Inside the Whale

I went wandering down memory lane -- several times on this trip.  Once to my little sister's grave, once to my old elementary school neighborhood, and once to an old park where I used to play with abandon.  

I knew what I was looking for walking along the river -- images and memories overlapping in the rolodex of my mind.

The Whale.

On the south side of town, it would have been the Rocket, but here near where there used to be a ferry carrying you across the river. it would be the gray whale.  The small concrete kid climbable whale -- gray with small sparkles, where you can climb inside its mouth -- yeah, that one.

Two young girls and their young mom or babsitter were already there engaging with it, as well as another abstract playground climbable -- they shied away as I drew near.

It saddens me that I scare them.  Even though I present as a female nurturer/curious student of the world, I still represent and resemble the white privileged ruling class and am simply imposing with my tall frame, bold colors and red hair.

Their beautiful Hispanic features are not lost on me as they scurry to the corners as I dare to enter their safe space.  If only they could see the little girl inside me incesantly tugging me forward.

I choose to address the caretaker to try to explain and put them at ease.  "Hi, I too used to play with this whale 50 years ago" (How could that number be correct?)  The two girls give no sign of welcoming me into their club, but one of them launches herself on top of the whale, rightfully claiming it as her toy in the present tense, while also demonstrating her prowess.  I love it.

Emboldened, her younger sisster follows suit and they straddle their large catch at home on his back.  I give them space, but study the cosmetic treatment this 70's installment has undergone -- the once gray with tiny diamond flecs that my four year old hands would caress is coated in white and bright and pattern like an outdoor tablecloth.

The oldest perks up, "So you used to play on this when you were a girl?"  So she was listening and is now offering a small story stick to me.

"Yes", I say, "but back then it was just gray."  

Both girls scrunch up their faces trying to imagine such a plain whale.

I lay my hand on its side slowly, trying to garner the memories, the feelings and the significance of my childhood perspective.  I'm tempted to crawl right inside it.  That's what I remember -- Little Jeany standing inside its mouth, safe and hiding from my mother telling me for the third time that it was time to go home.  

Instead I keep all my five feet and ten inches outside it, but my mind has already flown back.  I am in the shadow of the secuity of the made-just-for-kids space inside the whale.  I seem to remember sand underfoot, a little stone igloo oven of sun warmth, and the sense of rest and adventure and safety -- like the security I used to feel climbing inside a cupboard that only I could fit.

The adult me ponders the image of Jonah.  Am I longing to be inside the whale because I too want to run away?  Will God send a Great Fish to carry me to the shores I refuse to tread upon? Or am I safely being guided to my new people group?

Will the words and offerings burning inside me fall on deaf ears in this sorely divisive new/old homeland, or will some have a ringing of truth resound in their ears and actually turn to listen to the prophetess?

I don't want to sound melodramatic.

I don't want responsibility of following all the ideas springing up everywhere I look -- possibility for a story share there, community connection there, theatre there... it's too painful to hope.

Could that have been true of Jonah too?  It's easy to write him off as a coward, but maybe he was hurt and scarred and not sure if he could handle more ridicule, let alone a huge revival and eventually, even the loss of his own shade.

So many parallels to my own humanity; both brave and fagile; visionary and suspect.

I begin to walk away, thank the young women, and leave the sea of reflection.  Stepping forward yet still flooded with other memories of frisbee tossing, roses, potato salad and tandem biking on the day of prom -- all a wash of teal and froth passing north on the Willamette.

Prophetic encounters with my past while yearning for signs for my future.

All while remaining open in the present.  Breathing deep.  

Sounds just like navigating through the play I get to be in.  

Stay present.  Stay grounded.  Listen.  Allow myself to be transparent.  Go thought by thought.  Allow my heart or hope or fear and longing to stab at the despair and confusion to validate each truth in the mystery of it all.  A woman falling out of order into chaos and greater sight.

May I own my story in the midst of hers and step forward, further in. 

Humble but brave.

Specific yet generous and spontaneous.

Open but discerning.

All in community

And on the search for kindred spirits.

I am learning so much through Selina Felinger's Something Clean

(Did she ever play inside the whale at Skinner's Butte park as a fellow Eugenean?)

While learning so much through recognizing and honoring the world that I carry inside.

In the mix of pain and glory.

Taking the next step, while living in the moment

Inside the whale of Possibility.

Tickets to Something Clean at the Oregon Contemporary Theatre found here: https://www.octheatre.org/somethingclean