But, why not take advantage of a free, structured reflection?

I don’t think I could characterize this year as a whole. I barely remember last winter. Or spring.

What I do remember is that this is the year that I finally feel like Reading is home. David and I have been married for 4 years, and being the virtuous, old fashioned folks we are, I didn’t move in until after our wedding. I was still commuting back to the Lehigh Valley for work and yoga (although that isn’t over, just diminished).  But now, I work fully in our area. If it weren’t for the hills, I could ride my bike everywhere I work (or if I weren’t such a wimpy bike-rider {I can’t call myself a cyclist, that’s how wimpy I am, although I do have toe-clips [thanks, Husband]}). I teach in the city, the suburbs, and our Temple. I write in the in-between times. And I am the Artistic Director of a Theater Company. (For more info, or if you want to share your hard-earned money with us).

But work alone, even theater, isn’t enough to make a place feel like home. That takes friends. I had my family; David is my dearest friend, but a husband-friend is different from a friend-friend. I have people I can call to stay with Abraham when my temperature drops in the night and I need to go to the emergency room (That was weird and scary, but it went away. Maybe it was a migraine?). I have people who will come over for lunch and talk theater while Abraham builds trains. I have people who walk in the house without knocking because they know they are always welcome. I have people.

It is hard to live in a city without family nearby. We have worked hard to create a network of people we love and trust, and I think we finally have that. And that is home. That is our family.

In 2006, before I went to Israel, a piece of song came to me. I’m not really sure how to describe it, but it just popped into my head: I go so I can return home. At the time, it was deeply meaningful for me related to my travel to Israel. I never had the intention of making Israel my home, but being there helped me find what was important to me, Jewishly and otherwise, and when I came back, I was better able to make my place my home.

Now, it carries a different meaning. I, for some strange reason, despite being a bit shy, have continually put myself in new places where I didn’t know anyone else (or very few people): summer camp, a new middle school in 8th grade, college, moving to Bethlehem, and most recently moving to Reading. I knew David, but otherwise I was starting from scratch. “I go” – I had become comfortable in Bethlehem, in my communities there, but I knew I needed a change, I needed to go. “So I can return home” – I knew this time would come, though I sometimes doubted it, and I am so grateful that it has.

2012 was the year of home. What was it for you?

I may have cried a little as I read it. In part because she is so bright and articulate, and reading this reminds me of why I loved college and the constant artistic inspiration and mentorship.

But mostly, I cried because I really fucking love theater.

I love to make theater, I love to see (good) theater, I love to talk and think about theater. I love to teach theater to kids, and I love to teach kids through theater. I love to write for theater.

I also love that she was able to use a discussion of theater to digest her experience. I want to make theater that digests experiences. I want to make theater that makes people think and feel, that puts people on the inside and the outside of an experience at the same time.

In this small town, I am finding people who want to do the same thing. It is a slow process, but the surprise that a neighbor worked in theater for years and wants to join the company or that members in the community want to see our show and give us their support moves me every day.

Now I’m all fired up, but I have to get ready for bed. I’m looking forward to tomorrow.

But.

It was just Rosh HaShanah, the Jewish New Year. This time between the new year and Yom Kippur, the day of Atonement, always get me thinking. We are taught that the book of life is open over this time and on Yom Kippur it is sealed for the upcoming year. I take this as a metaphor, and instead think of myself as an open book, wondering what to write on the empty pages for the upcoming year.

Last year, I decided to take on the ritual of making (and eating, of course) Challah on Fridays for Shabbat. I was able to most Shabbats. In addition to just making (and eating) Challah, we actually celebrated Shabbat. We made a nice dinner, we lit the candles and blessed the wine. We sat together as a family (which we do during the week too, but it felt a little different). I was honored to share my Challah with our congregation’s students cantor when we had him for dinner.

In my open-book-ness, I was thinking about this Challah making ritual. When I began, I made the Challah with Abraham in the sling, putting him down for a rare moment to put the Challah in the oven and take it out again. Now, he helps with the egg wash and sesame seed sprinkle, he dutifully watches the Challah in the oven, and he eagerly lights the candles and sticks his fingers in the “wine” (which is what we call grape juice, which is what the kids have in PA) so he can get to the Challah.

I’m always trying to get back to the feeling of being Jewish that I felt at Camp. Though I cried many tears of homesickness while I was there, I cried many tears of camp-sickness upon my return home. I credit camp with my commitment and continued interest in being Jewish. I can’t wait for Abraham to go to camp. For me, making Challah is a little like camp. It is experiencing being Jewish, experiencing being part of a long line of people (women) who have made Challah and a long line of families who have delighted in eating it.

