Dreams harden into substance

Much to my surprise, I have made it to the city I love best, where I contemplate theater, home, and unsettling feelings in my body.

Manhattan welcomes me.

Given the title of my last post, it was fitting that Manhattan interrupted my first day here with a rainbow. It has continued to offer me the most glorious Autumn days imaginable, so cool and crisp you can almost see the small children with backpacks appearing before you. It’s that kind of pre-autumnal weather. I had expected August days in New York to be as sticky and sweltering as they always have been, but by some miracle, we missed those days.

By a larger miracle, I am here. In the city of my heart. I was so fearful that I wouldn’t actually get to be here that I didn’t tell anyone I was coming (I’m sorry!). I want to see all of my friends, but I was superstitious about making any plans at all until I actually set foot in Manhattan. I am still walking around slightly stunned by my good fortune. It is too short a time to be here. I just have to hope that I can return soon.

But let me backtrack for a moment, just to talk about the last few days of theatre camp for us all. Tim and I travelled down from Worcester, where we had been visiting my parents, and stayed in a village near the camp, in a tiny A frame in the forest, downhill from the communal bathroom. Echoes of Craigardan! We spent most of our time at Stagedoor Manor, watching plays and chatting with our daughter. There were thirteen full productions! We were wildly impressed. We watched as many as time allowed us. Theadora’s play, Journey to the Poles of Accessibility, was hilarious and fun. She maintained a brilliant Russian accent and provided terrific comedic moments. We were proud of her, and of her castmates.

During these last three days of camp, what I loved the most was seeing my daughter happy. I haven’t seen her this happy for a year. She was overflowing with stories she wanted to tell us about her roommates, her castmates, her friends, her work, her room. I loved listening to her talk about her life at Stagedoor. I loved how much hugging was going on everywhere, how much every camper/actor supported each other.

On Theadora’s last day of camp. I felt her sadness about leaving as if it were my own. I didn’t want her to have to leave such a magical place, where she has been appreciated and loved. I myself didn’t want to leave such a creative and supportive community. I didn’t want to stop watching the kids perform and hug each other. I also felt a longing to be part of such a community. I miss the theatre world. I miss being part of a cast. I miss the excitement, the constant community, the drama. All of it.

Theatre was my first love. I told people I would be an actor or I would die. There was nothing else for me. My passion for it has not faded, despite my slow shift over the years to writing. I only began writing because I was so fucking tired of being cast as dumb ingenue or a prostitute with a heart of gold. There were so few interesting roles for women. So few female playwrights getting produced. So I began writing to say things I wish my characters could. I wish I could do both. I just don’t know how.

Camp posted this on its Instagram account:

“No two shows are alike in the making. Each show is living a piece of your life in a small unreal world with its own character and integrity; its own new set of memorable experiences and incredible happenings. You begin to love and adapt to its strangeness. Dreams harden into substance. Values seen come into focus. You wish it would never end. But the show does end. The dream world vanishes like mist before a rising sun; part of you vanishes with it. And back you land in the real world with a thud—fagged, uneasy, jittery. difficult to get along with. There is only one cure. A new show. A new, small, unreal world; new visions, experiences, incredible happenings. Again you love it, adapt to it, wish it would never end. But end it does. Another part of you vanishes. That is show business.”

The only part I disagree with is that parts of you vanish - the reverse always felt truer to me. New parts of me appeared.

I was so grateful to be alive to see Theadora perform and more importantly, to find her people. I was grateful for every moment. I wasn’t sure I would get to be here for all of this. I wasn’t sure at all.

Which brings me to the dark current of fear that runs below all of these blissful, fortunate days. In the last couple of weeks I have been having increased abdominal distress, experiencing symptoms that make me fear the worst. I tell myself that these symptoms do not have to be meaningful. Maybe they are just a fluke, a result of travel or stress. Maybe they don’t mean what I fear they mean. Maybe they don’t. I keep reminding myself of this.

Yet I found myself in tears in Central Park this morning, because I love being alive more than I ever have. I loved every green tree, every runner, every curve of the paths through the North Woods. I love every street, every building, every museum, every juice shop of Manhattan. I love my friend Jill and her family who are generously hosting us and providing us with fantastic companionship. Yet the more I love life, the more I fear losing it. I wish I were braver, or easier with the thought of my own death. But I cannot bear it. My daughter is starting a new school and new theatre program in France. My husband is looking forward to hiking and exploring France with me. I have the second draft of my new novel awaiting. I hope to sell two novels this year. I would love to find a teaching job. I have so much energy and hope. If only this were enough.

It will be hard to leave here on Sunday. New York feels so like home that it feels strange for me to say I am soon to be traveling home. Yet I know all too well that home can be many places. Many people. Many houses. I carry home—the ability to make a home anywhere—with me, always.

In Central Park, chatting with my Ts over tea.