Curtain Call

(The producers and cast of the Listen To Your Mother Show: Chicago, May 6, 2012, courtesy of Vanessa Druckman)

I always get butterflies when I see the Chicago skyline, but on this day it wasn't the buzz of the city I felt. 

The paper shook so violently that I couldn't read the words so I talked with my husband about everything--anything but the show.

The show.

On May 6th, around 6:15 pm, my husband asked me to save him a seat in the theater. I placed my scarf strategically on an end-seat about 6 rows up. I knew that he would be able to see me, but that I wouldn't be able to see him. Because, you know, it's always easier to share your art with strangers (in a sold out theater!) than it is with those you know intimately.

On May 6th, around 7:00 pm, we read.

Then they laughed.

They cheered.

Some of them cried.

I cried.

Not because of stage fright. not even because of the stories that were shared--and they were tear-worthy. I cried because I felt so honored to have had the privilege of sharing this experience with 16 other amazing people.

And at the end of the show, we weren't just holding each others' hands, we were holding each others' hearts.

Through auditions and rehearsals we shared secrets, pains, tears, and laughs. Each time I listened to their stories another thread of their being joined my soul-fabric. I created not only new memories for myself, but also a new family with which to share them.

So thank you Melisa and Tracey; Audrey, Vanessa, Melissa, Jen, Katy, Karen, Stephanie, Brandie, Lou, Megan, Nancy, Judy, Stacey and Hyacynth.

Thank you.

(video is forthcoming!)

On the 1000th Retelling

I think I was supposed to be in class (I didn't go to class much that semester. That's another blog post--or memoir?) but instead I waited until almost everyone else was in class, pulled on a hoody and walked to the bookstore. The red brick glowed cimarron and cinnamon. When I returned to my room, I stuck the CD into the laptop, turned up the speakers and skipped to track 3. It played, on repeat--just like my tears--every day until I left.

* * *

The apartment had big windows but during grey Chicago winters it really didn't matter. Every day was dark. Every day I listened to that song--track 3.

But this day, on the 518th time, I heard a new note. It was a thin ding layered beneath throaty verses, guitar rifts and drum beats. But that note, that extra tenuous ding forever transformed track 3. It made it new again. Exciting. Deeper. More penetrating. Then I found myself hungry for that note. I would sit on the edge of my seat for that note. Still, after hearing the song another 239 times, my ears tingle.

* * *

I'm sure Dr. Kennedy's ears were tired of hearing me recite the same lamentations every two weeks. Even I, a seasoned couch-sitter, recognized the monotony of my monologues. But I kept wanting to hear something that I had yet to hear. Another layer, another note. The note of truth?

I felt bad for her (at least she was paid for it), but sometimes that's what we need to do. We have to repeat our stories.

Sometimes only twice.

Sometimes 999 times. 

It's not because we want to. It's because we need to. It's because the mind, heart, and soul know that there's still something new to hear. A new memory to uncover. A new lesson to learn. A new way to heal.

Sometimes it's on the 1000th retelling that we hear it all: The Truth.