The Telling Life: Living the dream?

Several years before I leapt into self-employment but was dreaming about it often, a friend looked at me quite seriously and said, "Don't do it. Don't decide that what you love is what's going to support you."

I thought he was nuts. How could being a professional, full-time storyteller be anything but a magnificent, rose-scented life? How could it not be a romantic adventure? I can hear some of you laughing now, those of you who know already. The rest of you who don't have already gathered that it's not what I thought it would be. This isn't to say I would choose to do anything else. I find the benefits outweigh the challenges and I love my work, I love seeing what happens when I tell, write, coach and consult. But it's much harder than I ever imagined and my current boss can be very difficult. Let me stress, I know I am deeply privileged to do this work. I am privileged to live in a time and place where I can support myself as an artist. It's just not quite what I expected before I leapt.

Let's take a look at some of what I assumed and what really is. This is, of course, my list and experience. I'd love to hear about yours!

• Although I would have denied this with everything in my soul, I secretly believed my natural talent meant all I had to do was make myself available and I would soon be flooded with more work at better pay than I could ever actually do. In reality it doesn't matter how talented I or anyone else is. Being self-employed means that most of the work is looking for work, for the next gig, and that has an element of drudgery. I am still learning how to do the tasks I don't like. It's even harder to do them when I am the only one impacted by it. It can be much easier to work when there are others who depend on me.
• I assumed I would be able to set my own schedule. Sure, I sleep later more often than many of my friends with day jobs, but my work hours are often longer (see below) and less predictable. What's more, I sometimes have to ask clients to wait on scheduling me while I wait for confirmation from other clients and so on. It can get pretty complex. It's not a reliable 9-5 kind of life.
• I assumed I would have a life where work was play and play was work, that I would never feel bogged down by the work of my heart. Ha! Yes, I love my work (more on that below) but I miss time off. A break. But I have discovered that - 
• I never, ever stop working. I work on weekends, I work at night. I go out and I always, always, ALWAYS have business cards and a spiel ready. Because if I don't work, I don't eat. I don't have the luxury of paid vacation, so I try to make sure that everything I do has some component of work to it. I just took five days off and, for the first time in years, didn't make the trip a work trip. It was great but there was ongoing low-level anxiety the whole time. I still checked email. I still made phone calls. This blog post is work. I do very little that doesn't get measured as a possible paid-work creating activity.
• I forgot that artists (really everyone) need community; I assumed I would work in my cloister and thrive in isolation. As it is, I need to work to find connection with others; I have friends who help me with accountability, getting things done, brainstorming and more. Those relationships need care and feeding; they are vital to my work.
• I assumed creativity would flow like sap in the spring without the distractions of a day job. It does sometimes. Other times I am utterly, totally dry. And it can be pretty scary knowing that my livelihood is dependent solely on me, my creativity and my drive.

These are just some of the things I didn't anticipate, or at least didn't anticipate to the degree they exist. Being a self-employed person is hard. There are many parts I would rather not do, but if I don't do them then I don't get to do the parts that I love. And that's what this post is really about.

Dreams don't come true because your fairy godmother waves her wand and decrees that thou shalt be an effortlessly successful artist. Overnight sensations are usually years of hard work and then breakthroughs based on that work. 

I am learning to value the hard parts of being self-employed because they give me the freedom to practice the parts I really, truly love. I am learning to treasure those other working artists and self-employed friends who help me get things done. I am learning to celebrate the small victories (yay! I wrote a blog post) as well as the big ones (yay! so-and-so booked me!). I don't think I will ever stop learning how to ask for help, how to manage the drudgery, and finding new ways to feed myself creatively. It is all worth it though sometimes I think I should throw in the towel and get a day job again.

Were I to do that, however, I would need to redefine myself. My work gives me definition and form that is worth fighting for.

I am a storyteller and performing artist who creates and performs works that entertain and move my audiences. 

I am a writer who helps people see themselves and their world with more clarity and meaning.

I am a communications consultant who get things done and creates meaningful change in organizations around the world. 

I am a coach who helps my clients create the lives and work they want, so they can dream bigger and go farther.

In all of that, I am a dreamer. I am living the dream. It's just a helluva lot more work than I anticipated. It is the sweet and the bitter, the boring and the burning. I know how lucky I am and I am grateful every day. There are parts that are more wonderful than I ever could have imagined. I am so lucky.

