Enchanted Collaboration

Collaboration in Theatre
Sydell and Rex, Sept. 3, 1992

As a director of theatre I always appreciated the art of collaboration. Besides working with actors, I was charged with  bringing together set, lighting and costume designers. When creative artists are open and feed off each other’s ideas, we do our best work.

I was nervous about directing A Midsummer Night’s Dream, since it was my first Shakespeare on a college campus. Would my students be able to handle the language well enough for the audience to understand? It was a 3.5 hour play, so when I found a cutting that brought it down to a manageable 2 hours, my doubts began to subside.

I started by meeting with Rex, Cal State’s hot shot set designer. He strutted into the green room wearing his usual paint covered jeans, with a wad of keys hanging from his belt loop.

Collaboration with a set designer
Rex

He was an intense, wiry man in his mid-40s, who was passionate about his work. We’d already done a few shows together, so I wasn’t intimidated. We agreed to have an initial design meeting after he’d read through my cut version of the script.

I came to his office the following week bearing 2 cups of high octane coffee, the kind available in every theatre department. I was relieved that he liked the cutting, which he affectionately referred to as the “Readers Digest” version. “What image does the play evoke in you?” he asked. The question threw me for a loop. I was used to being asked, “Where do you want the entrance, down right or down left?” I’d never considered the idea of an image or an overriding concept, but it was the basis for our collaboration.

I told him that my favorite part of A Midsummer Night’s Dream was the fantasy of being in an enchanted forest with no rules or boundaries. My strongest image was of dreamlike characters flying free. He nodded and said, “Let me think about it.” He came back to me the next day, this time bringing coffee to my office. On a piece of poster board he had painted a beautiful pink, yellow, and pale blue butterfly. “Does this say it to you?” he asked.

I loved the image, but it felt too literal. The play tells the story of star crossed lovers who run away to a magical forest, where they’re surrounded by creatures of the night.

“I see mysterious beings appearing unexpectedly from hidden caves and pathways,” I told him.

“Would you like a darker, wilder atmosphere?” he asked.

“Exactly,” I answered. “The butterfly just seems too tame.” 

“Yes, I see what you mean,” Rex replied. “If we’re true to the text,             the creatures are fairies who appear when night is at its darkest. I don’t think it could be created with lighting effects alone.”

I thought not, but needed his input to be sure.

“Can you give the set a moodier, more romantic quality?” I asked. “I         want it to reflect the forbidden love story of the mortals as well.”

He smiled at me and nodded, letting me know we were on the same page. I was excited by how easily we could share our ideas, and develop a concept through collaboration.

Three days later Rex came back to me with an entire set design. The pinks and yellows had been replaced by deep purples and blues. His rendering looked like a roller coaster covered with iridescent pieces of delicate fabric.

Collaboration on Midsummer
A Midsummer Night’s Dream

There were places under rocks where the fairies could hide, appear, and then reappear somewhere else. Up left, ten feet off the ground, there was an asymmetrical stairway leading gradually down to center stage. This is where Oberon and his Queen Tatiana would make their stately entrances. I couldn’t believe that this was the result of our collaboration.

It was magical and inspired me to take chances as a director. With so many levels and hiding places, it seemed obvious to make the production more visual. The fairies pranced seamlessly from level to level, making it look like they were actually flying. The actors created stage pictures that reflected the meaning of the play. If the audience didn’t catch every word, they could easily understand by following the characters’ movements. Instead of the words being obstacles, they became doors to visual images that opened everyone’s imagination.

One night during the last week of rehearsals, Rex noticed how the actors seemed to populate every inch of his set. He leaned over to me and I felt his breath close to my ear. “Sydell,” he whispered, “you have a wonderful sense of composition.” It was the sexiest thing anyone had ever said to me. By the end of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, it was clear; I was in love with my set designer and he was smitten with me.

We both acknowledged our feelings, and decided to try going on a date. It didn’t take long for the artistic collaboration to turn deeply personal. In 1992, with our friends and family bearing witness, we got married in our beautiful backyard. In the 30 years we knew each other we did over 20 productions together. None of them compares to the richness of our 24 year marriage. I lost Rex 2 years ago, and I miss him terribly.

