In the comfort of the Jeffries home in good ol' Texas, I'm formulating a mental table of what's ahead. It's been 2 1/2 weeks since I left New York. I'm 1 1/2 weeks away from boarding the plane to Los Angeles where I'll be rehearsing for 6 1/2 weeks. I'm just 8 weeks away from stepping foot on Canadian soil in order to embark on the 1st cruise with Holland America's Oosterdam. Then I will be on the seas for 35 weeks, performing on 1-, 7-, 10-, 11-, 12-, 13-, 14-, 20-, 24-, 25-, 28-, 38-, and 39-day cruises to Alaska, Hawaii, Australia, Fiji, New Zealand, and many other islands in the South Pacific that I haven't learned how to pronounce just yet.
My last few weeks in the city were blissfully bittersweet... full of surprises and realizations, hardships and frustrations, excitement, tears, gifts, blessings and appointments, laughter, food, and lots and lots of heartfelt chats. As I left my apartment at 4:15 AM on February 19th (as the cab driver aggressively made his way to the airport - yes, it's a very realistic and honest stereotype they bestow on themselves), I pat myself on the back: one reason being that I had successfully packed up all of my belongings and fit them in the original four suitcases I had arrived with in June, another reason being that I had woken up in time to shower and look presentable (not counting the ever-present bags under my eyes, of course) after only sleeping two hours the night before, and the final (and most important) reason I pat myself on the back was because I had been a resident of New York City for eight and a half months.
While I sat in Terminal B at LaGuardia waiting to board Flight 2242 to Salt Lake City, I wrote a love letter to the place I had called home for the last while.
It read:
My dearest New York,
Early this morning I am leaving you until January of 2015. It's been a very committed eight and a half month relationship we've forged, you and I. You've been there with me when I got my heart broken twice; you were there when I was sick; you've watched me audition for umpteen shows/theatre companies; you saw me perform in numerous bars and cabarets; you've seen me almost book something I wanted desperately; you've seen me book something I needed more; you've made me completely broke; you've made me rich with knowledge; you've introduced me to some lifelong friends; you've made me sweat and freeze; you've made me cry and laugh and scream and fight and giggle and gasp; you let me make children laugh; you've taught me so much; you've shown me what it's really like to be alone; you've uncovered my insecurities and flaws, and in return, you've allowed me to find amazing strengths in myself that I didn't know existed; you've taught me I'm smart and I'm strong; you've given me a new perspective on life in general; you've taught me I know a lot about my career path choice but also that I have so much to learn and so far to go. The "business" can chew you up and spit you back out, and I suppose you could, too, but you haven't, and I'm grateful for that. You've seen me at my highest highs and my lowest lows; I have hated you and loved you in the same minute. It hasn't been easy. In fact, my time with you has been the hardest time of my life. BUT it's also been the most rewarding, learning, special time. As I explore other parts of the world over the next while, I know I will think of you everyday. I will miss you fiercely. I will dream about you, just as I did before I moved onto your grounds (only this time, a little more realistically and a little less romanticized). Even though you haven't made life easy, I am outrageously grateful to you for our time together. You are a beautiful, wonderful, awfully imperfect perfect place for me. I love you, New York. I can't wait to come back to you soon.
Yours always,
Angela
Let me rephrase an earlier statement: I pat myself on the back because I had been a resident of New York City for eight and a half months and am so excited to return when my contract with Holland America is finished. I LOVE NY.
Before I came to visit my family in Texas, I took a pit-stop in Salt Lake City to visit my friends and see them in Les Mis at the Hale. The show was really beautiful. I was deeply moved by the performances and ridiculously proud of/blown away by my talented friends.
Before the curtain rose on the first performance I saw, I was walking from the restroom to my seat, and a very clear thought crossed my mind as I looked around at the lobby and hallways: that chapter of my life was closed and over, and it was very unlikely that I would ever perform there again. It was a very tangible thought, like I could reach out and touch it. It was a strange thing to be so conscious that the place I had known so well just months before was no longer my "home" and that the stage I had memorized, laughed and cried on wasn't "mine" anymore. It surprised me more than anything to recognize that reality. I certainly didn't expect that to happen. I actually expected to ache to be in the show. I expected to hurt that I wasn't backstage in the hubbub and excitement. I expected to never want to leave. But that wasn't the case. I thought of a quote I'd heard in a talk:
I had let go of what was. That was a very defining moment for me and, perhaps, contributed somewhat to the fact that I was a blubbering baby the entire time I was in Utah and especially while I was in that building. It was such a bittersweet feeling! I am so fortunate to have worked and played there. I learned so much in my three and a half years and seven shows there. I love so many people I met there and truly cherish the relationships, lessons, and experiences that beautiful facility offered me. It was a huge part of my life, my "home" and "family" for a long time. I felt very loved and taken care of always. It was always about so much more than one more role on my resume, and I loved that. I wouldn't trade my time there for anything.
Interestingly enough, that moment of realization reared its head many, many times during the rest of my time in Utah with other situations. And truthfully, I didn't know how to handle it. I spent so much wonderful time with so many of my wonderful friends. It hit me over and over, with each of them, that life has gone on without me. Distance had done its duty and damage and made things different with almost every single one of my best friends. I felt like I was grasping to understand and fit into conversations about the latest happenings. I was constantly surprised with new news that I otherwise would've known had I still lived there. I felt like I didn't have much to contribute to group conversations; that never happened before. It just isn't my world anymore. It hurt. I'm not going to lie and say it didn't. It was confusing. It was frustrating. I was mad and sad. In many ways, although I had hoped it wouldn't, I knew it would happen. They were still the same amazing, fun, expressive people I've known for years. They weren't different, and I wasn't different: we were. That's a hard, jagged, mean ol' pill to swallow.
At some point, however, I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself in those regards and let be what will be. I had to let go of what was. The fact of the matter is that I would still lie down and die for all of them. Some of the friendships may, in fact, disappear, and that won't be easy - or maybe it will. But as for the majority... we all change and are trying our best to find our place in this world; we move away from each other and don't know every detail. It's not always convenient to reach out, no, but when the tears fall or when we could leap with delight and excitement, I know where those people are and they know where I am. These friendships are important to me, and it's important to me to show that, no matter the distance.
No comments:
Post a Comment