And if you're thinking of taking the leap? I won't tell you not to. Go ahead! Just don't forget that the dishes still need to get done, the bills have to be paid, and romance is as much about hard work as it is about passion.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

Valentine's Day with the dead and the living

As you are reading this I am on vacation, the first I have taken since 2009 when Kevin and I went to Jamaica to celebrate our 11th anniversary. I'm in New Orleans, with my new love, honoring and celebrating what was, what is and what will be.

I have a vial of Kevin's ashes with me and a valentine for him. I intend to leave them both here, though I'm not yet sure where. Maybe I'll burn the valentine and scatter all the ashes in the Mississippi. Maybe I'll tuck it into a corner somewhere on Bourbon Street, from where Kevin once called to tell me what he was seeing because he so wanted to share it with me. Maybe I'll fold it into a paper airplane and let the wind take it all away. I don't know. I just know it matters to me that I remind myself and the universe of how much I still love him, even as I love someone new. My new love understands this need and will help me however he can. He is a remarkable man. I have a valentine for him, too, just as heartfelt though very different.

I've never been a big fan of Valentine's Day. I'd like to think the loves I have experienced are worth celebrating every day, regardless of the calendar date. Kevin and I never made a big deal about it, though we sometimes would take Brother Blue and Ruth out for dinner. My new love and I have agreed that it's not that big a deal for either of us. I'll give him a little something. I expect he'll do the same, though if he doesn't, that's okay. What matters is that we're together. What matters is that my new love and I celebrate each other every day; Kevin is a part of this as he is a part of me.

Two years ago on Valentine's Day Kevin was in the hospital. He asked a friend to go to the gift shop and find a card he could give to me. She brought him two, one kind of playful, the other as sappy and romantic as you can imagine. Kevin wasn't a sappy man, but he picked the card with the words he always felt but rarely said. The words that celebrated me as his friend, his lover, his wife. The words that celebrated us. He signed it with only his name because holding a pen was hard. It's the last item he gave me and I treasure it beyond words. That Valentine's Day stands out in my memory in shimmering silver, a precious reminder of the depth between us. It was also the day he began chemo and, for a little while at least, we still had hope.

I think that's what Valentine's Day is about, for me anyway. It's about hope. It's about believing that love is worth celebrating every day and that love continues even when it's hard, especially when it's hard. I still love Kevin. I always will. I love my new partner and I hope I will always love him, too.

When I hold Kevin's ash in my hand on Sunday, my lovers by my side, one alive and one gone, when I let the wind or water take it, I am not letting go of all that was between us, I am not discarding or discounting it for the new. The new wouldn't exist without the old. I am instead, letting his physical matter spread through the world and carry his spirit further. I am reminding myself that his body may be gone but the love between us remains and grows, as the ash sparkles in the breeze. The love he and I shared is now part of me, part of my new love, part of my life as it always will be. I am honoring and celebrating all that was, all that is, and all that is yet to be.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

The Telling Life: Comfort

When I was little I lived with my parents in Philadelphia. I have fairly clear memories of our apartment; the layout, the sound the glass pantry cabinets made when we opened or closed them, the way the rooms seemed enormous, though I'm sure were I to see it now the apartment would be ordinary in size. The living room had a couch, a tv (a new color tv!), my father's recliner, the high-fi, and bookcases. I would fall asleep on that couch quite regularly, usually when I came home from school and needed a nap. Sometimes I would pretend to be asleep so I could listen to the homey sounds of my mother returning from work, my parents chatting, the clink of their coffee cups. I remember it had some kind of brocade upholstery, I think in blues and greens though I'm not sure. I remember the texture under my cheek. I remember the way it held me.

When I was seven or eight my parents sold the couch. I'm sure they decided it was old enough and it was time for a new one. This is a perfectly reasonable decision if you're an adult furnishing a home, but to a seven year old, it can be devastating. And it was. I remember howling as the couch was carried out of our apartment. My mother took me into my bedroom and held me while I cried. In my memory I was inconsolable and she was baffled. Both of my parents were, having no idea why I was so upset. Frankly, I don't think I knew either. Looking back I can see that it was probably something about change, something about losing my cozy place but in many ways that doesn't matter. What matters is my world was altered and I was distressed.

