What Goes Down Must Come Up (Blog #1043)

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Last night I worked backstage for the national tour of Finding Neverland until one in the morning, rolling up Marley floor, wrapping up in padded blankets the windows Peter Pan flies, and pushing heavy crates onto semis. And whereas I had a fabulous time (the theater is magic), I could barely think straight when it was all over. Indeed, it was all I could do to get myself home, brush my teeth, and crawl into bed. Thankfully, I had most of today to rest. Alas, despite the fact that I slept until one this afternoon and took a cat nap this evening, I’m still tired. What the hell?

Clearly my body is not a fan of manual labor.

For whatever reason, I’ve spent most the day in a sour mood. Perhaps this is because yesterday was simply marvelous and, according to physics, what goes up must come down. (I’ll explain.) In addition to seeing the “backstage” friends I mentioned in yesterday’s blog, I also saw my “onstage” friend Kirk, who plays Charles Frohman (the man who first produced Peter Pan) and Captain Hook in Finding Neverland. Not only did I get to chat and catch up with Kirk (albeit while he was changing clothes and combing his hair before the show), but I also got to see him perform. From row five, center. Talk about magic. It’s one thing to see a stunning musical, and it’s quite another to see your friend killing it in that musical.

One of my favorite lines last night was when Kirk (as Frohman) said, “I don’t have a child inside me. I have an ulcer.” What adult hasn’t felt this way? We’re encouraged to be lighthearted, to enjoy our lives, but we think, I can’t. I’m too busy. I have bills to pay. I’ll be happy later. My back hurts now. We meet a perpetually joyful person and are automatically suspicious. We actually say, “What are YOU smiling about?” As if smiling weren’t the most natural thing in the world.

Getting back to my sour mood today, I suppose we all experience a certain amount of let down after a glorious time. In the show last night the four young boys who inspired the creation of Peter Pan spent their days playing in the park, and at night the youngest would jump up and down on his bed and say, “I don’t want to go to sleep.” Likewise, as adults we go on vacation, watch a musical, or see an old friend, and think, I don’t want this party to end. And yet end it does. No party lasts for ever. One moment we’re flying high, and the next we’re back on the ground, at home doing the dishes. We think, Well THIS sucks.

Something I often tell people is that I almost always listen to the same instrumental music whenever I write this blog. And whereas the music itself isn’t important, what is important is that I’ve created a ritual around writing. Every night I pour a cup of tea, sit down in my chair, press play, and start typing, my goal being to process the day, figure things out, and walk away feeling better (or at least with more self-acceptance, compassion, and understanding). Well, the ritual works. I can be in the worst mood, turn my instrumental music on, and even without writing a word begin to feel better. Tonight, for instance, I was so frustrated.

But then the music started playing, and I found myself smiling.

It’s weird how we can get loyal to our bad moods. Currently I’m feeling lighter than I have all day, and yet there’s a part of me that wants to recount my grievances. And this hurts, and that hurts, and–worst of all–the party is over. Ugh. What goes up must come down. And yet more and more I believe the reverse is also true. What goes down must come up. That is, no matter how tired you are, at some point you find rest. No matter how sick you are, at some point you find healing (even if this is in death). No matter how ho-hum your mood, at some point you find yourself smiling.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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The deepest waters are the only ones capable of carrying you home.

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A Horse of a Different Color (Blog #554)

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It’s day eight working backstage for the national tour of The Wizard of Oz, and after a full week of tech work, we had our first official performance this morning–for the local middle school. Y’all, teenagers get up early; the show was at nine-frickin’ o’clock. This means I had to wake up at six-frickin’-thirty in order to be at the Alma Performing Arts Center an hour early, at eight-frickin’ o’clock. Ugh. I had to double up on my morning coffee. I guess everyone’s tired. It’s been a long week. But all the the long days have been worth it–the show went fabulously both onstage and backstage. You should have heard the kids laughing, clapping, and awe-ing.

Talk about a warm, fuzzy feeling.

Here’s a picture of me and Kirk Lawrence-Howard, who plays Professor Marvel and The Wizard of Oz. He’s fabulous. (The big wiener is one of the props Professor Marvel uses, and–understandably–the cast and crew make a lot of jokes about it.)

Here’s a picture of me and Emily Perzan, The Wicked Witch of the West. She’s also fabulous. I’d give my left nut if I could cackle half as well as she can.

At lunch, all the locals were let go for the day. However, since I was organizing the prop gondolas (the big, black boxes full of show shit) for my supervisor, I got to stay. Y’all, I absolutely adored this assignment. First, I LOVE organizing and got to COLOR-CODE the different sections of the gondolas and LABEL everything inside. (I’m over the moon for a good label.) Second, I got to be creative in HOW I labeled things. Like, whenever a prop isn’t used for the rest of the show, it’s referred to as “dead.” So for the Stage Right prop gondola, I created a section for dead props and labeled it “Where props go to die.” (Stage Left is the left side of the stage or room if you’re onstage facing the audience, Mom.)

For the Stage Right prop gondola, I created a section for dead props and did this–

Here’s a picture of the entire Stage Right prop gondola (just before I added the dead-prop labels). The mess of straw on the right side of the second shelf from the top is the Scarecrow’s legs and arm that get “torn off” by the flying monkeys.

Now it’s seven-frickin’-thirty in the evening, and I’ve been home for a couple hours. I don’t have to be back at the theater until tomorrow afternoon. (Woowho.) I just finished reading an article in this month’s GQ (Gentlemen’s Quarterly) about mental health. Like me, they recommend seeing a therapist. However, at one point while talking about overcoming anxiety, the author of the article says, “It doesn’t take a lot. We’re not talking about therapy for a year.” And whereas I appreciate the idea that a little can go a long way, I’d like to add that a lot can go a much longer way.

I’ll explain.

Typically when people call me to inquire about dance lessons, they ask, “How many lessons will this take?” Well, there’s not a very good answer to that question. At least not a definite one. Simply put, if you take one dance lesson, you’ll know more than you did before, but you’ll also LOOK LIKE you took ONE dance lesson. Conversely, if you take fifty-two dance lessons (one a week for an entire a year), you’ll not only know infinitely more than you did before, but you’ll also look INFINITELY better. In other words, you get out of something what YOU put into it. This is WHY the national tour of The Wizard of Oz is the phenomenal show that it is–the cast and crew are not only fundamentally talented, but they’ve also put in hundreds and even thousands of hours perfecting their respective skills.

It’s with this logic in mind that I ask, “Would a year in therapy be THE WORST thing in the world if it helped you significantly lower your level of anxiety and lay your longstanding traumas to rest?” Personally, I’ve been going to therapy for four-and-a-half years (every other week for three years, and once a week since then). And it’s not that I’m so totally fucked up that I require a hundred plus hours of one-on-one professional attention. But just like I enjoy dancing and want to keep growing as a dancer, I also enjoy therapy (and when I don’t enjoy the process, I enjoy the results) and want to keep growing as a person.

I don’t know–we like our stories, our entertainment, short and simple. Dorothy encounters a tornado, is swept off to Oz, get a fabulous pair of shoes, meets her three best friends, kills two witches, and manages to get herself back to Kansas in the span of two-and-a-half hours. But real progress, real personal and spiritual growth, doesn’t happen in a matter of hours. It’s a little bit here and a little bit there–consistently–over time. Over a lot of time. Now–if you only have one hour to take a dance lesson or go to therapy? Go–do it for an hour. You’ll still get something out of it. But if you decide to really dig deep and truly commit to the process–well–as the guard to the gate of The Emerald City says–“That’s a horse of a different color.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We’re all made of the same stuff.

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