The One Where I Go Back In Time

Vacation is leaving something one previously occupied. The act of vacating is used as a refresher and a means to get away from work and responsibilities. Mental chores, on the other hand, cannot be left at the kennel or stored at the post office for two weeks time. You can’t run away from your mind, at least not for long. Our “things” come traipsing right along with us, with vacating merely allowing us to stand beyond spitting distance with heightened clarity to assess. What clarity have I found, you ask? Well, pretty clear skin, some clear ocean water, and a clear need for connection. #needy

While traveling with my mom, I’ve been working on a math problem, long-form answer. Who are we as people separate from what we do? Work, relationships, hobbies. See, as an artist, I find this difficult to answer. As an actor, you’re often seen as who you play onstage, the way your voice sounds, and the shapes your body cuts when you dance. A romantic notion, but when you come home at night, you’re left feeling empty and drained if you haven’t got a solid grasp on the other stuff. Obviously, being an artist permeates every aspect of my life, but if I’m not doing it, I feel like a girl-with-no-name who loves watching 'The Office'. Dangerous territory, if it gets out of control. That’s...what she said?

Last night, I looked up at the stars and spotted the Big Dipper. Well, my cousin did. My first cousin, by the way, that I met just this evening, and here we are, under stars and palm trees, spilling our hearts about experiences with deceased family members and the strength of human electromagnetic currents. I often contemplate the trajectory of lives and how they intersect. I met four cousins for the first time today and, like a speckled mosaic, we saw pieces of ourselves and familial elders in one another. My cousin told me I reminded her of my grandmother, Margaret, and I ached at the thought of never meeting her, as if meeting her would solve a puzzle.

Everyday we’ve sorted through old photos, and I sit there staring into the faces of my relatives, yearning for some sort of...what? Insight into who I am and might become? Maybe it’s hope for finding happiness, the kind I perceive is radiating from these photos taken on the best days of their lives. These black and white relics highlighting holidays, birthdays, beach days, and family togethers. We can never possibly know what film was rolling behind their eyes, except that my grandmother’s eyes always looked like deep pools holding tightly to unseen thoughts.

As an anxious individual, or for anyone who has experienced their share of mental gymnastics, looking back at captured moments can, at times, be entirely overwhelming. There are so many incredible memories captured in film, but I often find myself remembering the sweat rather than the sweet. A tormented moment mid-episode where I had convinced myself of some ridiculous mental scenario and was doing yogi-breathing exercises in between bites of fries and gulps of beer. I know looking back at family photos of us, we beam, but I also remember the battles I was fighting.

Vacations as a youth, I grew up close to my father’s side of the family. He was one of five siblings, with eighteen cousins in all. My twin brothers and I were the babies of the bunch. We looked up to our cousins like big brothers and sisters, some of them like superheroes who swore and smoked, taking us on slushie runs to the 7-11 in a gnarly Jeep, and I just thought that that was the absolute coolest. At family parties, there’d always be a six-pack of IBC root beer for me to pretend was beer, and I would lift my pinkie as I drank, because that’s how you drink alcohol. I couldn’t wait to grow up.

As an adult, I wanted to work up North, but every job I’ve taken has brought me back to the South. Turns out we’re connected by more heartlines and strings than we realized. My mother’s parents died before I ever had a relationship with them. Besides my Uncle and his family, that side of the family was mostly a mystery to me until Mom recently had time to uncover and scan photos, and we sat down to sort out who was who. My Nana, who dreamt of being a nightclub singer and actress but struggled with inner voices and societal pressures. My grandfather, the photographer and builder. My Great-Aunt and Great-Uncle, a photo of them playing cello and piano together. And then last night, all of us picked up instruments and played music until we passed out.

Like a piece of my question was being answered in that vague and subtle way, I was surrounded by family who were strangers the day before and now were talking up schemes of recording sessions. The “who I am” and the “what I do” are not mutually exclusive. What’s important to separate is the “why” I'm doing it, and to be as honest about that question as possible. An artist is who I am. The "what" often leads to the act of marketing myself and being an artist for other people, because, ya know, money and expectations and stuff. The “who” wraps its arms around all our individual messy contradictions, along with the creative soul that loves and creates unabashedly before asking questions, judging itself, or deciding how to share it on social media (<---big struggle point, anyone else?). Getting comfortable with yourself is a long and vibrant journey. This trip away, distance and family, is giving me a whisper of insight into who my who is, and who I want that who to be. Phew, you’d think Dr. Seuss, himself, was riding along with us!