Last night I saw Julie and Julia with my mom, and Andrea and her mom. Great movie, especially Meryl Streep and Stanley Tucci, or course, but it got me thinking about a number of things. One, that I’m super lucky that I get to go to the movies with my mom, and that I really need to do that more. Two, it made me think about blogging. The woman who wrote the story was a wanna-be unpublished writer who decided to cook her way through the Julia Child French cookbook, and blog about the experience. It paralleled the story of Julia Child attempting to get that very recipe book published. I loved what it said about the growing pains of the creative process, and about the disappointments and bumps along the road that you need to manage and reflect upon in order to meet a goal.
I have an angel and a devil on my shoulder when it comes to writing in general and blogging in particular. I feel like I want to, and that I have stuff to say and some amusing experiences to relate, and then I feel like it’s totally self-serving and ego-driven and just really one of those things that people know about me and secretly think is incredibly obnoxious and egotistical. I often think about that – that my friends actually are highly irritated by my habits and behaviors much of the time and don’t tell me. I suppose everyone does in a way, and that everyone is a tiny bit right to worry about that, as a matter of fact.
So…blogging. Julie, the blogger, had all of these conflicts about not saying too much about her private life while being true to her “real” life. I worry about that as well. It’s all well and good to share funny vignettes about Mom and Auntie drunk at the gay bar (stay tuned for that one this weekend) and stories about saving real-live baby swans. But how do I express my frustrations about parenting and wife-ing and teaching and pms-ing without telling far too much?
I suppose I’ve said all of this before. Which leads me to my other challenge in this format…I still need to journal, and every once in a while what starts out to be a blog is forced to become only a journal entry because geeeez…I can’t say that to anyone. Or I start to journal about something tickling my consciousness and I think…maybe someone else has felt this way, too. Maybe it would make them feel somehow better to hear about it. But that morphing often makes me forget what I said aloud and what I only said in my journal.
It is my intention to become more focused on this. I’m about to start writing a play for my winter production at the high school I direct at, and I’m feeling really pumped about it. Since this blog was started in order to be a testing ground for what it feels like to be a writer, I’m going to take this new play and let it make me a writer. And I’m going to write about how it feels and how it goes. And maybe three people will be interested in all of it, and you know what? That’s totally enough.
“I’d rather be nine people’s favorite thing than a hundred people’s ninth favorite thing.” My new favorite musical is called (title of show) which is a musical about a couple of guys writing a musical about a couple of guys writing a musical. I love it . Try it. I’m finding it very inspirational right now.
The working title of my play is Wherefore Art Thou? It's a modern two-act comedy set in a high school. That’s all I’m going to say about that right now. More to come.
Thanks for reading. If I could, I'd totally give you a cookie or a mini disco ball to hang from your rear-view mirror or one of those cute little troll dolls with pink hair. 'Cause I like you that much.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Saturday, August 1, 2009
A triumph, a scuffle, a fright and a bit with a dog…
Bye Bye Birdie was a tremendous success tonight. The kids were so proud. The performance was adorable, the audience appreciative. Rosie got through her jitters and soared. Mae felt the theater zing today. Harry played the audience with eye-twinkling sassiness. Conrad got the crowd all stirred up and Albert charmed. Kim had fun, and finally was a pretty girl, mama. The ensemble sounded fabulous and the kids were all smiles. I was so proud of all of them, and tickled to have made a bright pink hat where there never was a hat. That was the triumph.
Our camp theme song is “We Can Be Kind,” cliché ridden treacle, but still moving to me. Abby had a solo in it, and she was terrified. She did a great job, but after she sang and was supposed to go back to her place on stage, she got into line accidentally instead. And so Amelia took it upon herself to push her into the right place. So Abby stepped back, so Amelia pushed harder, and Abby pushed back…in front of the entire audience. All the while singing “We can be kind…we can take care of each other…” And while I was very stern with Amelia for pushing her sister and not minding her own business, I so hope they captured that on videotape. That was the scuffle.
At the end of the night, just as we were beginning to wrap up and debrief, one of our parents couldn’t find her daughter. We all began to freak out, and called everyone we could think of. She surmised that she’d gone home with the grandmother of a friend, which she had in the end, but the grandmother had dropped the child off at a darkened house and not stopped to make sure she got in. She was alone at a dark house, age 6, and locked out in the rain. Um…next time be sure your kid knows the plan.