Alaskan collaboration
Sydell and Rex in 2013

We had plenty of challenges, yet I wouldn’t have traded those years for all the enchanted forests of Shakespeare’s boundless imagination.

Sydell Weiner, 9/1/2018

Vacationing as a Widow

Travel Perspective from a WidowDo relationships look the same on land
and at sea? Does travelling as a widow  change your perspective? I’m  on a cruise with my sister and brother-in-law, and as much as I love them, it’s my first vacation without my husband. My sweet Rex  died a year and a half ago and I am still trying  to navigate the seas… pun intended.

 

A pretty blonde on Deck 5 leans across the bistro table and smiles at her husband.  She notices that his coffee is darker than usual and whispers, “Do you need more milk for your coffee?” He smiles back and looks deeply into her eyes. “Thanks babe, that would be great!” They are in their 20’s and obviously in love. The gentle way they speak to each other reminds me of the sweetness that defined my marriage. Rex never raised his voice to me and always made sure I had everything I needed.

 

Two tables over, a 40 something couple in bright red tee shirts  engage in an animated conversation.  A teen-aged girl with a thick brown pony tail runs over to their table. Another girl, her sister maybe, joins her and together they begin their appeal.  “Mom, can we pleeeeese have money for ice cream?” After some playful banter and a lot of laughing, the girls run off to purchase their treats.

 

I have two grown children, so the days of  them begging for ice cream money are long gone.  Fortunately, my kids are self-supporting with jobs, homes, and families of their own. I’m proud of them and love my six beautiful grandchildren. As I watch this family, I long for the day when my kids needed me that way. I’m fine on my own, but how nice it would be to put extra milk in my husband’s coffee.

 

As I start feeling sorry for myself, an older man passes by, pushing his wife in a wheelchair. Just then my focus shifts to a 50ish year old woman as she grabs her husband’s hand on the steps so she doesn’t lose her footing. Yes, cruising is for couples, and  I’m grateful for the chance to be spending quality time with my sister and brother-in-law. And yet, as I watch all the couples stroll by, I am once again hit with the reality of being a widow. I’m trying to have a good time, when suddenly the tears come uninvited.

 

I’ve been a couple for so long, that it feels like I’m missing a limb. I know the “rules” for being married, I just don’t know how to behave as a widow. Will I just get used to being alone?  Or will I  tag along with married friends and relatives on their vacations? Maybe I’ll find girlfriends to travel with.  Or would it be easier to just stay home to avoid the discomfort? I decide to call it a day and go to my cabin to indulge in a little pity party.

 

Fortunately, by the next morning my attitude has improved. I drag myself out of bed and go for coffee on the Promenade Deck. To my right I hear a 70ish year old woman with died orange hair berating her husband. Her voice is loud and shrill.  “Didn’t you go to the bathroom?” she scolds. “I told you to go before we  left the room. You’ll never find a clean toilet in port! Why don’t you ever listen to me?” He doesn’t look embarrassed, he’s apparently used to this, so I simply look away.

 

We get off the ship in Aruba and an overweight man in his 60’s shouts across the gangway to his wife. “It’s too slippery, I can’t do these steps,” he yells. “That’s not my fault,” she retorts, “If you lost weight like you’re supposed to, it wouldn’t be a problem!” She eventually goes over to him and helps him down to steps. “I knew this cruise wasn’t a good idea,” I hear her complain under her breath.

 

Marriage isn’t perfect, I understand that first hand. Rex and I  certainly had our share of problems. My first year as a widow I was angry all the time,  (in between bouts of depression). Now I’m remembering  the good times, and  probably idealizing them in the process. I long for his company when I have something on my mind that I’m burning to share. Talking things through with him always helped me make better  sense of my feelings. I miss the easy way we could talk about our day, books we’d read, politics, theatre, and especially the people we loved. We had such fun going places at home or away, and I miss his company, his companionship, his loving eyes.