My parents struggled to soothe me long after the couch was gone. I'm sure they held me. My mother finally hit upon the right combination when she gave me my teddy bear then asked if I wanted an egg-and-ketchup sandwich and to watch (oh, I cringe now) Donny and Marie. All of these signified comfort. I stopped crying, sniffed and nodded. I remember the taste of my egg-and-ketchup sandwich now, long after I've forgotten what Donny and Marie sang. I remember being comforted.

There are so many things that can offer us comfort. Foods, ritual, touch, a familiar show. I think what truly comforted me in that long ago moment was my mother, knowing me well enough to know what to offer. I have become something of an expert in how to comfort myself, over these last few years. One of the most comforting things I have found is story.

I tell myself stories over and over again. I tell stories of connection and love. I listen to stories from people who have had similar experiences. I remind myself that my life is about more than loss (be it a death or a couch) by telling stories of meaning, by sharing memories and hope. I hold these memories close to me, as close as I held my teddy bear.

We need these stories. What's more, we need to share them because we never know when someone else might find comfort in them. When we hear stories of love and loss, hope and renewal, we know we are not alone and that can be deeply comforting. I think of all the fairy tales about people who survived loss and I am comforted. I tell my stories and I see comfort in the faces of my listeners. In the end, the stories are all we have and so it helps if we allow them to comfort us.

What stories comfort you? Which do you share and which do you keep secret?

I'm lucky. I still have my teddy bear. I still have my mother, who still makes me egg-and-ketchup sandwiches. Someday I won't. When that happens I will still have the stories. I will tell them, to myself and to anyone who will listen, over and over again, reminding each of us that we are not alone, we are not gone as long as we are remembered. I will tell them until we are comforted.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

"Okay" can mean many things

Here I am, barreling to two years since Kevin died. For anyone counting, I'm at 96 weeks. Two years ago today he didn't yet have the pain pump. We were in the midst of the second hospital stay. Jesus. Almost two years. How can that be? Just writing that I get teary. And yet I am okay most of the time. All of the time really, when I remind myself that okay now means many different things.

For example, take this morning. I feel kind of crummy. I had a bad migraine yesterday and still feel some lingering effects. My stomach is unsettled, I'm achey and light sensitive. I have a gig today so I need to gather my energy up and get ready to shine. I don't want to. All I want to do is go back to bed and stay there. I want to binge watch some comforting BBC mystery series but I have to get up and get out.

As I was starting to move this morning I was thinking that this feeling was familiar, more familiar than it should be. I had a visceral memory of the weeks right after Kevin's death when I felt this way all the time. Oh. Right. This is grief. This physical ache, the drain, the nausea. All of this is part of what intense grief feels like. Let's see, today is... and that means... Right. Of course I feel like hell. I'm grieving.

And that's okay.

It's not okay that Kevin got pancreatic cancer and died. That will never be okay. What is okay is that I feel shitty about it. I've had enough practice at grieving now, and I've paid enough attention, that I know this feeling will pass. Which is also okay. It's not a betrayal, it's just the way of things. Sometimes I will feel shitty, sometimes I'll feel neutral, sometimes I'll feel happy. All of these states are okay.

It's in realizing that all of this is okay, that grieving him hurts but loving him is better and endures, that everything I'm experiencing is normal and appropriate, it's in all of this that I find peace. Even when I am at my worst, crying and certain the world has ended, I now know that it will pass. I can remember how lucky I am to have had Kevin at all, that I will always love him even as I love others, that I am okay. He would want nothing less, in fact I promised him I would eventually okay. It just looks different now.

Okay now means everything I experience, whereas a year ago it seemed unachievable. I am here. I
 am alive.I laugh and cry.  I love. I grieve. All of this means that I am, still, okay.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

The Telling Life: Creativity and drought

Here we are, well into the beginning of a new year. If you're anything like me, you're busy pretending you haven't made any resolutions when, in fact, you have some ideas about what you'd like this year to bring. You just don't want to call them resolutions. Me? I call them goals.

I have all kinds of goals. One of the most important, maybe the most important, is to make sure that I take care of myself on the most fundamental levels, so I can continue to create and feel alive. Built into that is the need to nourish myself creatively and continue to make new things.

