I’ve been thinking a lot about purpose. My drive to prove myself to others and to please others – I couldn’t even identify who – so many – has lead to a constant pursuit of opportunity and a glut of activity that in some ways has lost meaning for me. I say “in some ways” because theatre has not lost all meaning to me – but I have lost my role in it. The question has become, “If I don’t have anything to prove to anybody, what role is there for me to play?” I’ve been pondering the meaning of my life. This is a time of uncertainty for me.
And this video – that I happened upon after searching for Matthew Fox and his Creation Spirituality movement – speaks to the value of uncertainty and to the larger definition of “role”. This is Joanna Macy speaking at the 2009 Bioneers Conference about Uncertainty.
Okay most of you know I’m a book fiend. And I like immediate gratification. Which means I’m craving a Kindle, but that is the LAST investment I need to make right now. However, I can get immediate gratification from Audible.com. The only disappointment is that Audible doesn’t carry every book I want. And in order for the service to be worth its subscription, I really should be more consistent about loading my audio books onto my iPod and carrying the iPod with me.
My head is under water and I have to stop fighting the current and go with the flow. Final Tech, Final Dress and Opening Night are inevitable. The illusion of comfort I had in thinking the show is still a month away has crashed. We are riding the rapids to the end.
A Poem is the same. Eventually they start rolling along on their own and I have to go with it or be drowned.
I’ve spent a lot of time under water. That’s what it feels like when you don’t want to let things take on their own life and you struggle and fight to wrestle the thing back into your comfort zone. Guess what? If you try to fight it, it – whatever it is: painting, poem, or song – will simply pull you under and pass you by.
I have missed out on time.
The 4 has come and gone.
This 5 is packed.
I wedge my body between 2 elbows
and the door.
The deaf black boy cannot hear
Jamaica weaving out the radio.
If I sway out of sync with this ride,
The largest women will whisper,
“crazy, crazy” behind their bibles.
Men have giants and bulls
sitting on their heads.
They want me to move away.
Out of the way.
It’s this way
to town.
His black and efficiently small suitcase
is open on the dining room table.
He folds three pair of socks air force tight
and tucks them in.
Cigarette packs are layered
over boxers and white T-shirts.
He sits with his coffee and stares forward.
A one-eyed cat comes to have her ears pulled.
She purrs at him with her blind side,
jumps onto the table, crawls into his case
and curls herself tight.
The shower turns on in the bedroom.
It is his wife. The coffee is drained.
He drops the cat on the floor
and zips to leave.
At the door he yells, “Goodbye,”
to the woman still dripping in the bedroom.
My mother played piano.
And I, Isadora, would dance.
When our house caught fire,
I mimicked the flames with the arch of my body.
My mother stared solidly into the blaze.
She leapt only once,
when the piano peeled away from its legs
and twanged into a crackled chord.
When the song ended,
curls of dust rose in adagio and followed my lead.
My spirit found its form in fire.
My dance ignited in sparks.
Now I spring past myself into your light.
I am your blink and your grasp
your leap up from the kitchen table,
the turn of your head to your lover’s voice.
My spirit is the static of your negligee
as the material clings.
I cling and you are lit.
RT @suellenvance: Up all night preparing first rehearsal of Last Word, made CDs, printed charts, so excited, 20 hours to make this happe ... [KirstenOlson]
