One Lifetime Isn’t Enough
One lifetime is not enough. It feels selfish to write these words; still I do at age 43.
Some will say I’m cutting myself out of roles I could be cast in by disclosing this number.
Some will say that the act of writing creative nonfiction will tank my teaching career.
Some will say I am fulfilling a prophecy by manifesting what I write.
I say: I am manifesting the something positive to cling to; something positive, beautiful and ugly that will connect us. I feel it in the smiles I receive when someone makes a comment that they can relate to my story, because face it, we all have a story we are writing. We all have health, love, career, family, friendship—moments of writer’s block that we are doing our damnedest to write our way through. So I continue my blog.
On August 11, I attended a private screening of a feature film directed by a friend of mine, who took a chance on me in an audition room several years ago for an indie stage production. I remember hobbling in with my cane, my eye bulging from what I had just learned was Thyroid Eye Disease. I was nervous.
He cast me anyway and we worked together a few times, and maintained a friendship from afar.
Flash forward to last week; he texted me an invite to a feature film he wrote and directed. I sat humbly in the darkened theatre, watching a group of people I knew from either past rehearsals or through social media and I cried. Don’t worry, I cried at the moments that were crying moments, and I laughed at the moments that were laughing moments. It was wonderful.
I stood outside the theatre after the question and answer session, watching the cast as they were photographed on the red carpet. People approached a group of us standing on the side to ask what was going on. “A friend of ours just screened a feature film he wrote and directed.” I felt like a star by association. A private screening, red carpet, curious passerby, an electric buzz–not too shabby a Friday night for Jonathan.
Yet, I watched and said: I need to do more. I can do more. I’m physically able–I need to do more.
I walked into the after-party and sat with the father of the director whom I had met years ago during the stage production his son cast me in. As we spoke, I found myself recounting events that you all have already read in this blog–-filling him in on my ups and downs with illness since seeing him in 2019 before the world shut down. I told him I was taking a teaching job for at least a year while finishing graduate school. I found myself telling him I wanted to audition again once I settled into my new role at school, how I am studying Italian so that I can vacation in Italy next summer and teach English, how I finished up treatments for now and am hoping to move to Edgewater, Chicago within the year–the suburbs are too quiet for me. I heard these dreams falling from my mouth like glitter.
You never completely rid yourself of glitter once the can has been opened; a piece of it always lingers on you. “One lifetime isn’t enough,” I sputtered.
My breath has been ragged lately. I hide it well. Just something I live with; like a messy roommate who just won’t leave.
Watching the film made me realize remission has strengthened my ability to nurture gratitude. It’s also made me thirst for all the damn glitter that I can scoop into my twitching hands. It has made me wiser: I will teach, but I will not lose myself to becoming Mr. S.
Jonathan, the human being with all his mess and elegance still exists.
We finished talking and I began to mingle until the clock struck midnight and suddenly I was 43. I said my goodbyes and stepped into the cooling summer air to wait for Uber. The night was magic. But magic has a way of disappearing into that box that turns around with that trick I could never figure out. You know the one–where the person disappears.
I felt more alone than I have in years. Sitting in the backseat, I looked at my driver and blurted out: “It’s my birthday.” I don’t know why.
The sweetest thing happened. She had a bag of Jolly Ranchers. She opened them and told me to take as many as I wanted. Kinda like an Uber birthday cake. I felt like a kid, sucking on my blue flavored candy. It was comforting. We drove through the night, chatting. It was a good Jolly Rancher.
I got home and fell into the wall. My mom steadied me.
Something is changing.
I didn’t actively celebrate my birthday this year. My celebration was seeing the film. Gifts in life come unexpectedly when we need them most.
My teaching contract starts in the morning with orientation. I’ve been setting up my classroom all week. They are kind to me at work, but there are 38 steps in an old building with no elevator. It’s a gamble. I’m up front about it. I want to see this season through because I have so much to hurry up and do.
I’m so tired.
This film has to be my boost because one summer of health isn’t enough. If my friend is reading–your film is pushing me through. Your gift.
I’m having trouble standing.
All good things don’t necessarily end, they change like the seasons. All good things don’t necessarily end, they change like the seasons…
My summer remission is slipping through my fingers as I hold my cane again. It’s come so fast. Still, I have so much to do and one lifetime is not enough. I’ll wake in the morning, God willing, but as I told the director’s dad, “I make rough plans,” and I’ll go to work. Staying in bed is not an option as long as I’m able to move. If one lifetime isn’t enough, then each moment must be enough.
We’ve all got a story to write through. Me? I’m going to continue to write mine, spitting glitter until those 38 steps are covered in it.
All Good Things,
Jonathan
Waiting on that Uber
