Thursday, June 19, 2014

This Means War

I was in grade school. Sixth grade as I recall.  Young enough that boys and girls still 'fought' with each other (fighting being the younger variation of teasing or flirting) and still called each other by their last names. “Hey, Johnson!” - my given name.   I attended a Catholic grade school just over a mile from my home.  And in those days, we had to walk to school.  Winters being what they are in Minnesota, there was plenty of snow on the ground, the depth of which you had to walk through by lifting your legs like you were marching.  It took focus and energy.  It took even more focus and energy when someone was in your path, making it difficult.  On this particular day, there was a boy from my class making it difficult - once again. I had begun to dread the walk home, knowing that I would probably be pummeled for the umpteenth time by snowballs thrown one after the other by a boy nick-named Marshmallow.  This nick-name was a variation on his last name which I will not divulge because I feel certain he has turned out to be a fine upstanding man and I do not want to sully his reputation. 

At any rate, I was on the last portion of my walk that constituted Como Park - just one long block from the streets where homes (and witnesses) were situated - when the snowballs began to hit me. I was alone.  And I'm sure I was afraid.  But I was also used to it.  I expected it.  Of course that didn't make it easier.  There might have even been a tad of resignation.  “So, my young life has come to this - defending myself against snowballs.”  However, more than anything, I was . . . pissed. 'The hit' had happened regularly enough that my fear turned into anger.  Maybe even defiance. I don't know how or why, but a spirit rose up inside me. When the snowball hit my face and filled my glasses with white chips of ice, I heard myself say, 'Marshmallow, this means war!"  (I think I stole that phrase from Lucy of Peanuts fame.)  I ripped off my glasses, threw them aside, and started making my own snowballs. And tossed them as fast as I could cement them in my palms. 

Adversity. Well, at least a childhood version of adversity. 

This memory has moved forward in my mind because of the stories I've been watching on film of late.  Catching up on last season's Academy nominees, adversity is a consistent theme (one could argue that is true of all stories). Everything from “Captain Phillips” to “Dallas Buyers Club” to “12 Years a Slave.”  Even films like “Saving Mr. Banks” and “Her” revolve around overcoming personal adversity.  In talking about his film “Gravity,” Alfonso Cuarón discusses the fact that most of life is filled with adversity with only a sprinkling of joyous moments in between.

Is it the time we are living in that these adversity-driven films are prevalent?  Is the 21st century fraught with more problems and conflicts than previous centuries, hence a slew of stories with the same theme?  The wonderful writer and historian David McCullough says there has never been 'a simpler time.'  Every time has been difficult for the people who are living it.  Certainly my younger-self would say “Hear, hear!”  If that is true, then adversity is a part of our humanness.  Perhaps our attraction to watching these stories on stage, film or television, witnessing adversity in others is something that helps us overcome our personal insecurities and fears.  It's part of the reason I love watching the Olympics or the Kennedy Center Honors - it gives me hope and encouragement to see an athlete or artist overcome all the odds.  It's also probably why I hated watching re-runs of sit-coms like “I Dream of Jeanie,” where nothing ever seemed to go right for Major Healy.

I am often struck by what makes one person fight, push and ultimately conquer while another person struggles, exhausts and is defeated.

Is fear the common denominator in all of this?  And if so, do some of us allow it to overtake us, and others feel it, but push through it anyway?  Does anyone out there live without fear?

I go through periods of experiencing fear in the middle of the night. I wake up for whatever reason, and the Rolodex cards start flipping - like a checklist of topics that can make me worry and fret and even regret.  Money, career, family.   “Why did I. . .?  What if I. . . ?  How can I. . .?”  It's a vicious cycle that can be hard to break. If I allow it to, prayer can calm my heart, and help me to sleep.  I envision God's angels carrying my prayers to heaven and helping me fall into a deep slumber.  But I'm not always able to let go and allow that to happen.

I think it's because rooted deep within me is something that, at times, is not allowing the present to work its magic.  When I think about it, in nearly every area of my life, the need to be present in the moment is difficult to maintain.  As an actress, it is a constant struggle to be able to tell the story with freedom no matter who is in the room.  Engaging the play-spirit, as Diana Castle says, and not being ahead or behind, but being in the here and now. 

So what is the answer? Because if indeed our lives are full of more adversity than joy, we are all going to repeatedly come up against this struggle every day.  

The poet Rilke said:

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

Living the questions.  I like that. I love how the pressure to be and do and accomplish is taken out of the equation when you are living the questions. 

Taking the pressure off of myself doesn't give me permission to eat a bag of croutons on the couch while watching re-runs of “Sex in the City” (too specific of an example not to be true?).  I still need to push, create, learn, even when I'm not sure what the result will be.  Living the questions is being present WITH the fear and WITHOUT the fear. It's ok if you don't know the answers. They will come to you.  Or they won't.  And if they don't, maybe the answers aren't important. 

Leave it to Mr. Rilke, who lived over a century ago to reach forward in time with a profound wisdom. Perhaps Mr. McCullough is right - there hasn't ever been a 'simpler time.'  There's now.  And I'm grateful for that.  And for the questions that now brings.  So maybe, the next time a snowball hits me in the face (metaphorically speaking, of course), I'll say, "This means war." Or I'll be reminded to just live in the question of “How do I get this snow out of my eyes?”


10 comments:

  1. Wonderful post Nan. Your description of the Minnesota-walk-to-school-winter is spot on, and a real visceral memory for those of us who grew up there. Also, the idea of "dancing" with the fear (that's the way I put it…..but it's the same thing) is huge. Just learning to co-exist with it, without the sleepless nights driving you deeper into the hole. I love that you are writing these…..more, please!

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    1. Michael, thank you so much for this - coming from you, it means a lot. Yes, you know those winters well. I deeply appreciate the encouragement.

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  2. Loved this! Excellent words, challenging to hear.

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    1. Thank you so much, Tom. I really appreciate that.

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  3. Wow, MUCH better food for thought than I expect from a blog entitled "This means war!" But I liked the intro into the mind-expanding material being grounded in, er, snow. Thanks for a read I'm going to ponder for a while!

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  4. Laurie, thank you for reading. I guess the Arizona equivalent would be the heat. But I can't think of what someone could throw at you? :)

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  5. Your sister Barbie directed me to your site. Glad she did. You're a very clear thinker and writer. Thanks for taking the time. Such thoughts and prose aren't born in a rush.

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    1. Pat, Thank you so much for taking the time to read and for those extremely kinds words. I truly appreciate it.

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  6. I have read several of your other posts. You're providing a gift. I am very impressed. Also rather taken with your sister.

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    1. Thank you, Pat. I am grateful for the encouragement.
      And yes, she is a special woman. I can understand why you would be taken with her.

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