What I didn't know...

The “Proscenium Arch” is a theatrical term for the framed area of the stage where the primary action takes place.   It is where our focus is drawn.   Actors perform for us within that arch and then go off stage, where they might spend their time refreshing their makeup or checking their scripts.   We don’t really know what they are doing, because we don’t see them…and frankly, when they aren’t in that arch, we quickly lose interest in their existence. 

In truth, we each live our lives like that.  Our vision creates our own personal “proscenium arch” on which the theatre of our life plays.   We see what is in front of us at any given moment, and those things that are going on behind us or far away from us (out of our line of sight) take on a far lesser importance.  

I had the crazy idea once that if I turned around fast enough, I might actually see that there wasn’t really anything behind me.   My theory (which is incredibly self-centered and kind of ridiculous) was that if I wasn’t seeing it, maybe it didn’t really exist.   It’s kind of like that old saying that “if a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it, would it make a sound?”  

My point in all this theorizing and postulating on what is real and what is not is that there are a lot of things going on in this world that I can never see or experience firsthand.    Still, just because I don’t see it within my personal “proscenium arch” doesn’t mean it isn’t taking place somewhere and might at some point have an impact on me or someone I care about.

Since my world revolves around me, I usually think I understand it pretty well.  I know those who have fallen into my orbit (family and friends) and I think I have them pretty much figured out.    Ask me about one of them and I can sum up who they are in a couple of common, simple words or phrases.   I can do this because this is “my world” and it’s all about what I know.

The problem, as I have become acutely aware, is that I don’t know that much…and what I do know, I don’t understand all that well.

Before she died, I would have described my sister with a few words:  “strong willed,..fun loving...stubborn.”  I would have told people that she “loved her family and friends” and I was “amazed at how resilient she was in the face of her physical challenges.” 

I would have said these things to encapsulate the entirety of her life.   Almost 44 years boiled down to 23 words.   Not even close to a word per year.

I loved my sister, despite some of our differences, and I thought I knew her, but I did not.   I knew what I saw, in that narrow window that I view the world through, but I did not see her off my stage, living and interacting with others. 

It was not until after her death that I began to get a better view of Tracy and who she was.   Through the words of others a picture of my sister emerged that was much more complete than the role that I allowed her to play in my life.  I did not see the impact her compassion and friendship made on others.   I did not see how her determination to live life on her terms was inspiring to so many.

I did not know.

Our life has many Acts, and sometimes characters that perform such an integral part within one Act will play a much less significant role in others.   Without a doubt my parents, my two brothers and my sister were the stars of my life’s first Act.  

Mom was the central character; my moral compass, my teacher, my healer, my therapist.   She defined my childhood with her unconditional love and her acceptance of who I was and who I wasn’t.   She was rarely off the stage, and if she wasn’t front and center, she was busy in the background, doing something to make my life easier and happier.

My life’s second Act began when I met Connie.   When she was on stage, she held my rapt attention, and when she wasn’t, she was rarely off my mind.   The stage was reset when we married and after moving to Tennessee, the sets and scenery changed.  Three new stars took center stage when our daughters were born, and the appearance of beloved characters from the first Act were far less frequent.  

You justify in your mind that talking on the phone once or twice a week or visiting three or four times a year keeps you involved in someone’s life, but that leaves a lot of time unaccounted for.   You don’t intend for those characters to stay offstage for so long, but there are so many things going on in front of you at any given time that it is easy to forget who is waiting in the wings.

We do not recognize that we are co-writers of our own script.  We have considerable control over who comes on stage and who doesn’t.   Since we are generally making things up as we go, most of the time we see what we want to see at that particular moment…and later we might wish that we had written things differently.   

As I look back on the staging of my life, there are many scenes I wish I had written differently.

I did not know that my sister would die on August 1, 2012 and that I would be fortunate enough to be there and say one last goodbye. 

I did not know that only six short weeks later I would receive a 2am phone call from my brother telling me that my mother was gone.   I did not know that I would never get to tell her “Goodbye…I love you,” or give her one last hug.  

