I hope you’ve been enjoying the beginnings of fall where you are. Here on the northern California coast, I can feel November is right around the corner. We had some record breaking 75° days a few weeks ago, but now the weather seems to have officially turned. The mornings are gray, with marine layer dampness, and this week, we’ve even had a few days of rain, which, you know, I love.
I am really enjoying my new writing class. Each week in our Zoom gathering, we explore a different element of storytelling, then we write for twenty minutes, practicing that element, then share the writing in smaller, break out rooms. At first, I wasn’t sure if I should practice with stories I might tell in my one woman show, or work on my novel, so I was thrilled that the teacher encouraged us to choose a scene from the previous twenty four hours instead of something we’re working on. This has turned the exercise into a lighter, more curious exploration of the element without any end game or emotional triggering.
Since then, my attention has fully opened to working on and applying these elements to my novel. The characters wake up with me and seem to hover over my shoulder all day and night. When I see a scene in my head, or hear a conversation, I stop and write it down, or record it on my phone. Sometimes I’ll write for five minutes, other times, for more than an hour. Then, once a day, I compile those notes onto the computer. It is so exciting to learn that Glory, the main character, eats bran flakes mixed with Frosted Flakes with whole milk for breakfast, that she drinks her coffee hot and black, that she’s only been out of the country to Niagara Falls and Tijuana.
In addition to the weekly Zoom class, we meet with a smaller cohort to review the week’s element, write together, then discuss our work. There are three of us in my cohort. The other woman is over 80 and said she has trouble hearing, so her feedback isn’t very helpful. The other person, a 70 year old man, only writes during the Zoom sessions, and offers more philosophical musings than helpful critique.
I have only been in critique groups led by a teacher, never with just peers. Because the other two have worked together in this class for several years, I assumed they would be experienced in the process. But their comments were so benign, that I wondered why I was there.
I contacted another woman in the class who I had felt a connection with during an in-class breakout session, and she and I agreed to form our own cohort, since the one she was in met at an inconvenient time. I told my original cohort that I had signed up for a class that conflicted with our meeting time, that I’d be meeting with the other woman instead. I did, in fact, sign up for a class, though it was not at a conflicting time, but I didn’t want to hurt their feelings with the truth.
When I shared all of this with the teacher, she asked for a bit more information about the woman with the hearing issue, said that she’s worked with both of them and they are intelligent and insightful. She also suggested that I ask for what I want from the group.
Now, I am a person who has no trouble asking for what I want, so I wondered why I was struggling. And then I realized it was because I didn’t know what I wanted or needed from them. And I didn’t realize that I could ask specific questions. So I agreed to try one more time with them.
I joined the original cohort last week, and I felt open, relaxed, receptive. At the beginning of the meeting, the woman apologized for her hearing aid batteries not working the previous week. And I did ask a specific question, which resulted in some useful feedback. So I told them that, after my five week class, I’d like to continue working with them. I’ll also be meeting with the other woman as her schedule permits, so I’ll be in two cohorts, which thrills me.
I was also struggling with my Intermediate Improv class since we started meeting at the teacher’s house. The outside space was too big, and the inside space was claustrophobic, and I was no longer feeling the creative sparks between my fellow improv-ers. I was so frustrated and uninspired that I wrote this description in my cohort the week we were practicing writing setting and description.
We start our Intermediate Improv class in Jill’s backyard. It’s a dirt lot with scruffs of weedy plants poking up from the dirt in random spots. Beyond the 12 x 20 dirt space, the yard climbs up to the neighbor’s yard in stepped tiers covered with bushes and brambles, with no path or easy access.
A portable metal fire pit filled with dried twigs under the round mesh cover sits in the middle of the dirt. Eight chairs are scattered around the space, but four of them, wooden Adirondacks with caddywampus arms and broken backs, are better suited for firewood than sitting. A plastic, forest green Adirondack chair is positioned around the circle, but the last time Jill sat in it, I heard a crack, so I avoid it. Instead, I choose one of the two canvas camp chairs and pull it into the circle. Jeff takes the other camp chair, and everyone else stands.