 

And yet, there are days when I’m almost comfortable being a widow.  I can walk at my own pace and make my own decisions. I can stay up as late as I want and not tiptoe around the house when he’s napping. Don’t get me wrong, I miss him terribly, and would give anything in the world to have him  by my side.

 

I am grateful that we had a loving marriage that thrived both on land and at sea. I will always love you, Rex, nothing could ever change that.  I’m just starting to hear my own voice and walk my own path. And with that comes a new freedom that I’m actually starting to enjoy. Thank you, Rex, for giving me courage to enter this next phase of my life alone.

Sydell Weiner, Ph.D

Unexpected Acts of Kindness

Alaskan collaboration
Sydell and Rex in 2013

“In a world where you can be anything, be kind.” This quote is getting thousands of “Likes” on Facebook, but do we really practice kindness in our everyday lives?

In March of 2002, my husband Rex and I moved to a small fixer upper in Palos Verdes. Our next door neighbor is a single guy named Mark. He is barely 30, and like Rex, enjoys schmoozing in the driveway about home improvement. Rex invites Mark to one of his plays at the university, and that’s where we meet his fiancee Karen.  They get married, Karen moves in next door, and before long they’re raising a family. No matter how busy they get, they remain our “go to” neighbors when we go on vacation or need a favor.

As their children begin to grow, my husband’s health begins to decline. At first it’s almost imperceptible, but as the years progress he becomes increasingly tired with bouts of confusion. On an ordinary day in January, 2014, I drive to the Westside to babysit my son and daughter-in-law’s 4 kids. As soon as they leave for their “date,” I get an urgent call on my cell phone. “Rex is in his car in the driveway,” my neighbor Karen says. “The car alarm is going off and he’s just sitting there, staring into space.”

I’m with 4 kids under 10, even if I could leave them, it would take me an hour and a half to get home in traffic. I tell her I’ll call her back and start making some calls. Meanwhile, Karen brings Rex into my house and manages to turn off the car alarm. Her kids come over too, because Mark isn’t home and they’re too young to be alone. Fortunately, I reach my step-daughter who agrees to drive from Burbank and stay with her dad until I can get home.

By the time I get there Rex is running a high fever. I call 911 and he’s taken by ambulance to Torrance Memorial Hospital. Everything happens fast, and before I know it he’s having his gallbladder removed. The doctor-on-call tells me not to worry; everything else checks out fine and he’ll be ready to go home in a few days. Even though he’s given a clean bill of health, as I reflect on it now, that was the beginning of the end.

On July 28th, 2016, Rex took another emergency trip to Torrance Memorial. This time I have my own doctor involved, and she personally runs all the tests that should have been run in 2014. By noon the next day we have a diagnosis: Stage 4 Cancer. We do surgery, we do radiation, we do everything possible. But on September 17th, 2016, my sweet husband dies in a hospital bed at home and none of us knows what hit us.

With all the funeral arrangements and commotion in our family, I forget to tell Karen and Mark. About 3 weeks go by when Karen knocks on my door to ask about Rex. “Oh Karen, I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. He passed away 3 weeks ago.” She stands on my doorstep as tears start flooding her eyes. “We loved him,” she sobs. “Mark is going to be devastated.”

The next few months go by in a blur. I do all the household chores and try to keep it together. I continue going to my daughter’s house in Costa Mesa on Mondays to watch her kids. On those days I don’t get home until after 7 pm. Monday is garbage day, so I try to get the cans out on Sunday nights.

One Monday night when I get home, I notice that my empty cans have already been taken in.  The neighbors on my other side were also very helpful when Rex was sick, so maybe it was them. Oh wait, I’m close to the rabbi who lives around the corner, so it could have been him. I have no idea who my “Secret Angel” is, and I want to find out so I can thank them.

The next Monday night as I’m driving home, I see Mark and his 10 year old son Bobby in front of my house.  They’re wheeling my garbage cans to the side yard.  I roll down my car window and call out, “Are you the one who’s been doing this for the past few weeks? He looks like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar. “We try to,” he answers sheepishly; “it’s no big deal.”

