My Juggling Journey
My legs were shaking. My palms were sweaty. There were thousands of little drummers in my ears. I couldn’t believe he talked me into it. Everyone was staring.
It was my first performance since starring in Snow White in first grade. “And together we are The Juggling Hoffmans,” we shouted like we had practiced hundreds of times at home. But there in Atlanta, with 100 or more eyes fixated on us, I realized my complete lack of judgment that got me there.
With Michael's unrelenting charm, I gave in. The flights were booked, and there was no turning back.
When we arrived at the park that day, soothing mantras alternated with paralyzing panic as we started. Just as I had feared, I was terrible. Brief juggling runs were always followed by embarrassing drops. My worst nightmare was coming true.
If that wasn’t bad enough, at the end of each show, we had to beg for money. Sure, it’s technically called busking, but it felt like pitiful begging.
I looked over at Michael. He smiled back at me with sincere pride knowing well what it took to get me there. With nothing left to hold back the tears, I cried.
What I didn’t know then was that I would spend over 30 years of my life juggling as a career, that every child’s smile would fill my heart with joy and all the subsequent drops would just be another chance to make kids laugh.
It’s not that I could juggle. I just couldn’t juggle well. I was a backyard juggler, not a performer.
Nearly 33 years ago, my husband Michael got an invitation to perform at the Dogwood Festival in Atlanta.
“Let’s do it. It’ll be fun,” he pleaded.
“No way!”
“Pleeeeeease?”
We had several more shows that day, some only slightly better than the first. The terrifying feeling never went away. The embarrassment of dropping in front of all those people never got easier. And my certainty that performing was a terrible idea never waned. When the last show was over, we packed up and headed for home.
I boarded the plane that day with $31.53. It surely wasn’t worth the four hours of torture at the park and the three months of anxiety leading up to the event. It wasn’t worth all the hours spent practicing before that call ever came.
I think about that lesson every time things get hard, both in art and life. I give up all possibilities if I quit. Conversely, I leave every door open when I am brave enough to try. And, the hardest part wasn’t that I tried and failed the first time. It was that I had enough faith/courage/stupidity to juggle in front of people again. And I failed again. And that I did that over and over until I didn’t. It took me 10 years before I wasn’t nervous in front of a crowd. 10 years! Now, as I think about singing my songs or sharing my art, I just have to keep going even when it is uncomfortable. I don’t know what’s on the other side of courage.