#The space in between full professional

The risk of being triggered resulting in an appearance of that 4-year-old ghost child in me had up to now been too much to bare. Rarely had I allowed them to come onto my island.

#The space in between full professional

This was the first time they would see me perform as a professional actor. Into this peaceful universe I welcomed my parents for a weekend visit. Sold out houses to enthusiastic audiences reminded me nightly of my love of the theatre. Having bonded tightly together after riding about the Southeastern United States with my fellow gypsies, we cooked delicious meals together on our days off, hiked to waterfalls, and performed each evening as the opening show of the summer season at the Barter. I breathed in the fresh mountain air and felt, for really the first time, confident, content, and happy. The Smokey Mountains were alive with dogwood and azaleas, with crisp cold water springs running down from the mountain top, and birds busying themselves with their family planning. It was a beautiful spring in Abingdon, VA where I was back at the Barter Theatre after a month long tour of Agatha ChristyвЂ™s The Mousetrap. It was clear that my own self-loathing and insecurity around being good enough lay deeply embedded in her and I fought to win my freedom, to find myself. I was her rebel child, and not wanting to wake up every day and live in fear of life, I fought back. At these times in my life I feared drowning in her and tried desperately to differentiate out, to understand where she ended and I began. When I was a tween and later a teen and then a young adult I pushed at my mother fiercely as the anxiety and fears that held her captive to the trauma of generations past, spilled outward and flooded my own hula hoop, my space. These were the times as grown women that we bonded, that we showed our hearts and shared some small bits of the truth that lay buried under years and years of being what others needed us to be. When did I grow so old?вЂќ she confessed to me during one of our many mother/daughter heart to heart conversations. вЂњI look in the mirror now and I see my mother staring back at me. Often, I see my mother staring back at me and I remember, as she herself, approached the last quarter of her life, sharing this same phenomenon with me. Now some 6 years later my breath catches as I glance in the mirror. We all said our silent goodbyes and I felt the heart of my son break apart as he whispered вЂњBut what about one last hug?вЂќ I closed the door quietly to the relief of the memory care unit and left the woman who I had known all my life asleep on the floor of her small darkened room in a locked unit in Tucson, AZ. I could feel the tech stiffen and knew that a sleeping Helen gave this crew of endlessly patient care givers and fellow residents a much needed break from the terror attacks that had besieged my mother over the last several months. We gathered around the door as I tried to decide whether to come into the room and awaken her so we, her 3 grandchildren and myself could give her one last hug and say our goodbyes out loud. The mattress had been pulled from the bed and I could hear the familiar sound of a soft, rattling snore emanating from under the disheveled covers where my mother was peacefully deep in sleep. As my eyes adjusted to the darkened room the small figure came into focus.