Exit Stage Left

My sister told me there is  a country song that has a line about trying something new every day.  I'm not a fan of that musical genre, but I do believe that having new experiences is a way to keep myself young and the world interesting.  While in Santa Fe this past January, my daughter, Andrea, sent me a link to an audition that would honor World Story Telling Day.  I'm a writer.  I have stories to tell.  But I didn't know what this audition or subsequent acceptance to the production would actually entail.  This would definitely be trying something new, but it would be a month long journey.  An Odyssey.

I've never tried out for anything in my adult life.  I haven't acted on a stage since I played Dorothy in the Wizard if Oz.  Second grade.  I don't even interview well for jobs - my work experience had been more on my terms, and with my last two gigs I ended up interrogating my potential bosses during the initial examination.

I needed a short - three minute - story to tell at the audition.  I chose to tell my story of the Waldo Canyon Fire.  I was nervous, but I managed to eke out the words.  Then I waited and surprisingly was accepted into this troupe of five other peeps who all had acting experience.  I was the greenhorn!

My naive self thought that I would come in very prepared, story in hand.  I'm a writer and I have many essays and memoir- esque pieces in my portfolio.  But on February 22nd, my 59th birthday, our ensemble convened in the narrow art room of a church for a get-to-know-you potluck and some team building.

Over the next week and a half or so, I would abandon my original piece.  I let go of the notion that I had to control my own work, and allowed the director, Tara, to not only pull a new story out of me, but also learned it is not so painful to kill my darlings.  For me the writing was the most natural part of this process.  My comfort zone.  It was what came next that fully managed to pull me into my challenge zone.

This stage production would be a hybrid of a stodgy stand up and rattle off a story kind of talk mixed in with actual acting, moving around the stage, and having lines in other people's stories (and they in mine) to keep the audience interested and lend dimension to our tales.  So in addition to my own fifteen minute intermittent monologue, I had about 17 other lines to remember from my fellow ensemble members stories.

I learned new terminology for this endeavor.  Blocking.  The Gap.  Downstage.  Every job has its own special vernacular and our director was well versed in the language of theater.  I learned that other people would be depending upon me to not only know my own piece when the night came to perform on stage, but remember the important speaking moments I had in their stories.  My cues.  When to stand up, cross the stage, which chair to return to.  Don't talk when in the back line.  No yawning.  Be attentive to the other story tellers.  No RBF*.  If we're bored the audience is bored.  I learned that stage laughter starts with breathe!  I plucked a few ditties uttered by Tara to use in a future poem or two.

Memorizing all those words, in order and accurately, was pretty tough for me.  I'm a writer, so when I want to know what I wrote I look at my scribbles.  I'd have no cheat sheet the night of the show.  Only my memory and my courage.  I tried to pay strict attention to the scenes where I got up and moved, spoke a line or two, and meandered back to a new space in the line.  Did I have enough intact brain cells to manage all these transitions?

The days before the performance involved late night rehearsals, last minute revisions and a good amount of walking around the living room talking to myself.  I felt quasi confident and then?  Showtime!  We performed at the Forum, an intimate 37 seat theater in our beautiful local library.

I've performed a bit of poetry, scratch that, recited my own work with emphasis and nervousness.  This was different.  Stage lights in my eyes, five other performers and the director, and of course, the audience depending on me to not flop.  I did pretty well.  I missed a few lines, but only in my own piece.  My heart was beating a bit faster than usual, but I didn't feel like myocardial infarction was imminent.  Then about an hour and forty minutes later, our bows to enthusiastic applause.  It was done.

A few friends have asked me if I am bit by the theater bug and the answer is NO.  This was a fabulous experience that stretched my abilities and exposed me to a world I had previously only enjoyed from the comfort of a balcony seat.  I did learn a few things about myself.  Some that I already knew, but never openly admitted, and a few new eye-opening tidbits about my personality.

I like everyone I worked with.  But I came to realize that I enjoy working alone more than in a group. My hands on the keys, or a pad and pen in hand, curled up in a comfy chair is more my speed.  In most of my jobs I was the boss.  And while I wouldn't consider myself a control freak (any more, anyway) it was a new experience to let go of being in charge of the details and allowing the director and actors to guide me in this endeavor.  It was a relief in some ways to just take direction, watch how other people work, engage in banter, learn theater terminology, listen.

