Pride & Determination: The Little Amaryllis that Could

   

Every Christmas, my aunt and uncle send us a beautiful amaryllis. It comes in a brown box, and the bulb is tucked into the soil, safely nestled in a little pot. This winter, it arrived a bit late; due to our move and the fact that we'd been in Florida for Christmas, we didn't actually receive the flower until around the time of losing our little Blueberry. As a result, in the midst of our pain and confusion, we gave it a quick spritz of water and set it on top of the refrigerator to fend for itself.


Several weeks later, Jeff reached into the fridge one night and laughed. When I turned around, he pointed up; our little bulb had huge green leaves that were brushing the ceiling! We offered the little plant a bit more water and placed it on the kitchen table to give it more room to grow. If we're honest, we were fairly certain the cats would eat it or knock it over, but we just didn't have the energy to do anything more for it.


Just a week after that, our first bloom sprouted. And then another. We turned it towards the window, sharing the beauty with our neighbors who strolled by, walking their dogs or playing with their little ones. The cats investigated but didn't attack, and we watched with great joy as the petals opened more each day. When they began to fade, we could hardly be sad--what a beautiful life our little flower had had, and what joy it had given us!


And then, before we had time to consider what to do with the pot and bulb, we noticed a new bud. And then another. And then two more! Suddenly, that tiny plant--the thing we'd barely had the energy to offer care and love to--had rewarded us with four beautiful blossoms! We watched in awe as they opened, turning the pot daily, watering it more attentively, shoeing Rosie away from the leaves. For the first time, this was our miracle, and we were prepared to defend and nurture it at all costs.


When those four buds left, we waved them goodbye without sadness. What a blooming season we'd had! And then, many weeks later, as I was about to move the bulb into a bag for hibernation, Jeff startled me one evening by announcing, "Did you see our new bud?" I raced to the kitchen, and there it was. Our little miracle, bringing us joy one more time.


I'm an English teacher, so I'm supposed to love metaphors and symbols and imagery, but the significance of our little flower blooming bravely throughout one of the darkest winters of our lives is too much for even me to untangle. I only have these final thoughts to offer. The amaryllis is a flower that symbolizes pride, determination, and radiant beauty; its name comes from the Greek "to sparkle."


In the determined beauty of our seven sparkling blooms, I find hope in the radiant beauty of our future.

A Brief Acting Lesson

"The Representational actor deliberately chooses to imitate or illustrate the character's behavior. The Presentational actor attempts to reveal human behavior through a use of himself, through an understanding of himself and consequently an understanding of the character he is portraying. The Representational actor finds a form based on an objective result for the character, which he then carefully watches as he executes it. The Presentational actor trusts that a form will result from identification with the character and the discovery of his character's actions, and works on stage for a moment-to-moment subjective experience."

- Uta Hagen, Respect for Acting

I first read Uta Hagen's seminal text on acting as a sophomore at Davidson College. At the time, I loved her description of the Presentational actor; it seemed to promote a natural and spontaneous response on stage that I was often incapable of creating. Because of my love of organization, it was much easier for me to plan how to act rather than to live as a character. I strove to become Hagen's ideal actor--the one who would nightly respond to impulses and surprise myself with slight nuances in my performance.

Hagen's words have been coming back to me piece by piece in recent weeks, but never more strongly than in the past few days. As a result, I trekked down to the (somewhat still disorganized) basement family room Friday morning, pulled her book (off the neatly categorized and alphabetized) shelf, and found the words above. As I read, I was shocked to realize that the past eight weeks have changed me in a way that ten years of acting training never could; I have become a Presentational wife but a Representational teacher.

What I mean to say is this: while I would love to believe that I am a strong, mighty woman--and some days I truly am--I now do wear my emotions on my face and speak them in my voice. If I'm sad or angry or grumpy or tired, Jeff knows it. If I'm thinking about the baby or frustrated with a friend or anxious about a trip, I don't try to hide it from him. I admit when a negative home pregnancy test triggers a desire to exert control over my eating habits, and I spontaneously report "I feel pretty today" when I find that I do. As Hagen posits, in my personal life, I have started to understand myself and, in turn, to allow those discoveries to inform my behavior and actions. 

The classroom, though, is a different world for me; there I am the Representational teacher who decides to push through the day with a face crafted like a fragile porcelain vase, despite the tiny fissures just beneath the surface. It wasn't always like that; I used to bring my baggage into the classroom, allowing my own frustration and hurt to result in a short temper with my students. Now, though, being in the classroom is often a relief; it takes the focus off of me and allows me to assertively choose joy (at best) or normalcy (at worst)--at least on my exterior character.

This is the choice I made the day between learning of our lost Blueberry and entering the hospital for the D&C. I had every reason not to go to school that day, but I ignored them all. I cried between at least three different classes that day, with at least three different colleagues. And yet, in my classroom, watching the expectant faces of my students as they made new discoveries and as I reveled in their genuine exuberance, I found that Hagen, again, was correct when she asserted that "the Representational actor finds a form based on an objective result for the character, which he then carefully watches as he executes it." On that day, I watched joy come out of a choice to follow a form that I executed. I don't know what my students learned  on Thursday, January 12, but I am certain of what they taught me.

And so we come to the here and now. Just over eight weeks after my D&C, my body still not restored to rights, the game of Chutes and Ladders still precariously balanced, I am coming to learn that, as an actor chooses a new approach for each role, I can also choose a new approach for each day, each person, each situation. There is not a right and a wrong answer for all eternity; there is only today.

And today, I choose...

In this moment, I am content.

It's so incredibly hard to say those words throughout our lives--for whatever reasons God has put in front of us. However, on Saturday morning, I could. Jeff and I had spent a wonderful evening up in Baltimore. We visited the Baltimore Aquarium (filled with little ones who Jeff rivaled for unbridled enthusiasm about sharks, rays, and tropical fish) and then had a delicious bite to eat at a nearby wine bar. Over that late dinner, we were able to talk about things weighing on our minds and work through putting words to frustrations or anxieties we hadn't consciously acknowledged before. After a good night's rest, we walked to a nearby breakfast spot for egg sandwiches and cups of coffee. There, seated across from Jeff at a hightop table, I was able to sip from my mug, look at my husband, smile broadly, and honestly say "right now, I am content."


Of course, the next place my head went to was trying to puzzle out how to recreate that moment again. Was it the place where we went for dinner or the particular glass of wine or the number of hours of sleep I got? Perhaps if I could just script another weekend night with exactly the same circumstances, I could attain that moment of bliss once again. And yet, even as I started to ponder that option, I realized that I would take all the joy out of feeling contented if I was constantly seeking to recreate something spontaneously wonderful. 


Contentment is not something I can mark on my calendar or add to my to-do list--it's simply an unexpected gift I can choose to receive.