Hi, Pain –
It’s me, Jac. I know you’ve already been here for some time but since we never did formal introductions, I thought it would be nice. Do you plan on sticking around very long? I don’t really know what to do with you while you’re here. Judging from the sea of unpleasant expressions I see during my daily commute, I think it’s safe to say you’ve already been all over New York. I guess we’ll figure it out as we go.
This pandemic has been undeniably difficult on everyone but it’s been downright brutal for travelers and those of us who like to write about our adventures. I’m a go-big-or-go-home kind of explorer – I take an “airplane or it doesn’t count” approach to my official excursions. However, since that’s not happening any time soon, I’ve elected to stay home. I have crossed a few tasks off the checklist that has been growing over the years but the constant all work and no play of the pandemic has grated away at my already paper thin sanity and capacity for positivity. I have been home. For months. With no end in sight. Although I have accepted the fact that 2020 will not allow me to jet off to Amman or Cartagena, it has also taught me the significance of simple pleasures that are still readily attainable. The pleasuriest of all simple pleasures is ice cream. And that, my friends, is what finally dragged me out of the house and decide to go small.
Small business, that is. Over the past few months, I have been repeatedly impressed by the ingenuity and creativity of small businesses to adapt to circumstances that I’m sure were never a part of any contingency plan. One of the most indulgent and delicious business moves has been from Bucks County ice creamery, Owowcow. Taking a favorite page out of every 20something’s playbook – the bar crawl – the small collection of shops created their own Tour de Cow. Guaranteed to generate both cheer and cash flow, Owowcow issued a challenge to it’s customers to visit all five of their locations in order to win, what else, more ice cream! Evidence has shown that social media bragging rights have also been a big draw. Like any good challenge, this one provides a way to up the ante. If you visit all five outposts in one day (and show your receipts to prove it) you are also rewarded with a free, exclusive t-shirt. The gauntlet had been thrown, the prizes revealed and I was up to the challenge. I recruited a trusty sidekick to pilot the Hyundai Elantra, packed the Lactaid pills and set out on an ice cream road trip adventure.
With the coordinates for all points of interest carefully input into TripIt, we navigated to our first dairy destination. The inaugural stop on our quest brought us to our regular Owowcow shop located in Wrightstown, PA. Here we were supplied with our indispensable map, better known as the official Tour de Cow stamp card. For travelers interested in side quests, the map also provides information concerning nearby adventure opportunities such as grabbing a slice at Vince’s Pizzeria, boating at Lake Galena or exploring the trails along Neshaminy Creek. While these are noble pursuits and ideal for combating the effects of extreme sugar intake, our focus was singular and we chose to stay the course without wavering in order to complete our mission in one day. To obtain the necessary card stamp, a purchase must be made. The pressure of making a flavor choice can be overwhelming but the benevolent masterminds of Owowcow have graciously provided an opportunity for some relief. Again being inspired by the methods and proven practices from the world of adult beverages, an ice cream flight is an option on the menu. Instead of selecting just one or two flavors, you are able to maximize your variety quotient with a total of five scoops. My sidekick decided that this was to be his Tour de Cow destiny and declared that he would consume a flight at every location. I had no doubt that he would be able to fulfill this lofty goal but I knew attempting such a feat myself would likely bring my ice cream journey to an untimely end. However, I agree to join him in this first task. Between the two of us, we sampled ten unique flavors. With our expectations and our blood sugar levels set high, we were off to the next venue.
After departing our usual Owowcow shop, the adventure truly began as we were now venturing into uncharted territory. TripIt directed us along the brief, next leg of our ice cream expedition to Chalfont. We arrived unscathed at the large, stone firehouse that had been transformed into the most recent addition to the Owowcow empire. After passing a graveyard rendered innocuous by the midday sunshine and locating a place to deposit the car without issue, we discovered an immense chalkboard heralding the current flavors of the day. This information was vital in achieving the least amount of time indoors and therefore increased our ability to safely social distance. Once inside, however, we realized that this precaution was mostly unnecessary as our presence only doubled the number of individuals who occupied the impressive structure. Selections were made quickly – another flight of entirely new flavors for my companion and an ice cream pop that resembled an epicurean Good Humor bar for me – then we followed the single path out of the building and rounded back to our vehicle. Here is where we were most tempted to deviate from our course and adjourn to nearby Peace Valley Park; a locale which sounds like an ideal place to spend some quarantine time. Alas, our frozen treats began to give out well before our commitment to our cause ever could. The sweltering heat was merciless and demanded immediate ice cream consumption which did not allow for a detour. Under the shade of a large oak, we furiously ate our delectables while they maintained some solidity and us some dignity. As we did, fellow ice-cream-loving travelers waved at us from a pandemic-friendly distance and requested flavor recommendations. We happily obliged and shared witty reparteé on the joys of day ice creaming – a luxury only second to day drinking but certainly more acceptable on a Tuesday. However, this was no time to make friends and we hastened to our ride as the couple entered the shop. We were only on stop number two in what had become a serious mission in gluttony.
