Day 635: Art, Risk, Freedom.

I'm writing on a Tuesday evening, after a long day of work. Hey! I've started work again, at the cafe I used to work at before this whole shebang. I am very happy about it, and especially because it seems to be going a LOT better on my body this time around. And it's good to see the old faces coming in. I really have been getting stronger, and my body is approaching health (APPROACHING HEALTH! NEVER DID I THINK THESE WORDS WOULD LEAVE MY CYBER-OR-OTHERWISE-MOUTH). Still approaching, though. We move in waves, you know. Some days are good, some days I feel mysterious nausea and tingling in various parts of my body and the spasms take over... Every day is a Bertie Botts Every Flavor Bean.

But let's talk about good. 

My theatre company has put up another show! Can you believe it!? I really almost can't, except that it's happening already. I've directed and produced another original production: Between. Which, is an interesting title for many reasons, now that I really (have time to) think about it. We opened last weekend (it was fantastic), and we have another (final) weekend coming up. The show is joyous and full of play and imagination; but also doesn't shy away from real things in life. I always hope to strike a delicate balance between beauty and terror, to use Rilke's words, because that is what I find life to actually be. Somewhere either in beauty or terror, or someway moving or traveling between (see what I did there). It's actually a prequel to our first show, which was my senior thesis in college (we were not then officially The 5th Wall yet); The Wells of Fancy Dry. Both shows center around a little girl and her father, and some other...interesting...characters in her life. I have loved watching this show unfurl, and I can't wait to see how it grows and evolves this coming weekend.

You see, we do what is called intimate immersive theatre: theatre that is all around you, and in small groups. There is no formal 'seating' where the audience "sits", and no 'stage' where the actors "act". I usually call it part art-installation, part-interactive theatre. Though honestly, I shy away from the term "interactive" because for so may people that is a huge turn-off and the baggage of the term gives the wrong impression about what our company does. We endeavor to create theatre that is accessible to everyone. I love having people who have never been to the theatre, or who do not consider themselves "theatre-goers" in the audience (I love all the theatre peeps too, don't worry), because they don't know necessarily what the "rules" of theatre are. And here at The 5th Wall, we are not rule-followers, certainly not in the traditional theatre sense. It follows my true heart in that we carve our own path, and we create stories and characters and worlds that are platforms for experiences for the audience. Because part of our mission statement is about creating together: a safe space for both actor and audience to create stories and play. Just as most of our work is devised (ensemble-created), our end product is completed by the audience. Every singular performance is unique because of who is there. Every night, my cast faces the ultimate challenge of an actor and an ensemble: to perform a show with a character with whom they've never worked with; and often, never met: the audience. It creates some pretty spectacular once-in-a-lifetime experiences, for everyone involved. This is where our company name comes from. Some of you may be familiar with the theatre term "the fourth wall"; for those of you who are not: this refers to the invisible "wall" between the audience watching and the actors acting- sometimes in Shakespeare for instance, a character will 'break the fourth wall' and speak directly to the audience). With our company, we (almost/usually) altogether throw out this concept, and instead, draw a "fifth wall": one that separates us (the actors and the audience) from the rest of the world: from cronos time, from reality and all of it's negativity and self-doubt, from age definitions, from troubles big and small. While you are in one of our shows, we hope you are able to relax and feel safe to create art with us, and a singular performance is a special experience shared by those who were there.

It's a huge risk. Every production is a risk. Every single show is a risk. Every productions that I have directed (and so far, I have directed all of them for our company), at some point (usually towards the end when its getting really hard, and anxiety crunch-time is crushing me) I vow to never do this again. Whether it is theatre dramatics or just post-show amnesia, I always find myself back at it sooner rather than later...and the cycle continues. We take huge risks. It is a huge risk to throw your artwork into the hands of other theatre artists. Ensemble. And then a whole other risk to then throw that artwork into the hands of people--our audiences--whom I believe to also be artists; and I don't care at all what anyone says to the contrary. We were all children once, and all children play without any self-judgement. And that is true art: complete freedom to create.

