Don't Quit Your Daydream

Don't Quit Your Daydream. Those are the words on a shirt that my mom brought me on her recent visit. 

I was pondering the sentence and how much I liked it and how my mom knows how to shop for me and then I thought, "What even is my daydream anymore?" And while I'm not 100% certain, what I know is that it has always been to create something that lasts. To maybe, someday, write something worth reading or direct something worth watching or sing something worth listening to. I used to want that to happen on a grand scale, to see my name plastered up on some sign in flashing neon lights. Now, to not have my children cringe when I sing a note is daydream enough for me, I suppose.  

It's interesting, the way I have allowed other people to influence how I feel about my own art. It's true that constructive criticism should be embraced. I would certainly hate to be one of those delusional people on American Idol who fancy themselves a brilliant singer when they actually just sound like a wounded cat who is also in heat. But, my overwhelming desire to be liked and to be appreciated has been a huge detriment to my promotion in any medium in which I may otherwise have had a small measure of success.

Why is it that we need to hear positive affirmation approximately 11,225 times before we'll believe it but one person saying one negative thing about us is enough to do us in?

In high school, I had two different theatre classes. I knew I wanted to continue in the theatre and I worked as hard in those two classes as anyone. I listened intently to the notes and I fixed it. I paid attention to everything, as desperate for improvement as I was for air.

At the end of the year, one teacher went around the room saying positive things about everyone's growth as an actor. The bell rang just as she got to me and she put her hand on my head and hurriedly said that I was a nice girl. Literally, everyone before me had been given these glowing reviews of their performances. From the stars of the shows down to the chorus members. Nice is nice, I guess, but it wasn't exactly on point. I was 17, vulnerable, and a complete perfectionist. In that moment, nice sounded a lot like, "I can't think of a bloomin' thing to say about you."

I would never tell anyone that I wanted to continue doing theatre because I was so afraid of rejection. Just before graduation I confessed to the other teacher that "when I grew up" I wanted to be an actress. She looked at me, cocked her head slightly to one side and said, matter of factly, "Lori, you already are." That was half a lifetime ago and I can still remember what the rooms looked like and how both sentences made me feel. One spoke life. The other tore away confidence. One made me question whether I'd had any impact at all while the other ran through my mind whenever I needed a confidence boost during my four years as a theatre major.

In college, I had many professors who praised my creative writing. I loved to write and any creative writing assignment felt a lot more like fun and a lot less like work. Once though, JUST ONCE, I had a professor, who did not teach writing, tell me that I needed to find my own voice and stop trying to copy my friend's writing style. Now, it should be noted that my friend is an infinitely better writer than I am. She's published and phenomenal. But my voice had remained consistent from high school throughout college. It wasn't changing because my friend was an amazing writer anymore than it changed when I read Hemingway, Tolstoy, or the Saturday morning funnies. Always the sponge and never the duck, I allowed that one comment to bother me for far too long, to shake my confidence, to make me wonder if maybe I just shouldn't write at all.

On the other hand, I had a lit professor approach me one day. Earlier in the week, I had been asked to read some of my poetry at a literature luncheon. On this particular day, I had just performed a Laban Crisis Piece as part of a grant application for the Theatre department. The poems were raw--the result of what had been both a painful and joyful year. The crisis piece had also left me feeling bare and exposed. This professor was highly respected by myself and, seemingly, every human being on campus. He came up to me, placed a hand on my shoulder and said, "Thank you. I just love the way you express yourself through your art." He referenced my poetry and my performance and told me that they were a great blessing to him. I have clung to that one compliment for fifteen years.

Because, after all, aren't we all just striving to be seen? In those moments, high school drama teacher and college lit professor had seen me and validated my experience and my dream.

The truth of the matter is that I'm never going to win at any of these arts forms. But it's taken me a long time to realize that it was never about winning in the first place. My daydream is to create. It isn't to be the very best--not anymore, anyway. If I can sing a song and hit the notes, it doesn't matter that I'll never be a recording artist or win a Tony. If I can write a story, it doesn't matter that it won't be published. If I can bring something to life on stage, it doesn't matter that it isn't on Broadway. Or Off-Broadway. Or even Off-Off-Off-Broadway.

