It's Monday morning. Yes, right now. It's not Sunday night or five days ago. No, this post is fresh. It hasn't been sitting around, waiting to be auto-posted. This one is fresh off the grill, hot out of the oven. Watch out; it might burn your tongue!
Last week was stressful. Not necessarily unhappy, but it was not an easy week. It was defined by stress, anxiety, confusion, questioning, restlessness, and all sorts of not-so-peaceful things. It was introspective. I was on the brink of falling into depression, having a panic attack, or taking up a new addiction. (For the record, I've never been an alcoholic, drug user, sex addict, or anything deemed horribly bad by our society. Because I know I get addicted to things with incredibly fast and have been very careful not to let myself have the chance to get addicted to anything terribly dangerous.) Not good, any of those.
Last week was made survivable by the simple knowledge that it would end, that I would not be stuck in a state of such turmoil forever and I would see the light of another day again somehow.
Today feels like that day. Sure, the overarching anxieties of being a brand-new adult, trying to figure out where life is headed and what it all means are still around, but the feelings of utter despair and total confusion are gone, or at least shelved away for later reference. Things are making more sense today. A lot of what was stressing me out is solved. And the anxieties of "nobody likes me, every body hates me, guess I'll go eat worms" which started actually getting to me after a week of other anxieties pestering me seem completely ridiculous. They have lost their credibility again.
This week is looking to be much better than last week. I actually have very little clue as to what is going on this week, other than a few things which I'm looking forward to and a few things which I am not looking forward to (hello, drama), but I'm sure it's going to be much more peaceful.
See you Wednesday!
31 January 2011
28 January 2011
A Talented Little Bitch
Sometimes, I really just get tired of leading. I just want to sit back on the sidelines and let someone else handle things. I want to be comfortable in the passenger seat and NOT have to give directions while I'm there either. Sometimes, I don't want to direct productions because I just want to be one of the people on stage. I want to be able to worry about me and me only. I want to focus so intensely on one character, one role, one aspect of the production, that I get to know every detail of it. I want to be perfect at something.
I feel cheated. I never got that. I'm intensely jealous of people who were born to be main characters, to be the center of attention, including their own. I'm jealous of everyone who gets cast as a lead because performing is what they're best at. I feel like I must be a bad performer then, even though I know that's not true. I was the director. I always have been. I should be happy. People are jealous of ME. I'm a talented little bitch, and I know it. But it's just tiring.
Being a lead in a show seems so easy. So much less stressful. Letting others lead would be nice. When there are other capable leaders handling things, I always feel so much better and so much more comfortable worrying about myself. But if I'm the best-suited to lead? Then I'm stuck leading and worrying about everyone.
I know I'm meant to lead. It's what I'm supposed to do. And, more than anything, that's why I hate it. It's much easier to do things you don't have to do, things that you can screw up and no one will care. But I have no choice: leading has been a part of me since I was a shy, awkward, little kid. I can hide in the crowd for only so long before the inescapable desire to lead takes over me, and I am forced to either follow my destiny or stick with the depressive torment of pretending to be like everyone I was so jealous of growing up, all the people who were really good at one particular thing. I was never like that. I dapple. I can't master anything because I'm too busy trying to master half a million other things simultaneously.
Sometimes, I really just get tired of not leading. I just want to be a good leader.
P. S. Yes, I am doing M/W/F updates now, in case you hadn't noticed.
I feel cheated. I never got that. I'm intensely jealous of people who were born to be main characters, to be the center of attention, including their own. I'm jealous of everyone who gets cast as a lead because performing is what they're best at. I feel like I must be a bad performer then, even though I know that's not true. I was the director. I always have been. I should be happy. People are jealous of ME. I'm a talented little bitch, and I know it. But it's just tiring.
Being a lead in a show seems so easy. So much less stressful. Letting others lead would be nice. When there are other capable leaders handling things, I always feel so much better and so much more comfortable worrying about myself. But if I'm the best-suited to lead? Then I'm stuck leading and worrying about everyone.
