The parable of the shower curtain

 Dear blog,

It's the spring equinox. Here there's a balance of dark and light.

 Time has sprung forward. And I feel confused

much like this flying dude. 

         Last Monday, in choir, just as the choir director said something like, "Remember your timing!" 

    I looked up at the clock behind her, and watched as the clock's hands started this confused clock dance.  Its hands moved round and round in a puzzled state. "What time is it?" it seemed to say? "Does anybody know?"  It was so amusing, the whole choir had to take note of it. The hands eventually settled at five O' five. Though it was really a little after six.

            I too, don't really know what time it is, either. I feel ancient as the trees, young as a bluebird, stationary, moving, foolish, and wise, calm, and anything but calm, hopeful, hopeless, excited, depressed, happy, and extremely sad, full of ideas, and totally wanting to do nothing, I feel like nothing matters, and everything matters, I feel timeless, and in time at the same time, I feel like a stranger on a strange planet, and connected to everyone, and connected to no one. Like someone who belongs everywhere, and nowhere. I feel like I could melt away into the earth, and become part of nature itself. I'm wanting to speak, and wanting to be silent, I'm wanting to escape, and wanting to stay. I feel awake, and sleepy at the same time. I feel like I want to make a difference, and then feel like making a difference would really mean you don't feel like you need to make a difference to actually make a difference.

    What is all of this?

   I'm not sure. 

        It feels like a soul-October.  A season where all the decayed leaves of the past are asking to be raked up. Yet, as I'm raking them into a pile, the wind swirls them into my face.

        It's hard to navigate with so much dust in the air.

        And some things aren't so easy to discern. It's a strange realization that standing still, right where you are, is one of the highest actions you can take, especially when it's hard to see.

                I have a story that illustrates this point.

                A dark story.

                Shrouded.

                Covered in a veil.

The story begins with a choir friend asking my sister and me to be a part of the Ten virgins musical parable that we just performed on the 16th of this month. We started practicing, I believe, in February.

We never really said an outright "yes" we just ended up showing up to practices. 

I was Gabriella, and my sister, was Adi. 

        We, along with the other virgins, sang, and acted a scripted song/parable of the story. Each virgin got a lamp, and a song, and a monolog to say.

My sister and I both sang a solo, and then sang a duet.

Last practice, was not a practice, however, though it was suppose to be. Somehow in-between it all, someone thought it was a good idea to invite the husbands of the virgins and their kids, "laughs"  so their entire families could watch as well, because the actual performance was only for women. Anyway, it was supposed to be just a last practice/ dress rehearsal. 

Ha.

Ha.

The day of the dress/rehearsal practice, I spent the first half of the day trying to figure out a good costume, and got I this "great" idea when I saw this nifty sea-green shower curtain I found in our attic. I thought it would make a beautiful head shawl.

        It had a yummy green, matt color, and I chopped a hole in it so I could drape it over my head, to accent my white dress, and a little scarf  around it. 

    I thought it looked really nifty---like the time period.

Oh dear, why did I think so?

I don't know why the angels did not tell me it was a bad idea. Because it was so---not a good idea. I must have been not paying attention. It was one of the worst ideas in the history of musical performance.

Do not, I repeat wear a heavy, lengthy shower curtain on your head anywhere, unless you're planning on it raining for an hour and a half inside a building.

        Just don't do it.

         But it looked so cool....

Great idea, Steph.

Not soo.

I can't believe I'm writing about it. I want to forget it. Yet, here I am etching it in the stone tablets of my little garden.

Anyhow, when it came time to run through our little play, I dawned my costume. My mom and I had already figured out the costume for my sister, and she was all set, as it was perfect, and worked well.

As we got ready to come onto the stage, all us women peered through curtains a little alarmed that there was more people watching this than we wanted, especially since it was a rehearsal.

  We all lit our little lanterns, which was just a battery operated tea light candle set in or on our lamp.

    So far, my head shower curtain thing felt okay.

Each woman had to go on stage, one at a time, and pose, with their little lamp. Then as it came my turn to go on stage, I held my little clay lantern, and flicked on the tea light that was balanced on top it, and came out.

