Earthen Vessels

I tried. I try all the time. I keep the outside input to a minimum. I work hard to create a bubble of peace, of love, of joy, of forgiveness, of grace,  and of simple humanity around my home. I fail sometimes. I slip up and I crack. I have never shattered. I tried.

I can distance myself when I need to. I can look reasonably at terrible things. I can try to see all sides. I can seek honest solutions. I can always find hope. I can always look for good. I tried

I constructed a fragile peace this weekend; made of Christmas candies, ice skating shows, Lego skyscrapers, knitted hats and lots of snuggles. I constructed a fragile peace around what was becoming a towering rage.

I don't have a hot temper. The rage came blowing in like an arctic squall and froze me, empty, hollow and brittle as ice. I tried to warm it. I tried. Instead I let it shatter me.

I just wanted to make some hot cocoa. I wanted something warm inside me.
The mug that bears my son's name hung limp and empty from my hand and my face buried in the front of my husband's sweatshirt. Shaking howling sobs.

So many children... their parents... they were the same age as ours... they're saying - the gun people - they're saying we should arm the teachers... everyone is saying such horrible things... I don't want to live in this world... this shit just keeps happening... I don't want our kids to inherit this mess... I give up... 

My husband wordlessly absorbed my snot and my tears and my rage through his sweatshirt, directly to his heart. He held my shattered pieces while I shook and he didn't say a word. He has never heard me give up. The next morning, he silently handed me the keys when the hymns stuck in my throat and only the words I can't do this came out. I sat in the car in the cold and tried so hard not to cry. I don't like to make an emotional spectacle of myself. I applied the patches of reason, of calm, of faith, of love as best I could and went back inside. My husband squeezed my hand before he went up to speak. He read from 2 Corinthians:

For God, who commanded the light to shine out of darkness, hath shined in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us. We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed.

He stood in a pulpit and reminded me, along with the rest of the people gathered there that we are, in fact, earthen vessels. That we are fragile and sometimes we shatter, but that those cracks should allow the light to shine through. His voice broke a little when he explained that no matter what terrible things may happen to us or around us, we can be a source of light, of love, that we contain power. I sat and let the tears come; I let them slide soundlessly again and again down my face. A warm, baptismal rain.

I thought suddenly of our wedding ceremony. At the end of the service, we dimmed the lights. We lit our candles off of the larger one in the center and turned to light our family's candles, too. They turned and lit the people next to them and so on. The flame passed around the dark room until it was on fire. A candlelight vigil to love, to faith, to the community that makes love possible. We were young and we were poets and we wanted to set the world on fire with our love. We believed we could change the world. We exited that room into our life together triumphantly, buoyed on a wave of flame and music - Ode to Joy.

We are older and a little more weary. We have lost some of the hubris of youth. But yesterday, it was as if my husband had again, with shaking hands and voice, re-lit my tiny candle. And now I hold it out, fragile and tenuous, behind a cupped hand, to assuage this towering rage.

Rage has no place in my world. My rage is from the same source as the rage that pulls a trigger. My judgement and fear are no more productive than that of those who would arm the whole world. I shake my head and say I don't understand evil, but I do. I have had my share of destruction, of evil, of tearing down when I should build, of lashing out when I should seek help. I know that what keeps me from ever reaching that point of tipping into the unthinkable is love, is conscience, is support, is this tiny candle of hope I hold in my hand. May it never be snuffed out. May I instead use it to light the flames of others. May I never give up.

"All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing." -Edmund Burke

We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed.

I am only an earthen vessel. I am fragile and sometimes I crack to the point of shattering. I will not be destroyed.

Hug Your Children

I have been admonished to do this at least seventy-five times today and I will.

It's natural, that urge to gather loved ones close in the face of horror. The sudden and violent reminder that life is so very precious and short shakes us to our cores and we seek to reassure ourselves that we are all okay. Hug your children.

It won't change anything. There are still families who will be spending their holidays at funerals with impossibly small caskets, at bedsides, in fear and in mourning. There are children who will suffer nightmares and untold damage from witnessing atrocities that no one should see first hand, or second hand, or third, or ever. A mother will go to her house tonight and see an empty pair of shoes by the door, perhaps, or a pile of toys in an unmade bed. She will weep, unable to touch them. Or she will be beyond tears and lie down among them, inhaling the remaining traces of play and laughter and sweet innocence that linger in them. Or she will close the door and walk away, scrub the floor, smash the dishes, go for a run - anything to try to escape the unrelenting pain of death come out of order. I don't know what she will do, because I am not that mother. I have not been that mother. My own children will argue with me tonight about brushing their teeth and I will be relieved when they finally lie down and are still. I will check for their breathing and I will sit quietly and knit and go about my life in my whole and happy home. Hug your children.