I know I'm meant to lead. It's what I'm supposed to do. And, more than anything, that's why I hate it. It's much easier to do things you don't have to do, things that you can screw up and no one will care. But I have no choice: leading has been a part of me since I was a shy, awkward, little kid. I can hide in the crowd for only so long before the inescapable desire to lead takes over me, and I am forced to either follow my destiny or stick with the depressive torment of pretending to be like everyone I was so jealous of growing up, all the people who were really good at one particular thing. I was never like that. I dapple. I can't master anything because I'm too busy trying to master half a million other things simultaneously.
Sometimes, I really just get tired of not leading. I just want to be a good leader.
P. S. Yes, I am doing M/W/F updates now, in case you hadn't noticed.
26 January 2011
Soapbox'd
The words of Amy Brenneman are echoing in my head. On a morning which I had awoken wondering, "What now?" and how on earth to use theatre to nudge the arc of the world just a little closer to justice, Amy Brenneman spoke of "soapbox art," "us and them," "preaching to the converted," "pushing the envelope," and more. The words of Amy Brenneman are echoing and echoing and echoing through my head.
My faith and my ego (sometimes referred to as "intelligence") are at war, and have been at war for many years. And now, as I recount Sunday, the warring seems even greater. Ego is losing more and more it seems, but it is not without gore. After this past Sunday, when every word which reached my ears seemed to be meant entirely for my ears at that very moment, my faith holds proof of God, of a higher power, of the power of prayer.
The words of "Matthew" (let's not have an authorship debate right now, 'kay?) are echoing my head: "Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened." (Matthew 7:7-8.) Ego screams baloney: asking the invisible guy up in the sky for anything is downright stupid and just a waste of time. But could it all really be just coincidence?
I am afraid to be wrong. I don't want to sound crazy or irrational through having blind faith, but I don't want to be blinded by my insistence on physical proof either. Either way, I risk being blind.
The words of Sunday are echoing through my head. I can see the look on Amy's face when I spoke to her (rather briefly) about my own recent theatrical endeavors and her immediate eagerness to point me along the path I was searching for that day. And I can hear the words of my rector, speaking of the place where the world's great hunger and one's deep gladness meet. Another priest speaks of Biblical interpretation and literal versus historical/critical. Ordinary conversations with ordinary people repeat in my mind. A perfectly timed suggestion for theatrical collaboration with the youth group. Sunday won't leave my mind.
I am tired of preaching. I am tired of saying and not doing. I am tired of soapboxes and "us and them" and preaching to the converted and to ears that refuse to listen. Enough preaching. Sunday will not leave my mind because Sunday was vocation Sunday. What now? What next? Where am I called? What must I do? The truth is, I don't completely know. Sunday told me a lot, but I still don't really know where my path is headed. All I know is that I am tired of soapboxes, and yet I am tired of not speaking either. I want to preach, but I want to preach through the life I lead, not the soapbox on which I stand.
My faith and my ego (sometimes referred to as "intelligence") are at war, and have been at war for many years. And now, as I recount Sunday, the warring seems even greater. Ego is losing more and more it seems, but it is not without gore. After this past Sunday, when every word which reached my ears seemed to be meant entirely for my ears at that very moment, my faith holds proof of God, of a higher power, of the power of prayer.
The words of "Matthew" (let's not have an authorship debate right now, 'kay?) are echoing my head: "Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened." (Matthew 7:7-8.) Ego screams baloney: asking the invisible guy up in the sky for anything is downright stupid and just a waste of time. But could it all really be just coincidence?
I am afraid to be wrong. I don't want to sound crazy or irrational through having blind faith, but I don't want to be blinded by my insistence on physical proof either. Either way, I risk being blind.
The words of Sunday are echoing through my head. I can see the look on Amy's face when I spoke to her (rather briefly) about my own recent theatrical endeavors and her immediate eagerness to point me along the path I was searching for that day. And I can hear the words of my rector, speaking of the place where the world's great hunger and one's deep gladness meet. Another priest speaks of Biblical interpretation and literal versus historical/critical. Ordinary conversations with ordinary people repeat in my mind. A perfectly timed suggestion for theatrical collaboration with the youth group. Sunday won't leave my mind.