Right now? I can't think of a single damned way to do that. I'm in a drought, I'm cold and barren. Not only do I not want to create anything new, I don't want to work on something old nor do I want to do anything that might move me in that direction. I want to sit on the sofa, watch tv and maybe have some popcorn.

I hope some of you out there know what I'm talking about, it would be a terribly lonely thing to think I'm the only one who gets stuck like this. It's funny, often enough people comment on how creative I am, that I must always be working on something interesting, that they wish they could be as productive as I am. It's not true. Much of the time I'm trying to avoid the work, I'm staring at a blank screen where the words just won't appear, or I'm wondering if I should just give it up and get a day job. It may look as though I'm creatively flowing all the time, but it's just not the case.

I suspect it's this way for many creative people. When we look at other artists, be they storytellers, writers, visual artists, etc, it may look as though they are the most creative, most able, most gifted person out there. I suspect even Leonardo daVinci had his moments when he wanted his equivalent of sitting on the sofa with tv and popcorn. Comparing ourselves to others just doesn't help.

So what can we do when we're feeling dry?

I hate that question. If I'm feeling dry the last thing I want to do is anything that might fail to get me out of the rut, because failure feels like validation of my fear that I have nothing left. Rather than offer you answers when I am struggling with this problem, let me share a story with you.

I was driving through Iowa recently. The land was still snow covered, the trees leafless, the view long and rather barren. The part of Iowa I was driving through was all farmland, dedicated to corn, soy and other crops, but in that moment it looked like the aftermath of some terrible catastrophe. And yet I kept smelling manure. At first I was annoyed by it since I grew up in an urban environment and manure isn't immediately meaningful to me. Then I glanced again at the land around me. The ground was furrowed, dark patterns in the white snow. The earth had been fertilized, nourished, so in the spring it could produce riches.

Maybe instead of being barren winter, it was merely resting.

Maybe what we need to do is recast creative drought. Instead of it being a drought, what if we're lying fallow? A field left fallow is plowed but unplanted, so it can regain its fertility. What if some of the dry times are actually rest? Sleep? A chance to dream up something new? I'm not suggesting a serious case of writer's block isn't a problem, but maybe when we have those times when, for a day or two or a week, we have trouble soaring, we are simply lying fallow.

If we treat ourselves kindly and nourish ourselves creatively even during the fallow times, perhaps we can create more consistently. Perhaps we can give ourselves a chance to read, to take a break, to really enjoy catching up on that show and eating some popcorn. We can give ourselves that time and embrace it wholeheartedly if we know this is nourishment and that soon enough we will again be productive.

What do you think? Do you have tips for managing the fallow times? I'd love to know.

p.s. I do have one tip to offer you. Don't go it alone. If you're feeling frustrated that you're not creating, take a break and reach out to someone who can sympathize, brainstorm and help you feel less isolated. I had a rough time getting started on this post so I called my friend Elsa, who brainstormed with me. She spread some manure, is an excellent listener and even better friend. Thank you!

(c) 2016 Laura S. Packer

Still grateful for the pain. And everything else.

I'm in the tough season now. I am more likely to cry, I am fatigued, I am cranky. I am in the window between Kevin's diagnosis and his death, a tough and inescapable set of memories.

Two years ago today we were in the beginning of Kevin's second hospitalization; we didn't know there would only be two more. He was moved to the oncology floor, a harsh reality and yet one that suggested hope, the right doctors and treatment. He could still speak, the cancer hadn't yet stolen his voice. He could still walk though not without difficulty. He had been diagnosed ten days ago and we thought we'd have months to fight the cancer, time for one last trip to the ocean, time to say goodbye, time for the movie finish because that was all we really knew about death. We didn't have that time.

Two years ago yesterday I wrote about his diagnosis for the first time on this blog. I wrote about how I am grateful for the pain.

Two years ago I wrote I have never cried so hard as I have this week, though I expect I will have lessons in crying harder. I cannot bear to imagine what he will have to go through, what is to come, yet it is all I can think about.

I was right. I have learned to cry much harder, crying until I vomit or my body simply gives out. I have learned what is to come and it was worse than I could have imagined. It was also better. My heart is still beating. It beats for us both. Sometimes it feels as though my heart is wrapped in barbed wire. Each pulse may hurt but each reminds me that I am still here, that my heart is beating. Just as his heart beat.