And if you're still unsure about "interactive theatre" just know that we've had many interactive-theatre avoiders and (yes!) introverts come to our shows and truly enjoy our work. Seriously I am not making this up. Our greatest goal is to be an invitation to play- however much you want to give (or not) is perfect. This is what I always tell my actors. Come as you are, you are perfect.

Everyone has in them, somewhere- even if hidden- the potential for play. And if you've forgotten or misplaced it, let this space unlock that part of you. We were all children once. And children know how to create freely. 

So, if you're in the Boston/North-Shore area, you should come check us out. You can buy tickets on our website: the5thwall.org. I hope to sell-out this weekend. And all profits go directly into the company for making more art, and paying for rentals etc. I do not (yet...) take any money from this, but we hope to slowly start paying our actors as well as other collaborators (some collaborators we can pay; a humble sum yes, but pay nonetheless). So tell your friends. Bring your kids. We want everyone. Come as you are, you are perfect.

and also here's the title logo and poster that I designed. I wear many hats in this company.

Day 607: Two Years.

To use a borrowed phrase, everything is illuminated. The past few weeks especially, I have watched as the flood waters came in. I have been overwhelmed by the power of all the energy and the prayers and the words and the cards and the gifts and the time: the hours days weeks years and the people people people people. You guys, people. Human. Beings.

These days I don't know where to start anymore. When people ask me how I am, or how it's been, or how I've changed, or who I am now. I usually stumble out some form of an answer-- one that doesn't seem to make sense even to me. I feel like I am in a watching stage. Listening stage. Accepting stage. These past couple weeks, or months--I haven't been counting. It's not that I don't have things to say, or that I don't have things in my head. It's just maybe I'm often tired of talking for now. I'm learning about how it's been, how I've changed, and who I am now. I've been talking and talking and writing about it for a while, and now I just need to sit back and observe.

But something else is bubbling up. Gratitude. So much pure thankfulness. For so many things, but especially people. Too many people to name. I am shaking my head as I type this because it's literally beyond grip how many people, and how thankful I am for them. I am washed over with gratitude. If if wasn't what is feeding me, I would be drowned in it. I want to wear it like a blanket, or a robe, or a crown. I want to point to it like a nighttime field of breezy grasses, loud with peepers, with dark outlines of heavy spent sunflower heads bowing to the ground. I want to scatter the ashes of these past two years over the whole earth, thanking every human who has breathed air with me. 

You can not begin to imagine that any list would suffice, but I endeavor anyway because I must try. May chemo-brain be revoked for a few minutes. May you forgive any forgetfulness at the shrine of chemo-brain. And also, at the shrine of human-ness.

To my family. To Rie, you sweet, sweet darling. My protector and strength for so long. You sat next to me, held my hands, and held me up--sometimes very literally. My heart hurts over you. To my Mom, with the most appropriate name, Joy, who looked me in the eyes after I finally stumbled out "I have leukemia" and said "Okay. We're gonna do what we need to do." To Sar, for your quiet strength and humor. To my Dad, for many things, but especially for holding all the financial and insurance strings and somehow making it look like a kite. To Jacob: you precious, sensitive, funny sweetheart boy who reminds me to "Look up to the sky, Aunt Bekah. Look up to the beautiful sky". To Grammy and your cards and gifts and love. 

To Ed who shoved the unwilling me into his car and took me to the ER. To the YTC staff who took over for me opening night that fateful weekend. To nurse Jen who, of her own intuitive choosing, took the blood test that discovered it all. To Zach the EMT who held my hand in the back of the ambulance to Boston and who told me "You're gonna kick this in the ass." To the nurse who gave a paper flower to the old man in the bed across from me that first night in the Brigham and Women's ER. You're beautiful. To 700 year old Mary, my first hospital roommate, who blasted infomercials all night and tried to sneak a cigarette. May I endeavor to learn from and attain your feisty, stubborn spirit.