And a lady tried to get into the show with her dog. It was okay, though, because she’d bought a ticket for him after all. Yeah. The dog had to go into the car. It was okay, though, ‘cause we gave her the money back.
What happened from Monday to now is kind of amazing to me. How does it all happen? I don’t know. It’s a mystery.
Ha. Tomorrow is my high school reunion. Haaaahah. I have more to say about that but I don’t know when I’ll get a chance to say it.
Our camp theme song is “We Can Be Kind,” cliché ridden treacle, but still moving to me. Abby had a solo in it, and she was terrified. She did a great job, but after she sang and was supposed to go back to her place on stage, she got into line accidentally instead. And so Amelia took it upon herself to push her into the right place. So Abby stepped back, so Amelia pushed harder, and Abby pushed back…in front of the entire audience. All the while singing “We can be kind…we can take care of each other…” And while I was very stern with Amelia for pushing her sister and not minding her own business, I so hope they captured that on videotape. That was the scuffle.
At the end of the night, just as we were beginning to wrap up and debrief, one of our parents couldn’t find her daughter. We all began to freak out, and called everyone we could think of. She surmised that she’d gone home with the grandmother of a friend, which she had in the end, but the grandmother had dropped the child off at a darkened house and not stopped to make sure she got in. She was alone at a dark house, age 6, and locked out in the rain. Um…next time be sure your kid knows the plan.
And a lady tried to get into the show with her dog. It was okay, though, because she’d bought a ticket for him after all. Yeah. The dog had to go into the car. It was okay, though, ‘cause we gave her the money back.
What happened from Monday to now is kind of amazing to me. How does it all happen? I don’t know. It’s a mystery.
Ha. Tomorrow is my high school reunion. Haaaahah. I have more to say about that but I don’t know when I’ll get a chance to say it.
Final Dress Rehearsal
So, here’s a funny thing. I create these little theatre productions. That’s my job. And not alone, of course…I’m always part of a team, and we work together and try to build good experiences for kids. Some seasons, it’s just a job. It’s a to-do list, part of my day, a task I do to earn money to go to Disneyworld and keep up my fruity martini hobby. It takes a lot of energy, and sometimes it’s more energy than feels worthwhile to me.
Other times, though, a production has a certain magic to it. It’s a sparkly little bubble of camaraderie, and warmth envelops everyone. I’ve been on both sides of that particular magic – within the cast, like in There’s Life After High School, and Bring Back Birdie, and Godspell, and Pippin. I’ve experienced it as a director, like in Tree Grows in Brooklyn and Midsummer and Once on This Island. This show, Bye Bye Birdie, has that kind of energy.
In my summer show this year, there have been kids that I have really connected with, supported, ignited, admired, and have felt on the receiving end of the same. That doesn’t always happen, to tell the truth. But when it does, I feel like I’m in the flow, and that it’s part of my soul’s mission to share these open connections with kids at very emotional times in their lives. I am humbled by that gift.
Yesterday our tech designer was trying to set a specialty light for Ursula. He had me stand in for the focus, and part of her blocking includes yelling “Oh, Kim!” and sliding tragically to the floor. I imitated her voice and her blocking, and Amanda said, “Kelly, you missed your calling!” My response was so immediate and so resolute. I thought, “No. THIS is my calling. Making the show. Setting the light, not being in it. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing, and it’s an honor to get to do it.”
This will veer into my new-agey way of thinking, but I often think of myself, and of many other people, too, actually – as a vessel. Things need to be done in the Universe and different people are given the hands to do different tasks. I look at people who have a certain set of skills, and then use those skills to actually do something, make something happen, and I think about Buddha teaching how to be the best person in the world. Everyone can be the “best person in the world” if they do the best they can with what they have. If they try to do what’s hard for them as well as what’s easy, and try to do no harm to others. Doctors and carpenters and environmentalists and the people who collect your trash and make sure your sink is running and make really funny movies and serve you a spectacular meal. If you do what you can, and do it well, you’re the best person in the world. (I’m sure any Buddhist I know would be appalled at my simplification here, but that’s how I explain it when I have to teach it to sixth graders.) By that definition, I know so many of the best people in the world. I’m trying to be the best I can by doing the thing that I can do.
