Eternal Summer

Aren’t we sixteen

with long hair

 Firm breasts in halter tops

Tanned skin and pooca shell necklaces?

Aren’t we sixteen

on the beach

Bodysurfing the wave

Calling “outside” and swimming with one fin at Doheny?

Aren’t we sixteen

with firm legs

Flat stomachs in bikinis

 Eyes for the cute surfer with zinc oxide on his nose?

Aren’t we sixteen

With strong arms

Gidgets paddling our way through the surf

Dreaming of what the night would bring?

Nope

We are fifty

On our way to Waikiki

Mid-way through life

with prescriptions and sunscreen

We are fifty

With children well past sixteen

 An extra lap

And skin to spare over the knees

We are fifty

With age spots where freckles once were

Gray where the blond streaks once shone

And bi-focals to read the map

Yep

We are fifty

The bonfire of youth still burns

A blast at the beach

Hawaii Awaits

Aloha

Honolulu will never be the same.

I Owe it All to Kafka

Little did I know I was in for an epiphany right there in the old town square in Prague. I was on a Franz Kafka walking tour with a few other tourists from England. The tour guide was telling us that Kafka only left Prague once in his life to go to Berlin with his wife. He returned to Prague shortly after and never left the city again. He was a tortured soul – working for his father in business. But Kafka was first and foremost a writer. He never published anything he wrote in his lifetime. In fact, he instructed his friend, Max Brod to burn his writing after his death at the age of forty-one, an instruction not followed. As I listened to the story of Kafka’s struggle with the writing life, I took in the historically ornate buildings around me. Prague, with its own tortured history, is emblematic of the strange tension that resides in so many artists’ souls – that is the tension between beauty and despair. Prague is a town brimming with artistic genius. Music pours out of the churches – organ concerts and Mozart’s Requiem – creations from another world - clash with the popular culture of the twenty-first century. Prague, the town of the Velvet Revolution and Vaclav Havel, spared bombing in World War II by Hitler because of its beauty – even that a shadowed piece of history, is a city with an identity crisis. It seemed fitting to me that Kafka would have come from this place. As I walked along the cobble stoned streets and crooked buildings, I was moved by the idea that one could spend an entire lifetime in such a small area. Where stimulation fuels creativity, imagination must take over when travel and adventure are lacking. The mind is indeed a vast resource – how else could Kafka have written Metamorphosis ? And then my epiphany. One of my fellow tourists remarked as we walked along, “why would anyone keep writing if they aren’t ever published?” And right there under the windows of unseen ghosts, I said to this stranger, “Why then, you must not know what it is to be an artist.” I pondered my response, alone in Prague. I sat at a café and pondered what I’d said. Do I know what it is to be an artist? I pondered as I sipped Czech beer and ate goulash. I pondered as I crossed the Charles Bridge between the line of carved statues toward the immense castle looming on the other side. This city, hauntingly beautiful, became a living, breathing symbol for my own stunted artistry. “What am I waiting for?” I asked myself. Kafka wrote because he had to. That’s what writers do. An artist must produce his art regardless of pubic acclaim or it will not exist. It must move from the heart to the page in order to be. And I pledged then and there to produce my own art in whatever form it would take. I promised myself that I would fearlessly create because otherwise, as Martha Graham says to Agnes DeMille if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost. The world will not have it. And I recalled my favorite passage in Virginia Woolf’s To The Light House;

Quickly, as if she were recalled by something over there, she turned to her canvas. There it was, her picture. Yes, with all its greens and blues, its lines running up and across, its attempt at something. It would be hung in the attics, she thought; it would be destroyed. But what did it matter? she asked herself, taking up her brush again. She looked at the steps; they were empty; she looked at her canvas; it was blurred. With a sudden intensity, as if she saw it clear for a second, she drew a line there, in the centre. It was done; it was finished. Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigue, I have had my vision.

It is this that I wish to be able to say on my deathbed.