It will change everything. Hug them because it's Friday. Hug them because you want to strangle them. Hug them because they are silly. Hug them because they are there. Hug them because they are warm and wiggly and smell vaguely of hamsters. Hug them because it's your job. Hug them because their little sensual buckets need to be filled up with sincere affection and affirmation. Hug them because it is from you that they learn how to love - not from your lofty speeches and declarations, but from your actions. Hug them because it is so important for them to feel comfortable in little bodies and hearts and your physical presence reassures them and teaches them to love themselves. Hug them and let them know they are not alone. Hug them when you are angry. Hug them when you are scared. Hug them when you are completely cuckoo. Hug them when they are sleeping, when they are awake, when they are doing something else and have to holler: "Mo-ooommm! Get off me!" Hug them in front of their friends. Hug them along with their friends. And don't just hug your children. Hug them all. Don't be creepy, but you know there are children in your lives whom it is perfectly acceptable for you to hug. Do it. You don't know what they need, what they get, what they want. Everyone needs a hug. Always. Hug your children.

My heart breaks for the families in Connecticut today. It is not my personal tragedy, I won't pretend it is. I have not spent my afternoon surrounded by emergency vehicles and television cameras, living through a parent's worst nightmare in 3-D. I will not presume to claim this as my own.

Even so, it is my tragedy. It is a tragedy that belongs to all of us as we share in the tiniest degree of their fear, their anguish, their horror, their anger and their dread. It is our tragedy because we cower at the idea suddenly brought to light that our world contains such pain, such sickening violence. It is our tragedy because we empathize, we sympathize, we agonize over these very things. Hug your children.

Hug them, not because we have collectively shared a tragedy today. Hug them so that we can avoid future tragedy. Hug them and take their pulse. Hug them and teach them that sadness need not be anger, and anger need not be violent, and violence is never a solution worth exploring. Hug them and listen to what they tell you with their own actions, the language that does not lie. Hug them and teach them to do the same. Hug them and tell them to live with love, not fear. Hug them and show them how. Hug your children.

Coming Soon

Listen up, ducklings.
I have to go put on my secret agent hat today and stand tall and represent for the housewife contingent at a focus group about protein bars, so there may not be a whole lot of writing going on. I hope there are free samples. They will definitely reward my troubles with some cash, though, so it's all good. It's like giving plasma, only without the giant needles - boring, mindless, requiring no skill except to sit still, and you get paid for it. Sometimes they even have free coffee and doughnuts. I digress.

So, listen up, ducklings. I have an announcement to make. A week from today, Thursday, November 1 is the first ever Mindful Writing Day. Why does this matter? Well because I said so, mostly, but because it's really going to be a fun celebration and you can get in on it!

Remember the Small Stones? Take a look at something in your day and really see it, savor it, write it down. Everyone can do this because it's short and it's sweet and there is no right or wrong way to see things. Why are Small Stones a good idea? Well, because they're short and they're sweet, for one thing. But mostly because they exercise your Noticing Muscle. And with a strong Noticing Muscle, you can learn to slow down for a moment and transcend whatever awful day you might be having or whatever writer's block you have or whatever you happen to be knee-deep in and take a breath. You can notice a thing of beauty anywhere, even if only for a moment. These Small Stones pile up and they make little towers and walls and sculptures of things and they change the landscape of your brain. This is all very scientific. It is.

So give it a try, won't you? You can join the Facebook page and post your Small Stone there next week with all the other little goodies and it will be a feast. You can subscribe to the blog and get one every day, or you can even subscribe to the Writing Our Way Home blog and get all kinds of goodness from Robyn and Kaspalita who have worked hard on this whole thing. You can also collect A Blackbird Sings - a whole anthology of small stones that they hand selected and put together. You may or may not recognize a name or two in there, too. (Wink, nudge, nod. Uh-huh.)

So, darlings, I am going to go and examine the intricacies of protein bars and pretend to have a very strong opinion about such things so I can make a little scratch. And you have a good day. Find the beauty in something, even if it is tiny - especially if it is tiny. And do please consider taking part in Mindful Writing Day. Think of it this way: November 1st is also the beginning of NaNoWriMo, so you could either start your novel or write a Small Stone. You choose. I may do both, but I'm certifiably insane.

