I once spotted a friend of mine flaked out on her front lawn while her toddler daughter buzzed around her like a little demonic maniac. "How's the kid?" I called over to her. "Full of beans" my friend answered. "How are you?" I asked. "Empty of beans" she said.
J. and I have had one helluva year. We have been holding it together, but it has been a freaking marathon.
J.'s job is so involved he generally puts in a 60 hour minimum work week. We bought our first home. Our car started on fire. Our kids went from two years old to three years old. I was in three shows this past summer. J's mother came to live with us (and she is quite a handful.) We have worked continuously on contracts over and above our full time work and child and elder care obligations.
And now, we are empty of beans. No beans. We're beanless.
A week ago I drove for 10 hours to the ferry, and then took an hour and a half ferry trip, and then drove another 45 minutes to my parents' apartment. J. drove in tandem -me in our car while he drove a work vehicle. This is the first time I have left our Town (save s few short trips to the very nearby bigger towns) since October.
My parents' live in our old hometown - one of the most beautiful places in the world. We needed to be here for a work gig (auditioning actors for a contract we artistically direct). James had a few other meetings to attend, so we decided that once he'd finished with his road trip work he should head back home; but I wanted me and the girls to stay on with my parents for a while.
My parents (and my sister, who came over for a few days as well) have known for a while that my bean count was dangerously low. And they have decided to spoil me. It has been so, so perfect and so appreciated. I have been fed, taken shopping, told to go BY MYSELF down for a swim and sauna, we have gone for walks on the beach. The girls and I are in pampered heaven. This is exactly what I needed.
I don't think I quite knew how empty of beans I was until I got here. And now I am starting to feel recharged and rested. I don't think I've been able to apply those words to myself for over three years.
I love my tiny Town, but being back here reminds me all too acutely that it takes a village to raise a child, and it takes a really big village to raise twins, and there is no greater village than the one that includes a Grammy, a Grampa and an Auntie.
I have beans again. I'm not full of them yet, but a few beans should get me through the next stretch of this working parent marathon.
The street where I live...
Wednesday 28 March 2012
Monday 19 March 2012
Visually Speaking
When I was growing up I spent a lot of time in cars. Most of our extended family lived in another part of the province, so we drove back and forth from where we lived to where they lived. A lot.
In those days there was no such thing as a vcr or dvd player in the universe, let alone in the car. So my sisters and I passed the long car trips by playing, fighting, puking (that was mostly me), or just looking out the window.
I spent hours of my childhood looking out a backseat car window as some of the most spectacular scenery in the world whizzed by my formative eyes.
I know I was born with an inclination toward visual thinking, and with an innate appreciation for that which can be seen. But I also believe that my love of beautiful sights was nurtured and honed as a result of being allowed to stare at things without anyone judging or caring. Long car trips gave me the gift of noticing the glassy slickness of wet rocks, the lushness of moss on tree trunks, the sheer joy of soapy froth on a churning river.
J. and I have taken quite a few car trips with our little experience sponges, and only once did we allow ourselves to use a portable dvd player a friend insisted on lending us. I recall feeling a deep guilt and sadness as over enthusiastic cartoon characters filled their little heads as we drove through a canyon so breathtaking it feels holy.
After that trip I told J. I never want dvds in the car again. I want my kids to see the trees, and the river, and the mountains that look exactly like they did when I traveled the same roads as a child.
J. readily agreed.
At this point Z. seems to be emerging as the more visual twin (this could switch, we are constantly delighted by how a seemingly set trait in one will suddenly ease away from that one and pop out in the other).
A few months ago we were nearing the end of a long road trip, just hitting the outer edges of the biggest city in our province, when Z. began to laugh deep from her belly. I said: "Why are you laughing, honey?" And she said: "It's so beautiful! It's so wonderful!" I looked back to see her taking in the traffic, the mountains, the signage...and she was right there, in the centre of pure joy.