The drive between Chalfont and the subsequent shop would be the longest of our journey; 55 dairy-free minutes of glorious air conditioning. Although I had never previously ventured to Easton, PA, it has been on my travel radar since Sesame Street presented a thrilling expose on the inner workings of the Crayola Factory. I never imagined that ice cream would be what eventually brought me to this mining town and I certainly never expected to leave without a fistful of fresh crayons but both were true of this day. With the doors of the factory currently sealed shut, we were left with no other option than to stay steadfast to the task at hand. The Elantra snaked through the narrow roads of steep hills covered with homes in muted tones of grey, brown and faded slate blue. This is a town of hard work and, for some, a hard life. For a brief moment, I was aware of its uncomfortable juxtaposition to the frivolity of an ice cream shop. But sometimes happiness can be found in the most unlikely of places which is usually where it is needed most. Eventually we reached the bottom of the hill and found ourselves at Simon Silk Mill – a renovated, rustic-on-purpose space that seems to be a popular aesthetic in the slowly, gentrifying parts of the Lehigh Valley. Sequestered away beyond the craft brewery, day spa and balloon sculpture business sat ice cream haven number three. Upon entering, I discovered that shouting my order through my mask and the din of the air conditioning was necessary. The employed guardians of Owowcow, the Teenage Girls, were as polite here as we had found at all previous locations. A second scooper did her honest best to suppress a look that straddled the line of surprise and horror when my companion proclaimed we were doing the entire Tour de Cow in one day. She handed him his third, consecutive, ice cream flight as I took my small cup and vacated the building. It was then that we encountered our one true adversary of the day (save for the inevitable food coma that would ensue) – lanternflies. Known for generating flora killing mold, this invasive species had recently infested the area and were decimating the local plant life. My trusty sidekick is usually a gentle hero in times of insect invasions but these particular monsters were subjected to his size 13s. This was how our time at the Easton Owowcow unfolded – alternating between spoonfuls of creamy delight and stomps of unashamed murder. Our stop culminated in the demise of no less than 15 lanternflies. With our valiant contribution in saving the trees of North Eastern Pennsylvania adequately complete, we returned to the safety of the vehicle to travel to our penultimate destination.
Sunlight pierced canopies of shady, tree-lined roads slowly gave way to brilliant farmlands fully lit in the golden hour as we cruised our way to Ottsville. The Owow OG, the first location established in 2009, appeared suddenly out of long stretches of desolate fields, like a sweet-cream mirage in an otherwise snack-barren land. It’s a small outfit that shares an out of place brick building with an even more out of place surf shop. This left us somewhat perplexed as the only waves in sight were those of amber grain. Still, the unexpected dichotomy, along with the revered relic of a payphone outside, added to the charm of the scene. The shop itself gave off an air of cool panache, a quiet confidence seemingly from knowing it held the title of first and therefore best of the Owowcow family. If reveling in timeless summer vibes was the mood of the moment I was all too happy to follow suit. Naturally, this was the perfect location to procure a classic cone with one of the month’s signature flavors, sweet buttered corn. One can only assume that the kernels used in this creamy creation were sourced from a location within walking distance of the shop’s front door. We took our cone and yet another flight out to the parking lot with asphalt set ablaze by the late afternoon sun. The heat produced an instantaneous melting effect and the muscle memory from years of accomplished drip control nearly had me mask first into the top scoop. Fortunately, I remembered just in time to remove my shield and save my snack before it became a splat on the blacktop. We finished our treats gazing out onto the fiery horizon, reflecting on how far we had traveled and how much we had accomplished. A sudden bark from a nearby domesticated beast sent us reeling back to reality and set our determination to complete our final mission.
The time had come for the last stop in our ice cream quest. Making it to the ultimate destination meant traveling back to our homeland, a trek that literally took us over the river and through the woods, to the only Owowcow east of the Delaware River. We arrived in Lambertville exhausted, sweaty and filled with dairy but we were ready to claim our prize. A flag emblazoned with the patron spirit of all things ice cream, the noble cow, welcomed us to our victory with a friendly wave. We were poised to reap the hard-earned rewards of the day. Feeling audacious due to our successful conquering of the Tour de Cow, we requested that the pedestrian sundae usually provided as a sweet trophy be upgraded to the impressive 10 Mile Peach Sundae. This extravagance seemed a much more worthy way to celebrate our triumph. The shop’s scoop slingers honored our requisition with no objections. However, this final act of utmost gluttony was ultimately our downfall as the sheer volume of sugary substances contained within the large vessel was our undoing. No matter, the battle had been fought valiantly, we conquered the cow and we departed from this last mission with the spoils of our success – the coveted t-shirt and a few pints of ice cream to bring back to those who remained back at the homestead. We motored off into the sunset feeling victorious and strangely proud of our particular prowess. With our adventure now behind us, we did the only thing more ludicrous than consuming five servings of ice cream in one day – we went home and had dinner.
You might be thinking that this was an excessive effort for a sugar high and a “free” shirt that came out to $72.80 in ice cream sales. Not to mention, of course, a highly dramatic retelling of the day’s events. Why not just go to the frozen foods section of the nearest grocery store for a quicker and cheaper fix? While Halo Top is fine most days, these are not most days – in case you were unaware. This is no time for diet ice cream. I am also painfully aware that neither Ben nor Jerry need any more of my money. Plus, I am a total sucker for swag. In this prolonged space of uncertainty and unrest I say bring on the full fat! Bring on supporting a local business! And, for the love of ice cream, bring on the joy! What started out as a simple day trip, a respite from the doldrums of life lived indoors, ended up becoming a humbling eye-opener. I realized that it was unfair of me to write off Summer 2020 as a complete wash. More than that, it showed me that adventures are all around us, if only we stop long enough to find excitement and wonder in our everyday lives. It’s not the plane ticket or passport that makes a trip worth taking, it’s the mindset.
Tour de Cow Final Stats:
Miles Traveled: 132
Hours it Took: 6-ish
Calories Consumed: Don’t know. Don’t Care.
