Dear Sofia,

It is November and last week you did your Thanksgiving play.  You were marvelous.  Of course, your father and I are tremendously biased.  You were an American Indian, with your hair in braids and although you seemed to have a scowl on your face for most of the play, later you told me you had a great time.

You had your first official line ever in a play.

And this was it: "At last, our harvest crops appear." This came after one of your classmates, also looking terribly distressed, said, "Scene two" and before another classmate said, "Fall is really here." 

What makes these plays so entirely amusing is the fact that you all say your lines in complete monotone, like robots: at. last. our. harvest. crops. appear.  With scowls on your faces.  And despite this, the moms' still cry and the dads' still videotape every single second.

And we all beam with joy and love for you.

I don't know why, but I imagine you all backstage before the curtain rises looking at each other, fist bumping, "Okay, let's perform for the Parentals, they want to feel like they're getting their money's worth.  And then, maybe later, we can watch Spongebob." 

And so you all play your parts "as children in Thanksgiving play", and we all play or parts as "parents of children in Thanksgiving play."

It got me thinking about how sometimes it feels like this whole world is a big play. Today I'm going to play writer, yesterday I played builder, tomorrow, what the hell, let's do yoga teacher. Whenever someone tells me, "Oh, so now you're a yoga teacher." It seems so odd to me. I know that I am technically teaching some yoga classes, but I do not feel like a "yoga teacher," much in the same way that I never quite felt like a "writer" or a "builder." 

I feel like something outside of all of this.

And sometimes I have to encourage myself to put some enthusiasm into the part. So as to not sound monotone when I say, "oh. yes. i'm .writing. a. book .about. a. woman."  OR  "yoga. is. quite. healing. you. should. try .it." OR "i. loved. green. building. but. you .know. the. economy." 

It's not that I have not enjoyed playing these parts. But, really, they are not me. And sometimes, this whole thing does feel a little more like acting than, I know deep inside, it should.

What feels more like me, is quiet moments when I catch the sun setting into the ocean, from complete beginning to complete end,  as I did last weekend in Sarasota. Or the way the light enters the living room and I catch the pattern of circles on the ground.  Or when I see you and your father making some joke about, "I like him, not." And you seem at once six, sixteen and sixty years old. And I feel like I'm catching this extraordinary gift of a moment in life and everything sparkles and is light and is exactly how it should be.

These moments are rare, although becoming less so, and I cherish them.

They do not make for good cocktail conversation.

Scene: two people mingling in cocktail party: "What do you do?" With deep passion and enthusiasm, "I'm a watcher of sunsets and dots on the ground and when my kid jokes with her father and everything becomes light."

It just doesn't fly.

I have actually tried it, to miserable results.

On the flip side, the other day I was at a cocktail party when a nice filmmaker asked me about my book, and I began robot talk in a monotone way through my book's version of, "at. last. our. harvest. crops. appear."  And the person stopped me and said, "Stop, I can handle it. Whatever it's about." And suddenly I kind of flew in to myself and actually spoke from my being and it didn't make perfect sense-- because I don't fully know what the book is about-- but he seemed to understand my response and be okay with it, and we connected.

And it made me realize that although we are in this play, the only way to really get something out of it, is to connect with the people around you. Not with your preconceived idea of what you should say, or what they want to hear, (in other words, what you think your line is) but to connect through your authentic self as it is, at that exact moment.  And then, you speak from your being, and not as a character.  So that when the words come out, they come out naturally (with no periods in between them), and you feel that you are home, and that you are true.

Shit, Sofs, I think the, HARVEST CROPS HAVE APPEARED!!

So, you and I both, let's play these parts, and pay attention, and connect to other lovely beings playing their parts, in this play we call life.

And let's watch it all with the passion and love and newness of parents watching their six year olds, say their very first lines, for the very first time.

And in whatever "costume" you find yourself in, with your hair in braids, or not, with your face in a scowl or not, just have fun with it, see it for what it is, a play. Be fresh and new and innocent and bright and natural. Exactly as you all were during the play.

You weren't being robots! You weren't plotting to watch Spongebob. You weren't. You were just exposing the complete truth of the situation, "I am not actually an American Indian, but a suburban child, my teacher forced me to learn this line. You, my parents, seem to enjoy the performance, so here it is."

And that's why we watch with such devotion.  That it why it is so beautiful and resonant with us. 

Because this kind of pureness, is rare in regular adult life, and we (the parents) know it. 

So, when we're lucky enough to  catch it, we understand that it is special and worthy of tears and videotape.

And that's part of why we beam with joy and love for you, because we're proud of you, yes, but also, because we know you are reminding us to be our authentic selves, a little more often.

Thank you for being your true six and a half year old self, and for reminding me to be mine.

I love you,

Ma

p.s. SUNSETS!!!