ELIZABETH A. DAVIS

I spent a day in Waco, TX recently. It was hot. 108 degrees hot. Usually Waco is muggy and miserable with a dripping-wet, humid heat. This time it was a dry heat that I could almost enjoy. I baked. I won't tell the locals I actually enjoyed the frying-on-the-pavement feeling it provided.

I went to Waco for a day to see an old friend. I hadn't seen this friend in seven years, though innumberable phone conversations have kept us connected. When I last saw him he was homeless, 59 years old & cancer free. Now, he's off the streets and in a house he shares with an El Salvadorian, taco making couple, old enough to draw social security checks and riddled with bone and prostate cancer.

He's in it for the fight, though. He always has been.

"He" is Joe Lightfoot Gonzales, the Native American / Hispanic man that has filled so much of the last 12 years of my life. Recently, however, we've learned 'Joe' isn't his real name. It was simply the name given to him by his siblings since he was immediately tossed into the foster system and never had a present mother. His real name, recently acquired to get social security and Medicade, is free of a prison record; something 'Joe Lightfoot Gonzales' can't necessarily boast.

Our reunion is made with my mother-in-law present. He attempts to impress / scare her by saying, "Oh, you lived in north Dallas? Yeah, I used to run over there. I huslted a lot of rich white folk over there. Made a lot of dough."

I call his bluff and we burst into laughter.

"Oh, I've missed you girl. I'd take a bullet for you."

We go to his chemotherapy appointment. He talks too loudly in the waiting room and he tells me how nothing else matters now but getting right with God, makes duplicitous and incorrect political statements and asks how my family is. We read the newspaper. They call us into the office to check vitals and time has marched on: seven years flashed before me as Joe sits there weakly.

I've missed you too, Joe. I've missed you, too.

Coming home to Channing, TX means breathing easier. It means letting go of muscles held that I didn't know were taut. Mama and Daddy's house / home means lawns, gardens, ponds, fountains, work out rooms, antiques and a dog, a parrot and a perpetually pregnant cat. It's the population sign that says 363. (It used to say 365, but in the last 10 years, we've had either two deaths or two folks left. Perhaps I counted? Novel.) Home is being cared for in a way that only an incomparable Mama and Daddy can do: prayer coverings, late night pep talks, highlighting lines, baking, crying, hugging and singing harmony. All my favorite foods are in the fridge and somehow Mama knows a trip to Dillard's junior department is what I've been craving. Saying 'I love you' and wondering what will happen to it all if they were to get sick. It's dismissing that idea as inconceivable. Invincibility comes to mind. My brother agrees with me and we say meaningful words to each other. He's my home too.

A neighbor was in trouble last night. Around 2:30 AM our buzzer rang, as did the one below ours. She had lost her keys. We learned that her wallet, money and cell phone were also lost in the madness. Her tears, confusion and signs of possible abuse immediatley let us know that she needed care. Jordan opened the front door, seated her in the entrance and then quickly found our landlady / live-in-grandmother Claudette for the needed apartment key. I sat on the stairs and wondered what to say as she cried and struggled to hold down her impending puke.

Now our brownstown is occupied by Jordan and myself, our landlord David, his sister Claudette (a 60 something Jamaican) and this dear girl. We're a small bunch and have grown familially close to Claudette who immediatley sprung into action. With bleary eyes, Jordan and I then sat and listened to Claudette become mother, friend, counselor and doctor.

We stiffled audible responses as she wasted no time saying, "Did somebody hurt you? What do you need, coffee? I'll make you scrambled eggs and coffee." Our hurt neighbor interjected through tears, "I don't belong here.... should go home." Claudette then proclaimed, "Look, you are tough. We've gotta be tough here. All of us. There are no sissies in the house, and I don't mean gay. We're all tough and strong. You're gonna be ok."

It was an awful and wonderful moment. Our neighbor's pain was indeed painful, but the sense of family, and the rallying support and comforting concern from our dear Claudette was touching, moving.

As I left the house this morning, Claudette caught me to ask if she should take her $20 or coffee? She also said that "although I'm not a religious woman I feel God sent you to me." I responded, "We feel the same, Claudette." And it's true.

When I had said goodbye and reached the door, a letter was in our mailbox: "Dear Elizabeth and Jordan, 'The best portion of a good man's life: his little, nameless and unremembered acts of kindness and love.' - Wordsworth. Thank you for last night. You are special. - Claudette"

Today, I believe that Claudette is indeed the one that is special.

