Dropped off the Harley this morning at Pasha Hawai‘i in National City. And there were tears...again.
They weren’t tears of sadness. I like my Harley, but I don’t love it; if the ship were to sink, I don’t think I’d shed a tear. Things are only things, and I know that in both my head and my heart.
Rather, they were tears of joy. Again, not because of anything to do with the Harley at all; instead, because of what the act of putting the Harley on the boat represents.
The guy who inspected and took custody of the Harley asked me if I was going home or just going for vacation: I answered, “I’m going home...for the first time."
That’s why I cried. Every step now takes me closer to home...and I’ve been homesick (without really knowing it) for a long time.
And dear ones, you go with me; I carry you in my heart.
Showing posts with label tears. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tears. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Monday, May 21, 2012
I'm Sorry
Yesterday I trod the boards of the Antelope Valley stage for the last time. Yesterday I said goodbye to a part of my life that has profoundly shaped me over the last 12 years.
Yesterday I cried.
It's not the first time I've cried on this journey. It's not the last time I'll cry, either. Tears seem as much a part of this journey as smiles are, though most people only see the smiles; I mostly cry alone.
Not because I'm ashamed to be seen crying or because I worry what people will think; I couldn't care less whether or not people see my crying or judge me for it. The things and people I'm crying over deserve every teardrop. It's just that right now, the moments when it hits me are solitary ones.
That'll change.
Today I said goodbye to the stage, which is important and worthy of tears. But too soon I'll say goodbye to the people I've met through the theatre—what I call my theatre family—and that's going to leave a mark. I think that the tears I cry over them will not be solitary ones.
I'm leaving people I love and who I think love me. We're all losing someone important to us. We've all got cause to grieve.
I do think, though, that in some ways it's easier for me. After all, while I'm losing people I love, it's because of a decision I made; it's the consequence of my choices. My family and theatre family and friends are losing someone they love, but they didn't do anything; this loss is being imposed on them. I, at least, inflicted my loss on myself; the catch is I'm also inflicting their loss on my loved ones. It's my doing.
I think that makes it harder for those I'm leaving than it is for me. I'm not saying it's not difficult for me—it is—I'm just saying that it's easier for me than it is for my friends and loved ones.
That realization sucked, by the way. To realize that this choice, which hurts me so much, may be hurting my friends and loved ones more...just sucked. And to realize that all of it—my pain and theirs—is my doing is just about enough to break my heart.
So let me say I'm sorry. I am sorry to inflict this on you.
I won't—I can't—take it back. I must and I want to move ahead. It feels right. It feels good.
But it hurts, too. It hurts me to be saying goodbye to you (and you know who you are), and it hurts me to know that my leaving hurts you more.
No wonder children throw tantrums when they can't have two (mutually exclusive) wishes at the same time. That's what I want. I want to have my cake and eat it, too. I want to do what's best for me and do what makes you happiest. But I can't have both.
This pain is not going away any time soon.
Yesterday I cried.
It's not the first time I've cried on this journey. It's not the last time I'll cry, either. Tears seem as much a part of this journey as smiles are, though most people only see the smiles; I mostly cry alone.
Not because I'm ashamed to be seen crying or because I worry what people will think; I couldn't care less whether or not people see my crying or judge me for it. The things and people I'm crying over deserve every teardrop. It's just that right now, the moments when it hits me are solitary ones.
That'll change.
Today I said goodbye to the stage, which is important and worthy of tears. But too soon I'll say goodbye to the people I've met through the theatre—what I call my theatre family—and that's going to leave a mark. I think that the tears I cry over them will not be solitary ones.
I'm leaving people I love and who I think love me. We're all losing someone important to us. We've all got cause to grieve.
I do think, though, that in some ways it's easier for me. After all, while I'm losing people I love, it's because of a decision I made; it's the consequence of my choices. My family and theatre family and friends are losing someone they love, but they didn't do anything; this loss is being imposed on them. I, at least, inflicted my loss on myself; the catch is I'm also inflicting their loss on my loved ones. It's my doing.
I think that makes it harder for those I'm leaving than it is for me. I'm not saying it's not difficult for me—it is—I'm just saying that it's easier for me than it is for my friends and loved ones.
That realization sucked, by the way. To realize that this choice, which hurts me so much, may be hurting my friends and loved ones more...just sucked. And to realize that all of it—my pain and theirs—is my doing is just about enough to break my heart.
So let me say I'm sorry. I am sorry to inflict this on you.
I won't—I can't—take it back. I must and I want to move ahead. It feels right. It feels good.
But it hurts, too. It hurts me to be saying goodbye to you (and you know who you are), and it hurts me to know that my leaving hurts you more.
No wonder children throw tantrums when they can't have two (mutually exclusive) wishes at the same time. That's what I want. I want to have my cake and eat it, too. I want to do what's best for me and do what makes you happiest. But I can't have both.
This pain is not going away any time soon.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Swan Song
Today is bittersweet. Today I take the stage for the last time in the Antelope Valley. Today one of the most important chapters in my life to date ends. And here come the tears...
I know that in the next six weeks, these tears will flow again and again, and I don't begrudge them. Whenever something important ends, there's pain if not outright injury, and whether pain or injury, the end of something important deserves tears.
Yes, I wrote the end to all the chapters ending soon—it seems that every new beginning comes after a (happy or unhappy) ending, and I made the choices knowing full well that these would be among the consequences—but even though I'm the one ending it, I am sad. Even when it's a loss I choose, I still lose. So let the tears flow...
