I keep seeing news articles today about how relieved everyone is to say adios to 2008. Harsh, unequivocal, "good riddance and don't let the door hit you on your way out" sort of sentiments. Understandable. On the macro-level, this year we've seen extreme violence, national disasters, the crash of the world economy. On the micro-level, it seems like everyone I know - myself included - had to encounter significant, often painful challenges, ranging from loved ones' deaths to health traumas, heartaches to unemployment and financial woes.
Before making any resolutions or talking about 2009 - that post will come tomorrow - I just want to acknowledge 2008. It's been a brutal, trying, testing year. I can't soften that for anyone with any platitudes. But to 2008, in the abstract, I say:
You better have been trying to teach us something, somewhere along the way.
I hope we learned those lessons. I hope we passed most of the tests. I hope very few repeat-classes will be required.
Perspective, huh?
So long, farewell, auf weidersen... adieu.
That's all. I'm holding onto a few of those hard-won lessons, but otherwise... I'm letting this year go, and tomorrow, I'm embracing the new one.
This post is in memory of Richard Donahue, Dr. Paul Schoen, Bryce McVety, Dorothy Childress, and several more friends' and neighbors' parents and grandparents whom I never had the pleasure of knowing; entertainers from Heath Ledger, George Carlin, and Paul Newman to the year's-end passages of Eartha Kitt & Harold Pinter; the victims of disasters both natural and incredibly unnatural in Myanmar, India, China, the Middle East, and throughout the world. As a whole, we survived 2008; but in this year, we lost some of our best and brightest. May all of their memories be a blessing as we move forward into the new year and all coming years.
I've complained about my apartment many a time, including here on this blog. But for nearly two years now, it's been my home base - which means I've officially lived in this little space for more consecutive months than I've lived in any other place since moving out of my parents' house in 1999.* I still might have my complaints... but.
After spending most of the last two weeks traveling, not having slept in my own bed for quite some time, I got home Sunday afternoon, let myself in the door, and felt an oddly comfortable thought cross my mind: Ah, I'm home.
My couches. My books. Holiday and birthday cards from friends and family lining the bookshelves. Photographs of favorite faces. And of course, Sof wagging her tail (probably no more excited to see me than to see the friend who dog-sat for her all week, but oh well).
Sometimes it takes being away to make us appreciate these little comforts of home. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, I suppose. I felt genuinely grateful to putter around my apartment, fixing myself some tea, curling up on the couch, doing some writing in my own little corner of the world. It's not so bad, this address. It feels cozy. I'm lucky to have a place as nice as this, and glad to get to spend some time here.
Still wish my windows could open, though.
*This is true. Since 1999, I have lived: 1999-2000 East Quad dorm 2000-2001 Castle Suite with the boys 2001-2002 Rosenthal Suites as an RA 2002-2003 In a lovely apartment in a haunted-mansion looking house near Watertown, MA May-July 2003 The infamous CRAPHOLE cottage in Belhaven (Jackson, MS) July 2003-2004 The cool 1950s "GE House of the Future" in Belhaven July 2004-July 2005 The Seminole Kids House in Fondren (Jackson) August 2005-May 2006 The odd Colgate apartment in Oak Park, MI Summer 2006 Ridgeland, MS August 2006 Terrifying Apartment Where Someone Got Shot Right Outside My Window, Ypsilanti, MI September 2006 My parents' place (hell of a commute to grad school) October 2006-April 2007 The Townhouse, Ann Arbor, MI April 2007-now: This Place (well, this building; I lived in a one-bedroom for April-June 2007, and moved into a two bedroom in July 2007. This Place still wins for longest residency)
It's been a heckuva month, and it's caught up to me. I'm feeling it, and evidently I'm showing it. People are actually telling me "You look really tired." That's not generally synonymous with "you look great."
Sometimes, when life is exhausting, it's for unhappy reasons. Losing sleep over health issues, work stress, a breakup, a fight. To clarify for all those who might be worried because they can see fatigue in my face, or read it in the subtext of what I write lately - yes, I'm tired, but it's largely "good" reasons draining my resources. In the past few weeks, I've had huge work projects, multiple holiday parties, I finished a draft of one play and started outlining another, crossed state lines a few times... The next week will continue to be hectic, though still all for happy reasons - a visit for a grandparent's birthday-celebration, holiday celebrations, a wedding celebration - more crossing of state lines (but maybe a little more down time in each place).
It's the good kind of tired - and in order to prevent it from becoming the kind of tired that leads to falling under the weather, I'm taking a rain check on a "real" post... look for one midweek... and am going to bed. Sweet dreams, dear readers.
I'm racing to finish a script that I want to submit for a December 31 deadline. Well, I say I'm racing; it's not a marathon, though, more like I'm doing a series of sprints to try to get it done. I haven't been able to sit down and work on it for more than one consecutive hour for the past several days.
The script is very different in tone and structure than my usual style. Without revealing anything about the (slightly bizarre) plot, I can say that one of the central questions of the play is "What comes next?"
One of the characters desperately asks another: "What comes next? What am I supposed to do next? I don't know, and I need you to tell me - please - what comes next?"
I feel as if right now that bit of dialogue applies to my process of writing this script... and to my life in general.
I realized today, while driving from one Sunday appointment to the next, that I'm well into my second year of really not knowing what comes next. Clearly, we never really know - but at least for me, all the way up until I went to college, "college" was what would come next. Then I put in four years of college, not knowing exactly what would come next - but before graduating, I signed on for a finite two-year job. So I knew two years of work would come next. And then I was pretty set on the idea that after that, graduate school was what would come next. That too came to pass, and that too was finite and structured - another two years of knowing, at least basically, what was in store for me. Those two years ended in April 2007.