So I’m wondering, what do I add now, what will I write in my book for this new year. We have been talking about taking on the practice of Havdalah, the ending of Shabbat. We haven’t because we don’t have a set (spice box, braided candle, wine glass…). But that is a cop out. We’ll just do it. And I bet with the frame of Challah and Havdalah, we will be more aware of Shabbat in general. Maybe this will be the year that we all learn to step back, turn off, and truly relax.

L’Shanah Tovah!

It is bittersweet, but mostly sweet. We ended our nursing relationship on his terms, which, I believe, is the best way to nurse at all. It was for him, not me. I just received the benefit of hours of sweet baby time.

The only bitterness is selfish. I wanted to be a person who nursed a 3 year old. I believe in that, and I wanted to live it. I also wanted to hear what he called nursing. His (older) nursing friends say “Milks” or “Mommy Juice” or something, and I was curious to hear what he’d say. These things are not big deals at all.

He still puts his hand on my breast when he is tired or upset, which is sweet. I see it as part of the weaning process. He started his life inside of me, and he is slowly making his way away. I hope I can be present for him but let him find his own way.

I keep thinking about writing a post like “How to Fly with a Toddler” or “How To Avoid Tantrums (Most of the Time)” but I don’t think I need to. There are tons of bloggers doing that well already, and I don’t know that my readership (small, but mighty!) is looking for that. I don’t know that I want to be an “expert” about toddler-ness.

Which makes me think: why do I have this blog? What do I want to say publicly, to friends, family, and a few strangers?

I’m sort of a blogging toddler. I have been writing for about 2 years (ish), off and on. I used to keep a private journal. I kept a blog when I went to Thailand. Now I sort of bumble along, bumping into ideas, busting my lip when I post something possibly inappropriate, pointing out what makes me laugh or cry. Like a toddler, I want your attention and your feedback. Like a toddler, I want to know that you are there beside me, even if I’m just exploring for myself.

I don’t really have an agenda. It’s just a little space to play.

Why do you blog? Why don’t you blog? Let’s have a chat in the comments!

BUT

(and unrelated)

2. I’ve been day dreaming about making theatre. I’m sending my play out into the world to contests and workshops (fingers crossed for it to get chosen), I’m organizing a reading this summer, and I’m thinking about what comes next. And I’m talking about it with other theatre artists. And I’m writing grants to make it happen. It’s Baby Theatre. Get ready.

BUT

(related)

3. There is NO MONEY for anything extra. And I feel greedy for wanting grants or Kickstarter money or even audience members to make art when Pennsylvania Public education is falling apart, when people are hungry and hot (or cold, depending on the season…), when the basic needs are not being met. I BELIEVE in theatre and in art. But I’m not stupid; I know that arts education isn’t going to replace any regular education and I especially know that art isn’t going to feed hungry kids. 

There was one little girl I worked with this school year. She was always hungry. She came to drama club regularly, but she was always hungry. All of her characters were hungry. All of her plot lines were about getting food. She loved drama, but it didn’t make her tummy stop rumbling.

BUT

(I’m trying to think here…)

(hungry kids make it hard to see a brighter side)

4. I got a call about teaching creative drama this summer. I don’t know the whole story, but I guess the Reading School District isn’t offering the summer school/free lunch programs they have offered in the past (see #3). So local non-profits (I don’t know who, but I’m guessing churches and Boys and Girls Clubs) are stepping up as much as they can to offer lunch and programming during the day. Which gives me hope again. I can’t fill their bellies, but I can fill their hearts and imaginations once their bellies are full. 

It just puts everything in perspective. 

Two weeks ago a new kid, T, came into class. He had a mohawk and a little sass, and I was hesitant. We were getting ready for the end of the year performance, which was enough work, and I didn’t know how dealing with a mohawk would go. The Director asked me to let him in, if it wasn’t too much of a problem. He was a kid who came and went, and they wanted him to stick around for a while. I said yes.

The kids created a play and I scripted it for them. It is called SuperStar/SuperSpy. The Spies chase the Stars. They want a Jewel. In the end (SPOILER ALERT!) there are two Jewels, they each get one and then they all party. The kids always want to wear fancy costumes and have lots of props, but that isn’t really my thing. I like teaching them to use themselves and MAYBE what is around them to create. So when the spies wanted Jet Pack and Race Cars, I said we weren’t going to work on that in class, but they could make a jet pack at home out of soda bottles and wear that if they wanted to.

And T did. He came in today with two jet packs, one for his buddy M made from a box and streamers and one for himself made from 2 soda bottles (he drank all the soda himself, he told me proudly) and a whole roll of duct tape. They also brought a car that they made from a big box, colored construction paper, and more tape. 

