Heal the Past, Live the Present, Dream the Future

The title of this post was introduced to me by my cousin and wise friend Daflew many years ago, and the phrase really resonated with me. I used it for years as my email sig. Lately, I've been rediscovering how significant it applies to my life.

Like lots of people, I have struggled to find my purpose. I have tried many paths. I have done well on many, and failed or given up on others. Some I have never explored as much as I'd like. Yet I have never truly excelled at any of them, and it's because I have held myself back. Why that could be is a topic for a whole other post. Mostly, I think for me that it's because I always thought to myself, "I'll get back to it some day," or "Someday, after (fill-in-the-blank benchmark event), I'm going to (fill-in-the-blank dream or goal)."

Well, I think I'm hitting my fill-in-the-blank benchmark.

I often find myself detached from my surroundings, lost in the noise inside my head. My mind is constantly racing about any number of things at any given moment. Sometimes I'm thinking about what I'm supposed to be doing but am neglecting, or rehashing a lost opportunity and how I should have acted. Sometimes I'm ticking off the list of chores or errands I have to do, or berating myself for some kind of failure. Sometimes I'm running lines in my head, or thinking about how tomorrow, next summer, next year, and the rest of my life are going to play out. Sometimes I think about which of my dreams are realistic and achievable, and which ones I should abandon. I regularly feel paralyzed about my future, and I blame my past.

Sometimes the noise in my head is so loud it's an audible buzz, and I know that I regularly have a far-off, distant look in my eyes and on my face, even if I'm supposed be engaged in conversation. Please don't take it personally. I just have a lot on my mind all the time.

So, I'm fortunate to have a circle of friends and activities that are a constant reminder to be present. I've said many times that one is never so present than being on stage, in front of an audience. Going to rehearsal and concentrating on my craft helps me practice the art of focus. Having meaningful, connecting moments with my friends is amazingly grounding for me. Being in a loving relationship with someone who not only provides support but also requires it from me makes me feel needed and important. I find extreme solace and grounding in nature and with animals. And now, knowing that I don't have much time left with my mother is helping me to forgive the past and appreciate the now, as well as re-assess my dreams for my future.

I've long held the perception (and I don't think I'm alone here) that we slow down as we grow older; that we're more patient & tolerant, and able to take life with greater stride, and are perhaps less affected by difficult times because with age and experience comes wisdom.

While this perception is not wholly inaccurate, it is incomplete. Our bodies may slow down. The variety and number of activities we participate in may become fewer, and we may respond to things with greater insight and perspective than in our rash and exuberant youth.

But as our time grows shorter in this life and we become more acutely aware of this fact, our emotions may become even more intense, our passion stronger, and our motivation can generate a renewed and invigorated sense of energy, and optimistic outlook on the future. I think the main reason our elders seem slower is that they've learned to become more present. They're less caught up in the past or the future, and simply appreciative of the moment. But the intensity of feelings seems to grow, not lessen. Perhaps most importantly, the truly wise ones never stop learning from any of it.

You gotta fight for your right to party...or just to breathe.

It's a shitty week for the Garrettson boys...and their mother.

DISCLAIMER: This post will most likely be something of a Downer. Sorry about that, but life isn't always sparkle ponies & ice cream.

Prior to starting this blog, I posted a Note on Facebook a few weeks ago about receiving the news that my mom has lung cancer. This is in addition to her existing health problems (short-term memory loss and nerve damage to her hands & lower legs that cause her a great deal of discomfort).

At that time, she was scheduled for a series of tests to determine if she's healthy enough to withstand surgery that would remove the lower (3rd) node of her right lung that currently contains an 8cm mass.

Well, here we are, back from visiting the thoracic & lung surgeon with her test results. The answer was No, she can NOT have surgery at this time. She has diminished capacity in oxygenating her blood as well as removing CO2. On top of that, she's overweight, smokes almost 2 packs of cigarettes a day, and has an enlarged right ventricle that is dilated, which means she's not pumping enough blood to her lungs for re-oxygenation. The good news is that her left side of her heart works fine; she's able to pump plenty of oxygenated blood to her body, if she could oxygenate it properly. But if she DID have the surgery now she might as well get an oxygen bottle grafted to her back while she's at it, because she'll be breathing through a tube for the rest of her days.

