We Must

I am reveling in stories. They are surrounding me, pulsing through me, reminding me that I am not alone. They connect me to the source-spirit, the great mother, the merciful father. They bring me closer to truth.

Two weeks ago, I looked around a circle of high schoolers, preparing for our closing night of Fiddler on the Roof. Not knowing what else I could share with them, I asked for their stories, their positive remembrances from our time together. I watched and listened as these young people told the story of their fun, their challenge, and their growth. I shared a story about loss and love.

We stood there, holding hands, looking at each other through bleary eyes, connected to and supported by our common experience. We create theater, we dive into other peoples' stories, we use others' stories to understand our own. We do this because we must.

Last week, I met with four other writers--a novelist, a columnist in various print and online publications, the curriculum coordinator for my district (my boss), and a colleague I admire for her experience, intelligence, and talent. Just being in the room with them is intimidating.

I brought some of my writing, my stories, crumpled into a folded square and crammed into my purse. I was shaking when I started to read: how could my words possibly keep up with these accomplished writers? Who am I to think I can write anything of significance?

But as my words escaped my lips, I felt the energy bouncing around the circle, simmering there in the center of the group. When I finished, I let out a deep breath and so did everyone else. I looked around the circle, intensely connected to and supported by these people. And when they shared their stories, I realized something: they are just as insecure sharing their words, but despite that fear, all of us tell our stories. We do it because we must.

This weekend, I performed for the first time in a long time. I was one voice in a chorus of voices sharing the stories of womanhood. Through The Vagina Monologues, the exploration of the words and the process itself, I found a community of women inherently connected to and supported by our female experience.

Despite the difference in age, background, scars, we are all one. We will not be marginalized or pushed to the side. We will not be made to feel insignificant. We will not stand for rape, sex slavery, female genital mutilation. We will not experience these things, hear of these things and remain silent. We break the silence because we must.

I am reveling in stories--the ones that are joyful, painful, and necessary. I find myself hearing them, telling them, living them. I do this because I must.

The stink of storage...

Not too long ago, I opened the torn-up duffle bag for the first time in ages.

I carefully pulled out old tights, ripped and frayed, unwrapped my last pair of point shoes, with a brown blood spot permanently stained into the pink satin. I unfolded leotards and leg warmers and sweaters. I leafed through an old book of notes, choreography, dance steps.

It all smelled musty, the years of stagnancy in my parents' basement emanating from every fiber. It all reeked of stillness, neglect.

I pulled that bag out of storage, not too long ago, and it's not going back. I might add a few new items to the mix, a few new skills, definitely a slew of new tricks.

I am stretching out stiff muscles. I am getting my blood flowing again, for real, for the first time in far too long. And even though my body might take a little while to rejuvenate, to become what it was and more, right now, my spirit-body is twirling and leaping for joy.

Fiddler on the Roof--Director's Note

I first experienced Fiddler on the Roof when I was in 8th grade, a few short years after moving to a new town. I was cast as a villager, with seemingly little to do other than sing songs, dance steps, and imagine times and places I never knew. That didn’t matter to me, though—I began to breathe-in each moment, as if I’d held my breath for years. I remember watching my peers playing the lead roles, in awe of their confidence and talent. I remember seeing how close they were, how beautifully they sang, and how effortlessly they joked and performed drama together. But mostly, I remember feeling like an outsider looking in.

In high school, I became more and more involved in theater. Those people I once watched from afar became my people. We rehearsed together. We laughed, cried, sweat, and bled together. We challenged and fought with each other. We connected with each other in ways not possible anywhere else. And while I couldn’t place it yet, there was something happening each time we sang those songs, danced those steps, and imagined ourselves into other worlds. Some ineffable thing was bouncing among and within us.

Now, many years later, as I immerse myself in Fiddler with a new and wonderful group of people, I find myself reawakening to lessons I began learning long ago—lessons that have lain dormant for some time. This show explores family, friendship, and faith with such candor and beauty it transcends barriers. Fiddler challenges the idea that we must do what we’ve always done and follow rules before following our heart; so often we find ourselves standing at the cross-roads between what is right, according to tradition, and what is right for us. Through Tevye’s struggles, we learn to be true to ourselves, to place the important of happiness before riches, and to allow for change and advancement while always remembering our roots.

This story also shows us that reality and uncontrollable forces often complicate our lives and cause us to reconsider everything we thought we knew. Throughout the play, we see prejudice, narrow-mindedness, and fear. We see oppression and violence. We see people struggling to consider each other equal, even though they’ve lived as neighbors for years. But in spite of all this and perhaps most importantly, love and hope remain. In the darkest times, these characters hold strong—using the faith they have in themselves, their loved ones, and their God to carry them through, to truly live.

Somehow, the first time I experienced this show, I was not consciously aware of these lessons—just as I was unable to name that ineffable thing joining us together. Maybe my friends and I were too young or too preoccupied to see it, but we were steadily developing into the adults we would someday become. We were learning who we were and how to live our lives.

Now I see it, ever so clearly, in the magnificent cast and crew surrounding me. When we are faced with challenges, whether with each other or in the complexities of producing a show, we always find a way to maintain hope. Each time we struggle, if we come back to the heart of why we are here—our love for theater and this group of people—we always get through the hard times. Every time we rehearse a song or a step, explore a scene, imagine it alive; every time we let go of our judgments and insecurities; every time we allow ourselves to be present and attune to magic moments—every time, we grow a little bit closer to ourselves and the people around us.

To my “drama weenies”—take the time to breathe. Allow yourselves the chance to appreciate the moments you’re in. Don’t let so much time pass before you realize how magical this was and how important these lessons are.

Here’s to a great show! Here’s to great people! But most importantly, here’s TO LIFE!

I don't understand what happened.

When I was a little girl, you told me fairy stories and helped me see little magical creatures living under the mossy ground in the woods.

You told me Santa Claus was real, and took me on (like you do your father in a political debate...) when I tried to argue that truth. When I was a teenager, you even gave me a book to read, debunking the myth of St. Nick's untruth.

We had a purple dragon for a pet--and you helped me ignore her pipe-cleaner body to imagine her alive. Her companion was a garden gnome who lived below her among your house plants. You taught me not to insult him by calling him fake.

You did everything you could to create magic in our home and in our lives. You did everything you could to make me a believer.

But now, 20-some years later, when all I need is for you to believe in me, all you can do is tell me that believing is foolish.

One of my students put it brilliantly: "It's not about what you look at; it's about what you see."

This is what I think: the dreamers spouting cliches and once upon a times are right. All of us have our somewhere over the rainbow. All of us have the ability to do wonderous things. All of us can be a part of a magic show or a fairy tale.

All. of. us.

We just need to open our minds to the possibility that we can be special. We are special.

We need to look around and accept the amazing things happening to us all the time. We need to open our eyes and see little fairies landing on our noses by way of snowflakes falling. We need to hear the songs of the spheres rustling through the leaves. We need to take in a deep breath, allowing tinker bell's fairy dust to coat every inch of our insides.

She's crazy, you might think. She's living in a dream world, you might say.

Yes. And yes. I have been crazy all my life. And I'd be even more crazy if I didn't ALLOW myself to live in my dream world, because it is mine--every terrible and beautiful inch. This dream is mine, and I can't wait to see the rest of it unfold before my eyes.

I feel like an infant carefully but curiously separating my eyelids, finally opening them to see.