To my incredible oncology and transplant teams. To Gabby and your smiling face. To Sarah who performed the least painful of all my bone marrow biopsies. To Dr. Ho. To Erin. To Jess. To Lisa and Amy Joyce and Margot. To Nurse David in the ER. To countless other nurses, aides, examiners, technicians, transports, housekeepers, phlebotomists, and fellow patients. To the Infectious Disease doctor (his name is escaping me) who still waves and yells hello from across the room just as the elevator doors start to close, because he is that kind, and insistent that I am his favorite patient, to this day. To Dana Farber Cancer Institute. To Karen for listening and for your intuition. To the fellow masked-and-gloved old man who asked me to dance in the waiting room. To my soul-sister reading Anne Lamott on the 8th floor when I was 12 days out who told me "Just keep going." To Becca, for writing me that note. To the gentleman who got the call about finding his donor while sitting across from me. To Bambi. To Theresa. 

To Martha, Kim, and Justin. To Garet, Gail, Adele, Amy, Dick, Deb, Barbara, Lindsay, and Kathy. To Livestrong for encouraging me and forcing me to lift ping pong balls, then 3lb weights, and now 8lb weights and beyond.

To the saints who have carried me in their words. I cannot explain. I am still here because of something that you wrote. Rainer Maria Rilke. Mary Oliver. Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi. Czeslaw Milosz. Anne Sexton. Martin Buber. Anne Bogart. Hannah Arendt. Anne Lamott. Abraham Joshua Heschel. Carl Sagan. The list goes on.

To my teachers and friends. I literally cannot name you all because I would be here for actually ever and my limited human/chemo brain would cause me to forget someone, or I would die of old age before I was done. If you're wondering if you're on this sacred list, you are. You are. You are. You are. Freaking Hump Day videos, you guys. Reading Steinbeck to me while I lay in bed. The Bash Leukemia Bash, to the artists and friends and givers who showered me with such love that I cannot contain within words. To mewithoutYou who came to play for me in the hospital because I couldn't make it to the show, to talking of Martin Buber, and grandmothers. To my theatre company, The 5th Wall, who waters me to grow like the stubborn plant that's prone to wilting that I am. To my readers. To all my soul mates. And to my donor: whomever, wherever, however you are. I love you.

And I raise thanks and gratitude for my body, the greek goddess who has marched, charged, wept, laughed, jumped, slumped, watched TV, danced, slept, sat, drooled and carried on through all of this. To my muscles that are growing and slowly learning how to bend again. To that whatever part of me that I am discovering, strangely: like a desperately old and yet new, friend; that small voice gaining sound, that part of me that endures beyond all things and throughout all my years crawling and climbing the mountains and crevices of this planet. To these same knees I used to scab up as a kid. To these same feet that have been carrying me around all this time.

You all saved my life.

Yes, in many many ways, two years feel stolen from me. So many things in and around me were derailed. My friends and family held their breath for a long long time--and we're still holding it, in some sense, though it's gotten easier, and maybe we take turns. I held my breath. I'm starting to exhale now. And when I exhale I try for peace and understanding and acceptance, but there is anger here too. I don't understand why bad things happen. Cancer is just one bad thing of so many, it's stupid. Philosophers and theologians and artists search for the answer, but it will forever be elusive. What can we do in the meantime? That's my quest, I think. Yes, I feel robbed and sometimes I feel really pissed off, and scared. I'm scared that it will return, that I will have to face death so close again. There are many things I can't control. But there are things that I can. And noticing, listening, watching things is one. One for now. And I now have a human body that I understand more intimately than ever before, and a human soul that I accept and trust more than ever before.

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here's a poorly executed collage of small things

 

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One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

-mary oliver, The Journey