When I wrote for my high school newspaper, I pitched my editors a television reviews column based on the premise that I'd been watching TV my entire life. They countered that they had been too and they wanted to know what made me more qualified than them. They didn't know about the tape collection or the hours spent on TWoP or the imaginary program schedules scrawled in notebooks. I watched a lot of TV.
After my parents had instilled their values and ideals, television finished the job of raising me. Homer Simpson said it best (and Glark later immortalized it on a T-shirt) when he called television our "teacher, mother, secret lover." As I grew up, I thought there was nothing TV couldn't do. It told stories and taught lessons, provided fodder for much discussion and outstretched its antennae as a tempting distraction from the drudgery of homework. But it was when the engaging stories and nuanced life lessons intertwined in a beautiful tapestry of multicolored pixels that I was truly swept away.
Only a handful of shows achieved this effect, taking my breath away by reminding me of some deceptively simple life philosophy I'd forgotten. Every few years, a show would come along that would, as one would put it, "rock [me] back."
Some of the messages were simple and repetitive. Early Edition indulged a fantasy of knowing the future while implying the importance of doing the right thing under any circumstances. The Pretender combined a cat-and-mouse tale with an underworldly soap but always drove home the importance of family and of knowing your own identity.
Occasionally, the message was more complex. Sports Night's invaluable musings on human experience hid behind a nightly sportscast and acerbic, fast-paced dialogue. Ed's hometown simplicity and sometimes outlandish storylines were alternately charming and grating, but it encouraged its audience to be educated. Its high school stories gave it the opportunity to spotlight works of literature while the adults led by example, following their wildest dreams and making the most of their lives.
The latest series to set up camp halfway between my brain and my heart is Joan of Arcadia, the story of a teenage girl to whom God appears in various forms on a regular basis. He (or She) often gives Joan assignments whose outcomes will affect the people around her. It is not always immediately clear (to Joan or the audience) why she is asked to do something, but the reason is usually obvious in the end.
The series' creator, Barbara Hall, required her writers to bone up on their religion and philosophy with an extensive reading list. Thus, many episodes are thinly veiled lessons in existentialism.
Many of Joan's assignments (build a boat to bring her father and brother closer, join the cheerleading squad to help a pregnant teen, babysit a child for an overworked single mother, take a troubled teen to the dance, learn to jump rope from a homeless girl) sound like after-school specials, but under Hall's guidance, they are realistic and often touching allegories about human experiences, interactions and relationships.
I often find the so-called moral of the story resonating in the plotlines of my own life. Beyond that, the show makes me curious about faith, religion and beliefs, topics I didn't think I'd be too interested in after I left the church last year. And they said it was just Friday night filler.
"...We go through times of consolation and desolation. Consolation is when things are flowing, and everything makes sense, and you feel connected, and you're aware that God is present, and has plans for you. Maybe even likes you a little bit. ... Desolation is the other thing. When you are scared and confused and alone and out of step.... God retreats, and you're left with your own thoughts, and those thoughts are dark. There are answers there...and strength." - Helen Girardi, Joan of Arcadia
The lines about consolation and desolation especially struck a chord lately. After experiencing a long period of consolation, I have recently been through desolation. It's nice, at least, to finally have a name for it.
I think sometimes we lose sight of our priorities, of what's truly important. It's not hard to get distracted by everything we've got going on lately, and everyone I know has a full plate. It can be easy to feel alone or feel like you're doing a disservice to someone by merely existing. Everyone feels out of place or inadequate once in awhile. It's part of the human experience, albeit an ugly part.
It can be difficult getting back on track. The hard part is taking a deep breath, loving the color of the sky, buying an ice cream cone, taking a walk, laying in the grass and basking in the afternoon sun, slowing down enough to remember that you are alive. The challenge is remembering why we do the things we do, what we like about ourselves, and why others find us enjoyable.
You get what you need, though. I must remember that I am a part of the world and that this world is built on relationships: with your lover, with your best friend, with the mailman, with the dogs, with nature, and with God. Without these relationships, without the connections we make in life, we would all truly be alone, and that sounds like the most scary and confusing thing of all.
There are answers to be found in desolation, and strength, provided you're looking in the right place. Apparently that place can sometimes be a TV show. It may have taken me a week to let in sink in, but Joan put it best last week with two simple words: "Only connect."
