Everyday People

I am fascinated by people. I love them -- I love us. I love shared moments with strangers. Not THAT kind. Not the being-felt-up-on-public-transportation kind, or the quicky-in-the-unisex-bathroom-kind (not that I would know anything about that), but more like what happened today in Target. Somewhere, a child I couldn't see was singing very loudly her own song -- the only lyrics seemed to be "I love the holiday season", which she just kept singing, making up her own melody as she went along, carefree as can be. I happened to glance up and made eye-contact with two women shopping an aisle from me -- we smiled at each other and began to laugh. It was a nice moment -- for just a minute or so, we got out of our own heads and thoughts and acknowledged something sweet and joyful happening in our midst.

I'm taking a Biology class on Saturday mornings from 9am - 2pm in preparation for a possible career change that may or not be coming down the pike depending on a bunch of variables. The class is a great mix of younger students and women my age. The class is taught by a young woman from Ireland, one of the students in the class is from England, one is from Bosnia, and one is from Nigeria (that's just the international students I know of). I've had an opportunity to chat with a number of the students -- particularly the ones around my age, and I love hearing their stories. Jackie worked on the assembly line at the Chrysler plant until they closed. She's my lab partner, and on the first day of class, she said she was scared she wouldn't be able to do this -- that it would be too hard and she just wasn't smart enough. But she stuck it out, and half-way through the semester, she's doing great. Beth is my age, and thinking of going into the same program as I am (Occupational Therapy Assistant). She came to class a few weeks ago, just two days after losing her mother to complications from diabetes, because she didn't want to miss class. Svetlana is from Bosnia, where most of her family still lives. She lives with her mother and young daughter, having lost her husband two years ago to pancreatic cancer. She told me that although she knows life would be easier for her if she moved back to Bosnia, she wants to stay in the States so that her daughter will have more opportunities.

Last night, I had the privilege of working an Indian wedding reception (one of my multiple jobs right now is working for a catering company). I say that it was a privilege because I look upon any opportunity to be a part of a different culture's traditions -- even if only in a very peripheral way -- to be a privilege. The place was full of women in beautiful, elaborate dresses and saris, and men in suits. The women seemed to mostly cluster together on one side of the room, and the men on the other. Some of the them must have been Muslim, because a group of women went up to the mezzanine level, out of the way of the drinks and hors d'oeuvre, took off their shoes, placed a tablecloth on the floor and began to pray. Soon after they finished, a large group of men came to the same place, and went through the same ritual. One man missed the prayers, and later went up to pray alone -- he asked me if I remembered which way the men faced when they prayed? I remembered, and showed him. Later, after dinner, a band of traditional musicians came to the stage and played and sang for a few hours. They wore bright tunics, and sat on the stage floor, on cushions. The music and singing was amazing. There was no dancing -- the guests pulled their chairs closer to the stage and listened and sometimes clapped along and shouted out approval (at least, that's what it sounded like to me).

If you know me (and if you're reading this blog, you do), you probably also know that I post a lot of political stuff on facebook. You know my politics (whether you want to or not). You know that I'm a liberal Democrat and I don't have a lot of love for the Republican party. But maybe what I don't say enough is that, when it comes to day to day interactions with people, politics doesn't much come into play. The strangers at Target that I shared a moment with, the women in my Biology class, the Indian/Muslim/Hindu guests at the reception -- I don't know their politics, and I don't care. They're all people -- flawed, hopeful, beautiful, sad, joyful, full of good intentions, sometimes kind and compassionate, sometimes angry and fearful. They're all trying to make their way in this world, just like me. Just like you. Might as well relax and be friendly.

Why Won't Ben Vereen Get Out of My Head?

I haven't been writing much these days. My brain feels full. After a little more than a year of being back in my hometown, I still don't really feel at home. It is interesting to me how relatively easy it was for me to move, over and over again, to new places where I knew few, if any people, and how I much I enjoyed "forging" a life in new environments. Ofcourse, I was mostly moving for theatre -- either to go to school, or to work, and so I was meeting like-minded people. There were classes and meetings and rehearsals and productions, all of which occupied our hearts and our minds almost 24/7. It felt at times as if we were all on a great quest. We knew that making a life in the theatre/arts was foolish by most peoples' standards, but most of us felt that we had little choice -- theatre was "in our blood".

And then my dad died, and it was if a "switch" was turned off in me -- everything stopped. Or I should say, I stopped -- and everything else around me kept moving, often at what seemed to be break-neck speed. I had stepped off the proverbial merry-go-round. I haven't really been able to get back on since.