First Stop: Wrightstown
FLIGHT
Mango Cream
Lime Cream
Mexican Hot Chocolate*
Banana Caramel*
Garden Berries
Second Stop: Chalfont
ICE CREAM POP
Strawberry Shortcake Pop
Third Stop: Easton
MEDIUM CUP
Sweet Honey Cream
Honey Lavendar
Fourth Stop: Ottsville
SMALL CONE
Sweet Buttered Corn*
Fifth Stop: Lambertville
SUNDAE
Mile High Peach Sundae
*Personal Faves
Tour de Cow Playlist:
I’ve been unexpectedly quiet lately. I mean strictly in a writing sense – internally I’ve been screaming since mid-March. These past two and a half months have been a roller coaster of emotion and, let me tell ya, I don’t do rides! But for as much as quarantine has made me question almost every aspect of myself – not the least of which being my anger management capabilities – I feel undeniably more conflicted and stressed about the looming reopening than I ever did about lockdown. I’d like to say it is because I’m anxious about what returning to the world means for everyone’s health and safety. Of course that is a legitimate concern of mine, but my current set of negative feelings actually stem from a much more selfish place.
I still have four songs in the works. I’m wrestling to transform an outline into a first draft of a script. I’m not done watching all the online seminars and streaming theatre – both of which I’m sure will no longer be so easily accessible once we go back to business as usual. I’ve only just begun to reacquaint myself with my piano. I restocked my pantry for no less than four more baking marathons. There are projects to tackle and books to read and rooms to deep clean that all remain untouched.
During this entirely bonkers time, there have been many soft souls who have offered gentle reminders – particularly to those who fancy ourselves “artists” – to go easy on our hearts, minds and, most importantly, our expectations. We’re going through a global crisis after all and it’s ok to not feel like a creative genius at the moment. With every tweet or beautifully crafted graphic, I’d smile warmly and think, “That’s lovely, dear, and so true. But it doesn’t apply to me.” No, while everyone else was taking a breath and making room for self care and reflection, it was supposed to be my time to swoop and shine! Yet in spite of all the opportunity to take on my growing to do list the only thing I feel I truly accomplished during lockdown was getting fat – another obvious reason why I am not enthusiastic about rejoining a world that will see more of me than just what fits into a Zoom square.
I do want the world to open up again. I miss doing things and going places. A little piece of my soul dies any time I think about a summer that might not include cruising my way down the boardwalk or bitching about the New Yorkers who are too loud and park their blankets too close. I have theatre tickets that sit idly by as the entire industry is in a state of waiting. My heart breaks for every small business owner and gig worker who doesn’t know how much longer they can stay afloat while staying closed. And, for the love of God, parents have to send their kids back to school! People need to celebrate at weddings and grieve at funerals and cheer at graduations again – these are significant human events and all of them were affected in the lives of those I love. But as others applaud every new step that we take towards normal, every announcement that something else is open, I can’t deny my deep sense of dread concerning the day we go back to a time before the world exploded. As we inch towards the end of lockdown, I am not optimistic about what we may be opening up to. I’m afraid we will have learned nothing.
Enthusiasm was never in short supply during my BC (Before Covid) days but I was always too busy and too tired to ever move beyond what I had to do in order to get to the things I wanted to do. I’d spend whole days at the office thinking about everything I would accomplish if only I could regain some time. There’s an obnoxious “be careful what you wish for” lesson in that but I’m not gonna touch it. For better or worse, now I have it. During this entire lockdown, there has been one personal constant amidst all the universal question marks – the creativity-killing pressure of “If not now, when?” The inescapable responsibility brought on by that question has left me more overwhelmed than my day job or commute ever did. For those of us lucky enough to be both healthy and free of homeschooling demands, this moment in history has given us the gift of time that we so desperately needed. But it’s a gift that came with a big mental price and the tension brought on by its volatile existence renders it almost useless. What if instead of scrambling to squeeze every ounce of opportunity from this relatively brief parenthesis, we simply chose a less demanding existence? Can we stop worshiping at the idol of busyness that keeping us slaves to our clocks and calendars? Let’s entertain the idea of free time without fear of judgement – particularly when that judgement comes from within. We shouldn’t need a pandemic-induced global shut down to feel like we have enough time to live our lives.
Now, I am the last person to have any understanding as to how to achieve balance in a very unbalanced world, but if someone is out there who has a decent grasp on the subject, I’d be happy to attend to your TED Talk. I mean really, do bloggers and essayists ever have constructive conclusions after all their musings? I read a number of them regularly but can’t seem to recall – which I guess is an answer in and of itself. If they do, I certainly haven’t earned that Insightful Solutions badge to add to my writer’s sash. I have no answers, at least none that are realistically viable or free of major explosives. Because, the truth is, I cannot see how changing an individual life would make a difference if the society we live in has, regrettably, stayed the same. And how the hell do you change an entire society? Moreover, what IS society and who’s in charge!? I’m going to pull back now before this gets weirdly existential. Some would argue that this pandemic created a “new normal” – a phrase I have come to loathe, bytheway. Unfortunately, I can’t say I agree. The barreling of the train has come to a temporary stop but as soon as we’re able we’ll just keep chugging along down the same track. What we need to do is jump the rails and head in a different direction. If a global pandemic won’t do that, I don’t know what will. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to be around to find out.
