Behind the Curtain

It Stops With Me

In my mom’s case dementia is a curse and a blessing. The curse is memory loss creates anxiety and its companion stress. The blessing is, wait a few minutes and she forgets what was making her nervous. Caring for her requires constantly monitoring your tone. Since childhood, Momma has consistently reminded me, “It’s not what you say Gayle Turner, it’s how you say it.” Never in my life has this been truer.

Tomorrow ends the first online Stories Matter! Workshop. Because I’m always saying we live into the stories we tell ourselves, Dan Schultheis, one of the participants, asked me to tell a story that I live into.
It Stops with Me is that story.

Reach out if you’d like to be a part of the May Workshop.

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Remember: You Matter. Your Stories Matter. Tell Them Well!
Gayle Turner
The Storytellers Channel

It Stops With Me

Sam Marques, a buddy of mine, is married to my first wife. The Storytellers Channel is a direct result of a conversation with Sam. But another conversation with Sam has had a greater influence on my life. We were sitting around shooting the breeze one day when Sam said, “Only people who are hurting, hurt others.”

That describes my childhood. Someone would say something that hurt my feelings and I would say something mean in return and the situation would escalate. In the theatre we’re taught to make strong, dramatic choices. Long before I became an actor, I was extremely adept at raising the stakes in a conflict.

That day, Sam, said, “It stops with me. I am not going to respond to hurt with hurt. I’m going to break this vicious cycle.”

That one conversation, coupled with a few sessions of anger management counseling, changed my life.

Now, whenever someone says something that hurts my feelings; I work not to respond in kind. The story I tell myself is “The hurt stops with me.” This builds on one of what Jennifer Einolf calls Gayle’s Dad’s Parables, You’re responsible for your response.

I work to respond as follows:
1. I say, “That hurt.”
2. The I ask, “Did I do something to provoke that?”
3. And, if so, I apologize.
4. Then, whether I provoked the action or not, I define my boundary and make it clear to the person, “Don’t do that again.”

By following this simple process, I feel I’m doing my part to create a virtuous cycle. The hurt is stopping with me. And I’m making my dad proud as I control my behavior.

At least that’s one of the stories I tell myself.

DOWNLOAD
Tales of Deadly Matrimony
by
Edgar Allan Poe
Audio Book E-Book

I Want to Hear from You

I’d love to hear your stories.

Share with me stories that matter to you.
I’d love to hear stories of the stories you live into.
Send them to gayle@storytellerschannel.com
Til next time,

Gayle Turner
Executive Producer.

Love, Care, and Compassion

By Gayle Turner

Today is a big anniversary for me. My story will explain.
Last week was the second session of our Stories Matter! Online Storytelling Workshop.
Things continue to go well. We’re learning how to use Zoom efficiently and effectively.
Reach out if you’d like to be a part of the May Workshop.

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Remember: You Matter. Your Stories Matter. Tell Them Well!
Gayle Turner
The Storytellers Channel

Love, Care, and Compassion

When I woke up in the recovery room, I felt refreshed. There’s nothing like anesthesia to induce a sound nap. I’d been sitting there a few minutes when the young nurse pulled the curtain aside and eased into my “room”. “Mr. Turner…” she paused. She spoke as though she thought I was fragile. As if somehow, if she wasn’t careful she could break me.

I was 55-years old. Slightly gray at the temples, but otherwise the picture of vim and vigor. I was probably a little older than her parents, but certainly not some feeble old man who needed to be handled gently. Her tone scared the hell out of me.

I had just undergone my first colonoscopy. I was a Principal in an international consulting firm at the time and I had been just too busy for the past five years to take the time for a colonoscopy. A couple of weeks before I’d been seated next to an oncologist on a transcontinental flight who had made it clear I needed to make time.

Back to the terrifying young nurse. “They found a lesion.” I didn’t say anything, but I was thinking, ‘What the hell’s a lesion? What does that mean?’

She said, “The doctor will be in in a moment.” And she left.

Within a few days I was diagnosed with borderline Stage 3 Rectal cancer.

My wife, Stephanie, and I were estranged at the time. After nine months of my living in my office while she decided whether or not she wanted to be married and if so, did she want to be married to me; she had decided we should divorce. At the time she was an executive in the billing department for the physicians at the Medical College of Virginia. I reached out to her and said, “I need your help. You’re always telling me patients need an advocate. You’re the strongest advocate I could have.” She agreed to be my intercessor with the hospital. The first of many examples of kindness I experienced during my adventure with cancer. The ordeal was harder on her than on me.

