Acting For Change

Last night I watched my amazingly beautiful almost grown neice in her first play. I was mesmerized by her and the rest of the cast- so young, inexperienced yet full of the fire that creative expression requires.

Today, I performed in my own "play" of sorts- in an acting troupe called "Acting for Change." It's basically Playback Theatre- a dramatic medium that takes stories from the audience and acts them out, improvisationally, for the tellers. As a child I never even thought of acting. My stage fright was pretty inhibiting back then. Of course I was a drama queen like most little girls and grew up watching narratives on TV and in film and reading stories. Now I realize how much I missed by not getting involved in stage performances. Just like when I'm singing, I find myself being carried to another realm- time stands still and the connection between actors, audience, and facilitator is visceral.

The most incredible thing about this particular form is how it uses counseling creatively. The audience members watch as their stories are acted out which often leads them to connect to the story in a way they hadn't before. I appreciate the permission to be silly, distort my body, interact with others and just play. When I see that look of recognition on the teller's face - it's like they feel accepted and understood in a way they never have.

Of course, since it is improv, things usually don't go as planned- especially since there really isn't a plan at all. Long story short (pun intended), some stories are better than others and cooperation is absolutely essential for a successful skit. I have never been required to listen more closely, been asked to connect more fully, or been inspired to use my gifts more selflessly.

Monk Cemetary

Bronze Christ hanging from the cross
Star magnolias
Rows and rows of dead white guys


Discovery

Alabaster teeth
Stuck on two jaw bones sucked clean
A fox or raccoon?

SPRING HAS ARRIVED!

Only five days since the vernal equinox and the NW landscape is alive with the colors, shapes, smells, warmth of spring. I do not care that it hasn't stopped raining more than a day since September. I don't mind that I am still wearing sweaters to work. I am thankful for the change. On my walk today I couldn't help stare into the tall doug firs to look for the red winged blackbird. I could hear him calling out, hey, everone- spring is here-ya heard?! I stopped to pick a piece of tall grass and right beside my foot, just off the trail was a tiny black, red, and green snake. It saw me and froze. I moved just to see it move.



It occurs to me that spring is about contrasts- visually anyhow. The way the tender leaves of the huckleberry grow out from stiff brown branches, how star magnolia's droopy white petals peek out from fuzzy buds. Yes, it's obvious, I have spring fever. Makes me wonder what it would be like to live in a place with year round spring/summer- the tropics? or somewhere too cold for plants to bloom- the arctic? Last year around this time I was in Arizona soaking up the 70-80 degree warmth. It was nice- and everything was more alive than I had imagined. It was a mix of green-cacti, brown-earth, and blue-sky.



Next week we're taking off for Minnesota and driving back with my brand new (used) car. Thanks to the Feb. challenge, I've saved enough to buy it. So, I'm looking forward to seeing what spring looks like from MN to here. Stay tuned for my cross-country update.



Here's another little Haiku from my daily walk. P.S. It really is illegal to pick trilliums in WA (and Oregon) because they have a hard time regenerating. They don't do well in water anyway- not that I would know from personal experience....

Trillium Temptation


Standing on a moist carpet
A lone flower tempts
Picking is against the law

Daily Haiku

Landscaping

So much space, so few plantings
Surveying the yard....
Rearranging is an art

Daily Haiku

On the way down

Thirty-two stone stairs

Rain pings on my umbrella

Shelter from the storm

Planning

Scanning the ground for shade plants

Salal and the like

One patch of glowing clover

Daily Haiku

Stream runs under bridge

Foam gathers in the shallows

Where is it going?

March = Walk

I've said it before and I'll say it again: walking is therapy. More than just exercise for the body it is exercise for the mind. Walking clears my mind and helps me think, work things out. I remember a long time ago in a land far, far away (Seattle 1995) I began to think of walking as a healing movement. I was just starting to read the Buddhist philosophers and came across Thich Nhat Hanh (peace activist, author, and Vietnamese Buddhist monk) and his concept of walking meditation. I practiced it whenever I could: on the way to the bus stop, on my walk through a tiny parcel of wetland to school. It looks a bit zombie-ish to the observer- such intention in the slow steps. It appealed to that side of me that finds it hard to keep still but still wants to be in touch with deliberate movement and breath.

Nowadays, I walk often- at work when I have a break from teaching, with the dog, or I try to find clarity in the moments when I am walking to the car, through the grocery store.....
It's so therapeutic for me that I want it to be a part of my every day. So, the March challenge is to walk every day. And as residue from the walk- I'm posting haikus based on that day's walk.

From yesterday:

Sounds of Spring

Stopping me as I walk by
One thousand frogs croak
No chirping bird to be heard

From today:

Recognition

With fanny pack and white shoes
Tall black woman smiles
when we pass each other twice

Taking a chance, sharing a story

The following story, Pick It Up, is just the beginning of a collection of creative non-fiction pieces I'm writing about my childhood. I read it today as part of Saint Martin's Friday Faculty lunch presentation of Women's History Month where faculty and staff members read their writings- some read stories, poems, articles.