How about you, do you want to return to what we’ve all conceded to life as we know it? Think real hard, ALL THE WAY BACK to three months ago. Memories are getting shorter by the day but I’m fairly certain that if we were being honest with ourselves we’d admit that life before quarantine sucked, too. Yes, it was a very different kind of shit storm than the one we’re currently experiencing, but it sure as hell didn’t include leisurely walks outside with the boyfriend or the slightest notion that I’d find time to perfect a pie crust. I still haven’t binge watched Game of Thrones but I like feeling that I could binge watch Game of Thrones. Pre-pandemic days didn’t have regular check ins with friends to see if they were ok because we just assumed that they were. There were no surprise front door deliveries of baked goods, booze or flowers to cultivate a sense of connection and share a smile. It’s been encouraging to see what is possible when we are given permission to slow down and make time for ourselves and the ones we love. Instead of rushing off to all our obligations, we’re consciously engaging with people we care about through simple pleasures like puzzles and cooking and conversation. We’re getting creative with our entertainment – by generating new outlets and adapting old ones. People are sewing again! Ok, it’s for masks, but still! Listen, I don’t want to be stuck in a world in which every moment is colored by the fear of a super-virus; where the nightly news updates the death toll stats like we’re living in a damn Suzanne Collins novel. But I also don’t think it’s too much to ask for a world that doesn’t make us choose between our lives and our livelihoods. I fear reopening because I fear returning to an existence devoid of time to enjoy and explore the life we’ve been given. As others rush to get back to their church services, restaurants reservations and business meetings, I mourn freedom and possibility and another project that will likely turn into an unfinished orphan. I don’t want to be so excited to return to the normal days that we sacrifice what could actually be better ones. We’ve gained a lot of good in this bad time – don’t let it be in vain.
Generally speaking, what is it about our human make up that compels us to run from our true selves? I wonder if this is a distinctly Middle Class America problem – growing up in a society that falsely reassures us we can be anything causes us to be unsatisfied with who we already are. Add to that the pressures of resume building and social media posting and nagging reminders that we have the same amount of hours in a day as Beyonce, it’s no surprise that we feel the need to do and be all the things. We’re told we have the right, nay, the responsibility, to always be better but, please, can someone drag us away from the inspiration boards and continued learning classes and allow us to just be? Living the dream is turning into a bloody nightmare.
My own Pinterest page is a shining example of this problem. I have whole sections devoted to becoming a stellar photographer, interior designer, fitness guru, award winning actor, party planner, pastry chef and fashionable globe trotter…just to name a few. Then there are the Udemy courses in web development and digital marketing and that Masterclass subscription I keep meaning to get back to. When I lose focus, expertly curated art (thanks to Etsy and all my interior design Pins) implore “DOn’t quIT” or “Hustle” and influencers on The ‘Gram with hashtags like #bossbabe push me to live my best life.
But instead of anxiously gobbling up skills and achievements like a deranged Hungry Hungry Hippo, why don’t we first take stock of the marbles we already have? Because everyone does have something. Or, maybe I should say everyone IS something. A singer, a good listener, a budget beast – they’re different skills with varying degrees of visibility, but they are equal. And, news flash, we can’t have them all. Sure, there may have been some shady dealings during Talent Distribution Day as it would appear some people are really tipping the scales, but no one left empty handed. If someone were to ask me what I was given, I’d probably consent to a penchant for writing. If you’re still reading this, I hope you agree. Now, I don’t think I’ll ever have to clear off shelf space for a Pulitzer, but I do ok – certainly better than the twit who recently replied to my beautifully crafted business email with a “ty.”
The thing is, I don’t write. I was a relatively prolific writer when I was younger, filling notebooks with poems, essays, songs and stories. I even earned the occasional award or recognition for my work. Now, not so much. Most of the problem can be attributed to the business of life and failures in time management. But what about those rare moments when I have the freedom to spend some quality time click clacking away on my laptop. Do I relish the ability to sit down and write? No. Do I waste that precious time on the most useless shit imaginable? You betcha! Reorganize my closet – sounds like a plan. Clean out my email inbox – don’t mind if I do. Hunt down the next best show on Netflix – I’m up to the task. Mindlessly scroll my way into a coma and accidentally friend request a near perfect stranger on Facebook – yeah, sorry about that. Can I honestly consider myself a good writer, or a writer at all, with only a small handful of blog posts, zero Twitter followers, and the sporadic online event invite? It might be the top skill listed on my otherwise creatively barren resume but I have essentially no resources to back up that claim.
As I bounce from meaningless jobs to unemployment and back again, I continue to feel a little knock from the inside of my brain accompanied by a voice that says, “HellOOOoooooO, you’re a writer. Accept that this is your thing and stop wasting time trying to be something you’re not!” That might be all well and good, but is that same obnoxious voice capable of persuading someone to give me an advance to write a novel? A script? Is anyone from Refinery 29, Atlas Obsurca, The Thrillist, or even the PennySaver going to take me seriously as a writer based solely on a collection of witty text repartee? That’s gonna be a hard no. So, it is up to me to become one.
Correction: I have to embrace being one. It is what I am, I just have to stop ignoring it and start working at it. The seed is there, but I have to choose to nurture what is right below the surface if I ever want it to grow. For years, I’ve been attempting to dig massive holes, haul fully formed trees and replant them where they were never meant to blossom. After all that work, I’m tired, I’m dirty, but I don’t have much in the way of fulfilling – or lucrative – results. Think of how fruitful that little talent seedling could be now if I had fostered the development of what I already had instead of wasting so much time denying the fact that some plants require particular conditions that I might not possess.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not self improvement bashing. I’m not saying that learning something new is a bad move. On the contrary, I love learning new things; if it didn’t generate crippling debt I would happily be a full time student. What I am saying is that if you’re a square peg trying to shove yourself into a round hole it may be possible you will fit but the process is going to be hella painful. And, truly, you’ll never be as good at filling that circular void as the one who was designed to do it in the first place. So, instead, why not be the best damn square peg you can possibly be?
