A Story from the Stage

Asian Lady Beetles

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A Story from the Stage

It was our first show of the year, another Evening of Music and Poetry. This time we found ourselves in exotic Peoria, Illinois, at a church with some of the kindest people. Blake Flattley and I have been hosting Evenings of Music and Poetry for over two years now. Calling it a “show” doesn’t feel quite right, but we haven’t found a better word. These gatherings are simple, inviting, and deeply human.

Blake and I share the stage side by side, taking turns at the microphone. He sings a song or two, and then I share a poem or tell a story. We banter, we laugh, and we speak honestly about hope, heaviness, and the faithfulness of God.

After the show is over, audience members will pull us aside and share with us what’s happened in their lives, stories that will either make you cry because they are too beautiful or too heavy. If I have learned anything over the years it is that honesty leads to more honesty, but I am sure Brene Brown has already written a book about this.
I’ve heard stories of miracles and tragedies, questions and answers.
Stories of love and loss, miscarriage and adoption.
Stories that begin with, “I haven’t told anyone this before …”
Stories that have a 9 word intermission, “I don’t know what I am telling you this …”
Stories that end with a hug.

Then, they’ll lean in and say things that I have a hard time writing to you because I don’t want to come off as conceited:

“Tonight was exactly what I needed.”
“I don’t like poetry, but I like yours.”
“Your music speaks to me.”
“This felt like therapy and church.”
“I didn’t think I would like this, but I loved it.”
“You guys are actually pretty good.”

You know the statement is sincere if the word “actually” is involved.

As I sat on stage that night, listening to Blake’s first song, I breathed deeply, preparing for my turn at the microphone. Every time I’m in this moment, one thought comes to mind: a prayer of gratitude. I can’t believe I actually get to do this for a living.

When Blake finished, I stepped up to share my opening poem, titled “Welcome.”

It’s the poem I always start with, my introduction to the audience—a way to familiarize them with my style of poetry. Telling someone you’re a poet can be awkward. They don’t know what to expect or how to react. You have to show them. This poem shows them.

This 4 minute poem lives in my mind.
I am terrible at memorizing, but this one I have down.
It’s a poem I know by heart—or at least, I thought I did.
I got through the first eight lines when my mind went completely blank.
I froze.
My mouth stopped moving.
My forehead wrinkled.
My thoughts raced.

For a moment, I stepped back from the microphone, then chose honesty and leaned in again:

“I’m so sorry. My mind just went blank. Let me try this again.”

live from exotic Peoria, IL

I don’t know why my mind went blank. Maybe it was because I had been re-watching Season one of Severance or the 6 Chick-fil-A nuggets I shoveled into my mouth right before stepping on stage muddled my clarity. Maybe it was because one of the ladies in the audience looked like my Memaw and we were nearing the anniversary of her passing. Maybe it was because I was overconfident thinking I had this poem down. Maybe it was the exhaustion of a full day of travel or the ache of missing my son, Judah, after our FaceTime call. Or maybe it was just one of those human moments—raw, unscripted, imperfect. I tend to have a lot of them. More than I’d like to admit.

Or maybe it was because I was distracted by the Asian Lady Beetles scattered around the sanctuary. I thought they were Ladybugs, but I was corrected. “Those aren’t Ladybugs, those would be Asian Lady Beetles,” said one of the congregation members. I wonder if Asian Lady Beetles know they are often mistaken for Ladybugs. I wonder if Ladybugs know about Asian Lady Beetles. Are Asian Lady Beetles insecure? Are Asian Lady Beetles defensive? Always ready to correct someone.

“Actually, I am an Asian Lady Beetle, not a Ladybug.”

Sometimes, I wish I were a different kind of poet—the kind who flawlessly memorizes lines. But that’s not who I am. I’ve tried, but that isn’t how my mind works. My mind is better at forgetting than remembering. When I perform in front of audiences I have my books and iPad in front of me, ready to guide me when I forget the words my hand once wrote.

I used to be insecure and defensive about this, but not anymore. Over the last decade of writing and sharing poetry, I have learned that I can only be me and can only give what I have.

My friend, Justin McRoberts, wrote a book titled “It Is What You Make of It.” Those words live in my head. I have them memorized. Actually memorized. Justin taught me to refrain from saying, “It is what it is,” and instead say (and remind myself), “It is what you make of it.”

So, I made the best of it.

I started the poem from the beginning and the audience smiled along, giving grace to a poet they had just met. I smiled through the words they had already heard and slowed down after we got through the 8th line. By the end of the poem, the misstep didn’t feel like a failure; it felt like part of the evening—a human moment we shared.

After finishing the poem, I sat back down as Blake began to play another song. Fumbling my way through a poem has happened before, but something was different this time. I didn’t feel shame or insecurity. My mind wasn’t trying to defend the mistake or make me feel worse for things not going the way I would have liked for them to go. I wasn’t kicking myself or questioning if I made the right career choice. This one moment didn’t ruin the show or change how I would step up to the microphone again. This was just another thing that happened. It is what you make of it, right?

Once again, I can only be who I am and can only give what I have.

How limiting, but also, how freeing.

I cannot be a poet who perfectly memorizes every poem.

But I can be the poet who shows up as his full self, giving everything he has, mistakes included.
I can be the poet who honestly gives what he has.
I can be the poet who makes jokes, speaks about hope, and talks about the kindness of God.
I can be the poet who has to start a poem over because his mind went blank.

As Blake was playing, I sat on my stool, waiting for my turn. I looked down and noticed an Asian Lady Beetle crawling up my stool. It was quick and determined to get to wherever it wanted to go. I put my finger out and without hesitating it crawled onto me. I held it in my hand. It wasn’t a Ladybug. It was similar in shape and size, but it was what God made it to be.

An Asian Lady Beetle can only be an Asian Lady Beetle.
An Asian Lady Beetle cannot be a Ladybug.
Just like a Ladybug can only be a Ladybug, and not an Asian Lady Beetle.

I guess what I am trying to say is, you’re actually allowed to be a human being.

A human being who shows up as their full self.
A human being who gives what they have.
A human being full of imperfections.
A human being who remembers they are loved regardless of their performance.

With Hope,

Tanner

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