Physically I made a few sacrifices to ensure my health for the night of the performance.  Sniffles and a scratchy throat seemed to want to overtake me the week before the big night.  It was a decision, not made lightly, to delay taking my two medications in order to keep my immune system up and running.  I have an autoimmune disease that requires the obliteration of my immune system as to calm the effects of Rheumatoid Arthritis.  I traded achiness and hurting hands to be able to take some Echinacea and other herbs to combat whatever crud was coming on.  Success!

I also gave up many nights of being in bed at my usual early hour.  Sleep is an important component of keeping myself in good operating order.  We were lucky enough to have only one night of snow.  But it was chilly at midnight and way past my bedtime when we broke up rehearsals to return home.  I'd be so amped up, sleep would elude me till an hour or two after I was home.  My wake-up time is imprinted in my circadian clock, so I still arose to sun-up and birds chirping.

As a writer, I write.  I compose a rough draft, let it sit a bit, come back, edit.  Sit.  It's a process, but it doesn't last too long.  I decide somewhere along the line to continue polishing a piece, or let it go.  This was different.  I sat in my same words, and those scripts of cast-mates, for a month.  Reading and reciting and rehearsing the same words in the same order.  Over and over.  This was almost painful for me.  I like to move on.  Write it, read it, retire it.  Not here.  I wouldn't say I was bored with the repetitiveness, but this was grounding of sorts that I don't practice in my writing.  This is theater discipline, and I think I can take a lesson or two and apply it to my daily routines.

I have more to write about this, and will in a future blog. Today I am awaiting the arrival of a friend to enjoy a restorative yoga class and hot springs for the day.  I know how to take care of myself.

Time to Chill,

Jane


*RBF --  resting bitch face

Adobe Skin

A poetic reflection on my writing time in Santa Fe earlier this year:

Adobe Skin 

My rough, calloused palm caresses the smooth roundness

This wall is slick and blemish-free. Sensual

Like the swollen belly of a pregnant woman

This body-hugging adobe pod

Filled with feminine energy

Transforms the harsh desert sand

Into a soft maternal membrane 

These casita walls are my external womb

They sing to me, call my name

Soothe me into production

Nurture my infantile creativity

Hold me tightly in the safety of your skin

Let my tears flow, my joy awaken

Let my pen press, my imagination abound

Be my talent and my tenaciousness

Be my lightning and my rain

Be my muse, my mantra, my mother

Hell No!

Yesterday morning I joined about 60 other people to support the kids.  Our informal group was comprised mostly of grey-haired women.  There were a few men and some younger women, but it struck me that it was primarily a gaggle of grannies.  We weren't allowed on school property, and I totally respected this decision made by security.  We were directed to stand on a public sidewalk, by the big evergreen, where we were afforded a clear, but distant view of the kids.  Kids.

Kids.  I have to keep reminding myself that these are children who are taking their own safety concerns into their own hands.  Because we, as adults, have mortally failed them.  I keep reminding myself that when I was in high school I detested being dismissed by adults.  That I felt mature and composed enough to be heard.  These kids are certainly mature and composed.  And angry.  And scared.  And they need to be heard.

Some would argue that being in school for the day is where their asses need to be.  I say a real life civics lesson is always more valuable than rote instruction.  This was a very peaceful assembly.  Just a bunch of high schoolers marching out of school to stand in solidarity for a mere 17 minutes of their lives. For their lives.  I'm sure whatever they missed in AP Bio or Algebra wouldn't affect the rest of their days.  But I'm pretty sure that standing up gave them a voice and confidence that will somehow translate to a life skill.  Public speaking perhaps, or even learning to set a boundary.  Real stuff.  Important stuff.

Do we believe that lists are made in importance of order?  I do.  Ergo, I find it quite interesting that those who want to protect the second amendment to their dying breath also want these kids to not exercise the first amendment.  The right to assemble peaceably.  Wow.  Is there any harm in a swarm of kids saying: Enough.  Enough.  

First Amendment

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press, or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

I find it quite interesting that the top of the list of The Bill of Rights is our right to assemble and petition the government to redress grievances.  That is the #1 amendment.  In my view number one means it was the most important to our founding fathers.  I also like to point out that when the Bill of Rights was ratified in 1791 the firearm of choice was not an AR15.  I'm pretty sure if these founding fathers were alive today they'd address this situation in a heartbeat.  Those guys didn't dally.  They took action as if the sovereignty of our country depended on it.  Because it did.

