One Word

I remember the song, "I can see clearly now, the rain is gone."

Webster's Dictionary defines the word clear as: bright; cloudless; luminnous; easily seen through; free from mist or haze; free from ambiguity.

The doctor's clarion call, like the bell tone of an angel, announced to us in the waiting room of Long Beach Memorial Hospital, "The lymph nodes are clear."

With that one word, the haze of fear that had descended with the diagnoses of breast cancer was lifted.

Never has a word carried such light.

No One is Alone

Twenty-eight years ago my life shattered when I was twenty-two years old. My cousin, Jimmy, told me later that "everyone's life shatters." No one prepared me for this. Maybe that is because no one really can. The good news is that twenty-eight years later, I'm put back together. Certainly not the same person I was then but I did pick up the pieces. Mental health is a continuum. Depression, anxiety, and mood disorders are often triggered by events over which we have no control. Part of the picking up of one's self often includes some very dark, difficult passages - "dark nights of the soul" as they are often referred to. One of the books I read during that time, was called When the Heart Waits by Sue Monk Kidd. This book helped me to understand that during a depression, transformation is taking place. Kidd uses the metaphor of the caterpillar and the cocoon. One cannot rush the process of becoming a butterfly. The cocoon cannot be opened prematurely. She likens a depression to being in a cocoon. I think looking at these dark times in our lives through a spiritual context can be helpful. We are where we need to be - always. I can only speak for myself of course, but it has been my experience that everything works to the good. Even the hardest things we face in life - the most unimaginable pain we might experience - contains gift. But sometimes, we feel very alone. It's important to remember that we need not be. Humbling as it may be, it is important to seek help when we need it. Ask. The Beatles said it best, "I get by with a little help from my friends." Other books that have been helpful to me include Henri Nouwen's, CS Lewis' A Grief Observed. As the song from my favorite musical, Into the Woods says, "No one is alone." It's important to remember that.

Process

Yesterday I met with my writing teacher, Cecilia Woloch She was consulting with me on the manuscript of a memoir I have been crafting for fifteen years. Two intense hours of page by page, line by line critique that have given me a focus for the next revision. I was reminded yet again, that creating an artistic work takes time, patience and commitment. Writing is only part inspiration. The rest of it is hard work. It isn't easy. It is a process. I can't wait to roll up my sleeves and begin. I love fine tuning. It is the same way with theatre. Rehearsing a play is akin to the writing process in that the director may begin with a vision - an idea, a hook, a theme, an insight - and then over six weeks or so, has to work to shape the play to communicate this vision as clearly as possible. Clarity for a reader or for an audience is important. That's not to say that a final product is not subject to varying interpretations. Of course a reader or member of an audience comes to the work from his or her point of view and life experience. The artist, be he a writer or theatre director cannot be worried about what might happen to the work once it is made public. All the artist can do is craft the clearest articulation of his vision possible. The rest is out of his or her hands. The artist must love the process - messy as it is. It is a labor of love. Rushing it, may lead to a premature birth. In rehearsal, I often tell my actors that this is the time to risk, to try new things and to fail. Fear of failing inhibits the growth and discovery process necessary in rehearsal. This same idea may be applied to the writing process. One of the most inhibiting factors to a writer is fear of failure. Every artist must define for himself what this means and face this fear with great courage. Committing to a writing practice is essential to overcoming this fear. Exercising those muscles, staying in shape, and practicing the craft help to develop self confidence. This is why being in a writing group is so helpful. It is why actors continue to study their craft in acting class. Practice. There is no replacement for it. Loving the process makes this commitment a joy rather than a chore. I believe loving the process is the key ingredient to being an artist. I came away from my meeting yesterday knowing that I probably have a year's worth of work to do on my memoir before it will be ready. What a great feeling.

Ribbons of Life

Count down. Another Friday unlike any other Friday. Surgery on Tuesday. All of a sudden pink is the color of the day. I really don't like pink. Never have. And I don't like what it has come to symbolize. I don't want a pink ribbon. I don't want to race for the cure. I didn't want the red ribbon either. I didn't want to walk. I didn't want to quilt. I don't want to be a member of this club any more than I wanted to be a member of that one. This color combination is close to the heart - pink and red - Valentine's Day - love - passion - heart ache - pain - anger. The truth is, you can never really know what it is to experience something until you've been through it.

When AIDS showed up at the door, I had no choice but to sit down with him and to get acquainted. We became quite intimate and he changed my life. Odd bed-fellows. After his work was done, he became my muse. My creative partner. For fifteen years, he and I have collaborated. Solemn Brother. We have come a long way together. We are on solid ground.

I wasn't prepared for breast cancer to come in. She was sneakier. Less obvious. When I first met AIDS he looked gaunt, grey and he shuffled. BC hid inside - disguised in strength and beauty. She walked briskly three miles a day. Until one day in the garden, she made her presence known. Sneaky sister. Ferocious female. Enemy of woman. She is a liar of sorts. AIDS at least came out of the closet. BC, was stealth in her attack. She snuck in through the back door.

