The man with one leg

We spent Christmas in central New Jersey, at the home of a very dear couple and their four (almost suspiciously) well-adjusted children. After a delicious turkey dinner and more helpings of pie than is elegant, we settled back in their cosy rumpus room to review, over a snifter of bourbon, the year's highlights. It's something my parents like to do at the end of any holiday, or significant period of time; a kind of stocktake, or personal "top-ten".

On our host's list was the funeral of a dear friend of his from Yale. The funeral, while naturally sad, was an affecting reminder of the difference a resilient spirit can make in meeting life's challenges.

He told us his friend, Jim, was a 300-pound Ivy league footballer and handsome theater major, who one night in 1985, shortly after graduating, was struck down by a New York city bus. He was pronounced dead on arrival (they actually drew the chalk outline), but after 18 hours of surgery he stabilized, and awoke from his coma relatively in tact. Minus his left leg below the knee.

So, he worked and trained and transformed himself into an 150-pound iron-man triathlete, setting records and routinely finishing ahead of 80% of the able-bodied athletes.

Then, in 1993 while he was racing on a closed track triathalon in California, a marshal misjudged his speed and directed a van to cross the road. The van and Jim collided, sending him flying into a signpost. He broke his neck and was paralyzed.

The story goes on; he begins again, this time setting up a charity known as the 'Choose Living Foundation', and on and on, right up to being presented with an Arthur Ashe Courage Award at the 2005 ESPY's, by none other than Oprah Winfrey.

...

Last night it snowed. New York was hit by about 20 inches in less that 24 hours. A bone-fide, history-making blizzard. So my journalist husband insisted I join him and his camera out in the street, that I may experience history as it happened.

This is something of what that experience felt like:

This morning I left the house around 7am. It was light, but no plows or pedestrians had carved a path. I was a pioneer, sometimes steeped in snow up to the thighs; certainly plenty found its way inside my rather useless gumboots (or wellies, or rainboots).

In a moment of grand delusion, I imagined myself to be just like a child living in a remote, third-world village, having to cross a rushing river to get to school. Except my river was soft and fluffy, and eventually deposited me into the subway, and directly into Manhattan, where the snowplows and the Starbucks were all up and running.

...

In all my New-Year-resolving and goal-setting, I have made a lot of noise about twenty-eleven being 'The Year of Making Strides', but when surviving the first snow fall of the season marks an epic victory, I can't help but wonder if some peoples' strides are more impressive than others.

Now, I know these encounters and life lessons have a way of wearing off, giving over to the neuroses and trivialities of the every-day. Yet, while I never expect to live life with the sort of true-grit and seismic impact of a Jim MacLaren, (or for that matter the boy our other Christmas host taught in Haiti over the summer, who crossed ACTUAL rivers as part of his three-hour journey to school), I wonder if in 2011, I might set the bar a bit higher for myself, and when I feel like I'm failing or limping through life, to imagine what it would be like to make strides with just one leg.

At the very least, it might lend a little more grace to the occasion.

Making up for lost blogs

It's Christmas time again. And for the first time, EVER, I'm spending the holiday in New York City.

Yes it's cold. Yes I'm away from family. And yes, it's amazingly beautiful.

Christmas Tree at Rockefeller Center

My mother and sister were in town the first week of December, as a preemptive festive strike.

We discount-designer shopped at Century 21, we got $22 mani/pedi's, we drank wine in a hotel rooftop bar overlooking the Manhattan skyline, we saw Bernadette Peters and Elaine Stritch do their (rather remarkable) thing in 'A Little Night Music' on Broadway and we decorated my first, ever, live American Christmas Tree.

They were also here to see me perform in one of the two 'Christmas Carol' adaptations that kept me gainfully employed throughout the month of December, up at Boscobel in Garrison (home to the Shakespeare Festival during the summer).

The second performance was in the city at the beautifully refurbished Morgan Library on Madison Avenue, with Dominic Chianese (or Uncle Junior for any "Sopranos" fans) in the lead. It turns out the library owns Dicken's original manuscript, and produced a new 'chamber' version of the classic by composer Ray Leslee. The evening went over very well, and I'm now on the Morgan Library's radar as someone who can produce an authentic British accent for all their upcoming Jane Austin and Emily Bronte readings. :-)

Until such time, 'twill have to be enough to enjoy the season and not worry too much about what's next.

