Bittersweet

I spent this past weekend back home for a very short, family visit. Trips back home are always so bittersweet.  What makes them even more bittersweet is when I get to see my theatre family as well. This weekend I went to see Oklahoma at Church Hill Theatre. It was so well done and I got a chance to see so many old friends who I used to share the stage with. Every time I spend time with my theatre friends, I ask myself the same question: “Why did I ever leave?” Of course, I know the answer to that, but it doesn’t make it any easier to sit in the audience when all I want to do is rush back stage and run my fingers over the words etched in the wooden walls: “Ah, Wilderness!,” “Hello, Dolly!,” “The Music Man,” and so many others. I want nothing more than to go to the green room and put on my make-up before the show, pace backstage nervously, concentrating on my character and running my first line over and over in my head. As long as I have that first line, I know I will be fine.

But no. Instead, I sit in the audience and nearly cry as I watch one of the most compelling ballet numbers I think I have ever seen. I hold my hand up to my mouth as I stifle a sob. Once upon a time, that was me, dancing for the crowd. Once, that was me pouring out my soul on stage.

I drove home that night and smiled as I saw the moon in front of my car. In the first show I ever did at CHT, I had the line, “The moon is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?” And every night after that show, I would look for the moon when I came to a stop in front of a large field. There was never anyone at that stopping place, so often I would just gaze up at the moon in all of his majesty. I would then blow him a kiss and bid him goodnight.

Ever since that show, stopping at that place and greeting the moon has always been a tradition of mine. It is strange, I know—I have many strange customs, but they are all part of the quirks of who I am. And last night, the moon was right there again, the place where I do believe it permanently resides: perched above the field at the crossroads. Whenever I come to that stop, I feel like I am seventeen again, innocent, and unbroken.

That night, I arrived home at midnight. I got out of my car and closed the door. There were no lights in the yard. I stood in silence for a moment, wondering what was wrong. Then it hit me. It was utterly and completely dark. The only light was from the stars that pin-pricked the black sky. I hadn’t seen that kind of dark in months. My house in the city is surrounded by lampposts, so even at the darkest hour of the night, there is light everywhere, sometimes even drowning out the stars. I had forgotten about the darkness—that beautiful darkness that wanted to envelope me in the cool folds of its exciting, but threatening embrace. In that moment I wanted to get lost in it and never return.

But I returned anyway. We all must return to the day, to the light when the dream has ended. Those few bitter sweet moments faded away and soon I was driving back to my home by the beach. It’s not that I want to live anywhere else. It’s just that reminders of the beautiful past, or of painful things crop up every once in a while, bring a sting with them.

Even today, I put on a fragrance that I haven’t worn in a couple of months. But as soon as I dabbed a little on my wrists, I was taken back to Valentine’s Day, and there was a stab in my heart that hurt. I thought that part of me had healed over.

Then, a little later, someone texted me to tell me about a swarm of fireflies, and that summer had official arrived. There was another stab. Sometimes, I just want to be left alone. I don’t need those reminders, those ghosts from the past. They are dead and gone, but I am alive! I live and will live. I love and will love.