You're invited to an evening of live storytelling
And a note on Helene
If you’re a human being on the planet Earth, you might be feeling a little stressed right now. I mean, there’s a lot going on. You might be worrying, as I am, about big stuff like climate change and the future of our nation, or littler stuff, like the fact that time is a flatbread pizza and it feels impossible to do all the things I want and need to do.
But life is more than worries. Life is more than deadlines and meeting notifications. Life is more than the future that we can’t control. It’s also got a whole lot of now that can knock our socks off.
If you are hungry for a break, craving connection, ready to be reminded of the world outside your mind, join me for an evening of live storytelling. No screens or sound effects. Just real humans telling true stories.
Story Connection returns to the Carrboro ArtsCenter
Thursday October 24th, 730pm. Get tickets now!
The mission of Story Connection is to help people find their unique voice and create community through live storytelling performances and classes. Story Connection got started thanks to a grant from the Orange County Arts Commission and was recently awarded a second grant that will support expanded offerings. This year, there will be three classes—one entirely free—and three performances.
Grant funds cover some of the costs of Story Connection, but not all. Your financial support is critical to Story Connection’s expansion.
Your donation will fund more scholarships, which elevate voices that are less heard.
Your donation means performances can be recorded and transformed into a podcast, allowing stories to travel farther and touch more people.
Your donation is a vote for homegrown creativity. It’s a declaration that art matters and that creative community is precious. It’s a celebration of the unique voice inside each of us.
Stories change people.
They teach audiences about experiences and identities different from their own.
They teach storytellers that their voice matters.
And they teach all of us to listen more intently and compassionately to each other, an act I believe is nothing short of a miracle.
With your support, we can save the world, one story at a time. Whatever you can give will be appreciated and put to good use.
Here are specific ways you can help:
Make a donation to support scholarships, performances, and recordings.
Buy a ticket for the upcoming show. All Story Connection performances are ticketed on a sliding scale. Those who are able to purchase tickets are encouraged to do so. Free tickets are available for those who cannot contribute. No one will be turned away.
Follow Story Connection on Instagram and help spread the word about the magic and joy of live storytelling.
I hope to see you on October 24th. It’s going to be an amazing night 💜
Helene and Home
Speaking of stories, I have one I’d like to share. It’s about a guy named Dave I recently met here in North Carolina.
Dave is petite, with a slim build that I assume comes from running the races advertised by his hat and t-shirt. He lives in Asheville, N.C. Or did.
Dave told me some stuff that you might already know. That there’s a 3 foot pipe that supplies water to Asheville. That it was buried 25 feet underground, until Hurricane Helene washed away all the earth that covered it and the pipe too. That until it is repaired—which is estimated to take 10 weeks—Asheville will not have water.
Dave is way lucky, and he knows it. He and his family are safe. Their house wasn’t damaged. He and his wife can work remotely. His brother, who lives in Chapel Hill, has room for Dave and his family. While Asheville rebuilds, Dave’s kids will be attending elementary school here, thanks to the Mckinney Act, which provides educational access to kids without fixed addresses.
I met Dave on a beautiful fall evening, the October sun slanting across the grass. His kids were playing under a tree with his brother’s kids—a sweet upshot to their displacement is that the cousins will get to spend a lot of time together. The opposite of the isolation inflicted by Covid.
To be honest, I hadn’t fully registered Helene. I wasn’t in North Carolina when the hurricane hit, and the photos in the news made my heart hurt so much I had to look away. But when a person is in front of me, I can’t ignore them.
I looked Dave in the eye and asked “How are you?” I held his gaze long enough to signal that I was open to a truthful answer.
“Exhausted,” he said. “And I can’t remember anything. I have to write everything down. My short-term memory is gone.”
“Oof,” I said. And then we were quiet for a bit, watching the kids run and laugh, until it was time to say goodbye. I told Dave I hoped steadier days were ahead.
My spouse and I went home, where there was running water, electricity, internet. A fridge full of food and two sweet cats we love. The long table where we eat dinner every night and gather with friends for celebrations. The couch where I read and write, the bed I fall happily into every night. The shelves filled with books I’ve read and notebooks I’ve filled with my own words.
Asheville is just a few hours west of where I live. I had avoided the Helene news because of the truth underneath it: if something that bad happened so close, it could happen here.
This, of course, is true of every disaster, but one of the tricks of being alive is to not too think too hard about that, is to share our bounty with those in need and say prayers of thanks as often as I remember to. To celebrate every day of intactness and hope that tomorrow I’ll wake up to a stormless sky. To have faith that if the objects and structures that contain my life are suddenly washed away, I and those I love will be lucky enough to walk out of the storm alive.