My doctors decided on a plan of treatment. A pretty severe course of action that would have saved my life but would have seriously impacted the quality of the rest of my life. I’d already resigned myself to a new normal when Stephanie was in a meeting with the health system CEO and he asked, how I was doing? Steph told him. He said, “Fine young surgeon.” Then he said, “Let me tell you what I’m going to do.” And he subsequently changed my entire team. This was the second significant act of kindness.

I’d had several visits with my new oncology surgeon when I discovered we were not communicating. He kept talking about radical and conservative treatments. When it finally dawned on me that what he thought of as the conservative treatment was what I thought of as the radical solution and vice versa, we had an epiphany. We straightened out our confusion and decided to go with his idea of radical, which was my idea of conservative. The third act of kindness.

So, they began to poison me (chemo) and burn me (radiology) and finally they went in to cut away the remains and the surgeon said, “All we found were cinders. If we hadn’t known what we were looking for we might have missed it.”

There were many other acts of kindness. The staff at Massey Cancer Center were a delight from the valets who parked your car, to the admissions folks and the nurses and phlebotomist, to the X-ray techs and the chemo techs.

My colleagues who picked up the slack and chauffeured me to appointments, my partner, John, who visited every day even when I was too medicated to know it, and the parishioners of The Church of The Holy Comforter (Episcopal)in Richmond, VA and the nuns of the Sisters of Mercy Convent in Merion, PA who knitted me prayer shawls and prayed mass every day for my recovery.

The list is so long it would take a book to mention them all.

But there’s one more that stands at the head of the list.

Ten days before my diagnosis I’d had my first date with Marie McGranahan. We’d known each other since the 80’s. Her father and one of her brothers had worked for me as actors. We’d had dinner the night before Easter and had seen each other a couple of times since then for coffee and then I received my diagnosis.

I was still living in my office and thinking I’d move in with my 77-year old widowed mom when Marie said, “Come live with me. You can’t go through cancer living in your office and your mom’s place is too small.”

And that was that. Marie was positioned as my Caregiver, so Stephanie wouldn’t be dishonored at the hospital and Steph, Momma and Marie took care of me for the six months of my treatment.

Marie and I were married on September 10, 2011 aka 9.10.11. She’s now Marie McGranahan-Turner.

Cancer was an uplifting experience for me. I was the beneficiary of so much love, care, and compassion that I tear up in gratitude whenever I think about it.

I cannot thank enough Stephanie, my mom, Marie and the legion of people who cared for me. I can work to live by their example and pass on the love, care, and compassion they showed me whenever the opportunity presents itself.

I’m thankful to still be here, but nowhere near as thankful I am as for the people who made it possible.

DOWNLOAD
Tales of Deadly Matrimony
by
Edgar Allan Poe
Audio Book E-Book

I Want to Hear from You

I’d love to hear your stories.

Share with me stories that matter to you.
I’d love to hear stories of the blessings you’ve received during the pandemic.
Send them to gayle@storytellerschannel.com
Til next time,

Gayle Turner
Executive Producer.

The Triumph of Evil

By Gayle Turner

Our isolation continues and we have ample time for reflection.

It’s astounding how many chores I’m finding to occupy my time.

This week’s story was prompted by a rare break when I visited Facebook.

Last week was our first Stories Matter! Online Storytelling Workshop.

The tellers all said they found the experience beneficial.

This old dog is learning new tricks.

Hope you’re finding your time at home productive, as well.

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Remember: You Matter. Your Stories Matter. Tell Them Well!
Gayle Turner
The Storytellers Channel

The Triumph of Evil

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” ― Edmund Burke.

In the book “Evil in Modern Thought,” from 2002, Susan Neiman writes of evil as “acts of intentional malevolence.”

She is understandably reluctant to offer a single, narrow definition of her own for what “evil” means today, but what she does suggest is a useful description of what effect evil has: calling something “evil,” she writes, “is a way of marking the fact that it shatters our trust in the world.” Evil is both harmful and inexplicable, but not just that; what defines an evil act is that it is permanently disorienting for all those touched by it.

I am wrestling with my will. My will to take care of my family responsibilities and my will to stand up to deliberate prevarication.

I have little time for Facebook these days. The other morning a friend posted a story about the Governor of Michigan banning the sale of plants and seeds. It seemed a little odd. The comments after the post were all about how stupid it was.