          As I stood at my spot, and a woman handed me the microphone, I began to realize that my heavy headdress was not a good idea. My head covering started to droop over my eyes, and so did the braided bandanna.

        I could not pull it back. One hand had the microphone, the other had the lamp. And I had to hold pretty still to keep my little light balanced top of the lamp.

        And---oh and the shower curtain was huge and so heavy!  I felt so rediculous. My soul felt very squished!  Why did I not test it out beforehand?

          But now everybody had seen my costume, and it felt so very formal. If it had been a normal practice, I would have messed with it until it was okay. Or tossed it off my head.

          Oh...

          Dear.

        I felt like I was wearing a heavy weighted blanket on my head!

          I was going to have to endure this.

          After we did our intro, I went to my spot on stage, and we were all supposed to freeze while each virgin gave her story, and sang a song. I realized, as I sat on my little seat, that I had sat on my shower curtain, and it caused my spine to dip into a hunch which made me feel not at all strong, or confident. It also limited my view of what was going on on the stage. 

          And the shower curtain drooped over my eyes, and I couldn't hardly see anybody as they sang, and acted. Nor could I look at the audience. This situation was getting dire.

          I shifted, and the candle-tea light tipped off my lamp and I had to scrape it up, and hold very still to make it stay. 

          It was so humiliating, like peering through half drawn shades. If you ever get panicked, or claustrophobic in enclosed spaces, do not wear a shower curtain, anywhere.

        Especially on stage.

         The Karate kid at least had a little shower curtain bubble around him.

          I did not.

          I was drenched in curtain, with my eyes peering out through a very shaded covering, craning my chin to peer out, like a little creature peeking out a tiny hole. I sat there wondering how to best not go into a full-blown panic attack. I wondered what would happen when I stood up to sing, and give my story? Would my head covering fall off?

          I sat there, trying as best I could to be stoic, but my covering kept dipping lower, and lower.

          I felt a deep compassion and kinship with anyone who has ever been forced to wear a covering against their will.

         I sat there, and my wise-self told me that as I couldn't change anything about this moment, I had to accept it, to breathe deeply, and try feel spacious on the inside, even when I felt so shrouded.  So that's what I did, and found some peace.

        I took that with me through the whole ordeal, as it was quite a test.

        When my turn came to talk, I stood up, and tried to pull back the covering as best as I could, but I was still struggling to see very good.

          They had changed the microphones around, my own voice startled me because it was so very loud. Overall, I remembered everything I was supposed to say, until something happened, right before I was supposed to say my last lines----

Gabriella. "My lamp is simple, allowing those who see it to focus on the flame."

Right before I got to those lines, my little light jumped off my lamp and landed right on the stage. Plop.

          I don't remember if I coherently said my last lines, as I was distracted by the flying candle. But everyone's attention was totally on the flame.

          I go right into a song after those words, so I grabbed my candle, placed it on the lamp, and started singing. The weird thing was, the whole time I felt like I was illustrating my part in the most dramatic ways, as my opening words to the song are, "Take my eyes, clear my view."

    Yes! Clear my view! 

          I could hardly see anybody, and I knew it looked very odd, but I was unable to pull back my covering as one hand held the lamp, and the other hand held the microphone.

          Then I blanked out, and couldn't remember the next lines to the song. "Take my lips, help me speak words of kindness that comfort lift and heal."

The irony of forgetting my words to those lines was too much!

          It was the first time I ever forgot a line in that song, ever.

        Why...did I wear a shower curtain!!!

          I did remember the rest of the song, that goes into a duet with my sister, but my goodness...

        And singing with her felt good. That part was good, beautiful.

        By the time we had finished the program, I was so done!

          The stress in my body rose to new heights that I didn't think it could.

        When it finally ended, an ecstatic woman came up to me, and told me to tell my sister, how much she enjoyed the program. She asked my name, and I told her, and she was thrilled because she also was named Stephanie.

          I'm glad one of us liked it.

           I was a wound up ball of nerves, and had no words for my shower curtain.

