Skin in the Game

In June, I got a birthday present.  My birthday is in January, my mother has forgotten it more times than remembered, and presents have always been rare.  But in June, I got a birthday present.  A dear family I've known since I was six... the mom, the dad, the oldest daughter (my age), the youngest daughter (hubs recruited her to our alma mater) and her husband... they let me join them.

I was so excited I went to the house half an hour too early, just for a few extra minutes of hugs and excitement.  We drove to the transit train, went into the city.  All six of us found our seats on the balcony and sat while our very pores soaked up the amazing musical Hamilton.

This is one of those musicals where, if you want, you can really steep yourself in it: the history, the lyrics, the sheer enormity of it all, for a good long time.  I'm steeping.  Have been even before watching.  But there's a line that seems to catch in my throat, almost like a sob.

When you got skin in the game, you stay 

in the game.  But you don't get a win 

unless you play the game. 

-HAMILTON The Room Where It Happens

I'm in the game.  All in.  I spent my childhood trying to mask where I was coming from, trying to be who I thought THEY needed me to be... not my parents, but the ones I thought might actually care. When THEY kicked me to the curb, said I was useless and therefore not worthy of any of THEIR time or compassion, I sat down, reevaluated.  

And here I am, sitting, homeless and with four kids but I see the game.  The Game of Life... and I have skin in this game.  I'm not throwing away my shot.  I wonder how many think they're playing the Game, following the rules and collecting the points, only to realize later, somewhere down the line, the Game wasn't played on the gameboard... and they wasted all their time on the gameboard.

I've got skin in the game, so I stay in the game.  I'm fighting, cajoling, tooth-and-nail-scraping and I'm deeply, deeply satisfied with what I'm turning up.  

Now that I'm not doing life as it's "supposed" to look-- house, kids, car, school, activities... now that I'm homeless by choice, wandering, by choice, with absolutely nothing that on paper ticks any of the boxes of successfully living an adult life... now, now I'm finding contentment again. 

The family stopped at Mt. Rushmore on our way between what we wanted to do and what we had to do.  The sculptor, Gutzon Borglum, told the workers who went 'up and over' to chisle the mountain face that they needed to close their eyes and feel with their hands the way the model felt; then feel the rock they were carving until the two matched.  

When I look at life with my eyes, no matter how hard I try, I can't stop seeing life without the lenses of could and should and would.  But with my eyes closed to the mandates and edicts of society, I feel with my hands the model of the master.  My rock isn't carved yet, but this way of playing the Game, with my eyes closed, feeling with my gut the tuggings and pullings of my own heart... it's working for me.