I recognize that it's taken me 22 months to get to this place, but here it is. Shortly after Kevin died several other widowed people told me I would eventually feel better and remember the love more than the loss. I barely believed them. I understand it now. It still hurts like hell, but the pain is usually muted and the love is greater.

What I am coming to is this: I am grateful for all of it. Kevin was a gift beyond measure. Walking with him through his illness and to his death was also a gift, though it was one I never wanted nor one I would wish on anyone. The life I have now is a gift, one I take note of every day. Some days it is almost unbearable that I am still here but I remind myself to be grateful. I don't take my breath for granted, nor my heartbeat. I don't assume I will always have love, my family, my friends. I don't take my life for granted, even though there have been days when I wanted to die.

I am so grateful for all of it. While I would still do anything to have him back in the world, he was in the world. The world is better for his life.

We don't get through this life without some pain, without some barbed wire, without loss and regret. I have found solace in remembering that even the pain holds gifts.

It is in finding gratitude that I have found some measure of peace. When I remember how his hand felt in mine, when I remember the expression on his face when I walked into the room, when I remember the 15 years of love and happiness and struggle and growth, I am honoring all of it, I am holding his life more dear than his death. When I remember his influence on the people around him and celebrate the things that have come into being because of him, I remember that, while cancer may have stolen Kevin from this world, it didn't win.

Though it is sometimes a struggle to remember, Kevin's life is bigger than his absence.
I am so grateful.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

The Telling Life: Balance

Some of you have noticed I've not been posting quite as consistently lately. Thank you for your concern, I'm fine. I've been struggling to balance all of the different facets of my life and so blogging has suffered. It's a lot to juggle.

Balance is something we all contend with, every day. We may not notice it but we are continually making choices, prioritizing one activity or person over another. For the last few months I've been prioritizing income over creativity. It's important and has been worth it (it's easier to be creative if you know you can pay the rent) but I'm aware of the cost to creativity and the business needs of my own work.

I frequently remind myself that the story I am telling in this given moment is only the story of this moment. My narrative will change with time and, ultimately, things are likely to balance out. It doesn't always feel that way, especially when I neglect something I value, like my blog.

As a coach I often help my clients think through issues of balance and priority, trying to understand what story they are telling about their lives and how they use their time, and why. I need to apply more of those same practices to myself.  Maybe I can come up with a better method for remaining balanced, even when I'm attending to other needs. For example, I recommend my clients use timers to help do unpleasant tasks - you can do almost anything for 20 minutes. I use this method all the time for things I resist. Maybe I'll apply it to things I love doing but skip when I'm fatigued. For example, I can try writing for 20 minutes, even when I've worked 14 hours on a job site and all I really want is a bath then to go to bed. Or maybe I'll write a list of the things I can let go of, the stuff that I know I won't get done anytime soon. Or I will forgive myself for missing a week in this blog, and will forage ahead even when I am unsure, as this post demonstrates.

Creative people struggle with these kinds of issues routinely. We need time and space to create. We need to perform or exhibit or whatever we do. We need to tell the story of our own creative selves. We also need to wash the dishes, take care of the kids, earn some money, pay the bills and on and on. It can be overwhelming, figuring out all of the stories in our lives and prioritizing what needs to be done to keep them all going. I rarely encounter narrative media that captures the small details of everyday life, all at once, so I look to you for those stories. The small victories that make up the day (I put away the laundry! Where is my parade?) are sometimes as close as we come to happily ever after.

I'd love to know what you think. How do you balance things when you have competing priorities? Maybe together we can come up with some methods that will help us craft life stories we can live enthusiastically. Or at least manage until we come to another plot point and can change our path.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

And the horse it rode in on

Content warning: 
This post contains harsh language. I am angry and sad and I use four letter words. For those of you looking for my usual thoughts about grief and returning to life, this week I need to write about something else.

David Bowie died from cancer this week.

So did Alan Rickman. I'm sure there are others of whom I am not aware. Some are likely people you know and love.

This past Monday I had my bi-annual MRI to make sure the cancer I had at 26 has not returned. I was in the same facility where Kevin had his chemo, where he had to use a wheelchair because he could no longer walk more than 15 feet and where we briefly thought there was some version of hope.

This past Monday was the anniversary of the death of my new man's father, lung cancer.