A couple of weeks ago we were in the bathroom, getting ready for a bath. I was hurrying the kids into the tub, but Z. said, firmly, "No, Mumma! Not yet." Her tone made me curious as to what made her so resolute. I saw that she was looking deeply at a painting on the wall. And she was in it. She was right inside that painting. I knelt down to her level, and I said: "What do you see?" She broke her gaze from the painting, looked me straight in the eye and said: "It's beautiful, Mumma."
I am so overwhelmed with how beautiful she is that I can sometimes forget that she also can be overwhelmed by beauty. It is my job to make sure, as she develops more language and this cynical world does its best to erode her wonder, that I am always the one who brings her back to that place of pure understanding that she felt in the car, and in the bathroom, when she saw beauty, and she let it fill her up.
In those days there was no such thing as a vcr or dvd player in the universe, let alone in the car. So my sisters and I passed the long car trips by playing, fighting, puking (that was mostly me), or just looking out the window.
I spent hours of my childhood looking out a backseat car window as some of the most spectacular scenery in the world whizzed by my formative eyes.
I know I was born with an inclination toward visual thinking, and with an innate appreciation for that which can be seen. But I also believe that my love of beautiful sights was nurtured and honed as a result of being allowed to stare at things without anyone judging or caring. Long car trips gave me the gift of noticing the glassy slickness of wet rocks, the lushness of moss on tree trunks, the sheer joy of soapy froth on a churning river.
J. and I have taken quite a few car trips with our little experience sponges, and only once did we allow ourselves to use a portable dvd player a friend insisted on lending us. I recall feeling a deep guilt and sadness as over enthusiastic cartoon characters filled their little heads as we drove through a canyon so breathtaking it feels holy.
After that trip I told J. I never want dvds in the car again. I want my kids to see the trees, and the river, and the mountains that look exactly like they did when I traveled the same roads as a child.
J. readily agreed.
At this point Z. seems to be emerging as the more visual twin (this could switch, we are constantly delighted by how a seemingly set trait in one will suddenly ease away from that one and pop out in the other).
A few months ago we were nearing the end of a long road trip, just hitting the outer edges of the biggest city in our province, when Z. began to laugh deep from her belly. I said: "Why are you laughing, honey?" And she said: "It's so beautiful! It's so wonderful!" I looked back to see her taking in the traffic, the mountains, the signage...and she was right there, in the centre of pure joy.
A couple of weeks ago we were in the bathroom, getting ready for a bath. I was hurrying the kids into the tub, but Z. said, firmly, "No, Mumma! Not yet." Her tone made me curious as to what made her so resolute. I saw that she was looking deeply at a painting on the wall. And she was in it. She was right inside that painting. I knelt down to her level, and I said: "What do you see?" She broke her gaze from the painting, looked me straight in the eye and said: "It's beautiful, Mumma."
I am so overwhelmed with how beautiful she is that I can sometimes forget that she also can be overwhelmed by beauty. It is my job to make sure, as she develops more language and this cynical world does its best to erode her wonder, that I am always the one who brings her back to that place of pure understanding that she felt in the car, and in the bathroom, when she saw beauty, and she let it fill her up.
Friday 16 March 2012
Linked Up
So now the hard part begins...
Keeping a "secret blog" is one thing.
There's a certain careless loveliness in writing something you're pretty sure no-one is reading. But, now that I have linked up my Facebook friends to this little writing endeavor I can't get all their (your) faces out of my head. Now, as I type, I have to challenge myself to not self-censor based on who I think might actually read my posts. Yesterday a dear old friend wrote to me asking for a few encouraging words as she begins the process of writing a chapter for an Applied Theatre book (something she has never done before). I gave her a piece of advice that is part of my own writer's self-talk: "Try to say what you mean, and not what you think they want to hear." So hard. But I need to keep this idea in my head as I proceed.
Another thing I now have to consider is feedback. After much trepidation I posted a link to here and received lovely, encouraging comments, which was awesome. But so many comments were in the vein of: "You are so brave, I couldn't have exposed myself like that!" This sent me into a mad panic of re-reading my previous posts. Was I really that open? Because in my real life, I am and I'm not open. I can be very candid when talking about certain subjects, and other topics are hidden deep in my personal vault protected by a Gringotts-esque spell of impenetrability. So I suppose I'll just have to trust that anything I've said, or will say, on here is something I would be willing to spew out in public anyway.