And so here I am. No costumes, no sets, no scripts, no characters to hide behind, and I feel like I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. It's a big, fat cliche', I know, but I've always really felt more "myself" on the stage, in the rehearsal room, or even in front of the classroom, than I ever have in "real" life.

I first saw "Pippin" when I was 16 or 17, I think. It came through town and played for two weeks ( Robbie from the TV show "My Three Sons" played Pippin - he was really good!) --I saw it three times during those two weeks. "Pippin" was to me what "Rent" was for the young people of the 90's, or what "Spring Awakening" has been for many young people today -- it spoke to my restless, yearning young self who wanted least of all to live an "ordinary" life.

I'm a tad embarrassed to admit it, but it still speaks to me today.

Eat, Kvetch, Drive

Elizabeth Gilbert wrote a lovely book called Eat, Pray, Love, which has been turned into what I'm sure is a lovely movie starring the lovely actress Julia Roberts. I read the book about a year and a half ago, and it was... lovely. By now, you're probably familiar with the story -- the author tells us how, after a difficult divorce and a confusing relationship with a passionate, younger lover, she decides to "find herself", and takes off for Italy (to enjoy life/food), India (to pray/meditate) and Indonesia to ... well, I don't remember what she went to Indonesia for, but she finds love. Real, true love.

That's nice.

Actually, I did enjoy the book quite a bit -- particularly the "eat" and "pray" parts. Gilbert's a very friendly writer -- conversational and funny. And I was drawn to the book because I also have my three "I" countries I long to visit, two of them being, in fact, Italy and India. I also really want to go to Ireland. Not quite as exotic as Indonesia, I know, but man, can the Irish tell a great tale and play some pipes and whistles!

I think what Ms. Gilbert's successful book might've done is opened the flood gates for all kinds of memoirs of "self discovery". I want to be the first on the bandwagon! My book would be called Eat, Kvetch, Drive. Here's the blurb: After losing her father and her full-time job, our author decides to move back to her sprawling, mid-western hometown with her domestic partner and cat. Hilarity ensues as she attempts to find work, deal with her ailing, problem-ridden mother, and try to figure out what to do with the rest of her life. A joyous romp through middle-age, not to be missed!

I played with a variety of titles -- eat, mope, sleep almost won.

What would you title your past year's "journey of self-discovery"?

Beach Boy Summers

I've always wanted a "Beach Boys" summer. Not that I've ever had a hankering to hit the waves, or bake on the beach in my plaid bikini. I think I just want to be something other than hot, sticky, besieged by mosquitoes and lethargic during what is supposed to be the most glorious time of the year.

Most people seem to love summer. Farmer's Markets! Bountiful Gardens! Grilling and Cold Beers on the Patio! County Fairs! Vacations at (take your pick) the family beach house, the family lake house, the family cabin in the woods, the family mountain chateau!

I was invited once, many years ago, to a weekend graduation party at a "family beach house" on Lake Erie. The house was huge and beautiful and almost literally on the lake. It was decorated in the way that vacation homes seem to be -- that sort of "haphazard-on-purpose" look that included lots of old paperback summer novels and well-worn board games and straw hats and old oars and fishing gear hanging about. At night, we slept with the windows open -- no air conditioning needed -- and the breezes from the lake, and the sounds of the waves lapping up against the beach lulled us to sleep. "I could spend my whole life here", I thought. "I could die here". Thankfully, I didn't.

Growing up, my summers did not include farmer's markets! bountiful gardens! country fairs! grilling and cold beers on the patio! or any vacations at all (except one summer when my dad had saved money so that we could all take a Greyhound bus to Colorado to visit his sister!). I didn't spend my summers at a woodsy camp with an Indian name, or take long road trips in a paneled station wagon (we didn't own a car).

What I remember most about my childhood summers was the sense of freedom all of us neighborhood kids seemed to share. School was out, we had nowhere we had to be, nothing we had to do. None of the kids I grew up with went to summer camp. Most of us didn't have lake or beach houses. Though we lived in the land of Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, we didn't run through the woods or build rafts -- we were city kids, and we ran the streets and alleys. We swam in big galvanized tin pools (affectionately called "hoosier hot-tubs" in these parts) in friends' backyards, we played in basements, some days we practically lived in our swimming suits. Adults appeared only to offer us kool-aid and popcorn, or slices of watermelon, or to call us home if the street lights had come on and we were still out in the streets, playing SPUD. Days were hot and humid, mosquitoes had their way with our little tanned limbs, but we didn't care -- we were too busy chasing balls down the alley, riding bikes, making up stories, and playing dress-up to notice.

