Recently, Michelle and I met a few friends at Batch Craft Beer and Kolaches (Austin, TX) for an evening of stories with Hyde Park Storytelling.
We parked at 6:30pm, turned off the car, and the moment the A/C stopped blasting there was an overwhelming, searing sensation of heat that flooded over our bodies.
As I exited the car, sweat beads formed immediately on my brow. When I went to the trunk to get our lawn chairs, the car handle was Stovetop Hot kind of hot.
For the first hour, we hung out with our friends under the shade of a couple large trees located in the expansive, outdoor space behind Batch as we ate and waited for the event to begin.
And even though all anybody can talk about in Central Texas this past month is the heat… guess what? We simply could not avoid circling around that same topic, over and over.
“My gosh! It is ridiculous out here!” I heard myself say, even as someone else had said the same thing three minutes ago.
“Oh my….” This was a common exhale being said over and over by our group. Translation: It’s hot out. I’m hot. We’re hot. It’s the only thing I Feel. Think. See. Am.
At one point, I got up to grab a few napkins - not for the food but so that I could continually pat my brow clear of sweat as I muttered comments about the heat.
(Momentarily clear of sweat)
-
For a number of years now, the national conversation has been heated - to say the least. Heat from that side. Heat about this issue. Heated rhetoric and heated action.
When we talk about certain issues, certain people, certain political dynamics, and even certain family relationships (amid our political reality) it is not uncommon to hear ourselves use words like…
Simmering.
Boiling.
Raging.
Burning.
Inflamed.
Incensed.
Fiery.
And even though it’s been this way for some time now, it often seems we cannot help but comment regularly on this heated reality even as we know absolutely no way to get out of it.
Sure, we may know a somewhat shady spot where we can cool from the fire. We may have some kind of hobby or group of friends that help us wipe away the intensity, however briefly. But on the whole, the simmering sensation can feel like the daily, forever forecast.
And so round-and-round we go: Saying it. Stuck in it.
Seen any hope for a change in climate?
—
The storytelling event began around 8pm that night. Eight storytellers with a wide variety of backgrounds, ages, and approaches to storytelling.
(Confession: I was one of the storytellers)
And as much as I myself enjoyed sharing a story, far more I enjoyed the gift of the raw, funny, and heartbreaking stories shared by the other seven.
Their vulnerability, honesty, and courage somehow cut through all the layers that normally protect my heart - and I felt a stirring. I felt laughter. I felt tears (a few times).
And I felt all of this alongside a couple hundred others - people, also, with a wide variety of backgrounds, ages, and ethnicities. Truly, I could not pinpoint a ‘type’ who comes to this sort of event.
By 9:20pm, the temperature outside had cooled by a good 15 degrees or so. A light breeze also cut through the evening air.
And perhaps most notably, the temperature among a large group of strangers had settled right around a very comfortable level of warm.
People lingered after the storytelling event to share with one another what the stories did for them. In them. To them.
I saw one guy run up to a storyteller who had just finished, hugged him for a good 5-7 seconds, and I was close enough to overhear the guy say, “I never hug strangers. But that story was everything for me. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
I’ve only just discovered this storytelling group, but you better believe I plan to get back. Because - in a true rarity for our time - I experienced a space that was not merely a respite from the heat but actually had the power to change the collective temperature altogether.
And the lever that made that happen? Stories.
Honest. Genuine. Funny. Devastating. Nuanced. Real. Paradoxical. Human. Stories.
—
It is so easy to spend our days complaining how hot it is and then stirring the national heat with the same ol’ buzzword-and-catchphrase fuel. The louder we yell them, the hotter it gets and the further we feel from whomever is yelling back.
This is where the ancient wisdom of stories meets the heat of our contemporary climate.
(True) Stories by definition cannot be reduced to a buzzword or phrase.
(True) Stories by definition refuse easy definition, stereotypes, or blunt weaponization.
In fact, true, honest stories get where no amount of yelling, news, technology, or otherwise can get: namely, they get to the heart - the locus of actual growth, change, and connection.
They stir us.
They move us.
They connect us.1
And as they do that, an unexpected thing happens almost without our noticing: the temperature goes down.
A warmth emerges.
Even (sometimes especially) when the stories are raw, imperfect, and even painful there emerges the kind of space where you want to linger with follow-up with questions and thoughts - to others and to yourself. You even find yourself taking time to unearth dirt and plant seeds of friendship you never saw coming.
To be sure, it’s hardly a panacea. But, it is a potent enough way forward to invite the question: What if we all put a little more practice into our storytelling?
Any stories come to mind? Big ones in your life? Small ones?
Not sure where to start?
Think of a topic or issue or challenge that matters a great deal to you. And rather than write out a stump speech with all the right facts, figures, and buzzwords - tell an honest story about why it matters to you.
Gift yourself or someone else a Storyworth subscription - a great gift for family members if you want a creative way to capture all the big-and-small stories from over the years.
As uncomfortable as it may be, think of times when you have failed or fallen (small or large). The very best stories are always located in those vulnerable spaces.2
And if you are really at your wits end about storytelling or how you would do it or where you would do it and all the rest… try a church service (Jesus was a master storyteller) or a book club (learn from the stories of others).
And/Or - simply attend a storytelling event.3
I promise - especially in these heated times - it will blow your soul away to discover a light breeze and gentle warmth among diverse friends, strangers, and soon-to-be friends.
And that experience alone may well do wonders for jumpstarting your own storytelling.
Good stories also confuse, reorient, recalibrate, inspire and provide purpose, meaning, and vision - among other things. It’s difficult to underestimate their subtle power.
Hyde Park Storytelling, TestifyATX, and Stories on the Lawn (at the Neill-Cochran House Museum) are all great Austin-based options. Any favorites in your area? Be sure to share in the comments if so!
When we share our stories, we see we are more the same than we are different. Thank you for this reminder and the references to the story telling venues.
Sharing stories is sharing yourself. You have shared a great number of stories in your sermons, and they are going to be with me for a long time. Thank you.