Standing in the Snake Pit

I’ll start off by saying I’m a bit of a pacifist. A realistic pacifist who understands that asking for the abolishment of the 2^nd Amendment is like asking for a tornado, a hail storm, a blizzard and a raging fire to come down and engulf the land all at the same time, when really, all I asked for was a sunny day. Simply put, I know it would bring the opposite effect of what I wish. I have no interest in abolishing the amendment, nor do I think all gun owners are evil, nor do I think all guns are intended for evil. Not at all the case. I think guns for sport are one thing, but I'm having a hard time understanding why any civilian would need an AR-15 to shoot a deer. I would say that some of us are choosing to have this conversation right now and it feels like running into your ex at Target. It’s uncomfortable and awkward and we find ourselves confronted with something that we prayed we wouldn’t have to see again. I know the ex imagery is weird, but just help me here. I’m stumbling through this just like many of us are.

Look, I’m tired of not REALLY knowing certain laws that are on the books and the restrictions and the state-by-state caveats and the licensing and the time frames for background checks…the things that pave the way for us to get to this point. The point where you wake up on a Sunday morning and have an update on your phone from CNN or you get a text from your friend in all caps who has already heard the news or you have a moment of silence at a public arena just days after a crisis…what about the before? I am on a quest to educate myself, because I was raised to believe that education empowers you and allows you to understand vantage points that you would rather just dismiss and be vehemently against.

Last night, I hopped in the car and drove to a place that I thought was the best place to start. I drove to…a large retail store. I knew it would be here that I would get a straight answer to the questions that were constantly jamming my mind for the last few days.

I knew this place offered guns but I was fuzzy on the details. Like, how much harm are we talking? And with what speed? And with how much access? My throat started to close as I walked in the door. I can walk in here and buy shampoo and apples and gummy bears (DUH), but guns, too? This has got to be bogus, I thought. Surely, my perception is wrong. I walked back to the sporting goods section and when I came up to the counter, I read the age restrictions on the guns/ammo purchases. Ok, my perception wasn't far off. Then I felt them behind me, with a chill going went down my spine. You know when you’re at the zoo and you unfortunately meander into the snakes wing, but you don’t know it until you turn around and one’s just taking a nap against the glass? That’s the same feeling I felt when I knew the guns were behind me. Look, they were pellet and air guns, ok. However, in extreme cases, I discovered that they can kill. A sales rep came up to me and asked if he could help. “Oh, I’m just shopping," I said. WHAT. FALSE. Clearly I had no idea what to say. Fact is, I was nervous to start the conversation. He was an older gentlemen and he made some harmless banter. He waved his finger at the snakes, er guns, and said, “I don’t have any of this. What I own can kill.” OH REALLY, SIR. Good. Good. We’re off to a good start. He left and came back. This time around I was ready to talk. There was a pause and we were just standing there staring at the rifles and then we started talking about nearby gun stores. He suggested I go to the gun show (Yes. It exists.) that happens once a month at the fairgrounds. Now. If the thought of seeing pellet guns in a glass case feels like a snake exhibit in a zoo, a gun show is Indiana Jones in a snake pit. My personal hell. He said that as a lady, I should look for a .380 for protection. (No, but thank you.) As he’s saying all this, I’m biting my bottom lip to avoid making a look of disgust. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was talking to a pacifist and that all this is wasted encouragement. Then I got a little bold. I started asking questions. I asked about background checks. It’s 10 dollars. The wait? About 30 minutes. SIR, SHUT THE FRONT DOOR. Hold up. I’ve had oil changes that have taken longer. I’ve sat in stop-and-start traffic longer. I HAVE GONE ON BAD DATES THAT HAVE LASTED LONGER than getting the background check done to purchase a gun. I can rationlize that this is the amount of time it takes to get any background check, true. But like….there’s no wait period. Maybe it’s because I have red hair or something? No. No, it’s not. That’s how long it takes, period. For you. For me. I know in some cases it can take days, but up to 3 days or so. 3 DAYS. I didn’t even carefully phrase this next question for him, but I asked about mental health screening. He said they might ask a question, but what crazy person would actually give that information? He then made a “crazy” face while signing an imaginary piece of paper. I think I laughed out loud at this point, but I can assure you that it was laughter coming from a place of total discomfort.  At the end of the conversation he said, “I’m supposed to say that guns hurt people.” And then he paused and said quietly, “But people hurt people.”  

