Happiness Is Knowing You Belong

Socrates once said the most valuable, important thing one could do is to “Know Thyself.” For anyone on a spiritually conscious journey that is a constant job. For always there are new levels and awareness revealing themselves like the many petals of a lotus or even an onion with its voluminous layers. And like the flower, sometimes the new paradigms and facets of our being bring radiant joy, and sometimes you cry uncontrollably, as with an onion.

I know what Socrates said, not because I can recall some random college class, but because of a recent creative venture. Last fall I signed up to act and sing in the musical, You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown, put on by my sons’ school to raise funds. I chose to do it because I had been having difficulty with my composure and confidence at booksignings. I thought if I stood on the stage and belted out some tunes and lines that I could get better into my Diva-self (perhaps my confidence issues were getting in the way of my ability to receive opulence). Then I chickened out, sort of. I became increasingly busy promoting The Enchanted Diary and decided an easier commitment would be another class of belly dancing. My teacher is a Leo, and so has no problem being the apple of her own eye. There’s this one move that carries the vibe that we’re fainting from our own loveliness. I can dig it.

Then the promotions and belly dancing ended and with free time that I am required by my double Capricorn nature to fill, I returned to the scene of the crime and asked the director how the school play was going. Oh, what a coincidence, one of the actors had to drop out due to over-commitment in her new job as teacher (for my own son’s class no less) and would I like to fill the role of Peppermint Patty: my fave character by far. Sure, I can do that. Simple enough. However, what sounds simple is actually weekly practice for six months, culminating in a formal gala at the Newport Beach Marriott in front of a 400 person crowd. I had never acted before. Don’t think about it.

The first question pointed at me was whether or not I was an alto, soprano, or tenor. I had no idea. Everyone else had been practicing for months and knew where to stand and sing songs with people who sang like them. The most recent singing I had sung was a five song combo beginning with Hush Little Baby and ending with a song I had heard sung in a Unity Church called The Greatest Gift (of all my life is loving, knowing you). I felt like my voice had begun to crack less over the last nine years, but in front of these people, some strangers, I wasn’t sure what my voice may or may not do.

And yet I wanted to sing loud and proud. A major reason I am a writer is because of a stifled throat chakra. Growing up, I always felt censored. Sometimes I drank more than I should just for the ability to release my voice. (Kinda like taking off a tight bra or shin guards or sweaty tennis shoes after a hot and sticky day, if you know what I mean.)

So you can imagine my trepidation going to the music director’s house for my first voice lesson to test my ability to sing one-on-one. On the way there I listened to the Charlie Brown Broadway score. This amazing song called Happiness brought tears to my eyes. It talks about how happiness is the simple things like: five different crayons or catching a dragonfly and setting him free or being alone. A child’s wisdom reveals the truth of spirit and love. But like most adults, my life had become so complicated by “important” things that I forgot these easy ways to true contentment. I thought I’d be happy when I could comfortably take center stage and after securing financial success as an artist. This could have been truly insightful had I truly listened to the song. I sing well with the music director and she tells me I have great range. I’m completely ecstatic. I can sing. Hot damn.

Yet like the “if one is good, two must be better” motto, I pushed for a trill in the voice, something amazing. Two weeks before the performance, I got nervous singing my “Happiness is two kinds of ice-cream” line and totally butchered it. (Lucille Ball couldn’t have done better if she tried: it was that comical.) They cut my lines, along with the absentee partner to “knowing a secret” and I’m mortified. I tried to play it off as no big deal, but it was. I felt so stupid. I pouted. I pleaded and finally I had to get over it. I sang badly and someone more practiced needed to handle it. Besides, I wasn’t the star of the show this time. I was a supporting role. And Peppermint Patty (the tomboy) was not a Diva and she had more things to teach me about being my best than being the center of attention.

When I was twelve I was a stud athlete and I got good grades. Won scholar athlete of the year in 1980. I think that was my peak year. Underneath my faery persona -lies a tomboy: an “I-will-kick-your-ass-soon-as-look-at-you” feminist, pissed off tomboy. Apparently she doesn’t live that far beneath the surface, as I wished to believe, for she found a way to the top quicker than I could have imagined. In fact, playing Peppermint Patty brought up such vehement anger that I not only scared but once again embarrassed myself. Did I mention I am a tad proud?

Oh, the power I gave those lines about being dissed by the oblivious Chuck (aka Charlie Brown). My intensity brought on the tears with all the memories of being teased for being so very whatever. Not to mention the “funny” family stories about when I was a toddler and how some friends of mine would cry when I came to visit because they were so afraid of my crushing bear hugs. I felt so vulnerable. I wanted to ask the director how to better play that role. Was I too loud? Too angry? Too intense? But they had to give their time to the principle actors. Whether or not my entrance jived with the Lucy’s exit bared little importance to whether or not she and Schroeder sang in harmony.

I came to rely upon fellow actors who helped me fine-tune my lines to outstanding results. They helped me find humor and lightness in my intensity. Two people told me they knew people who knew the real Peppermint Patty: the woman who Charles Shultz fashioned the character after. I tried to invoke her spirit for the show. I was nervous. How do you know when you are on the razor’s edge or when you are over the top or not giving enough? Meanwhile, during the rehearsals and identity crisis, a fifteen-year-old dream comes true. A major New York publisher calls me and asks me to write a book of fiction. This dream’s manifestation contains all the ingredients I consistently imagined and prayed for as long as I can remember, perhaps since 8 or 9-years-old. And more. The deeper into Peppermint Patty I went, the more comfortable I got with my passionate, sometimes explosive nature.

My goal in signing up for the play was to gain comfort as a Diva, the beloved famous one, as related to my writing. My gift in signing up for the play was a deeper level of self acceptance and deeper understanding of the value of community. During the play’s performance I felt so alive and yet I have little memory of actually being on stage. My own sister did not recognize me, I was so in my role. The celebrations after the play was over did not feel like the typical surge of playing a game well or giving a spell-binding lecture. Instead of wanting to honor me or a performance, I felt a desire to celebrate the unbreakable bond with the people who had let me and supported me to be too intense and commended me for that precise portrayal.

I hope with all my heart that this drive to connect with others and myself will inform my first work of fiction as successfully as it did my connection to my inner Peppermint Patty. This big shot with New York and the writing dream could be the winning ticket or it could just be another bend in the road. I dream big. I always do. I can see it. I hope I tell such a magnificent story that I will get another award akin to the scholar athlete of the year 1980. However, what I learned from Sir Peppermint Patty was to Know Thyself and Love Thyself and that my community and ability to connect to the people of my village is priceless and cannot be manhandled into a trophy or dollar value.

But mostly I hope this feeling of belonging lasts a lifetime.

This musing is dedicated to Kate Grabenstein, Chana Wise, Kathy Paladino and the entire WAYWOB cast of 2006.