What theatre is...

The theatre, the theatre, what’s happened to the theatre?

A question I would like an answer to.

We go to movies to see a fling, to hear course words, to be mystified

But do we really know what it’s about?

We go to make ourselves happy, or sad, or even miserable. Why?

Let me tell you what theatre is really about.

It’s about a story being passed from one person to another

It’s about sharing experiences, giving joy to each other,

It’s about hope.

We forget that there are others besides ourselves

Needs to met besides our own. We take care of ourselves,

and that’s enough. Yet even in that, we are left alone.

We compare ourselves to actors and actresses,

smooth skin, bright eyes, shiny silks and satins,

but we forget what’s inside. All the pain and the hurt they are trying to hide in perfection.

They are human, yet we raise them above, giving them glory and honor and love

And they only way they can go is down.

Instead of idolizing those who can only fall, we should be trying to share, trying to call those who can make a difference.

That’s what theatre is about.

It’s not about stardom, perfection, sans flaws.

It’s about mistakes being transformed into cause for learning.

It’s not about flying, but rejecting the fear of falling.

It’s about trying, finding out our calling and more.

Sometimes the only way to accept reality, is to see it through the eyes of imagination. I am not saying we should not go see movies or plays, but that going, we open our eyes to see, our ears to hear the message begging to be shared.

A story is meant to be shared. It is meant to teach, it is meant to inspire,

And in hearing a story we can look a little higher

To see the hope that is there, if we look around us.

This world isn’t to glorify me, but for me to show I care.

It’s place to share ideas, sound the call, be the voice for those too weak to speak

a whisper in their own defense. Go there to find those too weak to say what’s on their mind and help them to stand up and be heard. Actions are the necessary response to words of the weary, those whose eyes are tired and bleary and help them find hope.

Through another person’s eyes, another person’s life…

Another person’s trials and cries for help. It’s not about me. It’s about telling the story of what could be. If  we’ll only listen to the sounds of pain and rise up to defend them in action and word, again and again.

This is the purpose of the theatre. This is why we tell stories.

Double chocolate, blueberry and a sticky bun or "The weather outside..."

The Weather Outside

“The weather outside is frightful” reflecting the mood I’ve fallen into. Cold, blustery, branches tossed to and fro by the chilled wind. Grey. Normally my personality is bubbly and colorful, but today it is boring and tired. I walk out the door of my house, pushing against the wind to get out, putting all my weight on the door to close it again. The large flakes of snow pelt me in the face, stinging my cheeks and eyes, then melting only to be replaced by the another barrage.

While the wind is chilly, it is not what is making me cold. Inside me a blizzard is raging far more fiercely than the one outside. I am cold because of the fear and worry that haunts my steps. I wonder if I made another stupid, impetuous decision. It’s just like me to do that…it’s just like me to let that consume my thoughts…it’s just like me to feel like I messed up everything.

Whether I have or not, is yet to be discovered. I sit in classes, trying to keep the blizzard from sending me off the road and into a ditch I won’t be able to teach from, much less function, stuck in that many feet of freezing doubt. I move ahead slowly, trying to keep my mind on teaching so as not to slide off the road and I make it through, though I wouldn’t have, had it not been for the few small breaks in the clouds now and then.

Double chocolate, blueberry and a sticky bun

I don’t think we realize sometimes how much a smile or a small gesture can help someone get through an otherwise dismal, hopeless day. One of these moments occurred this evening on my night out. Having had a not so great week, I decided it was a little bit of a dress up day. A summer dress, with a sweater, leggings and snow boots, a little “branch” of fake flowers pinned in my hair completed the outfit. Sometimes you have to dress as you wish you felt instead of how you actually do.

My sister and I, hungry for muffins and having a coupon to use up, walked into Perkins. We were seated, ordered hot chocolate and used the “Buy 3 baked goods, get 3 free” coupon. Two double chocolate muffins, three blueberry muffins, and a sticky bun. Our waiter, a college aged boy from the look of him, asked if we wanted any warmed up for here. The caramel and pecans had been enticing me since I looked through the glass case up front, so I asked for the sticky bun; Jessica asked for a blueberry (her usual when we go out).

