Burned Out

Before the last blurry weeks of 2009 completely fade from view, I'd like to try to capture just a few of the more salient moments. Our holiday season was, like the rest of our lives, completely insane; the ever-multiplying plethora of inspiring events and not-to-be-missed celebrations became almost burdensome -- if only because of the painful reality that we simply couldn't be at all of them.

Part of the problem was our decision to mount an amateur theatrical production in the middle of it all. Thus, while our parents and siblings visited from near and far, while Trina's amazing Spiral Solstice Ritual unfurled without us, while the Smiths raised their glasses to celebrate Darryl's new job (!) at their Christmas Eve party, while our pals the Beaconettes wowed the crowds at Figgy Pudding in their mile-high beehive hairdos -- through all of this, we Mead Streeters toiled away at our latest Mummers Play.

It wasn't all work and no play, by any means. We love putting these Mummers Plays together -- this was our fourth -- and the kids are really coming into their own as actors. (For those unfamiliar with the genre, a Mummers Play is an ancient British tradition, a performance in which the hero is killed and brought back to life, symbolizing the death of the old year and the birth of the new.)

And in between rehearsals and costume fittings and memorizing our ever-evolving lines, we managed to make it to some holiday events close to home: the Orca Festival of Children (where Josie & Simon both shone -- fuzzy, shaky videos available upon request), the Keyes-Gibbon Latke Party (where we discovered new, fascinating people among our old, fascinating friends), Dari & Mike's Hannukah Party (where we learned a new song about stamping out the darkness, with accompanying footwork), David & Andrea's Weihnachtsmarkt (where we downed mulled wine and sizzling sausages in a candle-lit garden), and Amy's Caroling Party (where we renewed our annual vow to learn the freaking alto parts already so we don't keep inflicting our soprano screeches on our fellow carolers).

Subsets of us got out to see The Fantastic Mister Fox (fantastic!) and Avatar (beautiful!). We even dragged our whole crew on a drizzly, chilly, candle-lit trek to Columbia City -- and, after forty-five minutes of whining & cajoling, punctuated by somewhat quixotic relightings of damp wicks in soggy paper bags, arrived at the Solstice Festival ten minutes too late. Sigh.

We also managed to pull off tree trimming, last-minute shopping, and several ginormous meals with multiple in-laws, including a Christmas dinner featuring a prime rib roast the size of a young elephant. Gifts were hastily wrapped, piled under the tree, and joyfully ripped open to reveal, among other wonders, The World's Most Coolest Umbrella Ever, a gorgeous custom-made cocktail bar, and the endlessly fascinating, Rube-Goldberg-inspired Fridgits. And Josie, Wilson and I made our quasi-biannual Fleuvog pilgrimage, where we all scored big time -- thanks again, Wil!

But mostly it seemed like from Thanksgiving on the Mummers Play kept us occupied nonstop. This year we adapted Oscar Wilde's classic tale "The Happy Prince," wherein a sparrow who really should be heading to Egypt for the winter, instead helps a bejeweled golden statue redistribute his wealth. They succeed in this visionary effort, but both end up dead.

I hate to launch into another relentless list of verbs here, but that's kind of how it felt to us: writing and rewriting the script, negotiating casting decisions, researching Egyptian mythology and ornithological info, googling requisite imagery, getting in and out of character, collecting and constructing props and costumes, creating multi-media effects, installing projection equipment, selecting musical snippets, and trying to come up with an awe-inspiring fire effect for the final moment of the play.

You see, we had chosen "The Happy Prince" for its poetry and its themes: leadership & vision, compassion & sacrifice, and the true meaning of wealth. But we knew we couldn't let Wilde's grim, pious ending -- the dead bird and the Prince's broken heart get tossed onto an ash-heap -- stand. The heroes are supposed to be revived, after all. And we wanted their resurrection to conjure up the warmth and light of the swallow's beloved Egypt, to bring it into the heart of the Prince's cold, dark city. So our players rekindled the ash-heap into a magic fire, and a Phoenix -- an Egyptian myth, as it happens -- rose up from the flames. And our tiny audience got a happy reminder that out of the ash-heap of the dying year will spring a bright new one, full of hope and possibility.

By the time the performance was over, I had spent more time than I care to admit trying to produce a radiant conflagration onstage, without setting off any smoke alarms. I was pleased with some of the fiery elements we came up with, but their combined effect never quite lived up to my imagination. Fortunately the actors were able to create the moment beautifully with minimal technical enhancement -- and frankly, it's hard to imagine any blaze more cheering and hopeful than five-year-old Ioan, decked out in rainbow sequins and red-and-gold plumage, leaping out of the flames and swooping around the room.

My pyromaniac obsession finally found closure a few days later at Ezra's East Coast New Years Party, where we encountered an amazing one-armed juggler who led us all outside at the stroke of midnight (in New York) and treated us to a truly dazzling fire juggling performance.


Now that, my friends, is some serious Light in the Dark.

Looking back now on the whole crazy holiday marathon, I find myself dwelling on another aspect of the Phoenix cycle, and thinking a little differently about our attempt to re-enact it.

Whatever its origins in prehistoric paganism, a Mummers Play delivered in modern times can't really kindle a light in the dark -- not with so many other brilliant flames glowing all around us. Our little play felt more like a tiny spark amid a roaring blaze of carols and candles and trees and feasts and presents that at times threatened to consume us all.

So what is the point of this exhilarating, exhausting explosion of light and warmth as the year draws to a close? Well, maybe it's not about lifting our dreary winter spirits after all. Maybe it's more about lighting the old year up, burning it at both ends, throwing log after log on the fire and fanning the flames with all our might, until the old year is completely burnt out, extinguished, spent.

And so are we.

And then maybe we're meant to spend a little time just laying there in the ashes, eyes closed, letting the last wisps of smoke drift slowly off our bodies -- still and silent at last. Until we're fully rested, completely restored, truly renewed. And ready to emerge into the lengthening days of a brand new year.