Jonesborough Bound

Hey folks!  Getting ready to hit the road for three weeks.

I will be posting pics and checking in with updates throughout the National Storytelling Festival, the Four Corners Festival and the Forest Storytelling Festival.

Up first? The National Festival located in Jonesborough, TN. Stay tuned for pics and behind the scene footage.

What is Storytelling?

"What is storytelling?"

This is a question that was asked by an audience member after a show I did. This is a WIDE open question. To the general public, storytelling is a little librarian reading to kids draped over beanbags. To a salesman it is a tactic he uses to make a big closing. To a parent it is a fabricated tale to get out of trouble. To the ancients it was a way to pass on values and heritage. To people at festivals it is an escape from the normal hum drum.

This particular question was asked by an audience member at a storytelling concert...so we know in what context he was asking it. I gave my answer...and thought I would post it here and see what you thought.

I look at the world of storytelling like a wheel.

Dinner table stories of the day, dreams whispered to a baby, memories spoken to a bride before they take the aisle, front porch tales from my grandma, children telling make believe, a squealing girl on the cell phone telling her friends about her date or families sharing stories on a long trip. These are just a few of the examples that make up the hub of the wheel. It is a type of storytelling that cannot be performed or boxed and sold. It is  the very center of humanity. It fuels each and every day and is the basic, bottom line of communication that keeps us glued together as a society.

Now, out of that hub comes many, many, many spokes. None of them are wrong. None of them are better than the next spoke. They all are attached to the hub and they are all needed to keep the wheels on straight.
Performance telling, tall tale telling, Folk telling, therapeutic telling, applied telling, educational telling improv telling, telling with music, narrative dance (yes, I said narrative dance), telling for entertaining, telling for healing, telling to bring peace, reading stories (yes I said reading stories), comedic stories, historic stories, fairy tales, story in marketing, digital storytelling, storytelling pod casts, storytelling open mics, fringe festivals....should I stop? 

I could go on and on and on.  Now, some people may disagree with me and say that one of these spokes does not belong.  Who decides what is and is not, storytelling? If my story makes you laugh, is that bad?  If my story makes you cry, is that bad? If my story was written hundreds of years ago, is that bad? If I stand in front of a mic with an audience, is that selling out? If I sit at a campfire making something up to a bunch of badge hungry Boy Scouts, does that count?

We say storytelling is an art form. Well, art cannot be contained by borders and rules.  That is what makes it art, it is interpretive.

I say...bring it on. There will be new spokes that appear and disappear, new forms of telling and new styles of storytelling that come and go. It is all a part of something much bigger. I am not threatened and I don't want to debate...I say bring it on.

No matter what pops up in our 'storytelling' world the main thing is that it will lead the listener back to the hub.
And they will be inspired to go and tell a story. And that is what makes the big wheel of this world go 'round.

Which is all I really care about.

I am a Storyteller

Not to long ago I was interviewed for the Art of Storytelling podcast. Below is the written portion of the interview with Eric Wolf.  The recorded interview was entitled, "Reaching Troubled Youth Through Storytelling". If you'd like to listen, here is a link

 
By Kim Weitkamp:

For 15 years I saw first hand the amazing power of story. The right story deposited at the right time is like a time release capsule. I cannot count how many times one of the teens that I was working with would come back to me, after I told them a story, and they’d say, “Hey, you know that story you told me the other day? Well, I’ve been thinking about it…”

When I would hold group discussions, a story would bring together opposing sides. When I was digging into a person’s heart, trying gently to unearth the pain that was causing them to act out in anger, a story would be the trowel. When I looked into the angry hurting eyes of teen, a story would prove to them that I understood and that I had been there too.

I loved working with at risk youth and found great satisfaction in using story to bring healing. It was a worthy calling. But, after 15 years, it wore me out physically and emotionally, so I retired. From youth work, not storytelling. You cannot retire from what you are, you can only retire from what you do. So what I was had to release itself in another form.

I pulled out journals that I had kept over the years and started going over stories that I had written for no other purpose than to make me smile. I started sharing those stories with people outside my family and friends circle. After a few years of puttering around state festivals, schools and libraries, I branched out and before I knew it I was telling full time. But inside of me there was a struggle going on.

For years, I had used my stories to help teens who were suicidal, self-mutilators, violent offenders, lost, lonely and at their breaking point. I had used my stories for a worthy cause, but now I was telling for the sheer pleasure of it. I was using my stories to entertain and to make people laugh. I was at odds with myself. How could I go from one extreme to another? Was I selling out? Was there a purpose to what I was doing? I was constantly asking myself these questions.