Back to the kids.  There are many rumors circulating that the teenage protesters and spokespeople are paid actors.  No, it is our president who is a paid reality star, and a bad one at that.  That kids who eat tide pods cannot possibly make rational decisions.  We all know kids do stupid things -  remember the goldfish fad? - that doesn't make their concerns any less valid.  That children should be seen and not heard.  If that were true we'd probably still be floundering in Vietnam.

I could have stayed home yesterday and not been present.  But I felt my presence was needed, and apparently so did 60 other community members.  Many of the ladies I spoke to were retired educators.  From Littleton, JeffCo, Cherry Creek and even Savannah, Ga.  A couple of women were Arapahoe High School alumni, showing support to their alma maters new generation.  I was kind of the odd woman out.  No kids in school.  New to this community.  Not an educator.  Just a very concerned, worried everyday citizen.  Who also thinks ENOUGH!

Enough children dead.  Enough opportunities for a do-nothing congress to sit their asses in a chair and do something.  Enough people, both seemingly normal and mentally unstable having easy access to firearms.  Enough grieving parents.  Enough prayers and thoughts.  That hasn't really affected anything, has it?  In God we trust, in apathy we rest.


Do I have the answer?  No.  I like what my cousin says.  Everyone is right and everyone is wrong.  A mindset like this could open the floodgates of meaningful conversation.  Notice I didn't say debate.  I'm tired of the back and forth.  The childish name calling.  The us versus them mentality.

It is our job, our responsibility and our moral calling to cherish babies over bullets.  Children over the NRA.  I hope that this momentum gains even more strength as the days unfold.  That these young, articulate, passionate humans change some minds and some laws.  I support you kids!  Don't let the naysayers discourage your efforts.  Be present.  Be heard.  Voices today.  Voters tomorrow.

Time to Write,

Jane

Because I Can...

I'm not intimate with firearms, but I am not a stranger either.  A few years back, after the Waldo Canyon fire decimated the Mountain Shadows neighborhood in Colorado Springs, after midnight theater goers in Aurora didn't come home, after a mentally disturbed young man with easy access to a gun killed children in Sandy Hook, I got the idea that I needed to learn how to shoot.  For protection.  Self-preservation in a seemingly mad world.

I bought a Groupon to a local gun club, talked my friend Martha into attending a conceal carry class with me, and off we went.  This was a one-day gig.  It was about 2/3 classroom instruction and 1/3 at the range downstairs.  They had a variety of guns for us to choose from, and we paid for the bullets.

The classroom portion was easy. And what I mean by that is not in depth.  How to handle a firearm, how to check the chamber is empty before messing around with a gun.  Never put my finger on the trigger unless I intend to shoot.  I got a nifty little handbook, produced by the NRA, with a recap of what I had learned.  Most of it seemed very common sense, but I'll repeat; not deep.  Certainly not intellectual.

This was a female only class taught by a beautiful blond with a sidearm.  Open carry - a BIG gun -fully visible on her hip. She assured us how comfortable we would be in this class because 'men in gun classes can be intimidating.'  She talked about ways a woman can carry a weapon in nifty purses with a special pocket that we could shoot right through, never revealing our gun. Of course these purses were for sale downstairs alongside the gun we might tuck into it.  Even gun safety classes exit through the gift shop. There was no discussion of how it might feel if we ever actually had to employ firepower for our protection.  How we might be psychologically affected 'after the shoot'.  There was a bit of emphasis that a conceal carry permit is for our own, and our families protection.  Not vigilantism.  I was in awe of the instructor. She seemed very capable and bad ass.  Maybe it was that gun on her hip...

The range component was a bit trickier for me.  I learned that I am left eye dominant.  For a righty that means I can't shoot the side of a barn, let alone a paper target of a man's torso.  I'm told to turn a bit and try shooting cross body.  That doesn't help much.  Meanwhile Martha is a crack shot. She has successfully thwarted the dark paper torso target from approaching her and causing her bodily harm. My new plan for personal safety is this; no need to carry a gun, just hang out with Martha at all times. Apparently growing up on a farm in the mid-west is more life preparing than being raised in the bucolic suburbs of New York City.   I may have quasi street smarts, but Martha can shoot that weapon like there is no tomorrow.  

