Now and Then

I found this today. I wrote it my first year in NYC. I sometimes forget all the fortitude it took to get to the place I now sit, here in our (i never would have guessed "our") brownstone abode. I forget the pain and suffering that I forged through w/out giving up. It's good to reflect. And it's good to remember I used to write a lot. A. Lot.

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upon feeling discouraged (fed up) in nyc

"hope deferred makes the heart sick..."

it's more than swimming around with a big fish in a little pond complex. and more than 'Transition takes Two Years...." or North vs. South. it's humanity condensced. it's hope demolishment exposed without apology. it's the magnitude of possibilites for failure:

- subways to barely miss with the door sliding together in your face.

- buses almost caught, but not

- brushing shoulders in Whole Foods with the unsung millionaire and wondering 'is there something else i should be doing?'

- it's seeing the rush hour crowd and feeling like a number, an ant, an imposition.

-it's wondering if the sunglasses and I-pod's keep others from wondering what i'm thinking.

one more audition lost. ten more dollars spent. five more people bumped into without recognition. BUT one hundred times less likely to give up.

i heart ny, but we're sleeping in different beds right now. or not. or...i've lost my ability for meaningful metaphor. i suppose it went with the southern gentility act when exiting the subway. gone with the smoggy wind and romanticized ideals of mice-free apartments in Time's Square.

straving artist, however, is checked off my do-before-i-die list. that's the plus for the hour...and that i'm breathing in the most amazing country on earth, but that is a given and takes away from the pained poetry of my penning. but - this dream; sacrificing for my art: the dream that's more pleasant to endure while sleeping than awake, but a dream none the less.

i regergetate all this. mmmm. tastes good to let go and let it out. let in the Blood and breathe. and why do i always follow this pattern of stress relief?

wouldn't it be much more vogue to just have a full-fledged nervous breakdown - tabloid style - followed by a month in the Hampton's or on the beach slathered in sea-weed body masks with sweet tea and codine tablets next to my smashed-in-a-fit-of-revelatory-freedom-moment beeper?

well...no because i don't have a beeper first of all, and also i don't know a soul in the Hampton's except mel brooks but he's not a friend yet, just a 'hello, how's your musical?' type of thing. and also because there's nothing in life that should fester in my soul to such a point that i think about the george washington bridge and my eulogy in the same gray-matter sentence. nothing, elizabeth. shall we say it again for the slow of learning and hard of heart-hearing? life is not about you.

life is not about you. say it with me, now. life is not about us.

sleep well and splash around in Grace.

amen.

Ladies of the Nile

http://www.cnn.com/2011/WORLD/meast/02/24/egypt.women.optimism.harassment/index.html?hpt=C2

This article about the advancement of women in Egypt is an excellent follow up to what I previously highlighted. It's so exciting to hear that women are feeling less afraid of sexual harassment and getting involved politically. A striking statement from the above article indicated some of the dire realities of the situation: "A survey in 2008 by the Egyptian Center for Human Rights claimed that 98% of foreign women and 83% of Egyptian women in the country have been sexually harassed." We saw a stark example of that with the Lara Logan travesty. It's important to remember though that, even if we don't hear their stories across international news, countless hearts and bodies have still been hurt.

However, I don't want to paint an anti-male picture. Granted, men are almost solely responsible for the perpetuation of the harassment, but the article highlights the deeper cause: "In an oppressive society, people oppress each other. It's justification for everyone to be unjust, " Doaa Abdelaal was quoted as saying. "Under a more open society these things can be discussed." Note the example of the woman who got out of her car and slapped the officer who harassed her. Because now, she finally can. And I would wager that he will learn and move forward with a little thought in the future. Baby steps: all change starts that way.

We live in a fallen world where the ache and cry of havocking sin leaves us longing for wholeness. It's exciting to see that restoration is happening. Dark corners are seeing the Light they've longed for and always knew existed.

An Early Wake Up Call

A neighbor was in trouble last night. Around 2:30 AM our buzzer rang, as did the one below ours. She had lost her keys. We learned that her wallet, money and cell phone were also lost in the madness. Her tears, confusion and signs of possible abuse immediatley let us know that she needed care. Jordan opened the front door, seated her in the entrance and then quickly found our landlady / live-in-grandmother Claudette for the needed apartment key. I sat on the stairs and wondered what to say as she cried and struggled to hold down her impending puke.

Now our brownstown is occupied by Jordan and myself, our landlord David, his sister Claudette (a 60 something Jamaican) and this dear girl. We're a small bunch and have grown familially close to Claudette who immediatley sprung into action. With bleary eyes, Jordan and I then sat and listened to Claudette become mother, friend, counselor and doctor.

We stiffled audible responses as she wasted no time saying, "Did somebody hurt you? What do you need, coffee? I'll make you scrambled eggs and coffee." Our hurt neighbor interjected through tears, "I don't belong here.... should go home." Claudette then proclaimed, "Look, you are tough. We've gotta be tough here. All of us. There are no sissies in the house, and I don't mean gay. We're all tough and strong. You're gonna be ok."

It was an awful and wonderful moment. Our neighbor's pain was indeed painful, but the sense of family, and the rallying support and comforting concern from our dear Claudette was touching, moving.

As I left the house this morning, Claudette caught me to ask if she should take her $20 or coffee? She also said that "although I'm not a religious woman I feel God sent you to me." I responded, "We feel the same, Claudette." And it's true.

When I had said goodbye and reached the door, a letter was in our mailbox: "Dear Elizabeth and Jordan, 'The best portion of a good man's life: his little, nameless and unremembered acts of kindness and love.' - Wordsworth. Thank you for last night. You are special. - Claudette"

Today, I believe that Claudette is indeed the one that is special.