So, I did a little research and what I found was the Governor declared Garden Centers non-essential. The Daily Wire, a conservative blog, spun the piece to “no seeds and plants”. Obviously, the owners of Garden Centers are pushing back.

As of this morning April 14, 2020 Michigan has 25,635 confirmed cases of Covid-19. Thankfully 5 people have recovered. Sadly, 1,602 have died. Performing her constitutionally-mandated, police authority; she is protecting the citizens she serves by closing gathering places where the virus could spread.

The last time I caught my friend spreading disinformation I called him out on FB and he threatened to unfriend me. I obviously hurt his feelings. And of course, my mother’s words, “It’s not what you say, Gayle Turner, it’s how you say it.” Came to mind.

His threat came around the time my mother’s dementia began to require more of my time. And frankly, I didn’t want to pick a fight.

My friend’s posts are decidedly Republican in nature.

The irony of all this is he’s a pastor. I’m not surprised a conservative pastor would be posting material in line with Republican positions. What surprises me is a man who preaches love from the pulpit would be spreading distrust at a time when we need to pull together.

Now, I’m a progressive Democrat and I’m sure supporters of the President find my questioning the truth of his pronouncements disloyal, promoting disunity and provoking distrust.

Issac Assimov said, “There is a cult of ignorance in the United States, and there has always been. The strain of anti-intellectualism has been a constant thread winding its way through our political and cultural life, nurtured by the false notion that democracy means that ‘my ignorance is just as good as your knowledge.”

But ignorance is one thing, willfully distorting the truth is another.

I was quite outspoken as a young man. The story I told myself was, “I was championing right.” I respect my friend, which is why I haven’t called him out on this latest post. I’m sure he’s telling himself he’s fighting evil, wrong-headed, power-grabbing politicians.

I don’t doubt he feels he’s championing right.

The fact is I’m tired. Being a care giver is exhausting. And I’m not a nurse on the front lines or a teacher holding her charges together via a virtual thread or a parent striving to provide with no paycheck or idea when they’ll get to go back to work or if there will even be a job to go back to.

Stories are about people in a place with a problem and there’s a change, ideally progress. This has all the elements of a story save one. Change. The jury is still out as to whether or not I’m going to confront my friend.

It’s not my job to police his FB.

That said, I keep hearing Edmund Burke’s word,

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”

DOWNLOAD
Tales of Deadly Matrimony
by
Edgar Allan Poe
Audio Book E-Book

I Want to Hear from You

I’d love to hear your stories.

Share with me stories that matter to you.
What stories have come to mind during this period of isolation?
Send them to gayle@storytellerschannel.com
Til next time,

Gayle Turner
Executive Producer.

One Bite at a Time

By Gayle Turner

I hope this newsletter finds you and yours, safe and sound.

The isolation is taking its toll on the extroverts, but my introvert friends appear to be happy as hogs in mud.

We’re postponing Noa Baum’s A Land Twice Promised. That’s postpone, not cancel.

We will let you know asap when we find a new date.

The April Stories Matter! Online Workshop over subscribed and we will be announcing a May Online workshop in time for people to register.
Meanwhile, I thought I’d share a story about how I’m coping with the isolation.

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Remember: You Matter. Your Stories Matter. Tell Them Well!
Gayle Turner
The Storytellers Channel

One Bite at a Time

When I was a little boy, my mom would send me to clean up my bedroom. I had the ability to walk into a perfectly ordered space and create chaos in moments. I’d have toys and clothes and books and papers spread out everywhere. Well, I’d begin reordering and the next thing you knew, I’d discovered something incredibly interesting. My bedroom was right off the kitchen. So, mom would look in an see me seated among the mess, reading, or playing or just dreaming and she would get upset.

It would be about this time that my dad would come in and say, “Let’s get this done.” And in five minutes the two of us would whip the space into shape.

I learned a lot from those whirlwind clean ups.

First and foremost was, I work best with a team. Daddy used to say, “There’s nothing we can’t handle, one bite at a time.” I’ve written of this before. I used to think it was about breaking tasks into manageable pieces, but as time has gone on, I’ve realized that for me the key is ‘we’. I need people.

The Covid-19 quarantine has put a real crimp in my working with people. Sure, I’m doing lots of virtual meetings, but there are no extra hands for cleaning up, and bringing order.

