Present Over Perfect

The crew held their breath. Fat, hot tears fell onto my
notebook, smearing the black ink. My friend paused before
he spoke, put a brotherly hand on my shoulder. When I
looked back up at him, he said, “You can get this right. It’s
not too late. You can start again, right now.”
When we got to the end of that segment, I laughed to
break the tension. I apologized to the crew. “Oh my gosh,
you guys. I’m so sorry. I’ll pull it together.”
They laughed, shook off my apology, regrouped for the
next shot. As ever, the invitations to remake your life come
from every corner if you’re looking for them.
In someone else’s city, in someone else’s home, sitting
at someone else’s kitchen table, I knew with all certainty
that what I longed for was my own table, my own home, my
city, my people.
This wasn’t the first invitation, certainly. I remember
another, months earlier. I was at a gathering of women,
mostly writers and speakers; many I knew, some I was
meeting for the first time. One of the things they asked us to
do: create video content for some upcoming projects.
Usually, when this happens, you show up at the assigned
room at the assigned time, and a nice person introduces
himself. He clips on your mic, explains the goal, and then
you start the interview.
This time, though, there was no one in the room, just
written instructions, a chair, and a camera aimed at the chair.
The instructions explained that all you had to do was sit,
start recording via remote control, and answer any of the