War Games

 A mother’s work is never done. Parenting “adult” children can prove to be more challenging than the “terrible two’s.”  We live in a different time now. Every generation says so. But ours, at fifty, includes two wars, an unprecedented economic crisis and our college-age “children” facing an uncertain future. So it made complete sense that the army recruiter’s offer of a clear path to the future with promises of “seeing no action” and a “signing bonus” would tempt my best friend's boy-man son of eighteen. A future that would strike terror into any mother’s heart, regardless of political bent or patriotic leanings. As it did in the heart of my best friend. And so as she prepared for the recruiter’s visit, she swept the floor, stifling tears of rage and fear as women have done for generations, burying their heartache in housework. And she dug through pictures of her son’s life carefully framing them.  Little League, first day of school, graduation, the high school prom – photographs of the milestones in a young life. “They’re coming with their ammunition,” she told her son as he took in the shrine on the dining room table.  “This is mine. I want them to see what they are taking from me.” She probed his reasoning. Pouring over the four-color recruitment brochure she asked him to tell her what in the list jobs he was interested in. He couldn’t say. She asked him to name three other things he’d like to do with his life right now other than join the army. “Use your imagination,” she urged.  He couldn’t say. 

“Not knowing what you want to do is no reason to join the army.” She said. “No one knows what they want to do at eighteen.”

“At least finish your education," she argued. "At least then you would enter as an officer. Then, I would support your decision. But not like this. Not now. This isn’t child’s play.”

She didn’t know whether her words had made any difference. With the awkward tenderness of a boy of eighteen, he told her how much it meant to him that she cared so much. He was visibly moved by his mother’s plea.  He canceled the recruiter’s visit.

I sat, listening to my friend’s story, my heart bursting with pain and pride. Mothers still weep while generations of children go off to war. Somebody has to do it, it’s true. But no one can blame a mother for trying to save her child’s life.  With the Herculean strength of a desperate mother lifting a car off of her baby, my friend showed her son that a mother's love knows no bounds.

ALB 7/7/09

Absolution

(An excerpt from Amy's memoir ARIAS )

Her breath was barely audible. It had been three days since they began the morphine. During those hours, praying by the bedside of my dying mother, I sat as she seemed to greet invisible visitors. With an “other-worldly” gaze, she stretched out her arm, reaching to someone, would gasp and smile – sometimes exclaiming in surprise, “hiiiiiiiiiii”.

Mother had secrets. She had been married once before Daddy and had successfully kept it from me until one, hot, deserty afternoon I interviewed her about her life for a grandmother remembers book and she stumbled over the details of her wedding day. “Where were you married?” I asked. “Richmond….Roanoke….Richmond….uhhh.”

“You don’t remember where you were married?” I asked. And then with a sheepish look like a naughty child, she confessed her sin - that she had been married once before to a man named Ed Smith. A big, Catholic church wedding in Cincinnati, Ohio and Daddy had been the best man. She admitted that she’d done it intentionally. She’d always wanted Lee and eventually got him. Ran off with him, two years later, with the blessing of her mother. She divorced in Reno and then, Lee and Elsie, married in a courthouse, in Richmond as it turned out.

Mother’s white, freckled skin, paper thin and marked by bruises and the battering of old age had always been rough and scaly. Ireland would have been a better climate with its mint green hills and misty, moist rain than the hot, yellow sun of California.

She loved feeding the birds and as I sat listening to the gentle purring of her last numbered breaths, I saw my mother on the front porch on Resh Place in a floral house coat, tossing stale bread into the air for the crows, whom she considered “pets”. Mother and the birds. Her yard filled with the music of birds chirping in the lush bushes of her yard - it is why I sang “Feed the Birds” from Mary Poppins at her funeral.

Mother, five feet two and three quarters at her tallest, now lay in bed, a tiny, diminutive frame less than ninety pounds, her body used up – the last of life squeezed out of it – wife, mother, homemaker, businesswoman, child – we’d reversed roles some time ago as the dementia stole her reason. She sometimes called me “Mom”.

Longing to exorcise the demons of her soul, the guilt of having broken Catholic dogma, obediently staying outside the church, denying herself Communion because of the sin of divorce, I called upon the priest to administer the Sacrament of the Sick. With the ritualistic oils, sign of the cross and crucifix, not unlike the ring of garlic used to fend off evil vampires, with the absolution and forgiveness of her sins and the promise of life ever-lasting, my mother died.

ALB June 2009

Theatre On Purpose

“Who am I anyway? Am I my resume? That is a picture of a person I don’t know.” And so the lyrics from Michael Bennett’s A Chorus Line reveal the inner thoughts of the actor vying to be cast, chosen, selected by the disembodied, all powerful director on the god microphone. It is this very question “who am I” (emphasis on the “I”) that forms the basis for my philosophy of theatre education – Theatre on Purpose.

