ensemble

image fr Moxycreative.com

I have experienced some loss of late and that always makes me want to blog. The end of a tight-knit cast, Bernie's epilepsy diagnosis (he's my little one-eyed dog), and the loss of my kitty Squeaky were all within the last couple weeks. When I feel blue, I like to blog, so if one didn't know me in real life, one might get a different impression of me. I guess it's my strange and masochistic way of processing, and it works. The list may inspire an eye-roll from someone going through a tragic time, and my response is that it's the feelings underneath that matter. Processing difficult emotions can be easier when it's a smaller scale event.
Saying goodbye to friends I've made during the run of a play activates that part of me who has said goodbye to so many friends. Whether it's through a death, a move, a lifestyle change or simply just growing apart, that grief is quite painful. The teary eyes, the tightness in my throat, the sinking in my stomach are all very familiar. It seems the more closeness and camaraderie I've felt, the heavier my heart weighs. The ensemble of "You Can't Take It With You" reflected the message of the play. The spirit of generosity, acceptance, and "getting" the big picture were all part of our relationship dynamic on stage and off. It's quite a beautiful thing to be a part of. I've been lucky enough to have similar dynamics of friends and coworkers in my life, past and present. The hard part for me is when change comes. And it always does.
Bernie's two major seizures and consequent diagnostic testing were a not-so-gentle reminder of his sweet fragility. When we first got him, he had a broken leg from simply rolling off the couch in his sleep. He's one of those Murphy's Law animals, if it's going to happen, it's going to happen to little "Butters." The money spent on ruling out scary things like brain tumors and spinal meningitis was worth it. I guess it's unusual for epilepsy to show up so late in life--he's nine. While we were shuffling off to various vets and juggling credit cards, Squeaky, our 19 year old Maine Coon cat decided it was her time to leave the planet.
When I started giving Squeaky medicine for her various ailments last year, I asked her to let me know when she was done. She adopted Tim and me when we were young newlyweds, and worked her way into the hearts of Binkie and Bongo (our first kitties) similar to the way Mani has with Rocco and Bernie. She never fought with another cat and seemed to play the role of ambassador to neighbor's cats and ours. Cubby Bear, the last of our cats, is acting strangely this week--seeming to feel the loss of her companion.
I really enjoy being part of an ensemble (one definition is "a group producing a single effect"), which explains my theatre and dance involvement, my pack of animals. I love playing cheer leader to my friends, getting checks when I'm not balanced, learning to be more gentle in my administering admonitions. The more energy we give something the more attachment we have to it, and it's that connection that's so beautiful and so painful to lose. The truth is, it's never lost. When we touch each other's lives, that kinship lives on in the person we become because of the rich relationships we've been lucky enough to have experienced. You remain with me, even now. Thank you.