Stitched together is the act of sewing parts of clothing, cloth, or items together to create something new. Or not new. When you step back and look at what you've stitched together, there's a panorama of color and texture. What pulls all these disparate pieces together? It is less the pieces of whole cloth and more the connection of one to the other? The stitches.
Over the past couple of months, unseen to me, I've been creating a new vesture for the world I reside in. My examination of this thrust me into self-examination. If you continue to read, the following is a riot of metaphor. Sorry, I promise it will all play out.
I see periods of my life as fabrics. Some moments are silk. Others are cotton. Some perhaps gaberdine. Even wool. These periods of time can be measured in connections to others, acts, and experiences. Say there was a time when life was a fine Pima cotton of 800 count. Then it became a smooth silk. Or a rough, torn, frayed denim. Then it changed to a coarse wool. To an alpaca. All of these are laid before me one at a time on a cutting table. It's the stitches that pull them together.
I hardly notice them or look. I’m just moving forward with a less examined life. More of a, “Oh, this now.” Okay, let's see. As I weigh each of these fabrics, I begin to see the stitches that pulled the fabric tightly to one another. Each piece of cloth holds a moment, a memory, an experience that carries forward to the next piece of cloth. That cannot happen without the stitches. It would be linguistic sacrilege to call this my life wrapped in a quilt. Shrug.
The stitching holds great interest. The fabric of our life is presented, but what connects one to another? Stitches. So many different ones. Back stitch, saddle stitch, running stitch, basting stitch, whip stitch, and many more. They each offer specific benefits for different fabrics. Strength, decorative, does not unravel, joining two fabrics, and more.
I graduated college, which I'd call a bell-bottom jean frayed and torn. Time to find work and make my way. It was unclear what was being put on the cutting table. It can't be the jeans. They needed to be refined, elegant, and smart. What was the stitch that pulled me tightly against the new fabric? It was a job tending bar in a hotel cocktail lounge. That was my stage to act on. To thrill the audience of drinkers sitting on stools. One gentleman I chatted up and plied with a drink or two, on me, shared his need for a salesperson to cover the East Coast. I got his card. I shamelessly called him repeatedly. I was interviewed. I got the job. The bar and he were the stitching that pulled these two fabrics together.
And it continues. The changing jobs, moving, new career, meeting Donna, etc., etc. Each one of those has stitching that pulled the previous fabric to the new fabric to strengthen the entire piece. The years and years of pieces being pulled together by stitches.
Donna died. The entire time of caregiving was less fabric and more emotional sandpaper. Her death left me void of life. I was trapped in time. Encased in amber like a Jurassic beetle. I looked for work. Being old and grief-broken was not a plus on a resume. Read CS Lewis's "A Grief Observed". That was the stitch that pulled a swatch of brocade to the sandpaper. There was much writing, sharing, volunteering, and more. The wound of grief never went away. Light entered that wound.
The brocade of grief has been in place since. Two years ago at a reading event, I sat next to a woman, a theater kid. She spoke about my desire to write a graphic novel about my crisis counseling volunteer work. She thought a play could work. And so it began. The stitch that connected me to a play was sitting next to a woman at a random event.
Playing at Play Writing
I began to write. And write. And write. Five scenes. The protagonist is a crisis counselor chatting with five people facing moments of struggle. Each one is different in age, struggle, and pain. The thread is watching the counselor find knowledge and understanding from each chat. How what is heard from their pain applies to his own. Within the play, the protagonist’s late wife appears to speak to his failed l
I finished the first draft. The woman who said play is working with me to produce it. A second rewrite was done. And it sits. Caught in an inertia of life as it stands today. Not frozen but in need of a serious burnishing. A hard rewrite. A test of its mettle.
Then came a stitch to pull a swatch of cashmere into my world. The stitch was a random email likely not intended for me. It was an invite to a local community college "Writers in Performance Workshop". How strikingly random. Needed too. I responded. Invited to audition. Was given a conditional “Okay, but we'll see if you cut it" phone call.