The next day I see him alone in his driveway and go over. “Thank you so much, Mark,” I say. “You don’t have to do this every week, really.” He smiles at me with a look of embarrassment and says, “I want Bobby to learn about neighbors and chores. And besides,” he pauses with a catch in his throat, “I loved Rex. I want to do this for him.”

That was a year ago and they still take out my garbage on Sunday nights and return the cans on Monday, without saying a word. A few months ago, when the fog in my brain started to lift, I bought Bobby a junior size football that he freely retrieves from my backyard whenever it goes over the fence. For Thanksgiving I made them all a huge gift basket with gummy bears and other kid friendly treats.  They’re always appreciative, but they don’t need gifts or recognition.  Their acts of kindness seem to be helping them and much as it does me.

A few weeks ago I knocked on their door, because an unfamiliar car was blocking my driveway. When Karen answers, one of her friends hears me and appologizes profusely. “I was just dropping off my kids, I’ll move my car in a second.” I start chatting with Bobby and his 9 years old sister Julie. We’re laughing about our dogs digging under the fence so they can play together. Julie is very talkative and I’m enjoying the friendly banter with my next door neighbors’ kids.

I few days later, I get home from work feeling tired and cranky. As I approach my front door I see a pink gift bag with ribbons overflowing. Inside there is a handmade card and on the front it says: “A little Gift for…” I open it and it says, “YOU! Look in this bag! I made this for you!! “Love, JuJulie's gift of kindnesslie!” I rummage through the bag and I find it: a 2 inch wide heart, made from over 30 pink beads. It’s adorable! This 9 year old child’s gesture has touched me beyond words.

It’s easy to resort to self-pity when you lose someone you love. Believe me, I’ve done more than my share. Yet who would have thought that the single guy next door would morph into this beautiful, loving family? Their unexpected acts of kindness have been instrumental in helping to lift my spirits.

They make me think of all the other caring people who’ve been there for me since I lost my husband.  I am so grateful. Acts of kindness remind us of our shared humanity. For the past year and a half I’ve been the recipient, and now it is time to pay it forward. The greatest acts of kindness are helping others without expecting anything in return. In Hebrew we call it a Mitzvah. And what better way to honor the memory of my dear husband Rex.

Sydell Weiner, Ph.D

 

 

 

Is It OCD Or Coping With Life?

This is the wall unit that I needed my dear Rex’s help with!

I move the books on my wall unit so they’re grouped by height. Am I being  OCD, or is this just how I cope?  Standing back to admire my work, I think, “Hmmm…I need a vase or a sculpture next to the books on the second shelf.”  I try a red vase…too bright.  Then I try a tan one…too tall. Finally I hit the jackpot with a bowl of white marble balls.  I love it. I think. By tomorrow I’ll probably rearrange it again. My mind goes to the iron sculpture that would be just perfect in that spot.

I can’t stop moving things around. I arrange the dishes on the shelves in my dining room. Then I proceed to the kitchen, where I put pretty ceramic mugs in the cabinets with glass doors.  It feels creative and I applaud myself when something looks great.  But I do it for hours on end, and not being able to stop makes my feet hurt and convinces me that I’m seriously OCD.

But it works for me. It helps me shut out the pain that I don’t want to feel. Feeling means being upset and hearing that critical voice in my head. “How could you be so stupid?” or “Don’t be ridiculous!” Feeling means facing the guilt of being emotionally detached when my husband was dying.

Granted, I took care of all his physical needs and was an efficient, devoted wife. I drove  him to his doctors appointments, administered his medication, attended to his personal hygiene and arranged for hospice when it was time. But I cut myself off emotionally. I knew that if I allowed myself to feel, I would break into a million pieces.

About two weeks before Rex died, he got up from the hospital bed in the guest room and asked if he could lay down  with me in our room. “Sure,” I said, “but just for a little while, I don’t want you to fall out of bed.” He had fallen many times, and the hospital bed had side rails for just that reason. If only I had held you then, Rex, and absorbed the familiar feel of your body. I should have comforted you and reassured you and told you how much your love changed the landscape of my life.

