I sat for a bit today and reflected back on 2011. Usually we do this as the year ends, but I'm a procrastinator, so I got an early start.
I have to say, my trip down memory lane went far beyond 2011, and before I knew it, I found myself deep in the past.
Now, given the events of last month, taking a trip down memory lane to review the many gratitudes of the past, is not a bad thing. Many have experienced losses we cannot fathom, and more than ever, hope is essential. It reminds us that while things sometimes seem hopeless, they are not, for life has an ebb and flow, and for every difficult time, there is a good time to maintain the balance.
It was these times I was reflecting on, as I pondered how to reclaim the good life I once had.
I was reminded of one singular event, one amazing moment, so brilliant in its perfection, it may never be outdone by another. I am okay with this.
It was, in itself, a small miracle, as it almost didn't happen.
The story goes a little bit like this. I say "a little bit," because I have a rotten memory at times, I write fiction, so embellishment could happen, and I am still pretty sure that long-term exposure to kerosene fumes causes brain damage. I might be brain damaged, but it's hard to tell, since I'm not really any more effed up now than I was prior to this past March.
Anyhow, I digress. It's probably the brain damage.
Back to the story.
It was summer of 2005, and I was knee-deep in my new found obsession with theater. I didn't have a script in my purse for the first time in months, and I was getting nervous.
Our theater group in Norwich announced auditions for The Sound of Music. I liked music, and I'd watched the movie fifty times, so I figured I was a good candidate. Like any diva, I went for the brass ring, and sang my heart out for the part of Maria. I knew, just knew, I'd die if I didn't get it.
Well, as the story goes, I didn't get it, and the funny part is, the absolutely mystifying part is...... I didn't die.
Actually, it gets better.
I didn't want to be Maria after all.
Here's why.
After singing my heart out for the coveted lead, I was asked to sing for the role of Mother Superior.
A nun?
Why not?
Nobody would find this surprising, since I was getting up there in years, hadn't had a boyfriend in a sad stretch, and had a lot of cats.
I didn't think I wanted the part, but I sang the song, and knew, this was the role of a lifetime. I had to have that part. If I didn't get it, I'd die, for sure.
But I didn't die, because I landed the role. Now, here is where it gets interesting.
I guess I got the role because I was "the voice." Evidently - and we're gonna get spiritual here - The Sound of Music almost didn't happen. The role of Mother Superior is hard to cast. Climb Every Mountain is one hard song to sing. I know. I sang it about 400 times before the whole shindig was wrapped up. The director had toiled over whether or not she could cast the show, and in a moment of need, asked God for guidance. That night, she had a dream. In the dream, someone was singing Climb Every Mountain, but as dreams go, of course, she couldn't see the woman's face.
So, she woke that August morning with a new quest. Find "the voice."
I was it.
She cried when she told me the story. I cried, too. Little did I know, I would cry a few more times before the show closed.
On a Sunday afternoon, in November of 2005, a very sick man got into the passenger seat of his car in Chenango Bridge, wrapped in a blanket, medicine in hand, to make the trip to Norwich to see his daughter play the role of Mother Superior.
In case you're slow, or brain damaged too, the daughter is me.
The day was divine, warm, unseasonably so for a day in November, in New York, when it should be snowing.
He arrived without issue, took his place in the center of the audience, and the show began. The first Act went beautifully, quickly, and then it was time.
It was time for me to step into the spotlight and do what I'd rehearsed some 399 times.
I never look into the audience. I look above them, and not because I'm arrogant, but because it's easier, and you really can't see them anyhow. This time, I looked, and there he was, my dad, weeks away from taking his last breath.
Everyone else disappeared.
It was just me.
And Dad.
The spotlight took on an ethereal glow, and I said a silent prayer.
"Just this time, God. Just this time, let it be perfect."
And, it was.
Time paused, and I stood in the light of God, and sang my heart out. I sang to a man who might never hear me sing again.
He didn't.
In a few short weeks, he was gone. Cancer had commandeered his body, and on a cold January night, he left me.
But what he left was greater. He left me a perfect moment, a perfect memory, that if not for his presence, and even the nasty disease which had stolen him, would not have been so poignant.
It was a moment that almost didn't happen.
Time passed. The lights went out, the set was struck, the debris was swept away, and the snot I plastered all over the coat of the soldier on whose shoulder I wept, dried.
Many days have gone by since that one, most remarkable day. Some have been good, some great, some lousy, and some, this year especially, just plain awful.
It is, as I said, the ebb and flow of life.
No matter what came after, or what comes next, I will always have that one, divine moment.
It was, I thought, a small miracle.
Now I know, it might have been the greatest one of all.......
