When my son was 5 we’d moved to a new city in the middle of winter. His lip quivered as we parted on his first day at his new school but his little self sucked it up and marched into the classroom. All day I fretted over how he was coping. When it was time to collect him 4 hours later, one of the longest four hours of my life, he bounded out of the school bursting with glee anxious for me to meet his new best friend Zack who towered over him, indeed still does. Playdates turned into sleepovers, birthday celebrations, ski trips and the obligatory rounds of playful boyhood mischief. 

One of the gifts to me of this fine friendship has been knowing Zack’s Mom, Ghislaine. The weave of our friendship deepened as we moved through our boys’ various rites of passage together. Conversations covered all aspects of our lives…from the joys and mysteries of parenting, to the stresses of being sole financial providers (both of us divorced), to the challenges of balancing career with Mommy duties. We were constant, bolstering resources for each other for tutors, coaches, minor medical issues, sales on school supplies. When it came time for our boys to get their driver’s licenses we fretted. Would they be good drivers? Would they, please Lord, be safe? Responsible? We talked about everything…or so I thought. 

A year into the boys enjoying autonomy zipping around town in their respective cars, a young African American man not much older than our sons was wrongly felled at the hands of a white police officer. Then another and another. I’m a white woman and with great remorse I confess that I had not been aware that these shocking, tragic and senseless events had been a fact of African American life. My veil of ignorance began to drop and as I started to become aware of a level of terror I’d not even been cognizant of, I called Ghislaine. Addressing her for the first time through the paradigm of my being white and she being an African American woman, I asked her if she had always been worried for her son Zack’s safety over and above the obvious dangers of driving on account of his being African American? There was a long pause, a deep breath and a simple, thundering, “Yes.”  

How was it possible that through the myriad layers of conversation this excruciating concern had never arisen? What metal of forbearance, of long-suffering was at play in juxtaposition to my blindness? 

In George Floyd’s final moments of slow assassination he cried for his Mother to save him. Experiencing the involuntary, primal rage and grief that ignites in me I am astonished at the forbearance so very many African American mother’s who have suffered the ultimate loss have maintained.  From what depth of faith have too many found the will to turn the other cheek let alone get out of bed in the morning?  I would not have it, I’m sure I wouldn’t.

These words, this confession of ignorance comes out with Frankenstein like awkwardness. I do not know how to begin to have this necessary conversation. What is the starting point? From where does the tide turn? Do we at first have to see one another as separate in order to come together? Is that the process? Have we all along been lying to each other? Will our voices unite above the cacophony of suffering in a universal cry to find higher ground together? I pray we will.

I continue, in the meanwhile, to be astonished at the level of forbearance expressed in the midst of the ongoing protests. This letting out of grief, rage, fear is needed. This unveiling. I need it. I need to hear it, witness it, understand it, bear its burden to the extent I can, be culpable to the extent I am. 

Saints and all that is holy, please protect all our children, keep them safe from harm in order that they live to thrive in better times than these. 

The Tunnel

I like to ride my bicycle. That was likely a statement I uttered for the first time at four when I was wont to pedal my red tricycle as fast as I could to the edge of the world. Of course the edge of the world then was to the post box at the end of the driveway but still, those wheels took me to new vistas with discoveries and challenges aplenty along the way.

For many years I was not biking but rather would pedal vicariously when I could get my brother in law, Larry (an expert and daring bicyclist) to tell me of flying over boulders and tackling near perpendicular single tracks.  Next lifetime for me on all of that, however, he did inspire me to try fire trails which are in abundance where I live. I knew from hikes that these fire trails were wide, well maintained and boasted no boulders.  Boring for most, perfect for me.  

So, one morning about 15 years ago after getting my son to school, I GPS’d to a nearby fire trail and dragged my spanking new bike out of the car. Helmet, gloves on, shoes clipped in and off I went sailing down the ridge of the Santa Monica Mountains with the Pacific Ocean in full view. I was in heaven. Wondering why I had stayed away so long from one of life’s great pleasures blinded me to the fact that every stretch I was sailing down was every inch I’d have to climb back up.  At the eventual stopping point I caught my breath and started pedaling…up, ever up.  You will quickly surmise that I’m no expert on wheels.  I panicked when a heavy patch of gravel lay ahead.  Helpful sayings like “You’ll fall! Get your toes out of the clips! Careful! Danger!” were just some of the voices that would go off in my head.  More often than not, down I’d go. Besides hurting, this started to piss me off so I started to experiment with mind games that might distract me from the mental fear trap that would gape wide open at the slightest challenge ahead on the trail.  To my glee I discovered that looking past the gravel patch or deep divot to a smoother patch just a bit further ahead, allowed me to sail past the challenge with no effort at all. OK, I get it…don’t get so focused on the challenge at hand that you loose your way. In life too? Why not. 