Even if you don't choose to participate publicly, I still hope you give the whole Noticing Muscle a workout.

Also, this: Go check out what else people have been up to over at Larissa's place.

Vive la Revolution!

Louis XVI & Marie Antoinette

So I've been thinking about the French Revolution for the last couple of days. {What's that you say? You were too? Get out!}  The peasants in 18th century France had a legitimate beef with the powers that be. There was the atrocious excess of the aristocracy while their fellow countrymen were starving. There was the enormous national debt fueled by France's participation in several wars.  There was crop failure, there was major inflation on every day goods like bread. There was the whole unfair taxation thing to try and make up that war debt. Louis XVI was often indecisive and ineffectual, often bowing to the pressures of parliament when they opposed his ideas for financial reform. The peasants and the bourgeoisie became angry, resentful, unruly and took to the streets in favor of the Enlightenment ideals of equality and inalienable rights. And with good reason, in my opinion. So there was some discussion of eating cake, some beheadings, some slogans, a few fires and storming of large buildings and hey presto! revolution complete. {I may have simplified this a bit} The evil King and Queen and their wanton, cake-eating, unenlightened ways were overthrown and Robespierre and the extremely egalitarian sounding "Committee of Public Safety" took over and they all lived happily ever after. Right?

Well, not so much. Actually, the strangest thing happened. The idealists who objected so much to the lack of equality in French society became slaughtering imperialist dictators. Enter the Reign of Terror - one of the bloodiest stretches of French history. What in the name of triple cream Brie happened? The same thing that happens when my kids complain that there are too many rules and they can't wait to be grownups so they can boss everyone around and in an act of laziness self preservation self-sacrificing motherhood I give them the run of things for a few hours. They discover that it's hard to run a household. They have to make tough decisions that aren't always popular. They are unprepared for the sudden weight of responsibility and they are exhausted with thinking about it and eventually they just start beating each other up. There's also a bit of that whole "I'm in charge now, so I'm going to exact my revenge for my grievances by being a jerk and see how you like it." {OK, so that may be oversimplifying things, too.}

I'm all about revolution. I think sometimes it takes enough people getting fed-up enough that they stand up together and throw a fit. I applaud people who take action when most of us would rather complain than actually do anything to change the situation. I am right there behind the people who take risks, speak out, camp out, stand out so that others take notice. Without them, we'd all still be colonists or slaves. Revolution is an important part of evolution, and all societies need to evolve.

I believe we are living in a time of evolution and revolution on a lot of different levels right now. As scary as it is at times, I think it's necessary and vital for survival. Any sort of growth hurts a little bit. I think there are some legitimate beefs that must be addressed. Actually, I think there are a lot of legitimate beefs. It's not just a bunch of whiny entitled people with nothing better to do as some would have us believe. But as scary as revolution can be, the wake of revolution can be even scarier. Sometimes movements that are based on a righteous anger can become just angry. Sometimes in standing against injustice, people become unjust. Sometimes after feeling helpless and oppressed and discouraged for so long, it feels really good to shout and oppress and set things on fire. It's hard to run a country. There are a lot of decisions to make, not all of them popular. I'm not saying that things don't need to change, because definitely they do. I'm saying that when the opportunity for change comes, things should really change. Not just more of the same or worse. That's going to take a degree of rationality, intelligence, tolerance, forgiveness and mindfulness that I hope we all can muster. Vive la Revolution!

When did it get so hard to love?

I had a tidy little post for today. A response to a writing prompt - fluffy, funny, feel good. It'll turn up later. Right now I'm just a raw bundle of reaction.

The Avett Brothers are singing to me today: "Are you aware the shape I'm in? My hands they shake, my head it spins. Oh Brooklyn, Brooklyn take me in... three words that became hard to say. I and Love and You."

When did it get so hard to love? I don't mean wild romance, or the intense insanity we feel for our children, or even our affection for friends.
I mean "love your neighbor as yourself".
I mean "love your enemies".

When did it become OK to hate for hating's sake? When did it become all right to set up on opposite sides of a barrier of straw and hurl mindless insults?

I live intentionally in a pretty happy little bubble. I tune out the news. I'm not a "knee-jerk" anything. I hope I'm not even a jerk. I'm morally conservative, but politically liberal. I've been called a "fundamentalist Christian" in that tone because I believe that if you are going to be a Christian, you should do what the Bible says. I've been called a "liberal" in that tone because I believe that poor people should be fed and clothed and be able to go to the doctor, that all people should share equal freedoms; because I believe that people take precedence over profits and hurting people for any reason is wrong; because I believe that we should protect our natural resources and walk with mindfulness on this earth; because I believe we all have a right to choose our lives. By my calculations, with the above statements, I've alienated just about all 3 of my readers. So be it.

