Telling a Better Story: The Grace of Becoming

I received an invitation to read a poem at a Literary Festival.And this is scary because

1. I am not a stand-before-a-crowd-give-a-wave-kind of person. I do not dislike the stage. I dislike the feeling that comes with it sometimes. My palms get sweaty. I shift from one foot to the other. Half the time, I lose my train of thought and everything I have to say disappears.
2. The word “performance” is a terribly frightening little word. It makes you think of a curtain-raise. It makes you think of expectant hearts at the other side of the door, of hungry guests at the table, looking over at the menu, tapping fingers, getting ready. In anticipation, waiting- for you.

Which is why I dragged my close friends into a tiny office, and made them watch me rehearse- over and over again.My poem was about vows. I wrote about men who run away and women who race back to the altar- in their pretty white dresses, on their knees- looking everywhere for the vows their lovers made.When I recited it the first time, I kept losing my breath mid-sentence because I’ve always been a fast speaker. I sped off with the words because that’s the kind of thing adrenaline makes you do. I read the entire piece in one tone and apparently, nobody really enjoys a flat presentation.With every recital, my friends would point out where they got tired of listening, where I had to raise my pitch, where I had to look longer at the audience. I felt attacked. I thought they could be a little less harsh and still put their points across. When I forgot a line, I was made to start all over. I threw my hands in the air. I walked out of the office way too many times in frustration.On my last attempt, they applauded. My own little stage, my very own little audience. I gave myself a 5. They gave me a 7.Practice is hard. It’s the one part of the story that we always cut out. It’s all the dirty details we do not like to recall because we just cannot bring ourselves to go back to the hard season. It is all the seemingly endless chapters that we break our bones and fall more than once, that we cry because we are just not getting it right. And yet, it is what makes the story come alive.It is what makes the spotlight almost sweep us off our feet because we did it. We did it- after the long days, all those sleeplessness nights, we did it and look where this brought us.It’s amazing how often we overlook the need to practice. How quick we are to throw it under the shadows. How fast we are to spare ourselves the grace of becoming good at what we do, becoming better at our craft, our calling, at this thing called living.Great stories do not just happen. Beneath every great story is a layer of I can’t and I quit that was never given a room to stay, a voice to speak. Beneath every great story is a tired spine that made a choice- over and over again- to carry the weight of whatever it takes to finally arrive.Commitment is everything. Commitment is everything. Unrelenting pursuit. It is the one thing that will move us to act and keep us on the course through to the end- when every part of the journey screams otherwise.May we become better at telling great stories- stories that shake us, that spin our heads maybe a little too much, stories so big it’s almost unbelievable.  May we be people who go all the way- unafraid to fail, unafraid to try more than once. Unafraid to become, to grow and to write it all down in good sentences.