Maybe it’s because I refuse to overlook a metaphor

Or maybe it’s because metaphors refuse to overlook me,

But I was in my hometown earlier this year before leaving the states for a sabbatical of life. In preparation (or rather spinning anxiety,) my planning and overanalyzing found place in conversation with my Mom. We were having a coffee downtown across the street from the community theatre.

This was the theatre that raised me,

Grew me,

Taught me the integral lessons of performance

Perseverance

Camaraderie

From elementary school on.

All of my firsts were within those old, probably black-mold infested wooden walls.

My first period happened in tiny lobby bathroom stall.

My first boyfriend came out of the misfit friend-group formed in the wings.

My first case of stage fright,

my first all-nighter,

My first musical,

and first real taste of what art can do to people all happened right there.

It was the last place I felt safely planted. In retrospect, I think it was more of a garden than a couple of slates of chipped wood in front of 40 chairs.

From what I could tell the building was under construction.

The windows covered in plastic and tape,

I wondered what they were fixing.

Or rather,

Renovating

Updating

Tearing down in order to rebuild,

Like I knew it needed for years, but now someone finally got around to it.

Two years prior I was hospitalized for anorexia.

My body was withering away, breaking down and feeding upon itself.

And since then I’ve been in the process of recreating that girl and turning her into a woman.

Going to Europe last summer was more of an innovation plan than a getaway.

I knew that something other than where I was living in Los Angeles needed to change.

A wise friend once told me a flower can’t grow in the same soil it died.

But what if the soil is in your mind?

I knew I needed a remodel 

Not of my outsides 

But of who I was.

The rotting bricks of old thought patterns–

Abusive tendencies 

Addictive thoughts and feelings and feelings about thoughts needed to be torn from my insulation in order to keep living this life.

I was in Athens, Greece with someone who knew much more about a lot of things in life than I did. As we were strolling in the July heat towards the Central meat market, he noted that most of the buildings in the city were never torn down; just painted over, plastered on top of.

Beyond the ancient ruins and historical sites, these streets lined with cobblestone were absolutely falling apart.

Government workers attempting to “fix” these withering structures weren’t doing much of anything other than trying to prove that they were.

A tenth coat of paint doesn’t help if the primer is a couple hundred years old

Denying reality gets you nowhere.

And renovation isn’t a quick fix.

In order for a building to stand tall, maintenance must take place every once in a while. 

A re-building.

A re-rooting.

And I think this was proof that the denying or half-waying of a problem does nothing but make it harder to fix later on.

Flashing forward– I stood in front of a theatre in a tiny Texas town; one that held much pride, so much character, so much unbelievably enriching history and stories and art

miles and miles away from the ruins (or riches) of Athens.

I was taken aback.

History was being renovated instead of just burned down or painted over.

I saw a “Coming Soon” sign lit up across from the coffee shop, and thought,

Maybe I’m coming soon too.

Maybe we’re all progress worth working on.