I don't expect everyone to agree with me. I don't expect to always be right. I listen and I learn. I really do try hard to see things from as many directions as possible. It comes with a love of words, I believe. Hearing the words that others use to explain their views is fascinating to me, even if I don't agree. I try not to judge too harshly, because try to understand the person behind the words, the actions. What bits and pieces of experience and nonsense and bad days have brought them to this spot? How does this particular moment in time interweave with their lives whole cloth?

When did it get so hard to love? The battles I choose to fight are usually small and if not winnable, then at least manageable. The larger battles, I do what I can personally not to exacerbate things, but leave the fighting to those who have more intestinal fortitude than I. There are some alarming chinks in my armor.

I awoke this morning to reports of police raids, bulldozers, billy clubs, tear gas, sound cannons. I needn't go into details; a simple Google search will bring up plenty of news stories written from whatever angle you choose to view it. All I feel is grief. It's come to this: dividing, polarizing, hurting, screaming across barriers. If everyone is shouting, who will hear? How much does a NYC cop make? Can't be much. Aren't they part of this 99%? How does that work? If you have to do something in the middle of the night, keeping it a secret from the very people who are carrying it out, is it something you should be doing?

My dad used to speak in anchor points. It takes people who are out of bounds to move the anchor points of society, bit by painful bit. It feels as though I'm stuck in a tug-of-war for those anchor points with howling on both sides. Very much like that one year at summer camp, I just want to sit down in the mud and cry. When did it get so hard to love?

I don't have answers, I'm not even sure what all the questions are. I've chosen the ostrich approach to the world at large since about 2004 for my sake, for my children's sake. But some fearsome winds have been eroding that sand around my head for the last several months and the uncovered view seems mighty bleak sometimes.

This isn't a treatise or manifesto, an op-ed, or even a completely formed opinion. Just an honest outpouring of grief and confusion with very little editing or self-censorship. It's been building for a while and those bulldozers rushed in with police in riot gear and broke the dam. Apologies for lack of eloquence or even coherent thought. Sometimes there is something so large and unwieldy and chaotic inside me that stands up and screams "NO!"

My Veteran's Day

Married in his USAF dress blues
December 20, 1965

He was a Viet Nam vet. He didn't let that fact dictate the way he lived, but it ended up dictating the way he died. He was a conscientious objector. He didn't want to go. He was so young. His conscience won out over his objections and he enlisted in the Air Force because he was told it was the right thing to do. He was one of the lucky ones. He came home.

I flew across the country with my baby boy on the day he died to be with my mom. That night we three lay in her bed, sleepless, in shock. There in the bed they'd so recently shared, with my son who was born with my dad's smile quietly nursing between us, my mom told me all about the first time he went away from her. That year he spent at war. Her voice was quiet and small in the darkness, almost childlike.

She was barely 21, they'd only been married a year. He'd been told he wouldn't have to go. He'd been told his conscience would be considered. He'd been told he'd have a desk job, away from combat. Then he was told his first tour was Viet Nam. In the year he was gone, my mom made do with her circumstances the same as she had her whole young life. She just put her shoulder into it and moved on. She learned to drive, got her ears pierced, moved to a new state, taught school, made friends and tried not to think the unthinkable. The year he was gone, he... I don't know. He never really talked about it and whatever he had confided in my mom when he got back, has stayed with her. He left his uniforms in the airport parking lot when he was discharged and walked away. All I have of him from that time are a few faded pictures of a young man with my face, grinning in fatigues, the jungle in the background, a Vietnamese child on his hip.

He kept his medals in a bottom desk drawer. I played with them as a child, running my fingers over the colorful ribbons, looking at the patterns they made, feeling their weight but not really understanding the weightiness of those colorful bits of metal and ribbon shoved in the back of his drawer. The family joke is that I was a liberal at a young age. We lived in the D.C. area when I was a toddler. On a trip to the Capitol Building, I wandered off and got separated from my parents. They found me in the rotunda, tugging on Ted Kennedy's pants leg, no doubt mistaking one pair of dark men's pants for another. My mom says it must have rubbed off on me then. I threw my dad's medals in the garbage one day. They were long gone before anyone noticed.

