Lay-offs and waiting rooms

I opened the attachment one week after receiving the email. I don’t know why I’m bad at email and responses, technology is advancing fast, and it is drowning our patience for older systems of communication straight down the drain like it did letters via post and Mxit. One of the more honest reflections about this email in particular is the helplessness I felt arrive along with it.

What is to be said about things that are out of your hands; an ‘act of God’, or natural disaster for the more secular mind? Well, if you have had a comfortable job teaching wonderful little humans like I have, you know that the security of having your mornings to yourself, the convenience of taking time off for an important audition or production and just picking up your phone to ask for some assistance, is not to be taken for granted. My colleagues are high energy—loud and chaotic, driven and focused, fun-loving and passionate beings; they keep spirits up by sending random videos and GIFs and reassuring each other they’re doing well, offer to help each other out and give the drama kids their best efforts. It’s a good place to start off, and I knew that as late as three months in: I was convinced that I was only passing through when I started, soon to be planning a departure to a foreign country to study further, or signed to a six-month contract at a brilliant new series (Dreaming is something I decided to practice fiercely at an age where Peter Pan was the only revolutionary I recognized).

None of that transpired and I found myself taking stock of the few wins I could dust the dirt of failure off from while still maintaining some kind of hope and desire to make things work, re-strategize. The one thing that was solid and a source of calm and relief from panic attacks (I had a dear colleague, Gugu, who became a constant support & guru in bringing back to ground) was that lovely little studio. Throughout the moments of anxiety, moving around, getting paid less than my worth, heartbreaks and fuckboys, the office and teaching presented a sort of gravitational pull, became a rest stop for tired feet in constant motion. The pressure to get it right and move on from this rest stop evaporated with every ‘no’ and empty promise handed to me by ‘the industry’. Added to that, there’s nothing I romanticize about being a struggling artist when it comes to paying bills and being self-sufficient, so my part-time job became a kind of sun— something to orbit around, stay close to in order to stay alive.

There can be no response for watching your source of heat go cold. Nothing can pacify the feeling of losing gravity, floating into the deep black sky. Maybe there are more suns to orbit, new rest stops and new moons to marvel at. Whatever may happen, helplessness has been replaced with acceptance and gratitude regardless of circumstance.

For now, I’ll send light and love for the world’s healing and the speedy recovery of our studio while I line up for some relief, some prayer, some access to new dreams... new expressions.