Next time

We are lucky to have three different Moth events each month (themoth.org) in the Chicago area.  The Moth is a NYC based program of personal storytelling that grew into a public radio show and podcast.  Moth events emphasize "true stories told live and without notes."  Events, called storyslams, are open mic, anyone can come to the stage and tell a story.  However, since time is limited, if you want to tell a story you put your name "in the hat" and 10 people are randomly chosen to tell their stories.  You may or may not get called.  The audiences vary by venue, but are usually a couple of hundred people, mostly white, upper class, and over age 30.  A standard public radio crowd.

Having taken a few memoir writing classes, I was looking for something different to do.  I noticed a storytelling workshop being offered and signed up.  In the class we developed stories each week around a theme and then spent a few weeks polishing one story to perform at the student showcase.  But, our instructor also encouraged us to attend other events and tell stories.  I took her up on the challenge and went to my first Moth event, put my name in the hat, and was called.

I was terrified.  My story was okay, not great, but average for the night. It felt good to push myself, but also, I won't lie, to hear applause!  Here's a link to that first story...
 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wzlc7ITvm9k&t=17s

Afterwards, I was talking to my instructor and mentioned that one of the hardest moments was walking onto the stage and having the bright lights shine directly in my eyes. I was blinded and unable to see any faces in the crowd. I told her, "I wasn't prepared for that."  Her reply was perfect, "But, next time you won't be surprised."

Next time--her assumption that there will be a next time, that I will do this again, but also, the matter- of-fact acceptance that some things may come as surprises, but you learn from those experiences and are ready for them when they happen again. There is no shame in not being prepared for everything, no harm in not knowing exactly what will happen.  Now you know more than you did before.

Many times in the year since that first storytelling I've thought back to that statement...next time you won't be surprised.  It is a reassurance that I can still learn something new and that learning sometimes is a bit scary and requires some mistake making along the way. But each of those experiences prepares me for another "next time."

Emptying the empty nest

I'm about to get rid of one of the last tangible pieces of evidence in my house associated with my children, the marimba.  

Both of my sons played mallet percussion throughout school.  They were really good, winning awards and honors, and playing in select bands and orchestras.  For several years we were allowed to keep one of the school's marimbas in our house for them to use to practice (sparingly....).  Then, another student who was about to graduate asked if we would be interested in buying his wooden, custom made, practice marimba.  Yes!  Soon we had this beautiful piece of musical furniture in our living room.  For about five or six years, until my youngest son graduated from high school, it was a permanent fixture. The boys learned duets and medleys and often they would pass by, pick up the mallets, and play a few bars of some piece before moving on.  Our whole living room was arranged around the placement of the piano and the marimba.

When I moved to Chicago there was nowhere for the marimba to go but with me.  There was a perfect nook in my condo where it was installed and has sat, mainly unused, for the past three years.  Whenever a boy was in the house, though, there would be music. Just as before, they would be drawn to the mallets, pick up the sticks, and play a snippet of some tune.  The plan had always been for the marimba to move to my older son's home, once he had one, and I anticipated the relief I would feel without it.

Well, now he does have a home with room and it is time to disassemble the instrument and move it.  And, I'm unexpectedly sad to see it go.  I don't play it. I barely dust it. It is large and limits my furniture arrangements.  But, with my younger son moved into his own place it is one of the last real tangible pieces of evidence I have of my children. There are no more piles of shoes by the door, backpacks and jackets strewn in the entry, Legos or HotWheels cars underfoot.  Kids don't live here anymore.

I'm guessing, like the bittersweet sending of a child off to college, that once it is gone I'll happily sweep and dust that corner, move some furniture around, and smile at my newfound space.

       (not my house, not my marimba!)