There was a full military graveside service. Some extremely sharp young servicemen and women folded the flag from his casket, saluted and presented it to my mom. They played taps and each firing of the rifles jarred me more than just the mere sudden sound in a somber setting. This was a part of him I didn't know. In life, he never traded on his status as veteran. He declined membership in local VFWs, he eschewed any celebration or recognition of his having served. He was a patriot, loved his country, appreciated its freedoms and blessings; but his allegiance was first to God, then to his family. Toward the end of his life, when we were at unwinnable wars again, he was disheartened and discouraged by the capricious disposal of human life. His time served was not a defining characteristic in his life, its acknowledgement in his death was disconcerting to me.

He noticed the first tremor in the thumb of his right hand when he was 44 years old. He ignored it as a mild annoyance for the first year. When it spread to his index finger and part of his hand, he had it checked out. Early onset Parkinson's Disease. This man who had lived with such vigor and such interest his whole life, spent 20 years with his muscles steadily betraying him a little more each year. Right fingers turned into hand turned into arm turned into his whole right side. He slowly lost things like facial expression, comfortable speech, the ability to play his guitar; the wide grin he bequeathed to me and my son slowly became tighter, more rigid, more difficult to summon or maintain. For 20 years he continued to garden, sculpt, preach, paint, grow bonsai trees, travel and teach. All without complaint. He learned to manage his steadily more rebellious muscles through a sheer force of will so that he could continue in his pursuits. I can still see him sweating in the Houston summer sun, toting a wheelbarrow of gravel for the new front path he was building for my mom. Watching his slow progress from the window, the distinctive Parkinsonian gait, the occasional stumble, stopping to straighten up and let his diaphragm relax enough for a full breath of the humid, sticky air; then pushing on. He was always just pushing on.

On October 5, 2008, he lost the battle with his unruly muscles when that most important muscle just stopped. As I was helping my mom with the endless paperwork of death, I found his final hospital bill. The minute by minute list of charges for an hour and a half in the wee hours that Sunday morning as the nurses and doctor on call tried to start that muscle again. "Like wet Kleenex" was the phrase the autopsy doctor used to describe the condition of his heart. He'd never even had high cholesterol.

This, from the US Department of Veterans Affairs website:

VA presumes Veterans' Parkinson’s disease is related to their exposure to Agent Orange or other herbicides during military service. VA's final regulation* recognizing this association took effect on October 30, 2010. Veterans exposed to herbicides do not have to prove a connection between their Parkinson’s disease and military service to be eligible to receive VA benefits.

Two years too late for my dad, the VA says "Whoops! Our bad." My dad's story isn't the only or the worst. The casualties of war are not always on the battlefield, they're not always immediate. War is never good. No one wins. I'm sorry if I don't feel like waving flags today. I'm sorry if it conjures the image of my mother's freckled hands worrying the edge of that perfectly folded triangle in her lap; the same as the thousands of other flags that have been clutched by tens of thousands of other mothers, daughters, husbands, sons, wives, fathers, brothers, sisters. I just can't do it today, I respect that flag too much. I honor the people who have served, who are currently serving. I oppose the wars. It has been popular recently to call people who oppose the wars "unpatriotic". The most important veteran in my life taught me that what's popular isn't always what's right.

In this economy...

"In this economy..." is rapidly climbing my chart of Top 10 Social Disclaimers that Should Be Stricken From the English Language for Overuse and Abuse. Seriously, it's about to replace "Now more than ever..." and that's saying a lot. These phrases get bandied about willy nilly, and generally get attached to the front of any sentence that you want to excuse in advance for being obnoxious or selfish or xenophobic or just about anything involving duct tape and bottled water. Any sentence begun with this phrase will automatically send me to a place in my head that plays my favorite songs on repeat. Your lips are moving, but I can't hear what you're saying. It just looks like you're lip-syncing to "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" and that amuses me. That's why I'm smiling and nodding along. I have a serious problem with cliché to begin with, and I find social disclaimers to be among the most despicable forms. If you have something obnoxious to say, say it. Don't hide behind a mindlessly repeated talking point or try to excuse it or make it seem somehow all right under the circumstances. So, "in this economy..." is about to be stricken from my lexicon forever. But first! Some advice from my mother:

My mom is one of the best teachers I know. With a career spanning 40 years, she has seen every trend in education come and go and come around again. One time she told me her trick to classroom management: "Your classroom is like a government. The teacher, as the leader, gets to determine the 'currency of the kingdom'. If you trade in positive reinforcement and excitement for learning, the students will learn to do the same." This advice has also saved me from many temper tantrums (my own) over the last several years of parenting. What is the currency of my household? Do we trade in mutual respect and kind words? Do we give these things to each other without reservation? What is the currency of your household?