Tomorrow, Saturday, is the third anniversary of the death of another friend, pancreatic cancer. Early this week was the anniversary of another friend's mother, glioblastoma.

And on this coming Monday it will be two years since Kevin, my sweet, strong, smart, amazing husband, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.

It's everywhere. Cancer is fucking everywhere. 

I can only think it's in the water, the air, our food, clothing and very cells. I can only think it's waiting for us all, the punchline to some terrible joke of our own misbegotten humor. And yes, I know the mechanisms so I understand that yes, it is technically waiting for us all. I am not interested in recommended cures or preventatives at this moment, nor am I interested in theories about who is responsible and why. Right now I am angry and I need to rage. I held my anger in check while he was ill because it wouldn't have helped. Since his death I have been careful about what anger I have vented in front of witnesses. Right now, in this moment, at this writing, I am angry.

Pancreatic cancer used to be rare. Maybe it was rare because by the time it's found it's typically everywhere so people didn't know it was pancreatic in origin, but it wasn't this common. It's about to displace breast cancer as the third most common cancer in the U.S. It is arguably the most fatal and yet still research is underfunded because it kills so quickly there is little profit in prevention or cure (1). 

When Kevin was sick and fighting it was very hard to not see the cancer as having some kind of malevolent intelligence. No matter what we did it snuck around us and had a more effective counter move. It was so fast. It was so wicked. I know, it has no innate intelligence but I'll be damned if it didn't seem like it did.

None of that really matters. What matters is that someone I love/d more than my own self was eaten alive by this demon. What matters is that someone you love was, too. 

Such a waste.

Fuck cancer. Fuck the culture that teaches us that it's better to smoke and to eat unhealthy foods than to love ourselves enough to take care of our bodies. Fuck the greed that says poisoning our environment is worth the risks. Fuck the mindset that says the treatment or prevention must make back the cost of research and development, never mind how many lives it might save.

Fuck cancer and the horse it rode in on (2). Today I am angry and sad and just needed to say all of this. Because I couldn't save him. Because even with all the good in my life, even with new love and hope (the new does not replace the old) I miss Kevin with a ferocity that tears me open and leaves me empty. Because cancer is the mother fucker that stole him from me. Because sometimes rage is the best we can do.

------------

1. If you'd like to donate towards research, early testing and treatment I recommend these organizations: Pancreatic Cancer Action Network (which is more patient focused) and The Lustgarten Foundation (which has more of a research bent). For what it's worth, I have the Lustgarten Foundation set up for my Amazon Smile page.

2. I know many people reading this will have lost someone to something other than cancer. I am in no way minimizing your loss and pain. I'm just expressing mine. Thanks for understanding.

The Telling Life: Storytelling, boundaries and well-meaning censorship

When I began storytelling (22 years ago, wow!) I initially told fairy tales without much embellishment or interpretation. Pretty quickly I moved toward radical reinterpretations of the same material, then original fiction and occasionally personal stories. I began to experiment with non-linear narrative, multiple point-of-view stories and taboo issues (sexuality and death in particular). Remember, this was over 20 years ago when most people told traditional material or mild personal stories so what I was doing was avant-garde and quite challenging for many listeners. I know that now sexuality and creative narrative forms are common, but then? Not so much.

I was experimenting and growing, and I loved it. I had found an art form that suited me where I could explore and expand. I had a community that supported my creativity and was willing to give me a pretty long rope to play with. I was careful about what I told to whom, where and when I tried more radical material. I paid attention to my audiences' needs while still feeding my own need for experimentation and creativity.

A few years into my telling career a beloved older mentor pulled me aside and told me that I had to reign it in. That I was offending people. That I didn't dress well so was insulting my audience and that my stories were largely inappropriate for any listener. She told me I had tremendous talent and gifts but that I was abusing it and my audience. Remember, I was in my mid-twenties, no one else was telling material like this and she was one of the community pillars.

I believed her.

I immediately went back to fairly strict interpretations of traditional tales and very little else. I acquired what seemed to be the appropriate wardrobe. I shrank and began to wonder if my stories were worth telling at all. I began to think no one wanted to hear my voice.

It was awful. For about a year I tried to fit in. I failed. I'm glad I did.