So, the recommended course of action is to put her on an aggressive program of chemo and radiation therapy for 6-8 weeks. In the mean time, she has to reduce and eventually stop smoking, and begin exercising daily to strengthen her heart and increase her lung capacity, and lose some weight. 2 weeks after the completion of the radiation & chemo treatments, they'll do another image of the tumor and see how it's responding, as well as re-evaluate her condition for the possibility of surgery.

The bitch of it is that while she's going through all this treatment and it's kicking her ass for the next 2 months, making her sick and fatigued as chemo is known to do, she's also going to have to exercise daily and cut her smoking down. As it is right now, she takes a 2 hour nap every day, and must sleep with her head elevated. She's constantly complaining about her feet and hands, because she doesn't remember that she has a problem, and doesn't seem to have the will to fight through any kind of pain or discomfort. Therefore, she doesn't have much inclination to exercise because it hurts and she's tired. She can't even walk 100 feet without becoming fatigued and wobbly on her feet, due to her neuropathy. My mom is in for an uphill battle, and I'm not sure she has the desire to fight it, let do it all while undergoing treatment.

Today we made some first steps. She agreed to reduce her smoking to 1 cigarette per hour. For the next 5 days she is supposed to spend 5 minutes on her exercise bike twice per day without stopping, and walk as far as she can down the block, with the goal of making it to the corner, and eventually around the whole block. The doctor was talking about getting to the point where she can walk a mile in 30 minutes. Today she made it about 70 feet from her front door, not quite halfway to the corner, and that brought her to tears when we got back inside. So, we'll see if we can get her to the corner first. After 5 days, we'll increase her time on the bike and space her cigarettes father apart. She's supposed to increase her walking to her own comfort level. I wrote out a schedule for the next 2 weeks, and will assess her progress and adjust accordingly. To start, I just want her to develop these new habits, and gradually increase the exercise and reduce the smoking. I have no illusions about her quitting smoking altogether right away, or walking a mile in 30 minutes inside the next 2 months like the doctor said. But I'll help her do as much as she can and try to keep her motivated & positive. That's about all I can do. The rest is up to her.

Oh, and my brother has to put is dog to sleep this weekend.

But it's still a beautiful spring day today, and I got to go for a walk with my mom in the sun. So that's good.

It turned out to be a 2.6 mile day, but a really nice one.

So, what happened with my audition today, you ask?

Well, it went. It went about like most other auditions: fast, over before you know it. I felt I did fine. I checked in, chatted with a couple other actors while I waited to be called, slated, did a take, took some direction, and did a 2nd take. And that was it. Over in about 20 minutes, with less than a minute in front of the camera.

Oh, but you want more details, don't you? A cursory narrative like that must be disappointing. Okay.

The role is for a blue collar Boston thug. He and his 2 buddies beat someone with baseball bats. His line is "Hey!" then he swings the bat at the guy, knocking him down. He hits him with the bat twice more, then kicks him a couple times, then steps back while his pals keep working him over, giving each a look of approval.

So, that's what I did. Twice. We'll see what happens.

I discovered that I was confused about which project I was being called in for, though. I thought it was the OTHER big Hollywood shoot going on here in Portland. But it wasn't. I was auditioning for an episode of Leverage, the Timothy Hutton TV series shooting here right now. The Untitled Crowley Project, with Harrison Ford & Brendan Fraser, is already cast (I found that out, too). Oh well.

We'll see what happens. If I don't get a call by Tuesday, I'll consider it a no, and move on.

Was I more nervous than usual? No, actually less so, even though this was perhaps the most high-profile role I've ever been up for, in terms of largest potential audience. I got a shit-ton of support from you people and I deeply, genuinely thank you ever so much for that (a shit ton is equal to approximately 2800 pounds, or 1.4 standard tons; in other words, a lot).

Did it feel life changing? Not particularly. But what was sweet was that since I was consciously present, and doing what I love to do, I was in a really great fucking mood. I was really at peace, which was a great relief considering how stressed I've been constantly for the last 4 years over job/money issues. That felt great.

So, I got home, ate, and then got bored while Julie took a nap. So, I put my laptop in a knapsack and went for a walk. This is actually one of the more incredible moments today, since this is something I almost never do, but should, and would love to. In fact, it's reminded me that I don't go backpacking nearly as often considering how much I love it, so if anyone wants to plan an overnighter some weekend this spring, let's do it.

