When I Die I Want God There

I remember the day I drove to the crematorium.
I knew I had to be there with my mother even though I knew she was already gone.
Have I told this story?
Have I written it?
Maybe.
Yes.
But I'm remembering it now.
So I'm re-telling it.

I'd awakened  that morning knowing it was the day.
I'd arranged with the mortuary to be there, though they'd advised against it.
I was having a hard time letting go of that body.
That body had given me life. Had held me and hugged me and tickled my arm and patted me.
And for the past few years, I'd cared for it in ways I'd never imagined. Mother and I had traded places.
On that morning, I was having a hard time with the idea of that body being incinerated.

So I looked for a sign.
The first was a camellia in full bloom in our yard.
Pink.
Mother's favorite.
I carefully snipped it and wrapped it in a wet paper towel and foil to take with me.

As I drove down the winding road to the crematorium
there were two birds - with a wide wing spread - soaring ahead of me.
They were the only two birds in the sky that I could see.
They flew ahead of me the whole way to the crematorium - as if leading me.
Soaring, dancing in the sky.

And I thought
There they are - Mom and Dad.
Dancing again at last.

I knew that they were together. That they had sent a sign to me
that they were dancing in the heavens and that it was alright.

When I arrived at the crematorium,
They pulled the casket out and asked if I wanted to see Mother one last time.
I said I did.

I placed the camellia on her chest. Kissed her cheek for the last time -
and gave the okay to roll her body into the oven.

Whether those birds were a sign
or whether they were just two birds swooping in the wind
whether a camellia in bloom was a sign
or whether it was just the start of spring
whether there is a heaven
and eternity
or whether there isn't
doesn't matter.

This is what I know.

Believing it
is comforting.
Believing in something eternal
makes the living more meaningful.
It is all a mystery.

I just know that when it's my time,
I want God there.
Because believing it
makes it so.

The Golden Ticket

There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
Hamlet Act II Scene ii
 
I recently returned from a ten-day trip chaperoning a group of students in England.  The trip had may artistic and professional dimensions to it which will no doubt be inspiration for future blog posts.  However, the story I wish to tell is about an experience I had that has reconnected me with myself and changed my outlook on life.

I got a call at 1:30 a.m. on August 10th, that our flight back to the states had been canceled and there were no flights available until the next afternoon.  This was a lousy wake up call portending a long, dreary day filled with hassles, vouchers, airport hotel rooms, and the domino effect of arriving home a full day later than planned. At 5:00 a.m., with students in tow, we drove two hours from Warwick, where we had been staying, back to Heathrow to take care of rebooking our flight and dealing with the details of the delay.  By 9:00 a.m. we were eating breakfast and I was faced with the decision of what to do with the rest of what was already a very long day.   Fighting the urge to crawl into bed under the covers until it was time to begin the trek back to the airport the next day, I announced to the wilted group that we would go back into London for a "bonus" day.
I directed everyone to meet back in the lobby in twenty minutes, giving me time to go back to the privacy of my room, have a quick cry, splash water on my face, change my clothes, and most importantly, adjust my attitude!

After an hour's ride into London on the tube, we arrived in Covent Garden, where the Saturday afternoon scene was festive and lively.
The students and other chaperones set off to explore, leaving me free and strangely solitary for the first time in ten days. Alone, my thoughts drifted to my childhood.
London held many memories for me, particularly with my father. From the time I was eleven-years-old, I grew up traveling to Europe most summers with my parents, always ending our six-week ventures in London. My father and I shared a love of theatre. He was my first acting coach. Hard to sum it up, but suffice it to say, everything I am today can be traced to my father.  He dropped dead of a heart attack when I was twenty-two-years old. His death changed the course of my life.  

As I stood there at the edge of Covent Garden, I was overcome with a strong sense of connection to him. I was compelled, utterly propelled, to turn around. As I did, my eyes fell on the three hundred and fifty-year-old Royal Drury Lane Theatre.  It was the first theatre in which I had seen a live musical with my father when I was eleven-years-old. The theatre seemed to call out to me, beckoning me to walk down the street toward it. Mesmerized, I couldn't take my eyes off of it - the marquee advertising the brand new musical version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - the hottest ticket in town.
As I arrived at the grand entrance, I noticed a crowd gathering and realized they were going in to see a matinee.  It was 2:15 pm and the curtain was at 2:30.  In a foggy, dream-like state, I walked up to the box office and asked "Do you happen to have any singles?" The woman smiled and with a beautiful British accent replied, "We have one seat left in the house." "Really....," I replied. And then after a brief inner dialogue of "Should I or shouldn't I?"  impulsively I said, "I'll take it."