I am tired of preaching. I am tired of saying and not doing. I am tired of soapboxes and "us and them" and preaching to the converted and to ears that refuse to listen. Enough preaching. Sunday will not leave my mind because Sunday was vocation Sunday. What now? What next? Where am I called? What must I do? The truth is, I don't completely know. Sunday told me a lot, but I still don't really know where my path is headed. All I know is that I am tired of soapboxes, and yet I am tired of not speaking either. I want to preach, but I want to preach through the life I lead, not the soapbox on which I stand.
24 January 2011
A Return to Blogging
I took a break. I went on blogging sabbatical. I relieved myself of one obligation in order to focus on others. And I could not be happier.
This past month has been a journey. I could not actually keep myself from writing, and did end up writing in some way every single day, but it was different: I was writing entirely for myself without worries of whether an audience would enjoy it or not or what people might think, say, or do. It was nice to only worry about myself.
Not that I was only worried about myself for an entire month. No, not in the least. I was directing a play: I was in a constant state of worrying about everyone else. But my writing was freed, and with it, my mind. Part of it is my church: for some inexplicable reason, thinking is actually encouraged. It blows my mind. And it makes me a bit uncomfortable, actually. I am far from used to this freedom.
A month of mental freedom, and I am ready and glad to be back. I feel refreshed, and I feel like new life has been breathed into my lungs. The play is over. Post production depression is nipping at me, but it's different this time; I don't really feel like it's over. Where the Wild Berries Grow might be over, but this is only the beginning of much more to come. And I feel ready.
This past month has been a journey. I could not actually keep myself from writing, and did end up writing in some way every single day, but it was different: I was writing entirely for myself without worries of whether an audience would enjoy it or not or what people might think, say, or do. It was nice to only worry about myself.
Not that I was only worried about myself for an entire month. No, not in the least. I was directing a play: I was in a constant state of worrying about everyone else. But my writing was freed, and with it, my mind. Part of it is my church: for some inexplicable reason, thinking is actually encouraged. It blows my mind. And it makes me a bit uncomfortable, actually. I am far from used to this freedom.
A month of mental freedom, and I am ready and glad to be back. I feel refreshed, and I feel like new life has been breathed into my lungs. The play is over. Post production depression is nipping at me, but it's different this time; I don't really feel like it's over. Where the Wild Berries Grow might be over, but this is only the beginning of much more to come. And I feel ready.
14 January 2011
A New Year
There is no doubt that this is a new year. It is 2011. Things are not the same as they were in 2010. We have made our resolutions, and many of us have already failed to keep to those (often drunken) promises made just two weeks ago.
I have failed to have the nerve to ask anyone to keep a "joint custody" notebook with me, one of my few measurable resolutions this year. Sure, we're only two weeks into the year, but the goal was to start the new year off worrying about what to write, not if to write. My resolution has been revised. I now seek to find the courage to risk the hurt of a poor reaction to my potentially weird request. "Want to share a notebook and write back and forth, sharing and exposing our deeper and potentially 'criminalising' thoughts to each other? Want to practice trust . . . with me?"
I haven't asked not only because I am afraid of a negative reaction, but also because I am afraid of a positive reaction. I am afraid of, "Ooh, yes, let's! I can't wait to know what you think!" Or, in words I actually did recently receive from someone, "I would like to know your thoughts." That is even scarier, actually, for various reasons, but perhaps the most powerful being that I want someone to find my thoughts worthwhile, and I deeply fear that they aren't. The positive reaction is scarier because it only delays the inevitable negative response that is to come, and that negative response will only hurt more the longer it is delayed.
So I have struggled with this resolution. It is symbolic of my desire to trust others more and allow myself to risk being hurt. This is hard for me. I would like to shield myself from harm, but I know this is unhealthy. I want to be healthy. I have failed so far in this effort, but I have hope that I can learn from failing and eventually just get over it.
But the new year has not been pure failure. I am in the midst of the final days before my show, Where the Wild Berries Grow, opens Thursday. I remember this time last year quite well:
Without Direction was about to open, and, as common in productions, it was far from ready for an audience. I was, as expected, stressed out. Incredibly so. It was the first production I had ever directed, for show I had ever fully written, first time I would be on stage as anything other than a tiny role. Anxiety was my first, last, and middle name. I remember quite well screaming at the rest of the cast, falling apart, feeling ready to strangle everyone. It seemed that I was constantly being bombarded with more problems to somehow deal with, and I was just too exhausted to even pretend like I was handling it. I wasn't. I was angry, moody, bitchy, horrible. I know I was.