I became brazen. When a Colorado pal invited me to go up a single track through some pines I accepted. Things were going so well until I missed a turn and came off the trail. Mid air and still clipped in I heard a voice in my head say “I don’t belong here.” Got lucky. Crash landed to no ill effect except ofcourse to my pride.  Another life lesson…”Don’t be an idiot.”

These days I’ve been riding a trail that was formerly a railroad bed wending through the mountains. Perfect for me…flat, gorgeous vistas, graded inclines. There is however a tunnel. Uh oh. They ignite all those pesky voices. Ofcourse I could solve the pitch blackness of them with a helmet light but…I don’t know…maybe its the Yankee voice in my head that says that would be weedy. 

In an effort to foil the upcoming darkness I developed an utterly unglamorous system that’s equal parts superstition and logic. I shut one eye hoping to acclimatize atleast one eyeball to the void into which I’m about to enter. At the last possible second I lower my sunglasses, open the sealed lid and hope for the best.  All would go well for the first few meters but then, no matter what time of day, there would come that utterly disorienting moment of being plunged into total darkness save the mouth of light toward which I’d now be pedaling furiously.

Until recently panic would arise, my body seize up, I’d white knuckle grip the handle bars. Challenged by real and imagined giant potholes, what sense of center I’d been enjoying in the light of day would give way to the certainty that with nothing to orient myself, I would loose balance and crash…and did so more than once.  That pissed me off again. With nothing but black void to look ahead to the previously discovered remedy would not work here. The only place it seemed I would be able to go was inside….me. So I did. Easiest way in was to breathe, something I realized I’d not been doing in the tunnel.  Breathing, besides being good for you if you want to stay alive leads to the core, to the center. Riding the breath, if that makes sense…the focus went directly to the center and to everything I needed in the moment: balance, security, safety. Within a few meters I was back into the light, event free.

I look forward to the tunnel now…to the moment of continuing forward by going inward. In fact in quarantine mode, as we all are for now, that seems a pretty good practice to enjoy. 

Happy breathing. Happy pedaling and happy discoveries beyond the post box at the end of the drive. 

Swimming With Turtles

In an absence of a future and in the stillness of the now my mind has been unearthing old memories…really old.  When I was very little, four, I had a pet turtle. We were both little, seems to me he could sit in the palm of my hand. I hadn’t thought of him…or was it a her?…since he wandered off into the garden one day.  I loved that turtle, and somehow I knew he loved me back.  We had a dog…small wonder she didn’t eat Turtle, that was his name. I loved our chocolate lab, Chessie who could play and run and patiently lie at my feet as my four year old self pretended to read to her from my picture books…but Turtle was just there. It was enough, he was enough, I was enough.
The memory prompted a google search which revealed qualities affiliated with these noble creatures such as patience, longevity, wisdom, fertility, persistence.  Dr. Google also pointed out that while slow on land, turtles are agile in water and if you’re inclined toward the symbolic…expert, experienced travelers through the subconscious.  
This could well be defined as a turtle chapter for many of us, after all who better to consult on sheltering in place?  Every once in a while as I shelter I dare to turtle swim through underwater imaginings and envision what the new normal will be when we emerge from this pause and isolation. Depending on the day I’m either buoyed with the discoveries or find myself thrashing through currents of a full on downward dive.  The buoyant version has us all living at a more realistic pace, being kinder to the planet, cherishing what matters and practicing with far greater fluency the better qualities of resilience and compassion. On the downward dive days I fear for my son and his generation’s future, I fear for our nation, I fear for the live arts and the crucial balm it’s connective tissue dispenses. Fortunately a lilac bud about to burst open in my garden or one of the dog’s delight in the moment reminds me that the spiral is mere conjecture and a more immediate sense of self-sustaining life that is good, comes to the rescue. 
Another memory surfaces. A penchant of Dad’s when my sister and I were little was to take us on road trips. When we’d invariably get lost it would never be too long before one in our family declared, “Here we are in this place!” My sister and I would peel with laughter from the back seat…though it was a statement of the painfully obvious it was strangely comforting, grounding. We may not have known where it was but we were somewhere. We were there.
Not that it’s a laughing matter but that’s sort of what it feels like now midst quarantine retraction. We don’t really know where we are but wherever it is, it’s not where we were nor do we have a clear sense of what the road to our destination will be like nor in this case, what the destination will look like when we get there. 
Apparently the assignment du jour besides sheltering in place and washing our hands is to make do with what we have, to sort thoughts and belongings, to support and work to the extent we can and to the extent our life circumstances demand. No small task. It calls on us to be patient, persistent and wise. I look forward to seeing and hugging as many of you as I can in the new normal. In the meanwhile, may the spirit of the turtle be with you. 

