But let that go.

I told a story this morning about a man I drove cross-country with. In fact, I told a story about telling a story. The first layer of story is the one that happened when we were rehearsing and performing Hamlet. It’s a story that was potent at the time. It was the story I told because it was still working in me, because it was still warm. It’s a story I told when I trusted people, when I was willing to be vulnerable. So I told this story to the man I was driving across the country with. He had some Buddhist inclinations, this guy, he seemed a live-and-let-live sort of person. But he heard me tell this story, probably still wet with pain, and he got mad. There was some moral turn he objected to, some rule he felt I’d broken. And he didn’t speak to me for the rest of the night. Because of my story.
And today I told the story of telling the story and it seemed a little crazy, that guy’s response. In retrospect, it seems clear that my story struck a nerve, something in him. I think something had happened to him that mirrored what had happened to me and so the story struck a match. But I find I don’t have much need to tell the original story or the stories around the story. Sometimes the journey of a life is letting go of stories.

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