Friends, on the heels of my most recent post about reclaiming the campfire when it comes to our storytelling roots, I am thrilled to announce that The Perpetual Visitors Theatre (my Boston based company) is hosting a FREE virtual story circle event on Sunday, March 7th at 1:00 pm ET, and I would love to see you there. I will be co-facilitating with my theatre company partner, Kate Marple, and we are so excited to offer this chance to gather and connect with folks during what continues to be a trying time to be human.

What is a story circle you ask? Great question, thanks for inquiring! As you can read on our registration page, the purpose of a story circle is to build or strengthen a sense of community within a group, to examine differences, and / or to explore social challenges through their own lives. During a story circle, a small group of people gather to each share a personal story about a specific topic or theme. In a story circle, there is no audience; everyone shares, and everyone listens with complete attention. Once everyone has told their story, participants comment on the strengths and power they see in others’ stories and draw connections between others’ stories and their own. They are a powerful tool for seeing others and for being seen. Story circles have a rich history – from Indigenous communities who used them to draw out communal experiences and make decisions for the good of the community to the Free Southern Theater that used story circles during the Civil Rights Movement to open dialogue around the topic of race and create theater pieces to reflect those stories back to larger communities.

On March 7th, we will be sharing stories focused on how we are each seeking beauty, hope, and connection during these different days. It's free, but we do ask that you kindly register in advance. You don’t need to prepare anything, simply sign on and be willing to share and listen. This is a community event, not a performance, so no theatre experience is necessary. Imagine being gathered around a (virtual) campfire exchanging stories. 

I'm so grateful for how I get to connect with you in this blog space, and I truly hope that you are interested in connecting in a story circle setting as well. I'd welcome the chance to get to share my story and to listen to yours.

Questions? Want more information as you consider registering? Toss a comment below or send me a message and I'd love to see if I can help. 

When I read this quote for the first time, I immediately had to read it a second time. Something clicked deep in my bones. These new to me words took my breath away with how much big truth was stuffed into the small letters, staring back at me from the tiny screen of my smartphone. I didn't feel alone anymore reading it, despite being by myself in my dining room on a gray January day.

One of the reasons that I am a storyteller is that I believe that by sharing stories out loud, stories that we previously stuffed down into the darkest corners of our hearts and minds, stories we believe make us broken, flawed, or beyond loving, we suddenly find that someone listening says “Me too.”

It’s alchemy. Some might say magic. It's human - which might be the most miraculous of all things, no?

In the speaking of a story, we release the burden we believe we alone carried, own the experience that is both ours and universal, and find the support we didn’t know we needed.

Validation that we weren’t sure we’d ever be granted.

Imagination that can fuel the building of a life and works where everyone can thrive.

We conjure connections that come from the risk of sharing something authentic and honest and messy. In showing ourselves to someone else, we surrender to the truth that we are human. That we are whole. That we are worthy of being listened to.

Storytelling is ancient. Primal. Our very cells are wired for story. Stories about the past still smolder with life, stories bring us into the present moment, and stories are how we invent the future. Stories MATTER. 

Our ancestors told stories around the campfire, underneath a constellation strewn sky. Stories were part of what it meant to be part of a circle of community. Stories meant learning, dreaming, deliberating, understanding how we all belong. 

Now we sit alone in the dark with the glow of our phones taking the place of the stars and the furnace standing in for the bright blaze that we once built with our own hands.  Google prevents us from experiencing wonder and sinking into the Big Whys  and our social media accounts favor the ME and forgo the community that we are trying to connect with in the first place. 

We are saturated, but not satisfied.

Overstimulated but underwhelmed.

We think there must be more.

It’s our time to reclaim the campfire.

                                                                                                                  ***

I used to think “When I die, what if all I did was tell stories? What good will that do?”

Now I think “When I die, I will have spent my life telling stories.” 

GO. Tell stories. Make space for others to share stories. Listen. Deeply. Listen some more. Ask people to tell you a story about their first love, their best friend, their secret dream, hell, what they ate for dinner. Read stories, write stories, dance them out, throw stories with on a canvas. Do whatever it is that allows you to share your story with someone else, someone who unbeknownst to you, might need to hear it. Someone whose life might depend on it. 