The chapter that ends today—the Antelope Valley Community Theatre chapter of my life—began some twelve years ago, when I auditioned for and was cast in Cedar Street Theatre's production of Damn Yankees. I played Vernon Linville, a ballplayer on the Washington Senators, and had the time of my life. In that show I met Wayne, who has become my best friend.
Twelve years later, I've acted in nearly 40 shows, directed a dozen, designed several, seen three I wrote make their way to the stage...Damn Yankees planted the seeds in me that led me to pursue teaching theatre as a career, led me to graduate studies in theatre, led to many of my finest and most precious memories and friends. That show and its aftermath transformed me; among the ways my life is marked, BDY and PDY (Before Damn Yankees and Post Damn Yankees) are important.
Twelve years later, I am finishing a run as Milt Fields in It's Only Tuesday Productions' presentation of Neil Simon's Laughter on the 23rd Floor, and that's it. Finis. The end.
I'm proud of what I've done PDY. I'm happy to have been a part of so many productions, to have contributed to the founding of It's Only Tuesday Productions, Wayne's theatre company, to have met and shared the stage with so many wonderful people. Antelope Valley community theatre has been at the heart of my life for twelve years now...
Of course there are tears.
I know that in the next six weeks, these tears will flow again and again, and I don't begrudge them. Whenever something important ends, there's pain if not outright injury, and whether pain or injury, the end of something important deserves tears.
Yes, I wrote the end to all the chapters ending soon—it seems that every new beginning comes after a (happy or unhappy) ending, and I made the choices knowing full well that these would be among the consequences—but even though I'm the one ending it, I am sad. Even when it's a loss I choose, I still lose. So let the tears flow...
The chapter that ends today—the Antelope Valley Community Theatre chapter of my life—began some twelve years ago, when I auditioned for and was cast in Cedar Street Theatre's production of Damn Yankees. I played Vernon Linville, a ballplayer on the Washington Senators, and had the time of my life. In that show I met Wayne, who has become my best friend.
Twelve years later, I've acted in nearly 40 shows, directed a dozen, designed several, seen three I wrote make their way to the stage...Damn Yankees planted the seeds in me that led me to pursue teaching theatre as a career, led me to graduate studies in theatre, led to many of my finest and most precious memories and friends. That show and its aftermath transformed me; among the ways my life is marked, BDY and PDY (Before Damn Yankees and Post Damn Yankees) are important.
Twelve years later, I am finishing a run as Milt Fields in It's Only Tuesday Productions' presentation of Neil Simon's Laughter on the 23rd Floor, and that's it. Finis. The end.
I'm proud of what I've done PDY. I'm happy to have been a part of so many productions, to have contributed to the founding of It's Only Tuesday Productions, Wayne's theatre company, to have met and shared the stage with so many wonderful people. Antelope Valley community theatre has been at the heart of my life for twelve years now...
Of course there are tears.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Breathless
I'm actually doing this. I'm not going to do it; I'm doing it. That's an important distinction. I'm going, and that takes my breath away.
At first I was breathless with fear: paralyzing, stupefying,appalling terror. There was no question what made my hands sweat, my limbs shake, my gut clench, my breath catch: it was fear, pure and simple—that visceral reaction to threat that kept our primal ancestors alive in a menacing world. And fear is still part of it...
But fear is not all of it, not any more. Fear is not even the biggest part of it.
I'm breathless with anticipated grief. I am leaving my family, my theatre family, my friends, my best friend, my students (the only children I've known)... and I feel that loss as if I was already gone. "I miss you" doesn't come close to what I'm feeling, and I haven't even gone yet. I tear up every time I remember those I'm leaving.
I'm breathless with excitement. I feel the things I've always felt before a first date: anticipation, nervousness, hope. There's no knowing how it's going to be: if there will be "chemistry," if we'll be "compatible," if we'll "fit," who we'll be to one another. It's exciting!
I'm breathless with awe. Awe at the prospect of being where my heart has called me for so long, awe at the thought of remaking myself in a new place, awe at the boundless possibilities (including the possibility of epic failure). Awe at the amazing support of family and friends from whom "never was heard a discouraging word," but rather endless encouragement.
Breathless.
Tonight I'm reserving my (one way) ticket. Early in June, I'll book passage for my Harley.
I'm going.
At first I was breathless with fear: paralyzing, stupefying,appalling terror. There was no question what made my hands sweat, my limbs shake, my gut clench, my breath catch: it was fear, pure and simple—that visceral reaction to threat that kept our primal ancestors alive in a menacing world. And fear is still part of it...
But fear is not all of it, not any more. Fear is not even the biggest part of it.
I'm breathless with anticipated grief. I am leaving my family, my theatre family, my friends, my best friend, my students (the only children I've known)... and I feel that loss as if I was already gone. "I miss you" doesn't come close to what I'm feeling, and I haven't even gone yet. I tear up every time I remember those I'm leaving.
I'm breathless with excitement. I feel the things I've always felt before a first date: anticipation, nervousness, hope. There's no knowing how it's going to be: if there will be "chemistry," if we'll be "compatible," if we'll "fit," who we'll be to one another. It's exciting!
I'm breathless with awe. Awe at the prospect of being where my heart has called me for so long, awe at the thought of remaking myself in a new place, awe at the boundless possibilities (including the possibility of epic failure). Awe at the amazing support of family and friends from whom "never was heard a discouraging word," but rather endless encouragement.
Breathless.
Tonight I'm reserving my (one way) ticket. Early in June, I'll book passage for my Harley.
I'm going.
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