And what is the currency of our country right now? We can continue to focus collectively on the distribution of wealth and material goods and see where that gets us. Or, we can devise a new economy. The good news is that we don't have to wait for new people or the right people to get elected to get it started. There's no joint resolution that needs to be passed, there's no spending to cut, no disenfranchisement, no endless bickering over dollars and cents. The other good news is that I'm going trot this tired phrase around the barnyard before I put it out of its misery.

In this economy... I will choose to give liberally and without regret to those who need it without judging their circumstances.

In this economy... I will also choose to give liberally and without regret even to those who I don't think need it.

In this economy... I will spend my energy developing relationships and experiences; not accumulating possessions.

In this economy... I will get to know my neighbors and my community. I will not be isolated by fear or apathy.

In this economy... I will not adopt positions or ideas just because they are oft-repeated or popular. I will choose to think for myself.

In this economy... I will not participate in gossip or slander of anyone, whether they are a public figure or a private individual, because that only divides and hurts.

In this economy... I will plant flowers and bake bread because they smell good and because they remind me of things like delayed gratification, growth, and getting my hands dirty.

In this economy... I will tell people the nice things I think about them, whether I think they need it or not.

In this economy... I will continue to enter (and lose) local contests and events because it forces me to expose myself and get to know new people in ways I wouldn't otherwise.

In this economy... I will listen carefully to the stories of others. I will not judge based on appearance, my pre-ordained pigeonholes or stereotypes. I will constantly be surprised.

In this economy... I will turn off the "news" and turn up the music.

In this economy... I will express gratitude, both loudly and inwardly, for the goodness that surrounds me: in nature, in other people, in the things I have, in the lessons I've learned, in the challenges I face, in the silliness of life.

In this economy... I will take responsibility for my choices, my actions and my words. I will also give myself and others the grace to make mistakes.

In this economy... I will play nicely and share.

In this economy... my kids' inheritance will be love for themselves and others, an appreciation for hard work, thankful hearts, faith, and a sense of their many-splendored gifts and how they can use them to change their worlds.

What is our country, if not a conglomeration of all sorts of households? Join the revolution! What's your new economy?




*Photos courtesy of the inimitable Thomas Poarch. The figures are of part of an installation by Tom Otterness in the 14th St subway at 8th Ave in NYC. Should you ever be in the Big Apple, you should check both Toms out. Also, am I allowed to say "Big Apple"? I'm not sure about this.

Closing Night Interview with a Performance Artist

It is the closing night of the performance art piece that has been showing in my front yard the last few weeks. It's a poignant piece called Pots of Dead Things: An Exploration of the Existential Conflict of Squirrels vs. Zucchini and Why Dahlias Do Not Make Good Toys. I caught up with some of the players just as they were wrapping up.

Me: So, last performance, huh? How are you feeling about that?
Zucchini Plant: Well, there's always a little sadness when things change, but I think we had a brilliant showing and accomplished some of the things we set out to do.
Me: Can you articulate some of those things for our readers?
ZP: There were a lot of people who, when we first started this project in June, were doubtful of the outcome. I think we proved that you can, indeed, grow zucchini in pots. We also got to work with some great kids this year who really poured their hearts into watching this piece unfold. From the very beginning when we were just a seed of an idea, they were there to nurture us along, to help us see this thing through. I like to think we helped them learn some things along the way.
Me: What sort of things?
ZP: Patience, primarily. And, you know, that exhilaration of watching something spring to life and transform. [chuckles quietly] Also that they don't like to eat zucchini very much.
Me: Was this problematic for the performance?
ZP: Nah, it's all good. We fed some hungry squirrels. Cycle of life, man, cycle of life. There are so many things that can get you down in today's world. It's great to have been a part of something that encourages discovery. It's good to know that plants just keep growing, the seasons keep turning. Ahem. [clears throat and takes a moment]
Me: Any words of advice to your successors?
ZP: Sure. They're young and pretty now, but they have a hard winter ahead of them. They're working with some great people, though, and I hear they're hardy, so they should be OK.

Dahlia's neck was broken and was unavailable for comment. Both she and Zucchini Plant will be retiring to Compost Bin later today. We're excited to announce that a brand new performance Mum's The Word will be debuting this fall, weather permitting.