It is raining again. Cold, bleak – the weather I would suspect
or call ordinary in January or February, not
It seems fitting, though, in my recent loss coated life.
Katherine and I just finished creating the Sound Design
for “Anne of Green Gables” – I enjoyed collaborating
with her to create something special for her show.
Last week she managed to somehow get me off my butt
and into my car and through the door at BCT
and onto the stage where a certain flat was
calling my name. “Paint me, paint me, paint me”
came its hedonistic cry.
I managed to mix up some paint colors and get
some trees started. I was feeling pretty inflated
about the whole thing when I started slapping some
grass on the flat and proclaimed, “I
“What are you procrastinating about?” she asked.
“This flat needs to be fixed, which means I need
to do some more dutching and I don’t want to dutch.”
I groaned and got off the ground with all the grace
of an elephant covered with pitch.
I trundled off to the paint room for the dutching
material and took out some ancient paint, perfect
for the task, and started what is probably my least
favorite set building job on the planet.
This would only be my third time doing it – and I
keep getting better each time, now that I have taught
myself some tricks, but it was still so not fun for me.
I sat on the floor, fixing the flat.
A memory flooded my brain and tears sprang into
my eyes in response. “It’s a metaphor for my life,” I
lamented in a particularly transparent moment backstage.
It was a moment like this - hole ridden flat that
couldn't simply be painted, it had to be repaired,
it had to be coaxed into beauty, it had to be
more difficult then it was supposed to be
when I agreed to paint it in the first place.
I can not remember what sparked the thought, but I remember
who was there. I think only Kevan really heard me. He isn't
around to hear me anymore, to catch those clues to what
is taking root in my inner life.
I smooshed paint around and thought, “Can’t patch you up,
my friend,” and then, clear as a bell I heard “Sunday in
the Park with George’s Dot begging George, “Tell me
what you feel………..” And George answering…
“You know exactly how I feel.”
I looked at the wall and responded.
In this exact moment, I feel hopeless. I feel tired. I feel like
I am clinging to memories of one perfect afternoon – and
don’t know if a little patch here on the foundation – if there is a
foundation at all – will mean anything, anyway.
The rain is light and steady. Cold. Dagger whispers of
melting ice on my skin.
It is safe to let it touch me. It is safe to feel these feelings.
It is right to be transparent. It is right to let the light
and warmth wait for a moment so that I may come
to know them even better.