A spirit that soars when the body can’t

What one remembers from Lyena Strelkoff’s stage performance, in addition to its absorbing emotional strength, are the competing forces of silence and sound. They seemed almost contrapuntal at times, each assuring the attention of the other by their stark contrasts.

I remember thinking as I watched a life unfold and alter in her biographical play “Caterpillar Soup” how powerful a whisper can be. Even the periodic noise of aircraft at the Santa Monica Airport, just across the street, didn’t distract from the words of the frail young woman.

At times bubbling with hope, at times crying softly, Strelkoff conveyed in a seamless solo performance every aspect of an existence that was transformed in seconds from that of a dancer to that of a paraplegic. And it’s all accomplished from a wheelchair.

I was drawn to the tiny Ruskin Group Theatre by David C. Nichols’ review in The Times and by the knowledge that the music for “Caterpillar Soup” was provided by the brilliant flutist Suzanne Teng. The high, thin trill of her flute adds a spiritual quality to the production, which, to begin with, is already played on an almost metaphysical level.

One is embraced from the beginning by Strelkoff’s story as it evolves to the moment on Oct. 4, 2002, when she fell from a tree in Malibu’s Charmlee Park. She had been a climber from childhood and, now in her 30s, the challenge of a tree just seemed too much for her.

The park is a place of quiet beauty in the hills above the ocean, marked by gentle slopes, tall oaks and a striking view of the Pacific. I was there once as a soft rain fell days after a brush fire had blackened the earth. Fire-followers, those plants that germinate by heat, were pushing up through the ashes. The blossoms of purple phacelias glowed in the dampness.

I thought about it as Strelkoff, using softly swaying arms to convey a slow-motion effect, told of the sensation of falling 25 feet to the ground when a branch gave way as she climbed the tree: “I remember the sweet, sweet bliss of ... abandoning my life, finally, to its natural flow, at this moment, rushing toward the ground. I remember the peace I felt. I was like a feather falling through syrup.”

The world stood still for the heartbeat between the moment she fell and the moment the ground rushed up to meet her. “Time,” she says, “stretches under the scrutiny of total presence.”

She sits in silence as a small plane, almost acknowledging the moment, heads skyward with the demanding buzz of a large toy.

All around there are affirmations of life as Strelkoff tells her story, its title taken from the “soup” in a caterpillar’s cocoon out of which a butterfly emerges. Planes take off and land. Cars pass. A giant swap meet gathers crowds nearby.

We follow her life from the fall to the first awareness of her condition, when she looks at her doctor, about to operate, and says, “I’m a dancer,” as if, by that simple assertion she could deny the destiny that that split second decreed for her. “To dance,” she says, spinning the wheelchair in a ballerina’s whirl, “is to be in relationship with all things at once.”

Rehabilitation involves both body and soul for those who hope to achieve any kind of normal existence. Paralysis alters the image one has of one’s self. Dreams of dancing were all that remained of Strelkoff’s old life. Her introduction to rehabilitation in a Colorado hospital began with the blunt reality of what lay ahead:

“Here you will learn how to turn over in bed and get dressed by yourself. You will learn how to cook, clean, shop and drive from a wheelchair. You will learn all manners of transfers: chair to bed, chair to toilet, chair to shower bench, chair to couch, chair to car seat.”

We learn from the play what life is like when our body fails us. We cringe in humiliation and pain from “accidents” involving bowel and bladder, and try to realize the barriers she faced, and still faces, with the simplest of activities.

But with her through it all has been a soul mate she refers to only as Dean. He was there when she fell, and remains with her today, even in the audience.

In one scene, Strelkoff, determined to someday walk again, says, “Hope is the belief in possibility. Faith is the belief in inevitability. Hope wasn’t good enough for me. I wanted faith.” Faith is expressed in many ways, from the slick performance of a televangelist to the quiet determination of a flawed human being to achieve what seems unachievable.

The past can’t be undone. And I don’t know if Strelkoff will ever regain full use of her legs. But I do know that by her exquisite performance and by the nature of a spirit that soars beyond the reach of any aircraft, she has enlightened and ennobled us all.