Falling on My Face

I've made a mess out of several things this week, like fall-on-my-face / wow-i-really-just-did-that mess. My body reacts and despite my best conscious efforts I get a fuzzy, migraine head. The first two days are living in disbelief that I could actually do something so stupid and I berate myself for such. I feel small and fragile, as if a rain drop could melt me. The air is too thick to breathe; I wonder *again* why I've chosen a field where I endlessly place the soft flesh of my neck on the chopping block. (Then I reconsider my prescription meds and their 'loss of memory / confusion' side effects.) I find myself not wanting to even mention the names of the people involved with the incident. I shy away from any thought or memory path that will lead me back into the uncomfortable encounter with the incident.

But today was different.

I woke up to an email response that simply said, "stop fretting." I responded in contrition and with the sudden perspective that comes when you realize your neurosis has bled all over the computer screen with a simple, "yes ma'am." It put the rest of the mess of the week in it's place and I started thinking about Failure once more and my intimate relationship with it.

I realize what a gift I have as a performer to be presented with the opportunity to confront majestic, big failure on a regular basis. While it never gets easier or less painful, I'm getting better at it, decreasing my lag / recovery time. I'm learning to bulldoze into the aftershocks instead of recoiling back from them. How true is it that there are people walking around in this city with one big failure hung around their neck and they can't let it go. It stares them down, mocks and bullies them. It wins every single day.

We all know that feeling though. It's not neuroscience to see how that happens. I have to talk to my heart like my therapy patient when Failure strikes again. "Elizabeth, don't let the shame of disgust with yourself bind you. Don't try to hide in the corner from your own idiosyncratic

hang-ups that drive you and everyone else nuts. So you're imperfect. That's not news! You are broken and flawed and in need of Grace for survival. So press into this failure."

I literally have to feel myself pressing forward. I imagine ways I can take the failure and flip it for profit, searching for angles I never would have had, had I done the job perfectly. I smile. I write a card and reach out and get proactive instead of being the victim. I make myself write the person or incident's name down so I don't create secret ways to hide from myself. Is this easier for a man? I'm getting better.

For most of my life, up until the second year of grad school I wouldn't say the word "nose" in public or let pictures of my profile be taken because I hated my nose so much. My entire face was a failure until I was 24 years old because I didn't have a straight nose. When I finally learned to press into it, to say the word at my Shakespeare professor's dinner table with my MFA classmates one late Fall night, I started learning about what a friend we have in failure. And then I had the Joseph Scriven hymn in my head all night.

I don't know if any of this is right. All I know is that Failure is a tool in my tool belt. I am not its servant. And that makes the air a little less thick. Holy Ghost, rush.

Indian Joe

I spent a day in Waco, TX recently. It was hot. 108 degrees hot. Usually Waco is muggy and miserable with a dripping-wet, humid heat. This time it was a dry heat that I could almost enjoy. I baked. I won't tell the locals I actually enjoyed the frying-on-the-pavement feeling it provided.

I went to Waco for a day to see an old friend. I hadn't seen this friend in seven years, though innumberable phone conversations have kept us connected. When I last saw him he was homeless, 59 years old & cancer free. Now, he's off the streets and in a house he shares with an El Salvadorian, taco making couple, old enough to draw social security checks and riddled with bone and prostate cancer.

He's in it for the fight, though. He always has been.

"He" is Joe Lightfoot Gonzales, the Native American / Hispanic man that has filled so much of the last 12 years of my life. Recently, however, we've learned 'Joe' isn't his real name. It was simply the name given to him by his siblings since he was immediately tossed into the foster system and never had a present mother. His real name, recently acquired to get social security and Medicade, is free of a prison record; something 'Joe Lightfoot Gonzales' can't necessarily boast.

Our reunion is made with my mother-in-law present. He attempts to impress / scare her by saying, "Oh, you lived in north Dallas? Yeah, I used to run over there. I huslted a lot of rich white folk over there. Made a lot of dough."

I call his bluff and we burst into laughter.

"Oh, I've missed you girl. I'd take a bullet for you."