I don't read music terribly well. I never have. I studied Suzuki violin for 15 years and a heavy emphasis was placed on playing by ear. I'm incredibly thankful for this, but also wonder what implications sounder sight reading would have meant for me musically. I do enjoy the occassional moments of terror when I'm forced to stick to a score; they're good for me. They make me better.
Even still, I love the feeling of simply sensing music; just waiting and reacting to a chord change, providing a suspension or unexpectedly creating a melodic riff. I think this part of my musical creativity, or perhaps more aptly titled, my reaction-ivity, is the same part of me that loves the unexpected on stage as an actor. The vehicle is different, the road is the same. It's a bit of the thrill seeker in me, perhaps. Or it's just searching for the moments of knowing you are truly creating something, right now. Here, in this moment. Perhaps it will never come back, but we had it for a minute.
So yes, I'm limited in my skill and I will admit I need to keep moving forward in learning, trying to get better. But I also confess I'm quite happy swaying back and forth with a song and having no idea where it may go. The reward is not only the music, but the discovery.

The oppression of woman in the workforce is next to abhorrent. Still. It's subtle, no doubt, but ever present; a vicious reminder of the destructive paradigm that persists. However, while I wail and moan about Mad Men-esque harassment and slights, I'm reminded of the plight of women in Egypt that has come to our collective, international attention. Suddenly, being passed over for an advancement or relegated to ever-more secretary doesn't seem so dire. Perhaps I need to count my gender's American blessings?


Indeed, yes. BUT I think it better, for the situation to remind us / draw our attention to injustices across the globe, at home AND abroad that perpetually afflict and destroy the advancement of women. I'm challenged, wondering what I can do to be more active in this field.


Check out www.restorenyc.com for more info about what some people are doing right here in NYC to take on the travesty of sex trafficking.

I talked to the trees in Central Park today. They talked back. We mused and laughed, we bore our branches to each other and then we cried. -

I went for a run and found myself in a corner of the gardens at 106^th and 5^th Ave. The sun was out, the breeze was crisp and sweat was beginning to form on my brow; a little too warm for the scarf I wore. I worked and heaved, jumped and pushed. I put my body through rigor and I felt health surge. I breathed in deeply. Then attempted 10 more push ups.

About halfway through my date with flex and lunge, I noticed that no one was around. Not. One. Soul. I could only hear birds and the wind in the leaf-stripped branches whining. I was thankful, so thankful and I tried to forget every sore and pain, every ache in my heart and each failure’s whisper in that moment.

I tried, but I wasn’t successful. Even still, I’m thankful for the moment of trying.

But then…the trees. They drew me in. They were bare and I could sense they were somewhat embarrassed, but had learned to make peace with their annual overexposure. They were brilliant in their silence and I made my way to them feeling uncanny kinship. I truly felt God was in the trees talking to me; one of His creatures to the next. They said things like, “We’re beautiful, even out of season,” and “The real work is happening inside.”

They said simple things like, ‘be yourself’ and ‘growing is silent.’ “Be still and know that He is God.” And then surprisingly, ‘Be wild.’

I held a branch and began to cry. The sweat and tears combined to make a salty mixture I wiped from my face. Oh, bare branches, we have matching marrow! Our sap is the same and I could swear you have a soul.

Oh God above, You remind me how to weather a season and for that I’m thankful. And in my weakness I’m thankful the branches are bare but once a year.

While Listening to “I Gotta Feeling” by Blk Eyed Peas

What does that mean first of all? There are so many levels of this state to which it seems the entire world aspires, right?

There are people who appear to be in amazing shape who have terrible habits, who are depriving themselves, who are out of balance and could drop dead of something wacky any minute much to everyone’s shock. Or their are those who are just naturally a skinny minny, but think a ketllebell must be a cross between a kitchen appliance and a cow accessory.

Or there are those people who are quietly and inobtrusivley living under their clothes without fanfare, but they could rip steal wires apart if asked. They could run 10 miles to Mr. Tan and Taut’s surprise. These people aren’t too flashy and no one would look at them and drool out a Paris Hilton ‘hottt.’ But they take amazing care of themselves in general.

There are those who are naturally given to stealth and svletness, but they also are aware that health is so much more than a shape; that taking care of themselves is a long term investment with appearance not taking first priority. Generally, these people are an irritant to us all and send us into circles of debate with ourselves and God. (or is that just me?)

There are many others, I suppose.