While I appreciate his tone, the fact is AR-15s kill people. Like, a lot of people. Also, I now know AR-15s are legal in every state with certain exceptions. Hate is hate and people will express that hate in horrible ways, but it’s clear that, in extreme cases, this weapon is used as a vehicle for that hate. I take serious issue that these weapons are even available to civilians. It’s ludicrous. I think that, if I’m lucky enough to have had gun owners read this crazy long blog (OMG, THANK YOU!!!), then I’m sure I’ll get schooled about things I’ve written. If that’s the case, so be it. I’m opening myself up to it, but that’s a painful truth about all this. I actually, legitimately WANT to know how on God’s earth we got here. How we reached this point of rationalization and acceptance for the ability to kill at such high speeds in such a short time. I'm not talking about the handgun used to protect yourself or the rifle you take to shoot the deer to then enjoy with your family and freeze the rest for springtime. I'm solely talking about the guns used to do the most amount of disturbing damage in a short amount of time. I also learned that databases aren’t talking to each other. You’re flagged over here on this database, but your indiscretions that light up someone’s screen in one agency aren't flashing red on another. Yes, people steal guns and blow the whole database rationale out the window. I get it. I’ve gone ROUND like a carousel about how evil people will do evil things and we can’t stop it and choices are choices and this is absolutely true. There are some hurting people out there who do despicable acts against humanity and show hate in abominable ways. I’m just…I’m just tired of depending on sensationalized reporting for the facts. I’m a self-admitted CNN junkie who just got to a place where I want to understand the scope and size and facts behind how we all get to the devastating notification on our phones. I’ve prayed and prayed, but at some point, the prayers must join with action. One of these days I will walk into a gun shop and stand in the middle of the snake pit and see more and learn more and ask more. The men or women behind the counter are trying to earn a wage and feed mouths just like the rest of us, so there's a level of decency and respect and civility that can be had. I don't have to agree to learn and understand. If anyone would like to join me as I learn, then lets do this together. It's a whole lot easier to go by hearsay, especially when tensions and emotions are so high and so raw. This is the only thing left I know to do.

I signed adoption papers for a theatre family this one time...

JUST GET ME HOME

Christmas Carol Tour concluded in Colorado on the side of a mountain. We were exhausted but somehow found the energy to dance in the dressing room.  Maybe it was the altitude.  Maybe it was the fact that we were insanely anxious to move on and enjoy buffet-style dinners with family around a table decorated for Christmas. I found myself unfortunately getting sentimental.  We were at this resort in Colorado that seemed a postcard.  The scenery was gorgeous. Earlier in the day I met a woman who lived in that community while on a shuttle going up the mountain where we were performing later that night. She was a perfect snow bunny in her skiing gear and she produced another perfect little snow bunny in the form of an 8-year old boy. His goggles were perfect, the way he held his skis was perfect and the way he minded his mother was perfect.  Maybe perfect scenery and beauty produced perfect results.  However, it dawned on me as we scaled the mountain on the shuttle with the perfect snow bunny family, that if I lived in that town, my senses would become numb to beauty since beauty was around me at every turn. 

I think if God dealt in currencies and was seeking a place to stay here on earth in the States, he would buy a big chunk of real estate in a perfect resort town in Colorado, and sit and look out from a solitary deck at the mind-baffling creation He had made.  It was hard to believe I was still in the States when I heard the crunching snow beneath my boots as I looked out onto a mountain full of trendy French skiers on the slopes.  Even in the restaurants in this over-priced resort town there were handsome men with German accents asking what I wanted to order.  If I had a million dollars just lying around at my beck and call, I would buy a tiny log cabin in Colorado and sit on the back deck all day in my pajamas wrapped up in a wool blanket drinking coffee just staring at the scenery like a bug attracted to an open flame.