One evening I was telling in a tent that was draped in white lights. The night was cool and still and the audience was perfect. I was in the middle of one of my favorite stories, right at a part where I pause for effect, when I had the most beautiful experience. As my gaze swept across the crowd I could see each face individually, expectant and ready. It was like slow motion, a hard thing to explain really, but they were there…with me… in the story, not in the tent. They were waiting to turn the corner with me and see what I saw and laugh at what I laughed at and smell what I smelled and taste what I tasted. They were there with me, in my story, walking with me.

It was at that moment I knew that what I was doing was just as worthy as my previous work. No matter how long I have them, no matter how large or small the group, no matter how funny, sad, silly, or heartbreaking my story is…it’s a miracle.

Each time I tell I have the privilege of taking my listener away from this world. For a few minutes I provide a much needed break from the rent payment, from the knee pain, from unemployment, from the wayward child, from the death of a loved one. It is a form of medicine, therapy, whatever you want to call it I don’t care. I only know that it is good. And to be a storyteller is a worthy calling.

After that experience I went to Jonesborough for the first time and in the glass shop on Main Street I found an art print that brought tears to my eyes. The artist had drawn a picture of a woman and beside it had written: “In the midst of the song she heard every heartbeat and knew she was a part of something bigger.” Nough said.

Time, Is On My Side...Yes It Is

I guess it was about 5 years ago that I bought my first tube of anti-wrinkle, hope a miracle takes place, cream. It was about 3 years ago I became a grandmother. That term still makes me slightly queezy even though I love my grandkids.  And  it was sometime last year that my doctor started using words like, high blood pressure, calcium intake, and regular visits.

There are two things that are unstoppable. A woman at a TJ Maxx one day sale and time.

Time. Not enough of it. Precious. Tick tock.Winding down. Sands in the hourglass.
Unlike Mick Jager, I do not feel like time is on my side.
Actually, after seeing him on TV recently I think even Mick would rethink those lyrics. But I digress.

As I type this I notice defined wrinkles on my hands where at one time, smooth young skin stretched out to handle my daily tasks. The wrinkles remind me that my time is running out. What do I have left? 25 years? 30? 45? No idea. But it does make me aware of the fact that I had better get a move on. What dreams have I not yet given life to?  Who have I failed to forgive? What stories have I not shared? What places have I not seen? What words have I not yet whispered?

Although growing older does have it's snags, I wouldn't trade it to regain my youth. It used to be that I greeted the day with a distant nod, no proper courtesy...I was cocky and invincible.
Now, as I rise with each sun, there is a reverence  towards the blessing of having another 24 hours. I used to think I knew everything. Now, there is a hard, fought for wisdom that is rooted in the soil of clueless. At one time I ran amuck, now  I am more careful where I place my feet, the  footprints I leave holding great value. I hug harder, listen closer,  laugh louder,  talk less, think carefully, and care deeper. So I guess, in some way...time has been on my side. It has been a great teacher.

As I travel the country sharing The Wrinkles Project, I am in awe of the beauty, wisdom, humor, and history that I am honored to see in each of the seniors I meet. With paper thin hands and raspy voices they share with me things that only time can teach.

www.thewrinklesproject.com

Work

I have a lot of fun doing what I do.

I love doing what I do.

But it comes with a price. I work really hard. I mean 24/7. Emails, booking, contracts, contacts, networking, creating, creating, creating, practice, travel, tell, tell, tell.

Sometimes at 3am my husband will walk into my office and ask when I am coming to bed...but the mojo is flowing and I cannot stop.

My daughter told me that it is like having divorced parents, she only sees me 2 days a week. (Don't feel to bad about this, she is 20 for goodness sakes.)

My friend told me she might be moving. I said that it would be sad if she moved. She said that it shouldnt matter...we never see each other anymore.

My dogs are shifting their loyalty to my husband. Now this smarts.

My gardens are not what they used to be.

But I wouldn't change a thing.

I had a woman come up to me with tears in her eyes and tell me that she was so touched by my story that she is going to start visiting her mother more. Her mom is in a nursing home.

A little girl named Jeannie kept her head down and shuffled her feet as she told me that she was a tomboy too. And I told her that was okay. And she smiled up at me.

A roomful of people laughed and then cried as I told them how I danced with my mother.

These three things happened in one day. One day of many.

So, sleep can wait. My daughter will build her own life. My friend will always be my friend. And the dogs, well...they keep my husband company.

I cannot stop. I love what I do.
Actually, it is not about what I do....it is more about who I am.
I am a storyteller.

Dwelling On the Past

Be forward focused, keep your eye on the prize, reach for the goal, move forward, look to the future. All wonderful little zips of encouragement that help us build momentum so we can jump the hurdles that are to come.

Face forward, don't look back, do not dwell on the past!

