Happy Wednesday, folks.
I spent an evening last week with an awesome gent, and Moth storyteller, named David Crabb.
If you haven’t yet heard of the Moth, here’s the deal – “The Moth is an acclaimed not-for-profit organization dedicated to the art and craft of storytelling. It is a celebration of both the raconteur, who breathes fire into true tales of ordinary life, and the storytelling novice, who has lived through something extraordinary and yearns to share it. At the center of each performance is, of course, the story – and The Moth’s directors work with each storyteller to find, shape and present it.”
It’s a super cool venue for those of us drawn to the narrative.
I come from a lineage of storytellers. My aunt is a published mystery author and my grandfather is a captivating artist and historian.
Last week was my Money Club Intensive in Long Beach, NY with Monica Shah.
I had a terrific two days with a roomful of bright businesswomen. We heard David tell us a hysterical ditty about a partially-paralyzed cat [takes skills to make THAT “hysterical”]. I shared stories of my life over a glass of wine with a client that I normally only have the opportunity to Skype with.
It was joyful.
Nearing the end of our session together on Friday, however, a calm came over me.
And I knew it was time for me to make my exit – albeit early.
I nonchalantly gathered my belongings, and walked to my car.
I took the three-hour drive back to Toms River with great reflection. I had an experience that heightened my faith [I love those] – an anecdote for another time.
My first stop was home to smooch my sweetheart.
My second stop was next-door – my folks’ house – where my grandfather has been living for the last four years, and dying for the last four weeks.
I walked straight into his room, and found him in the same place I left him two days earlier. I peeked over him. And waited for him to sense my presence.
He opened his eyes. He looked steadily into mine, smiled, and said “Hi, sweetheart.”
He took my hand and squeezed it. His eyes closed.
We held on to each other for a long time.
He was restful. So was I.
And I just knew that this was where I was supposed to be.
He passed away that night.
My Juicy Glad-I-Caught-That: “Tell me a story… What kind of story, child? A story with a happy ending. There’s no such thing in all the world. As a happy ending? As an ending.” ~Jeanette Winterson
My grandfather was a storyteller.
He painted pictures of history. Of our family. Of life.
He told stories with his paintbrush until just last month.
I will be eternally grateful for my personal version of The Moth embodied by my grandfather. Because while I will always hear his voice and remember the terrific stories that he told us, I also have the unique gift of being surrounded, visually, by his stories – every day.
And there’ll be no ending to my love for him.
What’s your story?
See you on the flip-side.
In love,
Noelle
xoxox