’t overthink it,” I said. 

“Ah … I’ll decide at the intermission,” he said. “See how things are going.” 

“Wise move,” I said … following it up with one last, “But you should totally do it.” 

So, the event starts. First storyteller gets up on stage (and is amazing), then the host goes to pull the second name. 

And I see the person who I’d last seen at the bar jotting down bullets into her phone … strolling to the stage.

My heart leaps. 

I elbow my next chair neighbor and whisper, “We’re about to witness history.” 

And I was right. 

Her smile totally gave her away. She had a light, for sure. 

In fact, her kindling of that light was the topic of her story. 

That she didn’t wait to have it all figured out before stepping into the spotlight … was every bit as inspiring as the words that tumbled from her tongue.

What a gift to bear witness.

When she finished (to raucous applause), I exhaled. 

My work is done here, I thought in my head.

The intermission comes. Host goes to pull the next name from the hat, and … my next chair neighbor get up. 

Not sure if you’re keeping score here, but … I’m two for two. 

And his story? 

Epic. 

A love story … which he chased across states … countries … years … before it all ran aground. 

At the moment of their breakup, they had to decide who got to keep the German Shepherd they’d raised together. 

He had rescued it as a puppy. 

He loved the dog so much. 

Knew he’d take better care of it than she would. 

And he let her keep it. 

And I’m wiping tears. 

That wasn’t even the end of the story, which ended poignantly on a bridge in Pittsburgh, tying back to the event’s theme like Simone Biles sticking the landing in a floor exercise. 

It was note perfect, I tell you. Like, one-man-show material. 

He gets back to his chair … I’m like, “Dude,” held out a fist for bumping, since the lump still in my throat kept me from saying more.  

Then, I hear the host call my name. 

I’m still a bowl of soup from my neighbor’s tale.

But I get up and tell my tiny story. 

About a scruffy saint I encountered in a coffee shop who reminded me — in both word and deed — that receiving kindness is every bit as important as giving kindness. 

I wobbled in a couple places. 

I pretty much wobble everywhere I go anymore.

But I told the story that I needed to hear.  

At the end of the event, they bring everybody back on stage. 

Then it’s over.  

Under the best of circumstances, I’m bad at exits.

Flying solo in a roomful of strangers, after being vulnerable on stage for six minutes, I just wanted to get out of there. 

But I had to say thank you. 

Saw Jacob at the front of the stage.

I told him I fulfilled the mission. 

He returned a quizzical look. 

“Two of ‘em were mine,” I said. 

You should have seen how the smile lived on his face. 

“I’m proud of you,” he said. 

Receiving those words made me put my hand over my heart. 

The happiness of being called upon. 

I turned to make a beeline for the door. 

Didn’t get very far before someone stopped me. 

“I just wanted to let you know that your story made me glad I came,” she said.

Oh my gosh, I replied.

So, it wasn’t only a story that I needed to hear. 

Almost started crying again. 

Then, she did the kindest thing. 

“Can I give you a hug?” she asked. 

Our stories?

Bridges indeed.  

__ 

Ever since that night, I keep coming back to the same four words. 

Four words that I’ve come to realize are a magic spell … for experiencing awe.

“If it wasn’t for ….”  

Wherever you are … whenever you are, say those four words, then fill in the blank with the things responsible for this … whatever this is. 

Keep filling. You don’t have to go very far before you strike awe, which is merely a bridge … to profound gratitude. 

If it wasn’t for Jacob’s Great Commission … 

…  I’m not sure I notice the way a smile lives on someone’s face … I don’t interrupt a conversation from across the bar … she doesn’t pull out her phone … punch in the bullets that give her the confidence to make history for herself, and do a thing she’d never done in two years of showing up …

… I don’t fist bump a next chair neighbor for exponentially expanding my understanding of humanity’s capacity for grace (he let her have the dog for cryin’ out loud). 

If it wasn’t for the theme of the night, I don’t think of a story and spend six minutes wobbling on stage, so I can be reminded yet again by a stranger that … 

… it’s just as important to receive kindness as it is to give kindness … 

… that we should never be shy about sharing our stories, because they just might be somebody else’s bread … 

… that even when we’re flying solo, we’re not necessarily alone.

And perhaps most importantly, I don’t discover this encouraging, bush-shaking voice that I didn’t even know was inside of me … that’s pretty fucking good at its job. 

And that is making its debut on the page here to tell you that I would consider it a personal favor, if you would promise me …

… to never underestimate your capacity for being awesome. To be generous with your invitations, your smiles, your encouragements, your hugs, your stories. To never forget that we can’t change anything, but we can influence everything. 