Can't. I make my living by dwelling on the past. Dwelling on the past normally has a negative connontation to it, but in my world dwelling on the past is a delight. It is where I pull most of my material from. Memories dangle like ripe fruit in the recesses of my mind waiting to be plucked and squeezed.

The coming times are covered in a thick-mantled mist overcast with doubts and uncertainty. But the green paths of the past, the cool meadows of memory is all my own. Nothing is uncertain. On quiet hills the past has bloomed and I can choose to stop and smell the good and tread over the bad.

I think I will keep dwelling in the past. I have found many treasures there.

Wow. It has been a long, long time since I sat down to drip drop a blog into cyberspace.

I don't think anyone reads them. So why write? Because it feels good to hear yourself type.

My website is being redesigned. I have to decide whether or not to put a blog on it.

I got an invitation the other day to be a fan of myself.

I just spent three hours answering emails that were backed up into the alley.

My IPhone never leaves the palm of my hand. I hold on to it tighter than I did my kids hands when we crossed traffic.

I eat Twinkies because I feel guilty for not accepting green plants and pieces of rice on Facebook.

And I want to know why I am tired and stressed. Ahhh, technology.

Thank goodness I get to hop in my car on an almost daily basis, put the windows down, turn the music up and drive for hours. I love it. Wanderlust runs in my family. My grandfather was a huckster. My dad sold RV's on the road. And I am a traveling storyteller. The DNA of our family is based in asphalt and dirt, twisting up into lines sprawled across a wrinkled map.

I'd have it no other way. My car is like a respite. An escape. A humming spa of tire and tread, magnified heat through the window glass, Etta James in the passenger seat and wide open spaces filled with new ideas, dreams, and memories.

I love to go.

The Mothership

I have just returned from the mothership.

Jonesborough.

It is the hot spot, the portal, the magnet for storytellers, storylovers, and people who just want to investigate the spoken word.

It was wonderful.


I had the priveldge of telling on the Exchange Stage. A lovely crowd of 1500 or so folks, on the edge of their seats hungry for a good tale. What a great audience.


All of my friends were there to support me and cheer me on. I think that one of my favorite things about going to the National Festival each year, is seeing all of my friends and co-workers from around the country. If you can call this work.

My new CD is out, "Freckles, Fibs, & Family." I am pretty proud of it.

Drop me an email and let me know whats going on in your neck of the woods.

Kim

I have a secret...

I have a secret. A confession of sorts, not the type that will make you lose face or end in repentence. Just a little secret between me, mother nature...and now you.

When I travel to a new place, which is frequently, I like to settle in and then wait for the moment when the evening tucks it's grey blanket over the fading blush of day. Then, I kick off my shoes and pad quietly outside and walk barefoot. I also indulge in this little habit early in the morning, when the grass is wet and cool. I love to find warm spots where the yawning sun has already smiled upon the earth.

Something happens when you walk barefoot...a kind of intimacy, kisses on the toes, a thrill in your heart as if any moment you might come upon a tiny bearded man sitting on a mushroom offering you a sip of port from a whittled mug.

I have dug my toes into the ash of a spent volcano, examined my steps etched in a million grains of sand, dried my toes on the orange stones of Utah, and felt the dew of cushioned steps alighted on the moss of Williamsburg. A hundred years of history becoming my pedestal.

So now you know, my little secret.

Poetic, but not a poet.

I fancy myself to be a bit poetic. I think everyone at one time or another feels poetic. If they don't, then that is sad because anytime you are inspired beyond repair you should feel poetic. Even if nothing comes out of your mouth. So the people who have never felt poetic, have never been inspired beyond repair and in their brief wisp of life they have missed 'it'.

I digress.

I fancy myself to be a poetic person, but not a poet. Words are constantly tumbling out of my mouth and some actually tend to land on the floor in an interesting pattern with some moderate flare. This does not happen often.

I had the opportunity to visit a vineyard on my last trip. This is one of my favorite things to do when traveling. I had the luck of passing one of my favorite vineyards and I stopped in. It had been 2 years since I had been there and I had completely forgotten how stunning it was.

After I had a beautiful Riesling delivered to me, I walked to the lake and crossed the bridge where a small table beckoned me to sit and breathe and listen and see.

So I did.

And the world received my attention and in turn, inspired me beyond repair.

And I became poetic.

And words tumbled out.

The weeping willow wallowed against the sky,
As it's tendrils traced over the surface of
the waters
Undulated with the cadence of comfortable lovers,
Made so by the turning of time &
its winds
Brushed my skin cooling the drops,
Called forth from my body by
the heat
Of the sun kissed my face spreading warmth,
like the touch of a new lover & friend.

Poetic, but not a poet. And that's okay. As long as you stop and breathe and listen and capture it with your heart.