Boarding the shuttle after the final performance was a bit crazy.  There were drunk people to my left and right that only hours before were whooshing down the side of a mountain like a North Face ad.  Then there was us.  Stripped of all make-up and void of hoop skirts, some of us actors celebrated the fact that we were all out of jobs.  After the drunk shuttle took us safely down the mountain and as we waited for our bus to arrive, Tim shouted, “Hooray for unemployment!” We all cheered as if it was a joyful call-and-response, as opposed to what it really was…a cry of desperation. With weary legs, we all boarded the bus and prepared for a very long road trip back to Omaha. We were dropping off several cast members at Denver Airport along the way so they could make it home in time to see grandma open the present they bought in Wyoming at a tacky rest stop. 

Through a series of very unfortunate events, we drove all through the night only to arrive in Denver five hours late.  Horrible snow in Colorado prohibited us from making good headway, while our bus company failed to be equipped with appropriate-sized snow chains. Something to the effect that state law in Colorado prohibits entry on a certain stretch of interstate without proper snow chains on the tires if the vehicle is a certain weight and size is what prohibited us from getting on with it and calling this the end of tour.  I took a sleep aid, but it might as well have been a placebo.  I only sat there miserable and only half lucid.  The Currier and Ives grandeur was starting to fade into a mix of pre-menstrual syndrome and exhaustion.  Not only were some of the adults feeling irritable, some of the kids in the cast were in tears. I felt their pain.  I wanted nothing to do with Colorado at that moment.  People inevitably missed flights in Denver.  Goodbyes were rushed at best, while some of us in the back of the bus didn’t even have time to get out and give a proper goodbye.  I shouted a half-awake goodbye from my seat as one girl waved to me at the front of the bus.  I tried not to get overtly sentimental at that moment, but those goodbyes were like being yelled at out of a deep sleep.  Call it Christmas, call it exhaustion.  Whatever it was, I was sad.  I was terribly sad that this tour was over, knowing full well unemployment was waiting to greet me once I returned to Chicago.  I was also terribly irritated that those of us left on the bus had ten more hours of driving to do.  

I finally fell asleep before sunrise. When I woke up I couldn’t have been more down in the dumps by what greeted me at the window.  I was used to the striking terrain of the West for a good while, but once I went vertical out of shallow sleep on two bus seats, the monotonous Nebraska terrain failed miserably to impress me.  If the landscape of the West was an Equity production, Nebraska was community theatre.  At the next rest stop after the sun came up, I bought six powered donuts at a gross gas station and sat on the bus with the other girls and uncontrollably wept.  At one moment I was laughing through the tears, then the laughter gave way to more crying yet again.  My friend Keith looked at me with disbelief and laughed a bit.  He was trapped on a bus with hormonal, exhausted girls.  God bless him.

When I’m tired I cry.  It has always been this way, and I fear it will always be this way.  Some girls get cranky and mean when they’re tired.  Others get loopy.  I get “D. all of the above”, but most of all, I cry.  For no good reason I cry, and then the world feels settled again after a good, hard cry. I thought Omaha would never come.  I felt as though we were stuck on that bus forever with no end in sight.  It seemed that life would be a series of truck stops and hotels off exits on I-80.  I called mom and told her that I wouldn’t be home until four in the morning on Christmas day.  She was an awesome mom and arranged for a last minute flight out of Omaha on Christmas Eve.  When we arrived in Omaha, I said goodbye to those on the bus, and was truly sad to leave Theresa, Andy and Keith.  They grew dear to me on that tour. They all possessed the gift of making others laugh.  I envy that gift a great deal.

The general manager of the tour was kind enough to drive me last minute to the airport, and I left my car behind in Omaha.  The thought of getting behind the wheel and making the nine-hour journey to Evansville by myself was more than I could handle, so I was grateful for a plane ticket home.  Home is always a good idea when you are exhausted beyond belief and in desperate need of comfort food.

