The Last Day (Blog #556)

It’s day ten working for the national tour of The Wizard of Oz, and it’s also the last day. This morning at nine, four dozen workers descended on the Alma Performing Arts Center and–in just under five hours–took down all the lights, backdrops, and prop boxes we put up ten days ago. We filled up four semi trailer trucks worth of Oz, and then they drove off. So now it’s over. And whereas my physical body is glad for the break–it was a long ten days–my heart is sad. This last week and a half was–well–quite magical. There were so many wonderful moments, so many wonderful people that I may never see again. And yet I’m grateful to have had these moments, to have met these people.

What I’m feeling is often called PMS–Post Musical Syndrome–that sad feeling you get when a show is over. You spend all this time together–you’re like a little family–and then it’s just–done. Everyone goes their separate ways. The stage is suddenly empty. It’s disorienting. You think, What will happen next? But perhaps the last day is also the best day, since all the hard work is over, there’s that feeling of satisfaction, and you realize, I got to be part of something beautiful. And maybe you appreciate something more when it’s over, since it helps you remember how quickly time passes, how precious each moment, each person, and each connection truly is.

I spent this evening with two of my dearest friends–Justin and Ashley–whom I used to live with. For me, it was the perfect way to celebrate this past week, a way to come back home, the way Dorothy did after visiting her magical land. This is important, I think–to visit magical lands and meet new people, but to also come back home to yourself and those who know you and love you unconditionally.

As we’re not known for our SHORT conversations, Justin and I stayed up until two-thirty. Now it’s three-thirty, and I’m at finally home and looking forward to going to bed. But obviously there’s this blog. Hum. How to keep it short?

In the Northern Hemisphere, there are two highly recognizable constellations–Ursa Major, which contains the Big Dipper, and Orion (the Hunter). And whereas the Big Dipper is visible year-round, Orion is only visible for about five months in the fall and winter. Well, two nights ago, Friday, while driving home at two-thirty in the morning, I saw Orion for the first time since I got interested in astronomy this last spring. Wow. There he was on the eastern horizon–unmistakable–big as day–well, big as night.

Gorgeous.

Opposite Orion, on the western horizon, was my dear Pegasus, the constellation that used to be on the eastern horizon at two-thirty in the morning a few months ago. Ugh, this is the way the universe works. For a while a star –a constellation–is rising, and then it’s overhead, and then it sets, gone for a season or perhaps forever. Likewise, we meet people, we dance together, and we say goodbye. Who’s to say if we will meet again? My therapist says that life is long–you never know who or what will cycle back around. Personally, I think it’s important to remember that for every setting star, there’s another on the horizon. In other words, life’s stage is never truly empty–there’s always something or someone to love or be grateful for. And–well–even if something were to happen and I NEVER saw Orion or my newfound friends again, I’ll ALWAYS remember that one night and that one time when we were together for one brief but beautiful magical moment.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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 Beautiful isn’t something that comes in a particular package. Beautiful is simply being yourself.

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Another Star Rises (Blog #521)

Last night before I left my cousin’s house, his daughter put my hair in a pony tail then put my t-shirt in one as well–by scrunching up one end and wrapping a pink rubber band around it. She thought it was so cute. Truth be told, I did too. “I feel like an 80s lady,” I beamed. Still, as Dad and I walked out the door, I removed the “pony tails” and gave my cousin’s daughter back her rubber bands. You know–

All good things must come to an end.

During the drive back to Arkansas, while we were passing through a particularly dark patch of road, I asked Dad if we could pull over and look at stars. (He said yes). Oh my gosh, y’all, there was my dear friend The Milky Way and her cast of characters all around her–The Big Dipper, Draco, Cassiopeia, The Northern Cross, Scorpius–each of them in all their glory. Considering how long it’s been since I’ve seen them so clearly, it really was the most refreshing thing, a much-needed site. “It truly is wonderful,” Dad said.

Recently my aunt asked me what I love about the stars, so I’ve been trying to put my finger on it. Obviously, if you’ve had a chance to see the stars lately, they’re stunning. What’s more, in our often chaotic world, they’re something predictable. They appear to move about, of course, and do, but I like the fact that I can consistently find the same stars and shapes basically “where I left them.” There’s a sense of surety in that. But mostly I love the stars because no matter what kind of day I’m having–a good day or a shit day–I can lie down under the heavens and find peace. It’s like a forgetting of all my problems and worries. At the same time, it’s like a remembering that not only is everything connected, but also that I’m not supposed to have all the answers.

Wonderful, after all, means “full of wonder.”

Today I have been impressed with the fear that there’s not enough time. This afternoon the fear showed up with regard to reading, since I realized I’ve started–but not finished–over a dozen books in my personal library. And, despite the fact that I’ve been in therapy for four years and have come a long way in this department, there’s still part of me that feels like I “should” finish them. Like, a “better” person probably would. And yet, I’m having so much fun starting NEW books. Anyway, then the fear showed up with regard to the stars this evening when I went for a walk, since I realized a number of stars I could find consistently earlier this summer are no longer visible. This is due, of course, to the earth’s trek around the sun, which blocks our view of stars on the other side of it. In other words, as summer disappears, certain stars and planets (my friends!) disappear too.

And just when I was getting to know them.

It’s this weird paradox I have inside me. On the one hand, I feel like my life isn’t moving fast enough. On the other hand, I feel like it’s moving too fast. I think, An entire day has gone by, and there’s so much of that book left to read. Or, Wait, come back! I LOVED that star.

Toward the end of my walk tonight, this frustration with the speed of life hit me like a ton of bricks. I turn 38 soon, and there’s so much I wished would happen by now that hasn’t. Will these things ever happen? I don’t know. So many of our hopes and dreams, it seems, are like stars that slip slowly below the horizon. Maybe next year they’ll return. Of course, we forget–I forget–that with each setting star, another star rises. Tonight I spotted Capella for the first time, the brightest star (or group of stars, rather) in the constellation Auriga. What a delight she was! And no way I could have seen her in the spring. Surely this is the gift of seasons that change, stars that set, and books that we put down–of all good things and even dreams that come to an end–that as one wonderful thing disappears, another wonderful thing begins to shine.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Sure, we forget it plenty of times, but on the inside we’re all shining. This is what gives me hope, knowing that we are all radiant.

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