About a week ago, I wrapped up my time with the Fall Collection of One Acts in Eden Prairie. Gosh, I love those people. I enjoyed spending time with some of the friends I've made during my year of involvement with Eden Prairie Players, I made some new friends who were onboard for the first time, connected with others who had returned after some time away, and I worked really hard on a show that left me feeling both satisfied and completely drained.
When I auditioned this time around, I was hoping for a role in a comedy. Last spring I worked on a show with heavy subject matter, and I thought I wanted a change. I knew that I would accept whatever role was offered, but I didn't really bargain for Martha.
Collateral Damage was beautiful and ugly, desperate and hopeful, wonderful and terrible--all at the same time. From day one I was struggling to embrace the character of Martha--and I was quick to say she was nothing like me.
I don't have any experience with life as a military wife. I don't have close up experience with military life in general; in fact, I avoid listening to stories about the military at all, because war scares me so much. I am not a person who is hard around the edges like Martha--the other night somebody told me Martha "seemed like she could kick some ass", which is a compliment to the actor side of me, because real-life Jenny does not! (Actually, while I'd like to take credit for the acting, I think it was probably the wig!)
Now here's the thing that I haven't wanted to say out loud, but now that I'm reflecting, I need to admit: I am like Martha. At least, I have been like her at times. I do know what it is like to feel resentful of a person's absence. I know what it is like to feel so angry that I can't see straight, especially when the situation is beyond my control. I have experienced times when fear comes out sideways as screaming and swearing. I have swum in the murky waters that surround a person who struggles with untreated post-traumatic stress and anxiety, and I know that the undertow can threaten to pull everyone in along with the victim.
Martha was the one trying to come up with all the solutions to the problem in George Bryjak's play. Martha had been carrying the load alone for a long time-- in her opinion, anyway--and she was not going to get the break she thought she deserved when Roger returned, broken and beaten down, and falling apart. And here's the admirable thing about Martha-- at the end of the day, Martha picked Roger up in her arms and took his heavy load upon herself. I don't think that happens all the time. I keep thinking about Roger's line from the show, "There's always a choice." If I'm honest, my choice in that moment might have been to leave Roger crying in that parking lot, while I drove away in our beat up little car.
Our directors had some email contact with the author of the play as we began working on the project, and one of the things he said is that when he writes, he likes to take "common man and woman, put them in difficult situations, increase the pressure to the breaking point, and see what happens." He doesn't shy away from difficult topics, and spending time digging around in that space caused me to think hard about who I am, who I have been at times, and who I hope to be when I'm the one at the breaking point.
I wonder if maybe Collateral Damage Part 2 would look like Martha living alone in an apartment for the first time in her life, trying to figure out where she might have chosen differently along the way. Maybe she and Roger will have been rowing in opposite directions for so long that they can't figure out how to be together anymore. Maybe Roger would find healing, by some miracle that is bigger than the thing that broke him in the first place. Collateral Damage wasn't just about a soldier's experience or a war--it was also about marriage, survival and relationships in the darkest of moments. Martha's selfless choice at the end of the show is not the choice I can I claim every time my own life, and while I know my choices have been right for me, and I know that Martha and Roger are illustrations of fiction, I still find a little shame tangled up in there someplace that is difficult for me to swallow.
I cannot say that I completely enjoyed myself this time around with this particular show. Enjoyment wouldn't be the appropriate word anyway. The content in the script was really, really hard. I can say that I grew as a person and as a performer. I can say that it was worth doing. I can admit, with gritted teeth, that I have a little Martha in me, even though I don't like her one bit. If given the choice, I would absolutely explore the role again. But next time around, I might still be hoping for a comedy.
Tuesday, October 1, 2019
Tuesday, August 6, 2019
A New Song
Back in the day, back in my old life, I used to be a singer. I started singing in 8th grade, when I decided I didn't want to practice my flute for school band anymore. I sang all through high school, I sang when I went away to college, I even sang for a little while with the international touring group, Up With People.
Being a girl who was known for never finishing anything she started, the stint with Up With People began when I dropped out of college, I dropped out of Up With People when I got sidetracked by a man, and, true to my reputation, it turns out I didn't exactly see that choice through to completion either--or maybe I did get all the way to the ending of that chapter. At any rate, for lots of years, I was a singer. I sang to my babies--show tunes and lullabies, camp songs, and 70s folk songs--I sang on my church worship team for most of 25 years, I sang at the occasional wedding, funeral, or anniversary party, and most of my time in the car or at home alone was spent with music coming out of me like breathing.