Now, what comes next?
I took one job after graduate school and then unexpectedly moved into another. I didn't expect to change jobs. I moved into a "temporary" apartment with a month to month lease, and expected to move out of that within a few months - but nearly two years later, I'm still in this apartment. I have no quantifiable life timeline at this point. No schedule. No "next."
I have goals and dreams and deadlines, of course. I have busy days, weeks, events on the calendar scheduled for months from now. But no big moves on the immediate horizon, no academic calendar to follow, no next step charted out. Liberating? Terrifying? Depends on the moment.
It's eleven thirty on a Sunday night. I have a conference to attend tomorrow. What comes next? Bedtime. That's all I can say definitively right now.
If it's any consolation, dear readers... every night, when I come home tired from work, I dutifully turn on my computer and begin writing. Not blogging, clearly - but I have a full-length play I must finish for a December 31 deadline; a dissertation that a soon-to-be-Ph.D. needed some feedback on; a periodical I edit is going through an exciting overhaul and I'm working on that this week as well...
Don't give up yet. This site is neglected at the moment, but not yet officially abandoned!
I've been remiss in keeping up with this blog, due to a whirlwind of other activity. However, a friend recently asked me to contribute to his theater blog... so while it's a bit of a cheat, perhaps, to re-post what I wrote, that's what I'm doing. In this forum, I may have some family members who will add to/correct/recall additional anecdotes on this piece... about my very first time acting. On another note... this is my 100th post here on Bethweek... enjoy, and happy Thanksgiving, y'all!
"If The Glass Slipper Fits..."
Barefoot children, dirty tear-stained faces, and a girl marrying her own brother.
A sordid new soap opera, “Days of our Over-Stereotyped Incestuous Young Hillbilly Lives”?
Nope. My first play.
The year: 1987. At the ripe old age of six, I was the eldest actor in the show. The director/narrator/costume designer was my mother; the assistant director/seamstress/harried producer was our neighbor; my co-stars were my two little brothers and the neighbor’s two kids; the show was “Cinderella,” and because someone up there has it in for me… yes, somewhere in the deepest recesses of my parents’ archives, there is video footage.
I was playing the title role, cast not due to any particular talent, nor really due to nepotism, but simply because a) I was one of only two girls in the gaggle of neighborhood ruffians, and b) none of the other kids could read yet. Public service announcement: literacy pays off, kids.
My mother had the brilliant idea that our two families should have their kids rehearse a play, then videotape the final performance and send it off to our various scattered relatives as a truly meaningful and original holiday gift. She scouted a location – we would rehearse, perform, and film the performance in the neighbor’s mother’s country home. M & M’s were purchased to bribe any resistant children into becoming thespians. My mother then rented a video camcorder approximately the size and weight of Texas, and we were good to go.
The cast was as follows:
·Cinderella – me
·Evil Stepmother – voice of my mother (offscreen)
·Evil Stepsisters – my little brother Adam (age 2) and the neighbor’s son (age 3)
·Evil Stepsister’s Feet (for camera close-ups of the epic “shoe doesn’t fit” scene) – my mom and the neighbor
·Fairy Godmother – neighbor’s daughter (age 4)
·Horses – Adam and the neighbor’s son
·The Prince – my little brother Jake (age 4)
The play kicked off with me sweeping the hearth, learning of the ball, being told by my sobbing evil stepsisters (some bitter dispute between the neighbor boy and my brother over M & M’s led to them bawling throughout every scene they were in) that I was not allowed to go to the ball. When they exited, I sat on a chair and cried “Now I shall never go to the ball!” with appropriate melodrama – completely upstaged by my underwear flashing the audience.
(Let’s recall that this is all caught on film. My parents threaten that when I bring home a fiancée, they will break out this VHS, and if he can watch our “Cinderella” and still want to join the family/hold my hand, he will be officially vetted.)
But then, of course, came the fairy godmother. In our production, however, the benevolent spirit was a petulant little girl who screamed each line at the top of her lungs. As in: “I AM YOUR FAIRY GODMOTHER! I HAVE COME TO GET YOU READY FOR THE BALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Then, completely deaf but in a beautiful dress, I went out to my carriage – a Radio Flyer wagon with puffy-paint and glitter-glue decorated cardboard cut-outs enhancing its “carriage” look. The carriage was drawn by two horses – my brother and the neighbor kid in sweatsuits, with yarn-manes and yarn-tails stapled to them, howling over some M & M injustice. Arriving at the ball, the prince (a.k.a. my other little brother, very bitter about having to be involved in this production) grabbed my hand and began yelling at me. This provided me with very little motivation to look sad when the bells began to toll and I told him, flatly, “Oh no. I must go.”
Kicking my foot furiously to make sure I left a shoe behind, I raced off. My prince/brother shouted, “Wait!” and went to pick up the shoe, then decided it hadn’t been dramatic enough, so put down the shoe, backed up, yelled “Wait!” again, and picked up the shoe for a second time as the horses wailed in the background.
In one of my all-time favorite “This American Life” episodes, Ira Glass dissects the meaning of “fiasco” – and, appropriately, uses the story of a community theater production of “Peter Pan” gone horribly wrong to illustrate just what a “fiasco” entails. My “Cinderella story” truly is more aptly dubbed a “Cinderella fiasco” – but more than two decades later, it’s interesting to note where that cast and production staff has landed.
