Biography in a Nutshell

I never really did my "About Me" box justice, so here goes.

I am a romantic. I compose songs late at night when the stars inspire me. I've always wanted to find a wide, old-fashioned swing suspended by chains overgrown with ivy on an ancient maple tree. I write in my journal by moonlight whenever possible.

I am an optimist. I decide that things will be okay before their course begins traveling that direction. The nice thing is that they usually do if you're willing to be flexible with your perspective.

I am a planner. I use my school agenda the entire year and into the summer, making a daily checklist of things I want to accomplish and checking them off as I go. I feel incomplete and irresponsible and gross if I don't complete everything on my list.

I am a creator. The times I feel most at peace with myself are when I've finished a painting or reorganized a room to my satisfaction or written an enrapturing sentence or altered an article of clothing into something special. It may seem like a stretch, but even cleaning can feel like I'm creating cleanliness and a new atmosphere for wherever I'm working.

I am a rememberer. I've kept a daily journal since I was about ten and I keep every letter given to me. I keep a quote book that condemns anyone funny around me to fame.

I am a dreamer. I have big plans for my life. Unrealistic? Perhaps. Difficult? Oh, yeah. Worth working and hoping for? Yup. Possible? I guess we'll find out.

Riddles in the Dark ANSWER

The answer to the riddle in the post "Riddles in the Dark:"






...







Boredom.

Metaphor Within a Metaphor

I saw a rainbow the other day. It was arching into a canyon between Maple Mountain and its neighbor against a dark blue-grey canvas of clouds. It was beautiful and maybe even inspiring.

As I considered wishing on it, a well-known song popped into my mind:

"Somewhere over the rainbow

Skies are blue,

And the dreams that you dare to dream

Really do come true."

At first glance, the song is nice and hopeful. But I have a confession to make. As fun as that song is to play on the ukulele, I dislike it. A lot. It doesn't seem like the right kind of hope to have. There's the "the grass is greener on the other side" hope, and there is hope in that which is sure and consistent.

I believe in hope. I believe in hope for change and hope to remain the same. I believe in the "tomorrow is another day" type of hope, too. But that's because tomorrow is another day. Some things will change and some will not. I'm not discouraging hope in the unlikely; I'm referring to what you decide to put your faith in. To avoid getting too cryptic, allow me to relate what I'm trying to say to my rainbow.

A rainbow is a beautiful, bright creation. But a rainbow is also an illusion. It is the effect of sunlight filtering through water droplets. It is a fleeting gift of color, fleeting enough that it couldn't stay around long enough to know you well enough to grant the wishes tossed towards it.

And you know something about rainbows? You can't see them unless you turn your back to the sun.

We get so excited when we see something bright and new and beautiful as a rainbow in the sky. We want to give it our confidence because it is lovely and happy and therefore trustworthy. It is a token of the end of a storm, after all. But you can't see it without the aid of the sun and you can't see it without forgetting about the sun.

I believe in belief. Don't stop hoping for something more in your life if you need that something more. But sometimes the very thing we need to believe in to get what we need is right beside us and has been forever. Why put your faith in something inconstant, no matter how attractive, when you have the unfailing sun to trust? Yes, you ought to expect cloudy days and long, dark nights. But the sun will always be there, even when it's hard to find. Don't turn your back on it just because there's something new out there. It's the only real life-giving light we have and it won't disappear when the air clears.

Riddles in the Dark

I am the enemy of progression. I am an idea serial killer and a genius crib-snatcher.

I infect anyone weak enough to let me in. I am rare in the very young and active. My victims tend to experiment with letting me in a little prior to adolescence. Unless you learn to fight me then, you are doomed for life.

If you admit to being infected by me, it only gives me more opportunity to sink in and make myself more permanently a part of your life. If you ignore the idea of my existence, chances are I will avoid you. I am often used as an excuse, but the more you use me to rationalize, the more power you give me over you.

I am not a pleasant host to carry, and I must admit that inhabiting your body is not enjoyable for me, either. But I feed off your empty space and I need it to survive.

As soon as you let me in the first time, it becomes easier and easier for me to snake my way into your life when you let your guard down. I cause your potential to trickle out of your being and your mind to waste away. You will always have the power to fight me, but I become more powerful over you every time you allow me to infect you.

