Present Tense

Staying in the moment in Episode 103

J and D making the magic

I was walking down the street yesterday morning, on the way to get my eight-dollar almond matcha, when a young woman passed me. She was pink-cheeked, her coat flapping open in the cold. “I mean, every day,” she said to her friend, smiling, “I wake up, and it feels like the end of the world.”

For days - although maybe it should be obvious - I had been trying to diagnose my crap mood, my inability to concentrate, my sense of dread. Ah, right, I said to myself after hearing her. That's the feeling. So what does a lady do when she has to get her writing done? How do any of us make a little pasta, take the kids to basketball, or walk the dog when the sky is crumbling, when you feel like there is everything and nothing to be done?

I used to call my mom when things felt chaotic, as they do now–when I might be panicking about this or that, and she would tell me not to worry about what I can't control. To just focus on my life, my family, on what makes sense in the moment. But my mom is gone now, and so I did what so many of you do when things get weird: I watched The West Wing.

During the years we worked on the show, Aaron would become overtly exasperated by our inability to remember the names of episodes. It’s like we remembered his baby, but not his baby's name. I would explain again and again, laughing, that he kept our brains extremely busy. We would memorize our beautiful, complicated lines, often deep into the night, film the next day, and start it all again the following morning. And with decades and pandemics and teenagers between then and now, my memory is, well, a memory.

But not Proportional Response. I remember that; the title is seared in my psyche and has been since the day we shot that third episode. Proportional Response is when I knew I wasn’t going to be a hostess forever.

When I got the script, I was thrilled and terrified to realize I had the whole teaser. This is what TV people call the opening of the episode, before the main titles. “CJ’s coming.” You know it. “CJ’s coming.” I was jazzed to be given so much to do. I was a nobody. I was the girl whose trailer one might describe as a hut, sat on an empty parking space a half a mile from the stage. And, although I was also the girl who was quietly plotting my course to make myself indispensable, I knew what was expected. I was to be excellent and to be no trouble. So when Brad and I finished the final take of that opening, and he looked at me and saw that I wasn't satisfied, he leaned close and in a low voice, asked if I wanted another go. Takes were time. Takes were money, and I was in no position to ask for one more. I gratefully nodded.

“I need another!” Brad shouted, and the whole apparatus stopped. The cameras being pushed to the next scene reversed course, hair and makeup hustled in for touches. I closed my eyes and breathed as powder was pressed on my cheeks. This was my chance. The bell sounded and the director, Marc Buckland, yelled, “Action!”

I now know through experience that I do best when I don’t overthink things, when I put my head down and get out of the way. And this is what it feels like: Imagine, you step off a cliff with your scene partner, arms wild, like a child. The net of preparation falls away, and you are smashed into the present with no choice but to fly. But amazingly, you are also watching, a delighted passenger, waiting to see what comes next. I mean, you prepared like crazy, you figured it all out, and then you let the whole thing go. It's an amazing feeling, the most fun part of acting and one, that while we all aspire to, doesn't always happen. But this time it did. We ended the scene, hearts racing, and a voice yelled, “Cut.”

Brad and I started walking, him to the next scene and me back to my hut. “You happy?” He asked me, nudging my shoulder.

“Yes,” I told him, maybe blushing. “I’m happy.”

After Aaron saw a rough cut of the episode, he sent me yellow roses and a wonderful card. He was a gift-giver, a flower sender to be sure. I was probably not even the only one on that single episode to be florally acknowledged. But after a solid pre-West Wing decade of being told that I wasn't good enough or pretty enough or sexy enough, this gesture, these words, were like a miracle. I flopped down on my second-hand couch and cried.

For now, I'll leave you with that. I could write a novel about Allison’s drop-dead genius or the introduction of Baby Charlie. I could go on about Mrs. Landingham or the majestic mountain that is John Spencer. But as I said, I'm a little distracted by the everyday madness, my mind, a street filled with traffic. So, instead, I'm going to turn off my phone and close the computer. I’m going to go for a swim, then come home, and make my family lasagne. Because like my mom said, sometimes the best you can do, sometimes all you can do, is just to keep things simple, and stay in the moment.

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