So, anyhow, back to being a vessel…the Universe, in my opinion, works through people to allow for choice and growth and learning and love for others. It’s true of parenting, and of being a sibling or a good friend or a mentor or part of a challenging relationship. All of those things help people grow. And for reasons I don’t totally understand yet, theatre is a thing that brings those opportunities to light. Friendships are forged, vulnerabilities are heightened, romances bloom and mettle is tested. People who are involved in theatre as high school kids often have their first kisses and their first crushes and their first heartbreaks and their first real sense of belonging, sometimes smack in the middle of a rehearsal while the rest of the cast drills a dance combination. Relationships that happen in that setting gain their own particular fresh-paint-scented, sequin-dappled sweetness. In fact, I can’t actually think of one important relationship in my life that wasn’t created through, or at least deepened by, my involvement in theatre. Huh. I hadn’t thought of it that way before.
Bye Bye Birdie, with 88 kids between the ages of 7 and 15, will open tomorrow. It’s adorable. They are adorable, my two curly-headed, bobby-sox clad daughters among them, and so excited and so full of fun and joy about it. I love this cast, a core handful of them in particular, and I’m so proud of them and delighted to know how much fun they’re going to have this weekend, and how they’ll remember it forever. They have grown so much in poise and commitment and recognition of how freaking much fun it is to be part of a show. They will forever have connections to each other and branch out into other friendships they wouldn’t otherwise have made just from having known one another. We’ll all cry to say goodbye and recognize that it’s an end of something and a beginning of something new.
And we’ll know that because Maria told us so in The Sound of Music. “Whenever the Lord closes a door, somewhere he opens a window.” We live by the Gospel according to Julie Andrews and Sondheim’s Seven Principles of Relationships. To varying extents, we are Theatre People. Dorky, way too extroverted, passionate, awkward, self-obsessed and open-hearted. Dreamy, freak-flag-flying little lambs lost in the wood. I saw a new mom recently with a t-shirt that said, “I make milk! What’s your superpower?” My super power is that I am a Shepherd, gathering these lambs together and saying, “Look! Here’s another just like you!” Now, sing a song about it. Hold hands and sway.
Other times, though, a production has a certain magic to it. It’s a sparkly little bubble of camaraderie, and warmth envelops everyone. I’ve been on both sides of that particular magic – within the cast, like in There’s Life After High School, and Bring Back Birdie, and Godspell, and Pippin. I’ve experienced it as a director, like in Tree Grows in Brooklyn and Midsummer and Once on This Island. This show, Bye Bye Birdie, has that kind of energy.
In my summer show this year, there have been kids that I have really connected with, supported, ignited, admired, and have felt on the receiving end of the same. That doesn’t always happen, to tell the truth. But when it does, I feel like I’m in the flow, and that it’s part of my soul’s mission to share these open connections with kids at very emotional times in their lives. I am humbled by that gift.
Yesterday our tech designer was trying to set a specialty light for Ursula. He had me stand in for the focus, and part of her blocking includes yelling “Oh, Kim!” and sliding tragically to the floor. I imitated her voice and her blocking, and Amanda said, “Kelly, you missed your calling!” My response was so immediate and so resolute. I thought, “No. THIS is my calling. Making the show. Setting the light, not being in it. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing, and it’s an honor to get to do it.”
This will veer into my new-agey way of thinking, but I often think of myself, and of many other people, too, actually – as a vessel. Things need to be done in the Universe and different people are given the hands to do different tasks. I look at people who have a certain set of skills, and then use those skills to actually do something, make something happen, and I think about Buddha teaching how to be the best person in the world. Everyone can be the “best person in the world” if they do the best they can with what they have. If they try to do what’s hard for them as well as what’s easy, and try to do no harm to others. Doctors and carpenters and environmentalists and the people who collect your trash and make sure your sink is running and make really funny movies and serve you a spectacular meal. If you do what you can, and do it well, you’re the best person in the world. (I’m sure any Buddhist I know would be appalled at my simplification here, but that’s how I explain it when I have to teach it to sixth graders.) By that definition, I know so many of the best people in the world. I’m trying to be the best I can by doing the thing that I can do.