There are only five of us tonight, Jeff, Blue, Lena, David and me. And Jill, the teacher. Her stage voice fills the yard, which feels too big and unconfined to do this work. Our eight week beginning class took place at The Eureka Theater, an Art Deco building with a wide stage, crushed red velvet seats, and that musty smell of old buildings. Even with the background sounds of workers doing evening renovations, it had great energy.
In JillAnne’s yard there are too many distractions. The neighbors singing happy birthday, JillAnne’s husband cooking in the kitchen with the window open so we can hear the water running and the pots clanging. And there’s a black and white goat in another neighbor’s yard that likes to rub his body along the chain link fence. But we play our warm up games and pretend we are various characters, acting out our assigned adjectives and occupations.
When it gets too cold to work outside, we move into Jill’s garage. It is probably a two car garage, but our actual working space is barely bigger than the six foot by eight foot pink patterned rug on the floor. There is a six-foot long mid century sofa along the wall in front of the garage door. The sofa is a beautiful, pink grapefruit colored crushed velvet in pristine condition, probably from being covered by plastic slip covers all these years.
Four of us can fit on the sofa if we squeeze in, so I opt for the kitchen chair to the left of the sofa. Behind me, and all along the opposite wall of the garage are brown U-Haul boxes, piled three and four high. There is a white ten speed bicycle behind them, and a homemade sign advertising something for sale, 4 for $25.00. Across the room from the sofa is the back door, a side by side washer and dryer, and a four-person bar table with two stools covered by a white sheet. The other two bar stools are in front of more boxes at the short end of the carpet. As big and uncontained as the backyard is, the energy in the garage is cramped and stifling.
We work in pairs, seated on one of the two mismatched ottomans that are on the stage in front of the covered bar table, less than four feet from the audience on the sofa. Someone calls out a prompt and we begin.
I had talked with two other people in the class who also hated the environment, and they sent emails to the teacher, asking if she could find a new space. And she did. But by then, I was so focused on all of the other things that I didn’t like about the class that I had to quit. I did tell the teacher how much I loved the beginning class, and hoped she would still use my testimonial on her website.
I also stopped going to the No Commitments Sunday Choir. They are rehearsing now for the annual Holiday Show in December, with eight performances over two weekends, which I was not interested in. And it’s not a typical holiday show. I believe the theme this year has to do with mermaids. I’m looking forward to attending one of the matinees, but I’m glad I will not be performing.
Over and over again, I see that when I let go of something that isn’t serving my best self, something else appears in that opened space that is a much better fit.
I am now taking a Just Sing class through the senior program at the Humboldt Lyric Opera Company. I realized that I’m less interested in singing songs with a choir, and more interested in vocal exercises that will strengthen and expand my voice, my breath, my vocal confidence. That’s what I enjoyed about the choir, and that is exactly what this class is. I even cried when the teacher encouraged us to sing loud, especially if it didn’t sound good, which is the opposite of what I was feeling when I sang with the choir.
And I’m in a five week improv class for seniors that Pam has been attending for years. Everyone in the group knows each other, and each person came up and introduced themselves to me at the beginning of the class. I felt so welcomed. I enjoyed the games, and the people, and that the focus is on play, not the long scene work with an emphasis on performance that we were doing in the other class.
In between all this, Tillie and I are walking at the marsh, in our cathedral of trees, and in our neighborhood. I’m riding my bike, though not as often, and I have perfected my recipes for hummus and half sour pickles. I bought two new colors of overalls for the winter – navy blue and roasted clove, which looks more like hot chocolate to me.
I do miss my weekly connections volunteering at the Redwood Skywalk, but I’ll be there during the Sequoia Park Zoo’s Zoolights in December. I can’t wait to see the illuminated walkways in the dark of the trees.
Wishing you simple joys and delights this season, and your own timely letting go of things that no longer serve your true and beautiful self.
