I’ve spent a lot of this afternoon staring out of the window, hoping the few pathetic flakes in the air would soon become a flurry that would coat the ground in soft white snow. It should snow in December. It should be crisp and cold and the snow should reflect the light from the stars and help dispel the darkness.
It was snowing in New York that February weekend in 1993 when I saw Les Mis for the first time. I’ve been thinking about that a lot this weekend because my son wanted to listen to the Hamilton soundtrack on the way to IKEA yesterday. I love how captivated he has become by a show he has never seen. And, judging by the price of the tickets plus planefare and hotel in New York/London/Chicago, will probably not see for many years.
Oh, I remember my passion. I remember seeing the actors on stage and longing to be one of them. When I go to the theatre, when I see my beloved shows on YouTube clips, I wish I had pursued that dream. If we could see the paths we did not take and where they would have lead us, how many old dreams would we re-awaken or put to sleep forever?
Why do I still sometimes feel like I lost the real me when I was sixteen and on those brief occasions where she resurfaces and I am utterly happy, I can so rarely hold onto to that feeling?
So I make this pact with myself tonight, as the flakes become a flurry.
I will bring her back again. I will strip away the unwanted layers until I get back to the core. I will follow my passions where there lead me.