A really cool thing about suddenly having readers is: the blog stats report lets you see where they are in the world! I have had visitors from Canada, the States, Germany, Italy, Russia, the UK and Hong Kong! Although I'm pretty sure the Hong Kong ones were my bosses who are visiting there right now, and at least one of the UK readers is my uncle. But still!
So a very sincere thank you to all of you who have had a read of my little essays. I am enjoying the process, learning a lot, stretching a new muscle, and trying to SAY WHAT I MEAN.
Keeping a "secret blog" is one thing.
There's a certain careless loveliness in writing something you're pretty sure no-one is reading. But, now that I have linked up my Facebook friends to this little writing endeavor I can't get all their (your) faces out of my head. Now, as I type, I have to challenge myself to not self-censor based on who I think might actually read my posts. Yesterday a dear old friend wrote to me asking for a few encouraging words as she begins the process of writing a chapter for an Applied Theatre book (something she has never done before). I gave her a piece of advice that is part of my own writer's self-talk: "Try to say what you mean, and not what you think they want to hear." So hard. But I need to keep this idea in my head as I proceed.
Another thing I now have to consider is feedback. After much trepidation I posted a link to here and received lovely, encouraging comments, which was awesome. But so many comments were in the vein of: "You are so brave, I couldn't have exposed myself like that!" This sent me into a mad panic of re-reading my previous posts. Was I really that open? Because in my real life, I am and I'm not open. I can be very candid when talking about certain subjects, and other topics are hidden deep in my personal vault protected by a Gringotts-esque spell of impenetrability. So I suppose I'll just have to trust that anything I've said, or will say, on here is something I would be willing to spew out in public anyway.
A really cool thing about suddenly having readers is: the blog stats report lets you see where they are in the world! I have had visitors from Canada, the States, Germany, Italy, Russia, the UK and Hong Kong! Although I'm pretty sure the Hong Kong ones were my bosses who are visiting there right now, and at least one of the UK readers is my uncle. But still!
So a very sincere thank you to all of you who have had a read of my little essays. I am enjoying the process, learning a lot, stretching a new muscle, and trying to SAY WHAT I MEAN.
Monday 12 March 2012
Artless
I am no great follower of Oprah, but sometimes I leaf through a copy of "O" magazine when visiting my sister. There is a regular feature in "O" called: "What I know For Sure" wherein famous and vaguely famous people share insights into the few things they perceive to be absolute truths. Whenever I stumble across this feature I do a little psychological experiment on myself: I ask myself that question and make myself answer without hesitation. And this is always the answer I give myself: "I know for sure that I am an artist."
I know that I am an artist and I have known this for sure since I was a very, very young child. This has been a certainty to me, and to my family, and to my friends. Very few people ever asked me "what do you want to be/do when you grow up?" because I had made it clear that not only was I going to be an artist, from the time I was in my single digit ages, I simply considered myself to be so.
I hope this doesn't sound arrogant, or pretentious. It isn't meant to be. I am not even a little bit rich or famous, but I have managed to keep "artist" of some sort as the main descriptor on my tax return for most of my adult life. I am proud of that, and I am deeply grateful. I am an actor, a writer, a director and a visual artist. I am grateful to every person who has said "yes" to me, and allowed me to make creative expression a basic part of my every day.
A few days ago a horrid announcement was made in Vancouver: The Vancouver Playhouse Theatre Company is closing its doors after nearly 50 years. I have never worked for the Playhouse, I have never even auditioned for the company. But as an artist, I am sickened. The VPH is an institution, it is a flagship, it is one of the main companies in Canada and it has now closed its doors because the company is broke, in debt, and has hit the wall when it comes to finding ways to keep on keeping on. Vancouver theatre community members have been protesting, grieving, ranting, hugging and just trying to find ways to make sense of it, to keep hope alive, and to yell out the truth of the matter: arts need public funding.
