Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘theater’


There comes a day when a woman knows
she’s more Mother Superior than Maria—
and though she spent decades dreaming
of spinning on stage singing The hills are alive,
she now knows she’s more likely
to be cast standing in a habit, clutching a rosary,
singing Climb every mountain.
How many dreams pass us
before we realize they’ve gone?
Already I know I will never climb Everest,
will not be an Olympic Nordic skier,
will not research the cure for AIDS.
Every day I am less the woman I dreamt I would be
and more the woman I am—
which is, apparently, a woman who sits in the balcony
to see “The Sound of Music” and drives home happy,
still singing about how her heart
wants to beat like the wings of the birds that rise
from the lake to the trees.
A woman who is learning how,
now that her dreams have faded,
she can be more present than ever.

Read Full Post »

 

 

And again tonight, despite injustice and hatred,

Jean Valjean learns to love. And again tonight,

in the face of fear and prejudice, he finds kindness.

And again tonight, I weep as he nears his death.

I couldn’t say for whom I am weeping—for him,

for the girl he adopted, for the mother who died,

for the empty chairs, for the whole cast

who remind me too much of the world we live in.

For myself, of course, and my longing to do

what is right. But more than anything, I weep

with the memory of watching this very same scene

thirty years ago, sitting beside my brother,

both of us baptized in tears as Fontine and Eponine

sing behind Valjean, reminding him it is no small miracle

to love someone. I couldn’t have known then

how this would be the memory I’d return to again

and again when I think of my brother. There we are,

young and full of competing ideals, holding each other,

laughing through our crying, ready to meet the world

and each other tear-stained and open to news of grace.

 

Read Full Post »

 

 

 

And after the lying and cheating

and scratching and beating

and lusting and raging,

deceiving and craving,

after almost three hours

we finally know

that no one, no one

is a hero.

And we walk

through the rain

on this imperfect night

to the stain of our cars

and our imperfect lives.

And it rains.

In the great cast list,

my name will be

listed as the woman

who always played me—

the one who never

quite got the role right,

but damn,

she showed up

with her lines

every night.

 

Read Full Post »

 

 

 

She watched herself on stage,

and though she wept for the sad parts,

she didn’t wish them away—

they made the story better.

She easily laughed every time she forgot her lines.

And several times, though the play wasn’t done,

she gave herself an ovation.

Why not, she thought. I’m doing

a damn good job up there.

I wonder what took me so long

to see I got the lead. I can’t wait to see

where this play is going.

Read Full Post »

 

 

What was the best advice you got as a teenager?

Question asked in the Positive Youth Development Training

 

 

Sitting in the old one-room schoolhouse

and trying to remember any piece of advice,

I come up blank, which makes me think brain scientists

are right: the prefrontal cortex had not yet kicked in.

Makes me think, why give a teen advice?

They won’t listen now. They won’t remember it later.

 

But then, clear as a clap, I am standing on stage

in my pedal pushers and my fake Izod shirt, and I hear

John Klug’s voice howl from the theater’s back row,

“I can’t means I won’t.” That is right before

he strides to the front of the stage, picks up the easel

and throws it into the empty audience,

 

where it lands in the training I attend thirty years later,

and I stare at it beside me, astonished he threw it,

but even more astonished at how simple it was,

the way he changed my life, how that afternoon

he guaranteed that every time I hear the phrase I can’t,

I see the chance to say instead, I can do it. I’ll try.

Read Full Post »

 

 

 

after the curtain call

the mind still rehearsing

how to shine

Read Full Post »

 

 

 

that Sunday afternoon in Madison

when we went to brunch, then found our seats

in the theater where the French Revolution

is waging again and a man falls in love

and the woman dies and her daughter is horribly

enslaved, and my brother, a bear of a man,

the heavyweight champion wrestler who

routinely pinned behemoths to their backs

and threw keggers to “make me clean

the floors,” my brother beside me

cried enough tears for the whole globe,

a lightning rod for sorrow, as if his heart

were big enough to take on the burdens

of the whole world, how I loved him then,

his face radiant and glistening,

both of us weeping near to heaving

and holding each other’s hands, smiling
at each other in the dim light, both of us

seeing ourselves as the other as the players

built a barricade and all our walls fell down.

Read Full Post »

%d bloggers like this: