Kicking at the Gate

I am back.

Back into winter.

I went from spring into winter and it continues to strike me.

Rosebud is a whirl of its own concerns and I feel like my Oregon self is getting swallowed up in the current of busy and needy and familiar and cold.

Don't get me wrong, it's beautiful here: blue skies and pristine white snow... everywhere.  But I feel like I've been shoved back three months and never left.

I am grieving the show, the people, the geography -- the new/old familiar of my hometown... the ease.  Yes, that is it too.
I was buffered by comfort.
I got to walk with my mom in the mornings without worrying about ice.
I got to eat well and not have to do the dishes.
I got to breathe deeply and fully.

I also encountered a lot of hurting and angry people.  Some are so jaded they have no margin for conversation.  They have put up walls so they will no longer be badgered and in so doing cut off opportunities to learn.  They are outward focused only to the point of labeling and separation and I see no evidence of self reflection or curiosity.

This is true everywhere, I know.  But it was startling to see in my idealized town.
And yet... I still feel a call, an aching in my heart to offer points of connection through theatre.
So in the midst of responding to what is right in front of me here in frigid rural Alberta, I am also pondering where to toss seeds in Oregon.

I have a foot in each world.  My mind and heart and body are confused, but walking forward...
Into spring, once again.

The waiting and the anticipation both pulling at me.

It reminds me of the "5 minutes" before places time before Something Clean would start at the Oregon Contemporary Theatre this past month.

My castmate Paul Dunckel could hardly stand it.  He had so much energy and no where to put it.  He would crack me up as the pranced like a fawn in the side room or pace our side stage area like a tiger.

I, too, was not enjoying that suspense.  I was always nervous and like a horse in the gates, ready to run.  Once the show began there was no stopping for me, not even to grab a drink... even though there were bottles around just in case.
My heart and mind and gut would be racing inside me and I was trying to regulate my breath and still the fear inside me.  Deep breaths.  Bending the knees.  Stretching the legs. --Whatever I could do to be patient and yet ready to carry the story through my own journey thought to thought, place to place, action by action, and a whole river of bends and rapids of emotion and discovery.

I was told I was too bouyant and so I was consciously trying to lower my center, allow my voice to drop in, and have the openness of a bottomless well of pain and longing from which to resonate.

Opening night I was particularly scared.  Paul and I found ourselves waiting in the little curtained off vom during a preshow chat that was longer than we expected.  I needed a physical activity to focus my pent up nerves and try to ground myself and I imagined the physical passion Maori warriors share when giving honour to a brother or competitor and wanted to try my best to pound and flail myself to my own spiritual readiness.

So I put down my purse and my prop and warned Paul what I was about to do so he wouldn't be shocked at me making strange faces and sticking out my tongue and making strong gestures. -- He joined me.

It was powerful, right, centering, and charged.  It gave us a chance to express our angst and readiness, and it was delicious too because it was secret.  No one in the theatre suspected that just behind the curtains the actors were stomping out their fear and gaining courage in a violently beautiful odd ritual.

Soon I would be pushed out to pasture and I knew I had to lead.  And I did.

Thankfully my scene partners, the lights, the set, the sound, the staging, the story, the props were all there like they had been everytime before... only now I had the audience.  Would they engage?  Would they follow my lead?

They did.

Whenever I was clear and in the moment, I could feel them with me.  At times I carried them.  At times they helped me.  They showed me when to slow and catch the next wave, but we were going on this journey together.

And I could feel it.

What a rush.  To bare my soul and have it given back to me whole and seasoned with new community.  

I hope to always cherish that gift.

Getting to engage with the audience in the lobby afterwards was a testament to the necessity of theatre and the incredible power of sharing story.  

Humans can learn and grow 

and become softer.

Let's keep telling stories together.