I want to make art. I want to encourage in my children--and those I have any influence over--a desire to create and to express who they are, so that we can really see them. I want to encourage their dreams, not discourage them. They may not be the next Picasso, Sondheim, or Shakespeare.

But then again, they might be. A kind word or a harsh one may well be remembered for decades. Both may be relied upon to make or break the artist.

Encourage. Create.

And don't quit your daydream.

Do You Remember When I Was In a Movie Musical?

It's been awhile since I've done an installment of Lori's Crazy Dreams. I mean, really, it's been awhile since I've written much about anything aside from my broken heart. But last night I dreamed a totally bizarre little fantasy. Before I start off with my actual dream, let me explain something to you.

Long before the entire world knew the name Idina Menzel/Adele Dazeem, I knew it. Don't get me wrong, there were still a lot of people who knew who she was, but she was a theatre person name, not a household name. I heard her voice ring out of my speakers on a Broadway original cast album and I fell head over heels in love.

At that point, in the fall of 1999, you could find a small amount of information about her on the Internet. She hadn't been Elsa yet. She hadn't even been Elphaba. She was just a Broadway actress. This was long before she won a Tony. Long before I flew to New York City to see her in an off-Broadway show. Long before my husband and I saw her in concert. Still, all of those things happened long before she Let It Go and became a name that everyone except John Travolta knows.

On the one hand, I'm happy for her and obviously it shows what good taste I have in artists. But, on the other hand, I want to be like, "WHERE WERE ALL OF YOU "FANS" IN 1999? GET OFF MY THEATRE BANDWAGON YOU MAINSTREAM DISNEY HACKS!" But, well, mostly I'm super thrilled because I'VE LOVED HER FOR SO LONG.

Okay. I'm climbing down off my soap box now. So, the dream.

You guys, I was in a movie musical with Idina Menzel! This is absolutely and utterly ridiculous. I mean, I woke up and for the first time I didn't think, "I'm a sad mess because my daughter died." I thought, "That was gut-busting hilarious. How ridiculous." So what we've learned here is that Idina Menzel has magical dream powers that move me a fraction of a step in the right direction on the grief timeline. But, also...gut-busting.

Listen. Idina Menzel has an incredible set of golden pipes. Her tone is often so gorgeous that it sends chills straight down my spine. Oh to be able to sing like that. (And I am hardly referring to Frozen here but to her body of work as a whole.) My pipes are like rusty sewer pipes that, when I'm not being self-deprecating, are passable at best. They allowed me to be cast in exactly one musical in college. In this dream, I did not suddenly sing well enough to be cast opposite Idina Menzel. Nope. She had her voice and I had mine and somehow we were in a musical together.

That's not really even the dream though. The dream took place at the very end of the very last day of filming and even though I had spent weeks filming with my Broadway girl-crush, I suddenly felt very much like I needed to have my picture taken with her. But I did not want it to come across like I was the weird fan girl that I am and so I tried to be all nonchalant about it. "Idina, why don't we take a picture together to commemorate this last day of filming..." so that I can hang it on my wall and pretend that we are best friends forever and also show it to my friends and family and great-grandchildren for always and FOREVER! And Idina was like, "Yeah, sure." Because, while I'm quite positive she was also wondering how I'd managed to be cast in this movie musical, she was, at least, being a professional and we had spent the last many weeks as coworkers.

Here's the weird thing, though. (Because nothing else about this dream has been so far at all.) We were in the middle of the desert. The entire film crew was gone. There was one dude left and I think he was from craft service. All I had was my phone and at first we were trying to do a selfie together. Which, was cool because I HAD MY ARM AROUND IDINA MENZEL AND MY FACE PUSHED UP AGAINST HERS AND EVEN THOUGH IT WAS A DREAM I MIGHT NEVER WASH MY FACE AGAIN. But it was simultaneously not cool because part of my face was missing or one of our heads looked enormous while the other one looked tiny or every other selfie problem. I could sense she really wanted to go and so we snapped another one but it somehow only had her hair in it and I said to myself, "No one will believe I made a movie with Idina Menzel if only her hair is in my phone selfie." So. Never mind the fact that WE MADE A MOVIE TOGETHER ON ACTUAL FILM THAT WAS ACTUALLY GOING TO BE SEEN IN THEATERS.