I’ve spent over twenty years of my life working with young actors whose dreams of stardom cloud their vision. I treaded those boards myself having begun performing at the age of eleven with my own dreams of Broadway and beyond. It was only after I began teaching that I realized the power I had to positively guide and the potential I had to destroy the tender spirits of these aspiring, young actors. I confess, I have done both. The role of the drama teacher requires a nuanced barometer measuring the delicate balance between encouragement and hard, cold reality. There is nothing new about this dilemma. The theatrical cannon is full of stories of star-struck youth. Stage Door, 42^nd Street and All About Eve are just a few of the chestnuts with some version of this plot line.

I never ascribed to the notion that my job as a drama teacher was to be a wet blanket. I’ve always erred on the side of the encourager and have seen some of my students go on to satisfying careers in the arts while others struggled with the “success demon” that plagues so many artists. What defines success? Fame? Name recognition? It has always been my intention to focus a student’s attention on the craft and love of the art rather than the idea of fame. However, I have after many years come to realize that each individual is on his or her path and must learn whatever lessons are his or hers to learn. It was my over-developed sense of responsibility and illusion of parental control, (earning me the name “Mama Barth” with my students) that kept me in the coach’s role always walking that fine line.

Just as the young student of acting has his or her entire future ahead filled with a myriad of choices and dreams, the drama teacher has an equally full past that if left unresolved can have a devastating impact on his or her students. It was C.G. Jung who said, “nothing exerts a stronger psychic effect upon the environment, and especially upon children, than the unlived life of the parents.” Throughout my career, I came to recognize the truth in this statement as it applied to the choices I made as drama teacher and director. I observed other drama teachers wrestling with this same issue. If left un-processed, unanswered, the question, "who am I anyway" may haunt the drama teacher and affect everything from his or her motives for teaching to the selection of age-appropriate material for his students. For example, to remain creatively challenged, stimulated and engaged, the drama teacher may camouflage the choice of a play that might be directorially interesting but utterly inappropriate for his students in the guise of challenging them to rise to the occasion.

While my experience has shown that there are many dedicated, highly skilled, and generous drama teachers out there, sadly there is also a population for whom teaching is the “fall back” or the temp job while still pursuing the illusive sit-com on the side. I have come to believe that teaching drama is a vocation, requiring self-knowledge and a keen awareness of the importance of role modeling.

Theatre on Purpose is an approach to teaching drama that inverts the process and uses theatre as a means for a student to discover one’s self. It involves self-reflection, counseling, mentorship, and intentional choices on the part of the teacher in all areas including scheduling with a realistic balance between home and rehearsal time and material selection. I have come to believe that it is in the spirit of generosity and humility that one grows the most. I know too many forty-something unfulfilled actors who walk around with a giant hole in them still asking the question, “who am I anyway? Am I my resume?” If fame and fortune are the goals, then anything short of those achievements leaves one feeling like a failure. I have made it my mission to help my students know who they are first so that they do not fall victim to this emptiness later in their lives.

While there is no blue print for this approach, it must begin with the teacher’s honest examination of his or her own un-realized dreams. The lure of the spotlight, applause and the unanswered question “who am I anyway” must not be worked out through the lives of his or her students. The drama teacher must also define what he or she deems “success”. An unhealthy definition might include an unrecognized drive for perfection and status within the educational theatre world. The drama teacher must maintain a clear compass when making choices that impact his or her students.

Theatre On Purpose also emphasizes using the art form as a way to shine the light on societal values and issues. For example, I recently guided a group of students through a process of creating an original dramatic collage focused on racism . Over the years, I have collaborated with students in creating pieces on homelessness, war and immigration. When, as a teacher, I join with my students in the collaborative process, not so much as a director and teacher but as a co-creator, the relationship shifts and the ensemble experience becomes a mutual bond.

There is nothing easy about this approach to theatre education. Intentionality takes effort, constant assessment, and evaluation. It is however, a fulfilling vocation for those who are called. As the bard himself wrote in Hamlet, “This above all: to thine own-self be true,/ And it must follow, as the night the day,/ Thou cans’t not be false to any man.”

