Body-Mind-Spirit - Inspiration for Writers, Dreamers, and Seekers of Health & Happiness
![]() My chest tightened as I listened to fellow cast members perform their stories two days before the show. What am I doing among award-winning storytellers? I wondered. Must I follow a Moth GrandSLAM Champion and share a stage with professional actors? I’m a writer, not a thespian. I’d planned to read a carefully crafted true story. An earlier version had been published in a literary journal. The director said, “No need to memorize, but definitely be familiar enough to tell, not fully read your story.”
Tell? I felt queasy. My memory is like pencil markings, easily erased. The one time I auditioned for a play, I’d memorized a monologue and blanked at the audition. After the first sentence, the words disappeared. I kept starting over. After several tries, the director dismissed me with a polite “Thank you” and later cast me in a non-speaking role. I dropped out. I hadn’t transferred from Juilliard (Dance) with an injured back to glissade into the role of a wood nymph at a liberal arts college. When it was my turn at the podium, the microphone shadowed my page. Moments later, I was flooded—and floored—by bright lights. I hadn’t been on a lit stage in over forty years. In the decades since, I’d read my work at bookstores, colleges and universities, cafés, literary salons, on Zoom, and elsewhere, but never centerstage, blinded by light. I planted my slightly straddled feet firmly onto the floor, told myself the light was my friend, a source of love, maybe even God, and continued reading. It got easier as I went along. After the rehearsal, the director praised two performers for making good audience eye contact and privately told me my piece ran long and the opening hadn’t grabbed her. She understood I’d been thrown off by the light, but still…. Driving home, I wondered if that old theater superstition--a bad last (dress) rehearsal means a great performance—was true. No! My inner perfectionist hissed. It’s not. You’re out of your league. I recognized that voice. I consider myself a recovering perfectionist, and most days I’m fine, but occasionally, I get hijacked. As I pulled into my garage, I secretly wished for a mild case of COVID-19 to get me out of this “ridiculous commitment.” At home, I collapsed into my living room chair. My husband turned off the T.V. “How was it?” he asked. “Not great,” I said. “Come on,” he said. “You’re a performer.” I looked down at the wood floor, and whispered, “I don’t know.” Our daughter, who has a theater degree, rolled her eyes, and said, “You’re allowed to make mistakes, Mom. That’s what rehearsals are for.” If I’d been in my right mind, I would have listened. But instead, I blurted, “When I left the theater, the director shouted, ‘I love you, Bella.’ I paused, and like a petulant child, added, “—a pity comment.” Our daughter, who’d been dealing with her own fragility, frustration, and anger before venturing into the living room, perhaps hoping to hear good news, shook her head disapprovingly, and snapped, “You’re being too hard on yourself.” “That tone doesn’t help,” I said. She stormed out of the room. Moments later, tearful, she hollered an apology from the hallway. “I was just trying to help.” My body felt like a dump truck, heavy and filled with rubbish. My tongue, a lead pipe. “Say something.” my husband urged in a whisper. I managed to eke out, “It’s okay. I’m sorry, too.” That’s when I realized I had a choice. I could continue my downward spiral or step out of my shadow and take the advice I offer my students and clients: give yourself permission to be messy and mediocre. And It’s easier to exit your cage when you recognize you hold the key. The next day, I recorded and listened to my story while walking, and later, washing dishes. I printed out a 24-point version and highlighted dialogue. My daughter brought me into my darkened bedroom, shined lights into my eyes, and said, “Practice speaking into the light.” The morning of the performance, I worked. I ate a light meal in the afternoon, meditated, and dressed leisurely. I arrived at the theater early to set up a table of my books to sell. It was a fundraising event, and I was donating the proceeds. I felt like still water, with an occasional ripple. From a balcony, I watched as people entered the theater. I saw each individual as a person like me. I thought: We’re all human. We all struggle. All complex souls who need entertainment, laughter, connection, and meaning. I knew I had a gift to give. Listening to and cheering on my fellow performers, I felt like a bottle of champagne about to be popped open. When it was my turn on stage, I felt wholly at home. The lights weren’t as bright as they’d been in rehearsal. I could see faces in the first few rows, including family and friends. Like a bird in flight, savoring every dip and spin, life shimmered while I shared my story. When I walked off stage, a fellow performer whispered, “That was flawless.” It wasn’t. There was a tiny bobble at the end, and when I watched the video a week later, I discovered I’d looked down more than necessary, and perhaps overacted. But I learned my memory, with practice, does indeed work, which means I may venture onto more stages. Neither my mishaps nor my imperfections mattered. I’d shown up. I’d released my angst. And I’d found bliss—in the light on that stage, in my heart as both a writer and a performer, and as one of the show’s nine courageous grand slam champions!
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