My mother, the strung-out young director chasing young children around a makeshift set, is currently writing the final pages of her dissertation on youth theater. No joke – with four kids grown and living on their own (one of whom was not even born at the time of the now legendary ’87 off-off-off-off-off-off-off-Broadway Cinderella revival) she’s finishing up a Ph.D. in theater. My sobbing horse/step-sister brother, A, is pursuing an acting career in Chicago. I’m still a theater junkie, usually involved in some production and constantly trying to write the next great American play.
We all start somewhere. My first play might have been a fiasco, and could have been a one-shot-deal, a good childhood story that never led to anything… but that’s not how this tale ended. Because for some of us, theater never becomes a pumpkin – it’s always that magic carriage (or Radio Flyer wagon decorated with glittering cardboard). It’s what keeps taking us to the ball, the prince, the next happily-ever-after we share with the next audience. We get to be the fairy tale. What’s better than that?
Harper Lee's "To Kill a Mockingbird" is one of those books that I remember reading as a child. I don't just mean I remember the book itself, the plot, the characters - I mean, I remember reading it: fighting against sleep at night to stay up and read it, devouring paragraphs in the way-back of the family station wagon until I got motion sick, curling up on the couch and turning page after page. I was probably ten or so when I first read "Mockingbird." There were so many things I learned from that book: like the child narrator Scout, I didn't know what rape was, what injustice really meant, what "social mores" were until I encountered that story. Tonight, I saw a production of the stage show for the first time, and encountering that story again, it made me wonder: how far have we come?
The surface answer, of course, is very far. Our schools are desegregated. A "jury of our peers" does not mean "limited to white men." We even have a mixed-heritage/African-American Democratic candidate for president. As a nation, we are more "tolerant."
But that's only the surface answer.
This post is not an endorsement for any particular candidate, but as we're heading into an historic presidential election, with this Tuesday looming near, my only plea is this: don't let hate, fear-mongering, and latent fear of "the other" dictate your vote. More than that - whoever you're supporting, take a stand the next time you hear someone make the election about fear and intolerance. Because the undercurrent, and sometimes overt use of such fear-mongering, is what really scares me - particularly because of how much attention children, our own contemporary, real-life Scouts, are paying to this election.
I have seen several posts on Facebook, as well as comments on blogs and YouTube, from kids I know to be as young as eleven, saying terrifying things. Calling Obama a devil-worshipper, for instance. Saying that anyone who doesn't "vote Christian" isn't a "good American" - upsetting on so many levels. These statements from such young people are perpetuating such old, dangerous ideas. And what's most unsettling is that so many of these young people, because they hear these falsehoods from adults and find "evidence" online and all around them to support them, really believe that they have accurate information. Here's a post someone who identifies himself (herself?) as "too young to vote" left in response to a silly Hockey-Mama-for-Obama Youtube video:
"dumb bitch why don't you study up on politics. I'm not old enough to vote but i know for damn sure i did more homework on this election. OBAMA IS A TERRORIST. Send his punk ass back to Africa."
This sounds like one angry kid - one angry kid utterly confident in his/her opinion being not only right, but also based on "fact."S/he can certainly find plenty of similar sentiments online, "evidence" to back up these claims (though it's all about how you run the search: go to Fact Check, Snopes, or any number of other political OR apolitical sites and the race/religion/anti-American/fear-based rumors about Barack Obama are pretty instantly disproved). Bias exists on both sides, and if you only want to confirm what you think you know, it's easier and easier to do so.
My politics are no secret, but as I stated earlier, this isn't an endorsement post. I have many dear Conservative friends who will be supporting McCain/Palin, and when it's because they agree with their policies, I can respect that. However, when I run in to people who are voting for the Republicans because they are "terrified of what would happen if That Obama gets elected" - it makes me shiver.
All the more so when I hear and see hateful messages from those too young to vote. It is our responsibility to be better role models. Having two major political parties is one thing; fostering violent divides, and fanning the flames even more when race/religion come into play, is flat-out dangerous. When adults encourage children to think of people who don't share their skin color, or go to the same house of worship, or attend the same schools, as being separate and unequal from them, we are teaching a terrible lesson. So please, don't take us backwards. Don't let difference continue to divide. Let's remember to be United, not stratified; let's do it for every Scout waiting to see how the jury will respond.