I eventually came to the conclusion that she was expressing her own discomfort with my stories and that there had to be an audience that would like them. I began to seek out new venues and build my own audiences. I started venues, went to places where storytelling wasn't the norm, expanded beyond my boundaries. It was hard work, but worth it. I regained my voice. I again told, and continue to tell, a wide range of material. Some of it's challenging, some of it isn't, but it's all mine and it's all work I relish.

It's hard to be an artist who stretches boundaries, regardless of the art form. I've been thinking about this quite a bit in these days after David Bowie's death. If he found a boundary, he pushed against it, and eventually became a role-model for so many of us who were struggling to find our own selves and own voices. When I was struggling to rediscover my authentic voice after that well-meaning but misguided advice, David Bowie was one of the people I looked to. If he could do it and so much more dramatically than I was, I could do it too.

The only thing I now regret about following my own passion for boundary-pushing work is that for a little while I believed someone who told me I was too much, that what I was doing was too extreme. I still push against boundaries. I'm sure I have a better sense of appropriate time, place and audience now than I did when I was in my mid-twenties, but when I see a boundary I tend to run at it. Honestly, this is one of the themes of my whole life. There is certainly a cost - for example, most people don't know I can tell a fine fairy tale appropriate for anyone so I don't get the bookings I might want - but it's a cost I've decided to pay.

Do the work that calls to you. Be smart about it, choose where and when to share it (for instance, I don't tell sexy stories to little kids, but I do tell them to consenting adults. Complete with dirty words sometimes.) but share it with the world. We need to push against boundaries, those we build for ourselves and those the world imposes.

Storytelling is so powerful because it's essentially a direct brain-to-brain connection. As storytellers, we open new worlds to our listeners. We are the explorers, the cartographers, the preachers, the scientists and the dreamers. So sometimes our work frightens others. Do it anyway. Break the boundaries and see what lies beyond. If you love strict interpretations of fairy tales, tell them. If you love historical work that challenges commonly held beliefs, pursue it. If you need to tell your truth then tell it as it stands. If you need to sing and dance and cry out to the sky as you tell, then sing and dance and ululate. Find your audiences. Tell your tale. Live the work.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

The things we carry

It is mid-day on the first of a new year.

Two years ago today I woke with Kevin beside me. We had fallen asleep early the night before, well before midnight, because he was so sick. We didn't yet know that this was the last New Year's morning we would have.

A year ago today I went to bed and woke alone, the first time I had ever awoken by myself on New Year's Day as an adult. I wrote about my resolutions for the day and have, by and large, met them all. I remember Kevin, who he was and all that we were together. I am living more thoroughly than I ever thought I could following his death. I have honored his memory, my life and all that these both entail. I have forgiven myself and continue to do so over and over again.

I am still here.

This morning I woke beside my new love. It was a wonder and very strange. He is the right man for me to be with now, like Kevin in his kindness, intelligence and compassion, quite different in the way he moves through the world. Where Kevin was seen, my new love observes. Both are wonders. Both love me deeply and authentically. I am stunned by how lucky I am.

For all that I again love and am loved, I still carry Kevin. I still carry grief. I still carry who I was, who he was, who we were. I carry all of these into my life-after-death. They are a welcome load though sometimes it's hard to carry what was and what is.

Choosing to engage with the world following his death doesn't mean I am abandoning Kevin or who we were together. I am saying this not to you, but to myself. I need to remind myself over and over again that Kevin is as firmly a part of who I am now as any new life and new love. Loving again, adding to my experience, bringing more light into the world, doesn't mean I will stop carrying all that has gone before. My new love understands this and welcomes it, probably more easily than I can. He reminds me, over and over, that we are not limited in our capacity to love and that more love in the world is a treasure.

It is not a betrayal. I have to keep reminding myself of this.
I am as deserving of happiness after Kevin's death as I was before it.

Whoever you are, whatever your love and loss, you too are worthy of love and happiness. You are allowed to forgive yourself.

You and I both did the best we could.

I could not save Kevin from pancreatic cancer, no matter what I did. This isn't a failure but was, instead, a monumental act of love. I loved Kevin enough to fight for him. I loved him enough to let him go. And I love him enough now to admit that I was worthy of his love and worth loving again.

Whatever you carry, it does not mean you cannot also make room for the new. We are worthy.

May 2016 bring us all peace, love and contentment.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer