When Everyday is Monday.....

Is this the life you dreamed for yourself?
…..A life where every day is Monday.
There used to be a weekend,
but now it’s always Monday……
coat on, coat off. Sweat in summer,
freeze in winter….
you’re old, you’re getting old
You sneeze, you have a cold.
No, that was last month. No, it’s now.
Which is now and which is then?
...you used to be a clever boy!

…..Clifford Odets
Rocket to the Moon

Once a week I’m a volunteer reader for the blind with an organization called RFBD – Reading for the Blind and Dyslexic. (http://www.rfbd.org/ You can do it, too. They have studios all over the country and there is no pre-requisite except the ability to read). This past week I read two acts of Rocket to the Moon by Clifford Odets – ergo the quote above. I walked around with those words on the edges of my mind all weekend, and finally went and bought a copy of the play.

Mondays. My brother, Matt, phoned me several times a week after he received the “golden handshake” from the company he had worked for since college days. This was unusual; he wasn’t in the habit of phoning me at all. It continued until he found his new direction. The first call set the tone: he was depressed. It was a Sunday evening. He told me he had always been depressed on Sunday evenings. “What’s that about?” he asked. “Memory recall from school days? Hated going to school the next day?” I asked. We settled on that for awhile. But, in a later conversation, I asked him if he was depressed because Monday was the beginning of the work-week and maybe he’d hated his job. He didn’t think he had. But what came after his forced retirement made Sunday nights a lot more pleasant. He took control of his life; he became a consultant. He traveled. He wrote a book. Could he have done this without being coerced? Probably. Would he have left the security of corporate America to strike out on his on? Probably not. The universe did him a scary, wonderful favor.

Mondays. Another close relative told me that she refused to associate with anyone who wasn’t doing what they really wanted to be doing. Well, tah! Not everyone can; that’s why so many New York restaurants employ actors-in-waiting! The economics of our culture make it difficult to stay alive, to keep our families in health and hearth and home, while pursuing our dreams. Some folks put it off until later – until “retirement.” My Dad did that: planning to teach and to travel when he took early retirement from the State at 52. He died at 50. Clearly, my adamant relative has never had to make the choice.

Mondays. Arthur Miller’s one-act play, Memory of Two Mondays, is based on his own struggle to make a living during the Depression of the 1930s, working in a warehouse. (Only play I’ve ever seen with a toilet - enclosed of course - right in the middle of the stage. Characters keep going in and out and flushing.) The play looks at a young man dreaming of going to college, while surrounded by folks stumbling about, dejected and without hope. Obviously, Miller made his way out using his exceptional talent and divine intervention.

Some people don’t know what they want to do. I think that’s worse than anything. They stand in their own way. If Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way doesn’t help them discover themselves, I am short on suggestions. Except to say – if you’re unhappy doing what you’re doing, try something else. Make the search an adventure. But often, one is not alone; there’s a dependent family. And risk. There can also be a plan. Have you ever seen the movie, The Rookie? It’s a baseball movie (I love baseball movies). In this one, Dennis Quaid is coach of a high school baseball team. He discovers that his dream to pitch in the majors has not died; nor has his talent. He has three children; and is blessed with a wife who cares that he have that dream. Very entertaining. Very inspiring. Not a Cinderfella story at all; no fairy god-mother makes it happen. He – with the support of his loved ones – makes it happen.

My son, Alex, had a dream as a kid to work for Apple Computer. His path to Apple was one step after the other. He didn’t have to dig ditches – thank you, Universe.

He got the education; he got the jobs that led to that job. He tested himself doing the work. (Living in California for 16 years, he won’t come east in winter unless someone dies.) My son, Jamie, had a dream to be an actor. His path was more convoluted – climbing in and out of the ditches; doing makeup at Bloomingdales between theatre jobs. Getting advanced degrees; learning new skills. After 20+ years of continuous work and perseverance, he has a major role in the USA tour of Spamalot. Both these guys have had their Mondays. But a whole week of them?? I don’t think so.

When I was fortunate to work full-time at what I truly loved, there were no Mondays. But that didn’t last; so to pay my bills I do the work that I can. Doing what I love fills every other gap. It was, I believe, George Eliot who wrote: It’s never too late to be what you might have been. Getting close doesn’t suck either. When all else fails, take another look at Shel Silverstein’s wonderful little book: The Missing Piece. Because even if it is too late to become what we might have been, maybe it’s the journey itself that will get us past an abundance of Mondays. If not, I cherish the three-day weekend.