I did not know, when I spoke to her in that quick conversation from the airport the Friday before she died, that it would be the last time I would hear her sweet voice.   I did not know that when I was busy on Wednesday evening and thought, “I’ll call tomorrow,” that Thursday would be my first day without my mother.  

There are so many things I did not know…

Mom was offstage for much of the Second Act of my life.   She was often on my mind, and always in my prayers, but I didn’t write her into as many scenes as I should have.  

I must also recognize that Mom was living her own play in which I was a character.   She did not write me out of her script, but set me free to live my own.   She did this because she loved me, and she never stopped.  I loved her too, and I am grateful that I told her that many times.  

Her final Act on this Earth ended much earlier than I wanted.   I thought she would be with me for many more years.  Still, I could not ask for a more wonderful passing for someone that I love so much than to go peacefully in her sleep in her own bed.  A better author than I wrote that part of her script.

There are times when I would like the chance to do a re-write on parts of my own life, but I know that is impossible and probably unwise.    I have to accept the simple fact that there was much I did not know, much I did not do, and much I did not say.   These are things which I hope will inform me as I enter the final Act of my life.   If nothing else, Mom would have wanted me to learn something, to find out those things I “need to know,” and to be a better person.

I have just begun the long mourning and the missing of her physical presence in my life.   To never be able to pick up the phone and hear her voice and her wise counsel again breaks my heart.   To walk up that path to the family home and not see her at the back door, smiling and ready with a hug, is almost unbearable to think about.  But as the wise young pastor, who spoke so eloquently at her funeral said, "she's now waiting at another door."  

I know that to be true...and I'll hug her again one day.

I love you Mom. 

My Happy Place

The first time I stepped inside a movie theater I fell in love.   The sound of fresh popcorn popping in the lobby welcomes you along with the rich buttery aroma that seeps into your lungs and surrounds you like a hug.   I loved how the people in line are almost always in a good mood, knowing that they will soon have crunchy snacks to enjoy and cold drinks to sip, and just beyond the door lies escape from their mundane world.  I loved the careful balancing act of carrying a tub of popcorn and a large soda while simultaneously trying to hand the attendant my ticket.

Stepping into the dark theater and finding that perfect seat still makes me feel like a kid again.   I love being transported to new and distant places.  I love the craft of a well told story.   I love characters that come to life and change for the better throughout the run time of the film.   It is a hopeful place for me, and when I step outside afterward, into the bright light of the afternoon or the crisp cool of the evening, I always think I am entering a world that was better than the one I left just a few short hours before.  

I love movies. 

Saturday afternoon, Connie suggested that we go see a movie, and she didn’t have to twist my arm.   It was miserably hot, as it has been for most of the summer, so the cool, dark theater would be preferable to doing anything that involved going outside.  

The popcorn smelled the same, and the lines were nearly as cheery as usual (although slightly more subdued, since this was an art-house, limited engagement theater and most of the clientele was over-40).    We entered the theater and chose our seats just as the pre-show was winding down.   It was then that I realized that I would probably never enter a movie theater again without looking at the exit doors to make sure they were closed.  

Although I enjoyed the movie a great deal (“The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel,” which is now on Connie’s all time favorite list), the sanctity of the movie theater experience has been slightly disturbed for me.  I can no longer fully escape the outside world.   Lessons have been learned that will not be easily forgotten.  I’m sure I will not be the only one to take my eyes from the screen occasionally to check doors and glance around for any signs of strange activity.    It will become a part of our national consciousness, much like men approaching a cockpit door, or large trucks parked and abandoned in front of government buildings.  

It’s sad to think that my kids will grow up in a world where nothing is completely safe.   I don’t remember having to fear about home invasions or school shootings when I was a child.   I don’t recall every wondering if I would return home after going to church or a movie.   It’s a sad reality that makes up our life today and our kid’s tomorrows.   We have allowed our world to get out of hand.

I’m glad I “got back on the horse” and saw a movie so soon after the shooting.    I honestly believe that if you don’t live your life because you have a fear of dying, you’d just as well be dead.    I don’t want to lock myself in my house and never leave.   I don’t want to live in fear.   I don’t want that for my kids either.   I want them to see movies…and I want them to see the world.   Despite all the potential danger and the crazy people, it’s still a truly beautiful, magical place.