So, anyhow, back to being a vessel…the Universe, in my opinion, works through people to allow for choice and growth and learning and love for others. It’s true of parenting, and of being a sibling or a good friend or a mentor or part of a challenging relationship. All of those things help people grow. And for reasons I don’t totally understand yet, theatre is a thing that brings those opportunities to light. Friendships are forged, vulnerabilities are heightened, romances bloom and mettle is tested. People who are involved in theatre as high school kids often have their first kisses and their first crushes and their first heartbreaks and their first real sense of belonging, sometimes smack in the middle of a rehearsal while the rest of the cast drills a dance combination. Relationships that happen in that setting gain their own particular fresh-paint-scented, sequin-dappled sweetness. In fact, I can’t actually think of one important relationship in my life that wasn’t created through, or at least deepened by, my involvement in theatre. Huh. I hadn’t thought of it that way before.
Bye Bye Birdie, with 88 kids between the ages of 7 and 15, will open tomorrow. It’s adorable. They are adorable, my two curly-headed, bobby-sox clad daughters among them, and so excited and so full of fun and joy about it. I love this cast, a core handful of them in particular, and I’m so proud of them and delighted to know how much fun they’re going to have this weekend, and how they’ll remember it forever. They have grown so much in poise and commitment and recognition of how freaking much fun it is to be part of a show. They will forever have connections to each other and branch out into other friendships they wouldn’t otherwise have made just from having known one another. We’ll all cry to say goodbye and recognize that it’s an end of something and a beginning of something new.
And we’ll know that because Maria told us so in The Sound of Music. “Whenever the Lord closes a door, somewhere he opens a window.” We live by the Gospel according to Julie Andrews and Sondheim’s Seven Principles of Relationships. To varying extents, we are Theatre People. Dorky, way too extroverted, passionate, awkward, self-obsessed and open-hearted. Dreamy, freak-flag-flying little lambs lost in the wood. I saw a new mom recently with a t-shirt that said, “I make milk! What’s your superpower?” My super power is that I am a Shepherd, gathering these lambs together and saying, “Look! Here’s another just like you!” Now, sing a song about it. Hold hands and sway.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Let Your Freak Flag Fly
I came to NYC for the Broadway Teachers’ Workshop this weekend. I feel very honored to have the opportunity to do this – to do anything, really, that’s about learning something new and being better than I was yesterday. Last night, I was in Café Lalo, which is on 83rd street between Broadway and Amsterdam. I had ordered a martini with a trendy name and a caprese salad, and sat with my journal. My mind was tumbling over a number of things, my ears tuned in to a small drama at the table next to be involving goat cheese and an allergy to honey. The song “Thriller” came on the radio, and I was remembering this girl from my middle school who was completely obsessed with Michael Jackson. Obsessed. Had posters everywhere, wrote “I Heart Michael Jackson” on her scripts and book covers, and memorized the dance steps in his videos. I always thought it was odd, because I just couldn’t see the appeal in him, and I was not much into current pop stars, anyhow. I also did not relate to that level of obsession with someone. Or so I thought.
I thought of her last week when Michael Jackson died, wondering how she had taken the news. It was partly because I was with Lisa who knew this girl as well, and partly because I have come to have empathy for this person. We all have our little pocket of obsession, as it turns out, and some of them are absolutely more embarrassing than others. But I have come to believe, particularly in recent years, that it is a person’s quirks and oddities and obsessions are the things that make them…them.
It’s my birthday today, and I have spent it alone, though surrounded by people in the busiest city in the world. My family called and sang to me first thing this morning. I got a million Facebook messages today that just made me get choked up every time I read one. But still, I was on my own all day. I was worried I’d be a little sad, and I must confess that I just…wasn’t. I needed the brain-space to consider what it means to be 38. I needed to let things happen to me, and things happened. It has been a spectacular day. I have many spectacular days, and I am grateful for them every time, but today has had its own kind of magic. I walked down Broadway this morning in sunglasses and high heels, drinking a latte. I ate lunch at an outdoor café. I had continual little reminders through the day that what I do in the world is relevant and worthwhile. (One presenter today said, “Kids with a complicated home life rely on teachers to be the authority figures that aren’t out to destroy you.”) I unexpectedly met a Boy I Really Liked in College on the street. I wore a pretty dress to see a show on Broadway, and I had a handsome man offer to buy me a martini in a hotel lounge. (I said “No, thank you.” But it was nice to have been asked.) And now, I’m looking out my hotel window onto the lights of Times Square, and Daniel Radcliffe is about to be on the David Letterman Show. Thank you, Universe, for a whole list of blessings in one single day, my birthday - any one of which would have been more than enough to make this a wonderful chapter of the Kelly Chronicles.
