"Will the Faire even be open?" was the Big Question. "Of course it will be open," I told less seasoned cast members. "We operated during hurricane Floyd, and just after Isabelle. Those were events that actually had direct impact on us. So yes, we will be open."
All that week, people had wandered around in a numb state of disbelief, our complacency shattered, our indomitability challenged. We performers had our instructions, however. We were not to refer to the tragedy or wear ribbons, as patrons had come to forget. If they wanted to remember, they could stay in front of their teevees. It was all terror, all the time, for twelve weeks, until George Harrison died.
Some of our attendees were less cooperative, wearing hastily emblazoned 'Never Forget' tee shirts, and handing out tokens and prayer cards. One well-meaning woman pinned a ribbon to me. I waited until I was backstage to remove it.
We did spiritual work that weekend, and for the rest of the season. If memory serves, the weather remained as bright and beautiful as it was that previous Tuesday when stolen airplanes drove into the country's most iconic buildings.
I did just what I always do, which is to bestow love from the safety of inside a costume. I did it with the same level of passion and commitment, trying to uplift each person, one by one, for a moment, perhaps a moment to last all day, or even beyond. Exactly the same.
People simply needed it more, and recognized that they were getting it.
Not only from me. From all of us.
No comments:
Post a Comment