cinderella memorandum

cinderella blog 1Goodness knows I could stand to write about planting potatoes right now, but we’re still shaking off post-production whiplash from Lulah’s fifth performance run with the local high school theater group. We are so proud of her. It was great. The songs are still rolling around in my head all day. The experience of live theater really sticks to my ribs.

The Spring 2016 show was Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella. I had never heard of it before, but we quickly got up to speed by watching the (rather ancient) movie version starring a very young Julie Andrews as Cinderella. Lulah has had a long-standing aversion to the Disney cartoon Cinderella, even though she’s never seen the movie, so we were relieved to find that the musical version was quite a bit more spunky and fun than the sappy sweet Disney. I was even more pleasantly surprised to find that the Rodgers and Hammerstein version had been “updated” with a new sub-plot involving a political fire-brand who falls in love with one of Ella’s step-sisters and convinces Ella to tell the prince (the charmingly clueless Prince ‘Topher) that his people were being treated unfairly. In the end, Cinderella is not only escorted out of squalor and oppression and into Queen-dom, she also carries her people with her and convinces her true love to establish a democracy. (Wow, right?)cinderella 6cinderella ten minutes ago 2

The kids are so gorgeous. They throw themselves into the show and transport us into a suspended reality. For those hours, we believe them in their characters, in their sincerity, and their hilarity. And then, after the curtain call, we see them return to themselves, but still in fancy costume. They have such wonderful vitality. They are beautiful in so many ways.

cinderella grand entrance

cinderella blog 2Watching the show, night after night, I began to wonder about my own personal sub-plot in the drama of this High School Theater group. Why am I so mesmerized by the activity of the show? Something happens to me when the lights go up on that stage. Seeing those fresh faces, teetering on the brink of adulthood, takes me back.

And the truth is, looking back is not a completely comfortable experience. I remember some of the thrill of BEing where they are now. I remember the small sea of faces in the audience – trying not to be TOO obvious about seeking out my loved ones – letting the months of rehearsal, memorization, repetition, flow through me. I remember the magic of performance as art. And I remember being a contradictory teenage bundle of energy, bravado, and insecurity.

Don’t get me wrong – it was a great time. But in the midst of all that fun stuff, I never believed that I was enough. I wasn’t pretty enough, or smart enough, or strong enough. I didn’t let on about my perceived insufficiencies much, but I held onto them inside. (The way so many of us do.)

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Watching the stage, feeling my heartstrings plucked, it becomes obvious that I was plenty beautiful, smart, and strong, just like they are now. I don’t know if I would have listened to anyone telling me that I really was sufficient, for myself, and for the task ahead of growing up. But I can’t help wishing that I had felt a little more comfortable in my own skin (I had nice skin, but I didn’t know it then.). The past has passed.

There’s always room for greater peace, though, and that’s what washes over me in the aftermath of the show. By opening my heart to these kids – my own, as well as all the others I am fortunate enough to meet in our community – I have the opportunity to make peace with my old demons of insecurity and self-doubt. Watching these young people at play and at work on this show, has helped me remember myself as I was, and extend the affection I feel for the kids towards that (rather grumpy and critical) memory of myself at their age. When I am able to look into my past with greater compassion and affection, I become more capable of loving my life as it IS, right now. What a gift.

cinderella fairy god mother hug

In return, I hope to add my voice to the multifaceted cultural message these young folks are absorbing as they move toward maturity, because the Disney storyline doesn’t work for a lot of us, and it’s good to have options. Here I am, long enough past adolescence and early adulthood to be irrelevant, strange, or maybe a little wise. I guess it’s up to them to decide.