Now that I’ve officially maxed out my metaphor limit, I’ll move on to the question and answer portion of this post. What part of yourself have you been running from? Why is it that you think you need to do and be something other than what you already are? Trust me, I’m painfully aware that the competition to get anywhere in this life is fierce, but maybe if we all agreed to stop seeing each other as rivals and started collaborating to utilize what we each do really well we could finally break the cycle of exhausting, anxiety-inducing one-up-manship. I’m slowly accepting that I will never be good at everything and, more importantly, I don’t have to break my back, bank account and spirit to cram in yet another skill I don’t necessarily need. While I won’t give up occasionally adding to my repertoire, you will now find many more titles such as “How to Outline a Story” and “Constructing Consistently Engaging Blog Entries” on my Pinterest board.
Find out what you are. Own it. Embrace it. Love it. Cultivate it. Then, share it with all of us. Are you a math genius? A master seamstress? A tech wizard? Great! I’m not and now I no longer feel burdened to become one, too. Let me celebrate you by engaging your talents. This world can be such a difficult place to live in; we have enough struggles as it is. Fight one less battle today and stop warring against the best version of who you can possibly be. And, remember, if you ever need a writer, I got you!
I have a habit of throwing words together and then not going back to them for days or even weeks. I started this entry, as the below title states, on October 1st. It lived on paper in rushed pencil scribbles for a while until it found its way to a computer a few weeks later. Then life got in the way. Then the holidays happened, which is really just life to the nth degree. Now, it’s a few months later and its finally made it to the interwebs. Sometimes I tell myself that I’ll be better at writing consistently and in a timely fashion but I hate making promises that I can’t keep.
OCTOBER 1, 2018
Hi, my name is Jaci and I do theatre. Sounds like I’m saying hello to a self help group. (There really should be a theatre therapy group. Why is that not a thing?) In a world where what you do is who you are, I’ve always had a difficult time narrowing down my acceptably succinct identity. What does “do theatre” even mean? In my life, it has meant a number of things, depending on the day.
I started out, naturally, as a theatre-goer. My very first artistic memory is when Ma decided to take me to a local high school production of Bye Bye Birdie. We didn’t even know anyone at the school, let alone in the show, but it was a cheap and entertaining activity for a six-year-old. I can vividly recall the joy and energy emanating from the “big kids” on stage and wondering to myself if there was possibly anything better than telling stories through elaborately staged musical numbers. Ma continued to encourage my love of art through dance classes and semi-regular trips to the theatre.
However, growing up in a working class household, it never occurred to me that theatre could actually be a career. When the time came, I, like many other first-generation college students, chose a more pedestrian path for my continued education. Yet four years and two Bachelor’s Degrees later, I decided that “business” just wasn’t for me. (Really, isn’t “business” just as vague as “do theatre??”) Little did I know how difficult it would be to find what exactly was for me and what paths and lessons it would take to get there.
Out of school and completely disillusioned by the experience, I thought I’d do something completely different and try my hand at this whole theatre thing after all. I auditioned for every community production I could and occasionally squeaked by on the dance skills I acquired in my youth. It didn’t take me long to accept the fact that each show I was lucky enough to get into was merely a fun diversion and not, what I had initially hoped, another step towards an illustrious career. Still, I was having fun with this new hobby and found that a rehearsal room was my happy place.
Yet, the truth of the matter was that I had no artistic training and no singing ability whatsoever. If I wanted to keep my spot in this exciting, new world, I was going to have to figure out another way to belong. That’s how I found my way from on stage to behind it as a stage manager/assistant director/props master. In community theatre, you generally end up with a lot of slashes in your title. There’s something quite fulfilling about running a show; it provides a sense of ownership in the process – especially those late nights spent toiling away in the shop or in the wings making theatre magic. But still, most of the work that comes with the gig is just that – work. It’s spreadsheets and calendars and emails, not exactly the fulfilling responsibility of bringing art to life.
The same can be said of my day job. I work at a professional theatre…in sales and customer service. It’s the right place but I’m doing the wrong work. Sure, I actually get to put those expensive degrees to good use (sort of) but I’d prefer to be exercising my imagination instead. The most creative I’ve been recently is in figuring out a new way to explain to Ethel, for the umpteenth time, why she can’t use an expired coupon code. I thought art was supposed to be illuminative, healing and beautiful but my bit only shows me the ugliest parts of people. Long time subscribers (newsflash: they’re ALL long time subscribers) make ludicrous demands because they think it is what they are owed. Little old ladies turn into banshees as their voices raise each time they’re told “their” seats aren’t available or *gasp* they have to pay full price. Crotchety men insist on speaking to the manager because, clearly, as a woman, I can’t possibly be in charge. (You’re out of luck, buddy, because I AM the manager!) The undulant wave of entitlement and self centeredness are soul crushing. Once a day the words, “I hate people” come out of my mouth. I would expect the dark cloud of job dread hanging over me in the corporate sector, but in non-profit theatre?! This is not who I used to be, this is not what art should do to a person and this is certainly NOT living the dream.