Then Idina Menzel said, "I should go get Walker." (Walker is her son, for those of you who haven't Internet stalked her in the ways that I have during these past 16 years.) And then I was like, "Oh. Yeah. Me too. I mean, not Walker. I don't have a kid named Walker. But I do have my own sons to get back to. I have sons." She laughed, "I know." And she kind of pushed me a little bit like we were actually friends because, well, we'd been filming together for weeks. So it would seem, in this dream, that Idina Menzel somehow thought of me as a coworker and/or friend while I somehow thought of myself as an awkward stalker. So she started to walk away and I shrieked, "Hey...Guy...come take our picture!" (You guys, I was SO painful.)

So then, this poor craft services guy comes over and tries to take our picture and for whatever reason, he could not figure out how to use my phone. He was bumbling around with it and accidentally calling people and I kept trying to show him how to make it work and then Idina started laughing and then I was laughing and suddenly I wasn't SUPER FAN GIRL PRETENDING NOT TO BE SUPER FAN GIRL anymore. I was Idina Menzel's friend. Albeit, her much less talented friend.

From now on I'm going to say things like, "Remember when I was in a movie musical with Idina Menzel?" And you are all going to reply with, "Yes we do!" Because it has dramatically improved my mood today and I'm going to go ahead and take what I can get. After three weeks of waking up every day and thinking about how Kate is gone, I woke up and thought about what a geek I am and also how cool it would be to make a movie musical with my most favorite Broadway star.

So, do you guys all remember when I was in a movie musical with Idina Menzel?

Ripple Effect

There is a mountain in my hometown. The hike is difficult but the view from the top is stunning. Last night, in keeping with recent blog themes, I dreamed that I was climbing to the top. Except, instead of doing it the traditional way and using my fully functional legs, I was in a sitting position, balancing with my arms, using my core to hold my legs in a fashion perpendicular to my torso. My legs were suspended several inches above the ground and my arms labored under my full weight. I crept up the mountain inch by inch as I moved each hand back. I didn't climb face forward, in such a way that I could see the twists and turns of the trail. Instead I moved ahead with my back to what was coming, seeing only what had been before.

When the hike was completed, no one applauded my strange victory. In fact, it would seem that everyone pitied me. After all, why would someone with working legs and feet make hiking so much more difficult?

My dreams make no sense.

Usually.

But this one is about how to move forward. Effectively.

I don't have an answer to that question yet.

Troy and Garrett and Matthew and I, we are okay. Our daily life hasn't changed. We love each other more now, perhaps, than ever before. But we find ourselves caught in the ripple effect.

The repercussions of an event or situation experienced far beyond its immediate location. And so we pray for the point of impact, the place where the rock first dropped into the glassy water. We pray for the next ripple, and the next, and the next. We find ourselves swimming toward the center, wishing, with everything we have, that we could pull the rock from the bottom, hurl it back to shore and restore the water to it's original state. But we cannot.

We find ourselves metaphorically climbing a mountain, backward, using arms instead of legs, looking only at the past. Trying to turn our heads so they are at least pointing in the right direction, but struggling against our fatigued muscles to even take the next blind step.

We find ourselves dreaming.

For in the dreaming, we can write the story differently.

Nighttime Is Getting Weird Around Here

Maybe I'll just write an entire series on my dreams. Because that, right there, would fill up this blog and then some. Also, why does my mother keep playing such an integral role in my subconscious? A few nights ago she wouldn't leave my bedside but last night I was getting ready for my wedding and she was off doing who-knows-what but certainly not ATTENDING TO MY EVERY NEED.