I sat and waited in that terminal, and I was alone for the first time in over seven weeks. I didn’t allow myself to get entirely close to all members of my cast, but for those few whom I grew to love, I missed them as I stared at the tarmac waiting for the plane to arrive.  It was Christmas and Christmas is a time to be with family.  In a way, theatre has a way of creating family out of strangers.  I was about to board a plane to see my biological family.  Truth was, I was shocked by how much I missed the family I just created over the past few weeks.  I wanted to call Keith so he could tell me a story in a funny voice.  I missed drinking champagne on the back of the bus with Betsy that night we thought we were going to die going down the side of the steep mountain in Colorado.  I missed trading stories about Tennessee and whispering in hushed tones about boys in the cast with Adriana.  I wanted to sit on the edge of the bed and talk about life stuff with Theresa and Dana and I hoped Andy would call and tell me a story about his childhood.  In theatre, people are always going through an imaginary revolving door and on to the next family, but sometimes I want to put everything on hold and take these people with me whenever I want to hear a story or have a good cry or enjoy a stiff drink in a hotel lobby. I didn't know it at the time, but this was like an adopted family.  Signing that contract was much more than just filling out paperwork for my taxes.  I signed adoption papers for a new family.  I signed on the dotted line that these strangers were my world for several weeks, without escape.  I am not sure the powers that were could have picked a better adoption situation.  

I boarded the plane and found the closest window seat as possible.  I turned off my cell phone for the first time in a long time.  My shoulders released all the stored tension from the last 24 hours as I put my head back. It was then that a slow, dull ache of quiet began to settle over my heart as I realized I knew no one on that plane. No one frankly cared about what I did on tour.  I couldn’t turn around in my seat and wink at Tommy for no good reason whatsoever, because he wasn’t there.  If I turned around in my seat to wink at the stranger headed home for a turkey dinner, he would’ve been shocked or horrified at the psycho sitting in front of him.  If I had stretched my pillow and blanket across the floor of the plane and into the aisle, I would have been recognized as a terror threat.  On the bus, that was a customary practice with no repercussion.  Bodies were strewn everywhere on that bus, and it took me nearly four minutes to reach the bathroom in the back as I crawled over arms and legs and fleece blankets.  But on that plane, I was not only alone, I was lonely.   Loneliness on Christmas Eve is an interesting sensation, since I was used to being surrounded by a slew of people at this time every year.  I was alone on the eve of a major holiday, but I thought about how I had these individuals like Keith and Theresa and Tommy in my story, if only for a brief part of my life.  My sentimentality eventually gave way to small bursts of laughter on that plane.  Over a small plastic cup of juice, my loneliness began to fade as I remembered little things like dancing in a dressing room and Andy’s daily bus songs. I’m sure the reticent passenger next to me was getting more annoyed as each entertaining memory flashed in my mind. 

I was over a thousand miles from that town with perfect snow bunny children in perfect Colorado, and sadly I thought about how I will never have millions of dollars in my bank account with which to purchase real estate in Colorado.  However, it was nice to sit and dream on that bus for awhile about the luxury some Coloradans experience as they sit in pajamas all day and drink coffee in the solitude of mountain-gazing.  I was headed home to Indiana where there was no snow or mountains or handsome French skiers.  But it was a place where people were genuinely concerned about my safe return as they prayed for traveling mercies for my snow-ridden journey.  Mom and Dad gave up Candlelight service that year to rescue me from the airport in St. Louis. I stepped off the plane and when I rounded a corner after a long walk down a sterile hall lit by unfortunate institutional lighting, they were standing there in Santa hats while waving enthusiastically.  I was home. Not because of a town or a place, but because family was waiting to greet me.  With smiles and arms open wide, they welcomed me away from the plane of unfamiliar faces.

On Christmas morning, I sent a message to my adopted family across the miles.  The message read, “God bless us…everyone.” Messages and phone calls came from the adopted family that day.  Whether it was as close as the dining room down the hall or the memories I made in and out of dressing rooms, I was blessed indeed.

Johnny Cash and the Soul-Feeding Park Bench

Once upon a time, I lived in a place where the hills dipped themselves to valleys that cocooned Targets, supermarkets and movie theaters right alongside walls built by slaves during the Confederacy.  This place is middle Tennessee, and every now and again, I have flash memories of driving down a winding road through those hills.  In those moments, it's as almost as if I can feel the sunlight pouring through my car, hearing Ray Lamontagne's raspy voice serenade the journey.  Sometimes my life is quite busy here in the big city, and sometimes the schedule allows me time to reflect.  This holiday season has allowed me time to reflect.  A few weeks ago, I visited Nashville to see dear friends, and those winding hills were not left to my imagination.