Meaning and Story

"In the dark times, will there be singing? Yes. There will be singing. About the dark times." Bertol Brecht

Our life is our journey. Our journey is our story. Our story is our legacy. In her book, Writing For Your Life, Deena Metzger says that we each must come to know our story, for in the end, our story is all that we leave behind. Traces of our lives, our loves, our attempts, our failures, our victories, our passions, our losses, our dreams, our desires – the particularity of our lives. They may be found in journals, discovered in diaries, cherished in the hearts of our loved ones and tucked away in pockets of memories or may die in silence, scattered with ashes, buried in the grave. Pieces of ourselves, left to interpretation. Metaphorically speaking, reader/interpreter/inheritor of our stories, be they children, grandchildren, friend, enemy, historian or politician, sift through the remains of our lives only to imagine, surmise, frame and piece together what ultimately is a puzzle of perceptions. What good is our story? Asking this question pre-supposes that anyone would care about the details of our lives. Certainly, one could argue that autobiographies enlighten, guide, give perspective, fill in gaps of information, satisfy curiosity. But is this the true value of our story? If life is journey and journey is story and story is legacy, then the authoring of our lives is the authoring of our story. Truth and lies, autobiography and fiction, author and interpreter all interwoven, boiling down to one thing – meaning. But what is meaningful to one may have a different meaning for another. The interpretation of the event, the story, the life, is directly affected by the lens through which the event/story/life is being interpreted. Regardless of the fact that meaning may be relative and subjective, there is one absolute. The story itself has meaning only in so much that it is read, reflected upon, considered, examined and sought. If our story is our journey and our journey our life, then, as Socrates said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” Deena Metzger says that we each must come to know our story – which implies that it is possible to live our lives without knowing our stories – without finding meaning in our experiences – without examining the legacy we are leaving behind. Ultimately, then, the greatest value in our story is how it may impact the living of our lives. It is in the intentional and conscious examination and authoring of our lives that the greatest impact can be made and the greatest legacy may be left.

Never is life and meaning so tested as in times of tragedy, loss and grief. The story of our lives becomes framed within the context of circumstances that prompt, compel and force us to ask questions that through the ordinariness of our days fall mute and remain disguised, camouflaged, or denied. As the plot of our story becomes more complex, the meta-text – the marginalia – the highlights and underlining add color and texture. Meaning begins to take shape. Chapters here-to-for unwritten, unspeakable, unimagined, fill pages, rip out hearts and bring us to our knees. Despair, confusion, uncertainty, anger, rage, loneliness, compassion and tenderness swallow us whole. Like Red Riding Hood in the belly of the wolf, we must digest our story in order to be transformed by it. As Deena Metzger says, we must come to know our story. I would add, we must come to know who we are within the context of our story, thereby we become not only character within the story, but interpreter and author. It is from this premise that I assert that writing our story is a an act of healing and a way of creating meaning from the events of our lives. And thus, Purple Sage Arts was born.

In Defense of the Arts in Education

In today’s world, where instant is everything - where we seemingly are more connected than at any other time in history, as an arts advocate, I would assert that in many ways we are more distant than at any other time. We don’t talk to one another, we email, text and twitter. In the digital age, Youtube and facebook are the sources of entertainment, discussion, and information . While all of these technological advancements have made an indisputably positive contribution to our society, their power has also made the role of the arts all the more important and vital to the culture. There is no replacing the experience of a live performance - whether it be in the theatre, at a choir performance, or in the concert hall listening to an orchestra – each of these art forms is brought to an audience by living, breathing human beings.

Students of the performing arts learn what it means to practice, to commit to a discipline, to rehearse and to channel the energy necessary for artistic expression. They understand that there is nothing instant about achieving excellence – but rather, it is the very opposite – time - that allows the musician, singer, artist or actor to develop in her craft- and it is a life-long pursuit. Passion, desire, drive and love are at the heart of this commitment. Creativity is the divine, God-given energy that flows through every human being – and the artist is the channel for that energy. Imagine a world without beauty. A world without the music of Mozart, the poetry of Shakespeare or the biting societal commentary of Arthur Miller. The musicians and the dramatists reflect our world back to us – holding “the mirror up to nature” as Shakespeare so eloquently wrote.

Social networking cannot replace the authentic relationships, respect, and community that are created in a performing arts ensemble. The teamwork required for collaboration transcends technology and relies entirely on interpersonal communication and emotional sensitivity. High touch may have been replaced by high tech in most areas of our life today – but not to for the cellist, guitarist, or singer. Not to the actor or dancer – To the artists, it is all about high touch.

And the greatest touch of all – is the one that touches our hearts – makes us feel and, as Arthur Miller said, become “more fully human.”

Resources: Educational Theatre Association