acting application Chapter Two
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Bottled water will be a temporary measure to keep everyone healthy until the river can be remediated. Click. Alternative burial ceremonies will be performed at the local temple. Click. A charity clinic will be organized at the river bank to dispense care for those affected by physical effects of the river. Click. Click. Click. Hands shoot up, the whispers amplify, mouths gape, and a muffled roar of opposition surfaces in the audience. We’ve been fine so far, how do we know you’re telling the truth? You’re an outsider! Where am I supposed to bathe? What am I to tell my children? You don’t understand! How could you? Suddenly, Blake is caught in a barrage of heated exclamations. Question after comment after insult after question dominates the remainder of the meeting. When the last offender allows the heavy door to slam shut, the echo pierces Blake’s ears, and the metaphorical dust begins to settle on the unopened water bottles strewn atop the checkered, vinyl floor.
The stark silence haunts Blake with ghostly flashbacks. Looking around at the empty chairs and discarded pamphlets, she feels resonating dissatisfaction. Her body is tense and her breath is shallow as her frustration builds. Maybe it was there the whole meeting. If so, she hadn’t noticed until now. Where did she go wrong? The information was all there, the facts established after weeks of research, the carefully considered solutions. It would be an understatement to say that the meeting hadn’t gone as planned, which is why Blake is now face-to-face with confusion, frustration, and tension. The eagerness she felt that morning has been snuffed out. “Where do I go from here?” she asks the vacant room.
Blake decides to do the only thing she can do: pack up, go home, and try again tomorrow. After gathering the supplies she was so concerned with that morning, Blake becomes the last person to slam the heavy door of the civic center.
tomorrow. After gathering the supplies she was so concerned with that morning, Blake becomes the last person to slam the heavy door of the civic center. She walks the half mile to the bus stop, and rides the musty caravan to 1486 Parket Street. A turn of the key and Blake enters her welcoming home, which seems to have been patiently awaiting her return. She isn’t hungry, she isn’t sad, and she’s definitely not in the mood to meditate. She has too much to think about. There will be many more days like this one ahead. She can’t feel like this all the time. She has to be more resilient. She has to think of another way to reach the community. Perhaps out of routine, or sheer resignation, Blake retreats to her meditation cubby.
feel like this all the time. She has to be more resilient. She has to think of another way to reach the community. Perhaps out of routine, or sheer resignation, Blake retreats to her meditation cubby.
She pulls a notebook out from her bag and opens it up to a fresh, clean page. The worn, leather journal is filled with affirmations, things she is grateful for, and positive thoughts. Blake calls it her positivity journal, but doesn’t tell anyone that. This book is all hers. Whenever she feels that frustration is about to overcome her, or if she’s feeling extreme stress, she tries to reverse the feelings with gratitude. Blake quickly jots down some obvious things she’s grateful for today: 1. waking up with a good attitude, 2. the person on the bus who complimented my outfit, 3. the high attendance at my meeting. And then she stops. Finding things to be grateful for is difficult on days like this, and her mind slips into passive-aggressive