There's a trail head near our apartment to the Maquam Trails behind OHSU. I took a trail I've been eying for a while now, and it was, not easy, but not as hard as I thought, either. 1.3 miles of nothing but elevation change. Yes, the climb back up was a bitch, but I only had to stop for a rest once. And I wrote most of this while I was at the bottom, at Maquam Shelter. It's a rough trail; no bikes allowed, with lots of switch-backs, running water, mud, rocks and very uneven. But here I am, surrounded by green forest and in the heart of the city. God, I love Portland. So, now I can chalk up making another First Step in a series of Many First Steps I'm trying to make to create the changes in my life I want. One was to start this blog. Another was to start exercising. Now that I know I can walk to the bottom of that hill and back, write a couple paragraphs, and be done in about an hour, I'm going to do it regularly. And Many First Steps may be the right name for this blog instead of Faces of Drew. Maybe I'll take a poll.

Tomorrow night we're going to see the play currently running at Sandy Actor's Theatre, Murder on the Rerun, which is fabulous. (Bev, you should join us). We'll be out at the theater all day anyway because in the afternoon is our 1st rehearsal for Dirty Work at the Crossroads, the play Julie and I have been practicing lines for. I'm really excited about that because there are only so many 1st rehearsals in your life. Plus, I get to do what I do: Put on a show.

Now if I can just get my Aflac on, or find a normal job...Anyone want to have coffee and hear about Aflac? Please?

My 8 Mile

Tomorrow, may be my 8 Mile day. Tomorrow offers the possibility of a dream come true. At 4pm I'm to do an audition for the smallest of small speaking parts on a major motion film, with some big name stars. 2 of my favorites in fact. The seasoned actor in me can't help but tell myself to approach it like any other audition and expect nothing until the phone rings within 72 hours. But the undiscovered star in me is freaking out. I'm giddy with excitement while at the same time falling in to my historical trap of fear of success, and afraid of that, too. I don't want to put too much pressure on myself, but I don't want to sabotage one of the most potentially pivotal experiences of my life. I figure that the only way to achieve any kind of balance through this and retain my sanity is to recognize that the experience itself IS the dream come true. Even if nothing does come of it, tomorrow I am going to be so incredibly present and in the moment all day and especially during that split second when the camera is rolling and, with everything I've got and in my best Boston blue collar thug, I deliver the line "Hey!"

Broken

Another story from my childhood, written around the same time as Lose 'Em. I don't think it's as good as the training wheels story, but it was definitely a more powerful moment in my life.

****

There it was, underneath the park bench. It was already dead when I got to it. I’d killed bugs before, and seen rabbits slaughtered, but this was different. I had deliberately killed a bird, and for no reason whatsoever. I think it was a robin.

When I first got my BB gun 2 years earlier, Mom and Dad had both warned me repeatedly about shooting animals. Or anything else for that matter. Mom was not in favor of me having a BB gun at all, but it was my 8th birthday and we’d just moved from the suburbs to a house on 3 acres out in the country. We even had chickens. When I opened the present, she was pissed at my dad. I don’t think he told her before he bought it.

“Ed, I swear to God, if he shoots himself or a cat or a dog or another kid or a window or my goddamn car with that thing I’m gonna kill you, you son of a bitch! And I better not find any broken glass around here, either!” This was directed at me as she stormed out of the room.

“I need a cigarette” was the last thing I heard her mutter before the bedroom door slammed.

So, there were very specific rules about the BB gun. I was only allowed to remove my gun from the deck behind the house with parental permission, which Mom never gave. Otherwise, I could only shoot from the back deck towards the field. The list of specific items that were forbidden targets included: people, animals, buildings, cars, and anything made of glass. After I annihilated some of her flowerpots that had been just sitting around all year, this last item was later expanded to an entire category including plastic, ceramic, or anything that breaks apart.

In the field there was an enormous rotten tree stump. It must have been two hundred years old before the tree was cut down, which was obviously years ago. A new fir tree had sprouted from the top of it, and had grown to the size of a Christmas tree. I’d usually put beer cans or other targets on the stump or in the little fir tree. It was about 30 or 40 feet from the deck which was on the second story. Below the deck was where Dad kept a lot of junk, including snow tires, empty 50 gallon drum barrels, a Chevy engine block, and an old park bench.

Now that I was ten I was getting bored with my old target range. I wanted more of a challenge. Just as I finished reloading for the 3rd time and was thinking of doing something else, I saw the bird perched on a wire running from the deck to the side of the house near the window to my parents’ bathroom. Without thinking I took aim and pulled the trigger. Literally, no thoughts passed through me, I simply acted. There was no way to miss; it was only about 10 feet away. It dropped instantly. I dropped my BB gun and ran down to look.