Theater has been a part of my life for almost as long as my memory extends. I was recently cast in a role that requires quite a bit of dancing. Not just group dance numbers - but solo dance numbers. Including a solo tap dance. I've never taken tap; never even donned tap shoes prior to a few weeks ago. I've been acting since I was four years old; I've done a fair amount of singing; but, a tap solo? I was frankly terrified. I have to admit: I questioned the casting. Why would the director give me this part? I thought. This is not my a role that emphasizes my strongest onstage assets. This is not the role I would assign myself.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
News came knocking two weeks ago; on the heels of the death of a dear friend, now there is the failing health of my grandmother. She fell several weeks ago, stayed with my parents in Michigan for awhile, then returned to her home in Toledo; then seemed to be slipping, and went to live with my aunt in Chicago; then, slipping further, was admitted to Lutheran General Hospital in Park Ridge, Illinois - the hospital where I was born. Soon after being admitted to the hospital, she suffered a stroke.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Learning the basics of tap in one crash course, knowing I subsequently have to learn the actual choreography, and be ready to perform the routine confidently in front of an audience by month's end, is both exhilarating and nerve-wracking. The tap solo isn't my only dance in the show; though I've given up kickboxing during this rehearsal period, my muscles ache from practicing the dances over and over and over, trying to make my body accept that it needs to move in new ways.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Staying in touch with family, getting daily updates, hearing over and over the phrase two-steps-forward, one-step-back: this is part of my new routine. On top of working full-time in one office, part-time in another, while also teaching a night class at a local college, and rehearsing the show, is taxing enough; worrying about my grandmother, and my father, and my mother, and my brothers and sister and extended family... the routine only gets more complicated once we learn the basic steps. Fortunately, I have some good partners; a steady rhythm; and other things to think about, like learning choreography.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
So I've just about learned the dance. I still mess up, but of course, the main rule is: keep going. If you falter, if you get off-beat, if you miss a step - you just keep going. Sometimes I have to go back and re-learn the parts I thought I knew; and then other times, unexpectedly, my mind will be blank right up until my cue and then, without thought or hesitation, I am suddenly at the end of the dance, having remembered every step, hit every mark.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I still worry about my family. I am far away, but never removed from them. I spoke to my grandmother on the phone the day before her most recent stroke; she joked about finding a boyfriend in the hospital. Unexpectedly, we laughed.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Sometimes we're cast in roles we wouldn't assign ourselves. The expectations are unclear, the damn shoes are more expensive than we want them to be, our muscles ache, our feet are too slow and fall behind the music. And then bit by bit, we learn the basic steps, and as we start to learn the dance, we really just have to bear in mind the main rule: keep going.
I have a post from last week, and a post from this, though neither is quite finished, and thus, both are still saved as drafts and not yet posted...
I also have a long list of other writing projects/general tasks to complete...
... and sitting here at a little after midnight Sunday night/Monday morning, all I can say as far as how well I did on the ol' to-do list tonight is goodness gracious, my apartment has never been cleaner...
I've taken the trolley once before. It was about three years ago; I still have a photo somewhere, if I went looking for it, from that ride. In the photo, my eyes are closed. I look peaceful. It's misleading. Now I can see the hidden layers to the picture, the chaos beneath the serenity caught in the click of the lens. To the other passengers, giving a casual glance at our bench, or the photograph, everything would have seemed picturesque, serene, even enviable. A smooth ride for the passengers bumping along the tracks. They couldn't see the darker shadows in the picture... and neither could I. My eyes were closed.
There's a picture from this weekend's trolley ride, too. A self-portrait of two people, this time eyes open, squinting a little in the sun, or maybe suppressing a laugh. There weren't many other people on the trolley, and they didn't pay much attention to our picture. But I was paying attention, and grateful for what I saw. No dark shadows. A much more honest picture. A much better ride on the trolley. My eyes are open, I'm not afraid to look around, and I'm so much happier with what I'm seeing these days.
It is amazing how much can change, happen, or cease within the span of a year. New chapters begin, even as other books close. Old fears are overcome as new fears begin haunting us. Unexpected connections, new ideas and blossoming relationships renew us. How can we even begin to absorb, let alone process, everything that touches our lives within the span of a year?
I'm one of those lucky people who gets to have multiple opportunities each year for annual reflection. (That sentence reads like one long oxymoron, but bear with me.) My favorite secular holiday is New Year's eve/day - champagne, kissing, the opportunity for a clean slate, resolutions. What's not to like? So January brings me one new year. Then over on the Jewish holiday circuit, each fall, there's Rosh Hashanah - apples, honey, kissing (okay, so kissing cheeks more than kissing-kissing, but nevertheless), the opportunity for a clean slate, reflection. Again - what's not to like?
I need reflection. Thus, it seems to make sense that I'd require multiple new years. (Clearly, someone up there knew what they were doing when they doled me out an extra helping of let's-start-again.) Of course, even with the generous helping of new year celebrations in my life, I'm always seeking more opportunities to stop and reflect, remember where I was a year ago, who I was with for this day in some other year. I seize on holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, lifecycle events (weddings and funerals, in particular, but the occasional baptism or bar mitzvah can also provide ample opportunity for reflection).
So I have lots of practice reflecting. But this year - from last autumn to this autumn - has bested me: I can't sum it up.
Anything pithy seems weak. In my own life and the lives of those around me, there has been so much joy and so much pain in the past year. The pendulum swung to one side and brought us unanticipated health struggles, deaths of loved ones, heartbreak at the end of relationships. It swung to the other and brought new opportunities for love, exciting life changes, inspiration, and of course, those ever-symbolic little babies (including a very cute redheaded one in Massachusetts). A simple listing of such events doesn't capture their impact, and for some reason, reflect and remember as I might, I cannot find a way to convey how this year, so much more than any other, propelled so many of us forward into the next phase of our life, alternately soothing and mercilessly pummeling us along the way.
The traditional Jewish greeting on Rosh Hashanah is "L'Shanah Tovah" - "to a good year." Shanah, the Hebrew word for "year," has another meaning: "change." The root letters for the two words are the same: shanah shapes the word year, and its sister word, change. It is one of those goosebump-linguistic moments, where the simple relationships of words begins to scratch the surface of something much larger: we cannot encounter a year without experiencing change. If we do not change, and we remain static, over the course of a year... we have not really embraced that year. Change can be wonderful, and change can be bitterly painful; but change is life, and each shanah brings the next shanah.