Over the years I’ve developed the habit of straightening up on my way to bed at night. I walk through the house turning out lights, hanging up clothes (frequently on the bedroom door, something my wife would like to break me of) and putting stuff away. This desire to catch the chaos before it gains control has been fighting a losing battle for the last twelve years.

Ever since Marie and I got together I’ve been bring stuff home. I’ve closed down three offices around the country and have shipped books, clothes and files home. I’ve closed out storage spaces and brought stuff home. And I keep finding new books, magazines and stuff we just have to have and, yes, I keep bringing them home. And guess what, I married a woman with the same proclivities.

Well, I decided I’d had enough. The quarantine was providing us with the perfect opportunity to bring order to our lives. Marie and I have distilled boxes and boxes of office equipment, supplies and books. And we have stored them in the attic. What we are left with are three cardboard, file storage banker boxes full of paperwork that I believe are worth keeping.

I’m overwhelmed, but once again, I hear my daddy’s voice. “There’s nothing we can’t handle, one bite at a time.”

And so, Marie and I are now commencing the process of once again going through piece by piece and deciding how to file them, so we can find them and use them when needed.

And it dawned on my how happy I am to have her with me. I’m not alone. I’m still likely to be found sitting among the papers and books; reading and dreaming, but once again We are going to handle it.

One bite at a time.

DOWNLOAD
Tales of Deadly Matrimony
by
Edgar Allan Poe
Audio Book E-Book

I Want to Hear from You

I’d love to hear your stories.

Share with me stories that matter to you.
Stories of how you’re coping with the pandemic.
Send them to gayle@storytellerschannel.com
Til next time,

Gayle Turner
Executive Producer.

There’s a Lotta We in Weave

By Gayle Turner

Keep calm, wash your hands, & carry on.
Look for ways to serve one another.
We’re hoping Noa Baum will still be performing A Land Twice Promised at Richmond’s First Baptist Church May 2 as a part of our Hearts Afire Storytelling Series.

Click for tickets:
https://hearts_afire_2020_noa_baum_a_land_twice_promised.eventbrite.com

You don’t want to miss this show or her workshop on using story to build community.
If however, we’re still quarantined, Storytellers Channel will do its best to figure out a way to bring this wonderful story to you.

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Remember: You Matter. Your Stories Matter. Tell Them Well!
Gayle Turner
The Storytellers Channel

It was a typical November morning, dark. I stood at the window watching for the headlights of the school bus. I was enjoying the warmth of the radiator through my grey flannel slacks. The warmth superseded their itchiness. Most of the time it felt like I had fire ants running up and down my legs. Even at 11, I loved the look, but I was an adult before I discovered that men’s flannels were lined to the knee. A sop to comfort our school uniform did not provide.

We always dressed up on Fridays for Assembly. The entire K-8 student body attended, and the sixth graders had a special role. Each week one of us read the 23rd Psalm. And this Friday, November 22, 1963, was my day.

We were all seated in the gymnasium and I noticed what looked like blood on my slacks. Upon closer examination it was rust from the barber wire fence that marked the boundary we were not to cross. On the other side of that fence was the woods and a short stroll into the woods was Swift Creek. The older boys would hop the fence and hide out smoking cigarettes. Here I sat, getting ready to read from the Bible, and sporting clear evidence that I had at least been to the edge.

Then I remember being distracted as the lights caught gleaming white shirt collars peaking out from a sea of Navy blazers. This constellation of reflections reminded me of the light bouncing off the flowing creek water and ricocheting from tree to tree.

Then, it was time for the Assembly to begin and holding my King James I was ready to walk up for my moment in the sun. I had practiced my opening line, “The Lord is my shepherd.” When Mr. Gill, the headmaster, motioned for me to keep my seat. He said, “We will not be holding Assembly, today. Everyone is to return to their classrooms in an orderly manner and we will begin boarding the buses, immediately afterwards. No one knew what was going on. I remember being disappointed I hadn’t had my chance to read.

My bus was the last to load and so we were playing football on the lawn. It took and hour and a half to get home. When I arrived, I discovered President Kennedy had been assassinated. This was the second time death had touched my life. My momma’s daddy, Pawpaw, had passed away the previous year. It had only been 34 months to the day from the President’s inauguration. He had proudly announced that this was the passing of the baton to a new generation of leaders. Men born in the 20th century. He’d told us to ask not what our country could do for us; ask what we could do for our country. He’d said together we could make the world a better place. And now he was gone. The world would never be the same again.