Big Dog

I got a dog.  A BIG dog from the pound a five days ago.  I have a history with the pound. Last time I went with the desire for a mid sized, older dog to companion my aging lab. What I came home with was a bouncy one year old blue heeler who turned our lives upside down. As per her herding instincts DNA, she was very bossy…ordering my lab around, nipping heels, human or otherwise to keep them away whether I wanted it or not. The one time she shooed a bear easily ten times her size off the property she got a gold star and a bowl of tuna fish. That sweet doggie now lives on a ranch in Montana. Happy ending for all.

This time I was going for a smaller dog, female, say 5 years old. Predictably I came home with a 70 pound one year old, male shepherd.  The first time he jumped up on me in glee I realized, as I was falling over, that he and I were almost the same height. Moral of the not send me to the pound. 

This four legged had been surrendered to the pound by a family who had lost their home. I wish I could get a message to them to let them know that for all their challenges, their doggie has a home. He came with the name Courage. I liked it. Appropriate for our moment in history but I wanted my son to have a say in this.  We’re 1200 miles apart at the moment so we face timed as our newest family member zoomed around the yard in puppy frenzy, gazelle like taking flight over the occasional bush. My son, quick as a wink said “Rex..let’s call him Rex.” Great name but weird…had my son ever even heard the boyhood story of his Grandfather’s favorite dog, dramatically lost and then found, named Rex?  

The first night Rex spent about half an hour barking at his own reflection in the window, demolished two shoes, pooped and peed on the white carpet three times and woke me up at 2am to play. We had work to do. Luckily he appears to be smart. Day one, he learned how to come and go through the doggie doors, happily chomped on a rawhide chew rather than more shoes and so far no more deposits in doors.  Day two we went for a trial walk on a leash…clearly he had done this before. Next day I thought we’d try for something a bit more ambitious so we ventured up a small nearby mountain. The way up went well enough, the way down was a very different story.  Parts of the trail on the north side had ice. Down I went, cuing apparently Rex’s inner sled dog and away we flew….only without the sled. As it turned out it was a very efficient way down the mountain. I don’t remember when I’ve laughed so hard. Good for the soul even if not so much for the derriere.

In isolation as we all are at the moment, having giant Rex bounce around the property I feel less marooned. He gets me outside first thing, we hit the trails, his joy is infectious. I think pound doggies know they’re lucky.  Rex frequently comes to me unprompted and plops his head in my lap, goo goo eyed. Unconditional love at the ready. Dogs really are one of God’s better inventions.

Wish me luck on day six. 