When my life as I knew it changed almost 2 years ago, and I found myself up to my eyeballs in counseling and decisions and feelings of guilt and shame, the music stopped. I switched the car to talk radio, I quit the worship team at church, my babies were long grown and gone from the nest-- so there'd been no bedtime songs for years anyway...for whatever reason I discovered I couldn't handle hearing music like I had before, so for my own sanity, I turned it off.
Over the past several months, I've been listening to music again. I started with non-threatening pop songs from the 80s, the songs from the days when life was stress-free. The only trigger that might go off is a memory from a date with a high school boy, or remembering a song from a favorite mix tape. Easy. I listen to soundtracks from Broadway musicals fairly often. I might be preparing for an audition, or researching a show I want to see. My heartstrings get tugged on a bit when I hear those songs, because I want to be onstage every moment of every day--and that is an unrealized dream that comes with a lot of powerful feelings. I used to have to limit how much I listened to show tunes, because it was painful, and that is still true today. I discovered almost immediately that tuning in to country music is a surefire way to find yourself drowning in yucky feelings about heartbreak and hard choices, so the only time I tolerated that was for some character work for a show last spring, and religious music--both the hymns from my childhood and the more contemporary songs from more recent church experiences--threatens to absolutely slay me. Small doses are ok, but being in church is hard and reintroducing that genre is going to take some work.
Isn't it strange how the thing that used to bring me the most joy and comfort has been so painful? I don't fully understand it, but I know that music speaks to many people in a way that spoken words can't. I guess it was too hard for me to hear the messages in the music, I wasn't strong enough, or I wasn't ready.
I've known it was time for me to write about music for a few weeks now. I'm not sure why, but it seems like it's important to recognize some things about music in my life. I am wired to be touched by music, and I know that is not a universal feeling. I have a couple of friends who cannot stand music--they would have loved the new "quiet me"! Music says things that I am not brave enough to say, and music says things that I need to hear. Every chapter of my life has been marked by songs, and those songs are memories that are sometimes bittersweet. Mostly I am beginning to realize that my decision to stop singing was both an act of self-preservation and an act of punishment I inflicted on myself.
In recent weeks I've discovered I'm stronger than I was when I turned off the music, and I want to sing again. I'm smarter than I was when I turned off the music, and I'm ready to hear what it is music has to say to me. I suspect the messages will be different now, and I suspect my voice won't be the same, but I'd like to think I might find myself singing a new song, just as beautiful as the songs I used to know.
Wednesday, June 5, 2019
Semi-Sweet
It's been a few weeks since I wrapped up my time with the Eden Prairie Players Women's One Acts. I really love the people and the venue, and the variety of shows this year was entertaining. I started the rehearsal process fresh off the high of the silliness and fun of a comedic role in another show, and I have to say, I don't think I was fully prepared for the emotional drain the role of Simi would bring.
I have not buried a child, but I know friends who have. I haven't had to keep putting one foot in front of the other after that kind of loss, and I can only imagine how impossible it must feel. I've experienced different kinds of grief over my lifetime though. While I'm not grieving the loss of a baby, I have lost other parts of my life lately--some by choice and some not. I've looked for ways to heal and stay hopeful along the way, just like Simi did when she decided planting flowers would help her. And like Simi, who realizes the bloom of the violets will coincide with her late daughter's birthday, the things that give me hope sometimes come with an unexpected zing of pain.
Keeping that raw and honest sadness at the forefront of my mind helped me set my attitude and energy for Simi, but it also made me tired, and sometimes a little scared--like I could lose control and not be able to fully recover afterwards. My onstage partner was my dear friend, and he was 100% ready to explore that challenge with me. I'm grateful not only for our good chemistry, but also for the friendship we share that made it safe for me to lose it and smear my mascara on his shirt during each show!
After every single performance, I was approached by at least one person who thanked me for telling their story of grief and the child they had lost. I absolutely did not expect that, and it made me appreciate the gift of the role even more. I was touched that people would take the time to talk about it with me. I was grateful that audiences allowed themselves to feel our show. I was honored that they let themselves believe our tension and tears and sadness, and the moments of clinging to each other as the lights went down. Our director wrote in her notes about the playwright: "Her words reach into spaces that are sometimes locked away. Allie finds the key to those spaces and helps us remember."