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These days, my voice travels to the next generation primarily in the context to being a mother – mostly, Lulah’s mother. My best bet is to embrace and enjoy my post for all it’s worth. And so I am… Lulah’s mother who doesn’t wear make up and refuses to color over the gray in her hair. Lulah’s mother who drives the muddy car. Lulah’s mother who brings a ball of wool and a crochet hook to rehearsal. Lulah’s mother, who insists that it’s good for you to stand on one foot and breathe. Lulah’s mother, who wants you to touch your toes, drink more water, bend your knees, AND relax. Lulah’s mother who wants you to be yourself, and believe in yourself as much (or more) than the rest of us believe in you. Lulah’s mother may be a little batty, and maybe that’s alright.

cinderella the shoe does not fit

But my aim is true. I want them to experience for themselves that they ARE sufficiently beautiful, strong and smart, that they are just as wonderful as they dream themselves to be, and also that they have so much farther to go. I want them to have confidence to walk into the world around them, not as masters, but as students of LIFE, because the best masters also stay students.

Life is full of foibles. I may not succeed in my heart-felt effort to inspire greater confidence in personal goodness in the next generation, but having seen the possibility for myself, in myself – I have to try.

So, thanks kids, for the great show, for doing some yoga with me, and for being your beautiful selves. Please – carry on. Keep singing. You are on a roll – don’t stop growing!

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May your shoes always fit!cinderella the shoe fits

the road is

The future stands still, but we move in infinite space.”                                                           Rainier Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, letter #8 bird in space

The road is the road is the road. No matter how many stops you make, or how many miles you make it before you stop. No matter how much you love road trips, or how intolerable you find them, the distance remains the same. When determined to get to St. Augustine Florida, the irrefutable reality of those miles remains the same.

What changes is our experience. I’ve been traveling the I-75 corridor to Florida my whole life long. My first trip was in utero, and it has been a rare year since then that I have not made that passage. I anticipate the beauty of the Sequatchie Valley, the long winding road, the waterfalls and dripping rock cuts on the way to Chattanooga. In Georgia, I watch the soil turn from red to orange to sand, and listen to changing accents in the voices of people in gas stations and rest areas.

I remember riding in the back seat as a child, on the way down to the Tampa Bay area for a Christmas vacation that seemed to last in a forever zone of grandparents and fresh orange juice. We would leave the Tennessee woods, leafless, and cold. In those innocent days before children were strapped into car seats upright, I would stretch out, thrilling to touch my toes to the cold window all the way across the back seat. Falling asleep to the vibration of the road beneath me, I would wake with the sun on my face, to the sight of Spanish Moss hanging from the trees, south of the Georgia border once again. shells in sand

Certain exit numbers jog the memories of college days. Endless energy for exploration, for the road. We would gather a carload of people and go home for a weekend, driving the twelve or thirteen hours like it was no time at all. On warm nights when no one could sleep, we might leave Sarasota in the darkest hours to trek across the state and watch the sun rise on the east coast. I remember vividly friends I haven’t seen in decades, all because of this road, this landscape that whips by at 70 mph.

And now, I’m adding memories with my husband, and our children. The first time we visited my folks’ condo in St. Augustine, we only had one child, and i remember how she thrilled at her first beach siting. She raced and rolled in the sand. This time, there were two of them, doing much the same thing. The air and water were a little too cold for swimming in earnest, but a little splashing, a lot of running, and some very good sand construction projects were in order, not to mention the joy of feeding gulls some stale bread. Simple pleasures are the ones that stick in the mind. paul feeding birds

So, as I form more and new experiences, make more memories here in middle-adulthood, I can also watch my children as they begin to make their own memories. Just as my parents are present in my early recollections, I will be present in theirs, sharing this landscape, again. There’s something so right, and also so sweet, about on beach

Life is like a layer cake, or maybe some kind of dense pie. Year after year, we add layers. Nothing goes away. We can cut a slice and taste those memories, soak in the present, and know this moment will be added to those layers of memory. Each of us adds our own flavor, color, with our thoughts and emotions, to each flake of experience we store. Whether we think the road is too long, or too short, it’s up to us to make the trip kayaking