To house its red squirrels Totnes Rare Breeds keeps a multi-story playpen, basically a gerbil cage on a grander scale. The maniacal squirrels love this thing, defying gravity as they scale the cage walls and corridors. I watched all this calmly on 10 October, thinking how funny it was that two days earlier, on 8 October, I looked like a red squirrel as I packed my bag for a TEDx-induced weekend in Totnes (UK).
To bust the pre-speech nerves, Olivia Palmer and the TEDx team invited speakers like me and a few guests to attend dinner at Riverford Field Kitchen. It is where organic trend-setter, Riverford Farm, cooks and serves its food straight from the fields. Normally £27.50, the Riverford Field Kitchen 3-course dinner is a must-dine among Devon’s organic elite. Never one to miss an opportunity, I asked the Riverford team if my Auntie, any other interested TED-sters, and I could take one of their normally priced £6 farm tours. Riverford agreed, offering a complimentary gander, the only requirement that I find five others to join.
Frenetic tweets, failed Facebook messages, and a couple cancellations later I arrived to Riverford on 8 October with three people: myself, my Auntie, and Kath Maguire, a speaker from Exeter who also saw TEDx as an opportunity to explore the “Narnia” that is Totnes. Luckily, our guide Penny loved the small group. As Head Gardener, life-long friend to the owner (Guy Watson & Family), Totnes-true-blood, and a jaunty, muddy, wide-grinning guide, Penny provided the perfect anecdote for my nerves.
Preparing for TEDx that day had been difficult. My heart beat erratically from the moment I woke. Multi-tasking is a nice way of describing my lack of attention, trying to answer as many emails as possible before leaving my laptop on my desk. It was like I was being called to TEDx battle and needed to say goodbye to my loved ones, pack, and run a few preparatory drills. During my workout I visualized my aerobics kicks bashing an image of myself standing like a fish-out-of-water on stage. Afterward, feeling more confident, I finally sat in my kitchen and read my speech line-by-line, trying to memorize its verbal flourishes.
I strategized that if I could just get that structure right, being sure to include every important part in a coherent way, then I my heart would choose the words. But I am a journalist. I loved my speechs’ written syntax. I didn’t want performance to come second-fiddle to content. I thought that if I just read my speech again and again I might memorize it. Halfway through, hands shaking, I gave up.
A few hours later I bimbled around Riverford in a beat-up four-wheel farm vehicle, listening to Penny’s priceless recounts of schools dances with Guy and the science of salad. Engrossed by the setting sun, I felt the burden of the day’s anxiety draining to the mud below. By dinnertime my belly felt relaxed and ready.
Shame, though, that my belly had not prepared for the bellies and brains of other TEDx dinner guests. Penny had told us all about Guy, mentioning his ravishing new wife and executive team of Watson brothers and sisters. But her silly anecdotes mentioned nothing about what he actually looked like. As I chatted with Benjamin Mee (owner of Dartmoor Zoo) over a glass of wine, two people entered our circle with ease. Ben smiled and shook hands, no introduction necessary, then sidled off. Of course I had not looked at the dinner guest list, nor had I memorized the names of other TEDx-ers. So when the two introduced themselves as “Guy and Rachel,” I smiled googly-eyed. “Wonderful! Are you speakers?” I asked. Guy laughed.
“I’m Guy Watson.” I nodded…“I own Riverford.”
PING! “Oh, you’re THAT GUY?!” I ogled. The woman with him was Rachel, his sister. Guy’s wife spun around behind him, grabbing a bottle of wine from the wall, unscrewing and pouring three glasses with ease. She handed them to the Watsons with the grace and coif of Audrey Hepburn. I felt short.
Rachel compassionately chatted with me for a while. I retreated to a space I knew much better, making conversation behind the till with Riverford staff. We marvelled at the guests, scientists and Bards and intellects. We were asked to sit in front of our nametags, mine at the very end of the table.
It was during dinner that my brain fell deep into the well of TEDx ideas-sharing, splashing there like a blissed-out hippo in the Nile. In our tiny corner of the world, Eric Harvey (a poet later described as a “national treasure”), Eric Moeller (a friend of mine and TEDx Teamster), Ben Moore, and Andrew (of the film crew) talked about topics ranging from self-publishing to tiger taming, mass media to mothers. We passed brimming, succulent plates and skipped to the chef’s open kitchen to choose dessert. I describe the ambience as “autumn”: Orange hues, winter roasts, reflective conversation, and a slight buzz in the knowledge that change is to come.
I saw a shooting star while winding my way to the carpark on a twinkling path farm path. I wished for change within myself: The poise to talk less and listen more. I had many hopes for TEDx, yet I never considered it might be the impetus I needed to finally figure out how to shut up. It was ironic, really, that at my own speaking event I was gaining awareness as to how important it was for me to shut up. If I spent my time off the TEDx stage talking then I would miss mind-boggling conversations. Yes, I may be different from the audience in that I was asked to speak. But like the audience, I was there in pursuit of the true TEDx calling. To listen.
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