The short story of Simi and Rhys and the death of their child didn't have a happy ending. The show ended with a snapshot of a couple who were only beginning to find their way through a painful chapter. The promise of flowers blooming in a garden and the memories of their "little potbelly stove" toddler helped me this spring as I continued to heal in other ways. Every show I've ever done has taught me something, and this one taught me that life--and even grief--isn't bitter, it's Simi-sweet.
I have not buried a child, but I know friends who have. I haven't had to keep putting one foot in front of the other after that kind of loss, and I can only imagine how impossible it must feel. I've experienced different kinds of grief over my lifetime though. While I'm not grieving the loss of a baby, I have lost other parts of my life lately--some by choice and some not. I've looked for ways to heal and stay hopeful along the way, just like Simi did when she decided planting flowers would help her. And like Simi, who realizes the bloom of the violets will coincide with her late daughter's birthday, the things that give me hope sometimes come with an unexpected zing of pain.
Keeping that raw and honest sadness at the forefront of my mind helped me set my attitude and energy for Simi, but it also made me tired, and sometimes a little scared--like I could lose control and not be able to fully recover afterwards. My onstage partner was my dear friend, and he was 100% ready to explore that challenge with me. I'm grateful not only for our good chemistry, but also for the friendship we share that made it safe for me to lose it and smear my mascara on his shirt during each show!
After every single performance, I was approached by at least one person who thanked me for telling their story of grief and the child they had lost. I absolutely did not expect that, and it made me appreciate the gift of the role even more. I was touched that people would take the time to talk about it with me. I was grateful that audiences allowed themselves to feel our show. I was honored that they let themselves believe our tension and tears and sadness, and the moments of clinging to each other as the lights went down. Our director wrote in her notes about the playwright: "Her words reach into spaces that are sometimes locked away. Allie finds the key to those spaces and helps us remember."
The short story of Simi and Rhys and the death of their child didn't have a happy ending. The show ended with a snapshot of a couple who were only beginning to find their way through a painful chapter. The promise of flowers blooming in a garden and the memories of their "little potbelly stove" toddler helped me this spring as I continued to heal in other ways. Every show I've ever done has taught me something, and this one taught me that life--and even grief--isn't bitter, it's Simi-sweet.
Thursday, April 18, 2019
MarlaFaye: Stuff I Learned From a Fictitious Southern Gal
Last weekend I wrapped up my time onstage in a production of The Savannah Sipping Society. I felt fortunate to have been cast in a role that was different than what I usually play.
While I knew my time with the show-- the cast, the crew, the script-- would be rewarding and fun (it always is), I wasn't sure how my experience with the character would feel.
I met some new people, re-connected with some folks I haven't worked with in awhile, and I enjoyed the creative process and the teamwork it takes to put a show together. I even enjoyed the challenge of memorizing a dialogue-heavy script. As the weeks went on and I became more familiar with the character, I went home more than one night thinking about MarlaFaye long after rehearsal had ended, and I wasn't sure she was likable. MarlaFaye is an angry loudmouth from Texas, she has no fashion sense and no manners, and doesn't seem to care what anybody thinks. While I know not every character is likable, and sometimes it's all right not to be, I couldn't help thinking there was something positive in her that I wanted to uncover.
I came to realize that MarlaFaye ( or MF, as I was tempted to call her, but quickly realized that is NOT a good nickname!), carries pain and fear and disappointment that is coming out sideways as anger and a desire for revenge on her cheating ex. She's loud and she speaks before thinking and doesn't hold back--she's brutally honest. She has a self-deprecating sense of humor--she'll make fun of herself before anyone else can.
I learned some other stuff about her too, some things that might be worth remembering as I put away my script and move on to my next project.
1: Remember where you came from: MarlaFaye mentions that she gets her ability to think positive in challenging times from her Daddy. ("He always said bury him in his 4 wheel drive pickup, because it ain't never been in a hole it couldn't get me out of.") She says she learned not to put the cart before the horse from her mother. ("My mama didn't raise no fool!") My own parents have taught me so many life lessons that have served me well, and I find myself looking to those lessons even now as I've spent the last year rebuilding my own life.
2: Try new things: MarlaFaye has a new home, a new job, new friendships, and a new outlook. The very point of her time with the Savannah ladies is about trying new things. While I'm not planning on trying hot yoga, swimming with snapping turtles, or going salsa dancing, I have made an effort to try new things in the past year. It's good to step out of our comfort zone!
3: Know when to pack it up: It's really never too late to start over, is it? What a relief to know that you can choose to move away from the things that aren't good for you, and to know that good things will find you if you open yourself to them. While MarlaFaye's reason for packing it up and hitting the road was somewhat different than mine, I still see myself in her, and I've been reminded again and again that I still have time to create a new life.