This is why I LOVE teaching. I get so much inspiration from these kids. They have so many ideas and they need more people to tell them YES! GO! MAKE! They don’t need any fancy costumes or sets. They have everything they need. 

His presence there was clearly the Worst Thing Ever. She literally kicked him out. Poor dad was puzzled because at home she is affectionate and very trusting of him. They often have long, serious conversations while I make fart sounds for the little boys.

I get it. She’s in 4th grade and the popular girls are in her class. And they saw her and her dad (with said guitar) in the lunch room. Totally weird.

My mind went to 7th grade when I had 3 friends, a girl who went to a different school, and two boys. I don’t know what it was about me, but the girls were mean. I suppose I was an easy target. I was a late bloomer, a bit naive, a dedicated student.

One morning, I wore a new hooded sweatshirt (a Chanukah present from a cool store in the mall) to school. It had multicolored stripes. I felt very grown up for my 12 years. As I was waiting outside for the bell to ring, The Most Popular Girl walked up to me. I though she was going to tell me how cool my shirt was. Score.

Nope. She told me never to wear it again. She already had it, and I knew that when I bought it, and how dare I wear it to school. What if we had dressed alike. How embarrassing. And she stomped off, laughing with her friends.

That is my memory of it. I don’t really remember much about 6th and 7th grade. My mom says I cried most days after school from one horrible incident with the Popular Girls or another.

It is kind of pathetic, but I still worry about my friends. It is difficult for me to see my friendships clearly. There were times in middle school where I was close enough to popular to be invited to birthday parties and to the mall. But something would happen, I have no idea what, and I wasn’t good enough any more.

I’m an adult now with a husband, children, a house. I don’t worry about wearing the same clothes as anyone, but I still don’t feel confident in my friendships. Thanks, a lot, Bitches.

I can see, looking back, that the way I dealt with them is the same way I deal with impossible people now. I wonder if that is just Me or if I can really change my reactions, change my flight into a fight.

I wonder how my life would be different if I hadn’t experienced that bullying in middle school. Would I have pushed myself in a different direction without fear of rejection? Would I still be trying to shape myself into someone else to fit in?

I wonder how to help my step daughter. She is quiet, studious, pretty. Will she have the courage to stand up for her love of math and science? Will she be able to find a group of friends that she likes and that like her?

Being a girl is hard.

I am also a playwright. I wear this title hesitantly. Calling oneself a writer of any kind is a big deal, and I’m still developing my skillz.

It is not “playwrite” nor “playright” but “playWRIGHT.” One who puts things together, who makes things. Like a shipwright or a cartwright.

I put stories together. I’m working on a play now, no title yet. It has taken me over a year to get to it, trying on science plays (I am not the person to write a science play for kids, it turns out), community based theatre (I still want to work on this project, looking at stories from the local Latino Community and Pennsylvania Dutch community, but what I began writing was not for kids), and finally, my old stand by: story-based theatre.

I read a fantastic book of Latino Fairytales (because I want to write something of interest to people in my community, in Reading, Berks County, Pennsylvania, Mid Atlantic). There is a fast-growing Latino population here, and the best way that I know to build bridges of acceptance among people is through art. My art is theatre. 

I read a story about a girl, a witch, who could fly. And I used that story for inspiration to write this play. My friend Kirsten said, “You are developing quite a style, an impresario-storytelling-fantasy-shifting-time-space-continuum-soft-and-warm-friendship style.” I can own that. 

I wrighted this play. I can’t own all of it; it is a collaboration between me, my community, and the original creator of that story. But I am feeling more confident calling myself a playwright. 

This creative-drama teaching-mama couldn’t be prouder.

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Bubby, my maternal grandmother, swears she was the first one to play pretend with me, sitting on her porch, “eating” ice cream. Did that event lead to who I have become? Will Abraham carry the memory (probably not consciously) of this free play and continue to play as a child, teenager, and adult? I don’t even mean in the theatre, I mean in his whole life.

(now he is trying to balance the milk jug upside down in the other bowl)

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I see him working so hard, playing so hard. I observe him, narrate what he does, add in objects to compliment his play. But then it is time for a diaper change and he screams, throws his head back, and tries to escape my evil clutches.

And I think to myself, I must do this too. In what parts of my own life do I rear my head back and try to escape?

And I think he and I have the same reasons: lack of control. When we play, we are free. But then we have to change the diaper and leave the comfort of freedom behind.

It is so hard to be a baby. So easy too. I’m so grateful for the time to see him struggle and see him be free.

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