Dreaming of Joe

I’ve been having bizarre dreams over the last week or so. Reaction I’m sure to our swiftly shifting sands.  Here’s one…
I was in the audience of a one person play being performed by the very brilliant, Joe Spano. So far so good. He was seated at a dining room table across from an empty chair. No idea what the play was about. Irrelevant. 
From my purview I could see that a man in white, complete with a white beret, was approaching the apron with the clear intent of joining Joe on stage. I could see this was about to happen yet felt powerless to do anything about it. Said man in white did indeed climb up onto the stage. Joe, sussing up the situation to be dangerous decided to placate the man and give over to the intruder’s  plan to speak. The man in white explained to Joe that he’d wanted to see what it was like to be a star on stage in front of a large audience. Weird, naughty, innocuous enough but there was an unconscious menace lurking in the man. Somehow Joe understood this and rather than put himself in harm’s way attempting to shut him up alone, Joe decided to let white beret man have his wish.  Whilst the unexpected guest was talking…going on about having had a toxic childhood, escalating in emotional timbre spewing forth emotional vomit…Joe was writing something on a piece of paper. Then slowly, so as not to disturb the man who was now fully engulfed in his own rage, Joe held the paper up to the audience for us to read.  “Are you really just going to sit there and do nothing?? Is this really ok with you, this…what’s going on?”  
What did it mean? Not a clue but it was disturbing even if it was nice to see Joe on stage. 
The next day as I walked blissfully to the off broadway theatre I was working in, a text message pinged. It was one sent to all our cast instructing us please to come to the building and collect our belongings as the run of our show had been cancelled. Not just for the night…for the rest of the run. That night all of Broadway was shut down for the foreseeable future.  The next day all city performances in venues 500 and up were to be closed. Within 48 hours all venues of more that 50…plus restaurants and …well, you’re living it too. I don’t have to tell you. The only thing far as I can tell that is thriving atleast in my neighborhood, are the grocery stores whose lines look like disco club cues from the 70’s. 
Looking forward, I fear for the live arts. Knowing this kind of scenario can pop up now, who will buy a museum membership or live performance subscription? Who will invest in a play without a fiscal contingency plan?  What on earth could that contingency plan look like?  At the very least the quantifying of actual need us mortals have for the live arts will be mightily put to the test. I mean, do we really need them? Will we or won’t we insist on our live entertainment once we’re past this round one of extreme peril? Will the heart and collective psyche again find a way to bring them about in a sustained continuum? 
The weather happened to have been stunning yesterday and what with distancing out of doors being an acceptable form of isolation, I took a long walk.  Normally on such a saunter I’d have passed hundreds of people. Instead, I’d be hard pressed to say I passed 60, if you don’t count the homeless. They were were out enjoying the sunshine in number. My path took me through Central Park. There, patterns were the same but greatly diminished which gave the illusion that things were going on as normal but in fact they were not.  The weekend playing fields were empty of kids and cheering parents. The number of joggers, bikers, lovers…decimated and then some.
I think things die in stages. Posters for performances are still up, there’s still an Arts and Leisure section in the Times but soon there will be no new shows to promote. Does this mean we have atleast for the moment entered anew into the Dark Ages? If so we’ll have to dig deep to rediscover why we as artists do what we do and figure out a way to do it anyway. We’ll have to keep the flame alive and find a way to continue to hold the mirror up to our flawed selves.  Find ways to tell jokes, be the bellwether, companion our common tragedies, rejoice in victories of the human heart, process for the collective the times we’re living in and ignite imaginings of a better future. These and more are the artist’s duties. 

Theatre as we know it came about at the birth of democracy. It companioned democracy’s gestation posing possible scenarios that helped form it’s founding principles. If we are moving into a new reality then isn’t theatre just as crucial now as it was in Greece 2500 years ago? We will have to decide.
In Japan the color white is symbolically reserved for death.  I think the man in white was foretelling a death of what all I cannot know….but something and it’s too soon to tell.  We’ll get through this to some kind of new normal, just as we did after 9/11.  What it will look like in the long term is anyone’s guess.  What institutions, thought patterns, social patterns, greeds and generosities will evolve in the new, only time will reveal.  Artists have a particular brand of stubborn resiliency.  If the live arts are to survive I think it will be up to it’s own community. Maybe tonight’s dreams will reveal something. I’ll let you know. 
In the meanwhile, bravo Joe.

American Citizen

Watching the news tonight I heard myself being called a lot of names I am not. “Damn commie, socialist, a do-nothing, unpatriotic, unAmerican.” On the very off chance that you dear reader see me through this lens, I’d like to introduce myself to you. Though I am a Democrat I am non of the above.

When I was 15 my parents, avid travelers, took my sister and me to Moscow. It was the height of the Cold War but Americans were permitted to travel there in extremely limited number. We were among the lucky few. Going from our world to their’s was akin to entering into a black and white movie. Even a 15 year old could see the soul crushing monotony etched into Moscow faces. With no competitive commerce, no possibilities for new anything on anyone’s horizons, individual expression and entrepreneurial spirit that are so much a part of the free world had been sucked into a black hole. I suffer no illusions about what life could become for the human spirit under a communist or socialist system that allows few freedoms. I had similar impressions in Beijing in the mid 80’s when I got to go there on a black market visa. 

I’ve since had the chance to return to both of those magnificent capitols over the last decade which though they have challenges (don’t we all), now thrive. Judging by the ebullience of their 21st century citizens, the former down trodden-ness had nothing to do with them but rather with the repressive systems under which they had lived. 

