Anything worth doing is worth doing
badly
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________I don’t know why so many of my Life’s lessons seem to require humiliation.
Learning has
always come easily to me, book learning, that is. And in the Grand Scheme of
things, I don’t think book learning counts for all that much. My school reports
consistently lined out the ‘A’s and the comportment side matched. Yes, I was
one of those.
I’ll not
soon forget my Dad’s disappointment at my first B+ in Freshman HS Algebra. I
was pleased and relieved with that B+. It could have been worse. But Dad’s frown
imprinted my psyche.
All manner
of skills came easily to me. Some things I studied desperately before trying my
hand. I wanted to do well. Doing poorly was not allowed. To my shame, other
experiences I simply turned aside from even trying.
Back in a
past lifetime, I accidentally got myself plunged into the world of theatre. I’ve
always loved plays. Heck, I blubber at young children’s church productions of
the Christmas Story.
When I had
my shop in Washington, the leader of a local community theatre asked if I’d
donate my skills, make tapestry bell pulls with tassels for a production.
Next thing,
she asked if I’d sit on the board. That was my first mistake. Board membership meant
warm bodies rubber stamping decisions. In short time, that leader left.
The
remainder of the board, and I truly didn’t see this coming, asked if I’d step
in and be president. These good people lied to me. They said, “All you have to
do as president is lead meetings.”
“We want to
mount plays that mean something,” they told me. “We think community theatre
groups can produce work just as skilled as professional groups.” That hooked
me.
At that
point, ignorant of any aspect of play production, I knew that to lead this
group well I had to educate myself. Seattle is a hotbed of theatrical
productions of all kinds; amateur, professional, university, and garage-groups.
Classes and workshops abound.
I plunged
into learning. I attended plays from Everett to Tacoma. A weekend lighting and
sound class left me with glazed eyes but taught me I needed to recruit good
accomplices. Play-writing. Directing. Acting. Stage management. I loved it.
I have an
entire encyclopedia of brag stories about our little group and what we
accomplished. But those stories are not for now.
Along came Improv.
The group in North Seattle consisted of professional actors, wannabes, amateurs
there to hone their skills and new-comers, like me. I had no choice. I signed
up, paid my fees and plunged into the fray.
I’m the
person who thinks of that perfect comeback to your scathing remark three hours
later. That explains me in Improv class. Mortified because my lack of comeback
was visible to all.
In the midst
of my second ‘class’, I had a light-bulb moment. Somebody had to be ‘last’.
Somebody, on the scale of best to worst, hit bottom. That was me. At that
moment of understanding, I became willing to be ‘worst’. An ‘F’ on my report
card, in red ink.
Improv was
never easy, but as the worst of the bunch, I relaxed and the dread dropped
away. The willingness to be ‘worst’ stayed with me, a valuable skill.
Today, of
necessity, I’m snipping into another area of necessity, similar to Improv, in
which I have no expertise. N_O_N_E.
History: I
know my mother only through stories from my aunts. My mother could cut
anybody’s hair, intuitively knew what style suited best, even cut her own hair.
My sister inherited Mom’s hair-cutting genes and used her skills to make a
living. I inherited my Mom’s middle name ‘Jean’.
Today I’ll
attempt to cut my hair, not just bangs, the whole overgrown mess. I know it
will be lopsided and ragged at best. Here goes. Report to follow.
More
history: Back when I was first married and living on the ranch south of Dodson,
we had a shepherd mix, a good cow dog. That summer Mike was miserable, his hair
matted with winter fur, thick with clumps of cockleburs and hitchhikers. My
husband trimmed him down with the horse clippers, leaving only a ruff around
his neck. He looked like an underfed lion. We giggled.
Poor Mike. He
backed himself into the chokecherry bushes along the creek and refused to come
out for a month. I had to carry him food and water.
Today I’m
joining Mike in the brush.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
September 3,
2020
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