This brings me back to where I began this story. I am at the Broadway Teachers’ Workshop in NYC. I saw the musical Shrek tonight. It was much better than I expected, very funny and charming and very modern, and its big “Eleven o’clock number” and finale is called “Let Your Freak Flag Fly.” It was all I could do to keep from leaping out my seat and dancing to that tonight. It was all about being who you are –celebrating, rather than hiding that which makes you a Freak. I have accepted that I have a variety of Freak Flags, and though I tried as a teenager to keep them private, I’ve given that up. And I have discovered, too, that I might not be a great actress. And I might not be a great director. And I might not be a great teacher. I am, however, good at creating communities – the kinds of communities – whether it’s a sixth grade classroom or the cast of Fiddler on the Roof Jr. or a fancy private school drama club – that make people feel involved and connected to something. Where people find their tribe. Where people can figure out that whatever makes their Freak Flag Fly is okay. By doing that, I am useful and industrious in the world. As Kathleen says in You’ve Got Mail, “I lead a small life. Valuable, but small.” I felt that powerfully today. (I felt powerfully about a number of things. That fact alone belongs on the list of blessings.)
My Freak Flags have been pretty apparent to the people I encounter who know me well. But even the people who only know parts of me, like my middle school musical casts or the kids in my summer theatre or the people who did Christmas Carol with me like ten years ago – even those people see some of my Freak Flags. I love Harry Potter. I listen to showtunes. I love 1960’s Disney Live-Action Movies. (Moonspinners? Happiest Millionaire? That Darn Cat. Yeah. I went there.) I’ve kept a diary for 25 years. I took myself on a self-created You’ve Got Mail tour of the Upper West Side Last Night. (Hence the visit to Café Lalo, where Joe goes to meet Kathleen for the first time, when he figures out that she’s the Shopgirl.) I know every line and lyric to an embarrassingly large number of Broadway Musicals. I was graduated in the top ten of my class, and I am far more proud of that than I should be. I love Star Wars and Anne of Green Gables and Barry Manilow and Lawrence Welk. I have had sexual fantasies about a young Dick Van Dyke since the age of 13. I am a Freak. A dorky, card-carrying, geek of a Freak and I am having a Wonderful Life. And so can all of the other Freaks out there, just by letting their Freak Flag Fly.
It’s been a great day.
I thought of her last week when Michael Jackson died, wondering how she had taken the news. It was partly because I was with Lisa who knew this girl as well, and partly because I have come to have empathy for this person. We all have our little pocket of obsession, as it turns out, and some of them are absolutely more embarrassing than others. But I have come to believe, particularly in recent years, that it is a person’s quirks and oddities and obsessions are the things that make them…them.
It’s my birthday today, and I have spent it alone, though surrounded by people in the busiest city in the world. My family called and sang to me first thing this morning. I got a million Facebook messages today that just made me get choked up every time I read one. But still, I was on my own all day. I was worried I’d be a little sad, and I must confess that I just…wasn’t. I needed the brain-space to consider what it means to be 38. I needed to let things happen to me, and things happened. It has been a spectacular day. I have many spectacular days, and I am grateful for them every time, but today has had its own kind of magic. I walked down Broadway this morning in sunglasses and high heels, drinking a latte. I ate lunch at an outdoor café. I had continual little reminders through the day that what I do in the world is relevant and worthwhile. (One presenter today said, “Kids with a complicated home life rely on teachers to be the authority figures that aren’t out to destroy you.”) I unexpectedly met a Boy I Really Liked in College on the street. I wore a pretty dress to see a show on Broadway, and I had a handsome man offer to buy me a martini in a hotel lounge. (I said “No, thank you.” But it was nice to have been asked.) And now, I’m looking out my hotel window onto the lights of Times Square, and Daniel Radcliffe is about to be on the David Letterman Show. Thank you, Universe, for a whole list of blessings in one single day, my birthday - any one of which would have been more than enough to make this a wonderful chapter of the Kelly Chronicles.