That's all I have to offer, after all my reflection for this year; I will leave you with an excerpt from the Rosh Hashanah liturgy, called in some prayerbooks "A Prayer for the United States of America" and in others, simply, "A Prayer for Our Nation," which emphasizes the kind of change I hope to see from our country and all countries:* Grant us peace, Your most precious gift, O Eternal Source of peace, and give us the will to proclaim its message to all the peoples of the earth. Bless our country that it may always be a stronghold of peace, and its advocate among the nations. May contentment reign within its borders, health and happiness within its homes. Strengthen the bonds of friendship among the inhabitants of all lands ... Blessed is the Eternal God, the Source of peace.
*Not to go all political or anything, but it IS true that my next annual opportunity for reflection will fall in January... and in January 2009, we'll be swearing in a new president, and I hope the change reflected above (LET THE UNITED STATES BE A STRONGHOLD OF PEACE AND ITS ADVOCATE AMONG THE NATIONS!) is the sort of change that will seem optimistic, but not unrealistic. L'shanah tovah!
I think of him clad all in black, with a headset decorating the side of his face. Making sure the technical aspects of the theater were firmly in place, so the children onstage could be seen and heard. Providing the foundation.
I think of him patiently waiting for my parents' only-very-selectively-friendly dog, Jackson, to warm up to him, rather than writing him off as a "bad dog," as so many guests tend to do.
I think of him with soft voice and active eyes.
I think of him remembering the details, asking specific questions about the things that directly pertained to you.
I first met Richard when his daughter, my now much cherished friend M, was in a play. Through Rachel's Eyes was the first play I ever wrote. It was also the first play I ever directed. I was fourteen. M was eleven, and I had never meet her prior to the Through Rachel's Eyes audition. M, like her father, is quiet, with a soft voice and active eyes, constantly absorbing the details. I remember not only how seriously M took the show, but also how seriously her parents took it - here I was, a fourteen year old kid, setting rehearsal schedules and wrangling a multi-generational group into a community theater production... the perfect set-up for a farce, or at least a project to smile and nod at while secretly writing off... and yet Richard and his wife K (the one with the laugh that makes the whole room warmer - unlike her daughter or husband, K is never quiet with the laughter) treated the whole endeavor, and everyone involved, with complete respect, support and appreciation, throughout the process.
I remember, later on, meeting his son, D, and watching him grow from a quiet little boy who shied from the limelight into a young man who fills the stage, a young man who has already begun to so resemble his father.
I think of Richard sitting on the MYT Board of Directors with my parents, committing time and energy to ensure that not only his own children, but many, many people's children could benefit from the theater magic that MYT creates.
I remember last Thanksgiving. After most of the guests had departed my parents' home, the rest of us packed up some leftovers, piled into two cars and drove through the snow to visit Richard and his family. We sat in the cozy living room, drinking tea and sharing theater stories, holiday stories, life stories. It was such a lovely, familial night.
These are some of the most vivid ways that I remember Richard.
There are other memories, of course; I remember visiting him this summer, at the hospital, when I was in town for our friend's wedding. Even then, with as much sterile sternness as that hospital room tried to impose, we shared stories and jokes until he grew tired. I remember his blog, his candor about his battles, and the last post that still greets me each time I click the link on my blog that carries me to his. "Just like sands through the hourglass."
The sands passed through the hourglass faster than any of us would have guessed, back when he wrote that final blog post. And while the most recent memories will always linger, they are overpowered by the dozen years' worth of memories of the kind man, clad in black, who befriended my entire family, quietly making things happen, with a headset connecting him to the young actors onstage. Providing the foundation.
Richard passed away on September 16, in the presence of his loving family, K, M, and D. His loss is felt in so many lives. May his memory always be a blessing, for all of us.
I wrote in April about the unexpected tornadoes that ripped through Jackson. I reported that, inexplicably, my neighborhood was virtually undamaged, while others were completely torn apart. This was the lesson I tried to carve out from those storms:
"The storm doesn't always touch down [on you]. But there's usually someone being impacted by some sort of storm, somewhere. Hold a good thought that those without roofs and without power are soon fully restored... and maybe this week can be a reminder that even when we're doing just fine ourselves, someone is always under the thunder."
I meant it as a metaphor for more than literal storms, of course. And while I don't disagree with the metaphor, re-reading it tonight I feel hopelessly pithy. (And not in the good way.) Thinking about all the actual challenges hurtling themselves recklessly into people's lives, who needs a metaphor? I'm frustrated by the weakness of it; the presumption that some sort of comfort or meaning could be gleaned from words. And yet... I am often far from those I want to hug in their times of trial, and my words are all I have to offer. And sometimes, even those fail me. So when I find some words, small comfort as they may be, I try to share them. And when I have none- well, luckily we're not always required to pray out loud.
Wishing, hoping, thinking, praying.... that though storms must come, there will also be peace and healing in the rain that follows. Maybe even a little laughter. Literally.
Well, sports fans, it's an exciting week in the Fantasy Football world. As many of you know, I'm new to this world. Total neophyte. First timer. The ultimate rookie. I'm not really sure all of the rules, the ins and outs, the choreography to the dance that is Fantasy Football. (In fact, I bet that line I used just now about choreography officially made me a total and forever sports outsider. Except... wait... don't football players sometimes take ballet? Ha! I sort of know something!)
HOWEVER, while I'm new to the game of Fantasy Football, I do know a thing or two about kicking ass.... or so I thought.
The score in that triumphant, beating-on-the-Diablos victory was 100 to 92.
Meanwhile, over in my match-up... my team, Team Kanderrr. Grr., scored 106 while coach Sarver's LandSharks scored....
....wait for it...
....29.
And I'm torn, sports fans. I'm truly torn. I'm, like, Tom Brady's-ACL-torn.