Where once we’d been woven together in our hope for the future; we were now woven together in our grief.

Less than five years later on April 4, 1968 a man who had reminded us, “It’s always the right time to do the right thing.” Was shot down on a balcony in Nashville. Two months later, President Kennedy’s brother was assassinated in Los Angeles. A man who had said, “Some men see things as they are and ask, ‘Why?” I see things that never were and ask, “Why not?” Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy were the beacons of our renewed hope. Once again, the world would never be the same. And once again, we were woven together in our grief.

Then President Nixon resigned, the war in Vietnam ended and finally 15 years later on November 9, 1989 the Berlin Wall came down and within a year painted on a remnant of the wall could be found the African proverb:

Many small people in many small places doing many small things can alter the face of the world.

Reminding us of Margret Mead’s iconic statement “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.”

We celebrated the end of the Cold War. We were united, woven together into a fabric, a fabrication. Deluded in believing all was right with the world. To the victor belonged the spoils and the US of A was now the undisputed champion of the world.

But we were not the only ones to read the sign on the wall. We were not the only one’s to listen to Dr. Mead, for on September 11, 2001 a small groups of committed men destroyed thousands of lives and once again, we were woven together in grief. This time the world rose and came to our aid offering us solace as we mourned.

Ten years later, in a service commemorating the sacrifices made on that terrible day and the months, weeks, and days following, President Obama said, “Even the smallest act of service, the simplest act of kindness, is a way to honor those we lost. A way to reclaim that spirit of unity that followed 9/11.”
We were woven together again in loss, in grief, in memory.

And now the date of January 20, 2020 marks another threshold. Another doorway we as a nation have innocently walked through with little awareness that nothing would ever be the same again. Regardless of the losses we heard about since New Years’ Eve in Wuhan Province, China; a place many of us would have been hard placed to find on a map. The Corona Virus now known as Covad-19 was something happening “over there”.

In less than three weeks, it was here. And it appears to be here to stay. All of the inhabitants of this tiny, blue marble hanging out in space are vulnerable. And once again the warp and weft of our social, economic, and spiritual fabric is being pulled apart. Right when we feel the need to draw closer, we are forced into isolation to slow the spread of this virulent scourge. Once again, nothing will ever be the same again.

I have listened to old people lament change my whole life. Now that I am an old person, I hear my peers lament the world has gone to hell in a hand basket. I’ve never had time for this sort of kvetching.

I lament some of the choices I’ve made in my life, but I’ve no control over external forces. I’m only responsible for my behavior. And as such I celebrate our resilience. Not just Americans, we exceptional ones, but all of humanity.

The world is less violent today that it has ever been in its history. There is less poverty than there has ever been. Modern medicine has greater capacity than ever. Just in my short 67 years, we’ve survived losses big and small. We’ve learned to work with one another, and we’ve learned there have been unintended consequences of some of our prosperity for which we are striving to find solutions. Not fast enough for some, too fast for others.

This enforced seclusion we’re currently enduring is providing us opportunities to exhibit those small acts of kindness and service President Obama called us to 9 years ago.

Grieve our losses if you must, but save the bulk of your energy, your will for capitalizing on this unanticipated opportunity. Learn something new during this sabbatical from commuting. Use the time to lose weight or strengthen your core; to reconnect with family, friends, with yourself, with the Divine. Read, write, sing, dance, grow and most of all celebrate.

Celebrate, the threads of the tapestry of your life: the incidents and the people. Strengthen the whole, mend the wear and tear. Treat this time as a gift, nurture yourself and yours. Take this respite to reorient and be prepared to embrace society when we’re free to hug again.

And remember, this won’t be over then, this is our new normal. This pesky little bug will return and until we have a vaccine or have survived the disease and built our own antibodies we will probably experience another lockdown in the fall or next winter.

But as the Brits say, “Stay Calm and Carry on.”

After all, there’s a lotta we in weave and we’re woven tight and strong. And remember: we’ve weathered worse.

There is another line in the 23rd from which I take solace.

Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For thou art with me.

Bless y’all, we’re in this together and we will come through this.

DOWNLOAD
Tales of Deadly Matrimony
by
Edgar Allan Poe
Audio Book E-Book

I Want to Hear from You

I’d love to hear your stories.

Share with me stories that matter to you.
Stories to give us all the heart to persevere.
Til next time,

Gayle Turner
Executive Producer.