The Moth Brings Live Storytelling to Santa Barbara

It’s 15 minutes to showtime, and my dad and I just arrived at the Lobero Theatre for the April 4 production of The Moth, a live storytelling experience. A crowd is gathered outside, sipping cocktails, coffee, and tea. Eager to get inside, we settled for sparkling water and found our seats. We’ve looked forward to this for months, even before tickets went on sale.

So there we were, in our red velvet seats in the historic theater, excited to spend time together. Earlier that day, we both listened to the same Moth Podcast episode, “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” One story — about a father and son who bonded through attending baseball games — stuck with us.

Commanding the Lobero stage, host Julian Goldhagen followed Moth tradition and asked each storyteller a question before they took the stage. Tonight’s question was: “What is something that you will never get rid of?” Their answers included a saxophone, a love of traveling, a yarn collection, a T-shirt, and a love for butter popcorn — all of these responses, I’m sure, are stories within themselves.

Moth Mainstage performances feature five stories centered around a theme. This night’s theme was “holding on and letting go.” The show directors and creative team ultimately decide which stories are told live, taking into account the community where each show takes place. “ It is really important for us that local voices are represented on stage, so the audience can relate in that way,” said Jodi Powell, Director at The Moth.

Out comes our first storyteller, Tim Lopez. A hush rains over the audience. Lopez’s story is centered around Earth’s oldest living tree, the Methuselah tree. The tree’s location and what it looks like remains somewhat vague. Even so, Lopez and his friend visit the tree. Suddenly, standing under the tree, he feels “a very profound connection to it.” After living in New York, coming into contact with New York’s oldest tree, and having a scary encounter with a swan, he returned to the tree. He told us that his role as a park ranger means he is “a steward of land,” so he strives to protect nature. When he saw that more people had discovered the tree’s location, he was concerned for its safety. But, aligning with the night’s theme, he let go and put his faith in the people to protect the tree, saying that it is everyone’s responsibility to look after our natural resources.

The magic of The Moth lies in its storytellers’ ability to weave themselves into your mind. Unfamiliar encounters become familiar. At times, you find yourself hovering above them, watching the story unfold as they tell it.

When Santa Barbara resident Kathy Patton took the stage and told her survival story of the time she went overboard off the Channel Islands, I shifted to the edge of my seat. With each word, she painted a picture. She described the stars twinkling brilliantly in the sky. When she described looking up at the search helicopters as they flew away, you could feel her frustration. “This is my last sunset on earth,” she thought at one point. Eventually, she was rescued — after nine hours — and reunited with her boyfriend and now-husband. Somehow, she had “found peace” from the experience. I’m unsure if she’d be telling her story if she didn’t, I thought to myself. 

The Moth welcomes all pitches, but only a handful of narratives earn a coveted spot on The Moth Mainstage. “It takes us a while; we are a small team, but we listen to everyone,” said Powell. Once selected, storytellers collaborate closely with Moth directors to refine their tales. This often entails the daunting process of incessant writing and rewriting. Crucially, they strive to preserve authenticity, steering clear of sounding overly rehearsed. The Moth motto is that “stories are told, not read.” So when storytellers get to this moment, bathed in the spotlight, they’re authentically themselves.

When Katharine Strange told the story of her journey as a puppeteer on a Christian puppet team, she put her hand up to demonstrate how a puppeteer controls a puppet. Suddenly, when she recounted her story, you’re in her memory, watching her perform. So when Strange revealed that puppetry, once a source of her mother’s pride, no longer ignited her passion, you empathize with her. You understand her because she put you right there with her. “If I could work that hard for something I didn’t want, imagine what I could do with a dream,” she said at the end of her story.

Bryan Kett’s color blindness affected him his whole life. One day, he drove six hours to try on special glasses that promised he would be able to see proper colors for the first time. But he did not see those colors. Instead, he discovered that he had a rare form of color blindness: a strong protan. Meaning that the glasses don’t work for him. In recounting his story, it felt like you’re in the passenger seat of his car as he calls his friends to tell them that the glasses didn’t work. You feel sorry for him. He says that if technology allows him, he hopes to have the courage to try again. But for now, he accepts that he cannot.

When Parvathy Anantnarayan learned of her son’s cancer diagnosis, she flew from the United States to India to be with him. They stayed in a temporary apartment for a few weeks while he received cancer treatment. Her son declared that she had to promise to swim in the apartment’s pool every day. Anatnarayan didn’t know how to swim, but she did know how to float on the water’s surface. So, that’s what she did. Her son would watch her from the apartment balcony. Back in the U.S., around summertime, she took the leap and finally submerged her head in the water. She sets the scene for you. You can visualize her struggling, but then, you see her let go and kick her legs. “You’re doing it, Ma, you’re swimming,” her son said to her.

Somehow, while drastically different, each story followed a similar lesson. Tonight, these stories reminded the audience that life’s perils are just tests, and whether we choose to let go or hold on is up to us. True stories told live by the person who experienced them elicit an understanding of that person — a realization that our stories, while different, are equipped with the same crucial life lessons. On the car ride home, my dad and I discussed how each story resonated, and I couldn’t help but think about all the stories he has to tell.