I am not a do-nothing. I contribute, work, work hard, hard too, I stay relatively up to date with trends, news, world events, new books. I chase facts, not doggedly but I rely on a compilation of accredited news sources through which I form my own opinion. I give back, I enlist and yes I could and should certainly do a good deal more than I do. 

I am patriotic. Having been raised overseas I got to experience first hand the envy with which parts of the world used to eye us.  Because we did not experience America tangibly in our daily walk we were free to know it as an idea, an ideal even, a dreamscape…the land where you really could become whatever and whomever you aspired to be. For many years I attended the American School in Japan. Our student body boasted 32 nationalities at the time and countless spiritual disciplines. As a community we were living proof of the best of America’s intent to welcome all and to cherish the ability to live harmoniously with persons of all faiths.  The can do, shimmering American grit with a forward pressing optimism were no doubt romanticized through distance…but every time I came to the US I felt renewed by a spirit of life’s unfettered possibilities and unlimited horizons.

I vote, I pay taxes. I pray. I do not pray against anyone. Not anyone. Not ever.

If you and I happen to be on different sides of the aisle, I bet that if we were to talk for even a short while we’d find we have a good deal more we agree on than not.  I bet we both love our families, want clean water to drink, want our kids to be able to read well and have good critical thinking skills. We’d want for them to be industrious and to contribute to their communities as part of a fuller life. I’d bet we both want decent roads, health care we can afford and would feel for a down trodden immigrant family if we ever we had the occasion to talk with one. 

Shortly after Nancy Reagan died, I read an interview with I believe it was Larry Speakes who had become Acting Press Secretary following James Brady’s injury from Hinckley’s bullet. Speakes recalled that once President Reagan was out of danger from the wound sustained, he’d been in conversation with Mrs. Reagan strategizing on who might be the best person to visit the recuperating President at his hospital bed.  A minister perhaps or close friend? Mrs Reagan insisted it be Tip O’Neill knowing that an invigorating conversation with someone with whom her husband did not see eye to eye would be the best possible tonic. The meeting came about and as Speakes was leaving the hospital room with Mrs. Reagin he’d turned around to witness Speaker O’Neill on bended knee holding the President’s hand as they, together, recited the 23rd Psalm. Now that’s beautiful, just beautiful and representative of the best of America, representative of the best in any of us. It’s also common sense behavior. When the low roads diverge there is always the high ground on which we can meet. They found it. We can too. 

Happy Birthday Pere

My sister came home from school one day years ago, proud to have learned in French class that the word for Dad, was “Pere.” Lingering at our dining room table, we laughed and giggled. In a collective family decision, it stuck. From that moment forward our beloved father was known as Pere. That and so many memories have come to mind today on what would have been Pere’s 105 birthday. He died peacefully at home a little over five years ago now, just days away from becoming a centurion. Four weeks before he took his leave, at 10am this particular morning I felt sure his passing was imminent. Wanting him to feel that he made it to his full 100, I hurriedly filled his syringe for liquids with his favorite scotch, poured a shot for myself, quickly sang Happy Birthday to him and down the hatch went our celebratory liquids. I wondered if, as he lay peacefully with his eyes closed in his little bed, he had heard the tune?  When I then noticed a tear rolling down his aged cheek, I knew he had. 

Our Pere was an American Gentleman. Self made and hard working like so many of our fathers, he had four degrees. Three in engineering…civil, mechanical and chemical with honors from University of Chicago and the forth in drama, from Yale. He never met a stranger, loved our Mother, Marshelline fiercely for 72 years of marriage and was devoted to his family. He had an ebullient optimism, an infectious joie de vivre and an insatiable enthusiasm for learning. One of his many passions was ancient history. Following this interest he took special pains to get all of us on a leisurely and glorious sail through Greece’s storied isles.  Another particular delight for him was a trip to the pyramids in Egypt. 

Reaching back even further in time, he said he would dream sometimes of being able to fly like a helicopter in a time warp over the earth witnessing volcanoes shape mountains, and glaciers cut great swathes to form valleys. He enjoyed his mind and so did we.

In my belief system and I’m bold to say experience, persons you love who have passed on visit occasionally. I don’t mean sit down for a cup of tea nice as that would be, but send signs, make their presence known. 