Of course, you knew all that.   And if I asked you today you’d say, “You were great, darlin’, I couldn’t have asked for more.” And yet I know I held back. I held back because I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, the one person  in the world who knew my true heart. You never judged me when I was being OCD. Instead, you understood that arranging things was a distraction that got me through difficult times. You loved me, perhaps more purely, than I was able to love you.

I wish I had hung your scene designs more prominently in our home, but if they didn’t go with my “decor” they were relegated to the hall. Now they are flaunted in every single room. They remind me of all the plays we did together, and how your vision always inspired me to be a better director. I wish I had embraced your AA work with a more open heart, instead of being jealous of the time it took away from me. Check out the wall unit, Rex.  I have all your sobriety chips on the bottom shelf, and you would be so proud to see them displayed.

I miss your artistic eye as I continue to rearrange my shelves. You’re the only one who could have helped me decide between the red and tan vases.  Because no matter which I finally chose, you’d say, “You got that one right!” You had my back, and valued my opinion on just abut everything. But you’re not here anymore. WHY NOT?

Why do people leave when you need them the most: my mother, my father, my first shrink who committed suicide? And now you. And with you, I have lost your daughter. I have lost those wonderful Holiday Dinners with the whole blended family–my kids and grandkids, your daughter and son-in-law, and even my ex-husband and his sweet girlfriend, who we lost last summer.

Yes it hurts to feel, and that’s why I try to stay out of it. I go back to rearranging my shelves because it calms me. You can call it OCD, but for a few hours anyway, there are things in my life I can actually control.

Sydell Weiner, Ph.D.

My Step-Mother’s Funeral

 

My Step-Mother's Funeral

I ride to the cemetery with my step-sister’s daughter, a red-headed beauty who always makes me feel included. My step-brother’s daughter is sitting in the back with her husband and they are all sharing memories. Their beloved grandmother passed away 2 days ago, and although though she was 90 years old, it was sudden and unexpected.

She was my step-mother and I loved her. She was married to my father for 36 years and we had a warm relationship, even after losing my father 15 years ago. But I live in California, and I never really thought of her as a mother.

My real mother died when I was 14. My father remarried a few years later, he sold our home and we moved in with her family. She had also been widowed, but her children adored my dad. The bond grew stronger as my step-siblings got married and had kids of their own. He loved the grandchildren, and took pride in caring for their emotional and financial needs.

When we get to the cemetery we stop at the mortuary to see if my step-sister and her husband have arrived.  It’s hot and muggy, and my hair is starting to frizz like it used to when I lived in New York. I feel like such an outsider among this group of step relatives.  But they were my father’s family and I’ve come to pay my respects.

When we get to the burial site I look for my mother’s grave.  She is buried next to my father, and now my step-mother will be on his other side. Her first husband is also buried there, and she’ll be placed between them. I know–one big happy family. But I can’t find my mother’s gravestone and I suddenly start to panic.

I leave the group of mourners and see a large pile of dirt that’s has been dug up in preparation for the new grave. I brush the orange clay dirt away with my fingertips, and slowly my mother is revealed: Janet Horowitz… Beloved Wife and Mother… forgotten by her husband, forsaken by her daughter who never learned to talk about her or grieve for her loss.  And once again I become that lonely girl of 14, looking down at my mother’s grave in utter disbelief.

“Mommy, why did you leave me? Why did you never hold me close enough or love me the way I needed you to? Why did I have to struggle without a family, while they got Daddy? How did she wind up getting 90 years, when you only got 44? Where were you when I was left to figure it out on my own?”

My heart is broken, but I dig up a stone from the ground and put it on my mother’s grave to let her know I was here.  “I love you mommy, and I will until the day I die…promise!” With tears dripping from my eyes, I join the other mourners to honor my step-mother, the love of my father’s life.

Sydell Weiner, Ph.D.

 

Does the Soul Survive?