After discussing it for a little while, I realized my mistake. I wanted a chocolate muffin, but Jessica didn’t. I had no desire to eat two, but had been hoping to eat one of the blueberries…HMMM…

I worked up my courage and when our friend the waiter came by, asked if it was possible to trade one of the chocolate muffins in the unopened box he’d brought us for a blueberry. He said, “Sure,” left the box, walked to the counter, pulled out a paper sack and stuck a blueberry muffin inside. All this while I am thinking…um, ok, how is he going to get the chocolate one back? And there in lay my surprise.

“Here you are ladies,” he said, kindly, preparing to turn around to his next task. I asked him about the chocolate and he said, “Don’t worry about it.” Jessica and I both looked at each other like, wait! He can’t do that! What if he gets in trouble?

“Are you sure?” He smiled and said, “Positive.”

Jessica and I joked as we walked out that it must have been because I looked so cute today. Who knew, that a muffin and a friendly smile would clear up the blizzard for a while and make me feel like I could make it through another day.

If you’re here, it’s enough

I’ve loved you all my life, I just didn’t understand.

I was waiting for the day you’d make all my dreams come true.

Now my dreams have changed, not all will come true

But I don’t care because if you’re here…it’s enough.

This post was inspired by a conversation I had with my best friend about how sometimes we deny that anyone could love us, because we are afraid we cannot live up to the standards or the hopes that a person has of us. I have been there. I have been both the raiser of the bar and the one afraid to jump. Now, by the grace of God, I realize that I am not perfect and neither is anyone else. We just live and love and He fills in the rest. He makes the dreams come true. He fulfills the roles we cannot. So...you can't make all my dreams come true, but if you're here...it's enough.

Teachers, Tomatoes, and Terrorists: The Beginning of Creativity

Sitting in one of the booths at the coffee shop I frequent each Wednesday night with my sister, constitutes my “Night Off.” I don’t really consider it a night off as, generally, I bring papers to grade, material to create tests, or books needed to prepare lecture for class. Instead, I see it as a night out, an escape, a chance to get away from the little world to which I am confined the rest of the week. This little world, which to me is both work and home, is a little world full of new discoveries, trials, and from time to time, loneliness, frustration and discouragement.

Really, my night out is just an excuse for another environment in which to work, my own self-imagined freedom. I am still working on school-work even if I am not on the Cono Campus. But even outside of school, I am still a teacher. From time to time I even help my sister study or revise papers. Last night was no exception.

As a potential biology major, my sister is studying different muscles, organs, systems…the typical bio stuff—not exactly my cup of tea, but I go along with it. She does crazy things like draw some of her own diagrams so I can quiz her. I now know more about the reproductive system of a fetal pig than I think I ever wanted to, not to mention also learning about brains and eyes (the diagrams were only of these last two, thank goodness!). I don’t mind those so much. These are things that inspire Jessica, but not so much me.

When I wasn’t helping Jessica study body parts, I was attempting to grade some writing that the girls in my Communication Arts class had done for me in preparation for a vocabulary test. I had asked them to write a story using at least six of their vocab words from a book we are reading together. The first two stories I read were very simply written. Vocabulary words in all of them were often misused, but that wasn’t what caught my attention or spurred my thoughts into motion. I could barely wait to get home to write them all down!

The topics of the stories varied from teachers to techies, tomatoes to terrorists. The ideas were original and beautifully crafted, faulty vocab or not. I wanted to cry tears of joy to see the creativity blossoming in the minds of these beautiful young ladies. One of my girls has this desire to make people laugh, her creativity is different than anything else I have ever read. She has this energy and imagination that has no boundary. There are no inhibitions. While she has work to do grammatically, the ideas are so fascinating. She writes, often ridiculous things like, hanging the teachers you don’t like from flag poles or the play ground equipment, but it is written not out of disrespect, but because she knows it will make me smile.

