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The Frost poem sat comfortably in the front of my mind this morning as I wandered out into the redwoods at the back of my parents’ property, thinking of the imminent death of my grandfather. The young woods back there are fairy-tale-storybook beautiful, and in the morning sunlight, bejeweled with the billions of droplets generated by the last week’s drizzle, they are a magical kingdom.

I was blessed with an almost unfairly happy childhood here in Humboldt County, California. I was sustained by jolts of remarkable bliss, even ecstasy, so that even as a child I noticed and wondered at the profundity of my joy. I formed a theory that somehow the happy-chemicals in my brain were responding to some sort of unusual always-on stimulus, and figured I was biologically lucky to have such an excess of well-being. And of course I lived in a loving home in a beautiful part of the world, with enough money and enough time, and was successful in school and made good friends, and I’m sure all these things conspired to make me as bizarrely happy as I was.

As an adult on my own in the urban landscape of Seattle, with ups and downs that seem more within the range of normal human experience, with heartbreak and stress and angst and worry and loneliness and depression along with the fun and the joy and the love, I occasionally hark back to my pre-adolescent days of peace and enthusiasm and wonder what changed. On darker days, I think that all the gunk of life, all the baggage of failure and self-doubt and broken hearts that are the normal obstacles in a wearying adult life have so silted over and corroded my natural capacity for joy that it is irretrievable. That never again will I be capable of experiencing the simple, almost spiritual happiness of my childhood. That being grown-up means being necessarily complex and corrupted.

Except—I just took a 10-minute walk in the woods of my childhood. And the very first moment I stepped outside into the dewy, shining morning, peering into the sunlit mist of the shady redwood forest carpeted with ferns, the old joy bubbled up again instantly. And gradually, like a developing photograph, all the human-made follies of thought: that life can be bad or broken or free of wonder; that anybody is evil; that there are irrevocable mistakes that make life worse forever; that I am unworthy of success; that success is even important; all these follies faded and became transparent and were revealed as the filmy, substance-less constructs that they are. And like soap bubbles, they popped. And I was alone in the quiet woods of my childhood, realizing: it was not that I was innocent or un-jaded or free from the cares of the world that made me so happy here. It was that I had the great good fortune to occupy this magical place, these powerful woods of peace, and allowed them to have their effect on me.

I love Seattle, and I love the urban lifestyle, and I suspect I will be a city-dweller for most of the rest of my life. But it is good to remember that I was born a creature of the forest, and if I don’t return occasionally for a solitary moment in the trees, I will waste away into a terrible existence full of irrelevant cares. It is so easy, living in the city, to forget how little all those stressful things matter. For just a moment, taking in a redwood tree, it is obvious that we will live and die and the earth will go on, and my most massive strivings will melt back into the earth and out of memory, and that I lived at all will matter much more than all the things that filled my life. I cannot help but be part of the cycle. My most important work is being done already, without my lifting a finger. I’m okay. And the earth is turning along majestically. Damn, but we are lucky beings.

With gratitude and joy,
Alissa

So my relaxing hometown holiday week got diverted when my grandfather, who has been struggling with cancer for the last little while, took a turn for the urgent-health-situation worse. After I arrived at my parents’ house in Humboldt on Christmas Eve, we all boarded a plane early Christmas morning to come to southern California and spend time with him and the extended family for the holiday instead. Since this will likely be the last time I get to see him, I’ve been so grateful for the chance to be around him and the family; there were a few days in which I thought I would never see him again, and I hadn’t felt like I’d been ready to say goodbye the last time.

This is my first time trying to say goodbye to somebody who I know will die soon. It is both a very special and a very awkward opportunity. I find myself really shy around him during the limited time he has energy to hang out and chat–I want to talk about the fact that he’s dying but I’m nervous about bringing it up. I want to know if he’s scared or resigned or annoyed or if he has regrets or triumphs or if he wants another glass of water. But I mostly sit there, round-eyed, trying desperately to think of something to say besides “How are you doing?” to which the answer, of course, is “terrible.” I make banal comments on the weather and compliment his house. I kick myself after leaving his room to let him nap.