No pressure, but just so you know, I’m preparing myself to witness history. 

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Postcards

Paying. Forward ….

Friday morning I took my car in for scheduled maintenance.

“You gonna wait?” check-in-guy asked me. Said there was only one car in front of me. Shouldn’t be that long. 

Found myself a quiet nook at the dealership. Grabbed a coffee from the machine. Hopped on their wifi, started into my work day.

About 15 minutes later, check-in guy rolls up. 

He: We can’t open your hood.

Me:  I’m sorry … what? 

He: Yeah … problem with the latch release. Hood won’t pop. 

Me: I put in washer fluid a week ago. Worked just fine.

He: Yeah, there’s no tension in the cable. Nothing happens when you pull the release. So we gotta diagnosis it. It’ll take about an hour … so it’ll be an additional $160 (on top of the maintenance costs I’d already signed up for.). 

Me: I’m sorry … for what? 

He: To diagnosis what’s wrong.

Me: I thought you said the hood won’t open. 

He: Yeah. 

Me: Isn’t that what’s wrong? (coffee was still kickin’ in)

He: Yeah, but we have to diagnose what’s causing it.

Figuring it’s hard to do maintenance without, you know, opening the hood, I was like … whatever.  

My residual head-shaking was only starting to ebb, when check-in guy rolls up again.

Holding papers. 

He: Yeah, so the latch release cable needs replaced. We have to order the part. Also … it’s hard to get to, and there’s a chance, worst case, that we’ll have to bust the grill to get access to open the hood. So, worst-case, we’d have to replace the grill and the badge, too. 

Proceeds to show me the ‘best’ case … pointing to a really large dollar amount on the paper. 

“And here’s the worst case,” he says … pointing to another really large number for the ‘grill-busting special,’ which would be in addition to the first large number, which is on top of the $160.

So they can do the scheduled maintenance, which will have to be rescheduled. 

Metaphorically, it’d be like going to the dentist for a cleaning, only for them to inform you, “First … we’re going to have to punch you really hard in the face, which may cost you your front teeth, which we would, of course, then have to replace. None of which can happen today … so you’re going to have to leave and come back on Face-Punching Wednesday. After which, you know, the cleaning.”

In literal terms, while still waiting for the dealership coffee to take effect, I learn that it might cost me north of a thousand dollars to open my hood. 

Lemme just say … it’s one of those things that’s hard to say ‘Yes’ to in the moment.

I gave myself a few seconds to let the absurdity of it dig its toes into the sand before externalizing a response … which manifested in me laughing out loud. 

Not at the hood. 

At the week. 

I was only a day removed from having a plumber out to snake the downstairs drain under the driveway out into the backyard … which failed to address the smell coming from our shower. Only a couple hours removed from making arrangements for him to come back next week with “The Thing,” which will cost insert large sum here. 

Only two days removed from the knob on our old dryer going kaput … so now, the dryer just runs constantly … so we have to unplug it between loads. 

And four days removed from ordering a new air conditioner, the cost of which we deliberated long and hard about before deciding to pull the trigger before May decides to summer. 

All of which to say … my laugh had a running start as check-in guy waited patiently for me to take his pen.

I mean … nice work, universe. 

I told check-in guy I’d call him next week … which would gift me the weekend to temporarily indulge one of my favorite past times … ignoring problems hoping they go away. 

___

I woke up Saturday morning still shaking my head at the week’s accumulations … when I gathered my things and headed uptown to the tiny coffee shop where I like to write my weekend medicine.

While waiting in a short line, I remembered another bill I was overdue in repaying.  

Couple weeks ago I invited a friend out to a storytelling event in the city. We hadn’t seen each other in I don’t know how many years. Used to work together. We’d gotten back in touch earlier this year, trading texts and even chatting on the phone. For some reason I’d thought of him that morning so shot him a text asking if he’d be interested in joining me, and was thrilled when he said yes. My son was working in the city that day, so I invited him as well. 

It turned out to be a wonderful evening.

When we arrived, I tossed my name in the hat, from which they would select the evening’s eight storytellers. I’d never done that before. I won’t call it an act of bravery because I did it as quickly as possible so the voice in my head didn’t have time to weigh in. I figured my odds were low, anyway, as the house was packed.

The evening’s first three storytellers could not have been more different in tone and topic, which is what makes such events invariably magical. When the host reached into the hat for the fourth storyteller, I heard my name called. I was so lost in enjoying the company, and leaning into my chair at the other storytellers, it jarred me. And in the few seconds it took to stand up and walk through the full house to the side of the stage, my anxiety went from zero to 60. But, I stepped out … and told a story that I was aching to tell … to the most gracious audience you could imagine.

