I’m back to having moments of hating this time of year. I don’t know how I got here or whats going on either but I just have these momentary bouts of feeling lost. I miss my father more than I can express. I’ve suppressed the pain because there is nothing more that I can do with it. Its not just my dad. Its everything. Everything I grew up with. I miss my youth. I miss the home where it always smelled familiar. Though I don’t want to return there permanently, I wish I could just go back for a visit in that third person time traveler sort of way to observe it and breathe it in. I miss the delicate snowflakes that would softly cloak the blades of grass that ensconced my yard, the biting outside air perfectly contrasting the internal warmth that permeated our home. I remember my mother, in her extremely ugly and tight usually mustard colored turtleneck sweaters, walking around the family room table. I don’t know what she was doing, but together though separately, we were listening to records. I was learning about Chopin and Prokofiev and history and theater. Sometimes we’d take a break and laugh at Fanny Brice playing Baby Snooks torturing her little brother, Robesspiere. I can recall contemplating “Robesspiere? What a strange name”. Snooks’ antics were so hysterical and her way of thinking was tremendously outside the box. These are the lessons that provided me with the tools of imagination. We didn’t watch much TV. In fact, we only had a 19″ black and white until I was almost 16 years old. No cable until I left for college. Instead of zoning on a TV or on video games, I used to sit there at that round hunk of wood, allowing the symphonic poems to stir my imagination and guide me until my pencil moved, and, before I knew it, was expelling a story. I loved to hear the music, close my eyes, and envision an entire ballet or Opera. Stories of love, and fear, and revenge all wrapped into one. Bold costumes and makeup and all the characters were there, just not necessarily the specifics. I could always feel the music so strongly in every ounce of my being and though it may have been madness, it was something I could do that would always bring me home, back to familiar smells and to the warmth from our hearth. In college I would put on my headphones and walk the long mile to class watching an entire narrative unfold in my imagination. That house is gone now along with the family that made it a home. My father is gone, my mother is slipping, and my siblings have grown and changed. All of that is fine and part of life and I understand and accept that. I just miss the feeling of safety. The feeling that good things can still come and that dreams don’t have to die, but instead can be realized.
Meanwhile, I am working on a project that is definitely not alleviating my situation. I am a story teller. I was born a story teller. I was raised to be a story teller. I am terrified that the awfulness of what I am exposed to on this particular project will destroy me. Of course, realizing I have an extra vivid imagination, I logically know I wont be “destroyed”, but I am in pain from what I imagine feels like Chinese water torture. Its a slow agonizing discomfort that will continue to build on itself until my imagination parishes into tiny little dust bunnies that will disseminate from a gust of wind.
I realize the point of this blog is to help people see the silver lining and to share my discoveries on how to stay young at heart and age well, so I apologize for posting something prior to finding a way to twist the scenario around.
For now I guess my answer is I will just keep on going to ballet because at least there I can feel the music and move to it. I wish I didn’t have physical limitations so I could move to it the way I feel it but for now I can allow it to flow through me and touch my imagination. I will also focus on all the new things I’m learning. Also I recently freelanced for Cartoon Network. I really missed it there and it felt amazing to step back into that environment. I will reach out and see if I can collaborate with them some more. I hope that these can be my bandaid until I figure things out. The buddhists believe that suffering is the path to enlightenment……I will keep you posted.