Two weeks before she died my darling girlfriend who had a tumor on her pineal gland (so named for its likeness to the shape of a pine cone) promised to send a sign if she could, after she died.  Six weeks later whilst walking in the New York City, there in front of me on the ground was a fully intact giant sequoia pine cone. What? “Hi, Heather.”

Mom has visited several times. Once, a month after her death, I was hiking down a hill off the trail with my beau deep in Yellowstone. Processing her absence I was crying most of the way when suddenly her scent was pungently in the air.  So certain was I that she was standing right behind me that I turned around.  There, at eye level isolated and perched atop a giant boulder was a ruby crystal about the size of a baseball. Mom’s birthstone was ruby. “Hi Mom.”

Pere has come to me far less frequently. I would say, but twice since he passed. The more memorable was on a trail we would walk whenever he visited me in LA. Pere loved to hike and had done so with frequency all his life. So, there I was alone a few months after he had died on that beautiful trail when suddenly I was surrounded by a swarm of dragonflies. I had hiked that trail easily 100 times over the years and never had even seen a dragonfly.  I cannot tell you why but I felt in the moment that it was Pere’s presence, that it was Pere accompanying me as he had done so many times, right there. “Hi, Pere.”

There have been other such experiences and ok these may not speak to you, feel free to call me a nut but these moments have been meaningful to me. I have felt both comfort from and a tangible presence of my beloveds gone before.

You will understand then that reading the paper today on his birthday, my eyes fell with some interest on an article about dragonflies. It said new research had revealed that their “neural system is more than 250 million years old.” That they had “taken to the skies long before birds were even on the evolutionary horizon” and “flew with precision much like helicopters, in bursts of speed.” Dragonflies in other words, have been around for a very long time, long enough to have witnessed geological shifts just like Pere had dreamed of being able to witness.  

I hope your beloveds gone before, visit you. I really do. It’s special. We’ll see how it feels when I get there but from today’s point of view, it has made me unafraid to die.

In the meanwhile, Happy Birthday Pere. We love you and now we know, your dream came true.  Enjoy your flight!

Sacred Spaces

There are a number of sacred spaces, for any of us I’m sure. Churches and temples, to name the obvious. Then there are canyons, mountain tops, streams and according to many indigenous cultures, any place water meets land. Cool and yes. For theatricals and those audience members who have been, as I have, blessed to experience a performer who becomes a transparency to universal Truths, the theatre can also be a sacred space.

Lately, I’ve been in rehearsals for a swell new play and as I entered the room yesterday I could not help but feel that the rehearsal room qualifies as a sacred space as well.  I’ll do my best to explain to you, why.  

Rehearsals are for the most part held in large empty, make that sterile rooms in which three tables are set up along the periphery. One smack at the center of the back wall for the director and stage manager.  Usually, to the side walls, one for props that have been assembled for the actors’ use and experimentation. A third for waters, teas, coffee, maybe some snacks and well, anything else.  Various chairs too are assembled in a row along the back for the actors, to recuperate, to study, to watch from and stay in the zone during the course of rehearsals. 

On the floor of the empty space in front of the director’s table is taped the outline of the set which is adorned with only the essential furniture bits. The participants of this journey about to get underway collectively imagine the walls, stairs, levels, etc., that the designer has envisioned for the actors to move into. For the actor that is the ocean into which we are about to dive. First day is as exciting and nerve wracking as a first day of school. Folks are bright eyed, smell good, are reasonably well groomed at the down beat of any given work day. Particularly so day one. Everyone has trained to get there, oft times for decades, and bring their best game. It’s always humbling to look around a rehearsal space at any given company and ponder the years of training, resilience and sacrifice represented in those assembled.

Barring emergency, everyone is on time and ready to work as they cross the threshold. Anticipation runs high. In the “meet and greet” there is a sense of adventure in the air as well as that crucial downbeat of trust. We begin, usually with a first read through of the play. In the beginning, after all, was the word. The first pass at those cranial vibrations, hearing your fellow actors speak their roles begins to illuminate jewels, queries, questions, mysteries that we’ll have to mine together. In this womb, the focus is all encompassing, the commitment fierce and senses heightened. Over the course of the next few weeks as we barrel toward being in front of an audience, a blending of souls takes place during which everyone brings their best selves into the room. Things like gossip, negativity are shut out. Baggage, in other words, stays outside. 

