tending

This one is about notes from the field. Really. The field in this case: theatre/performance. 

Field* is perhaps an apt metaphor. A wide open space of possibility, filled with wild, budding things. Sometimes the vastness is overwhelming, as I sense into the feeling that anything is possible, everything is possible. Sometimes the buds promise blossoms, blossoms drop off and disintegrate into seeds, caught on the wind, unpredictable. Some seeds germinate, others don’t. Opportunity abounds. As does uncertainty. And it can be impossible to take root. And sometimes it’s difficult to tell the difference between a weed and a wildflower. Sometimes it’s hard to know which—weed or wildflower—will best nourish your aching soul. 

At least for me.

The vastness = I must do everything!

The buds = Endless opportunities for projects with little certainty as to what will germinate, take root, develop meaning and more opportunities with time.

Weed or wildflower = There are a lot of projects, they are all worthwhile in their own ways, but which will fulfill me aesthetically and personally?

I’ve caught my breath in recent weeks, a gap in my projects for the past couple of weeks. This may be the most space I’ve had since 2011. It doesn’t feel luxurious enough. And in a few short days (and I do mean short, the nights are long), I’m back at it, with multiple overlapping projects, one which comes to fruition on my 39thbirthday. Giddyup, 2019.

In this breath, I’ve noticed some things about myself. 

I’m often consumed with envy and comparing mind. It seems everyone has a cooler life than me, a cooler career. I know some hella successful and impressive folks. These folks jetset and trendset. They make films, perform on Broadway and tours, they make art at international festivals (srsly, do all of you have to go to the Prague Quadrennial?), they create national social justice curricula, they publish books, get tenure, found organizations, win awards, get fat grants, and change lives. I know and have worked with a Pulitzer Prize winner, for fuck’s sake. And she’s younger than me!

I know some really cool people. 

And I happen to know that some of these really cool people aren’t satisfied. They struggle with the same not-enoughness, envy-full feelings I experience. Because even if they’re on Broadway, they still haven’t played that role or won thataward. Because even if they’ve published that book, they haven’t gotten that promotion. Maybe there’s a reason we all love Hamilton. We can never be satisfied and we’re all working like we’re running out of time.

Capitalism sucks and we’re all causalities. There’s the reality that few of us can survive on the work we do and, often, the more interesting the work, the less commercially viable. Capitalism sucks and it would be really cool to live in Berlin on an artist’s visa, but I suspect I’d still feel like I’m hustling.

But also this field—this theatre/performance field—fuels this kind of carrot-on-a-stick, treadmill psychology. It normalizes exhaustion and scarcity as a lifestyle. No time to rest, never enough. If I can only get X project then I can really have Y. If...then…if…then…

And social media is doing us no favors in this department. 

I am witness to people living out the various dreams I’ve had for myself at various stages in my life.

I worry that I’m not keeping up. 

I’m a perfectionist who is painfully imperfect.

I’m the poster child for FOMO, living in fear of missing some “big opportunity.” 

And, of course, the big opportunity is this very moment. This very life I’m living. These very friends that I am too busy to meet. 

I am missing out by fearing missing out. 

And I do a lot. 

And I do so much that I don’t have time to breathe. To absorb it. To celebrate my wins and grieve my failures and losses. I do so much I don’t pause to glance at the wildflowers in full bloom. 

I am working on tending a garden. One in which I determine what will grow and thrive. A garden that gets plenty of light for spreading leaves and nurturing blossoms, plenty of shade for rest, water, nourishment, and attendance. 

I am sorting through my seed bank. The seed bank of filed emails, hand written notes and cards, small gifts and tokens from those with whom I’ve worked—performers and colleagues, students, prisoners. Those little treasures and notes that whisper “thank you, you’ve changed my life.” I am humbled that I have so many of these messages. These are true gifts. And they are rare. And not everyone has them. I know that.

Of course, I haven’t changed anyone’s life more than anyone has changed mine. We move through life in a series of encounters—formal and informal—and so long as we show up, build relationships, listen and share, we’ll change each other’s lives. It’s actually pretty simple. This work can be unsexy and uninstagrammable. And it’s really fucking meaningful. We’re all in this together, in fact. And my really cool friends, well, I celebrate them. I know they’re hustling too. 

Last Saturday, I sat in a classroom at Sterling Correctional Facility and I did some of my best work. My best work. And no one will ever see it. And I think on it and I know that it matters. And I celebrate that. 