I didn't pay any attention to where the seat was, I simply handed it to the usher who directed me through an open door to a center box seat.  I sat myself down on a velvet chair with three strangers, and shook my head in disbelief.  Center Box.  The show began and I was transported to the land of Charlie, Willy Wonka, and the delightful Oompa Loompas during Act One.  During the intermission, I made a quick call to my group saying I'd be 30 minutes later than I'd planned to meet them.  Joyously liberated, I wandered around the grand lobby and staircase marveling at where I was.  As the bells chimed indicating the end of the interval, I moved back up the steps to where I had been seated.  As I approached the box, this time, the door I'd entered was closed.  As I stepped up to the beautiful shiny, Mahogany door I came face to face with the letter "L".  I had been seated in the "L" box.  Stunned, I laughed and then burst into tears.  I knew in that moment, that something truly remarkable was taking place. My father's name was Lee. Overwhelmed, I thought of how my day had begun and where it had ended up.  I got the last seat in the house in the L Box for the hottest show in town.  I knew instantly why I'd been compelled to turn around! My father was waiting for me at the Royal Drury Lane Theatre in London where he had taken me to see my very first musical forty-three years earlier.

The theme of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is you have to believe it to see it.
The message came through loud and clear.  I wept with joy as I sat in my seat, feeling surrounded in love, embraced by my father. 
In the play, Charlie magically wins the "golden ticket."

 So had I.

When I left the Royal Drury Lane Theatre, I felt transformed.  I'd had a mystical experience reminding me that we live a mystery.  There is no death - only a passing from one dimension to another.  I have too much evidence in my life experience to doubt this.

I know there are those who will say it was all coincidence. But I know it was more than that.
What started out as a terrible day, ended up giving me one of the greatest gifts imaginable. Had my flight not been canceled,  I would have missed it. Had I crawled back into bed at the hotel, I would have missed it.
Since that day, I've been filled with joy and a sense that everything is as it should be.  I have felt at peace, happy, connected to myself, and absent of anxiety  and worry.
I truly believe my father sent me a message.
Trust that where you are is where you are meant to be.

You have to believe it to see it.

                                                   

Sent from my iPad

Birth Days

Today is my son's twenty-sixth birthday.  He came into this world fast.  I knew he was a he before he was born.  It was his kick.  It was more like a punch. Given I only had my first born to compare him to, her movement was more fluid, almost ballerina like.  He seemed anxious to get going from the outset. His legs, strong and solid to this day, gave my insides quite a work out.  A harbinger of  things to come - those legs would come in handy for Little League, Karate, Waterpolo, and Surfing.

From beginning to end, my son's birth took 45 minutes.  I barely broke a sweat. My hair remained neat and in place and given it was the middle of summer, my skin was suntanned.
My water broke and my labor came on hard.  My mother was summoned to sit with our daughter who slept in her new big girl bed happily oblivious to the fact that her life was about to change upon her awakening. So fast was he coming we had to hurry Mother up - fifteen minutes was going to be too long.  Mother made it and then she herself summoned my nephew to take her place, anxious to get to the hospital to see her new grandchild.
Two pushes and boom. There he was.  Our family was complete. A girl and a boy.

I've always said the two happiest days of my life were the days our children were born.  I feel enormously blessed to have had the privilege of being a mother. I think of my own mother, who always made a big deal out of my birthday - understandable because my birth brought my parents enormous joy given I was a replacement for a three-year-old child they'd lost.

Sometimes we take for granted this thing called birth. Not today.
Today, I am remembering twenty-six years ago like it was yesterday and I am grateful.
 Grateful to have experienced the miracle of birth!
Grateful for the gift of my children.
Grateful for this blessed day.
Happy Birthday, Son.

