Eurydice
Turning around to find her there again, again, again.
This week on a hot night, I walked past a rainbow pinwheel screaming in the breeze (gay). The golden hour reflected a pebble of the brightest gold on every shiny wing, spin, spin, spin. The bright blurred together. Again. Again.
Again.
If you know me, you know I remember strange occurrences. Like the daydream of being wrapped up in a big, big towel after a bath, but the towel was a giant gay flag. Like walking into the bodega and getting told by the lanky green bean cashier “Yellow is your favorite color, isn’t it? And you don’t even need to ask me how I know.”
If you know me, you know I look for patterns everywhere. In numbers, in lyrics, in books. An example? A couple weeks ago I read Tom Lake (2023) and Beautyland (2024). One about aging and love that sticks around in memory even as life unfolds, creating new loves, creating new homes. The other a coming of age tale of how ostracizing it can be to feel different from everyone around you, alien, and just want to be called back home. Different authors, different target audiences. Both spending a significant amount of time with Thornton Wilder’s 1938 play, Our Town. It felt like life calling me into Our Town. Like I was supposed to come into its three acts: Daily Life. Love and Marriage. Death and Eternity.
Act III of Our Town is meant to leave audience members with a pang to turn back again, with presence and appreciation, to the little things in life. To make use of the time we have left. Looking back on her life, specifically watching her 12th birthday over again, after death, Emily says "It goes so fast. We don't have time to look at one another." And later, "Oh Earth, you're too wonderful for anybody to realize you."
On December 27, 2025 I bought a ticket to see Hadestown for several months later. It was one of those shows that my family members kept saying they loved and I realized I never had a chance to see. I was doing some comfort spending in the midst of a breakup and… I don’t know… as I was scrolling through all the concerts and shows coming to Kansas City, it was the only one that really made sense. I didn’t know the premise, had never listened to the soundtrack.
Sometime around late April, Orpheus, the father of songs, and his love Eurydice started finding me everywhere.
A tragic myth (and an awfully sapphic one of longing), I hadn’t thought about it for a long time. The hope, the questioning, the knowing of someone, the doubt, the love, the loss. After trudging through the depths of hell to go save the woman he loved, Orpheus could bring her back to earth with him only if on the walk back from the underworld, he didn’t turn around until they were both back in the light of the sun. They are close to the other side when Orpheus, not knowing if Eurydice was actually following him back on this lengthy trek, turns around. He sees her there. And for breaking Hades’ rules, she is sucked back into the underworld, again.
Was it a question of trust? Was it a need for comfort? What made him turn around?
Songwriters. Poets. Artists. Movies. The myth was everywhere. Like I was getting targeted ads and it was both touching and annoying.
Last night, I was driving to the outdoor theater where Hadestown was playing, finally seeing the show I bought tickets for back in December, and I called my mom for a quick yap on the way. “Oh you’re going to love it, you know what it’s about, right? It’s all Greek myth. Orpheus and Eurydice.”
For the next two and a half hours, I laughed and cried and cried and cried to this retelling of how far you’ll go for love. To hell and back. To know a love that will bring you home. And also, to know how it ends and still sing it. Again. Again. Again.
To be Orpheus. To imagine a walk through hell without confirmation if you’ll have that love again. To have no confirmation if it’s coming, too. To trudge far, but give into the fear or longing eventually. To get to feel it one more time. To preserve the memory. In Hadestown, it’s said that Orpheus could make everyone see the world how it could be.
To be Eurydice. To imagine a change to come back from death, a chance to feel the sun again. To enjoy the little things. To be taken home. And know that hope for a long walk, watching the back of your lover’s head. To be loved so much that it’s irresistible; a tie that turns the head. In Hadestown, it’s said that Eurydice knew how the world was.
It’s entrancing, this story. A love so large and still so capable of its own undoing. To see everything that was and everything that will ever be. Like seeing someone you’ve always known. Myths are meant to be cautionary tales after all, no? What was I supposed to make of this myth coming into my life, first slowly, then all at once?
I’ve been thinking about the patterns of my life. Of being all the way removed from it and missing the details (it’s hard for me to remember what I could have possibly done for my 12th birthday) and also being all the way in it (crying listening to all my sister’s loved ones sing her a whole, full happy birthday). And this pattern repeating. Of being deeply in the throws of love, and deep in the grief of its loss. Of being deeply in love with my life, and deep in the loss of what could have been. Of being tied to rules and expectations, and give in to the pulls of pleasure. Of losing myself in something, someone, somewhere, and of feeling here with one breath. I am turning around to find you, but also to find me.
Spin, spin, spin. Again. Again.
Again.
I am the pinwheel. I am the sun. I am hell. I am Emily. I am Orpheus. I am Eurydice.
Turn around.
Last weekend was Pride here in Kansas City. I was floating in a very gay pool and CMAT came on, except I didn’t know it was CMAT. And basically ever since, I haven’t been able to stop listening to this Irish bisexual princess witch.
The winds have been ripping here, and the branches are falling off the trees. Last night I kept my car in the road and laid on the horn so that cars wouldn’t keep almost ramming into the fallen over trunk that was sleeping all the way across the four lanes at 11 at night. I wonder what trees dream about or if they know when they die.
Speaking of sentience, I’m listening to Is A River Alive and am feeling really connected to the dirt, the water, the leaves. On Sunday I took a solo hike and stuck my hands in a stream and watched geese socialize on a hill. A college friend of mine said it looked like the hill where the teletubbies lived. So now I have to go back and investigate.
22 more days until sabbatical. I hope to get more familiar with my patterns, and maybe start to figure out what the hell they all mean (complimentary). I’m still thinking about those horses with their heads resting on each other. It is year of the horse, after all.
Life is long. The twists, they be turnin’. With love, care, affection, and a sweaty night on the dance floor, happy fucking pride.