This brings me back to where I began this story. I am at the Broadway Teachers’ Workshop in NYC. I saw the musical Shrek tonight. It was much better than I expected, very funny and charming and very modern, and its big “Eleven o’clock number” and finale is called “Let Your Freak Flag Fly.” It was all I could do to keep from leaping out my seat and dancing to that tonight. It was all about being who you are –celebrating, rather than hiding that which makes you a Freak. I have accepted that I have a variety of Freak Flags, and though I tried as a teenager to keep them private, I’ve given that up. And I have discovered, too, that I might not be a great actress. And I might not be a great director. And I might not be a great teacher. I am, however, good at creating communities – the kinds of communities – whether it’s a sixth grade classroom or the cast of Fiddler on the Roof Jr. or a fancy private school drama club – that make people feel involved and connected to something. Where people find their tribe. Where people can figure out that whatever makes their Freak Flag Fly is okay. By doing that, I am useful and industrious in the world. As Kathleen says in You’ve Got Mail, “I lead a small life. Valuable, but small.” I felt that powerfully today. (I felt powerfully about a number of things. That fact alone belongs on the list of blessings.)
My Freak Flags have been pretty apparent to the people I encounter who know me well. But even the people who only know parts of me, like my middle school musical casts or the kids in my summer theatre or the people who did Christmas Carol with me like ten years ago – even those people see some of my Freak Flags. I love Harry Potter. I listen to showtunes. I love 1960’s Disney Live-Action Movies. (Moonspinners? Happiest Millionaire? That Darn Cat. Yeah. I went there.) I’ve kept a diary for 25 years. I took myself on a self-created You’ve Got Mail tour of the Upper West Side Last Night. (Hence the visit to Café Lalo, where Joe goes to meet Kathleen for the first time, when he figures out that she’s the Shopgirl.) I know every line and lyric to an embarrassingly large number of Broadway Musicals. I was graduated in the top ten of my class, and I am far more proud of that than I should be. I love Star Wars and Anne of Green Gables and Barry Manilow and Lawrence Welk. I have had sexual fantasies about a young Dick Van Dyke since the age of 13. I am a Freak. A dorky, card-carrying, geek of a Freak and I am having a Wonderful Life. And so can all of the other Freaks out there, just by letting their Freak Flag Fly.
It’s been a great day.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Bursts of Energy
Last night, I stayed up writing till 3:30 in the morning. I didn't start till 11:00 when I got home from my little writers' group, but still...I don't know where the energy came from. It was as combination of journaling - which I desperately needed, and have been neglecting - and working on part of a story for my still hypothetical Book About My Family. I was also watching Sabrina - the remake. Why is Greg Kinnear not a bigger movie star?
Anyway...this particular episode in the story about my family is an imagined one about the marriage of my Uncle Jackie - my grandmother's brother - and his wife, my Aunt Liz, who became my grandmother's best friend. Liz and Jackie had a tempestuous life together, and there's a lot to their story. It's been fun to have some grains of truth to work with, as well as a chance to imagine them as characters instead of people that I actually knew. Who knows what will come of it, but since it's my first real attempt at fiction (well...the type of fiction suitible for potential public consideration), I'm still proud ot have gotten something out of my head and into my computer. Now, to just do that, like, a thousand more times.
I also got a good idea for a play for Thayer next year, one that I can write to suit my kids and make the most of their talents and use as many of them as possible.
All in all, it was a very inspiring night, and though multitudes of coffee must be consumed this afternoon, I wouldn't trade it.
Anyway...this particular episode in the story about my family is an imagined one about the marriage of my Uncle Jackie - my grandmother's brother - and his wife, my Aunt Liz, who became my grandmother's best friend. Liz and Jackie had a tempestuous life together, and there's a lot to their story. It's been fun to have some grains of truth to work with, as well as a chance to imagine them as characters instead of people that I actually knew. Who knows what will come of it, but since it's my first real attempt at fiction (well...the type of fiction suitible for potential public consideration), I'm still proud ot have gotten something out of my head and into my computer. Now, to just do that, like, a thousand more times.
I also got a good idea for a play for Thayer next year, one that I can write to suit my kids and make the most of their talents and use as many of them as possible.
All in all, it was a very inspiring night, and though multitudes of coffee must be consumed this afternoon, I wouldn't trade it.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Half Blood Prince
And in keeping with my card-carrying geek status, I am counting down the hours till next week's release of Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, by far my favorite of the books. Totally can't wait. And this time, I'm bringing my nine-year-old daughter and twelve-year-old niece to see the movie with me at midnight. Who's in???
