Friday, January 21, 2011

A Love Letter To My Days

It was a long, boring drive, radio reception was sketchy, and for some inexplicable reason I played with multiplying how many days I had so far lived. It took me a while - I don't calculate well without paper and pencil (adding machine?). And the final number was daunting (if even accurate.) I then took myself back as far as my memory would permit, and attempted to recall as many individual days as I could. Of course I came up with pieces of days, patterns of kinds of days; the very happy ones; the very sad ones. It was a mind-boggling exercise. I reminded myself of Emily in Our Town -- although she was already dead when she attempted to re-live a day gone by.

I have long ago dealt with and disassembled all regrets. So I certainly wasn't voyaging toward self-pity. I have not however, discovered the why of many of my behaviors, choices, actions -- the attainments as well as the flops. I didn't discover any reasons on that car trip either. I recalled the Brooklyn era; the awful growing up years. Hiding in my room; hiding in books; finding my freedom only in my dance classes. The Pittsburgh days at Carnegie Tech. The friendships made there; learning to be a friend; to accept friendship. More valuable ultimately than the classes, the training. The teenage thing of falling in love -- I believe we did it for practice. There'd be a song that resonated with me in some odd way. When I heard it I felt the longing. But one has to be longing for something -- someone. So I (like all the teenage girls I've ever known) would choose an object -- a victim -- for all that death-defying emotion. It worked much better if the focus of this passion was rarely seen, if actually known. One of my older brother's friends always away at college; my cousin Shelly who lived in Chicago (he really was wonderful!); a girlfriend's boyfriend; the guy who flipped pizzas in the window of a local caffe; an acting teacher; several acting teachers. On and on. Harmless. It provided continual improvisation enabling habitation in a fantasy world.

The day I won the National High School Poetry Competition. The day Miss MacDonald at P.S. 99 recognized me as a writer. The day the little girls I was teaching at summer camp performed to a standing ovation. The fearful days; the fearless days. The triumphs -- small and huge. The day my mother gave me the kitchen so I could bake mountains of cookies. I'd carry each tray through the swinging door to the dining room and deposit the lovelies on a platter. All day -- for hours and hours; dozens and dozens of cookies. When at last I brought in the last tray, there was only a small platter with any cookies on it. My brothers had spent the day eating them all! I was crushed. And thinking back on it, my mother was an un-professed culprit: sitting there knitting and watching them carry on. Nice. Actually, I still don't find it funny. The days with my kids when they were kids. My first garden. Every garden. The remarkable awakening, trembling, when my plays or poetry spoke back to me. The days of our "Piece of Time" weekend; when my family traveled into Boston to see the production of my play, "A Piece of Time" mounted by the New Ehrlich Theatre Company. The day when I received a letter telling me that one of my children's books would be published. And then it wasn't because the company went out of business. Venice. Barbados. Waiting in line for half a day with my son, under umbrellas, to get tickets to Shakespeare in the Park. What fun we had! Going to L.A. when my screenplay was a finalist in the LA Femme Film Festival. Directing any play. Reuniting with Lloyd after 25 years. The days that could have used changing. The days I wouldn't change for anything even if the consequences might positively alter my life.

They are my days. So is the one I'm enjoying now. Sitting in my kitchen; shivering a bit because it's terribly cold outside and the wind leaning against the windows prevents real warmth in the room. I spent the morning at my part-time day job; processing quarterly reports. I made steel-cut oatmeal for lunch - not the instant kind. I'm drinking warmed over coffee, and will soon venture out to attend my one to one class at the Apple Store. And this evening I endeavor to finish the Donna Leon book that I'm reading, in time to watch THE MENTALIST on the tv. No big deal you say? It is my day. And my time travel has confirmed my belief that each day is the first and also the last. It is all. Not my intention to stir up philosophical warfare. It is what I believe. And I also believe that Emily would agree with me.

(Photos below: a lighthouse in Norfolk; with Zoe and Isobel; with my brother Lenny; with Alex; with Jamie; with Pete; with Lloyd; a reunion with Al; my Clea; with Katy;with DJ;with Keira; with cousin Shelly and brother Matt; when the kids were kids; Coburn family reunion; Jamie in Venice - the trip Pete gave us.)