He is frailer and smaller than I have ever seen him, of course, but he’s still the same man. I find myself soaking up his face and voice with total pleasure, just marking him down in my head, drinking him in–yes, that is my grandfather. That is the man who put me through college, who didn’t understand my decision to pursue theatre but who supported me every step of the way anyway, who told me not to wait another minute when I told him I wanted to start my own theatre company ‘in five years or so.’ We had that conversation three and a half years ago, and I have now been working on my theatre company for three years. To say that he had an influence on my life is a vast understatement. This is his face. This is his voice. His affection when I saw him the once or twice a year throughout my life was gruff but unmistakable. His first concern is for whether or not I have enough money, and then come questions about my theater and my love life. He is characterized by generosity, a lovable wit, a way of telling you things frankly that make you feel you are in his close confidence, a wry smile, a pleasure at being in charge and making sure things are done right. If he is at the table, he is picking up the tab. There is no discussion permitted about this. A desire to personally ensure that everyone is comfortable. This is his face, and this is his voice. Both are the same as they have always been, though his body is failing. (I am grateful that his mind is perfectly intact; he is still very much present, alert, and smart, and so this time with him feels worthwhile.) I wish that his approaching death did not strike me dumb the way it does, because I want so much to tell him over and over again how much I love him, and see in his face that he understands. I’m afraid to cry in front of him because I don’t want him to feel responsible for comforting me. I realize this is silly. I shed a few tears talking to his stepdaughter on the patio today, when I had escaped the house to read in the sun, but otherwise I’ve been hanging on to them for more private disposal.

The house is full of people–my grandmother’s children from a previous marriage as well as his own children and their families have all come to the house to lend support and bid farewell. Despite the somberness of the occasion, for me it is wonderful to see so much of the family at once, especially Joan’s children, whom I’ve never had the chance to get to know well. We eat, talk, clean up after ourselves, drink, occasionally weep unashamed but restrained tears. There’s lots of love in the house, and preemptive grief, and caution about treating each other well, the sides of the family that don’t know each other enough yet to be quite comfortable with all the messiness and emotion that comes down when somebody dies. So many people have a claim on this man, because he has loved so many.

The presence of so many people in their house seems both stressful and pleasing to my grandparents. This contributes to my shyness. I’m overwhelmed and a little full of unshed tears, but I keep being suffused with inexplicable little throbs of happiness and contentment. Christmas dinner was beautiful and wonderful. I am happy to be down here with everyone even for a few days, I’m very happy that I get to touch and talk to my grandpa one more time, and aside from my pernicious social awkwardness, I feel at peace with the grief coming on.

Oh, there’s more to type, but it’s late and I’m tired for once. Sometime someone remind me to write something about my personal fear of the coming indignity of other people overriding my own decisions “for my own good” when I reach this stage myself. Of course, in most cases, those upstarts will be right, and if I’m as together as Papa is, I’ll probably notice that myself and hopefully acquiesce gracefully. But since reaching adulthood, it sure has been nice to be in charge of my own life. I wonder what it’s like to start sacrificing some of that control again. I doubt it’s totally pleasant.

I am surrounded by sadness and love, and they fit together nicely. I hope you all are having holidays that are meaningful and full of goodness. Holy crap, every year I get another inkling about how important family really is. I have been occasionally slow, learning this lesson. But I’m getting it a little bit, finally. More next year, I bet.

xoxo
Alissa

…but it sounded so good, and I wanted an excuse to linger at Adam & Lena’s new place. I was doing better with getting up at reasonable hours, but here it is 5:18, and I have a brunch date with Sparky at 10, and the amount of sleeping I’m getting tonight is shrinking steadily.

I tried to figure out the name of that play I saw in college that inspired me so. I think it has the word “Requiem” in the title. I saw it at the UW between 1998 and 2000. But I can’t find a list of their old seasons online, and I looked at their slideshow of production photos but there weren’t any photos from that production. It was about painters who lived in the 19th? or early 20th century. There is a monologue in that show that I want to learn. But I don’t know the title or the playwright. I saw it with Adam, and later that month we fought about money, partially because of something I said to him that was about a conversation we had had immediately after the show. Ringing any bells, people who don’t know what I’m talking about?

