I mentioned a few months back that I was attending an on-line storytelling workshop. Well, the workshop was a bust. Mostly, I think, due to the size of the class. There were hundreds of participants. Many of the people there were signed up to tell a story of tragedy - death of a spouse, death of a child, a suicide, divorce, etc. Very compelling stories, to be sure. They tended to garner most of the replies and attention from moderators and the comments were mostly in support and encouragement of what had been written.
This is as it should be for these stories. Who, after all, wants to be the lone standout to say the author's description of a deceased loved one is confusing and contradictory? "Great story! But the grammar makes it sound like you married your grandson who died before you were born." Ugh. Not me. From my perspective, it was clear these authors were working through tremendous grief and the process must be respected. I've been there. A general storytelling workshop is not the place to fine tuning raw stories like these. The issue is with the workshop designers and not the participants.
As to my purpose for attending, it was hard to find the audience for whom I wanted to write. With attention drawn elsewhere, feedback was scarce and I have no indication that any moderators or coaches read my contributions. As a result, what I was submitting didn't get the kind of vetting I was looking for. By the end of the workshop (5 weeks) I did manage to find a small cohort interested in more lighthearted or business related topics. Had the workshop continued for several more weeks, perhaps I would have had a better experience.
Ah, well. I still wrote a lot of non-Agile stuff. Today's post includes a couple of related stories from early life experiences that - in hindsight - ended up being significant learning experiences. Not specifically Stoic or Agile, they nonetheless reflect a couple of cornerstones to consider placing in anybody's foundation of Life Lessons.
Stress propagates like electricity
I got through college the hard way, by working my arse off with multiple part-time jobs. Work-study grants were one source of work - short term hourly jobs, usually limited by the amount of the grant but offering access to specific on-campus opportunities. I had several of these jobs ranging from bottle washer in several research labs to back-stage carpenter for the theater and, best of all, stage manager for Imig Music Hall at CU-Boulder's College of Music.
It was a one man operation and my responsibility to set the stage, set up the sound equipment, run the lights, usher the audience, and record the graduate student recitals and special concerts. I was 19, seriously introverted, and easily intimidated by high performing musicians who had been working at their craft for 20+ years. Far and away it was a blast most of the time. There are, however, two recitals that stand out.
The first was a piano recital. The student was a Type AAA woman who was thin as a rail and seemed to be angry most of the time. She insisted I meet a week before her recital to walk though the stage configurations on either side of the intermission for her recital. Where the piano, music stands, and chairs for the other musicians needed to be placed were marked with tape on the stage floor. I couldn't guarantee the tape would still be there a week from then as the stage is used every day for classes and there are other recitals on the schedule.
On the day of her recital, she was her usual high-strung self, in spite of hugely dilated pupils and reeking of marijuana. Surprisingly, the floor tape had survived the week. This didn't stop her from launching accusations that they had been moved. Pressed up against the start of the recital, we had to re-set the stage positions. This left me with barely enough time to set the sound equipment and prepare the hall. We started on time and the first half of the recital (a solo) went well.
The 10 minute intermission was all the time I had to reposition a 9' grand, set up for six additional musicians, reset the sound equipment, and test the recording. It wasn't enough time. Flustered, stressed, and rushed I closed the theater doors, sprinted to the sound booth, lowered the lights, and hovered my finger over the record button. The musicians came out on stage, stood for a moment, then everyone in the audience started to laugh. I had forgotten to bring out the chairs for the rest of the septet musicians.
The musicians took it in stride and fetched their own chairs from behind the sound screen. Back then, before I had spent time in Buddhist meditation retreats and before I had begun my journey toward a 3rd degree Aikido black belt, this kind of experience was crippling. I was sure to be fired and indeed I did hear about it later. The galactic sized humiliation that was suffered! The totally unacceptable quality of the recording! (The recording was fine.) But I had an excellent boss, an ex-Navy veteran who took this in stride and shrugged it off. He knew University music students better than I did.
Relaxation propagates like a cool breeze on a hot day
The piano recital was counterbalanced by a percussionist's graduate recital. The protocol for recitals was that I meet with the musicians about 30 minutes before their recital to hear about any special stage needs or changes to the format. But I couldn't find the musicians for this recital. They weren't in the green room or anywhere else about the hall. I found them on stage...er, rehearsing, I thought. It was 10 minutes before the start of the recital. I sat on the edge of the stage waiting for them to stop so I could ask my questions. The audience was starting to arrive. It was the top of the hour and I was contemplating whether I should interrupt. They kept playing - someone on xylophone, a set of kettles, other drums, and some guy playing on - quite literally - rusted tire rims.
The light comes slowly to someone steeped in the music of Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven and zero knowledge of jazz. About 10 minutes after the top of the hour it dawned on me they had started the recital. Aghast at the realization, I stealthily made my way back to close the theater doors, bring down the lights, and start the recording. I was sure I'd be fired this time. But I never heard a word. As a rule, it seems, jazz players are laid back and just roll with whatever the world sends their way. To top it off, part of the percussionist's recital included a rendition Paul Desmond's "Take Five." I was hooked. And that began my move from classical to jazz and on to blues. It was a beautiful thing.
The Take-aways
The pursuit of perfection in human endeavors is a fools quest. I hope the pianist went on to great success and found her way there without the need for self-medication. For me, it was a lesson for how important it is for anyone in a leadership position - either officially or by circumstance - to keep their cool and stay centered. It would, of course, take me many years to develop this skill and it's something I continue to work on daily. Instead of holding our breath in fear of some fault or perceived mistake, living life as if it were a jazz jam session offers a much, much more satisfy approach to living. There are no mistakes. Just music. My music. Your music. Our music.
Photo by Mark Pecar on Unsplash