I wrote a post today to encourage people to attend the first Wild Goose Festival. A group of people inspired by the Greenbelt Festival in England are trying to create a festival that brings together justice, art, and spirituality. I’ll be leading a storytelling venue each night of the festival in which participants will tell true stories, from their own life, based on a theme. Each storyteller will get ten minutes. Stories will be accompanied by local musicians. I do this kind of thing in Ashland where I live and it’s always a night of belly laughter and heartfelt tears.
A few years ago my three year old daughter and I were playing in the front yard. It had snowed the night before and the world was new. She laughed stepping in my footprints. She jumped down on her stomach and licked the flavorless ice cream. It was early in the morning and the roads were unplowed, icy, and vacant. A delivery truck broke the silence and lumbered cautiously down our street. The driver was young, his head pushed over the steering wheel, straining to see the road. Grace stood next to me and watched the large animal creep across the ice. Then from stereo right we heard the high pitched whir of a Volkswagen. It’s tires chained with confidence, it ran up hill unhindered by the glassy blacktop. The truck driver was startled by the yellow VW and locked his brakes until the truck, like a speared elephant, keeled sideways, and slid slow, and wounded toward our parked station wagon. Helpless, the driver frantically turned the wheel while the bumper dragged its wide overbite along the driver-side door. Gracie, standing next to me, reached for my leg. When the truck came to a stop she asked, “What happened Daddy?”
“The truck slipped.”
“Oh,” she replied, uncertain what to feel. Read More