But there remains “the feeling.” You know what I’m talking about: that feeling you get after you bust out a few miles or dead lift and / or circuit train for a while. You feel like the world is brighter, you feel sharper, your clothes just seem to fit better even if you haven’t changed an ounce. You can focus better in this place.

I’ve had trouble finding a balance with all of this in my life. I’ve dabbled all over the place, but today I feel like I’m understanding something / experiencing something that makes me very happy. I’m old enough to know that I have to be careful with this God-given instrument of a body – it’s fragile and frail, but simultaneously resilient like mad. Even still, care and planning and mothering are required to do right by it.

I still crave that “feeling.” I’ve gone without it enough to know I just ain’t right if I’m not engaging in putting my body through rigor on a regular basis. For crying out loud, every person on the planet is better for this rigor. It’s delicious. So this begs the question, “Why in the wide world don’t I put more priority on it?!”

Why is it so difficult for me to find some consistency? I just get used to feeling half awake and lying to myself about it, I suppose. And this translates to more than just physical shape; every part of our lives can suffer from this half awake curse.

But not today for me. I’m awake…and I’ve got a ‘feeling.’

Jordan and I got back from a quick weekend trip to Orlando which included playing at the House of Blues with Zach Williams and Mat Kearney. (It also may have included going to Epcot and dancing in the streets at Magic Kingdom for 12 hours, but no matter.)

Regardless, we returned to a delightful dinner engagement on Monday night with some new friends and surprise guests we didn’t know. We took the train to Westchester and tried not to freeze in our tracks as we navigated the Jerz.

After some delicious lasagna and talk of forensic science and such, the conversation turned to a lawyer’s perceptions of what an actor’s life is like. Our digression started with, “So is it true that actors are more insecure than other people?”

I checked to make sure Jordan wasn’t nodding his head behind my back, and then we launched into a thoroughly engaging (for me anyway) debate that had me pulling for some hair-brained explanations, as I forget the innermost nuances of living the artist’s life isn’t common knowledge.

You see, it seems like people think actors actually choose this life. I would disagree. I would argue that the art, the bend, the inclination toward artistry is a God-given wiring, just as a biologist has a hardwired understanding, almost sixth sense about what creation is saying to them. They hear music in their science and I doubt they simply decided, as one chooses to buy a new neck tie, to cultivate that sense. It’s there.

So, with that said, why does it seem actors / artists are so ‘insecure.’

“Ok, “ I think “Perhaps I should approach this explanation as if nothing is a given.”

I launch in with something like, “My body, emotions and soul are my commodity. There is nothing hidden when I’m on stage. Or…even if there is and your channeling it into the character, you’re still aware that your pathos is exposed to some extent, like paint being spread on a blank wall, the color remains there.”

The lawyer breaks in with, “But the actor is still trying to get the approval of the audience for his whole life. This is what makes them insecure, I bet.”

“Not entirely true. I would say that the actor is attempting to share an idea, a story, a life. Sharing is the goal, not begging for approval. (or if that is the case, you don’t last long. Perhaps this is even the type you speak of, but no matter…) Honestly, I have to say that I don’t care if you liked me in a certain performance. (I try to forget my freak out reaction to my first, less than flattering NY Times review.) It’s not for the audience that I do my craft. Yes, we are in a symbiotic relationship, but if I don’t maintain my role as ‘interpreter,’ ‘craftsman,’ ‘revealer of ideas, Truth,’ and I morph into a mere people pleaser, then I’m not keeping the balance of the relationship. I lose my ability to move you to thought and change. So, yeah, I care but I don’t. (I said this with utmost idealism, mind you, realizng a smidge of hypocracy.) Of course, words still hurt, yes, but the act of pushing back with valiant vulnerability is courage-builidng. You learn how scared other people really are.”

[And then I added the major, blaring exception of my husband: OF COURSE he has to think I’m brilliant or I’m devastated. (And perhaps this is where more of the artist’s vulnerability comes from more than anything: feeling rejected by those closest to them who don’t understand their craft.)]

“I disagree,” says the lawyer in the most collaborative manner possible. “Actors still choose to put themselves up on a stage and then become pathologically vulnerable and insecure because of it. Most people just don’t need that like artists seem to.”

This is when I went digging for a metaphor. Only metaphors work for me in instances like this.