Dear Diary

One of my favorite songs from long ago began, "Well hello there, dear old friend of mine. You've been reaching for yourself for such a long time. There's so much to say. No need to explain. Just an open door for you to come in from the rain."
That's how I feel about my writing.  I've been away for a long time.
When I was a girl, I kept a diary.  It had a lock. In the early days of my journaling, I wrote in what was called a 5 Year Diary - with space for about an inch of writing per day per year.  I soon moved beyond those limited margins and disregarded the lines converting five years into one day per page. I sometimes wonder what it is that draws us to this self-reflection process. As a young girl I poured out my feelings to my diary always with the opening "Dear Diary" as if it were a trusted friend.
Uncensored and emotionally raw,  my diary contained my secrets, my loves, my heartbreaks, my fury, my thoughts, my fears. It was a conversation with myself or perhaps more to the point, with my psyche. The compunction to keep a diary had less to do with self-importance or that I was recording anything remarkable.  It was a simple chronicle of my day to day experience as an adolescent coming of age in the 1970's.  Even that makes the process sound too lofty and purpose- driven.
Whatever the drive to write, it stayed with me. The little paisley books were replaced with various journals. Some with lines. Others blank. Some spiral-bound. Others with colorful covers and quotes.  Shelves full of them. My life is an open book.
Blogging, while not as uncensored as the pages of my personal journals, is an extension of that process. The pen, replaced by the keyboard, still unlocks insights, ideas, and feelings undiscovered, unexpressed - leading to a deeper understanding of myself.
It is a familiar act that brings with it a sense of well being.
So why have I stayed away from it recently?
Well for one thing, my computer blew up.
Fortunately, my trusty pen and newest journal (a gift from my sister-in-law) served as an outlet for my venting and spewing  just like in the days of my adolescence.
But in truth, sometimes our day in and day out experiences are so overwhelming that writing about them is the last thing you want to do.
Now that there is a light at the end of the tunnel I have emotional space to process my experience and to reflect on it.  When you are in the thick of it, sometimes it takes too much energy to even turn on the computer or to pick up the pen.
The fact that I've figured out how to write on my blog using an iPad instead of a computer is a sign of my recovery.  This hasn't been an easy task.  The touch pad drove me crazy until I discovered a little keyboard that can be attached to the iPad making it a mini-computer-like experience. I still have to point at the screen when I make a mistake which is annoying.   I find myself pointing to the monitor attached to my desk-top computer at school trying to get it to do something until I remember to use the mouse.  Such is the new technology.  At least I'm back to the page!
Writing is like an old friend.  I've missed it and it feels good to be back.

The Cuckoo's Nest

If a house breathes with the life of its inhabitants then mine just exhaled.  The occupation is over.  My exile has come to an end.

For six months, my house was rented to a woman whose pent up nesting urges filled my home with so much stuff that not a single surface was visible in any room of the house.
She invaded my cupboards, cabinets, and closets and co-mingled our belongings into a jumble of treasure and junk that looked like a packrat's paradise. Christmas decorations, religious shrines, seashells, and candles everywhere.  An air of lunacy and woo woo hung throughout the house. She violated boundaries that any reasonable short term renter would find irrational.  She replaced shelves of my books with her own. She moved or  re- hung pictures and artwork on the walls,  moved furniture into the garage, and lined the threshold of the front door with dead flowers.

In the front of our house, red, white, and blue bunting hung from the windows along with a Christmas flag. The yard was cluttered with angels, a gazing ball, and sea glass. Holiday confusion in the month of April. The neighbors were happy to see us.

I might have found within me the slightest bit of compassion had it not been for the fact that she had so violated my privacy.  Now I realize that renting a house furnished leaves one vulnerable and I should have locked away every personal belonging - lesson learned. However, I had rented the house for months without incident. When I confronted her she responded quite matter of factly,
"I told you I was a decorator."
Silly me.
So this gave her the license to pull out my personal possessions and re-purpose them in unimaginable ways? In her mind it did.

It was both fascinating and disturbing - like looking into one of those warped mirrors in the fun house.
A wacky way of seeing the world.

It was my housekeeper, though, who said it best in a text message to me:
"Your house need you."

I realized it really wasn't the things that bothered me. It was her presumption and invasion of my space that got to me. When I suggested I go through the house to separate my things from hers so as not to have my things unintentionally packed up with hers when she moved out, she said she did not want her house dismantled.

Her house?
She, who had already dismantled my house?

Wars are fought over territory.  These were fighting words and any shred of compassion on my part went out the  bunting-draped window.  I had reached my limit. I was at the end of my patience.