My knees were shaking when I got up there and stood in front of my (supposed) colleagues, all older than I and each critical in the way that professors should be critical- for the sake of their students. It surprised me how terrified I was to read this story to them- to do what I encourage my students to do: share a piece of themselves, their perspective through writing.

I got through the short story, somehow, and actually kind of enjoyed reading it toward the end- enjoyed the rhythm of the words and the way I could accent certain words to convey my meaning. Feedback was good, but I'm new at this and being my own worst critic I'm still a little tender from the experience. Wondering if they know what the story is really about. Wondering what they read into it.

The process of writing these stories has been amazing for me. It's like reclaiming my childhood- I wasn't the happiest, most understood kid. It's like a little investigation of what really happened, according to my adult understanding anyways. And it has me thinking about the malleability of memory. How, I'm not even sure sometimes what really happened or what I imagined. All I remember are bits and pieces, snapshots of my experiences. I am really constructing my memories through this process of recalling them. That said, I am not intentionally making up lies, but I'm using images like popcorn bag, the Sweet Stop, and voices in my head to talk about conscience, poverty, fear.

I was reminded today of the possibilities...... that if we take a chance and try to do something we think we might fail at, we've already won.

Pick It Up

Same woodchips I dragged my stuffed panda Ming Ming through for show and tell, same field I beat up a boy two years younger on for not picking me to play on his soccer team, same playground where I smoked my mom’s menthol cigarettes after school. White Center Heights was hardly white at all. An elementary school sitting in the center of two housing projects, its students were from all over the world, some refugees from third world countries. Back then, we knew poor folks came in every color. The projects were clean and simple. The scent of pork fried rice mingling with chicken enchiladas and kimchee was the only distinction in the rows of army green housing. I imagined bright colors on the inside walls. I imagined large families, brothers, sisters, cousins, fathers, mothers waiting for my classmates as I waved goodbye to them after our walks home.

Today, I walked alone. I had stayed after class to get my teacher’s help with my times tables and when I finished, all my friends had already gone home. I felt hungry, and then remembered the leftover popcorn in my book bag. I opened the crumpled popcorn bag and peered into it to find only a few half popped kernels left. I lifted the bag and poured them into my mouth, then let it float out of my hand to the grass, watched it travel from grass to gravel to sand and get stuck on a tetherball pole. I turned and headed across the playground, starting my five block walk home.

I made a detour to the Sweet Stop to spend my twenty five cents on candy.
I could have whatever I wanted on the bottom shelf: Now or Laters, Bit O’ Honeys, Jolly Ranchers, Tootsie Rolls. What I really wanted was a KitKat, but they cost fifty cents, so I picked up a handful of Lemondrops and went to the counter to pay. After shoving four pieces in my mouth, I left the Sweet Stop and a sound began to ring in my ear. It was a faint voice, just a whisper in my ear. I kept looking back to see if someone was talking to me, but the street was empty. I passed the old black lady’s house, hoping to find her sweeping her front porch like always, but she wasn’t there. Her windows were closed, strange for such a hot day. A breeze began to pick up, lifting dirt and trash into a tiny tornado in the middle of the street. I covered my face from the dust and walked on, hoping the voice would stop when I got home. I tried to quicken my pace, but my sneakers felt stuck to the pavement, making me stagger toward my street.

Finally, I turned the corner and saw my house in the distance. The voice began to shout at me from all directions, and I grasped my book bag for support. Had I slipped into a horror movie narrated by this disembodied voice? My neighbor, waving from her doorway snapped me back to the moment, but the voice lurked close by. I could almost make out the words…… As soon as I reached my house, I turned the key and pushed the door open, praying it would subside, but instead, the voice got clearer. It said, “Pick it up”- not just once but over and over:

Pickitup pickitup pickitup pickitup pickitup pickitup pickitup pickitup

Pick what up, I thought and who’s speaking? God? My mother? And then I remembered the popcorn bag. The crumpled up empty popcorn bag. I had dropped it on the playground without thinking twice, but the voice wouldn’t let me leave it there.



Sweaty from the walk home, I left my coat at the door and went running the five blocks back to school. How would I find the bag? What if it blew across the street? All the while the voice nagged, “Pick it up.” When would it stop? Would I have to live with this voice inside my head for the rest of my life? My only chance at peace was to find the bag.
I crossed the soccer field, and the woodchips, passed the big toy and ended up at the tetherball pole. The bag was no longer stuck on the pole. My heart pounded in time with the rhythm of the voice:

Pickitup pickitup pickitup pickitup pickitup pickitup pickitup pickitup

Then, from the corner of my eye I saw the bag, its red and white stripes nearly hidden by sandy gravel, the exposed paper fluttering. A large black garbage can stood nearby. I tiptoed up to the bag, afraid it might get up and run away. Then, with the quickness, I pulled it from the gravel, crumpled it up, and threw it away.