The Regular Stuff

I am often amazed that the "regular-ness" of my life is interesting to people. It's magical and wonderful to me, because my life has been, challenging. The longer I live, (which is not very long at all, my grandmother just celebrated her 93rd birthday, just thinking about doing ANYTHING for 93 years is impressive); the longer I live, more I realize how little I know, and just how "irregular" or "not normal" everyone's life is. There is no such thing as "regular" or "normal". So the fact that I have some semblance of something that seems like normal, or that is my idea of it, well that's the stuff dreams are made of.

But I do admit, the life of an artist, seems glamorous. KEYWORD: seems. Don't get me wrong. It definetly has its moments of glamour: curtain call on opening night, cast photos, cast party, interviews, etc etc. But those moments are just that: moments.

The rest of the time is, well: work, pain, constant self-examination, constant upgrading, constant learning, taking critiques, and criticism, solicited and unsolicited, laundry, and dinner, and "don't forget to..." and and and...

I think the thing that is most amazing is that I manage to remain sane. I am extremely blessed; I mean, extremely. I know people who have been through less and not survived with their minds intact. The only reason that I have the life I have, I think, is because God knew I would appreciate the process, the results; that I would relish the flow of it, and notice the patterns, and find wonder and magic and joy in them.

That I would get stupid excited over the littlest things and recognize them as incredible blessings and not just luck. That I would cry when others cry and hurt when they hurt, but still believe that there is joy in the morning and in the mourning. That I would see the beauty shining through the ashes.

That's the regular stuff. Everyday possesses just enough regular and just enough mystery and magic, if only we'll open our eyes to it.