Because part of me feels like doing a big ol' victory dance (I know - again with the dancing) about the ASS-KICKING OF THE SEASON -- and part of me just feels like, man. There's no glory in this. It's just kind of... sad. And I think maybe I shouldn't gloat. You shouldn't feel good about just ... massacreing your opponent.
Except. A quick recap: Sarver tried to thwart my ability to really play this season. That's right - scandal in Fantasyland! When there was an error in my Fantasy Football account and I couldn't switch players or monitor my team, ol' Chip was all about the sabotage: "Come on, guys... she couldn't make the draft... she's new... and she's a girl!!! Don't fix her account!" But Commissioner Green believes in fair play, and came through.
So, I think the lesson today is that while for some, sports is a religion... that religion clearly gives a nod to KARMA.
KANDERRR! GRR!
*PS, yes, I am well aware, if karma is a part of this game, I totally and completely flat-out shot myself in the foot for the rest of the season. Worth it.
Tonight I decided to do one of those tasks I dread - sifting through The Papers.
"The Papers" are the contents, should-be-contents, and should-be-discarded contents of my file cabinet. They range from utility bills to tax forms, letters from old friends to graduate school transcripts, unsorted photographs to automobile titles. Some of these papers are Very Important, some Very Nostalgic, and as evidenced by the two stuffed bags beside me at the moment, some are Very Obsolete. There are many reasons I dread dealing with The Papers. There are the obvious reasons: it's tedious, it's time consuming, and though it's necessary, it's not a noticeably productive chore like doing the dishes or designating clothes for consignment. Then there are the paranoid reasons I avoid the task: what if I find a bill still unpaid, what if I accidentally discard something and put it through the office shredder only to desperately need it in a month, what if I get the world's worst paper cut?
But the most serious issue that arises in dealing with The Papers is dealing with the memories that they turn up, and the current life situations that the tedious, repetitive task allows me to ponder. Tonight was no exception: recollection and reality surfacing as I sifted through the files.
I found a romantic card from a high school crush whose signature I couldn't decipher (and whose name I couldn't remember). I recycled that card and felt a little lighter.
I found cards from my friend Evelyn, who died not long ago, and from both of my grandmothers, one of whom is currently hospitalized after a fall. I tucked those carefully back into the file.
I found a bank statement from the checking account I had my freshman year of college - an account that's been closed since 2002, with a bank that no longer exists (having since been purchased by a larger bank - gotta love the corporate oligarchy). That went into the shred-bag.
I found photograph after photograph, dating from about 1995 to 2006 (likely the last time I took the time to really deal with The Papers). It was an odd mixture of emotions to see picture after picture of me with various people who used to fill my days, but who now I may have gone a decade without seeing. It was also heartening to see the pictures of the people who still grab a camera and snap a self-portrait with me at their brother's wedding, or at one of our plays, or in my parents' living room.
But as I sorted through paper after paper, picture after picture, finding most too important to discard... I just felt overwhelmed by the fragility of it all. The relative unimportance of keeping these documents organized: I would much rather have the people than the papers, and if my apartment burned down tomorrow, so long as Sofia and I got out okay, well, I'd mourn the loss of the writing notebooks and the photographs and cards, but in the end - I'd get over it. And if God forbid something happened to me, would it make it easier for anyone that I'd kept the programs from most of my theatrical productions and that I've filed all my utility bills?
I did have time to think as I sorted, and think I did. In the past week, the fragility of life has been shoved in my face multiple times. A friend - more an acquaintance, but one to whom I have many connections (she's a very good friend of D's, her boyfriend is a friend of mine, I know her parents, and we have many other mutual friends) - a young woman a few years younger than I, fell from her apartment building in New York and is fighting hard in a New York hospital, with a broken neck, broken back, broken pelvis, broken ribs - though also with a strong support system and an unbroken spirit. Another friend - one whom I have not spoken to in over a year, just after she gave birth to her second child - wrote me out of the blue, and told me in her letter that while her first child was thriving, her second child had only lived four and a half months before dying of heart failure, quietly, at an army base hospital. Another friend - a family friend whose entire family is friends with my entire family, whose faces turned up time and time again in my old photos - has only just been released from the hospital in Michigan after being there since March... and his health struggles continue. And now my grandmother, my Bubbe, is in a hospital in Toledo.
Knowing the delicacy of it all, how can I ever justify spending an evening organizing papers? Shouldn't I be writing, dancing, snuggling, cooking, having a glass of wine, telling a joke, visiting family, visiting old friends, planning a vacation?
I have to trust that I'll have another day to do those things, even though there are no guarantees. Can't use the "carpe diem" theory to avoid housework and bill-sorting. And that's life, I suppose. Tedium and trauma and triumph keeping pace with one another, joined along the way by love and frustration and setbacks and breakthroughs.
I know that nostalgia makes me a cheeseball, but the emotions and reflections are genuine. I'm sitting on my couch now, feeling more introspective than I'd like. The file drawers are shut for now. I've given some time to The Papers. I might just go pour myself a glass of wine now, and then say a little prayer for the healing of body and soul that so many of our loved ones need... and then go to bed, and look forward to tomorrow, with gratitude for life itself, and its endless variety.
Posting a bit early this week.... though Gustav is not predicted to blow into town before Monday, the brewing storm is already impacting gas prices, gas pump lines, traffic, grocery shopping, and work-planning, so in a few minutes of calm,with internet securely in place, power still on, and all errands run, there is time to write.
