Salt Touched

Inside my heart is breaking
My makeup may be flaking
But my smile…still stays on…

I’ve been thinking a lot about what different things mean to different people, and what it means to live out here, what is required, what you can and cannot get away with, and what is simply just…accepted without words.

My father raised me to be a Professional. The capitalization is on purpose. He used to tell me that I would meet a lot of people in my life who claimed to be pros, but that not all of them would be, and he taught me well how to tell the difference.

A lot of people are under the mistaken impression that professionalism has to do with how much you are getting paid, has to do with the credits on your resume or how many high-end names you can drop in a conversation; but it doesn’t.

Professionalism is an attitude. It’s a way of living, a way of performing, a manner of knowing and presenting yourself and your craft, that has nothing to do with how many theatres you have worked, how big your paycheque is, how wide your vocal range or how many hours a day you spend at the barre. All of that may make you a performer, perhaps a very good one, but it doesn’t make you a pro.

A professional knows how to balance her surrounding environment with her personal needs, how to treat her colleagues, cast members and superiors with a balanced mixture of respect and appreciation, knows how to stand on her own two feet and stand up for herself while also understanding the need for respecting her superiors. A professional knows how to approach a conflict kindly and without any more drama than necessary. A professional, knows how to correct a mistake, point out a flubbed note or a missed step, without crushing the pride or the emotional well-being of the one being corrected. A professional knows how to react to a situation, even one they do not like, with grace and clear-headness, knows that on time is already late, and no matter how difficult your personal life, how sick you feel or how stressed, you leave it at the backstage door because it has no place on the stage.

You could have performed on the stages of London, walked the boards on Broadway, and sung to the vaulted ceilings of Carnegie hall and still not be a professional. Or you could make nickels and dimes busking on the street corner and be the most professional person in the world.

And out here? If you can’t be a professional – a real professional – in whatever position or department you are hired for, you will not, and cannot ever, belong.

He found some socks
She chose his tie
When he left for work that morning he was just another guy
Goin’ to work
He’d have to fly, out to a meeting in LA
So she kissed him twice goodbye
Little did she know she’d kissed a hero….

13 years ago, it was a normal morning. People got up, had breakfast, kissed their loved ones goodbye…and they got on planes. Thinking no more of it than someone would think of jumping on the bus to get to work. Most of them probably had a million things already on the go, a coffee in one hand, a cell phone tucked against one ear, the remains of a bagel forgotten in a handbag, already running late for a meeting. Thousands of people just going about their day.

And in that one New York Minute…everything changed.

And the world reeled as America was handed its second day of Infamy. Was reminded that nothing was safe, nothing was predictable, that no ground was truly holy or held aloft from the rest of the world. History brought to screaming life for all of us that thought we had lived long enough to see it never reoccur.

The day America’s luck ran out.

The day even I, the proudest of Canadians, stood proud next to a weeping eagle and declared myself an American.

That was over a decade ago.

And no, you never forget where you were, and you never should. This day always has a heaviness to it that has nothing to do with the dreary weather or the turning of the hours. It’s true that you should never forget. It’s true that you should never forget, but this long after the event…this long after the smoke has cleared…remembering is no longer the point.

The world picked up the pieces, and we moved on, and now, looking back through the smoke and ashes of a tragedy gone by, I can’t help but wonder if we’ve moved on too far. We had a chance to learn a lesson, we saw all too clearly – blindingly clearly – what the world could be if the world did not change; and we did not change. None of us. Not enough. For one brief blinding moment after tragedy rocked us all, the world bonded together and held each other up, in that brief moment when we were all Americans, we saw what the world could be if we simply realized that tragedy can affect anyone, that death can come for us all at any moment, and that deep down – under the trappings of religion and politics, race, creed and orientation – we are all the same. We are all vulnerable, and we are sometimes, all so terribly terribly alone.

And we do not need to be.

That is the lesson we should take forward from this, even all this time later, even after so many days and so many years have passed. Hold your children close, reach out to the neighbor you never spoke to, laugh with your coworkers…smile at the person next to you on the street. That smile could save a life, that phone call could change a heart.

If we take only weariness and sorrow from tragedy it will forever hold us hostage.

So yes, always remember…

But never forget to move on…and when you do, move on in love…so that no one, from the highest paid CEO to the poverty stricken in the alleys of New York…ever has to die in vain.

Bright blessings,