You work. The director observes and leads, giving insightful notes and guidance from an objective view ever mindful of the tale’s larger arc, themes and rhythm of language. As the play’s shape begins to take form externally, internally actors are taking as deep a dive as they possibly can to get to the truths that are our duty to articulate. That’s what we signed on to do. Dig, dive, go into the cauldron, illuminate what portion of humanity we’ve been allotted to the best of our abilities. Optimally it is a safe place, filled with respect and support in which you must strip emotionally. As if by magic if you strip, the truth in turn strips for you.  My brilliant composer friend Hugh McElyea reminds me that the word sacred shares the root of the word sacrifice whose derivation means to “make holy through loss.” I’ve seen actors fall apart emotionally in these rooms and rise, phoenix like from their own ashes.  We seek transformations, transparencies.  Just the effort counts. Atleast in my experience that for which we strive in those spaces comes but rarely, however, the ritual of being there, the effort-ing, creates pathways. This is the thing that makes it sacred. 

I’ve had the chance to spend time in rehearsal rooms as an observer in such far flung cities as Paris, Beijing, and Moscow. I’ve been incredibly fortunate to have worked in rooms in Monaco, Tokyo, New York and more. There are constants. Like the inspiring beauty found in nature, the reassuringly perpetual movement of water, like an altar, those tables, chairs and taped floors become the vessel and oasis both for whatever transformation we undertake. Journeys to any sacred space involves effort. Everything from challenging physical exertions, to getting the kids dressed, fed and out the door in a Saturday or Sunday morning scramble. We arrive variously to a place where roles and rituals are respected be it for safety and/or reverence.  Disciplines of the mind, body and soul all come into play.  Sacred spaces are a place of refuge where we go at times to wrestle something through with our God. Where we call on intercessions, enlightenments, make demands from the above and from the paradise within if only we can find it. 

I have to head out now to rehearsal. What failures and discoveries await me I have yet to know but I am grateful beyond measure that this particular space, indeed these spaces, await.  We have but to make our way there…into that cauldron of the wild and sacred space. 

The Ah Ha Moment

Every now and then I’ll have a big ah ha moment…you know the kind of eureka rush when you see some lie blown out of the water by a Truth.  Call it a light bulb click or revelation but its visceral and you’re sure it has changed your life. In my case I usually can’t remember what the heck it was the next day.  I choose to believe that’s because its been absorbed it into my psyche but that may well be delusional. Whatever the case, I had one of those today but this one, maybe this one…I’ll remember.

I had a beautiful, talented, fiercely loving Mother.  She was also on occasion domineering and to a large degree, controlling. She was born in an era not given to supporting gifted women of ambition and so in her own loving way she projected her thwarted ambition onto her daughters.  Driven by this devoted love she tended to micro manage our choices, thoughts and drives.  In so doing I realized today…today!….that that need to control usurped to some degree a conversation I should’ve been having with my self from an early age of how to regulate, check in with, even know a deeper self.  It also interrupted a conversation Mom probably could have benefited from with herself.

I remember two moments when I was about five that I had with what I’ll describe as my core being. One was in prayer.  It was private, nothing more than a sure feeling that an essence of self was in direct communication with a beneficent and divine power. It was a simple moment that felt good. 

The other, soon after, was an intention that erupted from within and illuminated my five year old horizon. When I declared this newly revealed intention to Mom that I wanted “to be a ballerina” she said “No you don’t.”  “I don’t? How could I not know myself?”, I wondered. Her statement was so sure I can to this day feel the shock of hearing those words. It felt like an unmooring.  Some part of an authentic trajectory shifted that day to align instead with Mom’s. I’ve had millions of moments and eruptions since then but a healthy percentage of them have been more in discourse with Mom’s voice than with my truest inner own.

Surely we all leave untapped experiences and selves on the road as we move forward in our lives be it by choice, circumstance, loss or ignorance.  Part of the human condition.  Fair to say that if I had really wanted to become a ballerina I’d have found a way.  Also, Mom likely spared me years of disappointment as my head and rib cage are too big for a decent silhouette and my turn out is downright lousy.  What lessons though and/or open doors go undiscovered by not taking a path we think we’re meant for?  What repercussions occur when we are parented from the outside in rather than from the inside out?  What part of self remains unarticulated and silent when drowned out by even extremely well intended outside voices? What star dust goes unmanifested? In living even a portion of someone else’s, do we miss our own destiny? Can a surgical separation of false from the authentic voice be performed in the operating theatre of hindsight?

