The Lightning Tarot Card, Lazy Jack, and Lobster for Supper: lessons from a gig

This post is inspired by all I am learning from the wonderful healer and artist, Robin Hallett, who is leading a group of us online in lessons about business and life, and especially by her clear-hearted essay, Love is the Metric.  I can’t recommend her work highly enough!

I want to tell you the story of a gig I did last Friday evening in a 1930’s era lodge atop Mount Greylock in Western Massachusetts.

The arrangement for this gig was loose at best. I was invited there by a former Irish folklore student of mine in response to my request for places to do house concerts to help me launch my new CD, Songs of the Poets. I knew there would not be compensation for the concert, but my hope was to meet some new people and sell some pre-sales to help me raise the money to press the new CD. So I created a pre-sale form, packed the car with big harp and piano, amp, cords, and the works, and set off on the 2+ hour journey.

Just before I left, I drew an oracle card: Lightning (in Joanna Powell Colbert’s gorgeous Gaian Tarot, which is my all-time favorite). I almost drew another because – well, I didn’t want to hear that! Then I drew one of the cards I’ve made with my own messages: “Nothing is wasted.” Hmmm, I thought. That doesn’t feel fabulous, either, but let’s see.

En route to the gig, I saw three 20-something kids stranded by their car at the entrance to a state forest, and I pulled over to see if they were OK. I ended up taking one of the boys in my car to a place where he could get cell reception, and we spent 45 minutes driving around, until I finally had to leave him with some other people or risk missing my gig.

My car was making ominous noises all the way up the mountain (about 3500 feet above sea-level).

When I arrived, there was no sign of anyone in the lodge, so I started lugging all my gear in. I noted that my event was not even listed on the bulletin board. I tried to plug in my piano and a red light flashed and went dead. Yikes.

Finally my Irish friend turned up and apologized that there probably wouldn’t be many people. Gamely, I said that I’d played for lots of people and almost no people and that we’d make sure to have a good time either way. I lugged the dead piano and useless amp back out to the car and prepared to do a vastly different concert than the piano-intensive one I’d prepared.  My friend then took me on a super-quick tour of the summit, stopping to show me that our dear friend, Henry David Thoreau, had of course been up there, too, in all his New England wanderings.

Out of nowhere, two of my beloved Bardic Academy students jumped: “Surprise!” They were wriggling with excitement and I was delighted to see them – but also a tiny bit embarrassed that they were going to be the only two audience members for my show. But I just kept saying, No worries, we’ll have a good time.

When it was time to start, I looked at my two friends, at my Irish student and his girlfriend, and said, “Well, this will be like an old-fashioned Irish ceili. Let’s make a lovely occasion.” I played a harp piece just to set the thing sailing.

When I looked up, I kid you not, every chair in the place was full. 20 people had materialized from nowhere!

The entire first row was full of mentally handicapped men. One of them jumped up and kissed me. “I’m Peter,” he said, looking straight into my eyes. “What’s YOUR name?”

And then we were off and running. I told a story about turning into a hawk and one of these men was the hawk, gamely flapping his arms every time I touched him with a tin whistle (our magic wand in the story). When I was about to tell another story about a lazy boy called Jack, he leapt up and said, “I’ll be Jack.” I’ve never told the story with an “actor” like that before but it was so, so cool. I just whispered his lines to him and he said them beautifully, and all his friends hollered and cheered for him.  He’s there in the photograph. I’m blurry – totally in action – but he is clear. In every single way, he is clear. Clear. Wonderful. Fully there. And powerful. So much love.

The show was short – 35 minutes, perhaps. It was completely NOT what I had planned. And it was attended by this angelic audience who all hugged and kissed me as they left.

Afterwards, I was invited to dine with my friends on a 3-course supper which included lobster (YES, says this mer-person), and homemade sorbet and shortbread. We all ran outside when the sun was setting because it was so magical. And then later, when the supper was all eaten and we’d had tea and talked to some cool hikers, we walked out into the dark and saw: the aurora borealis which is even more breath-taking “in person” than in any photograph I’ve ever seen. We stood on the top of this highest mountain in MA, basking in the moonlight and the northern lights, doing tree poses, and watching fireworks on the far horizon flaring red and gold in the night.

I didn’t earn a penny that night. There were no pre-sales. No one signed my mailing list.

And I do need all of those things. And I learned that I also need to do a better job making arrangements (I get a bit tripped up when I feel someone is doing me a favor by offering me space – but I want to remember that I’m bringing something pretty special with me), and that I can ask for more of what I need ahead of time.  I am so grateful to my friend, Jude, for opening up this magical space to me and next time – and there WILL be a next time, I know – I’ll make sure that I can earn my bread and bring the love.  This doesn’t have to be an either/or, does it?

But the Lightning card taught me, too: things will fall apart, even if you do have plans and backups. And when they do, you have plenty to keep going.

You’ve got the right songs and stories for this moment. You’ve got tons of love to share with these people. And THEY have tons of love to share with you. And there’s supper, and there’s sunset, and there’s a moon and northern lights.

And everything really is alright. In a big, big way. Actually – pretty great!