 In early November, I had the windows down as bits of sunshine hit the dashboard through the tall trees that lined Franklin Road.  Johnny Cash was on XRT, and he told me that sooner or later, God was gonna cut me down.  With lyrics like that, you think I would be afraid.  But with Johnny's smoky voice that resonated with lessons learned the hard way, I didn't mind the seriousness.  It was like a grandpa singing about how important it was for me to take a good, long look at my life choices. You try not to take it too personally when grandpas do that, but  Johnny...that's exactly what I did, thank you very much. 

Along that beautiful stretch of Franklin Road, I was reminded that I take life too seriously.  I honestly have no idea how to not take it seriously, as I am driven by guilt and the idea that I must prove myself at every turn.  Prove to whom?  And why?  When did life become about proving and less about living each day simply to the fullest, with what is required of you that day?  When did it become less about loving and more about achieving?  I don't think achieving in and of itself is a terrible thing.  It's a valiant thing to drive yourself further into goals and achievements.  But when your spirit takes a hit in the wake of these efforts, it's time to step back and say...is this what it is about? 

I walked through Centennial Park in Nashville to gather sunshine.  I stripped my light sweater and raised my hands towards the sky in that vast park to fully appreciate the vitamin D coming my way.  There was an elderly gentleman sitting on a bench, staring.  I felt his loneliness.  I passed by him, acknowledged his presence with a smile and head nod, and he did the same.  Then he went back to staring.  I wondered what his journey was like.  What, in his life, led him to that bench?  Was it a deceased spouse and active duty in a war?  Was it a life of solitude and complacency where he was content to sit at a park bench while people watching?  I felt so sorry for this man who was alone.  I proceeded to walk around the lake, then made my rounds back to where I started, on the south side of the Parthenon.  This time, I saw that same gentleman throwing the pitches for the rowdy softball game taking place. The thirty-somethings were treating him like one of the players.  He threw pitches like he belonged to the team.  He was not alone.  He was playing the game.  He knew when to sit and enjoy the sunshine, and he knew when to get up and join the rest of them.  I wanna be that guy. 

Achieving has its place and time.  But fully taking in what we have, in the moment that we have it, is what feeds our soul.  May I always be content to sit at a park bench, not concerned with achievements and accolades, allowing my soul to be fed a bit.  Then, when it's time...get off the bench and walk towards the game. 

The Power of Noisemakers and The Smell of Manure

I once had manure thrown at me.  I was a mere teenager, and some thugs who wanted to prove their point threw manure at me.  That is the short of it.

This is the long of it…

My uncle ran for Congress when I was a teenager.  It was an exciting endeavor from my perspective, as I was just starting to form opinions about the outside world. My family was heavily involved in getting the word out for his campaign, as it was a true grassroots effort.  In the grand scheme, he had little money for such an undertaking, plus he refused PAC money.  So, in those early stages, it was up to us and a few amazing strategists to convince an entire voting district that my uncle, a man I respected and identified as my mom’s baby brother, was up to the task of holding his own with Heads of State and casting votes on crucial issues.  I loved traveling with my family, and it proved to be an amazing education, far exceeding some things I learned outside of the classroom. We traveled all over the district to canvass neighborhoods, visit cafes, shake hands with complete strangers, and perhaps my favorite nostalgic memory of all…the parades.  Yes, we would participate in mom and pop parades all over the district, passing out candy and pamphlets to a string of strangers lined up on Main Streets through a haze of sweat and American flags.  My memory is kind on this account, as we met many obliging strangers.

My memory is kind…up until a certain point.

At a certain point one summer, we were nearing the end of a parade trail, and the road led us to a group of thug Union members who disagreed with us.  Do I believe all Union members are thugs?  Absolutely not.  Do I believe these men were? Absolutely.  They strategically placed themselves at the end of the route, away from the vantage point of children in the town no doubt, and apparently picked manure from an obliging field.  They felt that throwing manure and words of hate would prove their point.  Among our group were many of my younger cousins.  They were willing to throw crap at children to prove their point.

