Old Friends

I saw some old friends last night. Friends who knew me when I was a completely different person.

Let me explain.

I was eighteen years old when I signed up for a musical theatre class in the heart of Hollywood. I thought it would be a good place to start making some real professional connections. You see, at eighteen I was, to my mind, on the fast track to Broadway stardom. I had played the lead in every single one of my high school's musicals, and had already dropped out of college to go on my first national tour. The call from Sondheim was imminent; I just needed to meet the right people.

I was in for a rude awakening.

For this particular musical theatre class, a dozen or so students came together once a week to sing a little and cry a lot. As students of the class, it was our job to bring a song we thought was appropriate for us, and perform it in front of our teacher for critique. Easy, right? Not for this crowd. These folks were fugitives from the Island of Misfit Toys, every last one of them. There was the girl who got up to sing for the first time, launched into "How are Things in Glocca Morra", and before she had even come to the word "Morra" she had completely broken down in uncontrollable sobs. Apparently, things in Glocca Morra were not so good. Then there was the buttoned-up businessman who got in touch with his wild side by climbing the rafters and swinging like a monkey while bawling through "The Lusty Month of May".

I remember stifling laughter and glancing around to see if anyone found this behavior as absurd as I did. Nobody was flinching. Was this the Twilight Zone? What was wrong with these people? This was musical theatre, not group therapy. Yet the tears flowed, Saturday after Saturday. The teacher used every song he critiqued as an excuse to dive headfirst into the mental mishigas of each and every one of his performing patients. Hours were spent working through their issues. I knew way too much about the troubled childhood of the woman who sobbed through "It's the Hard Knock Life" or the man working out his Oedipus complex with a ballad version of "If Momma Was Married". I sat dumbfounded. Why couldn't people just sing? Was singing so hard? I held myself at arm's distance from these quacks. My job was to show them all how effortless it was, and then get the hell out of Dodge. I was a star. I was going places. This rather pitiful musical theatre class was just a pitstop for me; a place to show off the talents that would someday fuel discussions at water coolers across the nation.

I wasn't long for this class, and truth be told I still chuckle when I remember the many hours spent in musical therapy with some mighty strange people. But somehow, and entirely without my permission, a few of the characters I met therein became my trusted friends and remain in my life to this day. How they ever suffered me in the beginning I'll never know. Maybe they all saw what must have been completely evident; I was just as much of a mess as they were. I just wore tighter armor.

Last night around my dinner table, there they sat: Clay, soft-spoken and tousle-haired, who back in the days of class didn't ever ask to be noticed. Clay, whose energy was quiet, contemplative... but who had impeccable taste in music and a passion for sharing the greatest melodies and lyrics from the Great American Songbook and beyond. Clay, whose emotions ran deep and tender and pure; he hid them well, but you could see them when he sang. When the best of Sammy Kahn, Jerome Kern or Harold Arlen overtook him, he couldn't help but show you his heart.

And Wendy, fabulously diverse Wendy, who probably shed more tears than anyone in class and opened my eyes to the fact that true beauty comes messy, with frayed edges. Wendy, gorgeous and colorful like a tropical bird with a huge wing expanse. Wendy, who is like Phoebe in "Friends"; no matter what you mention, she has somehow been there, done that. She is to my mind an artist, an athlete, a sommelier, a flight attendant, a zookeeper, and has probably done time in Costa Rica.

Then, there's Jeff. When I first saw him perform I shook my head; what a no-talent. He couldn't sing, couldn't act, had no business being on stage in my estimation. I could NOT have been more wrong, for Jeff soon emerged one of the most wonderful, glorious singers and performers I've ever known. Jeff, so completely and utterly unique, onstage and off. Jeff, who became my pen pal when I moved to New York at age twenty, and wrote me the most engrossing, wry and witty letters you can imagine. These high-calorie, good-to-the-last-drop letters I'd hunger to receive in the mail- oh, remember MAIL? The excitement of a thick envelope in your mailbox and a real, handwritten, juicy letter awaiting you? How I miss the mail!- and I'd write furiously immediately upon receiving his tasty diatribes, trying to rush the turnaround time so I wouldn't have to wait too long for his next installment.

And finally Karen, my soul-sister. Karen, who once fought emotion every time the teacher tried to coax it out of her and how ironic, since she is one of the most openly passionate people I know. Karen, who lives life out loud, seizes and squeezes it for all she's worth. Karen, as hungry for life as I am and always was, devouring moments the same way I do. Karen, who I can tell anything to, who has spent countless hours talking with me, eating with me, laughing and daydreaming with me. Karen, who has yelled and screamed at me and I have screamed at her, and we're still friends and always will be because we've seen the best and the worst of each other and it's okay, and how many people can you say that about in your lifetime?