There is no remorse like the realization that you’ve taken a life. Even now it’s difficult to recall the flood of emotion I felt as I picked it up in my hands and saw the head droop limply. I’d shot it in the neck and broken it. I was amazed at how soft the feathers were, and how light it was. I remembered that bird bones are hollow. Somehow I knew it was a female and wondered if it had any eggs in a nest somewhere. I stood there and cried for 10 minutes with this dead bird in my hands. Then, with tears on my cheeks and a runny nose, I went in to the house and showed my mom what I had done. She didn’t yell, although I could see she was angry. But she could also see my conscience was already dealing a worse punishment than she could. She got a Kenney shoe box from the closet, and after a solemn funeral ceremony, we buried it in front of the giant old tree stump.

Lose 'em

In order to live up to the title of this blog, Faces of Drew, I'm going be revealing several aspects of myself. And since this is very early in what ought to be an ongoing endeavor, why not take you back in time?

So, we're going back to January 25th, 2005. I wrote this story for a writer's group I was involved with called Werd!, started by my best friend and amazing writer, Zigzag. She's also the main inspiration for me starting this blog in the first place. There will be plenty more stories in the future about her, but if you can't wait to get to know her, check out her blog.

Anyway, through this writer's group, we ended up hosting a weekly open mic. It was then I learned that I could also write poetry and do spoken word performance. I'll post some of the poems later, but this story I wrote specifically to be read aloud at the open mic. It's one of my favorite stories I've written, and by posting something I wrote a long time ago, I take a little pressure off myself to create something fantastic right here right now.

So now, we're going even farther back in time, to the summer of 1973, the year before my brother was born.

*****
I was five years old. My mom had been remarried for 2 years to my stepdad, Ed, but I'd begun calling him Dad. I didn't remember my biological father, and would one day learn what a fantastic father I had now. But at that point, I had grown used to him but he still scared me a little, too. He was never mean, but could be gruff sometimes. He was a huge sports fan, and coached little league. He was a welder and had been a machinist and diesel mechanic on a submarine in the navy during the Viet Nam War, with the tattoos to prove it. He had an ex-wife named Ethel, which I thought was funny because that was the kind of gas he put in the car. He was a six feet tall and weighed 200 lbs, which to me was huge. He had blue eyes and blonde hair, so he couldn't have seemed more opposite from me: an undersized and timid bookish kid with brown hair, brown eyes and a big vocabulary for a 5 year-old. I think he secretly wondered what planet I was from. I once overheard him tell my mom “He’s a smart kid, but he sure doesn’t get it sometimes.”

I was riding my bicycle around in our drive way and on the so-called street behind our house. The street was so full of potholes it reminded me of a battlefield from a WWII movie. Some of them had been repaired with a soft tar that would bubble up on hot days. It was fun to pop the bubbles with my shoe.

My bike was pretty primitive. I think it was the smallest, least expensive bicycle my mother could find, or at least that she could charge on her Montgomery Wards credit card. It was bright orange (I’m assuming so cars could see me). It rattled a lot. There was no bell, or streamers from the grips, which were basic black. The tires didn't even inflate. They were like steel tricycle wheels mounted with cross-cut, lawnmower-style tire treads made of hard plastic. The seat had no padding, either, just more hard plastic. I'd already ridden so much on our street with the training wheels on that I could get around with pretty good control. I was beginning to get bored and was itching to learn how to ride my bike for real, without training wheels. Dad was working on mom's car in the driveway. I could see wrenches.

I looked at the nuts on my bike holding on the training wheels.
I looked at the wrenches.
I looked at the street.
I looked at my dad working on the car.
I looked back at my training wheels.
I looked at the wrenches again.
I looked at my dad. I thought about it really hard, for a long time.
I looked back at the street.

"Dad, will you take my training wheels off?" I piped up. I was afraid to ask. Afraid he'd say no because he was busy working on the car. And afraid he'd say yes, because I didn't actually know how to ride a bike without them.

He looked up from the engine and at me with only his eyes. His head and body didn't move.

"You want 'em off?"

"Yeah, I think so" I said.

He stood up from the car and began wiping his hands with a dirty rag. He didn't turn his head towards me, but is eyes never left mine, which were big as saucers. He paused before he sternly said "Are you sure? Because, if I take them off, I'm not putting them back on".

This startled me. One of the reasons I was such a confident rider was because I knew I could lean on the wheel in a turn. Now I'd have to balance on my own. I could fall. There was lot's of gravel and even some bits of broken grass on that bumpy street, and I could get hurt. I completely envisioned myself trying to ride without them and crashing. And bleeding. And crying.