          When I finally took it off, I felt like a new person, born again!  I think my head has air holes-like a fish, because I felt I like I could breathe again when it was off.

I felt 20lbs lighter! I felt like jumping, and leaping when it came off. The contrast was so great, I had a new appreciation for simplicity.

 It had the makings of a great costume at the beginning.

Had....

Now I can't look at it. I want to toss it in the bin, and light it on fire!

          The next day, I told my mom the details, and we all had a good laugh. And when I went to choir practice, one of my choir members, in a different group I'm in, had to ask me if I watched the video that one of the families took of the program.

          Oh dear....

          No!

          She said it was so stinking funny watching me peer out through my shower curtain dipping over my eyes.

           My shower-eye berka.

        She was laughingly sympathetic, as she saw, first hand, the dilemma I had been in with both hands full, and the curtain falling over my eyes. We all laughed so hard we disturbed the choir.

         Laughing with everyone was the best bit about the whole business.

        Here begs the question? Does a wise virgin wear a shower curtain? Maybe...if she's planning on it raining. Maybe if she's "Singing in the rain!"

This past Thursday was the second performance---actually official performance of the Ten Virgins.  

I had been so traumatized by the first (performance practice) I was not wanting to go to this one. But it’s the ten virgins not the nine. So I had to go.

                   One consolation I had was that I was not wearing the same costume. I was wearing a cute orange dress with a shawl around my waist.

Because of the contrast of my previous experience, I felt friendly, and happy, and vibrant, and so much more myself. 

One of our sweet choir members that we had a good laugh with, fashioned a cute little white head covering for me, It was actually from her Mary costume.

We had time to practice our ending song, and I wore her little white head covering to see how it felt. But while I was singing, I realized my muscles in my head expanded and contracted when I sang, which made the head covering she gave me, slide right off, plus it was made out a slick material.  

 I gave the head covering back to the woman who was so kind, and told her that it wouldn’t stay on either. 

Then another lady to the side of me said she brought extra ones, that were light brown, and very wispy, and light.  

I said I would give it a try.  This finally felt right. It was soft, see-through, yet had great traction and seemed to bond with my hair, and at the same time, it was so light, and airy. I could feel my head breathe!

It felt like night and day. I felt so good. I could see everyone. A lady in charge of seats and things set cute little tissue packs on each third seat in preparation for weeping, and tears.  Something I would have not thought of.

I was able to see my fellow sisters, and the women in the audience. It was so nice. And they replaced my lamp with one that could hold the candle without me having to balance it with both hands while I was moving.  

I felt so much more able to feel everyone else, and I noticed that everyone felt not quite as good this time around. One cast member had a sore throat, but she sang and did so good. I noticed that people in the audience were not feeling as good as well, either.  

But I was feeling so much better. And this time when my sister and I talked, and sang, I remembered what I was supposed to say, and we really synced up. And was so much better than last time.

At the ending the audience was sniffing so much, I couldn't tell if they all had colds. Either way, the woman with the tissue idea was very smart---the previous Stephanie who had seen it before, set them out.

 Though this final performance was not so dramatic, nor traumatic. I’ll remember them both, and be glad that each one made me appreciate the other.

And the snorts of laughter that ensued out of my rain veil. 

Life's a tricky thing.  One day you’ll be the one singing perfectly, remembering every line, feeling great. 

The next time around you might be wearing a shower curtain, and can’t see, and, and forget your lines. 

         There are moments in life when you're out on stage. And you realize the costume your wearing is better suited to a shower rod, over a bathtub, than on the stage.

            And the music is going, and both hands are full, and all you can do is lift your chin, and peer out, though your view is shrouded, and sing though you can't really see much.

It's dark. 

But lamps are lit.

Here, you can discern light from shadow.

Here, you hold your lamp, and hope that they are looking at the flame.  

Not the hands. 

Not the voice.  

Not the costume that’s covering most of you, and slipping over your eyes. 

But the light.

 And when it's over, maybe laugh at yourself. And maybe cry, if you can---and put the shower curtain to its proper use. And be glad that there's another Stephanie out there that can appreciate the performance.