To seemingly satisfy my need to be in control of anything in my life, I co-founded my own company, Rooftop Theatre Collaborative, in 2015. Now I can be the one who decides which shows to produce and have the fun and freedom to make artistic choices through directing. I’ve also been able to alleviate some of my new found distaste for humanity by adding a philanthropic component to the work. The entire process is so gratifying that I don’t even mind all the paperwork that inevitably goes with it. Admittedly, I’m making a lot of mistakes along the way but I’m seeing them (uncharacteristically, for this self proclaimed perfectionist) as welcomed learning opportunities. However, I’m also the one who foots the bill. While I’d love to solely focus on the practice of create-stumble-discover-grow-rinse-repeat, it does take some serious funding to do so. Since I haven’t been able to figure out how to bring boat loads of audience members and/or cash, most of my time and energy are spent at the aforementioned day job. And so the vicious cycle continues.
All of this is what my life used to look like:
As of today, this is what my life looks like now:
I gave it all up. Part of it permanently (the job) and part of it temporarily (the company). I haven’t really thought it too far out from there. My life was a good one in an industry I wanted to be in, so why did I quit all the things? Why, really, was I becoming so increasingly miserable that it resulted in such drastic measures? No matter how acceptable my life was, it wasn’t for me anymore. Maybe it never was. I finally got tired of good enough or close enough to what I wanted, my existence had become so uncomfortable because it never felt like it really fit. I wore my life like a cheap Internet purchase. It looked great in pictures but in reality I struggled to make it work. No matter how much I tugged or pinned or finessed the fabric of my life, it was never right. It was time to face the facts that nothing is worth that much effort when all you’ll ever be able to achieve is adequacy. It was time to say goodbye.
My latest reincarnation starts today. My first class at the Atlantic Acting School begins in 15 minutes and I’m currently writing this in the Starbucks downstairs – terribly cliche of me, I know. The few people who I told of this new adventure generally greeted me with cocked heads and furrowed brows. “Oh, so you want to be an actor?” The truthful answer is that I don’t know. What I want is to get back those first feelings of excited storytelling and what it’s like to be in my happy place. I want to be something different than what I am now. Whether that means getting back to who I used to be or figuring out who I really am is yet to be determined. I’m going to try this on first and see if it fits. If it does, great, and if it doesn’t, well, that’s fine, too. I’m only committing to a year program at the Atlantic and then we’ll see. There are infinite options out there and I’m starting to feel ok with the fact that I could be any number of them – in the theatre or possibly even out of it.
I will be completely honest with you – I have no idea what I’m doing. But I really believe that no one else does either, regardless of appearances, and that’s comforting in a way. I don’t know what life is going to look like in a few months or a few years from now, which is equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. I was pretty certain what the future held if I had continued down my previous path and I have no doubt that the question mark is a better alternative to the unhappy probability of what was in store. So, here I go. Desperation got me here but hope will take me the rest of the way. I’m eager to see where the next step may lead. This might be the first day of my new life or it might be a side trip on my ultimate journey. Either way, it will be different and different is what I need most right now.
And hey, if this doesn’t pan out, maybe I’ll start over AGAIN and turn into a free-spirited gypsy, selling seashells and hemp bracelets to tourists along the world’s most beautiful beaches. I’m not entirely kidding.
I don’t have children. Most days, I’m happy with that choice. Some days, however, I wish I had little people who I could mold into thoughtful and valuable individuals capable of positively affecting our future society. There are some hard truths that I would impart to them at a young age so by the time they were confronted by that reality, they wouldn’t feel quite so blindsided.
Life is not fair. I can hear you from here – ”Yes, and in other news, water is wet.” I know this is something that most of us as adults are acutely aware of. What I fail to understand is why we still insist on filling children’s heads with the fairytale notion that simple things like hard work and kindness always pay off in the end. Perhaps it’s because, even though it has been disproven time and time again, we continue to cling to this idea with the desperate hope that one day we’ll see that it’s true.
Turn on the news or scroll through your Facebook feed for just a few seconds and chances are that hope quickly dissipates, even if only temporarily. Social injustice, economic disparity, environmental catastrophes, political extremes – these are all fuels to the fire that incinerate whatever fleeting optimism we’re holding on to. These things hurt my heart as much as they do yours, but there are some days that what I find to be the most draining is being bombarded with the unfairness of my own personal universe. Maybe you feel the same way and are just too afraid of being accused of selfishness and a lack of perspective to say so. Well, today, I just don’t give a damn.
Who has an incompetent boss that gets paid the big bucks for your smart ideas and long hours?
Who has a friend who always remembers you when they need you and forgets you when they don’t?
Who is the black sheep of their family despite all attempts at making them proud?
Who is tired of seeing the mediocre and misguided efforts of others get rewarded while your passionate yet exhausted self is fighting to take just one step forward?
Does any of this sound familiar?
I wish someone would have made me realize how unfair life was before the truth of it smacked me in the face. What if we finally set aside our well-intentioned lies that good ultimately triumphs over evil and there is no substitute for hard work and you can do anything you put your mind to and all the rest of that inspirational mumbo jumbo? Instead, let’s start teaching kids that life is not fair and sometimes, no matter what you do, you won’t win. And then, dear reader, this is what I would say to that wide-eyed and newly terrified child:
“But do it anyway.”
Not to get all Mother Theresa on you, but the truth is we should just do it anyway. Why? Maybe it’s to follow your own moral compass so you can peacefully lay you head down at night. Maybe it’s because you still need to believe that what you do matters to someone. Or maybe it’s so you feel justified in your righteous indignation and can write a self-indulgent blog post about it. Regardless of your reasons, I urge you (and myself) to continue to care. Yes, oftentimes it feels as though life would be much easier if we stopped putting in the effort and mindlessly coasted along to whatever fate awaited us. So many others do it, why shouldn’t we? If all of our proverbial blood, sweat and tears only add up to the pain and not the gain, why should we even bother? Because doing it anyway without any promise of something in return makes you a good person. If no one has ever told you that or if you have been aching for a reminder, there it is. You might not ever get a ticker tape parade for your efforts but hopefully you do achieve a personal sense of pride and satisfaction that no amount of outward recognition could provide. This world doesn’t often give us much to feel good about but that doesn’t mean we can’t feel good about ourselves. I don’t know about you, but today I’ve earned that much.