Who am I?

G-Camp and all its inspirations

Take a look at these girls and just try to tell me they aren't the most perfect things you've ever seen.

See? You can't.

They all look beautiful despite a wearying week of hiking through hailstorms, waking up at ridiculous hours, belting out meaningless chants until their voices went hoarse, simmering in campfire smoke and listening to me. And they all look happy. You may be scoffing and thinking to yourself something along the lines of, "It's a posed picture. They're expected to smile." But let me tell you, Reader, that I have never seen a happier, more upbeat and positive group of human beings.

I went into this week expecting to be their teacher and I left having been taught. It's funny how that works out.

"We are each gifted in a unique and important way. It is our privilege and our adventure to discover our own special light." ~Mary Dunbar

"We Are Such Stuff as Dreams Are Made On"

I love working with kids. I really do. They make everything simpler. Simpler does not mean easier. But simpler is happier and it makes more sense.

After a little over three weeks, some sweet crew cut t-shirt tan lines, a dozen scraped legs (and twice that in band-aids), a couple hundred dollars for set and costumes, quarts of sweat, a bazillion mosquito bites and tons of, "Trust me, you can do this"es, the musical I've co-directed with my good friends, Camilda and Oddette, is finally going on. I am currently waiting for the DVDs to burn on the eve of the performances, so why not write a blog post about these inspiring children?


We had a certain six-year-old boy come early for auditions. He walked right into the room and, before we could ask his name or introduce ourselves, pointed to a bamboo mat on the coffee table and said, "What's that?"

"It's a bamboo mat."

He frowned. "What's a bamboo mat?"

I was at a loss. "That," I said, pointing to it.

"Oh." He considered it for a moment, then pointed to it again. "What's that?"

It was an eventful audition. The first thing he said on topic was "I want to be the one who becomes the mayor."

"Oh...the boy who gets to be the emperor?"

"Yes. The mayor."

We asked him if he'd ever been in a play or choir before. He furrowed his brow and looked down. "Well...I once...um...they once...uh...we had a...a...a...a...we once...we once had...a...a...um...a..."

By this time, I had to pretend I was coughing into a pillow to stifle my laughter.

"...we had...they did...we...we...we...we did a play...in...in my school gym."

After his audition (which lasted twice as long as anyone else's; he had questions about more than just the bamboo mat), he began to walk out, then he paused and turned around. "So I get to be the mayor, right?"


Today was our final dress rehearsal. Admist the flurry of colorful silk and flowered hair pieces, one of our youngest boys approached me. I paused in what I was doing--coaxing another boy to let me apply his eyeliner--and gave my attention to this young boy. He extended his hand, in which he held a pack of gum. One stick stuck out further than the rest. "Do you want some gum?" he asked.

"No, thank you," I answered. "And you are not allowed to have gum onstage, so spit it out before you enter, okay?"

He looked at me harder. "Just take some gum," he said. I hesitated, decided to pocket it and reached out for the piece. As I grabbed it, I realized it was too hard to be gum. An electric shock vibrated through my fingers and ran up my arm. I cried out a little and jumped back. The boy watched me closely. He silently smiled. I laughed nervously, told him that he was not allowed to offer gum to anyone else today and went about preparing my cast with an arm that was numb and tingly for ten minutes.


"As soon as your costume is put away on the hanger with your name on it, you can get a cookie!" Oddette was handing out cookies as a reward (best incentive that's ever happened to children's theatre) after one of our recent rehearsals. Most of the kids were lined up in front of her, but one came stumbling towards me. He was the youngest and smallest of our cast. He was hugging himself and looked like he was about to cry. As he approached me, I saw tears well up in his eyes. I crouched down next to him, put my arm around his shoulders and tried to ask him what was wrong. He put his forehead against my shoulder and began to sob quietly. I was very concerned that an older child had hit him and he would be too afraid to tell me. After a small, curious crowd had gathered and he had cried a minute, the little boy whispered miserably, "I can't put my clothes on my hanger."

I held his hand, took him upstairs and showed him how to turn his shirt right-side-out. No boy has ever earned his after-rehearsal cookie so completely, in my opinion.


