On hiding, and seeking.
[No. 95]
A story by playwright, author, and MBA editor Verônika Shülman
Sculpture by Isabelle Albuquerque [Image by Genevieve Hanson]
I met Katia at the Santa Monica Playhouse when we were about ten. She looked like a Russian supermodel, and her mom’s name was Veronika [spelled like mine]. They lived at the very top of a mountain near Topanga. The first time my mom drove me there, she printed out the directions on MapQuest, and we hoped for the best. We might as well have been on another planet. Katia’s mom had a boyfriend who looked like a pirate. He and Katia invented a game. They’d pretend to be a father and daughter in an argument and let it escalate slowly but intensely until a kind, concerned stranger would frantically intervene. That’s when the round would end.
Katia was unlike my other friends.
She was more grown-up.
She was mysterious.
Veronika told us she thought Katia’s birth father was Jewish, and she wanted to send her daughter to sleepaway camp to learn more about her culture.
And so, we went.
Here, at Jewish summer camp, Katia was unpopular unfortunately.
She looked older and sexier than the other girls, which made them insecure and cranky.
She didn’t know a single soul other than me. She didn’t know the songs or prayers.
Frankly, she stuck out like a sore thumb.
I was distraught. How could I help my new friend from my real life become acquainted here, in this quiet utopia? I wandered along the dirt roads of the summer camp, skipping rocks in the dirt, bewildered. Eventually, I walked up to our “chapel,” composed of a few carved wooden benches made by campers over the years. Here, on a cliff overlooking the sea, the trees crackled like whispering creatures. The winds waved at me. It was otherworldly.
And so, for the first time in my life, I prayed.
“Please,” I said raspily,
“God,” I continued,
“Help Katia make friends at camp. I want her to feel beloved.”
Later that evening, the cool girls [Julia, Marisa, and Tate] took Katia under their wing. She became so popular that she totally left me in the dust. Ugh.
Alien, I wish I could tell you I learned my lesson. [Be careful what you pray for.]
But no, I have let my dreams spill onto everyone except for myself for quite some time. It’s embarrassing. I helped a friend stop doing drugs, when I really wanted to stop doing drugs. I help crushes become professional artists, when I really want to be a professional artist. I feel this diaphanous connection to God, to my ancestors, to the energy that connects everything and everyone. Still, it is so much simpler for me to see this holiness in others than to pour into my own soul. I have yet to shine a light on my own old, dark wounds.
Who am I? Alien, I am hiding the fact that I do not know and that I am frightened to look. What would I find? Would it be wild, unkempt? I hide my sorrow, and I even hide my joy sometimes. I ask to hear about other people’s accomplishments. It’s not that I am selfless, but that I am scared. It is quite a vulnerable thing, to be seen.
The problematic yet profound Teddy Roosevelt once wrote, “It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood…who comes short again and again…who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who…fails while daring greatly.”
It is simpler to throw stones than to live in a house of any kind, let alone one made of glass. God, I wish to stop looking around and start looking in. I wish to be the glass house, a shelter for my soul. To lay my stomach and legs with Moroccan carpets, to adorn my shoulders and arms with giant framed paintings. Here, I will rest. Here, I will write. Here, I will open the windows and let everyone witness me. Here, I will be beloved. Here, butterflies will sing. I just have a feeling.
[Note: Libra season is upon us. Everyone is welcome to come by Good Housekeeping on Sunday, October 13th for Veronika’s BATHWATER birthday.]
HONORED – love you so much.