Yesterday was the three-year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina - and today, New Orleans and Gulf Coast residents are preparing for evacuation. Tomorrow, contraflow will be enacted, with highways all flowing North to speed the exodus. Unlike in 2005, there is far more planning for this storm. Buses wait all around New Orleans; Mississippi Public Broadcasting gives updates of which shelters, college campuses, camps, churches and other makeshift evacuation sites will be opening when; even here in Jackson, two hundred miles from the coast, residents are stocking up on water, flashlights, and gas. It could be that this storm will not be as bad as we fear; but no one - and certainly not government officials - wants to get caught unprepared this time around.
It's strange to wait for a hurricane. Right now it's sunny and 91 degrees. I worked this morning, got a haircut, ran errands, gave the dog a bath, vacuumed, cleared out my car, ran the dishwasher, tried to do anything that I might later regret not having done before losing power, or having all the local filling stations run out of gas (several already have), or not being able to use my water.
I keep thinking back to three years ago. I left Mississippi for graduate school in Michigan just before Katrina ravaged the state. Watching from afar, I felt almost guilty for not being there. I signed up for a recovery trip, journeying back down to Mississippi a few months after the storm. I flew into Jackson, celebrated my birthday with some friends, and then drove down to Biloxi. Driving down highway 90, through towns once familiar, I started crying and couldn't stop. My whole first day on the coast, I alternated between fighting tears and succumbing to them. And then I spent two weeks roofing houses and clearing debris. And then I left. Back to Michigan, to snow and ice, but cities intact.
I spent the summer of 2006 in Jackson, and moved back full-time in April of 2007. Neither of the last two summer saw a big storm. Somehow, I feel like I've been waiting for Gustav for three years. I hope he's a lot less exciting than I imagined him to be.
My prayers this weekend are for the safety of everyone in the storm's path. In the meantime, our senses of humor are still intact. I just received the following text message from a friend: "Hurricane party at my house tomorrow night! Bring your perishables. (FYI: Alcohol is perishable.)"
All right, dear Bethweek readers - a rare request for assistance!
I'm working on a project called "Yeah, Write Whatever!" (YWW) that we genuinely believe will positively impact kids' reading and writing skills. Our new nonprofit, Imagination Education, Inc., is partnering with Eyevox and the Mississippi Board of Education to make this happen. We have a great idea and the right partners.... and now, our YWW team has a really exciting opportunity in front of us - we're one of the projects competing for funding from American Express through their Members Project initiative - AND YOU CAN HELP US WIN!
It costs nothing, you don't have to be (or become) an American Express cardmember, and it literally takes about 3 minutes. (PLUS, if you want, you can watch our savvy little promo video, and you may recognize some of the faces....)
PLEASE, PLEASE go vote and help us make the Top 25 for funding consideration! Here's how:
1. Go to www.membersproject.com 2. On the top right, click on "Guest Members Login" 3. This will take you to the login page. At the bottom of the page, click "Guest Members sign up here." 4. Sign up! (They just ask for name, email, and to choose a password) 5. You can then "search projects." If you enter "Write" in the search box, "Yeah, Write Whatever" will turn up. 6. Nominate, leave a comment, and feel excellent about doing your good deed for the day!
A special note if you DO happen to be an American Express cardholder: as an AE cardmember, you get to vote all the way through the final round, so PLEASE bookmark our page and support "Yeah, Write Whatever!" all the way through!!
If you have any questions or want more information, email me, leave a comment on this blog, or give a shout!
Thank you.
Beth
P.S. Please re-post this, forward it on, help us spread the word! Voting closes on SEPTEMBER 1, 2008. We have a real shot at this, with your help. Thanks again!!
Sofia? Excuse me, Sofia? Would you mind answering a few questions about your new haircut?
Great... thank you! Okay. So. First question. We'll start with an easy one. What was your initial reaction when you first heard that Beth was going to be shaving you this year instead of sending you to the professionals?
Hmm, I see. So in general, do you think your owner makes good decisions about your appearance, or do you wish you had a little more control/opposable thumbs/money? (OMG! Your eyes totally just went up and to the left! You said nice things but you were LYING, weren't you, pup?!)
All right, all right, last question. Do you think your haircut will become "The Farrah" or "The Rachel" for your generation of husky-mix rescue dogs living in the new South?
Yeah, I couldn't take that question seriously either. Thanks for your time, pooch, and have a great week!
Sorry not to post it earlier... but here is the photo journal of the Summer 2008 Shaving of Sofia.
First, for any readers who don't know her, this is what Sofia normally looks like:
She is a pretty, fluffy husky mix.
That is, pretty and fluffy when it's a reasonable temperature outside. Sweltering Mississippi summers make it hard to think of her as anything other than an Unstoppable Shedding Machine. So, though it always makes people burst out laughing at the poor creature's expense... I caved and shaved the husky again.
And this time, I bought a razor and did it myself.
The photo-journal follows. Enjoy.
At first, it wasn't so bad. We went out on the back porch, armed with razor, brush, and a positive attitude:
I think Sof knew what it meant when I said "oops" and took out a giant chunk of neck-fur...
And then the haphazard back-shaving began... (I actually think it should be considered a plus that I know zilch about back-shaving)
Then my friend O showed up and schooled me a little on how the shaving business is run:
But Sofia started looking awwwwwfully nervous when he went for the neck.
It ultimately took another two days of me using my evenings to plow through that thick husky hair... but finally, she was fairly evenly shorn. So then I interviewed her about her reactions to her new look.