All of a sudden, the crystal heart given to me by a friend, that had been carried from the dining room side-board drawer up the stairs to the back of the house and placed in the little marble box from a bookshelf in the office and then moved into the back bedroom to be displayed on a dresser with her rosary beads became a symbol for the whole mess.
She had touched, searched, foraged, and moved nearly every single item in my house and it flat out made me mad.
She had to go.
And I needed to come home.

All's well that ends well.  I have reclaimed my house and my table tops.  My rooms have been put back in order. The bunting is down and probably won't see the light of day for another year.  The neighbors have seen enough of it.
As for the crystal heart -
it will always be a  reminder that
Home is where the heart is!

Poetry and Passion Keep Him Young

http://www.latimes.com/features/home/

To All of My Devoted Readers -

This link will take you to an LA Times feature story on one of my beloved writing "students"  85-year-old poet, Jim Haddad, whose other passions are his wife of over 60 years and a Japanese garden in Pasadena.  I will be following up with a post on this prolific memoirist and poet at a later time.  For now, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Jim Haddad and his remarkable garden.  Note there is an open house on April 28th.  It's worth the trip.

My Dramatic Life

Some years ago, my picture appeared on bus shelters throughout the city of Fullerton as part of an advertising campaign for a summer theatre program for a local church. The campaign featured a giant version of my head shot with the caption: Amy - Drama.

A friend called me after driving past one of the bus shelters and said, "Either you are doing something big or you're wanted."
I joked that I'd finally made it on to a marquee.

I've thought about the visual irony of those pictures plastered on bus shelters and how apropos the caption Amy - Drama really was.  Someday, perhaps, it will be the  title of my memoir!

Through the years I have come to recognize a pattern. The shows I direct often reflect some aspect of my life circumstances. Whether in thematic through lines, dramatic metaphors, subtext, or the lyrics of songs, my shows almost always take on a deeply personal meaning for me.  Perhaps subconsciously, I am drawn to material that resonates.  Perhaps it is simply coincidence. Perhaps, like poetry,  plays and musicals are just open to interpretation.
For example, Into the Woods provided a rich context for the parallel real-life drama I was living as my brother was dying from AIDS in 1994.  Sondheim's lyrics and the show's theme that "Into the woods and through the fear you have to take the journey" seemed written for me.

"No More questions. Please. No more tests. Comes the day you say what for? Please No more. No more riddles. No more jests. No more curses you can't undo left by fathers you never knew. No more quests. No more feelings. Time to shut the door. Just no more."                                  

"Sometimes people leave you - half way through the wood. Do not let it grieve you. No one leaves for good. No one is alone. Truly. No one is alone. People make mistakes. Fathers. Mothers. People make mistakes. Holding to their own. Thinking they're alone. Honor their mistakes. Everybody makes. One another's terrible mistakes. Witches can be right. Giants can be good. You decide what's right. You decide what's good. " 

 I have frequently been able to connect the drama of my life with the drama playing out on the stage in front of me. Directing musicals has been an extremely soulful and sometimes healing experience. Like Shakespeare's "mirror up to nature," I am able to see my own life reflected in  my artistic projects, choices, and material. I cannot say these are conscious choices. In fact I see the reflection only after I am well into the process. Once again this has happened with my most recent production.

Right now I am directing Beauty and the Beast. As I sit and listen to the character of Belle sing songs with lyrics by Howard Ashman and Tim Rice about her journey that takes her away from her home, I can't help but be startled by how closely her sentiments express my own.

"Is this home? Am I here for a day or forever? What I'd give to return to the life that I knew lately... My heart's far,  far away. Home is too."

Belle's separation from home teaches her important life lessons.
One of the things that has changed in me since this period of exile began is my need to plan and to have  loose ends neatly tied up.  It has changed my very approach to life.  Essentially the need to plan is a need for control.  I have come to understand that the illusion of control offers a false sense of security about the future.  Instead, I've had to work on trust and faith - believing that it will all work out as it is meant to. 

"There's been a change in me.  A kind of moving on.  Though what I used to be, I still depend upon. For now I realize that good can come from bad. That may not make me wise but oh it makes me glad. And I never thought I'd leave behind my childhood dreams but I don't mind. I'm where and who I want to be. No change of heart a change in me."

Art imitates life...life imitates art...and so it goes. This is one of the great gifts that comes from working in the theatre.
Shakespeare was right. "All the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players."
And so the innocent caption on the bus shelter summed it up. Amy-Drama.
On with the play....