Another of my girls has this sweet, innocence in her writing. Anything is possible. There are no scientific laws stopping her. The world still holds those fairy tale adventures, with prince charmings and fairies. Again, while there is growing to be done academically and emotionally, this time of imagination is a gift to be cherished and this time of innocence a thing to be treasured.

“A techie sits in her lab, her lap top so hot it is beginning to burn her legs.” An idea of another of my students. The observations in this writing…the detail astound me. She describes the laptop, the feeling of the character…”she may be at this till she is old and gray, but it is a job that has to be done.” Not an exact quote, but an idea, a real thought from a make-believe character. This is a skill that many more mature writers struggle with, but in this instance, this young lady has demonstrated it beautifully. Down comes her assistant. “Get the model ready. There has been a terrorist attack.” Wow…where do these ideas come from?

Another terrorist attempt, this time, a Russian Communist out for revenge. His attempt is foiled…at least for now. ; ) I have more to learn about this young writer, but I anticipate great things.

Tiptoeing through the tomato patch…wait…I mean the roses. This young lady is a born story-teller. Words are a part of who she is. Every time I pick up one of her stories, I am amazed at her ability to weave emotion and life into a character. She is witty, funny, charming, talented…I expect one day to pick up a book she has written from Barnes and Nobles and be able to tell the cashier as I am paying for the book, “This young lady was a student of mine, my first year teaching…I always knew she’d become an accomplished writer someday.” Every time, a new idea, even if it is a continuation of a previous story. There is always something new and fresh, gleaned from every day life, or ideas borrowed from the books she can’t get enough of.

This is why I love being a teacher. I get to see the beginning of creativity! I have the privilege of being there to cheer them on. I get to see the humor, the innocence, the observations, the creativity, the wit—all from the beginning.

This was the true freedom of my night out. Forgetting that I was grading papers, I was drawn into stories, sad when I got to the end. I lost myself if the joy of the creativity I saw. I am a teacher. I want to inspire the creativity that tells stories about teachers, tomatoes, and terrorists.

Pummeled by a Waterfall of Mist

Disheartened, I continue on with my tasks. Being a teacher is not an easy job by any means. There are days when life seems great, when I, as the teacher, make new discoveries and feel like I am soaring above the clouds. The next day might be one where I feel weighted down by a mist. I can’t see the light, don’t understand what I am doing here and have no clue where I am going. It’s silly. To think that tiny water droplets floating in the air could feel like a waterfall pounding on my head, keeping me underwater, forcing the air from my lungs, and all hope from my spirit.

“God!” I cry out. “This is not what I had planned! I don’t know where to go from here…” I feel stuck, but I have to go on teaching like nothing is wrong. I have to be the bad guy and the encourager at the same time. The strong current of the water is swirling me head over heels in the undertow.

“God, I thought I was finally getting to the point where I loved this job! What happened? Where did all these fears, worries and disappointments come from?” It was like I was caught in the rapids for a while, found a calm, gently moving river, then went over a 100-foot waterfall.

Sometimes the littlest things are the ones that force us out of the calm and over the edge. Today at lunch, one of my girls begged me to let them do something fun in class today. I try to make my class fun, while still accomplishing something. Like changing up their assignments and having them give me a summary of their reading for history in an acrostic of their choice. It had to be in complete sentences and detailed. But this same girl told me that her dorm mom said it looked like a kindergartener’s assignment. She also felt it her duty to inform me, “We discovered that you are easily distracted, so sometimes we try to do it on purpose.” Really? The day before yesterday my supervising teacher came into the room for an evaluation. I was excited for what we were doing that day and that she came in. Her comments the next day didn’t reflect the excitement I had hoped they would, which did little to help me stay afloat.

I live on praise and affirmation. I always say I am a solar being. I live off sunshine and flourish when others smile. I think at times I try to be superman and my way of saving people is to help them find hope or see their potential. My kryptonite is criticism or lack of positive energy. It knocks me to my knees and I drown in its presence. I cannot breathe, I cannot move, I cannot think. It is all I can do to keep the flood of tears from bursting forth or the torrent of emotions contained.

All those tiny droplets of water add up, and now I am being pummeled by a waterfall of mist from which I can see no escape.