So for now, good food, good nog,

and worst case scenario,

more time to blog.

Merry Christmas... from Dr. Seuss, apparently.

Boxers v Pants

At an impromptu welcome back BBQ on Monday night (Labor Day) our host Patrick filled us in on some of the success he's having with his blog. It's sports related... (I want to say football) and he's connected to something called a 'blog network', and even attends sports related events replete with 'media pass'... suffice to say he's operating on a slightly different level from me.

He's even starting to earn a paycheck; not enough to live on (yet), but certainly a nice bonus.

Patrick tells us that his boss in the blogosphere has just quit his regular job, and now works from home, all day... blogging.

"Livin' the dream," says Patrick.

Dan grunts, knowingly.

"Is that the dream?" I ask, innocently enough.

"Are you kidding?! Getting to sit at home all day in your boxer shorts!?"

Dan just nods, with his eyes closed, as if the mere mention of such a possibility is almost too much bliss to handle.

Patrick's question is clearly rhetorical, so I don't answer it. But it makes for an interesting distinction.

I usually hesitate to speak for all women, but I like to imagine that for most of us 'the dream' is usually represented in our imaginations by the donning of things, be it a red carpet gown, or scrubs, legal robes, or even just great sunglasses.

And if our dreams turn to the kind of self-employment that involves working out of one's living room, it's probably because we imagine being able to make our own hours, and fit our work around families and friends, or some greater artistic pursuit that doesn't yet pay the bills.

Whereas it turns out that for men, the great obstacle of life to be overcome... is pants.

Let every man be master of his timesheet.

Monday was Labor Day, and I returned home after three months at the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival playing Cressida in Troilus and Cressida. The summer took on a speed I had not quite anticipated, and as we rolled down the steep hill of August, more than one wheel threatened to come off the cart.

On August 12th, my friend and mentor Paul Rudd died, after a ten month battle with pancreatic cancer. His memorial service (the best I've seen, and incidentally, a full house) was on my birthday. We drove to Greenwich, Connecticut to join in the laughing, crying and singing ('Take me out to the Ballgame!' and my favourite, 'Isn't it grand, boys... let's have a bloody good cry!)

Paul is nearly impossible to capture in words, though if anyone could have managed it, it would have been him. A poet, a clown, an artist, a wit. Someone you could never imagine feeling lost around - he simply gave off too much light.

Everyone had her own claim on Paul; mine was that rather awkwardly, at the beginning of my third year of graduate school, I asked him to be my mentor. (A friend recently pointed out if I'd used 'mentor' as a verb, it might have sounded less naff, but regardless...) He said yes, and watched over my work very closely all through that final year, even helping me with my first Shakespeare Festival audition. But the truth is Paul was a mentor whether you contractually obligated him to it or not.

Paul used to talk about paradox. A lot. Paradox and danger... these are two things an actor should not just look for in the text, but strive for in performance. Everyone loved Paul, and most will find much better ways to honour him than I, but I will say that as the embodiment of paradox, a truly complex and human woman, Cressida seemed the perfect role to offer up in gratitude.

Besides being an extremely rewarding experience, this summer was also my first time going head-to-head with notorious New York Times critic Ben Brantley. I lost two nights sleep and more than one margarita to the battle. Then, it turned out, he loved it, and everything was all right again.

There is a conversation to be had about critics; how much power they wield, whether their opinion should be valued above others... whether one should read her own reviews, but that's a conversation for another day, when I've had more sleep, and when I'm cool enough to care less about my own press.

Also in August, I shot a little commercial for a local bank in a place called 'Coxsackie'... try saying that with a straight face.

And like a gift from the out-of-work actor gods, I got about six days of corporate roleplaying work, which translates to roughly six months rent, and should have left me feeling pretty relaxed coming back to NYC, with a brand new agent, a great review and the world at my feet.

And yet, here I am, THE DAY after returning, sitting at a desk on the 47th floor of a building in midtown Manhattan... temping. Sometimes temping means being very busy, jumping in without much background, trying to play the role of someone who knows what they're doing. Today, temping means sitting around trying to kill ten hours on the internet, WITHOUT access to Facebook or Gmail. In the last four hours, I have answered one phone call.

