High Force Impact
tiny fractures
Hey, you. Did I ever tell you about the time I didn’t know what to write about? I assume not, because the time I’m talking about is right now. I’m sitting in my bed, computer on my lap wondering where should I turn my focus? It’s not that I can’t think of anything to share with you it’s a matter of what to share with you. Usually when I write, I already have the silver lining of the story. I already have the gold within a lesson to pass on to you, hoping it will help in some way, but not today. I don’t have it all figured out today. I’m typing myself into a problem in this blog, hoping by the end, I’ll by typing myself out of one.
I could tell you about the time my son fell off a stationary bike with a foot still stuck in the strap as the wheel kept turning. How he screamed bloody murder and walked with a limp that prompted my husband and I to get him seen by a doctor. The initial exam showed no signs of a tear but the x-ray indicated the possibility of a small fracture, only time would tell. He wasn’t put on bed rest but leg rest you could say. No physical activity beyond light walking for a minimum of two weeks for our seven year old boy. My kid was found guilty of “playing on shit he wasn’t supposed to,” and given a sentence of middle-childhood solitary confinement. The doctor was asking us to limit the activity of a kid who can’t stand still for longer than two seconds. Suddenly his injury seemed like a much bigger deal to me. He may not have had a clear crack in his knee but I had a clear fracture of the brain. My catastrophizing kicked into high gear. What if my son never played soccer again? What if he walked with a limp the rest of his life and blew any chance of him playing another sport period? What if it stunted his growth? How will I teach him not to have short man complex? Is that even a thing you can teach? None of those questions actually made it out of my mouth. No. After I Fosse-ed, Martha Graham-ed, Twyla-ed, and Madonna-ed my way through each apocalyptic ending, I did what Robin Williams’ character in “The Birdcage” delicately suggested to the dance partner of Nathan Lane, “I kept it all inside.” Meanwhile my husband just told people our son had straight up fractured his knee and went on about his life. Not exactly true but a clean break from uncertainty (pun intended). Yesterday we were given the news that my son did not have a fracture after all. Based on his follow-up exam and x-ray he was cleared to go back to being a kid those Disney monsters harvest for energy. Moments like these remind me of the terrible parent equation. Having children is essentially you dividing yourself by how many kids you have. Your goal then becomes to try and keep all those pieces of you together so you can remain whole. Because if the bigger and older piece of you gives way first, you will still be whole somehow but if the opposite happens then you’re shattered forever (no pun intended).
Maybe I could tell you how rehearsals for the show are going. We are producing my play for the second time and it does feel a little different. In some ways it’s a lived-in experience. It’s a story I wrote. It’s a story about aspects of my relationship with grief but it’s sitting in my bones a little differently. I’m discovering new things and settling deeper into the moments at the same time. The show is visceral and purposeful. I’m so happy to get another chance at bringing people together and offering a different way of looking at the grief in their life, all while trying to convince myself that doing it now is a good thing. It is extremely hard to justify art when the world is on fire, when it’s under blizzard conditions, when it’s targeting marginalized people, when it’s at fucking war even though, as an artist, we know that’s precisely when art is at it’s best! What I’ve created isn’t going to combat big world problems, (that’s the trap, my thinking that I have to make this huge contribution to the masses in order to have an impact). I’m learning that grief is constantly coming at us in tiny particles and like the common cold, there’s no real cure for it. I’m not in the business of trying to eradicate it. My play is more of a vaccine. It’s not one of those high-priced stock market vaccines that stands to make me a gajillionaire, but it’s a way to lessen the impact grief has on a person’s way of being; on their life, which is equally rewarding. Who knows, maybe if enough people see the show and become more immune to the burden of loss perhaps we will experience a rise in mental well-being. I’d be okay with that.
I suppose I could tell you all the things I’ve learned watching the television screens at my gym. That’s right, I said screens. With my ears I’m listening to an audio book on my headphones while running on the treadmill, but my eyes are darting between multiple TV’s trying to figure out what’s safe to let in. In the past week I took in Chuck Norris dying (he still had a fan base and they were sad), there was a fatality crash on the highway here in LA, the weather is unseasonably hot in the west, March madness is happening, the bullshit war that the US has butted their way into is still going strong, Timothy Chalamet was yesterday’s news..no wait today’s news…no yesterday’s news..the supreme court may uphold their decision to remain assholes, America’s president spits on people’s graves when they die and is an asshole, Israel’s being an asshole, Iran’s being an asshole…oh no..wait, I think it’s just guys with small penises being assholes, a plane crashed and people died because not enough chef’s in the kitchen due to the government not paying them, ICE is still “HERE -TO-BE-FEARED” so get used to it, a penguin was released back into the wild, Michael B. Jordan and Ryan Coogler are still having their moment, Shaw-nae’s House on Staten Island is apparently the best Soul Food Restaurant according to Good Morning America. She’s putting our ancestors legacy on the pedestal they deserve. Airport lines now start forming from airport parking garages, so that’s fun, Chef Alex Guarnaschelli won her show again, Chef Bobby Flay won his show again, I wanted to try a recipe on Girl Meets Farm, Jay-Z was on the cover of GQ, I could get a great deal on a steam mop. I could go on but I’m only in the gym an hour before I have to come home, shower, take kids to school, empty the dishwasher, make breakfast, run errands with the husband, run lines, work on my website, posts some shit on my socials, check in on a friend or two, maybe call my mom, pet my cats, fold some laundry, cook dinner, help kids with homework, watch a show with the husband, and sleep.
I feel like through the lens of social media and constant news sources, life looks like a series of tiny fractures in different places that need tending to in various ways. Some things we need to wrap and leave alone for a while. Some things need examining further to see how big the crack may be depending on the force involved. Sometimes it’s not a crack at all and we’re cleared to resume loving, laughing, jumping, playing and, in my case, writing.
The word fracture means: a broken or cracked bone. Occurring when physical force, stress, or bone disease causes a partial or complete break in the bone, resulting in pain, swelling, and reduced mobility. These days it’s hard to get through a week without a little pain or stress; not knowing what to give my attention to. A little discomfort lets me know I’m alive and if i’m alive then I’m not broken. I might have an occasional limp, but I’m not broken. And there’s the gold.