We have one small girl who is always very aware of when she is doing things right. "Okay, kids, some of you weren't singing during that last song, so--" "I was singing!" Pause. "Thank you, [child.] We know. We heard you." "I was singing the whole time!" "Thank you. Keep it up." She is also very good about knowing where she has to be and being there when she's supposed to be there. She knows that she is supposed to be center stage at a certain part of a certain song. So, even when the music and dancing were way off for one of our run-throughs, she stood center stage in front of all the other dancers and waited patiently as everyone danced behind her for her cue to shiver and exit. It may not have been exactly what we planned, but it sure was cute.


We have had moments that have made me want to cry of joy. A boy tripped and fell on his way to get to his spot before he had to enter. He came up to his older sister, lower lip quivering. She wrapped her arms around him and soothed him as fat tears slid silently down his cheeks. She tousled his hair, kissed his forehead repeatedly and wiped his tears with her thumb. When his cue came to run onto the stage, his sister gently nudged him forward, whispering, "I'll be right behind you."

I don't know about you, but I don't witness tender moments like that every time a child trips.


Theatre has changed my life in so many ways. I may decide to pursue it and it may end up on my hobby shelf, but I've learned more about living from theatre than from any other single class I've taken in high school. I've learned honesty, interpretation, empathy, teamwork, sincerity, observation, focus, patience, constructive criticism and humility. And it is truly a blessing to see how something I love can affect these young people whom I've come to love.

On with the show.

Sardines

The other day, we had about seven or eight kids galumphing around our house. They organized themselves into a game of sardines. I was milling around, probably performing some mundane household chore, and ran into them often throughout their play. Sarah (I will use aliases to protect their identities) hid in Dobradishu's bunk bed. It took a while, but, one by one, they all found her and celebrated and moved on to the next round. It was the perfect picture of childlike innocence in recreation.

A few rounds down the line, however, I realized that things were changing. Whenever I passed a kid, he or she would stop me and whisper fiercely, "Have you seen Jimmy?" I turned them all away. Jimmy hid downstairs beneath the sewing table and wasn't hard for me to see, but I didn't want to ruin anyone's fun by taking sides.

Dobradishu and Vivian van Luno (I like this whole alias thing) bumped into each other in the entry in the midst of this round. Dobradishu put her hands on Vivian van Luno's shoulders. "Do you know where Jimmy is?" she asked, starting intently in Vivian's eyes. "No," she answered very seriously. Dobradishu considered her suspiciously. Vivian offered her hand. "Best friend handshake swear." They performed their ceremony solemnly and parted without another word.

My work moved me downstairs near Jimmy's chosen lair. It surprised me to see that no one else was hiding with him. He was grinning widely, sitting silently and contently, surrounded by scrap fabric. I noticed that The Emperor of Terrible Damage was curiously flitting around the room, apparently searching but always orbiting Jimmy's hiding spot. When Sarah, Vivian van Luno, Poe and le Marquis de St. Cyr began scavenging the basement, The Emperor of Terrible Damage assured them that Jimmy wasn't anywhere around there and encouraged them to search elsewhere. Dobradishu, catching sight of the top of Jimmy's head, confirmed Emperor of Terrible Damage's statement and began to shepherd the rest upstairs.

After about fifteen minutes of this tomfoolery, it became apparent that every single player in the game knew exactly where Jimmy was and, instead of hiding with him as tradition demands, they were employing every tactic they knew to deceive one another into looking somewhere else. EVERY single one knew where he was. And he remained alone, crouching under the table and grinning silently to himself. It was quite a curious impasse.

The game broke up after everyone realized the vicious cycle that was circling, someone suggested they should play somewhere else, and the house was very soon quiet. My thoughts were left to ricochet off the walls of vacant rooms and make frustrated echos.

Are those kids just at the age (they were all between six and eleven, I think) when they take more stock in winning than completing the game? Does everyone go through this transition from innocence to playful deception? Does that harmless deceit inevitably develop into what we know as "the natural man"? All that seriousness in the game startled me. It was the real deal. They were intent on being the only ones who won.

I have no conclusion to this post because I do not want to conclude either that the world is losing its innocence or that innocence is unfailingly lost with each generation. I open this up to your perspectives and comments, good readers. Give me peace of mind.