Temporary

Halloween stresses me out a little. I struggle putting clothes together for a normal day; I don't have the creativity or skill to put a costume together.

I was telling the girls about my hardest college class - costume design. We had to draw people and match clothes. 

My nightmare.

Keith Belli was our professor. He made the mistake of revealing to us that he hated The Gambler so we sang it every chance we got. He had so much patience and somehow I made it through with lots of tears and an A. Never underestimate the power of pity.

I got to visit a dear friend from college during my whirlwind trip outside (that's what we call the world outside Alaska). He made it possible for me to watch Death of a Salesman at Ford's Theater. I almost balked because I imagined the play had to be dated. Arthur Miller wrote it in 1949 about the collapse of the American Dream.

It's not dated; I wept through it. I should have brought tissues, because snot on sleeves is unacceptable at Ford's.

It's still a powerful commentary on the things we hang our lives and hopes on. One moment that stuck out so poignantly was Willy Loman saying, "I feel kind of temporary about myself." 

Thankfully, I had a dark yard and lots of time when I was in the sixth grade to lie there and stare at the vastness of the stars. Those were my crisis and calming moments. The vastness made me critically aware of my temporality. It cured me of any illusions of grandeur; there is no proving oneself worthy in the face of such enormity.

In some ways, I think of those nights staring at the stars as my baptism. That's when I died to any thought my story was central and realized I was part of a much greater narrative. My choices have significance and consequences. The hurt and joy I bring do ripple throughout eternity, but the universe does not revolve around me. 

Willy Loman's response to feeling temporary is standard American: buy stuff,
worship your kids,
isolate,
pick fights,
exaggerate your significance,
bully those with less to make yourself feel greater, 
and finally despair. 

My tears matched those of the father and son in front of me so I didn't feel so alone grieving this life we fall into so easily.

The gift of theater is letting us step back and see ourselves. We get to watch our stories, weep, laugh, wipe snot on our sleeves, and walk out a little more aware of how temporary we are in the vastness.