In short, there were 10 writers. All of whom were performers, actors, singers, etc. Established. Then there was me, the newbie. To call me an amateur is an overstatement. The purpose of the workshop was to present works we've written to all. The first few weeks of the workshop, we all presented two to three pieces. One from each of us was selected to showcase for two days. We were all acting in our pieces. We also performed others’ works. We had four weeks to rehearse and learn our lines.
Cut to the chase. Never ever ever acted. Never ever ever needed to memorize dialogue. Never ever performed before an audience. (Give me a PowerPoint Deck and an audience. I owned the room. No fear because it was done extemporaneously.)
Terrified was the shadow that followed me daily. Throughout my career. As a business owner. I never felt anxious. Nervous, yes. Never anxious. I was a carrier of anxious. Spread it to others. In this moment, walking on the cashmere, panic and fear filled me. Slathered me like butter on popcorn. It took me a couple of weeks before I invited friends to attend. Fear of failure pealed like church bells. I would be exposed as the imposter I am. I did invite. They did attend.
Here is where I puff my chest up and say I did it. Blah blah blah. Kinda in a way. That subtracts from the truth. Diminishes the light cascading through the limbs and leaves of trees.
The Kindness and Love of Strangers
The director and assistant director saw something I did not see and may never have seen. Not just the work but the belief I could do it. Even with two left feet, the timing of a Salvador Dali metronome, and rhythm of a senior center Jazzercise class. They both led with kindness and patience. “Patience is also a form of action,” Rodin. Even answered my difficult, technical, artistic question with aplomb. "What is off book?" Insert facepalm.
All of the cast embraced the newbie. Each and everyone held my metaphoric hand. Even if I felt like the last kid in third grade to be picked for the kickball team, they never let me reside in that space for long. Watching each one of them perform was a treat. I learned so much about my writing. How to write for actors. And like holy fuck, paying for tickets, sitting in Row 14 Seat S, and clapping does not touch what theater is. They did that. Like I tell my kids in crisis when they need to know they can make it, "Every mountain has a path to the top." They were the path.
Then there was the actress that was opposite me in my piece. Her CV is deep and long. Acting, directing, standup comic, and more. I learned so much. She pointed upward for me to see the light. I've taken a bunch of writing workshops for fiction and memoir writing. In 30 days, she gave me a master class equal to the Iowa Writers Workshop in script writing. She was relentless in making me step into my well-masked vulnerabilities. Not just write in isolation and save on a hard drive but, be that. She spoke to my writing and how powerful and evocative it is. Never really saw that. She also pointed out all the flotsam and jetsam in the interstitial spaces and words that were not speaking to the audience. Wasted words that subtracted from the emotion. Those extra words were off-ramp from the message. A slap in the face of each audience member.
Returning to Stasis
Two shows and done. Friends were so kind. Flowers, hugs, and props. The cast and all were filled with gratitude and kindness. Not only for my effort but for our collective work making this happen. Back in my small, self-contained, isolated world, I fell back into calm solitude. Less reflection on something ending. More a reflection on what was unraveled. Pulling the edges of this sticky life taffy unnerved me to no end. The why's? The what now? Was all of this yet another impostor syndrome moment? Will I be able to apply what I learned to what is in front of me?
It was striking to find myself after years of isolation and solitude thrust into a company of people. Being seen by others whose art is emotion and vulnerability. The absolute anathema to me. Sitting and mulling it all in my welcomed and embracing solitude opened up much in me. Can I add this to pages I have before me? This stitching was pulling a new fabric into fabric. Its texture and color out of focus.
There you go, a true 100% TL:DR piece. All of this yapping was for me to make sense of it all. At the very same time, the winding path of stitches that connect the fabrics that cover our lives is where we/I need to be attuned. What will pull us/me forward? Connecting one piece to the next. Not necessarily in a perfectly manicured life. But in a way that says look, listen, and be ready.