4: Find some loyal friends: The ladies of the Savannah Sipping Society cast and crew are actually some of my dearest friends in my real life, which made my adventure with MarlaFaye even sweeter. Girlfriends are so important as we navigate life's challenges. I'm fortunate to have good friends in many different circles, and they definitely have made my transition and life changes easier.
5: Step boldly into your new life: MarlaFaye actually gets the chance to finish old business once she gets settled in her new life. Her confidence grows, she's open to new relationships, and her anger turns to happiness by the end of the show. ("You can't let your past block your plans for the future.")
That last lesson is one I haven't quite mastered yet, but I'm getting there. It's becoming easier for me to make my own decisions. It's less scary being on my own, because time and again I'm seeing that I will be ok. I've welcomed new people into my space, and my life is richer for it. If MarlaFaye can start over and live to tell about it, so can I.
I always leave a show with new knowledge about myself, and I usually see ways that a small piece of a character leaves a mark on me long after the curtain comes down. I'm not bitter and angry like good ol' MarlaFaye, but I am learning to to jumpstart a new life like she did. She is likable after all. I'm all right with hanging onto a little bit of her as I move forward--but I'll leave her Crocs, Pringles, and Twinkies behind!
While I knew my time with the show-- the cast, the crew, the script-- would be rewarding and fun (it always is), I wasn't sure how my experience with the character would feel.
I met some new people, re-connected with some folks I haven't worked with in awhile, and I enjoyed the creative process and the teamwork it takes to put a show together. I even enjoyed the challenge of memorizing a dialogue-heavy script. As the weeks went on and I became more familiar with the character, I went home more than one night thinking about MarlaFaye long after rehearsal had ended, and I wasn't sure she was likable. MarlaFaye is an angry loudmouth from Texas, she has no fashion sense and no manners, and doesn't seem to care what anybody thinks. While I know not every character is likable, and sometimes it's all right not to be, I couldn't help thinking there was something positive in her that I wanted to uncover.
I came to realize that MarlaFaye ( or MF, as I was tempted to call her, but quickly realized that is NOT a good nickname!), carries pain and fear and disappointment that is coming out sideways as anger and a desire for revenge on her cheating ex. She's loud and she speaks before thinking and doesn't hold back--she's brutally honest. She has a self-deprecating sense of humor--she'll make fun of herself before anyone else can.
I learned some other stuff about her too, some things that might be worth remembering as I put away my script and move on to my next project.
1: Remember where you came from: MarlaFaye mentions that she gets her ability to think positive in challenging times from her Daddy. ("He always said bury him in his 4 wheel drive pickup, because it ain't never been in a hole it couldn't get me out of.") She says she learned not to put the cart before the horse from her mother. ("My mama didn't raise no fool!") My own parents have taught me so many life lessons that have served me well, and I find myself looking to those lessons even now as I've spent the last year rebuilding my own life.
2: Try new things: MarlaFaye has a new home, a new job, new friendships, and a new outlook. The very point of her time with the Savannah ladies is about trying new things. While I'm not planning on trying hot yoga, swimming with snapping turtles, or going salsa dancing, I have made an effort to try new things in the past year. It's good to step out of our comfort zone!
3: Know when to pack it up: It's really never too late to start over, is it? What a relief to know that you can choose to move away from the things that aren't good for you, and to know that good things will find you if you open yourself to them. While MarlaFaye's reason for packing it up and hitting the road was somewhat different than mine, I still see myself in her, and I've been reminded again and again that I still have time to create a new life.
4: Find some loyal friends: The ladies of the Savannah Sipping Society cast and crew are actually some of my dearest friends in my real life, which made my adventure with MarlaFaye even sweeter. Girlfriends are so important as we navigate life's challenges. I'm fortunate to have good friends in many different circles, and they definitely have made my transition and life changes easier.
5: Step boldly into your new life: MarlaFaye actually gets the chance to finish old business once she gets settled in her new life. Her confidence grows, she's open to new relationships, and her anger turns to happiness by the end of the show. ("You can't let your past block your plans for the future.")
That last lesson is one I haven't quite mastered yet, but I'm getting there. It's becoming easier for me to make my own decisions. It's less scary being on my own, because time and again I'm seeing that I will be ok. I've welcomed new people into my space, and my life is richer for it. If MarlaFaye can start over and live to tell about it, so can I.