I find it soul crushing to read the comments on the internet from people who don't understand: "This is a free market economy! If you can't be self-sustaining you deserve to shut down. My tax dollars shouldn't be funding theatre, I never go to see it anyway." etc. etc. The simple fact is, art of any kind, save for a very few select instances, is not self-sustaining financially. Without public/state funding Shakespeare might never have written a play, Michelangelo would not have painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, countless Canadians would never have written and painted and danced our stories - arranged in the form of art. Art needs funding, and every great society has understood this. Go to London, New York City, Rome, Berlin... you will find these places rich with museums, galleries, festivals, live performance, music, public art...and I can assure you, none of this is self-sustaining. These cities fund their culture because they consider it to be as important as the more prosaic amenities like garbage collection and policing. Art is what a city uses to express itself to the world. Art is the soul of the city.
I recently defended my MA thesis. My thesis is about the use of theatre in museums and heritage sites, and the use of theatre in communities to help us all understand and appreciate our own place in the world. I called my thesis: "Telling Ourselves to Ourselves" because I believe that this is the very essence of the innate human compulsion to make art - because we all need to find ways to understand what it means to be human. Art struggles to make sense of humanity in the most beautiful manners of expression - song, sculpture, dance, plays, books, stories, poetry.
Right now, in BC, we have lost our way as far as the arts are concerned. We have become a society that views art as a non-essential service. If you are a person who truly agrees with that statement - that art should pay for itself with no initial assistance from the community in which it is created - then I challenge you to live one day without art. Do not watch television, do not read a book, do not look at a painting or a sculpture, do not go to a movie or watch one on TV. Do not visit a festival, theatre, museum or gallery. Do not look at public art installations. And while you're at it, don't read the paper or even go on an internet site where someone has written words. Don't listen to music. Cover all art in your home. Most creative expression was, at some point on its road to fruition, helped into existence through funding, donated time, space, material, sponsorship, etc. I hope you will soon discover, during your artless day, that a world where all that matters is that which can be immediately measured with a price tag is a soulless, bleak and heartless place. And it is a place where love has lost its voice.
I know that I am an artist and I have known this for sure since I was a very, very young child. This has been a certainty to me, and to my family, and to my friends. Very few people ever asked me "what do you want to be/do when you grow up?" because I had made it clear that not only was I going to be an artist, from the time I was in my single digit ages, I simply considered myself to be so.
I hope this doesn't sound arrogant, or pretentious. It isn't meant to be. I am not even a little bit rich or famous, but I have managed to keep "artist" of some sort as the main descriptor on my tax return for most of my adult life. I am proud of that, and I am deeply grateful. I am an actor, a writer, a director and a visual artist. I am grateful to every person who has said "yes" to me, and allowed me to make creative expression a basic part of my every day.
A few days ago a horrid announcement was made in Vancouver: The Vancouver Playhouse Theatre Company is closing its doors after nearly 50 years. I have never worked for the Playhouse, I have never even auditioned for the company. But as an artist, I am sickened. The VPH is an institution, it is a flagship, it is one of the main companies in Canada and it has now closed its doors because the company is broke, in debt, and has hit the wall when it comes to finding ways to keep on keeping on. Vancouver theatre community members have been protesting, grieving, ranting, hugging and just trying to find ways to make sense of it, to keep hope alive, and to yell out the truth of the matter: arts need public funding.
I find it soul crushing to read the comments on the internet from people who don't understand: "This is a free market economy! If you can't be self-sustaining you deserve to shut down. My tax dollars shouldn't be funding theatre, I never go to see it anyway." etc. etc. The simple fact is, art of any kind, save for a very few select instances, is not self-sustaining financially. Without public/state funding Shakespeare might never have written a play, Michelangelo would not have painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, countless Canadians would never have written and painted and danced our stories - arranged in the form of art. Art needs funding, and every great society has understood this. Go to London, New York City, Rome, Berlin... you will find these places rich with museums, galleries, festivals, live performance, music, public art...and I can assure you, none of this is self-sustaining. These cities fund their culture because they consider it to be as important as the more prosaic amenities like garbage collection and policing. Art is what a city uses to express itself to the world. Art is the soul of the city.