I snapped at my mother yesterday, for which I felt terrible, but other than that, I have managed the constant onslaught of problems with endlessly more grace than last year. I am utterly amazed at the way I have handled everything. I went in this year with the memories of last year vivid in my mind, and I swore I would not be that person ever again. I wanted to be a calm and peaceful director.
I have succeeded in making that resolution true. There is little over a week until the production will be complete, but I have faith in my abilities to remain strong and roll with the punches. I have been going to church every day before going to rehearsal so that I may find the peaceful person I find on Sundays and take her with me to rehearsals, and it has so paid off. And most wonderfully, I can feel that version of me, the person I would much rather be, slowly becoming the norm.
It is a new year. I am a new person. I have failed and I have succeeded, but the journey is not over, and I will only continue to grow and make changes as I make my way forward into this new year. There are changes I am not yet ready to make, and others which I should have made sooner, but it is all a part of the journey. I forgive myself for my failures of today, my failures of yesterday, and my failures of tomorrow. I invite you to forgive yourself too.
I have failed to have the nerve to ask anyone to keep a "joint custody" notebook with me, one of my few measurable resolutions this year. Sure, we're only two weeks into the year, but the goal was to start the new year off worrying about what to write, not if to write. My resolution has been revised. I now seek to find the courage to risk the hurt of a poor reaction to my potentially weird request. "Want to share a notebook and write back and forth, sharing and exposing our deeper and potentially 'criminalising' thoughts to each other? Want to practice trust . . . with me?"
I haven't asked not only because I am afraid of a negative reaction, but also because I am afraid of a positive reaction. I am afraid of, "Ooh, yes, let's! I can't wait to know what you think!" Or, in words I actually did recently receive from someone, "I would like to know your thoughts." That is even scarier, actually, for various reasons, but perhaps the most powerful being that I want someone to find my thoughts worthwhile, and I deeply fear that they aren't. The positive reaction is scarier because it only delays the inevitable negative response that is to come, and that negative response will only hurt more the longer it is delayed.
So I have struggled with this resolution. It is symbolic of my desire to trust others more and allow myself to risk being hurt. This is hard for me. I would like to shield myself from harm, but I know this is unhealthy. I want to be healthy. I have failed so far in this effort, but I have hope that I can learn from failing and eventually just get over it.
But the new year has not been pure failure. I am in the midst of the final days before my show, Where the Wild Berries Grow, opens Thursday. I remember this time last year quite well:
Without Direction was about to open, and, as common in productions, it was far from ready for an audience. I was, as expected, stressed out. Incredibly so. It was the first production I had ever directed, for show I had ever fully written, first time I would be on stage as anything other than a tiny role. Anxiety was my first, last, and middle name. I remember quite well screaming at the rest of the cast, falling apart, feeling ready to strangle everyone. It seemed that I was constantly being bombarded with more problems to somehow deal with, and I was just too exhausted to even pretend like I was handling it. I wasn't. I was angry, moody, bitchy, horrible. I know I was.
I snapped at my mother yesterday, for which I felt terrible, but other than that, I have managed the constant onslaught of problems with endlessly more grace than last year. I am utterly amazed at the way I have handled everything. I went in this year with the memories of last year vivid in my mind, and I swore I would not be that person ever again. I wanted to be a calm and peaceful director.
I have succeeded in making that resolution true. There is little over a week until the production will be complete, but I have faith in my abilities to remain strong and roll with the punches. I have been going to church every day before going to rehearsal so that I may find the peaceful person I find on Sundays and take her with me to rehearsals, and it has so paid off. And most wonderfully, I can feel that version of me, the person I would much rather be, slowly becoming the norm.
It is a new year. I am a new person. I have failed and I have succeeded, but the journey is not over, and I will only continue to grow and make changes as I make my way forward into this new year. There are changes I am not yet ready to make, and others which I should have made sooner, but it is all a part of the journey. I forgive myself for my failures of today, my failures of yesterday, and my failures of tomorrow. I invite you to forgive yourself too.
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