....and those are the best of the photos, but unfortunately the stupid computer is now refusing to let me upload them, even when I just tried creating a second post, so hopefully Blogger will be more friendly tomorrow, and there will be a Part II to this post...
This might come as something of a surprise, since I tend to travel ... quite a bit. It's a rare month that I don't cross state lines. In fact, I have done less traveling in the past year than in any of the previous five, and yet I still have Silver Elite Status on a certain oft-bankrupt airline, and off the top of my head, in the past year I can name trips to the following places:
Memphis, TN
Massachusetts (Westboro/Marblehead for a fall wedding, just Marblehead for a spring baby)
Louisiana (New Orleans once, Monroe once, Baton Rouge once)
The Secret Trip (long story)
Mississippi's Gulf Coast (three times)
Washington DC
Georgia (Macon once, Atlanta once)
Oxford, MS
(Amazingly, all of those trips were either for work or scheduled over a weekend/holiday weekend. I haven't taken an actual vacation since Costa Rica 2005. Haven't used a single "vacation day" from work since moving back down here in April 2007. I know - I'm a total idiot on that front.)
So it's pretty clear that even in a "light" travel year, I do a lot of traveling. And literally every time I travel, I get nervous. I clean my house before I leave, so that if God forbid something happens while I'm gone - someone needs to go pick something up from my house to bring me to the hospital while I recover from a nasty car crash, say - I won't have left a mess. I try to make sure that the last interaction I had with my closest people was positive. (Traveling while in a tiff with someone is not always avoidable, but I do what I can.) I always make sure to have plenty scheduled for when I get back, so that I'm subtly reassuring and reminding myself that the plan is, in fact, to make it back safe and sound.
--As I write this, it sure does sound paranoid. It's all more subtle than it sounds -- but the point is, there is some little voice of warning chiming away in a corner of my mind, a little edge of fear tracing itself around me as I prepare for the next trip. Always that little lurch in my stomach when I hit the road, when the plane takes off, when I navigate the unfamiliar neighborhood. Especially when I travel alone, which is most often the case.
Is it some remnant of something? In my own past - or, in some larger communal past? Could well be that the fear is by design. Protective, some ingrained type of self-preservation. After all, just a few generations ago, traveling was far rarer than it is today. It was common for people to never leave their own hometown, let alone state or country... let alone dozens of times a year. On some deep, patterned level, is there a fear of leaving the familiar and venturing into the unknown, with all the risks of highway bandits and choppy seas along the way?
Maybe. I'll probably never know... but the more important realization is this: I still travel. I'm scared every time, but it doesn't stop me from booking the next ticket or planning the next road trip. Perhaps the lesson is not that I need to get over my fear of travel - but that in some other areas of my life, I need to use my Nervous Frequent Flier status as a reference point. Just because I fear something doesn't mean I should avoid it. At the end of the day... traveling might be a risk, but it's one I'll keep on taking. It's something I want in my life.
Knowing that... perhaps I should aim for Silver Elite Status on a few of the other items on my List of Scary Things.
PS I know I promised some of my loyal readers that this week would be a photo-essay about Sofia's recent haircutting experience. However, I'm at a hotel, out of town, without my camera-transferring-cords... so I can't upload the photos. Thus, this will be a double Bethweek week. I'll post the Sof photos once I'm back home, safe and sound.
I like my current apartment. I do. I like that I have a spare bedroom for wandering friends. I like all the natural light from the big windows. I like my curving 1920's art-deco walls, my hardwood floors, and most of all, my beautiful flora-filled corner of the Belhaven neighborhood. I feel very lucky to have the home that I do; I like it.
However. I do not love my current apartment. I have been feeling this lack of love quite acutely this weekend. Thus, as a wish list I'm putting out there into the universe for consideration, here is a list of things that I would love to have in my next living space - things that are wanting in my current one:
1. A backyard for Sofia. This is the biggie. I hate that my poor dog has no backyard. And currently, when my little husky is shedding her undercoat, I hate that instead of putting her outside in a nice shady yard to shed to her heart's content, I am vacuuming three times a day to keep up with the fluff. (This week's post was thiiiiiis close to being called "I Caved And Shaved the Husky Again." Depending on how much the shedding abates this week, that may well be next week's post.)
2. Windows that open. Particularly in the summer, it gets quite stuffy. And I know it lets AC escape, and blah blah blah, but call me crazy, I LIKE breathing real air. (NONE of the windows in my current apartment open. Not even a little bit. They are all painted/sealed shut.)
3. A kitchen big enough that more than one person can be in there at a time. Enough said.
4. Cell phone signal. I get NONE in my bedrooms or kitchen, and very little anywhere else in the apartment. I even switched from the cellular provider that rhymes with Hint to the one that rhymes with Hey Bee and Bee, since I was told service would be better. It's a lie. Service is still nil. I am cut off from the rest of the world when I plug my phone into the charger. "Emergency calls only" can be made from my room. Yet I need the phone in my room for said emergencies, and for its alarm clock feature. I am often unreachable when at home. It's almost enough to make me want to get a landline. Except that seems so... committed. And clearly, I remain uncommitted to this apartment. Though officially I've now lived in this apartment for over a year (and have been paying rent in this building for a year and a half).
I'm not asking for fireplaces, a Viking-stocked kitchen, stone or brick exterior, walk-in closets, spa-bathtubs, a pool, a built-in bar and vaulted ceilings. (Though universe, if you're listening and any/all of these are available, I wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.) I just want a little outdoor access, a little air, options for cooking-with-a-buddy, and some good conversation. I think I am being very reasonable. Thanks for your consideration.