All of these people were in my home last night, eating food and laughing and talking as if no time at all had gone by since we all sat quivering in that class. But so much has gone by, you see. And oh, the people they have become! Clay, now a counselor who is pouring his quiet devotion onto an accomplished wife and two gorgeous children. Wendy, who soars like an eagle wherever she goes and is never in one place for long, currently drawing larger-than-life cartoon visualizations for corporate meetings so companies can see their goals in technicolor and leave it to Wendy to find the coolest job that ever existed! Jeff, visiting from New York where he has lived for the last fifteen years, working at the same old job and comfortable there- but with more talent, wit and savvy in his pinky finger than any of his fellow employees would ever know. Jeff, making my world a happier place whenever he is in my home. And Karen, woman of a thousand emotions, never taking no for an answer, breezing in with the energy and light of the sun and shining her passion onto anyone within a hundred-foot radius.

And then, there's me.

Who have I become?

Well, a wife and mother, first and foremost- and that's everything. It's what drives me, it's the center of me now. It has become my passion, my art, my soul.

But beyond that? Is there a beyond that? Does there have to be? It's very strange, you see, to have been defined for so long as a performer, and a pretty good one at that. People are drawn to a life in theatre for different reasons; for me, it became evident that I performed in large part to fill a hole that existed deep within me. I needed recognition on a more global level. I needed it to overcome something- what, Lord only knows, and does it really matter? I wanted to avenge the high school classmates who made fun of me, prove something to anyone who ever wronged me, win the love of absent fathers, who knows, who cares. But though I always claimed to have Broadway in my sight, clearly my true passions lay elsewhere. I never really pursued my career, not with any real fervor. I was too busy figuring myself out, learning who I was in relationships and out of them, wanting to connect to family and friends, to understand, to grow and change. I made broad strokes, and big mistakes. I hurt, I suffered, I learned. And as I did, something extraordinary happened: I fell in love with my life. It happened slowly, and not without a substantial measure of pain. But now, I look back on the troubled girl who sat haughtily in that musical theatre class, and for the life of me I don't recognize her.

For the life of me.

The life of me. What is that, from now until forever? Wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, neighbor. Who else am I? Where do I put my skills? When I was young and stupid and thought I had all the answers, nobody could have convinced me my passions would shift. I suddenly no longer fit in that world I inhabited for so long. In some ways, I never did. While most of my Theatrefriends dove headfirst into auditions, headshots, resumes and shoptalk, I paid it all its due lip service but always felt a bit like an imposter. I had plenty of disappointments and some moderate successes. I had a ball, I made money, I made lemonade when I was handed lemons, I was great in some shows, not so great in others. I met my husband and found my future. This is utterly true: without theatre, I would never have this life, this husband, these two children. There is absolutely no regret, there is only gratitude.

Okay, maybe not ONLY gratitude. I'm not Gandhi. Maybe there is a little sadness, because at the same time that I found my life, I have had to completely redefine my artistic identity. I have had epiphanies, and not all of them have been pleasant. I know how much I gave, and yet somehow I just missed. I think many people expected more from me. A part of me feels I disappointed them. I was supposed to do more with this gift. I have squandered it a bit, left it out to dry. I have doubted that it ever was a gift at all, and that is probably the saddest truth of all.

So where do I go from here, professionally speaking? I don't know the answer. In some ways I am clearer-headed than ever before. But the arrogant certainty of youth has its advantages. I never doubted my direction when I was a bull-headed, emotionally stunted young adult. And now? I know my own heart and yet have little clue where to place it beyond the people I so love and cherish.

I know I want to give back, to be of service somehow. That is why I teach, and why choreographing for high schools and working with young adults makes the most immediate sense to me. So, I do that for now. I love that. Wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, neighbor... teacher. The next chapter will reveal itself in time. I hope.

Last night, past and present converged. I have put my arm down; I know now that when I was eighteen, I was just as full of tears as Glocca Morra Girl, and maybe I needed to swing from a rafter or two. I stand humbly in awe of these weird, wonderful people who invaded my life. I try to learn from them. I learn from Clay that being quiet can yield great insight. I learn from Wendy that one person can do a million things, and do them all well. I learn from Jeff that I have a kindred spirit where I once least expected it. I learn from Karen that passion is eternal, and friendship means everything.

I learn that I am unfinished. But I wouldn't trade this lovely, messy, unfinished life for anyone's on Earth.