I suppose I will befriend her at some point. What choice do I have? But it's too soon for me to open up to her. I am guarded. Reserved. She is unfamiliar. I do not trust her. She, too, will likely work her way into my being. There will be new knowing. Deepening. I may even see her as gift. Tied in a pink ribbon instead of red. But not today. I'm not ready to take on this relationship.

BC, Forgive my rudeness - but you can leave now. And take your ribbon with you.

An Appreciation

While responding to an invitation to attend a memorial celebration for my old theatre professor at USC, John Edward Blankenchip, I gazed upon his picture and my heart ached a little bit. My throat got tight and tears sprang to my eyes. There was an opportunity missed. I'm not sure I ever said "Thanks, John." I was young back then and didn't exactly fit the typical drama student image of the late 70's. I came from a very sheltered, Catholic school environment where I had performed the leading roles in the annual musical throughout high school. While not entirely straight laced, I fit in at the sorority house much more readily than the wild world of the USC drama department in 1977. It was John Blankenchip who first "discovered" my talents at USC and cast me frequently in his shows. I traveled to Edinburgh, Scotland to perform in the Fringe Festival with USC in 1979 where my love/hate relationship with the theatre really took root as we ran a full rep of plays while crewing the shows we weren't in. It was hard work. My parents came to visit once we opened and stayed to see me play Linda in "Pal Joey" eighteen times. They never missed one of my performances. Ever. John observed this and recognized the love of my parent's reflected in the person I was. I know this because of a conversation we had after we returned from Edinburgh. John and I drove down to San Diego to see "Dames at Sea" in which a fellow classmate, Kirby Ward, was performing. I was a senior at the time and only a few months away from graduation and becoming engaged to be married. While neither of us knew it at the time, I was also only a few months away from losing my father. Daddy had always championed my acting. He was my coach and biggest fan. But he was also old fashioned and made it known that what he wanted most was for me to marry and to start a family. This mixed message was one that caused a great deal of inner conflict as I approached graduation. On our drive to San Diego, John began to ask me about my plans. As we talked about my future, he shared with me his thoughts on my chances of "making it." He told me he though I had what it takes...if I wanted it. But, if, what I wanted was to settle down with a family, then, that is what I should do. He told me honestly that he didn't think I was "cut throat" enough for the entertainment industry. His words were prophetic.
On August 17, 1981, my father dropped dead at 64 jogging to the office. John attended the funeral. On May 1st, 1982, I married. John attended the wedding. While I have many memories of John from my days at USC, it is this for which I remember him most: A teacher, who cared enough to affirm me for who I was and to take the time to show it. My life has been a complete blend of these two aspects of myself - the theatre and family. Thanks, John. You were right.

A Little Poem

You can only become what you are
by allowing yourself the time
to find who you were
from the beginning
but lost
because
you got so busy
that you forgot
to take time
to recognize the person
you forgot
you are.

Living the Questions

Being an artist means: not numbering and counting, but ripening like a tree, which doesn’t force its sap, and stands confidently in the storms of spring, not afraid that afterward summer may not come. It does come. But it comes only to those who are patient, who are there as if eternity lay before them, so unconcernedly silent and vast. I learn it every day of my life, learn it with pain I am grateful for: patience is everything.

From Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke

Patience has never been one of my strong points. It seems I was born in a hurry and haven’t stopped racing since that day a half century ago. I have lived my life with a sense of urgency and intensity. Lately though, something has been happening slowly from within. My full throttled outward productivity level is downshifting. I am learning about containment. I am learning about restraint. I am learning about silence. I am learning about listening. I am learning about selectivity. I am learning about patience. I have spent twenty-six years - over 40% of my life, focused on producing and directing other artist’s work. My contribution to the artistic world has amounted to interpretation, analysis, and attempts at communication of a playwright’s intent. The stage, my canvas, the materials borrowed. The required energy is focused outward, driven by the demands of production. The ephemeral nature of theatre leaves but a memory, an imprint of an experience. A moment here or there. Transcendent moments perhaps – even transformative experiences - but lasting only in the minds of an audience.

Recently, I walked the festival grounds in Laguna Beach, taking in the artwork created by local painters, photographers and sculptors. I read the artists’ statements next to their work. Their work. Physically present for me to look at. I was struck by the uniqueness and individuality of each artist’s style and their attempt at saying something through their art. Only patience could create such art. I found myself genuinely inspired. And I began to ask myself what it is that I have to say? What is it that is uniquely my own? What do I need to do in what Sara Lawrence- Lightfoot calls, “The third chapter?” It is not an answer I seek. It is a new question. In her essay, Coming to Writing, Helen Cixous says, “what misfortune if the question should happen to meet its answer. It’s the end!”

With each answer, a little death - stagnation. With each question, a new birth - vision. Is this what Rilke means by “ripening?”