The instructor pulls me aside at the end of the class, my certificate of completion waving in her hand, and wisely tells me I need more practice before I even consider carrying a weapon.  This is not part of the class.  I have proficiently passed the requirement to apply for a conceal carry permit with this piece of paper.  This advice is her professional opinion, and I heed the admonishment.

I have a friend who is an avid shooter.  He has a membership to the upscale gun club where I took the class.  He agrees to teach me more about guns and safety and how to actually hit the target.  Several times I am his guest at the range.  He has an arsenal of guns, so no need to rent one from the club.  He evens treats me to the bullets.  I feel special.  He notes that I am a right handed shooter with a stronger left eye.  He takes a small amount of Vaseline and smears the left lens of my glasses.  Now I am forced to use only my right eye.  I improve my skills with this seemingly easy technique.  On another visit, he has me shooting with my left hand.  This is a bit tougher.  Anyone who has tried using a pen with their other hand knows our brains resist this.  

Finally I feel like I am a responsible enough person to own and carry a gun.  I plop down about $150.00 at the El Paso County Sheriff's office and wait for this permission to arrive in the mail.  About six weeks later it is official.  I can discreetly take a weapon with me wherever I go.  I don't own a gun, but I can if I want to.  I've been background checked.  I have a plastic card the same size as the one that allows me to drive a car.  It has my photo, my height and my weight.  It also has my hair color which I adamantly refused to be notated as red.  Even though my hair color at the time was kind of orangy-brown.  Crazy people have red hair.  Please put brown.  This is what I asked the clerk who was in charge of recording my info and fingerprinting me.

I moved several times around the state in the ensuing years.  Each time I dutifully notified the sheriff of my new address.  The permit is good for five years, and I don't need to reapply in another county until then.  Each time they sent me a new card with the same photo and info, just an update on where to find me if need be.  When the time came to renew in the county where I now reside, all it took was an appointment and a check for $30.00.  That's it.  That was all.  I did have to reapply, affirming I wasn't arrested for domestic violence or any other felony in the past few years.  But other than a new photo, taken by the deputies office, no extra charge, and a reapplication fee, that was it.

In all of this, no one ever asked me if I suffered from mental illness or depression.  Not one human being looked me in the eyes to see if I was all there.  The most responsible participant in this journey was my female first steps instructor.  The gal who said I needed more training.  And she was right.  I respect her for telling me because it might have meant a missed sale at their gun counter.

Five years have passed.  Do I feel any safer in a theater or church?  Not really.  Do I have visions of driving by a school, seeing police and commotion and rushing in to save the day.  Never.  Has my behavior changed because of fear?  Yes.  I don't like big crowds.  I won't march in the Israeli Day parade in Denver because I don't want to be a target in a cordoned chute.  Like my son, who is a police officer, I try to always sit facing a door.  I want to see what is coming my way.  I often choose a seat in a restaurant that is near the back exit.  I've learned to continually assess my surroundings and make adjustments that make me feel safer.  This is all in my head, but it is my head.  I give myself permission to indulge some of this new found paranoia.

Do I stay home and cower?  No.  I live my life to the best of my abilities.  I go hiking on trails, but myself, but I bring protection.  Because I can.  Protection isn't always a gun.  I'm not an advocate of pepper spray in overly windy Colorado.  Plus I don't want anyone to get that close to begin with.  Distance is protection.  My voice is my best weapon.  No one likes a crazy woman screaming at the top of her lungs.  Attitude plays a part.  Shoulders back, head held high.  I pray this works for a one on one confrontation.  All the aforementioned are moot in an active killing scenario.

Do I think the training I received in one long night at the gun club was adequate for the right to carry a pistol?  No.  I took it upon myself to seek further instruction when advised to.  A responsible gun owner goes to the range on a regular basis to keep skills sharp.  Reinforce that muscle memory, so that when needed our basic instinct of fight or flight kicks in to warrior mode.  Do I think Colorado is the wild west and I should just carry all the time?  I won't reveal that here.  I'll just say that it is very difficult to holster a gun into yoga pants.

Time to Write,

Jane