Mom had a gorgeous life.  In fact two nights before she died, Dad and I were sitting on her bed, all of us crying until Mom said, “I’ve had the best of everything and I know I have.” What a statement! That is not the sentiment of a soul who has left a lot of living on the table.  Still I mourn the talents she did not have a chance to express.  That goes for the macrocosm as well. 

It’s a new era for parenting today. A brilliant Rabbi I know teaches a course called “How to Parent the Soul of a Child”.  I cannot imagine such a line of thinking to have been popular during my early years.  People were too busy just trying to rebuild shattered lives and communities in a post WWII world.   In the free world though it is an active pursuit on today’s frontier and I suppose it’s never ever too late to parent the soul of the inner child.

Hey, Ballerina(s)! I’m coming for you!

New Year’s Day, 2020

I pray. I meditate. Not that I do either well mind you but both are a part of the rhythms of my life. I’ve seen prayer work, really work. One miracle I feel I was privileged to witness was when my friend’s young son was suddenly stricken with spinal meningitis. The prognosis was permanent brain damage, deafness and most likely death within 24 hours. In the terrifying swirl of the emergency a nurse on the case grabbed my quaking girlfriend and said if she was the praying kind to send word out to all she knew to drop to their knees. We did. Within 24 hours her child was not dead, nor deaf, nor as it turned out damaged in any way. Today he is a thriving and brilliant adult.  His grandmother said that during the course of her fervent prayer she had seen the face of Jesus hovering over her grandbaby in the ICU. Those are the facts. Call it what you will.

One time in prayer, deeply I suppose, I had what must’ve been an out of body moment as suddenly I was aware that I was hovering somewhere near the ceiling looking back down at my body. That was fun.

I like to ask people how they pray? My favorite reply came from a Texas matron, a practicing Christian. In her rich drawl, she said, “Oh that’s easy honey. I get on my knees, look up and holler, ‘Do something!’ ”  

I asked a Chinese painter friend the same question and with unabashed glee he answered, “Oh Lindy! All you have to do is cast your boomerang into the infinite paradise inside you. It always returns with some heavenly inspiration from the Universe. Whoopie! Ole!” (For those of you reading this who knew him, you will recognize the very brilliantly gifted Gerard D’A Henderson.)

I pray for my friends and family. I’m grateful that some of them pray for me. My hobbled together belief system leads me to feel that knowing even for a moment that a person is precious, has a shimmering soul, that they are connected to the Universe, to the great Unknown has a beneficent effect.

As my Mother drew her last breath I felt a moment of euphoria unlike any I’ve ever experienced.  I was aware of grinning ear to ear, of saying “WOW” out loud three times and of seeing a beautiful yellow, white and amber plume exit her third eye. I understood this to be her essence departing. No one else present in that sacred, intimate circle of love saw it so I cannot say I saw it with my eyes. I’d read about the term “spiritual senses” and eventually came to understand that that must be what allowed me to have had that experience. On one level it was death but what I witnessed more profoundly in that moment was a transition and it changed my sense of spirituality, forever.  Thanks Mom.

This morning, January 1, 2020 I woke up under the stars at about 5am. The canopy was on glorious display this moonless morning. No wind, no birds, just still splendor. It was easy to pray.  In meditation I have that sense of dropping down into the sacred within.  Somehow though, in my feeble Christian practice, the search for the divine presence has usually involved a yearning upwards, a reach outwards. This morning when I said “Our Father who art in heaven” I did not feel the concept of heaven as being up or out there somewhere but rather inside, in that place usually sought in my meditations. Continuing the Lord’s Prayer in that framing brought new resonance. 

The sun is up now, this New Year’s Day is bright and blue. I’m lucky enough to be looking out over the Pacific Ocean through a lacing of palm trees. Birdies are in symphony and a distant cock continues to crow us all awake. 

I feel fortunate to be living in a time when the wisdom of so many is available to fuel an ongoing exploration of the arena of prayer and meditative journeys.  To list the prophets, Christian Science, scientists, Deepak Chopra, Joseph Campbell, Pima Chodrin, Dalai Lama, gurus ad infinitum, George Mumford, Rumi and the remarkable Rabbi Mordecai Finley is but to barely scratch the surface. 

My prayer to the best of my ability today is for all of us to know as deep a sense of peace as possible and for that to translate into actions both small and large. It’s for the protection of our beautiful planet and all the wonders she holds.  It’s for active compassion as we begin together our new roaring 20’s. Happy New Year. Here we go!