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Fireflies
Vermont has a very different pace than I’m used to. Whereas I often feel bursting with barely-containable energy and frustrating inability to just sit still, there’s something about Vermont that makes me actually just…breathe. It’s no wonder that Lisa, my oldest friend, has made her home and her life there. We’ve been friends since 10th grade, though we’ve known each other all our lives, having grown up in my Tiny Hometown together where we all are stuck with each other from playpen to graduation cap. We became friends rather by default, when members of our wider group either moved away, or evolved into more popular crowds. We were the Last Ones Standing, and it was very lucky that we finally looked at each other one day and realized, “Hey! I actually really LIKE you!” We went to the same college (mostly by coincidence), and stuck by each other through boyfriends and dramas and my particularly obnoxious college growing pains. We were in each other’s weddings, are godmothers to each other’s children, and even though we live five hours apart, our visits to each other now get to be more like vacations. Well, at least for me.
Lisa has four sons. That fact alone continues to leave me in awe of her. FOUR SONS. How does she do it? How does she manage the brotherly scuffles? The Matchbox cars? The plastic dinosaurs and tiny little hammers and all that sand in their sneakers? That is one tiny piece of her Phenomenal Woman status in my mind. What amazes me most is that she has a very particular way of honoring these four small souls in her care, of recognizing their patterns and their insecurities and their talents and their passions and encouraging them to be, to grow, to become whoever they are destined to be. God is a powerful force in her life, and she relies on her faith to help keep her strong and centered and present for her sons, and for her husband. She moved to Vermont for her husband, because it was his vision to have a home with land and a view. An orchard and a huge garden, a root cellar and a sugar shack. These started as Kevin’s dreams, and she has found them in her heart, too, and has built a life with him based on this shared picture.
We went to visit them for an overnight earlier this week. It was just the girls and me, because it was during the work week, and after a shaky start, we put on Mamma Mia and sang our heads off all the way up to Northern Vermont. The kids got on immediately, running through trails and their wildflower meadow, finding snakes and toads and eating mint and various lettuces from their garden. Lisa and I sat on the front porch looking out at the mountain views, reveling in the sunshine (‘cause there was none in Massachusetts) and loving the sounds of six happy little people adventuring around their yard. Later, we sat in the twilight on her back porch, overlooking the apple tree and the wildflower meadow as the kids all roasted marshmallows in their pajamas. As the night began to deepen and Amelia and the boys became enthralled in Dinotopia, Abby came to join us on the back porch. “Abby, see the fireflies?” Kevin indicated the wildflower meadow behind her. My small curly-headed daughter turned around to look behind her, and the gasp as she turned back to look at us, her eyes alight with pure wonder and delight was the best moment of the entire trip. She was off the porch in an instant, running through the field in her pajamas, hair streaming behind her, off to get a closer look. Lisa went inside to gather the rest of them, and Kevin miraculously produced five covered mason jars, tailor made for catching fireflies on a perfect summer night. Lisa and I sat on the porch and watched all five of them scampering through the yard, and she quietly said, “I am so happy to be able to share this with you.” And I felt just the same way.
Lisa and I will attend our 20th high school reunion next month. Twenty years since we rode together to the prom. Twenty years since we giggled together through “Hava Nagila” in Concert Choir. More than that, even, since we shared details of our first kisses, tried our first cigarette on the way to a high school dance, listened to the fascinating Tiffani Todd, with her New Girl Mystique, explain the specifics of various sexual acts to us in the back of the auditorium during South Pacific rehearsal. (Wealth of knowledge, that girl.) Twenty years since we cried together after saying goodbye to our first loves to head off to UMass. Lisa waited all night in the waiting room while I gave birth to Amelia. She danced me through my pre-wedding jitters to “Don’t Fence Me In” in her basement. She was by my side through my brother’s wake and funeral, and cried with me in only the way that someone who knew him as a freckled ten-year old could. Snickers in church. Margaritas in Provincetown. Ani DeFranco concerts and high-school plays and bridesmaid dresses and wine coolers and late-night poetry readings and ill-advised romances. Family dramas and funerals and weddings and babies…and, most importantly, whatever comes next. I know that whatever comes next will include her, my soul-friend, the one who knew me first and best, who knows exactly where I came from and will celebrate where I’m going, as I will continue to do for and with her. I cherish her, and do not possess enough poetry in my heart to fully capture how essential she is to the balance of my life. I wish many things for my daughters, but second only to my hope that they find a life-mate to make their spirit sing is the hope that they will have a Lisa, a True Blue Friend who will be there to share the journey, start to end. And not just share it, but enhance it, and decorate it with splashy paint and printed scarves and hand-carved jewelry…and fireflies on a summer night.
