It’s crazy sometimes, how much I love it. I feel foolish and childish and 4-leaf-clover lucky all at once.
Working – working! – on a stage in an almost empty room; the lights kindly touch my face like old friends. A sweet friend watches, notes, directs. She tells me, at first hesitantly (her elder, her sometime teacher), how I could be better. Much younger than me, she is so desperately gifted; completely captivating when the situation is reversed, when I watch. I listen closely.
It can be so freeing to let someone else have the reins, to try only to do what they ask to the best of your ability.
My 37 year old memory stretches like an old rubber band, refusing to bounce back, wanting only to pucker and pull. How easily the words came when I was younger! I walk, hesitate, press, turn, speak – and almost shout for joy as the sense, the feeling, floods into where my body has already gone. What I know still surprises me, that by breath and imagination and action and rhythm the words take on life of their own and I am caught.
I love the rehearsal almost more than the thing itself.