So, do your best work. Help your friend. Love your family. Fight the good fight. Pursue your passion.
Imagine what could happen if we stopped focusing on what we think we deserve and just did it – whatever it might be – because it was the right thing to do. Doesn’t that sound so liberating? I hope to be able to get to that point one day. Because although we can’t fill up the world with fairness, each of us has the power to add one more good person to this earth. And that is a commodity we so dearly need more than anything right now.
I intended to write a blog post about my Indian desert experience. A year ago. It was such a remarkable adventure and I wanted to capture it in every miniscule detail but it was those very details that overwhelmed me and so I kept putting it off. Then I became disillusioned by just how quickly the specifics of what should have been one of the most memorable nights of my life started to become hazy. And so, here I am, over a year since that unforgettable experience and, well, it’s being forgotten – all because I wanted to record it in writing perfectly instead of urgently.
I feel as though I’ve had my fair share of I-intended-tos and I-had-planned-ons but my life’s current state is proof that good intentions get you nowhere. Action, sometimes even without understanding and answers, is always a better option than meaning without follow through.
As I took my nightly trek down the turnpike this evening, I consciously decided to scroll past the usual playlists in favor of some music I hadn’t actively listened to for roughly a decade. It’s astounding to me how the songs that played during the days when I tried to decide who I wanted to be now forced me to question who I’ve become. They did so gently but unrelentingly. And they made me realize that I’ve been in a desert place.
As I thought back to who I was the first time these songs blared themselves into my life (from my boom box, no doubt, or perhaps the Walkman playing through the tape deck of my first Jetta) I realized that my journey has left that person unrecognizable to the one who was currently bleary-eyed and behind the wheel. Please don’t get me wrong, my life has been far from a struggle. In fact, I – and most everyone else, I’m sure – would consider myself quite privileged. But my could-haves and should-haves and still-didn’ts have caught up with me and I’m acutely aware of the fact that they have left the land beneath my feet so dried up.
I didn’t mean to get here but I did get here by my choice. No one kidnapped me and brought me to this wasteland or tied me, kicking and screaming, to a wayward camel. This is my own doing. Every unrealized goal, every time I let the unknown keep me from taking a risk, every “no” that I perceived as a personal attack, every desire that took a back burner to obligation, every disappointment that I allowed to chip away at my joy and motivation – these were each a step I chose to travel further into the wilderness.
However, just like the literal dunes, this metaphoric desert place hasn’t been without its striking beauty. Even as I’ve wandered, rather aimlessly, through these past number of years, I have had the dumb luck to stumble upon some pretty extraordinary blessings. I’ve developed some beautiful new friendships and have shockingly been able to maintain many of the old ones. My family members (and friends-turned-family) do their best to love me as I continue to flail around in the sand. I have traveled, I have made art, and I have learned a few lessons, both practical and spiritual – sometimes in spite of the arid terrain and sometimes because of it.
What made my actual desert safari so fantastical was that I, along with my new travel companions and several strangers, had to be evacuated because of an immense storm. In the middle of the Thar Desert, just outside of Jaisalmer, those of us who stayed awake late into the night watched as a sea of stars quickly became shrouded by a blanket of clouds. And then, in a breath, the heavens poured down. What would have been a common, albeit, torrential, storm under most other circumstances, seemed utterly terrifying and awe-inspiring in this unexpected and unforgiving setting. The abrupt streaks of lightning, the sudden rolls of thunder, the foreign nature of rain in such an arid place left us initially bewildered before ultimately coming to our senses, grabbing whatever we could and pile into the lone safety van to rumble and bounce our way to temporary shelter.
The next morning, whether we liked it or not, we were driven back to our abandoned camp site to collect the rest of our things and mount our camels to ride into the sunrise. We were still in the desert and it had remained utterly unchanged despite the unusual and extreme weather from the night before. What we realized, however, is that WE were changed. We were conscious of the fact that we had had a special experience and we all knew that it would be a defining moment of our travels and maybe, for some, even our lives.
I don’t know how long I’ll be in my current desert – I’m not even quite sure whether this is a temporary season or if I should hunker down and learn how to adapt to a more Bedouin existence. What I do know is that there is life even in the desert place and just when you think hope is dried up, the rain suddenly rushes down and changes you – even if it doesn’t change your circumstances.
My mother once told me, “suddenly your suddenly will come.” I don’t think she’ll ever realize how wise those words were and how much they have sustained me, especially now, when I feel as though I have been crawling through this barren land for so long. Whatever lightning and thunder it may bring, I am ready for my suddenly. I am desperate for the deluge.
Before
We’re only five hours into our flight and I’m officially starting to get antsy. At least, I’m estimating five hours – we’re traveling across time zones and my watch is already set to Delhi time, so it’s really just my best guess at this point. Airplanes are sort of like casinos and cubicles in the way that they have an unnatural ability to manipulate minutes and hours. Anyway, it has already been a long flight. Thinking I was clever, I booked both a window and an aisle seat assuming no one in their right mind would voluntarily take a middle seat and, therefore, equal more breathing room for both of us. When we checked in earlier today, the airline attendant noticed our seat requests and smiled at us as she let us know she X’ed out the seat between us. Success! Or so we thought until we boarded the plane and begrudgingly found someone else in our row. The row directly in front of us had two vacant seats, one of which we suspect belongs to our unwelcomed row mate, but since she’s the only person on this flight that does not speak a lick of English, I guess we’ll never know. She’s also lacking in the concept of personal space, so, there’s that.
