ON PLAYING DEAD

When I was a kid I was scared of quicksand. Terrified. I would take a hose to any sandbox I could get my hands on, just to practice slogging through it in my shoes. Best to be prepared. I was equally as scared of being murdered in my room so I would practice “playing dead”. The theory being that after the murderers were finished killing my family members they would make their way to my bedroom - the third room from the stairs - and find me dead. Surprise! No need to waste our time in here. Look at her with her tongue hanging out and her unblinking eyes. This one’s already gone. Put your butcher knives away. Let’s roll!

I had a nice childhood - a lot of fun and freedom - and I enjoyed my time immensely. That said, I kept my eyes peeled for kidnappers and criminals and was intensely aware of the fact that at any moment I could be called on to make a citizen’s arrest. You never knew when you would roll up on a bank robbery in progress and have to DO something.

These days - I’m happy to say - I’m less afraid of being slaughtered in my sleep or stumbling upon an open pit of water logged, shoe sucking sand in the middle of the city. Phew.

But this bravery is a product of practice. I have to push myself. I am in constant conversation with the coward in my head. Pep talks and prayers all day long. Any kind of change is always a threat, followed by the death of a loved one, loss, diseases that sneak up on your organs and make you so sick that you can’t stand. Being misunderstood or falsely accused. Finding mouse poop in something I’ve already been eating. Global warming, bad news, parents dying, people leaving, lightening bolts touching land, politicians that I don’t agree with. Traffic jams, skinheads, airplanes, bad shrimp. Orange skies that smell like fire. I also don’t want to be homeless, alone at the end of the world, silent when I should take a stand, lost in a crowd at a concert with a dead cell phone. Ugh. This list goes on and on.

Still, all hope is not lost. I am hardly the chicken shit that I say that I am on the evening of my very worst day (and I bet that you aren’t either!). I can stand bravely on a stage and say a thing, I can courageously share what I make with the world. I can have a hard conversation, rescue the spider from the sink, walk outside with my headphones on after dark. Last night I even fell asleep with my keys in the door. That is basically begging a bedroom murderer to make his move. Look at me! I have learned how to love people carefully (was it Virginia Woolfe who said “My love for you is not sloppy or blind”?), how to make art out of the messiest parts of the process, how to risk rejection and turn in the work. I can sit very still with myself and listen. I don’t always look away. I am brave enough to admit that I have control of so little, love dearly so much, and can tolerate whatever change comes to take way too soon. So it goes.

I Worried

by Mary Oliver

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?
Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?
Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.
Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?
Finally, I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.

Here we go,

Anne