At the end of our wonderful night, my friend insisted on picking up the tab for our sandwiches, despite Peter and my protestations. 

I promised to him I’d pay his kindness forward.  

Which I remembered just as I was about to order Cortado #1. 

“Big plate, tiny cup?” Sydney the barista asked … which cracked open my weekend’s first smile like a fresh breakfast egg. 

For context … some lost Saturday ago, I’d asked for a saucer to put under a really full cortado she’d made. She went in the back, returned a few seconds later, holding a regular plate. “This is all we have,” she said. 

“Oh, that’s perfect,” I said, as I slid the ridiculously large ‘saucer’ under the tiny cup. As I did I noticed that the plate had a few chips out of it … which made it even more perfect. 

“My life very much needs a generous splash radius.”

I remember telling her before I left that day that I may just insist on the big plate moving forward. 

Now, I don’t even have to ask. 

Big plate, tiny cup. 

Every time Sydney sets it in front of me, it makes me think of all the humans and things in this world that catch the mess of me and crowd surf me through my days. 

Like my friend Jason who met us in the city and insisted on buying beers and sandwiches. 

So after I ordered, I asked Sydney if she could do a pay-it-forward, mentioning my friend Jason by name.

Of course, she said. 

After which I sat down, tuned my earbuds to my favorite jazz station (KCSM, which streams from the college of San Mateo, CA), scribbled my weekly postcard to my daughter, and cracked open my old laptop to sift the week for its treasure. 

I lost myself in the above like I sometimes do, so a good couple hours passed before I returned to the counter for Cortado #2, which must be referred to by its given name — “Portal to Invincibility.” 

Sydney’s co-worker took my order. 

I pulled out my card to tap my payment. 

She waved me off. 

“It’s already paid for,” she said. 

I looked at her quizzically. 

“Someone paid for your order,” she explained. 

Took me a second before the morning’s second smile broke across my face.

“It was him,” Sydney said, coming up beside her colleague to explain, before turning to me. “People have been keeping it going.”

“Really?” I asked.

The coffee shop had filled and turned over a good coupla times in between my first and second order.

And in full disclosure … I hadn’t put all that much on the counter. 

Humble pebbles on the scale, compared to all I owe.

But after a week of major appliance failures, stanky clogs, and a stubborn hood refusing to open — the numbers from which have yet to stop spinning — it wobbled me.

I mean, just the tender reminder that our kindness comes back to us.

The reminder that, even when all the evidence suggests otherwise, the world is still capable of surprising us.

Sometimes it just needs a nudge.

Like us.

I mean … nice work, universe.

I took a couple seconds to let all that sink in.

To give my response a running start.

I set the record straight … that my friend Jason started it, not me.

“Keep it going,” I said, tapping my card. 

Sydney returned a minute later.

Put it down in front of me. 

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Postcards

Best seat in the house …

I got to tell a tiny story last night. 

On a tiny stage. 

In a tiny theater. 

About people I love. 

We laughed.

I cried (just a little). 

It was so weird and wonderful. 

The best part? 

In the front row were friends I grew up with. 

In the back row were friends I met at Waynesburg College.

We went for tacos after. 

Sitting next to my first college roommate, he reminded me that he’d met my friend John a couple times before. 

First time at my wedding. 

Last time … at my Dad’s funeral.

After the show had ended … and I walked into the lobby and saw John and Lisa, Matt and Jenn, Scott and Aline, Mike and Laura, and Mike #2 (who had Kelly drop him off) … all of ’em standing there … waiting to greet me …  the first thought I had was how rare and precious a thing it is to have friends from different seasons of your life together in the same room. 

Pretty much weddings and funerals, as my first college roommate validated. 

So to get to share a tiny theater and some tacos with humans responsible for crowd surfing me through my youth …

… and who are still showing up for me …

… well.

Forgive me if I cry a little.  

That’s no tiny story. 

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Excursions

Turning Point …

Did a couple brave things Tuesday night. 

For starters I drove through the snow into the city. Roads were awful. Slid into a bank trying to make the left onto Maiden Street.

Traffic on the interstate slowed to a sloppy crawl just before Canonsburg. Google told me I should peel off the exit, so I listened.

Called home to let Karry know my circumstances. 

Candidly, part of me was hoping she’d tell me to just come back home. 

Give me an excuse not to go through with the second brave thing.