Welcome to a brand new year; though much is uncertain, one thing is for sure: time doesn’t stop. The clock struck midnight and continues to march on, and our task isn’t to freeze the moment but to live in it as fully as we can, showing up with all the baggage we’ve got and finding moments of joy and togetherness and adventure any way we can, right smack in the middle of the murky mess. It sounds like a cliché social media kind of thing to say, but it’s true. Who has ever succeeded in only feeling the joy in life and not the bring-you-to-your-knees kind of pain we all know so well, especially in 2020? It's inconvenient, and it's true.

How many times over these past ten or so months of the pandemic have you felt simultaneously terrified AND grateful?

Depressed AND eager for a brighter future?

Uncertain of what happens next AND sure of what matters to you?

It’s mathematically not possible to parse out the human experience into neat little buckets and only drink from one at a time. The tempest comes all at once and soaks us in everything, all the time. If we aren't willing to sip from the full spectrum of what it means to be a human, we will be thirsty forever.

In 2021, there’s no going “back to normal”. I've always gotten burned when I have been lured into that seductive idea, swept into its orbit like an ocean current or pulled by its massive magnetism. Who doesn't buy into that mirage of being able to "get back" to something you lost, left behind, or even voluntarily surrendered at some point in time? It can be dangerous to believe that we can somehow "get back" to what once was: a different age, place, state of health, that old perspective, that long outgrown rule that we lived by but that doesn't work for us any more. We can acknowledge and honor and rightfully mourn the things that we have experienced in the past - the people, habits, and things that served us, the experiences that helped to shape who we are now  - AND still walk forward in this moment.  In fact, it's not only possible, it's a must. 

One of my favorite Buddhist parables is about learning to let go of what once was and move forward in the present moment. The story tells of a man who walks through the woods and comes upon a riverbank. He realized he cannot cross the water on foot, so fashions a raft out of nearby sticks, leaves, and other natural items, which allows him to cross the water safely. When he gets to the other side and as he prepares to continue walking on his journey, he has the option to leave the raft behind or to carry it with him for all the miles that lay ahead. Which should he choose? To continue to shoulder the heavy burden of the raft that he built as he continues to walk through the woods, where it becomes impractical, a weighty relic of the usefulness it once served? Or shall he set the raft down and walk through the woods lighter, feeling gratitude for the past usefulness of the raft in the very circumstances that he needed it, and in which it served him well? This story always helps to remind me on how the insistence to go back or maintain what once was can actually weigh you down in the present moment, making it hard to imagine a future or being able to move forward with curiosity or ease. 

It's impossible to write about these ideas without also acknowledging that I wish I had written more often on this blog in the past year. This self-critical refrain has been building for awhile, and honestly, its presence made it really tough to even start this post today, simply because I was so focused on thinking about what I hadn't done in the past that it was distracting me from the worth of what I am currently doing in the present. Admittedly, it feels messy and clunky to type these thoughts out, and on top of feeling uncomfortable about how out of practice I feel writing blog posts, my inner critic continues kicking up dust, saying things to me like "It's bad enough the writing is out of shape, but you're actually writing about how your writing is out of shape? LAME!"

To which I answer: Yup, I am writing about writing, and no matter what our inner critics, perfectionists, and anxiety believes, the act of creativity (both on the page and in your life) is just that: an ACT. It's action oriented, and to write is to move energy, to take up space, and to (hopefully) let anyone reading this know that if you are feeling like you regret something, if you desperately want to do-over, or wish you could use past time in a way you felt better about, that you aren't alone. It's not always a fun club to belong to, but I'm right here with you. We're all here together. 

​So what does this have to do with the New Year? We can’t reverse or rewind, but we can shed, set down, let go of, reclaim, rekindle, mend, and work with the things we have in the now in order to approach tomorrow with everything we’ve got. The only choice we do get, should we choose to accept the invitation, is to go FORTH, into the world, into our lives, and continue the cosmic art project that is creating the kind of life and world we want to thrive in - and what a masterpiece you are becoming, even if you don't yet realize it.

