Don't Worry Be Happy

For the past two Sundays, I have attended the Sagebrush Church. It is a virtual service held at the local movie theatre.  At first, there were so many warning signs. Did I mention the service is streamed in?  Yeah….. Secondly, the first 20 plus minutes were a continuous sing along with a Lady Antebellum-like band. Finally, hands were in the air all over the place.  God Bless those of you that feel the spirit to move you, but as a good Lutheran, I prefer to sit and sing in the back quietly and badly. However with most things that I try to ignore, God just keep being a nuisance throughout.

The subject was “worry.” I thought, “Pshh – this is so not me. I am the least of the worriers in my family.”  Even the minister confirmed my arrogance. He pointed out the difference between worry and concern. Concern is being in the present, and one can take action. Worry is in the future and one cannot control of it. Hold it, shit. Is it possible that I am too concerned? Now, this is a worry.

I spend over three quarters of my time being “concerned.” In the past week, I have worried about the well being of 5 little children who live among  crack head prostitutes,  Ivo’s behavior and commitment to learning in his new school, and why is his sister Valerie so sad? I worry about 12 year old Jose and the fact that he’s looking for his third school as he struggles to stay safe on the street. Oh, and what happens when my Facebook families and friends decide they are sick of hearing about my babies?  Then there is my family?  Mom hates it when I am gone. Does Dinah miss me? What am I going to do for money when I return?  When I never hear from my sons, that is an “all is well in the word” sign right? Thank goodness that I am not a worrier.

I was asked Sunday afternoon, by a woman I barely knew. what my greatest skill is. Really? Well, I know what I can’t do well. I can’t make Jello. Curling my tongue and rolling my “r”s are not in my physical repertoire. I am impatient and want things to happen on my schedule.  Housework is not forte, and I could never see what I was supposed to in a microscope in high school or college.

My skills? Casting plays, memorizing my father’s medications and making gourmet pizza. Also, I am pretty good at serving as a conduit between need and those that can/may have the passion and resources to supply assistance.  Belize (and its children) is my Mothership. I don’t expend time on a lot of talk and worry; I do. 

I didn’t fall off my mother’s worry tree. If worrying was an Olympic event, Janet would be a repeating medalist.  She worries about people she has not met and episodes that haven’t been dreamt. I tend to have a more of what I call the “Schindler’s Worry.” I am not doing enough. I could always be doing more. However, as a minister once said to me, “Kim, there is only one Savior, and – surprise – it isn’t you.”

In light of this month of tragedy – again – in Boston, Texas and Washington State, the news stations manipulate our ability to worry.  Last Tuesday, when I just couldn’t stand to watch any more devastation, I went out fishing by the coral reef. 

The day was so windy here in Belize that snorkel guides were not taking out tourists. It was a rough ride and could have been worrisome in the hands of a less skilled boatman.  However, as the guide and I pulled in fish after fish, I was taken by a few things. First, there are no worries when you can count over 16 shades of blue; they are swallowed and washed away. Secondly, I couldn’t help but recall the Sermon on the Mount. There were no worries there. A couple of fish and a loaf of bread for all those people? No worries. Jesus was in attendance.  As a side thought, I always thought Jesus would be the perfect college roommate. After week days of Ramen and Mac and Cheese, the weekends would rock.  “Hey Jesus, I got one bottle of wine and a loaf; let’s party!” This day in the boat, we had more fish than we could possibly eat or store, so the guide made a phone call, and we were met at the beach by men he knew that worried daily as to how to feed their families.

Before we came in, the guide filleted the fish on the boat. As he tossed off the skin, guts and bone there was one small bird that hovered over the boat, catching the remnants. It was amazing to watch. This bird spied us out on the water, flew out to his impending dinner, and then continued to flap for fish. I couldn’t help being impressed – what endurance and what trust that there would – in fact – be substance being thrown from the boat.  Then I thought, "This bird has no worries!" Did you know that birds eat 2-3 times their weight every day? True story. Birds don’t worry about tomorrow’s worm or catch of the day. They just fly freely and the world provides.

"Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? 27 Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?28 And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin."   (Matthew 6:26-28)

So, what is the moral of the story? I guess I could be clever and extend the bird metaphor. Don’t be let your wings be clipped by the weight of worry; fly forward toward those things that lift you up and not ground you.  Maybe it is to remind us that “stinkin’ thinkin’” is a waste of time and potential.  I think I will just go the simple thought that we should worry about nothing and pray about everything.