I’m currently writing from the middle seat while she sits crossed legged in what should have been my boyfriend’s seat – her naked, fat foot staring at me like a bad omen of things to come. Needless to say, my plan majorly backfired. Although, maybe I should be grateful to her; the only reason I am able to write is because she accidentally hit the light button on OUR armrest, providing me with some serious glow in an otherwise darkened cabin. Also, thanks are due to the baby who finally stopped wailing long enough for me to form a coherent sentence in my own, already noisy head.
I’m happy to be writing, it’s always made me feel in control and is a familiar part of who I am. It’s nice to turn to that now as I’m flying further and further away from ANYTHING familiar. Save for the boyfriend, of course, who is contentedly sitting next to me working on his fifteenth Hidato puzzle in a row. (They say it’s supposed to be the next Sudoku…we’ll see.) Its times like this I appreciate his calm and laid back personality most. I know that there will be multiple times throughout the course of these next two weeks that he will be my only saving grace. Maybe it’s just where I’m at right now – meaning my seat as well as my life – but I’m not emotionally ready for India. When we decided on this trip over a year ago, it felt like a distant dream. When we booked our plane tickets five months ago, I was excited for a new adventure. But a lot of life has happened in not a lot of time and dealing with my own chaos has left me with little energy to deal with the chaos waiting to greet me in Delhi. I’m tired and I’m worried that I won’t be able to handle the assault to my senses brought on by the vast extremes of an entire subcontinent. Six hours into my flight now. I’m still eight hours away from starting a journey I’m not entirely sure I want to take.
After
I abhor this new trend in which people say, “Oh my God, this is EVERYTHING!” How pathetically lazy – please make the effort to choose appropriate words and then use them to communicate effectively. That being said, I must admit that India was indeed everything. It was breathtakingly beautiful and hard-to-look at ugly. It was relaxing to the point of boring and stressful to the point of madness. The sheer amount of bodies that inhabit one space at any given time was overwhelming and yet the feeling of isolation was inescapable. It was color and joy and light and darkness and despondency all at once. That’s what makes India such a mystery – depending on where you look (or what you choose to see) it’s either magic or mayhem. All the time. That’s what makes India such a fantastic challenge. And that’s why I had to go.
For as much as its everythingness left such an imprint on my heart, I know that it won’t be long before I start forgetting the minute details, the specific nuances of my 16 whirlwind days in northwest India. Even now, as we endure what surely must be the world’s longest flight – one that is exponentially more unpleasant than its predecessor – it feels as though the memories are being ripped from me with every fleeting mile closer to home. It’s as if India herself won’t allow me to bring the entire experience back with me; in an effort to maintain her mystery she holds on to a part of you and faintly whispers, “you will be back.”
But I must make a noble attempt, however futile, to thwart India’s efforts. For as much as it distresses me to realize that it truly is impossible to remember everything, there are some moments that I refuse to forget:
There are countless other memories that may or may not stay with me as the days following our adventure turn into months and years. I am sure, however, that I will never forget the lessons I’ve learned as a result of my experiences because they have truly changed me. Or maybe it is not that they have transformed me as much as they have revealed certain truths about who I actually am and it’s my job to do the changing if I so choose. The revelations were jarring at times and left me bewildered as to how I could be such a stranger to my own self and, in selected instances, how far away I am from who I wish I was. I am remarkably distrustful and more fearful than I realized or would ever care to admit. This crazy world seems to be losing its collective mind more and more by the day so, on the surface, that mentality might seem justified but I fear that it may also keep me from experiencing some wonderful opportunities. After meeting numerous people who are legitimately free spirited and adventurous, I discovered, much to my horror, that I am neither of those things. I am calculated, controlled and cautious – while other people have flights of fancy, I have color coded itineraries perfectly laid out in Excel spreadsheets. Yes, this allows me to move efficiently and quickly through life, which I do, sometimes at an alarming rate. I don’t think these traits are inherently bad ones but I also don’t know if they are truths about myself that I’m happy to accept. I used to believe that I wanted to travel the world and live abroad and make big, daring, scary life choices. But being so far out of my comfort zone made me all too aware of how much I really crave the comfortable. Security and courage – which one is honestly more important to me? Am I even strong enough to give up the former in the hope of what the latter could achieve?
It’s amazing how being away from everything you know shows you how much you don’t know, especially about yourself. But some things, of course, are constant and should be expected no matter where you roam. In my vulnerability and surprising moments of self-discovery, I learned that heartbreak travels with you, even to the other side of the world. I accepted that it’s ok to cry about the grief I left at home because I knew it was going to be waiting for me when I return. A lot of uncertainty will be there as well, a lot of difficult questions that demand answers. But I am grateful for the softness and humanity I exposed within myself through the hardness of this astonishing country. I’m grateful for the opportunity to reevaluate who I am and what I want and how I choose to go on from here. I have travel to thank for that. I have the lingering sent of patchouli and the taste of cardamom to encourage me to keep discovering and, little by little, shape a new me every day. And if I ever need another reminder, I’m sure Shiva will be more than willing to offer one.
India, I think you’re right – I will be back.
.chasing bluebirds. 