 Some days, we will feel like we can take on the world while other days, taking a shower or the trash out will be akin to climbing Everest. No matter. Give whatever you have and take care of your precious self to refill the well when you’re in need of more water. Slow or fast, you’ll get there.

Particularly in the middle of a pandemic, a New Year continues to push me to consider what I want to get "back" to when circumstances allow some semblance of normality. Honestly, I have no desire to “go back” to the parts of life that weren’t feeding me before the pandemic, and in fact, the things about my life that were starting to whisper to and nudge me from time pre-pandemic have now taken to shaking me by the lapel several times a time, shouting if they need to in order to get my attention.

Getting "back" to normal / before / business as usual? Not possible.

Moving into a new year with a blazing desire to keep the fires of love and ambition and hope and justice and movement burning brightly, with a sizable side of relentless refusal to return to the patterns, people, and paths that don't make me feel alive? Absolutely. 

Feel it all. Don’t fight it. Then, forge ahead (and push "publish" on your post).

I love cemeteries. I took this photo of a cemetery while I was running a 5K race in Upstate NY a few summers back. Yup. I stopped running to capture this photo as onlookers looked at me like I was nuts. I was sweating and my heart was pounding and my legs were throbbing and my breath was fast and when I ran by the cemetery, I just stopped: "I am alive and someday, I will die. But right now, I am alive." What a wonderful discovery to make.

I love visiting cemeteries whenever I have a big life decision to make. I love visiting when I have something I really want to do, a leap I want to take, but I feel scared. When I visit a cemetery during these times, it evokes questions that allow me to reflect on the life I am creating.

For example, in the summer of 2017, before I taught my first class at Emerson, I biked by a cemetery in Cambridge. I felt nervous about teaching and my fear had started me thinking I might not even want to take that risk. Was it worth feeling anxious, inadequate, and confronting my inner critic day after day for the whole semester?

When I biked by the cemetery, a voice inside of me said "I have to teach this class. I MUST."

See, taking a moment to be cognizant of the fact that someday, you will die, helps to throw your life into sharp relief. It helps to put things in perspective. When I imagine being on my deathbed or think about my name on a headstone, I think: When I'm dying, will I wish I had taken the risk of teaching (or performing or writing or loving or getting on that freaking airplane, etc., etc.)? Even if it involves hard work and anxiety and sweat and doubt and people telling me I'm no good at it, will I wish I had done it?

"YES."

For me, teaching was one of those things that evoked this answer. And this summer, when passed by this cemetery during the 5K race, I asked myself these questions about the short film I wrote and directed. When I'm dying someday, will I wish I had made this movie?

YES.

Try it out. Sometimes you will get this YES and other times, you'll get a NO. Which is just as helpful as the YES, because unless we say NO to things that we don't feel strongly about, we won't ever have the energy and heart and time to say YES to the things that really get us excited.

It's often hard to do this exercise in a cemetery where people you love rest, so try going to a cemetery in a different neighborhood, or in a different state. Try visiting a cemetery where one of the authors or actors or musicians or artists you admire is buried. I love visiting Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Concord, MA where Louisa May Alcott is buried. It's a special experience that makes you realize that no matter what we spend on time here doing, we're all going to die someday, so it's critical that we do things that matter to us. When you doubt yourself, it's powerful to realize that even the "genius" that you admire and are convinced you could never compare to, had one chance at mortal life, just like you do now. There's no more excuses in the face of death.

I'm going to die. So are you. But if you are reading this right now, you are alive and can ask yourself a question.

"If I died today, what do I wish I would have done?"

Since you are alive, you can take a teeny tiny step towards that thing you see in your mind's eye and keep taking steps towards it as if your life depends on it. Because it actually does.

No one is getting out of this world alive.

Time is finite and is ticking away as I type this and as you read it.
​
Best to make sure that when we do make our exit from this world, it's with the peace of knowing we were true to ourselves and with the ecstasy of having spent our souls on something that set them on fire.