So there I was: bracing my tomatoes for Hurricapocalypse – massing them together, fencing them in, tying down all the exposed, fragile new upper growth to whatever is (hopefully) unlikely to be moved by the impending Irene-o-fonic tempest, and a thought crossed my mind. It was quick and fast, and I said it out loud. “Only the branches, not the roots.”

The plants are huge – much too big to be brought inside. And though they’re strong and stable and won’t blow away, they’re likely to take a hit from the hurricane-force winds that are headed our way. They sit in big pots that hold their large, heavy root systems, and they’ve leaned on each other as they’ve grown into a jungle this summer.

I moved the pots side by side, pressed in between two ballasts and reinforced by the fence on our balcony. I moved three heavy chairs up against the open fourth side. I hope – I hope – that the lower branches will be spared; they’ll get blown, certainly, but with little room to move, perhaps they won’t get blown to breaking. The upper branches are another story.

And so there I was. With a ball of string that seemed woefully inadequate, I tied every branch I could see to something more stable – some to the fence, some to the chairs, some to the stakes that were put in as the plants grew and grew. Many I tied two or three times in a few different places. I don’t know if it will help; it certainly couldn’t hurt.

And I thought: well the storm won’t kill the roots; they’ll be intact when this is all over, even if the branches twist and fall. They’ll survive. They will survive.

And that thought, that idea, reemerged hours later. There is mercy in it. In all my (admittedly overblown) (seriously no pun intended) anxiety about the storm, I was suddenly calmed. No matter what happens, it’s only the branches – not the roots. We’re here. We may be blown, but we’ll survive. We will survive.

Went this weekend to the final preview of Shakespeare’s Slave by Steven Fechter – a wonderful production from Resonance Ensemble and well worth seeing; there are some wonderful performances, excellent direction by Eric Parness, and the dialects are fantastic!!! (Full disclosure: I served as Dialect Consultant – had a wonderful time working with this fabulous cast!!!) A limited run: go see, go see!!!

The deets:
Shakespeare’s Slave
by Steven Fechter
Directed By Eric Parness
May 22 – June 18, 2011
Playing at Theatre Row – The Clurman Theatre
410 West 42nd Street (btw 9th & 10th)
tix here: telecharge.com

What if William Shakespeare had never written Hamlet, Othello, Macbeth, King Lear and all his other later masterpieces?

In 1596, Shakespeare had a creative crisis. Broke and bedeviled by self-doubt, he was unable to write the “Henry IV” play commissioned by the Lord Chamberlain. The question of whether “to be or not to be” hung by a thread – until Shakespeare met one of London’s first African slaves – who changed his life.

Spent a wonderful few hours with Flux Theatre Ensemble today – as part of their Flux Sundays program. This was such a lovely experience – a chance to gather with members of the Flux family (writers, directors, actors) and stage and perform new short scenes over the course of a few hours. Not only is it a great way to stay in shape, but it’s a *wonderful* way to meet new artists of a similar mindset and aesthetic and get to know each others work in a non-pressured setting focused on the work. It’s a great program that other theatre companies could easily and effectively implement – it subverts the audition experience (which can be so sadly ineffective at times) and allows relationships to grow naturally. An excellent program – I’m looking forward to more!

Two days, three nights in beautiful Montreal!

We walked, and we ate – duck tartare, duck margaret, pied de cochon (stuffed with pork and foie gras), cromisquis, bison tongue, ‘duck in a can’, smoked meat, latkes, borscht, Montreal bagels, smoked salmon; our trip included wonderful local restaurants: Au Pied de Cochon, The Main (a nice local alternative to Schwartz’s), Beauty’s…

It was a March winter thwarted – Amtrak through glorious countryside and into a foreign land, and though we were only gone a few days it felt like a week…

Well it has been some time, but: I’m back. Oh baby, am I back.

There are a number of new year’s resolutions that, though a little late to the table, are definitely ON it. 2011. A year of renewal and new possibilities.

I’ve been away from the board as I’ve been away from my path – and I’m so happy to finally be back. The resolutions include (but are hardly limited to): getting back to running; I’ve run three marathons in my life, and in prepping for those I’ve never felt physically better. My goal this year is, though I may or may not do the marathon, to get back to running regularly and to feeling stronger. Another goal is to lose the happy-fat; I’m hoping the running will be a big part of that. Gotta get back to feeling like ‘me’ again. And the third goal? To get back out there on the audition and networking circuit; I’ve been too long away.

I’ll be writing more too. To get back to myself. And while it may just be for me, I can’t tell you how good it feels.

It’s nice to be back. Happy new year!

mint and rosemary and jalapenos, and behind? tomatoes racing for the sun and basil stretching to keep up...

The air is thick and humid, and in the evenings the street smells of barbecue and ice cream (no joke – we live above an ice cream shop). NYC is nothing if not unexpected: a city that’s tough and fast and loud, and also… quiet. Neighborly. Pocketed with small-town warmth when you least expect it, but (maybe) when you most need it.

I was rushing to the train this morning, overslept (overextended); late. And just as I was forgetting to look up – to remember to *look*, to take it all in – the coffee-cart guy on the corner shouted hello with a smile and a wave; and then I remembered.

It’s only the 3rd, and already June is overflowing with parties and trips and hellos and goodbyes… small, perfect luxuries. Too easily overwhelming, but …then I sit by my garden. And breathe. And realize how fantastic life actually is – on a rooftop in New York City. In June.

The tree comes down today… and of course – it’s time. (I could leave it up until February, but it would just look sad and tired.) There’s a little pang that comes with the changing of the season; the parties are done, the tinsel is gone, the cold remains. BUT: it’s a beginning. The new year is finally taking hold – the plans are fresh, the possibilities are endless and the month is filled with forward motion.

So I’m celebrating! A little less exuberantly, perhaps, and with somewhat less decadence – but a gentle celebration nonetheless.

Here’s wishing you joy, hope, peace and wonder for 2010. Happy new year!

As we approached the Queensboro Bridge, I had a lump in my throat. The NYC Marathon. No – I wasn’t running. But for the first time in a long, long time: ooooooh how I wanted to be.

We urged our way to the front of the line, and I watched people of all ages, shapes, sizes, backgrounds – the most amazing people in the world fighting their way to the finish. And they were coming off the bridge into throngs of adoring fans; people from all over the world, there to provide love and support, to cheer them on in their amazing endeavor.

I saw my friend Laura with a smile on her face (she looked amazing) heading into the 17th and 18th mile. We caught up with her again at 110th Street, in the final stretch. Less enthused, but still strong – we found out only later she was two months pregnant at the time. It was an incredible and brilliant day.

To all the runners who ran this year’s marathon: I can’t wait to be with you again!

Seventeen weeks: feh. Child’s play. A beginner’s game, seventeen weeks. Twelve weeks of training, that’s what I’m talking about. Twelve weeks to train for a marathon. Twelve weeks to showtime. I’m primed, I’m ready: I’m training. On target for 30 miles this week including a 15-mile long run and ohhhhh boy do I have some work to do.

Fingers crossed, yeah? It’s good, but… it’s the daunting impossible all over again.

The daunting impossible. And I am pushing back on it – hard. Fingers crossed, hopes high.

Twelve weeks. November 1: showtime. Everything. Is. Possible.