Life after Death
Does the soul survive?

I’ve always struggled with the concept of life after death. Does our soul lives on  in the minds and hearts of those we’ve touched? Can it exist separately on another dimension?  If the soul survives, is it possible to actually communicate with a lost loved one? Can they come to us in times of need to give us comfort?  Or when we die is that it–over, finished, end of story?

Although I’m no stranger to existential dilemmas, it’s been constantly on my mind since I lost my husband in 2016. I feel his spirit intensely  throughout our home. We lived here together for 15 years, so naturally there are many associations to times we shared. But it’s more than that. My husband’s presence seems to grab onto me, and before I know it I’m in the throws of anxiety.

The hardest time for me is going to sleep at night. I’m flooded with memories and I can’t get him out of my mind. In bed, we loved talking through the endless details of our day.  We’d hold hands or swing a leg over the other, and the sharing was easy. Regardless of the issue, in bed we would listen and always be gentle with each other.  It’s where we felt closest and the most as ease.

I thought it would make a difference if I made some changes. So I bought a new mattress and indulged in all the bedding.  I even put down new carpet. Rex is still there the second I sit on the (new) mattress. I do my best to shut out the feelings and push them away, but he haunts me. My friend Susan suggests I embrace his spirit and let the feelings in. She’s right, of course, I just don’t know how to do it.

At night I enjoy sitting in a dimly lit corner of my room. I sink into the big, cushy chair and I’m comforted by its softness and warmth. I stay there as long I can, until I start nodding off. I’m afraid to get up and go to bed, because I know what will happen. Once I take the eight steps across the room, I’ll be wide awake.

I can keep most of my fears in check during the day, but in the darkness of night my anxiety’s unleashed. What if I have a nightmare, will it overwhelm me? If I get sick in the night, will I be able to take care of myself? I have people who love me, but when I’m alone in bed I lose sight of that reality. Will I always be alone? What if I get a terminal illness? Will I linger and be a burden to my family or will I be blessed with a peaceful death?

On difficult nights, I soothe myself by getting something to eat and bringing it to bed. I know full well that food won’t do the trick, but old habits die hard. Sometimes I stave off my fears by distracting myself with social media or reading a book. Whatever I do, I know it will take a while before I can settle down again and fall asleep.

Last night as usual, I got up from my chair at the last possible moment. There is meditation music playing softly on my phone, and the house is quiet and warm. I walk across the room and the familiar anxiety start to take hold. But instead of giving in to it, I close the light, get under the covers and focus on the softness of my new, luxurious down comforter.

I start to consciously slow my breathing and still my body. I relax my shoulders and neck to release the tension, and that’s when I feel it. My eyes are closed, but I see a dark shadow cross over my mind’s eye. I know it is Rex and for a moment I feel him drift passed me. I concentrate on him and the dark shadow returns. As it envelops me, a light seems to pierce through. And for the first time in months I start to feel calm.

It is Rex’s spirit, I’m sure of it. But instead of chasing it away, I welcome it. I feel his love and embrace his spirit. I remember the deep connection we shared and the strength of our commitment to each other. He could always comfort me just by being nearby and joining with my deepest self—no judgement, no criticism, just acceptance and love. I am finally able  to understand my friend Susan’s message. If I let him in,  Rex will come to me in bed when I need him the most. His soul will provide me with comfort and healing.

Although I miss the peace I so easily felt with Rex, I am beginning to find it on my own. When I get into bed at night, I slow my breathing and try to calm myself. Then I focus on a specific memory of our being deeply connected. I see it play out in my mind  and I feel his presence. It actually works. For a few precious moments he is with me and I am warmed by his love.

I’m not sure if this is life after death, but my husband comes to me in the comfort of our bed. Will I be able to transform my fears and anxiety into peace and acceptance? I’m certainly trying.  When his soul reaches out to me I openly embrace it.  Rex’s love was a blessing, an unselfish gift that is an integral part of who I am. When I cherish the memories, I can accept the present and have hope for my future.

Sydell Weiner, PhD

May 6, 2018