They proved only one thing. It proved to me that there are bullies everywhere, who, when given the chance to make their opinions known, they will do it…at whatever cost possible, with whatever weaponry available.  That memory is burned in my mind. I remember their actions.  I remember their raised voices, but I cannot, for the life of me, remember what they actually said. I remember the manure rather than the matter. It was a select group, but sometimes, select groups unfortunately make the loudest noise.

My uncle went on to serve six terms in the House of Representatives in D.C..  He had many amazing people with him along the way, but of course there were those who disagreed with his choices.  Disagreements were bound to happen, but never in his twelve years of service do I remember disagreement looking as ugly as what those men were willing to do to him and to us that day of that particular parade.

THIS election is bound to get ugly, and social media has allowed us to become flippant and downright mean with our opinions and agendas.  Please…PLEASE…take all of that passion to the voting booth, and be kind to one another.  Say hello to the person waiting in line with you.  Even if you disagree with them, I think it’s rather exciting to wait in that line…waiting to cast a vote.  

Don’t throw crap. Be informed and vote.  Then go get ice cream after you vote.  

The choir geek and the cartwheel of death

When I was in middle school, there was a hallway I would have to enter before walking into the gymnasium.  I was never really great at sports, but like any average child within a public school system, I was subject to running excruciating miles or hiking myself up on a balance beam, risking the scrutiny of a long line of cheerleaders and bookworms behind me.  Walking down that hallway into the gym felt like a walk of shame, each step inched closer to something I hated doing.  It was a room with terrible overhead lighting and a high ceiling – high enough for my insecurities to dance and swirl around me in a 50 minute time frame of agony.

I never could do a cartwheel.  If I ever saw the gymnastic mats out and assembled as I rounded that corner into the gym, I knew I was in for a long, almost hour of a near death experience. One day in particular I saw the mats and balance beams standing in the gym, like statues ready to applaud my failures and assist in my personal abyss of insecurity. I reluctantly went into the locker room and changed into my gym uniform.  Like a prison uniform with a code number, it read my last name in magic marker on either the left or right hand side of the t-shirt.  We lined up near the mat of death and one by one, we all went hands first into performing the obligatory cartwheel.  The girl before went and I think I may have blacked out from fear.  I leaned over to the gym teacher and whispered something about how I think I was going to die.  Die from fear of doing a cartwheel.  

Then something happened that I choose to never forget.

The gym teacher leaned into me and said something where only I could hear it.  She said, “Some of these girls can’t sing a song like you can.  We all have our strengths, we all have what we are good at.  I don’t care if your cartwheel is good.  I just want you to try.”

And just like that, I realized that I had worth in that room full of the smell of sweat and terrible overhead lighting.  That teacher understood the value of not crushing a child’s soul just because she wasn’t like the other girls.  I will forever be indebted to that teacher, for applauding me once I got to the end of the mat.  The cartwheel was terrible, yet I got a thumbs up.

To this day, I am still the choir geek.  I am still the girl singing songs while other girls are able to do really great cartwheels.  Because that teacher took ten seconds out of her life to put things into perspective for a child that thought she might die, I am inspired to pay it forward.  

You have strength and value where others do not.  Your part to play may not look like what the person to your left or right has been given.  But play your part well.  Be confident in what gift you have been given. 

And always…be willing to try some cartwheels here and there…that sort of humiliation is sometimes just what we need to put it all into perspective.

A smelly barn and a yoga studio

Yesterday, with a few hours to spare, I quickly ran up two flights of stairs to my apartment, grabbed a towel, a change of clothes and my mat, and headed to the yoga studio.  Every single girl in the city should take advantage of yoga (hot yoga to be more exact).  I'm not sure what is more empowering - the actual class, or the ability to make the spur-of-the-moment decision to step away for awhile and spend time in a room that, when you close your eyes, makes you feel like you are at a stifling hot beach.  Sans a little flirty beverage, of course.  Water only permitted.