(Sigh) it’s my personal Lost Play. I had a great moment watching it, an epiphany about being a woman, and I’m crushed that I can’t go back and look at it again. The information doesn’t seem too impenetrable…ooh, wait! Why don’t I just search on all play titles with the word “requiem”in them? There couldn’t be that many…

Huh. The internet tells me about four plays with “requiem” in the title…for a heavyweight, for a nun, for us, and for the innkeeper. None of those is the play I’m talking about. Shoot, maybe it didn’t have requiem in the title after all. Argh, I just did a search in various play databases for plays about painters and got a little overwhelmed.

So here’s what I remember…there’s this girl painter who wants to be taken as seriously as the boy painters. She enters a (men-only? maybe) salon contest, anonymously, with her painting of light. But her painting is derided as competent but frivolous, and the monologue I remember is her recounting her understanding of why…she had chosen shiny things to paint in her still-life, in order to capture various qualities of light, and had without thinking chosen objects that are considered feminine–a hairbrush, a necklace, a mirror. So that even though the judges did not suspect that it was a woman who painted it, her painting was considered less serious because of her womanly subject matter, and some dude who painted light coming off a haystack or something won the prize. And there was another bit in the play about women not being allowed to attend the life-drawing classes in school because there were naked people and it wasn’t appropriate…except that of course women were allowed to model, nude, in those same classes they were barred from studying in.

Anyway. Anyone know this play? Help! I’m going back to bed to try to sleep some more.

sleepy hugs
Alissa

Late update: Scofie, in the comments, totally showed off his superior ability to navigate the UW’s web presence. The play I’m talking about is Dream of a Common Language. Scofie, you’re a genius. Now I have to go read it and see if it’s as good as I remember!

Taking Claytie to the airport at 4:30, and haven’t managed to fall asleep yet. Seeing as how it’s 4:20 now, I suppose I’ll give it another try when I come back. My sleep schedule’s been all funny lately.

Medea Knows Best opened tonight, and nothing blew up! This is in great contrast to my expectations. We had a sold-out house and a partial standing ovation. There was a reviewer from the Seattle Weekly there; I hope he noticed the people standing.

It’s funny, though; I seem to have misplaced my sense of the play as a whole. I came offstage thinking, “Why am I doing this play, again?” So my triumph at its apparent success was somewhat muted tonight. This isn’t the first time I’ve asked myself that question, and so far every time the inspiration comes meandering back when it wants to. So I expect it to return this time too. But at the moment, feeling bewildered instead of celebratory. Why make a play about Medea? About images and ideals? Are we really asking questions I don’t already know the answer to? And then, of course, it becomes: why am I doing theatre, again? What’s so great about this art that using a different medium can’t accomplish the same thing better? And I don’t know the answer, tonight, at 4:25 on Saturday morning, not having slept since the opening show and the cast party. I may not be in the best mental state to analyze my career choices.

Any other theatre people out there ever feel deflated instead of stoked by an opening? Does it mean anything? I can’t remember, now. I vaguely remember feeling this way after some renditions of the Secret Ruths, but usually only after I felt like I had given a substandard performance. But I did all right on stage, tonight. So…

Well, so keep moving forward. This is where faith becomes important. I trust the self that has been inspired by this stuff enough that when the inspiration takes a vacation I won’t collapse. I will be re-inspired. I know because I know. And I think of Mother Theresa and her years and years of agonizing doubt and how she kept doing what she thought she ought to, even when the inspiration and her connection to God was gone, and I think, “did she do the right thing?” and I think, “yes.” and I think, “was she happy?” and I think, “no.” and I think, “is it maybe a little ludicrous to compare myself to Mother Theresa?” and I think, “It’s time to take Claytie to the airport.”

Bye!
Alissa

Look, it can even recognizes singing. [song, please listen] That’s very cool! listen

Powered by Jott

So far this is the best voice transcription, I have ever run across. I wonder if they are all just good now and I just haven’t bothered trying lately. Okay. listen

Powered by Jott

(the above was posted directly from speaking into my cell phone using the service called Jott, linked above. I freaked out about it and made about 7 entries before I calmed down and haven’t used it since [this update is being made on 12/26]. I deleted all but two of the most representative entries after getting teased by my readers. In Scofie’s words, “geek much?” Anyway, it’s a nifty service, and I can also use it to speak appointments that go directly into my Google Calendar as well as send text messages and emails. So that’s cool. Jury’s out on actual level of usefulness.)