Maybe that's what I'm missing about summer these days -- the playfulness, the fun, the freedom. Take those things out of the equation and for me, summer is mostly the hot, humid, uncomfortable days you have to get through until you can make it to fall. And that's kind of too bad. I think I'm going to have to find a way to make next summer a "Beach Boy" summer.

Hurt Toys

When I was a kid, our local discount store, Venture (akin to K-Mart), had a section in the back of the store called "Hurt Toys". It was just a few shelves of slightly damaged toys, all marked at a discount. I would often go back there to look at what unfortunate toys had found their way to those shelves. While I could always walk away from broken trucks or board games that were missing pieces, anything with a face was hard for me to resist. Once I bought a stuffed rabbit with one ear.

The other day, after relating this story and talking about my affinity with strays, misfits, and all things broken and abandoned, my counselor asked me (sometimes, you just gotta pay someone to listen to you and ask the hard questions) "Are you a hurt toy?"

Yeah, I think I am. I don't know why I think that, but I always have. In some ways, I think we all are like hurt toys -- we all have those "broken" bits, some of which are perhaps visible to others, some we keep hidden. Maybe part of growing up is learning to love those broken bits in ourselves.

Don't even get me started on "The Velveteen Rabbit".

SO Yesterday

I've been spending a lot of time in nursing homes during these past 6 or 7 months. My mom, who is only 68, is unfortunately old before her time. Being hard of hearing, legally blind and diabetic along with having poor balance and trouble walking, along with a host of other physical and mental challenges, landed her in an assisted living residence about 7 years ago, where she is expected to be somewhat independent. Lately, frequent falls have been sending her to the hospital, and then on to "skilled nursing", which takes place in nursing homes.

Look online for "photos of nursing homes", and you'll likely find pictures of smiling, well-groomed seniors, interacting with friendly staff members, or taking part in lively group activities. "See?", these photos seem to say, "Being in a nursing home can be FUN!". ( A side note: I am reminded of when I was in grade school -- a Catholic school -- and they'd have "Vocation Day", when nuns and priest would talk to us about what it was like to give your life to God. The nuns showed us slides of young-nuns-in-training, all in curlers and t-shirts and shorts, piled into a VW Bug convertible, making goofy faces and the peace sign with their fingers. It looked like one big slumber party to my fourth grade brain. Sign me up!!)

But back to nursing homes. Look up "nursing homes" online or in your phone book (if you still have/use one of those relics) and you'll find lots & lots of them. Chances are really good that the city or town you live in is full of building after building dedicated to caring for old people in their final days. But many of the people aren't really all that old. And many of them are nowhere near their "final days". There's simply no place else to put them.

Life moves fast, especially in our culture. We are driven by speed. Things cannot go fast enough for us. We are always grasping, reaching for the next, new, shiny fast thing, and ready to just discard what came before. We value youth above all else. If you move too slowly, if you can't keep up, you get pushed aside.

I would love to see a day when all the people in nursing homes were brought outside into the streets -- on a beautiful, warm day -- and the streets and sidewalks would be full of old people in wheelchairs, just sitting, claiming their rightful place in this world.

Is This My Home?

It has been almost a year since I moved back to the place of my birth. Home.

There is the place where you're born, and maybe raised. The place where you learned to ride a bike, created secret hiding places, and buried stuff in the yard. There is the place where most -- or some -- of your family live. Where you went to school, maybe where you got your first after-school job, where you began to carve out a little space in the world for yourself. It is an address and a phone number you remember by heart. It is where someone is waiting for you.

Then there is the place where you feel most alive -- where you feel most yourself. A place where you can breathe. A place that feels open and full of possibilities. A place that speaks to you as if you were a long-lost friend or lover -- "You've been gone so long -- welcome back". No one is waiting for you but the place itself. And that feels like enough.

For some people, these two places are the same. The place where they feel most alive -- most themselves -- is the place where they grew up. Their roots are deep and far-reaching, giving them strength. The familiarity is both comforting and freeing. There is a rhythm to their life that was set when they were small, that marks the passing of the years in a steady beat.

For some people, these two places are not the same. One was chosen for them, one was chosen by them. One place was strictly the luck of the draw, one place was revealed -- perhaps by circumstances, perhaps by choice -- to be their "true" home. A place where they are not bound to the past. A place that is mostly "now" and "tomorrow". A place that lends itself to dreaming.

I have suspected, for quite some time now, that I belong to the second group of people. I don't really know why this is so. I have a few hunches, a few theories maybe. I think maybe I came back here to find out.