The instructor asks that everyone find their one word of intention at the start of class. This is the part that gets tricky for me.  I try to be focused from the get-go, but there's a sort of panic that goes along with buckling down my intention.  At first, I thought of "Christmas".  Yes, I love Christmas so much it hurts, but as soon as I thought of Christmas, the heat in the room made me think only of stressed-out drivers honking their horns, the presents I have yet to purchase, and food that is way over the calorie budget.  So, instead of thinking of "Christmas", I switched my word to "love".  LOVE.  I figured love was a good word for drivers who allow the right-of-way to complete strangers.  Love means the faces of my neices and nephews that I will see in a few weeks in their green and red PJs.  And although historically it may not have been in December, I believe love is the picture of a baby born in a barn among the stench of animals when there was no vacancy in a hotel. Yes.  Love.

Near the end of class in the cool-down phase, the instructor put on "Winter Song", sung by Ingrid Michaelson and Sara Bareilles.  This song has always been an instant calming force for me.  The instructor asked all of us to remember our intention and what it was that kept our focus in class.  I kid you not, a few seconds after that question was posed, Sara and Ingrid's voice asked, "Is love alive?"  What did I do?  Immediately start to cry. My sentimental gauge shoots WAY up during December, and among the sweat of a dark yoga studio, there was no exception.  And yes, Ingrid and Sara.  Love IS alive. 

Later, I later rushed to go babysit for a family I've watched for years.  Through first steps, through teething, through learning complete sentences, I've seen it all. When I walked in the door, the kids were TOTALLY wound up, providing a lovely juxtaposition for a yoga studio.  But I thought it was wonderful.  Kids being kids.  The oldest girl was acting so silly, but in her silliness, with no prompt or reason, she blurted out, "Anna is spelled L-O-V-E." Again, lump in my throat.  It was silliness on her part, but I couldn't help but think that it was my word of the day.  It was a gentle reminder that I am indeed loved. And, with all my faults and shortcomings, I want to strive to love others the way I have been shown love. 

 Yes...love IS alive.

Okey-dokey. Let's prime the canvas...

I had a fabulous night on the town yesterday with my dear friend, Geoff.  I hopped the train downtown to the Washington Street stop and walked to Petterino's, where I was sure to find a cocktail I couldn't resist.  When I saw Geoff's face, I was so ecstatic to see him, as we had much catching up to do before walking into a dark and quiet theatre.  We were going to see "Red", the latest production in Goodman Theatre's season.  It is a two-person play with a meat-and-potatoes script.  You have to chew each line with great care before fully digesting what you've just seen. Two artists challenge each other in questions of ego, importance and downright selling-out.  There are so many excellent lines in this play.  Lines that caused me to wince, laugh or cry. It did everything a great play is supposed to do.  It made me think.

At a certain point in the play, the actor playing the great artist, Rothko, looks at his employee and says, "Okey-dokey. Let's prime the canvas."  I looked at Geoff as if we were about to fall over the cliff of a great rollercoaster ride.  We knew something fantastic was about to happen. The two painters looked at a blank white canvas, paintbrushes in hand.  The score music took over telling the story at that point.  No dialogue was needed.  The actors used their paintbrushes as if a prohibition-era shootout was happening.  Red paint was EVERYWHERE.  On the actors clothes, in their hair, on their faces, on the stage.  Once their work was complete, they threw the paintbrushes on the floor in a choreographed manner, and fell over in exhaustion.  I was brought to tears.  With all the great, complex themes of this play, this visual stayed with me. The painters were starting a journey into the unknown, with unbridled confidence.

To prime a canvas for anything in life can be a bit scary and daunting.  You are taking that first step in what may either be a master work or a critical failure.  Either way, you are preparing yourself for the unknown.  This sounds odd, but I think letting go of fear and anxiety in any situation is the best primer of all.  You hope you will create something beautiful, and you strive for it, but fear is your worst enemy.  Fear is what keeps you from starting the picture at all. 

And Geoff, I'm glad we had those cocktails AFTER the show to continue processing this great work. (I'm still thinking about it by the way.) Let us all not let fear win.  Let us pick up the paintbrush, and decide to create something...anything.  Okey-dokey. Let's prime the canvas...