“You should stay on the interstate. It’s gonna be better than the side roads.” 

She is so much better than Google.

It was the wisest counsel … from the person who’s been pointing in the right direction for 30 years and counting.  

So I got myself turned around. Limped back onto I-79. 

Kept going. 

Sent a text letting ‘em know I was on my way, but was gonna be 15 or so minutes late. 

“That’s OK. You’re on last!” 

__

On a whim the week before I submitted something for Story Club Pittsburgh’s monthly live gathering.

Something about the theme — Turning Point — caught my eye. Made me think of something I’d written but never shared before. 

The following day Kelly their (awesome) producer emailed me back, “The Spotlight slot’s yours if you want it.”

Eesh. 

After I said yes Kelly informed me that the stories had to be under seven minutes.

Over the next few days, violent editing ensued.

By the time I’d gotten in my car Tuesday to drive into the city, I still hadn’t quite limbo’d my story under the bar. 

Crawling along the interstate afforded me some extra practice time in the car. Must’ve run through it a half dozen times trying to find places where I could chop a few more seconds … without having to rush it. 

And praying I’d remember my edits. 

Seven minutes seemed like both forever and not nearly enough time.  

As I drove I reminded myself I was last, so I’d have some time once I got there if I needed it. 

Arrived while the emcee was still on stage and before the first storyteller. 

Other than the spotlight slot at the end, the proceedings are open mic. Anyone who wants to tell a story drops their name in a hat — from which they pick seven names to go on stage. 

As I grabbed a chair, the voice inside me said I owed the brave humans on stage my full attention … the same gift I would soon be asking from them. 

The greatest gift in the world as far as I’m concerned. 

They made it an easy gift to give. 

The first person shared a brave and beautiful story about a person they stayed in a relationship way too long with, and what their hopeful but misplaced optimism had taught them. An older gentleman spoke about losing a best friend in high school and how he’s tried to live for both of them since. Another person relayed an amazing daisy chain of grace and kindness from law enforcement that allowed him to essentially walk on water all the way from New Jersey to Pittsburgh. There was a story about a rat in an apartment and another about a snake on a trail. And a lawyer told a tale of tracking down a client who met him not with a handshake, but a shotgun pointed at his chest.

Before I knew it, the emcee was calling my name. 

By which point a good 90 minutes had passed since I’d taken my seat. 

Since I’d last thought about my story. 

I’d been picked as a Spotlight Storyteller once before, about a year ago. But I got sick and couldn’t be there in person. Made arrangements to share virtually from home. Had my notes on a second screen just in case, which made it easy. 

This time, it was just me. 

No notes. 

The lights made it hard to see the faces of the people in the audience. 

As I started in from memory, my mouth felt dry. 

Was about a minute in … when I felt my words sliding to the tip of my tongue.

Got a little over halfway through. 

And lost my way. 

In the spotlight. 

Alone on stage.

In front of a pretty full house. 

With the clock ticking. 

Stuck. 

But then … 

… something amazing happened. 

A few people in the audience started snapping.

A couple clapped encouragement. 

And a wonderful soul in the front row … one of the few faces I could see in the lights … repeated the last couple of lines I had said back to me. 

A roomful of humans that was already offering me their greatest gift, did their best to point me in the right direction. 

Took me a moment, but I got myself turned around. 

Limped back on the interstate. 

Kept going. 

Crawled the rest of the way.

Until I made it.  

__

On my drive back home, I thought of Patti Smith, and the time she forgot the words to “A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall” while performing in front of the King of Sweden and the royal family at Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize ceremony in Stockholm. 

And how beautifully and humanly she wrote of her experience. Of the kindness shown her afterwards by some of the Nobel scientists in attendance, who shared their appreciation for her very public struggle. “I wish I would have done better, I said. No, no, they replied, none of us wish that. For us, your performance seemed a metaphor for our own struggles,” she wrote so movingly in The New Yorker.  

It occurred to me that, had I spent those 90 minutes before I stepped on to the stage going over my story, I would likely have avoided my embarrassment and delivered a better performance for the audience I was there to serve. 

But that would have come at the expense of giving my full attention to all the other wonderful storytellers that came before me. 

It would have required withholding my most valuable gift in the world. 

So I refuse to regret my choice. 

I accept my stumbling as a fair price to pay … for the gift of bearing witness to their stories.

Maybe even a bargain. 

Because had I not stumbled, I would not have experienced an audience of strangers reaching out to steady me. 

And the traveler writing these words would be much the poorer for that.

I could have been perfect. 

I would much rather be human.

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