"Let me think about it for a minute" and I pushed my bike around and away from him, down the driveway. Dad ducked back under the hood.

I contemplated the decision, weighing the freedom and pride of learning to ride like a big kid versus the very strong likelihood of crashing, or not being able to ride at all because Dad wasn't going to put them back on.

I came to a decision.

"Okay" I said about a minute later.

"Bring your bike over here and let's do it then. I ain't got all day" he answered, as he grabbed a crescent wrench. I pushed my bike to him. He picked it up with on hand, flipped it upside down on the handle bars and seat to stand it up, but it fell over. He sighed, and crouched down to begin unscrewing the first nut. I watched in silent anticipation. I had to remind myself to breathe out.

When the first training wheel fell to the driveway it made loud clanging clapping noise. I picked it up and spun it in my fingers as I watched him flip my bike over and remove the other one. Then he stood it up. My bike looked so naked with out them. And fast. My excitement began to push the fear back a bit.

"Okay, come over here" he said as he wheeled the bike out in to the street in front of the only reasonably flat part.

"Get on" he said. I got on while he held the back of the seat with one hand and a handlebar with the other.

"I'm gonna get you started, then I'll let go. Just keep pedaling. Are you ready?" And before I could answer I could feel his strong arms pushing me forward. I began pedaling to keep up.

I was used to leaning against the training wheels while going forward, so it didn't feel weird leaning against him. After a few steps I could feel a little burst of speed as he gave a push and let go. But I was still leaning to the left. I went down instantly.

"Shit" I heard him mutter over my wail of pain. I'd never fallen down so hard in my short life. My hands were scraped and bleeding and there were little rocks stuck in them. They stung.

"Now, stop crying goddammit, and get back on" he said as he picked me up and put me on my feet, then stood the bike back up. "Get on."

Sniffling, I wiped my nose on my shirt sleeve, caught my breath, and got back on. He waited until I nodded that I was ready before he began pushing. This time, I made 3 whole cranks of the pedals before I crashed and hurt my knee. But I didn’t cry as hard this time. I checked for blood, and yep it was there, too. The bath tonight was gonna really sting, I thought.

"That was better. Let's try it again." His voice was gentle.

I limped over to the bike and got back on. This time I did really well until I hit a pothole. Stinging hands again and a new scrape on my right elbow. And the knee was still pretty sore. I knew I'd have a bruise there later.

"One more time" he said.

I looked at him reluctantly.

"Don't stand there and waste my time. You're gonna learn to ride your bike today, kid. Now get on. You can do it."

And I did.

Faces of Drew Trial blog 1.0

So begins my journey, er, journal.

WARNING! Adult content MAY be encountered here. If you're not fine with that, fuck off & go away.

Otherwise, WELCOME!

My hope is that this will be the first step of many. It is just one of my goals. Another one of my goals is to identify the rest of my goals, so that I can then figure just what I have to do in order to attain them.

Notice how I used the word 'attain' and not 'achieve'? That's because I'd rather own my objective than have it awarded to me like a prize. Owning it makes it feel more like a part of me, whereas achieving something makes it seem like I chased a carrot on a stick and somehow, arbitrarily by fate or, or the generosity or error of the farmer driving the cart, did I somehow nab it in my teeth.

But back to my point. Starting this blog is intended to trigger a number of effects:
1. Get me writing every day, or at least regularly.
2. Help me find my voice, whatever the hell that is.
3. Express myself to the universe, whether to rail against the ills of society, or share my unique perspective, allow me to flex my use of language, make up funny silly nonsense, or even take an emotional dump.
4. Strengthen my relationships, and develop new ones...and possibly terminate bad ones. Whether you know me well or not, you will definitely get to know me better here, but some of it you may not like. I intend to be brutally honest here.
5. Establish an audience. Someday very soon, I'm going to be calling upon every contact in my social network to do the same, and join me on something that is as yet undefined. But when I do, I want to have a large and empowered group of voices with me.
6. Well, I don't know what 6 is right now because I'm writing this free-form; this is my 1st rough draft, so it's not all mapped out yet. Plus, I need to keep these blogs short enough that you'll read the whole thing and keep coming back.

So, I'll wrap this up by saying: Thank you for reading my first entry, and I hope you look forward to more. If you like it here, let others know. If not, forget the whole thing and don't tell anyone.