Theory of Dakotability

The working name of my writings is Theory of Dakotability. I have to give credit where is credit is due. My dear friend Mary Garry introduced it to me years ago, and like any good artist, I have borrowed it ever since. It is the truest of theories with which I have experienced. Simply, when the rest of the world is playing Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon Separation, in the Dakotas, it boils down to One Degree of Everyone.  It usually begins like this, “I know someone from South Dakota.” I follow with, “Who?” We are a state of family names.  Especially since I was an athlete, I know all the players and names. Are you a Daily or Allard  - Jefferson/Elk Point.  Webers are from  Bridgewater.  Glanzers are Armor or Freeman natives, Kings are Lyman County and Knights are Beresford all day long. By the way, I am the same girl that can name the mascot if you give me the South Dakota school.

I could probably dedicate a chapter of this work to each time I have experienced this theory, but I want this to be a short book of musings and not an encyclopedia of experiences. Let’s just say that the Theory of Dakotability has been proved true as I have traveled the world.

Ambergris Caye, Belize

·         A college friend and her daughters booked a room next to my house on the beach. As I ran by with a group of my favorite students, I heard, “Kim is that you?”

·         Someone saying, “Aren’t you Kim Bartling?” as I walked out of an ice cream parlor with an entourage of children. This person was wearing a SDSU Jackrabbit t-shirt.

·          “Hey Bartling!” from 2 former students as they climbed on a boat to leave the island as I was walking on the beach to work.  

·         A tap on the shoulder by a young woman behind me in line at the famous Thursday Chicken Drop line followed by, “I think you taught me junior English.”  This former student just happened to be vacationing with my father’s oncology nurse, so it was a double wammy.

New York City - more times than I can recall, but here are a couple of my favorites…

·         After the production of Cabaret with Alan Cumming, I waited by the stage door.  I loved AC, so I waited.  Also at the stage door was a lovely group of young college students on Spring Break from Boston.  They were discussing as to whom was going to take pictures if – in fact – Mr. Cumming would pose. I finally said, “Ladies, give me your cameras, and I will take the pictures with all of your cameras.” They looked at me with a combination of hope and fear. It was a great solution, but they were in NYC and had been warned that everyone was to be feared.  I finally said in their obvious hesitation, “I am from South Dakota. I am not going to steal your cameras.”  To which one girl said, “I am from Sioux City, Iowa.”

 I retorted, “I am from Sioux Falls. What high school did you go to?”

 “Heelan,” she said. I shared that I taught at O’Gorman.

 She confessed, “I went to prom with Jason Grenevitch.”

 “I was his advisor and teacher of sophomore English and speech.” Done, done and done.

 

·         Mike Capps. After the Broadway production of Doubt with Cherry Jones and Bryan O’Brynn, I had questions for Ms. Jones.  It was a extraordinary cold evening and despite the success of the production, the weather kept fans at bay – with the exception of me and a gorgeous blonde that oozed of class and money.  Frankly, she just didn’t look like the type who would stand by a stage door and wait for anyone.  We struck up an immediate conversation. She lived in the Upper West Side, worked in marketing, had three beautiful, successful daughters. She was married to her second husband, whom she met over a crime scene in Texas as each of them was covering it for separate media houses. It was a fun story.   

Once the two of us had our time with the cast and asked out questions, we walked one another down the street – me to the subway and her to called car. I said, “I am excited to get home at a decent hour as I can still catch the last innings of some spring training baseball games.” She simply responded, “Oh, you and my husband would get along great.  He is a baseball announcer during the actual season.” I stopped, processed and said, “Is your husband Mike Capps?”  Seriously?  “How do you know my husband?” I assured her that it was all legit and that my brain just did the math for me.  They were from Texas, husband left the city after 9/11, he worked for CBS sports and announced baseball.  I know a guy named Mike Capps who used to be the announcer for the Sioux Falls Canaries that met all of those criteria.

 We decided to go out for dinner together and dial Mike once he got off the air at 11 pm.  She called and said, “Hey honey, I have someone here who would like to speak to you.”

“Mike, how about you and I road trip to Fargo this weekend to announce a Redhawks – Canaries game and make fun of all the ‘I give up’ outfits the local women wear?” 

“Holy shit, Bartling, how did you get ahold of my wife’s phone?” 

It is the Theory of Dakotability baby!

It has happened to me outside the Vatican,  a train station in Germany, spring training in Mesa, the Sundance Film Festival,  and at a minor league baseball stadium in New Jersey. Even my sister who lives in Baltimore has had an episode happen on my behalf. A man stopped her outside her house because she had South Dakota plates. Turns out, that his wife was my stage manager when I directed Steel Magnolias at the Sioux Empire Community Theatre in 2008. Yep…..Theory of Dakotablity.