I always leave a show with new knowledge about myself, and I usually see ways that a small piece of a character leaves a mark on me long after the curtain comes down. I'm not bitter and angry like good ol' MarlaFaye, but I am learning to to jumpstart a new life like she did. She is likable after all. I'm all right with hanging onto a little bit of her as I move forward--but I'll leave her Crocs, Pringles, and Twinkies behind!
Tuesday, February 26, 2019
I Used To Be A Blogger
"I used to be a blogger."
I've heard myself say those words to multiple people in miscellaneous conversations over the past several months, and every time I say the words, I get a little catch in my throat, and a twinge of sadness for the writer I used to be.
I blogged, fairly regularly, for a period of five years, and through my posts, I documented the launch of my boys into young adulthood, the growth of a ministry in which I actively served, and many a childhood memory that had come back to visit me, bearing one kind of lesson or another. I faithfully published the funny, the touching, the positive Pollyanna stories of my life.
What I didn't document was all the rest of it.
We do that, don't we? Nobody really wants to read the daily unloading of an Eyeore whose life is one disappointment after another. Readers want laughs and inspiration and a good time, and writers want to deliver those goods.
While I am unwilling to use this space to write about the breakdown of my marriage, I will sum it up by saying I've been living alone for just about a year, and everything--ALL.THE.THINGS.--are different now, compared to when I used to be a blogger.
Today somebody I love told me that when she first saw me after All The Things Changed, she felt like she was seeing a "new-ish" me, and that she had to grieve the loss of the person she used to know. I've thought about that all day. I've thought about how the changes happened. I've thought about the people who have stood by my side while the changes happened. I've thought about the people, like her, who live far away, and didn't even know the changes were happening until the dust had begun to settle. I've thought about the people who didn't stick around to see how the story would go, and I've thought about how I feel about the "new-ish" me.
The Old Me blogger would leave out all the parts about the times when I'm afraid, times when I'm sad, times when I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do next. The Old Me would be cute and funny and everything would seem fine. But the Old Me would miss out on all the growing and learning that can happen when all the things change. I'm grieving parts of the loss of the old me too. But along the way, I'm discovering that the New Me is not so bad. I'm finding my way in a new community. I've made new friends, and I've discovered which of my old friends would hang on for the ride, and which ones would drop me like a hot potato. I'm learning to see myself the way God sees me, how He really sees me, not how I may have been taught before. I'm learning that I'm smarter than I thought I was. I'm valuable. Brave. And, today I realized: I can still be a blogger.
I've heard myself say those words to multiple people in miscellaneous conversations over the past several months, and every time I say the words, I get a little catch in my throat, and a twinge of sadness for the writer I used to be.
I blogged, fairly regularly, for a period of five years, and through my posts, I documented the launch of my boys into young adulthood, the growth of a ministry in which I actively served, and many a childhood memory that had come back to visit me, bearing one kind of lesson or another. I faithfully published the funny, the touching, the positive Pollyanna stories of my life.
What I didn't document was all the rest of it.
We do that, don't we? Nobody really wants to read the daily unloading of an Eyeore whose life is one disappointment after another. Readers want laughs and inspiration and a good time, and writers want to deliver those goods.
While I am unwilling to use this space to write about the breakdown of my marriage, I will sum it up by saying I've been living alone for just about a year, and everything--ALL.THE.THINGS.--are different now, compared to when I used to be a blogger.
Today somebody I love told me that when she first saw me after All The Things Changed, she felt like she was seeing a "new-ish" me, and that she had to grieve the loss of the person she used to know. I've thought about that all day. I've thought about how the changes happened. I've thought about the people who have stood by my side while the changes happened. I've thought about the people, like her, who live far away, and didn't even know the changes were happening until the dust had begun to settle. I've thought about the people who didn't stick around to see how the story would go, and I've thought about how I feel about the "new-ish" me.
The Old Me blogger would leave out all the parts about the times when I'm afraid, times when I'm sad, times when I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do next. The Old Me would be cute and funny and everything would seem fine. But the Old Me would miss out on all the growing and learning that can happen when all the things change. I'm grieving parts of the loss of the old me too. But along the way, I'm discovering that the New Me is not so bad. I'm finding my way in a new community. I've made new friends, and I've discovered which of my old friends would hang on for the ride, and which ones would drop me like a hot potato. I'm learning to see myself the way God sees me, how He really sees me, not how I may have been taught before. I'm learning that I'm smarter than I thought I was. I'm valuable. Brave. And, today I realized: I can still be a blogger.
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