Saw another play last night, Taking Care of Baby. This one I would not highly recommend though it was not without its merits. During the course of two hours I vacillated among entertained, annoyed, unsettled, and mildly satisfied. The theme is truth – and how subjective it can be, how we believe what we want to believe or need to believe or choose to. (yes, I ended a sentence with a preposition.)
Most of us grow up forming our personal mythologies based on messages we hear from an early age, from others and from ourselves. I think that more often than not these mythologies take the form of things we don’t do well – which is a defense mechanism, a form of self-preservation. In a weird way. When we hear the same messages and repeat them to ourselves, they can become self-fulfilling prophesies. Some of mine have been things I can’t do – I can’t cook, I can’t dance, I can’t stay organized. Yours might be I hate exercise, I have a terrible memory for names, I don’t have a good eye for this or that. This past year has been, for me, one of debunking some of these myths. Turns out I can cook and I like to, I can dance (albeit without much semblance of rhythm, but I’m making peace with this), and I can be organized – though it’s far from effortless. Maybe that’s it – maybe I’ve come of age mistaking things that take more effort for me than others for things I simply can’t do. Certainly there are people who are better cooks, organizers and, sans doute, dancers than I am, but there is room for achievement on all levels of everything. What’s ironic, or probably isn’t at all, is that I have long devoted energy to encouraging others to try, to do, to think outside the box of whatever mythologies they’ve created for themselves. I shall try this tactic with myself.
Can one develop rhythm after four decades of being convinced they have none? This reminds me of a joke that’s better told aloud but it’s 4:20 (dude) in the ay em, so bear with me: What’s the secret to comedy?TIMING.
Did that translate?