Serendipity

I have moved an awful lot in my life and if there's one thing I know, it's that there is always a point during the process when one gets frantic and starts shoving stuff into boxes without regard for order or necessity or reason. As our friends showed up to help us move early last week, I reached that point. Our belongings were being trundled out of our home and there was still so much LOOSE stuff that I panicked and began wildly throwing things into boxes. Late that night, as we were about to settle in for our last night in the house, I realized that I had no idea where my wedding ring was.

Suffice it to say, screaming, horrific terror reigned for most of the night. I climbed in the moving truck, flashlight in my teeth, crawling over our packed furniture to try to peer into a dresser that I thought MIGHT house my errant wedding ring. I couldn't open the drawers to find out if it was there, so I sat down in my empty apartment and sobbed. I believe I even flung myself dramatically across a suitcase, keening. My husband offhandedly mentioned that I might have accidentally thrown it out. There was a loaded silence before I ran out to the garbage cans behind the building, leaving a trail of my own tears. 

Here's where the weirdness happens: I tore open a garbage bag that I had dumped a couple of hours earlier. I sorted through the trash, gulping back my own sobs. Eventually, I saw something gleam in the lone streetlight that illuminated our alley and felt my heart rise with hope. I brushed away the dust and effluvia, thinking that my misery was ended. What I found, though, was not my wedding ring, but a ring that I had given up for lost two full years ago. A ring nearly identical in style to my wedding ring that I had purchased from the same store that sold my husband my wedding ring.

Fast forward to last Thursday, when I finally unearthed the dresser from the moving truck... As soon as it was cleared, I tore the drawer open, dug through it and found my wedding ring. 

Had I not misplaced my wedding ring, I would never have dug through the trash to find that missing ring. It would have been sent to a landfill, never to be found. I don't know if there's a lesson here or not, but I am kind of, sort of awed by the serendipity of it all...

Letting Go

As a child, I was a whiny kid, always looking for an excuse not to try something that was difficult for me. Usually that meant some kind of physical activity, as I was a C.O.G.A.M. (Child of Girth and Mass...a fat kid). When I was diagnosed with asthma, I believe I almost hugged my doctor because he had just provided me with a lifetime "get out of physical exertion free" card. Somewhere along the line, though, everything changed. In fact, the surest way to get me to do something now is to imply that I can't do it. I developed a kind of maniacal tenacity, as is evidenced by the large number of songs on my iPod with the title "Hold On." That tenacity has benefitted me in a career like mine. In the performing arts, oftentimes the race goes to the person who was just too stubborn to quit, so it became a method of professional survival for me to hold on as long as I could. Moreover, it became a point of pride. I was tough, I was strong, I wasn't ever going to give up... I even committed the poem Invictus to memory and briefly considered it as a tattoo option. "My head is bloody, but unbowed"? Hell yeah! It only occurred to me occasionally that sometimes I held on to certain things longer than was probably necessary. Sometimes, I'd open my clenched fist only to see that whatever I was holding on to had died or disappeared or changed in some irrevocable way. That kind of realization hurts, so I did my best to ignore it. I don't know if that was the wisest choice.

The reason I bring all of this up is because I'm leaving Chicago. I've done this before, actually. I left Chicago back in '06 to pursue a graduate degree (at a school whose mascot is the bulldog...the epitome of tenacity). As I left that first time, I told everyone that I was not going to continue to pursue acting any more -- that I was embarking on a life of academia and I would become a professor. The sneaky thing about saying that, though, was that I was only giving the appearance of letting go of my performance career. I knew I would have to perform as part of my degree program for the next three years. And I knew I had work as a performer during the summers. I wasn't really letting go of anything.

This time, I'm painfully aware of the dream I have to let go of in leaving. Like many improvisors, actors and comedians who have come to Chicago before me, I dreamed of working for The Second City. More specifically, I dreamed of being cast in a revue on one of their two resident stages. I wanted to tour for them and then get chosen to write and perform one of their iconic revues. I've worked for The Second City in a number of capacities, including as a performer on several occasions. Second City got me my Equity card (and got me out of a semester of grad school), but I never got that resident stage revue. I beat myself up for a while thinking that I could have achieved my dream if only I had come to Chicago sooner, if only I had not taken the job that brought me here in the first place and just started taking classes at Second City right away, if only I hadn't moved to Boston, if only, if only... The truth is that none of those things happened and even if they had, maybe none of it would have made a difference. I didn't get a stage. And I never will.

What I did get from Second City is the chance to perform in regional revues, the chance to travel the world, the chance to perform with some of my comedic idols, the chance to direct eager young artists and the chance to teach some wonderful, inspiring people. Second City gave me so, so much. In focusing so much on the dead dream in my clenched fist, though, I almost missed out on the vibrant, living reality all around me. In fact, that reality was larger than just Second City: it encompassed so many other thrilling and wonderful companies, spanning continents. I may not have achieved my dream, but I hadn't even known to dream about the things that I did achieve.

So, as I leave Chicago this time, I hope that I might be clear eyed about ALL of my dreams. I hope that I can watch the skyline receding in my rearview mirror with peace in my heart. I didn't do what I set out to do here, certainly, but how could I have known what wonderful surprises I had in store for me? Perhaps it's time to add "Let It Go" to my iTunes, to temper the "Hold On"s.