I'm not exactly sure why I'm here. I mean, presumably the firm had a reason for employing me, albeit not very gainfully. But why am I here? Fear of long term unemployment? Impractical shoe budget? A chance to reconnect with the big, bold city, by way of a pretty spectacular view?

Who can tell... but it certainly can't be that I secretly enjoy the work.

The experience of temping at a large, investment manager has all the menial duties of 'Devil Wears Prada' and all the testosterone of 'Mad Men', but with none of the free clothes or afternoon martinis.

Ah well, one more day.

Then I'll buy some shoes, drink a cocktail, and go back to being an artist.

I act therefore I am....

Backyard on the first day of spring. Beautiful.

There have been other days that might have considered themselves the first, but then it rained again, or snowed again, or snowed and rained again. Today it feels like Spring means it this time.

I'm stealing an hour before I go in to the theater to continue with Tech Rehearsals for Limonade Tous les Jours by Charles L. Mee. Our first performance will be just two days from now. In the cell theater, Chelsea, New York, New York.

Yesterday I found out that The Times (translated for non-NYC dwellers as 'The New York Times') will come to review it. This is about as big a deal as it gets for theater folks in New York. Regardless of whether they like it or hate it (and sometimes they really hate it), the point is, you're on the page. You exist. A really famous paper says so. Of course, it would be great if they thought you didn't completely suck at existing, but at this stage of the game, that's just icing on the cake.

I'm having a stellar year. And since the weather matches my mood, I thought I'd update this poor, neglected blog, which I've kept limping along for four years now.

It began in January, when I flew off to Hilton Head Island, SC to perform the role of Gabriella in 'Boeing, Boeing'. Hilton Head is a resort destination, where a beach meets a bunch of golf courses. Not surprisingly the airline formerly known as 'Hooters Air' used to fly direct to Hilton Head, before they became defunct. During the winter months it's quite subdued, but still very pretty, and the perfect way to kick off the year with a six-week contract. Having explored the wilds of New York City a few times now, Mum and Dad even opted to time their annual visit in with the job, and so I had two weeks of living in the same neighborhood as my parents... something I haven't done for 15 years now.

We managed to fit a lot in; a lovely trolley ride around Savannah, a long drive to beautiful Charleston to see where the civil war began (at Dad's insistence), dinners and brunches, and of course, the play. (Which, by-the-by sold-out and extended). But I think my favourite moment was popping home, starving, between a matinee and evening performance, coming through the door to smell mum's pork chops in plum sauce waiting on the table. Amazing.

The week I arrived back in New York I hit the ground running, with two auditions, training prep for my new job teaching Shakespeare Workshops in schools, my first ever 'Neutral American Speech' student, and rehearsals for Limonade.

Since the end of February that has been my routine. And now here we are about to open.

There are, of course, infinite stories (and hours) between those two sentences. So much doubt, and anxiety, and stress, and a lost voice, and a wonderful trip to Paris courtesy of my incredible brother Brendan, and a million meetings about budgets, and fundraising, and ticket sales, and how to bring it all together.

But now here we are. The show will go on. As for the rest, who knows?

Just Yesterday I put my sister Cynthia and seven year old niece Ana in a car for Newark Airport, after 9 days of having them stay two doors up from us in a bed and breakfast in Park Slope. Again, we fit a lot in. Theater and museums and discount designer shopping. And again, my two favourite moments were feeling Ana squeeze my hand tightly as she sat in the chair waiting oh-so-anxiously to get her ears pierced, and then, having Cynthia in the room, when I received the call from the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival to say I'd be playing Cressida (of Troilus and Cressida) in the upcoming Summer Season at Boscobel, should I choose to accept.

Which of course, I did. Immediately.

We hugged in the living room as Dan ran out to get champagne to toast the fact that I now know where my paycheck is coming from right through September. But so much more than that, it's a fantastic part, in a really great play, with a company that feels like home.

No one should ask for more than that.

So all is pretty wonderful from the vantage point of this little backyard in Park Slope. And it's best to capture it now. Because in six months I could be unemployed, and uninspired, and badly reviewed in the New York Times... Twice!

Or it could be something else entirely. Who knows?

Meanwhile, here's some much more eloquent musings on the beauty of theater, and more than that, being able to exist in the moment - courtesy of the lovely Dan.

http://www.ted.com/talks/patsy_rodenburg_why_i_do_theater.html