I recently defended my MA thesis. My thesis is about the use of theatre in museums and heritage sites, and the use of theatre in communities to help us all understand and appreciate our own place in the world. I called my thesis: "Telling Ourselves to Ourselves" because I believe that this is the very essence of the innate human compulsion to make art - because we all need to find ways to understand what it means to be human. Art struggles to make sense of humanity in the most beautiful manners of expression - song, sculpture, dance, plays, books, stories, poetry.
Right now, in BC, we have lost our way as far as the arts are concerned. We have become a society that views art as a non-essential service. If you are a person who truly agrees with that statement - that art should pay for itself with no initial assistance from the community in which it is created - then I challenge you to live one day without art. Do not watch television, do not read a book, do not look at a painting or a sculpture, do not go to a movie or watch one on TV. Do not visit a festival, theatre, museum or gallery. Do not look at public art installations. And while you're at it, don't read the paper or even go on an internet site where someone has written words. Don't listen to music. Cover all art in your home. Most creative expression was, at some point on its road to fruition, helped into existence through funding, donated time, space, material, sponsorship, etc. I hope you will soon discover, during your artless day, that a world where all that matters is that which can be immediately measured with a price tag is a soulless, bleak and heartless place. And it is a place where love has lost its voice.
Thursday 1 March 2012
Bag Blogger
So what have learned about blogging thus far? ... number one lesson: it's really easy to forget you've started a blog.
My life is so full I catch myself complaining much more often that I should. All parents have very busy lives. We all have ample reason to complain. We are being pulled at and judged and challenged daily, by the hour, every single damned second. Parenting is hard work. But, knowing that we're all in the same boat doesn't make me feel any less sorry for myself. I still wallow in the self-pity on occasion.
So, my bad blogging excuse is this: I'm busy! I have writing contracts to get to, I have a new show to write and rehearse, I have one room and then another whole building still to unpack (we moved into our new house EIGHT months ago!!!!), I have a mom-in-law living with us who needs much help, I have the endless soul-crushing cycle of housework, I have a studio to set up (my lifelong dream of having my own art/writing studio has been realized and I can't even get over there to set it up), I have one on one time with my kids that I am determined to get to at least once a day... AND I HAVE TWINS!!!!
I still consider this to be my "secret" blog, as I have yet to post a link, or tell anyone other than my husband that I am doing this. But yesterday, after several days of forgetting I have a blog, I checked my stats and saw that a few people have popped over to visit here, so this little post is my way of saying: perhaps soon I will decide to tell my friends about this, but for now, readers I do not know, thanks for showing up and I'm sorry for being a delinquent blogger.
I will try to do better.
My life is so full I catch myself complaining much more often that I should. All parents have very busy lives. We all have ample reason to complain. We are being pulled at and judged and challenged daily, by the hour, every single damned second. Parenting is hard work. But, knowing that we're all in the same boat doesn't make me feel any less sorry for myself. I still wallow in the self-pity on occasion.
So, my bad blogging excuse is this: I'm busy! I have writing contracts to get to, I have a new show to write and rehearse, I have one room and then another whole building still to unpack (we moved into our new house EIGHT months ago!!!!), I have a mom-in-law living with us who needs much help, I have the endless soul-crushing cycle of housework, I have a studio to set up (my lifelong dream of having my own art/writing studio has been realized and I can't even get over there to set it up), I have one on one time with my kids that I am determined to get to at least once a day... AND I HAVE TWINS!!!!
I still consider this to be my "secret" blog, as I have yet to post a link, or tell anyone other than my husband that I am doing this. But yesterday, after several days of forgetting I have a blog, I checked my stats and saw that a few people have popped over to visit here, so this little post is my way of saying: perhaps soon I will decide to tell my friends about this, but for now, readers I do not know, thanks for showing up and I'm sorry for being a delinquent blogger.
I will try to do better.
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