So there I was onstage, having done four out of six performances of our little play and feeling quite cocky.  I knew this stuff cold.  Until that awkward little silence set in which I recognized only too well.  With over ninety pairs of eyes trained on me and two actors hanging in the breeze, one on either side, I had not the slightest idea of what I was supposed to say next.  Of course, it was the only night that Himself was present, along with a group of friends who had traveled a good distance to watch me be a "star".

The thoughts that pass through one's mind at a time like this (along with a flash of one's entire life) are interesting.  The phrase "laid an egg" suddenly made sense to me.  Trying to get the right words out was at least that painful.  "Dying on stage" also took on new meaning.  I remembered that Saint Genesius is the patron saint of actors.  He, however, appears to have been weekending in New York and was probably taking in something on Broadway.  Suddenly from the wings I heard our patient and faithful stage manager whisper the key word that I was looking for.  She had been sitting just behind the curtain for four performances, running down the batteries on three pen flashlights as she followed every word of every actor on stage.  She didn't look up and watch the show.  She just read the same words night after night, one by one, waiting to throw a life preserver to the poor sinking soul who needed it.  Last night I caught it.  The entire pause didn't really last for more than five seconds, and the majority of the audience didn't realize what was going on.  We figured that out a long time ago, which is why they never hand you a script when you enter a theater.

A lesson in humility, it also reminded me how important it is to listen for the quiet whispers in our lives.  They're there.  We just prefer to tune in to the roaring applause (when it comes).  But making a space for the quiet whispers has guided me through more than theater.  In the way the leaves "speak" when the wind passes through, the calming, rhythmic pulsing of the ocean waves as we near the shore, much is "whispered" to us that is meaningful and important.   But for last night the quiet whisper of my stage manager/guardian angel was like a symphony ringing in my ears.  She didn't get to stand on the stage and bow with the rest of us, which doesn't seem fair considering how many other things she has done to make this performance happen, from serving drinks to running props to wiping tables.  So, Paula Sullivan, quiet hero and patient friend, this is my standing ovation for you.  And I am so glad you will be there for today's closing matinee!

It was bound to happen.  I knew it the first time he picked up a rugby ball.  Yesterday a knee to the face resulted in a broken nose for my college senior, who has avoided serious injury (at least that he informed me about) up until now.  Luckily in this age of technology, even for Luddites like myself, Son Number One was able to comfort me long distance with a "selfie" which really didn't look all that bad.  I suspect that today there will be panda eyes and more swelling, but at least he went to the emergency room for treatment so he's been seen by someone who knows significantly more about broken noses than I, with my fairly useless degree in French.  To tell you the truth, that nose which started out like a tiny button all those years ago, has been looking a little "askew" for a while; not obvious, but just the tiniest bit crooked.  Mother is suspecting that this might be her baby's second broken nose, but who can tell?

The trial of the long distance Mom is to stay calm and supportive and let him handle it on his own, which he is quite capable of doing.  He even used his "Talk Her Off The Ledge" voice when he phoned to assure me he was fine.  I know it could have been a far worse injury. All those prayers and guardian angels I dispatch seem to be doing the job.   My idea of winning a rugby game is empty ambulances on the edge of the field.  This is football with no padding.  This is, in my humble opinion, nuts.

And so I absorb another exercise in "letting go", a class for which I don't remember registering.  Son Number Two is in Cleveland fencing for his university.  I hope he doesn't come home with a dueling scar across his cheek.  That test I would certainly fail.

There are a few things in life I can count on.  My husband will invite me out for a lovely dinner the night before I weigh in at Weight Watchers (and I never say no).  A week before I am scheduled to go on a wonderful vacation I will realize how much work is involved in getting ready and I will decide it's not worth the effort and begin to dread the whole process (but I go anyway and have a wonderful time).  And when I get cast as a lead in a play I will absolutely convince myself that THIS time my brain is just too old to learn that many lines and I'm going to freeze on stage and ruin everything.  It hasn't happened...yet...but this time I've got an interesting situation.  I've been cast as the lead in a wonderful play which started rehearsals tonight.  But the play I'm already involved in is opening on Saturday night and running for three weekends.  So that's two sets of lines that will be running around in my head at the same time.  I don't know about this one.

They say that after a certain age it's good to do crossword puzzles and whatever you call that number thingie they print in the paper on the comics page.  This is a good alternative, and certainly challenging, but I could go into full-blown panic mode without traveling very far.  Then I remember what it's like to hear laughter, or to make an audience weep.  I remember the camaraderie of putting on a production and the thrill of taking a bow at the curtain call.  And at 62 I will get my first theatrical kiss.  I will confess that at the read-through I reacted like a high school freshman at that news, all giggles and bad jokes.

Still, what a delicious dilemma.  I'm still in demand.  At least this time.  It's been a long while since I've gotten the "We'd like to offer you the part" phone call instead of the "We decided to go in another direction, but we LOVED your audition!" e-mail, and my ego is purring like a kitten.  In between panic attacks.

I read somewhere, "I try to take one day at a time, but sometimes a group of days get together and ambush me," and that's how it feels right now.  There are several anniversaries that come around Labor Day which I'd rather not think about, but they are heavy hitters and insist on my attention.  

Yesterday would have been my niece's 45th birthday, but she is, instead, forever 19.  I can't say much beyond that, because it's too painful to think about how much I miss her and how much she has missed.  It was also the fourth anniversary of the passing of the man who was like a father to me.  He was a creative genius, talented and theatrical and with a memory like a computer.  I once called him from North Wales to settle a question about Hollywood.  My house is filled with oil paintings he created and presents he picked out for many Christmases.  There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of him.

Today is the second anniversary of the passing of one of my very closest friends.  He was 72, which, once upon a time, I thought was a ripe old age.  I don't any more.  I wanted him around until he was at least a hundred.  While I was home taking care of my children and bored out of my mind while they were at school, Jim was the voice on the other end of the phone almost every day.  He encouraged me to write, and this blog started as a belated tribute to him.  He turned to me for advice and made me feel like the Goddess of Wisdom.  He made me laugh.  Sometimes he made me want to slug him.  I never understood his fascination with all things Irish, but it was just part of who he was. He cared passionately about politics and justice.  He had a PhD from Notre Dame and the impishness of a five year old.  He is completely irreplaceable and my heart aches with the missing of him.

So this week is tough.  Not only is summer over (except for the weather) but my boys are both back at college and it's just Himself and Myself rattling around the empty house.  Luckily I still adore him after 23 years of marriage, and he seems to still think I'm OK, too.  That's good.  Because this week I need to come home to a hug and a cup of tea and a sympathetic ear.  He doesn't ask a question.  He just knows.  Bless him.