We go to his chemotherapy appointment. He talks too loudly in the waiting room and he tells me how nothing else matters now but getting right with God, makes duplicitous and incorrect political statements and asks how my family is. We read the newspaper. They call us into the office to check vitals and time has marched on: seven years flashed before me as Joe sits there weakly.

I've missed you too, Joe. I've missed you, too.

Home is where my Hearts Are

Coming home to Channing, TX means breathing easier. It means letting go of muscles held that I didn't know were taut. Mama and Daddy's house / home means lawns, gardens, ponds, fountains, work out rooms, antiques and a dog, a parrot and a perpetually pregnant cat. It's the population sign that says 363. (It used to say 365, but in the last 10 years, we've had either two deaths or two folks left. Perhaps I counted? Novel.) Home is being cared for in a way that only an incomparable Mama and Daddy can do: prayer coverings, late night pep talks, highlighting lines, baking, crying, hugging and singing harmony. All my favorite foods are in the fridge and somehow Mama knows a trip to Dillard's junior department is what I've been craving. Saying 'I love you' and wondering what will happen to it all if they were to get sick. It's dismissing that idea as inconceivable. Invincibility comes to mind. My brother agrees with me and we say meaningful words to each other. He's my home too.

Home is walking out west with Daddy at noon when it's 102 degrees and baking white chocolate cream cheese cupcakes and washing dishes with Mama. It's forgetting what day it is and relaxing into the rhythm of being the child again. I let it happen. I fight back on occasion, but only enough to assert a moderate dose of adult recognition.

Sometimes when it's late at night and I don't feel the pressure of rising early, I go walking around 'the big block.' It's our city block that is the town's main drag. Yes, it's as provincial as it sounds, and around 11 PM you may encounter 3 vehicles; either passing and waving, or, at a distance so you wonder, "Who's that hoodlum out so late?" I gander at the massive sky full of bursting stars. It's just so big... There are porch lights on and barking dogs as I make my way around the block. They recognize my presence. The train tracks that divide the town usher in a droning, barrelling train; a sound that characterized my childhood.

And as much as I trust home, the place that I was born and raised, tonight it is frightening to me. There are 363 people in this quiet, tiny town. Crime doesn't exist; my parents know 90% of the town by name. Even still, the vastness of the land and sky and possibility for nature to interrupt the evening in some powerful way broods like a developing thunderstorm in the East. It scares me; the vastness' potential scares me. I see a skunk and I turn down an unexpected road to avoid it. I wake up all the dogs on the street and wonder which ones are fenced in and which ones may run at me. I walk more quickly as shadows at the Court House seem to dance a bit too mysteriously. I chuckle to myself when I consider my folly, but the inexplicable 'fear of the dark' remains.

I remember this same sense when I would visit my childhood best friend. She lived 50 miles out of town on a ranch with no neighbors for miles and miles. We would bathe in the bathroom and there were no curtains; just an open window that peered out into the blackness. Yucca and cows were probably all that saw us, but it terrified me to imagine who might be lurking. (No one ever was lurking, btw. They continue to live there, curtain free, without disturbance.)

It struck me as deeply ironic, however, that this sense of foreboding doesn't really happen to me in NYC. In a city with rampant crime and over 6 million people. Perhaps there are too many people to ever have a sense that something may be lurking. Indeed, something IS lurking, so close your windows and don't expect anything else. There's strange comfort in this. And also peace? Have I gone mad? No, I don't think so. I think the difference is feeling strength in numbers. Alone on an open road with a massive sky full of stars and pastures full of miles and miles of grassland? - Anything could be awaiting me. But in a city with 450 people on your block alone, you have the false sense that you are safe. Or is that just me?

How does a small town country girl who adores her home and family and most everything about her simple rearing also love the dynamism and chaos of the Insomniac Capitol of the world? I amuse myself by contemplating this journey; I don't understand it, but my cells do. My subconscious has this down. Ok, then.

Two homes. Two hearts. Mama and Daddy. My incredible husband Jordan. Here and There. Then and Now.

Either way, the stars are still gorgeous and it's a very good thing to remember the awe inspiring power of that which is created and leave the man-made to it's devices. At least for 5 days.

I love you, home of my youth. I miss you, darling city.

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.

____________________________________________________________________

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.