Making Music

I don't read music terribly well. I never have. I studied Suzuki violin for 15 years and a heavy emphasis was placed on playing by ear. I'm incredibly thankful for this, but also wonder what implications sounder sight reading would have meant for me musically. I do enjoy the occassional moments of terror when I'm forced to stick to a score; they're good for me. They make me better.
Even still, I love the feeling of simply sensing music; just waiting and reacting to a chord change, providing a suspension or unexpectedly creating a melodic riff. I think this part of my musical creativity, or perhaps more aptly titled, my reaction-ivity, is the same part of me that loves the unexpected on stage as an actor. The vehicle is different, the road is the same. It's a bit of the thrill seeker in me, perhaps. Or it's just searching for the moments of knowing you are truly creating something, right now. Here, in this moment. Perhaps it will never come back, but we had it for a minute.
So yes, I'm limited in my skill and I will admit I need to keep moving forward in learning, trying to get better. But I also confess I'm quite happy swaying back and forth with a song and having no idea where it may go. The reward is not only the music, but the discovery.

Women: At Home and Abroad

The oppression of woman in the workforce is next to abhorrent. Still. It's subtle, no doubt, but ever present; a vicious reminder of the destructive paradigm that persists. However, while I wail and moan about Mad Men-esque harassment and slights, I'm reminded of the plight of women in Egypt that has come to our collective, international attention. Suddenly, being passed over for an advancement or relegated to ever-more secretary doesn't seem so dire. Perhaps I need to count my gender's American blessings?


Indeed, yes. BUT I think it better, for the situation to remind us / draw our attention to injustices across the globe, at home AND abroad that perpetually afflict and destroy the advancement of women. I'm challenged, wondering what I can do to be more active in this field.


Check out www.restorenyc.com for more info about what some people are doing right here in NYC to take on the travesty of sex trafficking.

Where The Wild Things Cry

I talked to the trees in Central Park today. They talked back. We mused and laughed, we bore our branches to each other and then we cried. -

I went for a run and found myself in a corner of the gardens at 106^th and 5^th Ave. The sun was out, the breeze was crisp and sweat was beginning to form on my brow; a little too warm for the scarf I wore. I worked and heaved, jumped and pushed. I put my body through rigor and I felt health surge. I breathed in deeply. Then attempted 10 more push ups.

About halfway through my date with flex and lunge, I noticed that no one was around. Not. One. Soul. I could only hear birds and the wind in the leaf-stripped branches whining. I was thankful, so thankful and I tried to forget every sore and pain, every ache in my heart and each failure’s whisper in that moment.

I tried, but I wasn’t successful. Even still, I’m thankful for the moment of trying.

But then…the trees. They drew me in. They were bare and I could sense they were somewhat embarrassed, but had learned to make peace with their annual overexposure. They were brilliant in their silence and I made my way to them feeling uncanny kinship. I truly felt God was in the trees talking to me; one of His creatures to the next. They said things like, “We’re beautiful, even out of season,” and “The real work is happening inside.”

They said simple things like, ‘be yourself’ and ‘growing is silent.’ “Be still and know that He is God.” And then surprisingly, ‘Be wild.’

I held a branch and began to cry. The sweat and tears combined to make a salty mixture I wiped from my face. Oh, bare branches, we have matching marrow! Our sap is the same and I could swear you have a soul.

Oh God above, You remind me how to weather a season and for that I’m thankful. And in my weakness I’m thankful the branches are bare but once a year.

On Being 'In Shape'

While Listening to “I Gotta Feeling” by Blk Eyed Peas

What does that mean first of all? There are so many levels of this state to which it seems the entire world aspires, right?

There are people who appear to be in amazing shape who have terrible habits, who are depriving themselves, who are out of balance and could drop dead of something wacky any minute much to everyone’s shock. Or their are those who are just naturally a skinny minny, but think a ketllebell must be a cross between a kitchen appliance and a cow accessory.

Or there are those people who are quietly and inobtrusivley living under their clothes without fanfare, but they could rip steal wires apart if asked. They could run 10 miles to Mr. Tan and Taut’s surprise. These people aren’t too flashy and no one would look at them and drool out a Paris Hilton ‘hottt.’ But they take amazing care of themselves in general.

There are those who are naturally given to stealth and svletness, but they also are aware that health is so much more than a shape; that taking care of themselves is a long term investment with appearance not taking first priority. Generally, these people are an irritant to us all and send us into circles of debate with ourselves and God. (or is that just me?)

There are many others, I suppose.

But there remains “the feeling.” You know what I’m talking about: that feeling you get after you bust out a few miles or dead lift and / or circuit train for a while. You feel like the world is brighter, you feel sharper, your clothes just seem to fit better even if you haven’t changed an ounce. You can focus better in this place.

I’ve had trouble finding a balance with all of this in my life. I’ve dabbled all over the place, but today I feel like I’m understanding something / experiencing something that makes me very happy. I’m old enough to know that I have to be careful with this God-given instrument of a body – it’s fragile and frail, but simultaneously resilient like mad. Even still, care and planning and mothering are required to do right by it.

I still crave that “feeling.” I’ve gone without it enough to know I just ain’t right if I’m not engaging in putting my body through rigor on a regular basis. For crying out loud, every person on the planet is better for this rigor. It’s delicious. So this begs the question, “Why in the wide world don’t I put more priority on it?!”

Why is it so difficult for me to find some consistency? I just get used to feeling half awake and lying to myself about it, I suppose. And this translates to more than just physical shape; every part of our lives can suffer from this half awake curse.

But not today for me. I’m awake…and I’ve got a ‘feeling.’