I do not know where these dreams are coming from. First, I'm doing absolutely nothing but dying of meningitis. Then, I'm running around like an insane chicken with mange trying to walk down the aisle.

My wedding was supposed to happen like RIGHT THAT MINUTE and y'all, I was NOT ready. I had done my own hair which, let's just face it, should have tipped me off that I was dreaming because, JUST NO. I mean, I am all for other people doing their own hair for their wedding but I am not one of those girls. I am definitely a sit down and get 'er done by someone who knows what she is doing kind of girl. So my hair was longer than it is and blonde and gorgeous. Like, seriously. I'd a hair transplant, apparently. I'd curled it into beautiful waves--well beyond my own hair expertise--and it was going to be the talk of the reception, I kid you not.

"Wow, did you see her hair?" one would stammer.

"Stunning," another would reply.

Except that, then, there was a tiara involved. Apparently, there was no veil. Unlike your average, every day, run of the mill tiaras, however, this one clasped together in the back to make it look like a crown.

Do I subconsciously think I'm the queen of the world?

And I could NOT figure out what to do. Was I supposed to pull my hair out and have it clasp underneath my hair, at the nape of my neck? Was I actually supposed to sport it like a crown? Why had I not done a trial run before that very moment?

THEN, the wedding coordinator started sending people down the aisle. Kids, I was NOT EVEN IN MY DRESS.

Thankfully, my bridesmaids, none of which was helping me with my hair or my dress or at managing my life, must have crept down the aisle at snail speed because A LOT transpired between the hair crisis and the moment when I blessedly woke up really having to use the bathroom.

So, off went my bridesmaids and I was alone.

Here's the part where I remind you that my mother was SITTING VIGIL AT MY DEATHBED IN MY LAST MEMORABLE DREAM. Because I do not know what was going on with her in this particular nighttime reverie. "There you are," she exclaimed as she waltzed into the room. It wasn't weird in the dream but now that I am awake and coherent, where the heck else would I have been?

"Oh, you made it," I said. All chill and nonchalant like. Oh, you came. Meh. It's cool either way. I mean you're my mom and I'm your only daughter but if you hadn't come it would have been fine. Now that you're here, how's my hair?

I had finally managed to get my hair somewhat acceptable with the tiara-crown but she started playing with it and it fell down and we had to start over which, of course we had time for because there were still four bridesmaids in the hallway, yet to walk down the aisle. I tried not to cry as she worked on my hair but my eyes were misty and my mascara started to run anyway. "Stop," she told me. "Or you'll have to fix your makeup."

"Hurry!" I kept telling her. As though MY wedding was going to happen without ME.

She got my hair back to being gorgeous even with the giant, sparkly crown. Then we got me into the dress. The dress stopped at my mid calf for reasons unknown to me because I would not wear a wedding dress that stopped above my feet. Not because there is anything wrong with that but because, personal preference. All of this to say, I had to wear shoes. There was no not wearing shoes because everyone could see my feet.

AND MY SHOES WERE NO WHERE! NO WHERE.

And the last bridesmaid was down the aisle.

For some reason, there were countless boxes of shoes but none of them were the right shoes. I pulled out bright blue sandals. I threw the lids off of Nike running shoes. I found black Reef flip flops. But the silvery heels that I was supposed to be wearing were no where in sight. (Who was I marrying anyway? Because I would not have worn heels to marry my Hobbit.)

I was PANICKING, people. I mean it. I could hear the crowd getting restless. I was all emotions and craziness and WHERE ARE MY SHOES? My mom was on the other side of the room throwing lids off of more boxes. "Are these them?" she'd ask, showing me slippers and loafers and snow boots. I think that maybe, in this dream, she was three sheets to the wind or something because SNOW BOOTS? With a wedding dress?

And as my level of panic continued to rise, I suddenly woke up.

I padded my way into the bathroom, flipped on the light and looked at myself in the mirror. Then, I audibly said, "What kind of tiara fastens in the back?" The important questions in life always confront me in my sleep.