There is a quote by Iranian American novelist, Dina Nayeri, that I’ve been thinking about for the past two years. She said in an interview, "I remember a professor telling me that, you know, you can either have roots or wings, but if you try to have both, you're probably going to fail." I think about how having roots and wings could rend a being in half, torn into two parts. 

Since I graduated with my MFA, I’ve looked for opportunities all over. FOMO. I see opportunities all over, blessing and curse. These opportunities make me wanna flutter and stretch out my wings. But I’ve had a lot of wings in my life and have been trying to focus on roots. 

Right now, I want to grow roots and to enrich the soil right where I’m at. 

*In spite of the appearance of abuse, no metaphors were actually harmed in the creation of this post.

unhurried

I hate the parking lot at the King Soopers on 9th on Capitol Hill in Denver. I do everything I can to avoid it, usually walking or riding my bike or scooter to the store. If I must drive, I park on side streets to avoid the clustered nonsense of that parking lot. It’s the pits. 

Today, on my way home from another appointment, I went ahead and parked in the parking lot. I let others go before me who were trying to squeeze in. I yielded for many a pedestrian. I was unhurried.

I was dropping by to pick up some potatoes to make for tonight’s weekly potluck I’ve been going to with some new friends recently. Potatoes, inexpensive and time consuming. 

I am unhurried.

People close to me know that patience is not one of my virtues. 

Also, I say yes to a lot of activities and stretch my schedule so that it is complicated and full, usually leaving me little time for travel, let alone regular meals, cooking, exercise, long showers, lounging around with friends. I recognize that there is a cost-benefit involved. I’m insatiably curious, greedy for experiences, and almost always in a hurry. I accept those costs. There are unintended consequences though. I get frustrated and stressed out. I get impatient. Because I am in a hurry.

Not right now. 

A couple of weeks ago, I left a full time job that was killing me, for a variety of reasons I won’t belabor here. I have a lot of my time back, but not a lot of financial security. Again. 

But I am back in the classroom, teaching at the college level. This feels nourishing and challenging, an expression of and stretching of my skills. I am teaching a Diversity Seminar, a topic that feels intimate, difficult, and so beautiful to share with others. I am re-engaging with my journey to examine my many privileges and look anew at the world through a critical lens, examining power, oppression, and my sense of responsibility in the mix. I relish sharing this journey with and alongside other students. I love that I get to sit in the facilitator’s seat and guide the exploration of a group of 18 students through these, oof, complicated conversations at this, oof, painful cultural moment. It feels meaningful and, unlike previous semesters, I feel unhurried as I work through the syllabus I developed. 

I am hustling. I am embracing freelancing as I look forward to the rest of 2018. It feels vulnerable. I am actively reaching out to my network and saying that I am available for hire, if there is something I can do to plug in. As I’ve talked with folks, the responses have been full of opportunity.

In fact, I am experiencing abundance, not scarcity. 

I have been offered paid public speaking opportunities, where I will be given the mic to speak to hundreds of young women about leadership, for example. I have been offered the chance to collaborate with a large local cultural institution on a bizarro performance art project-collaboration that I am very excited/nervous about. I am forging connections with folks who would like me to teach in classrooms and community sites doing, well, I am not exactly sure what: Theatre? Play? Connect with young people about art? Share my enthusiasm about being alive? Abundance. 

Through a friend, I’ve been turned on to an opportunity to support elders in their end-of-life journeys, through attendance and companionship and through case management. If I land this gig, I’ll be so thrilled. I’ve wanted to work with people at the end of life, for a long time. Plus, I will need to practice quietude, contemplation, modulating to another person’s rhythm. I will need to be unhurried. 

I won’t always have this spaciousness. In fact, if you take a peek at my inbox and my to-do list, you’d know that I don’t really have this spaciousness now. But it’s more than usual. 

And now is my time. My time. 

To:

• spend time with, make meals for, play games with, and hold in any way she needs holding a dear friend of mine who will be having a major surgery soon

• use some of my previous knowledge of case management to support a new friend’s family as they navigate the system for folks with disabilities

• talk on the phone with friends I don’t really get much time for

• take walks

• cook food

• clean my house

• write letters to people in prison

• play board games with my neighbor-bestie

• take hikes with my partner

• write little weird extemporaneous blog notes

• This is my unhurried time, for now, to: 

Sit patiently behind the wheel in the parking lot at the Capitol Hill King Soopers as busy people distractedly push carts and haul bags to and from their cars. I’ve been them. I’m always them. I’ll be them soon, probably in just a couple of weeks. But for now. I have nowhere to be.