My equilibrium has been disrupted by a change in an institution that I believed to be permanent. I am not talking about the church, schools, political parties, or communities.
I am talking about the circus.
Ringling Bros, “the Greatest Show on Earth,” is closing. How is that possible? The circus is a fountain of romance, peopled with daring athletes and courageous lion tamers, stocked with impressive beasts and fellows with wild hair and big red noses. It has always been the back-up for kids who wanted to run away, or for adults who tired of mundane lives and wanted excitement: we could always join the circus.
I confess that I have only attended a Ringling Bros. circus twice, so it would seem that its closing would be a mere trifle to me. But still I am saddened. It is, I know, because I choose to believe in the illusion of the circus, to believe that somewhere, in a small town, the animals and performers parade down Main Street before setting up the big top and dazzling the townspeople. I know in my head that this is not true – there are no circus parades down Houston’s Southwest Freeway and no big top is set up – the performances take place in Houston’s basketball arena. But I ignore the reality of the circus , that the glamorous high wire artists are not so beautiful up close and that behind the rubber noses and wild hair often dwell men with little sense of humor; instead, I persist in believing in the illusion
Why does the illusion appeal? Why am I missing what never was? It is, of course, that the idea of the circus is an echo of a time in America that is quickly changing, and I am missing the concrete testaments to that old time. I miss screen doors and mothers yelling at children not to slam them. I miss Woolworth’s, old department stores like Foley’s and May/D&F, grocery stores like Piggly Wiggly. I miss girls playing jacks and boys playing marbles, 10¢ movies and Superman serials, Scrooge McDuck and Little Lulu. And now I miss the circus. In short, I miss the furnishings of my childhood.
These are, I think, a metaphor for something most of us seek: reassurance that some things can be depended on, familiar places in a world that seems increasingly alien. I think what really bothers me is change itself – the undeniable knowledge that things I took for granted come and go, call for me to adjust to a new way or a new place or a new technology.
In a world inundated by rapid pace and rapid change, by screens that are ubiquitous, either calling us to watch or watching us; by store closings and grand openings; by constant, unrelenting advertisements invading our entertainment, our vision, even our personal phones; by instant availability of news that we hear long before the 6:00 programs or delivery of the daily newspaper, I often want to shout, “Keep the change away – keep the change out of my life!”
Would I be more peaceful if familiar stores remained, if news came once a day, and if TV’s and phones weren’t so smart? Would I welcome a return to advertising spaced out on small signs located one after the other on the side of a highway and ending with this one: “Burma Shave”? Would I buy tickets to Ringling Bros, eat cotton candy, cheer on the trapeze artists and laugh at the clowns? I think I would.
But it is not to be. So, I turn to a technique I learned long ago: rather than mourning for things that are gone, I enjoy the pleasure of reliving them in memory.
And then, I change my focus: I can be aware of things in this time that bring joy, things that I will miss if they too disappear. I can enjoy my grandchildren while they are young, enjoy their fascination with Narnia, learn about Pippa Pig and American Girl, be entertained with the illusion of the theater or the ballet, escape into novels. In short, there is much about this time to celebrate, to enjoy while they are available. I do not want to miss what is good today while mourning for what is gone.
7/28/2017