Lisa has four sons. That fact alone continues to leave me in awe of her. FOUR SONS. How does she do it? How does she manage the brotherly scuffles? The Matchbox cars? The plastic dinosaurs and tiny little hammers and all that sand in their sneakers? That is one tiny piece of her Phenomenal Woman status in my mind. What amazes me most is that she has a very particular way of honoring these four small souls in her care, of recognizing their patterns and their insecurities and their talents and their passions and encouraging them to be, to grow, to become whoever they are destined to be. God is a powerful force in her life, and she relies on her faith to help keep her strong and centered and present for her sons, and for her husband. She moved to Vermont for her husband, because it was his vision to have a home with land and a view. An orchard and a huge garden, a root cellar and a sugar shack. These started as Kevin’s dreams, and she has found them in her heart, too, and has built a life with him based on this shared picture.
We went to visit them for an overnight earlier this week. It was just the girls and me, because it was during the work week, and after a shaky start, we put on Mamma Mia and sang our heads off all the way up to Northern Vermont. The kids got on immediately, running through trails and their wildflower meadow, finding snakes and toads and eating mint and various lettuces from their garden. Lisa and I sat on the front porch looking out at the mountain views, reveling in the sunshine (‘cause there was none in Massachusetts) and loving the sounds of six happy little people adventuring around their yard. Later, we sat in the twilight on her back porch, overlooking the apple tree and the wildflower meadow as the kids all roasted marshmallows in their pajamas. As the night began to deepen and Amelia and the boys became enthralled in Dinotopia, Abby came to join us on the back porch. “Abby, see the fireflies?” Kevin indicated the wildflower meadow behind her. My small curly-headed daughter turned around to look behind her, and the gasp as she turned back to look at us, her eyes alight with pure wonder and delight was the best moment of the entire trip. She was off the porch in an instant, running through the field in her pajamas, hair streaming behind her, off to get a closer look. Lisa went inside to gather the rest of them, and Kevin miraculously produced five covered mason jars, tailor made for catching fireflies on a perfect summer night. Lisa and I sat on the porch and watched all five of them scampering through the yard, and she quietly said, “I am so happy to be able to share this with you.” And I felt just the same way.
Lisa and I will attend our 20th high school reunion next month. Twenty years since we rode together to the prom. Twenty years since we giggled together through “Hava Nagila” in Concert Choir. More than that, even, since we shared details of our first kisses, tried our first cigarette on the way to a high school dance, listened to the fascinating Tiffani Todd, with her New Girl Mystique, explain the specifics of various sexual acts to us in the back of the auditorium during South Pacific rehearsal. (Wealth of knowledge, that girl.) Twenty years since we cried together after saying goodbye to our first loves to head off to UMass. Lisa waited all night in the waiting room while I gave birth to Amelia. She danced me through my pre-wedding jitters to “Don’t Fence Me In” in her basement. She was by my side through my brother’s wake and funeral, and cried with me in only the way that someone who knew him as a freckled ten-year old could. Snickers in church. Margaritas in Provincetown. Ani DeFranco concerts and high-school plays and bridesmaid dresses and wine coolers and late-night poetry readings and ill-advised romances. Family dramas and funerals and weddings and babies…and, most importantly, whatever comes next. I know that whatever comes next will include her, my soul-friend, the one who knew me first and best, who knows exactly where I came from and will celebrate where I’m going, as I will continue to do for and with her. I cherish her, and do not possess enough poetry in my heart to fully capture how essential she is to the balance of my life. I wish many things for my daughters, but second only to my hope that they find a life-mate to make their spirit sing is the hope that they will have a Lisa, a True Blue Friend who will be there to share the journey, start to end. And not just share it, but enhance it, and decorate it with splashy paint and printed scarves and hand-carved jewelry…and fireflies on a summer night.
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