David

David, a dear storytelling friend of mine, died a few weeks ago. He was a tall, imposing man with a deep, authoritative voice – and a ponytail. His stature and voice exactly suited the stories he most loved and told so well: sweeping epic tales of heroes and hubris, determination and near-disaster, horror and honor.

Just like his story heroes, David waged his own epic battle with the cancer that took away his strength; his sight in one eye; his ability to walk.; and, ultimately, his life. But it never vanquished his spirit. As late as four months before he died, David, along with several other tellers, unspooled the mighty tale of Odysseus, mesmerizing all of us who were fortunate enough to be there.

But David was not just a good storyteller. He knew the power of stories to heal – and so he made his living by telling his treasure of epics to troubled teenage boys in group homes. He never told a whole story in one visit either. He always stopped at the most exciting, or terrifying or gruesome part. It was masterful; the boys were hooked.

As he once explained to me, “The boys listen to these stories first because of all the gore and mayhem. But after awhile they begin to hear the deeper messages: like about courage, and overcoming the odds, and confronting your fears.

“Bit by bit the stories make it safe for them to explore other ways to be in the world than what they grew up with. And so they can begin to create new possibilities and new stories for themselves.”

“I don’t wasn’t to get to the end of my life and find that I lived just the length of it,” said the poet Diane Ackerman. “I want to have lived the width of it as well.”

David, you definitely lived the width as well as the length of your life. And all of us who knew you are the richer for it.