“Imagine you have ten people in a line. All of these ten people are severely sunburned from the neck down; however, 9 of these people are wearing clothing. Some have on scrubs, one has on business attire, another has NYPD garb on, and still another has, say…forensic scientist attire on?! Now imagine the last person has on only a speedo (or bikini on) or…perhaps they’re naked. They are an artist. Now, and this is of course a whole other debate, but imagine Someone decided who was to get the clothing and what kind. Then they are sent on their way into their field of interest.

Now, is everyone still sunburned? Or only the person that you can tell is sunburned? Everyone is sunburned! It becomes easy, though, to point at the visibly sunburned person and cry, “You’re sunburned! You should do something about that. That’s an issue. Get it together. You are such a mess.”

“The other nine can internally react in several ways: pretend they aren’t sunburned and lie to themselves, know they are, but not share it with others and lie to everyone else, OR accept the fact that EVERYONE is 'sunburned,' but time, place, and situation make that fact more obvious in some cases than in others.”

I wait with the very anticipatory vulnerability he speaks of to see how he’ll respond:

“Ahhhhh.” (long pause) “But that would just make me feel so vulnerable to be the one with no clothes on.”

To which I half-way screamed back, “EXACTLY!”

Now my argument isn’t perfect. It’s rife with folding back on itself and perhaps exaggerated idealism, but we had a moment of satisfying understanding for a bit. We agreed we don’t have to understand to believe, to be moved. Then we launched into evidence / no evidence of Intelligent Design in the universe.

As we rode the train back home, I started thinking about how I’m really not the one standing there naked like I pretend to be. I have so many things I hide behind.

Then I started thinking about the woman with a severe burn on her body who walks through the train on a Thursday evening and asks for food. She feels naked. Or the people just made homeless and childless by the earthqake in Haiti. They’re naked.

I think of yes, Joe who stands there naked sweating on the street corner even though his defenses seem impenetrable.

I just hope I give them the same freedom to be naked as I asked Ivan, the forensic scientist lawyer to give me tonight.

(Written 1 Year Ago. I'm slow, I guess you could say.)

I’ve decided that I want to start...this. This thing called 'blog.' It’s, I guess you could call it, a resolution of sorts. But this is not a quick, easy and abrupt decision. Not at all: it’s been incubating and gestating for some time now. I’ve come to this crossroads in my reflecting and discipline in writing and I’ve decided – I blame technology. It’s such a difficult decision, isn’t it? Do I write in my journal? Do I blog? Do I say my thoughts aloud and then transcribe them? Oy.

And because I haven’t decided either way, I just haven’t written. I’ve stalled, become dumb, mute, lost years to the abyss by unexamined living. Of course, I admit, this isn’t the only factor to be considered. I believe there are two other major reasons. (And probably lots of ‘reasonettes,’ but we’ll leave them unexamined for now...to continue on a theme. ha.)

#1 – Who Cares? Not me, do I? And probably not you. It started during my second year in the city: I got beat down. I was overwhelmed; I felt restless and unsure how to use my time. See, my life is defined by inconsistency and I never have two weeks ever the same. I never know what one week will be like until I’m in the middle of it. Despite my best attempts to build the walls and highways of “Structure” into my life, grass grown paths, soft and fluid plans and Romantic, overgrown garden days are my lot instead. (This doesn’t bode well for a highly competitive, productivity-loving Type Bish A)

I AM thankful, mind you, and know the Plan is unfolding as it should, but when structure elludes you completely, you get sort of lost and when you get lost you get to feeling helpless.

So…the helplessness (which is probably only in my head) and the feeling lost and the hide-and-go seek structure: all these equal the ‘who cares.’ A shade of quitting seems to color the world, but the quiet quitting, not the real quitting – the kind that made Mark Twain say, “Men die at 27, we just bury them at 72.” That kind.

But may I say, the most dangerous kind of quitting. Because you can continue to go through the motions and just mark the heart part. But by writing this, admitting it, I’m saying, “I care. I haven’t quit, you see. No. I’ve encountered the temptation, feel it’s tentacles’ tickle and I say no.”

I’m trying and this bliggity blog is a bold step of defiance. Perhaps that’s an overstatement, but only in the seen. The Unseen declares it deeply profound.

AND none of this masquerading of true risk taking either; another part in this “who cares.” In the year she died, my Nana, from her recliner, said of the suicide bombing-inclined types, “there’s nothing you can do to stop them. You’ll never change their minds. They’re just stark raving mad, Elizabeth Anne.”

That was sad to me. I remember thinking, “Nana has grown too old and finds engaging with the world for the sake of change just no longer possible