It's 5:33 a.m. and I have been up all night. I cannot sleep. Well that's a bit of an untruth... I haven't yet tried. Because I'm scared. Scared that if my head hits the pillow its softness will trigger tears, that I'll lie in bed for hours thinking of what I'm trying to not think about. But obviously my attempts are futile, because I'm writing a note about it at 5:35 a.m.
I did a show last night, the third in a 6-show run. In my opinion, I was awful. I didn't see it coming. I'd had two strong shows prior to last night and arrived at the theatre poised, calm and confident. Everything was fine. I felt good about the audience, I felt good about the ambiance of the thunderstorm, I felt good about what was brewing inside of me. And then I got to the pivotal moment in the show that has been so seizable, so authentic, so raw and true -- and I hit the freakin' wall.
I can't put it into words other than to say that it was what out-of-body experiences must be like. It was like having your soul hovering over your body, watching it, but completely incapable of finding a way inside. Or like being on a horse that suddenly throws you and gallops away. There was this internal terror while I speaking the words, this feeling of "This scene is happening without me. I have to find my way in! Oh god I only have five lines left... oh god I only have two lines left... oh no... oh god..." I have never experienced what I call "artistic panic" before, ever. In fact, no matter how crazy things have ever gotten - and I've done very demanding things like direct multiple shows simultaneously - I have always managed to find joy, strength and a surprising clarity in the madness. But last night really seared me. I honestly felt like someone had kidnapped Tanisha and put some soulless imposter in her place halfway through a scene, and I was running around frantically inside myself desperately knocking on doors but unable to find where they had hidden her. To look at me, no one would've known. But it was the single worst experience I've ever had onstage.
So now... the search for the reason, for the lesson. Because I'm sure that there is one.
I have always known that to be an artist of any sort is to be supremely vulnerable and strong in the same breath. The trials that we go through in our everyday lives combined with the sometimes dark, challenging, uncomfortable places we forage in our work make all artists worthy of a weekly prize in my opinion. But we also suffer from a bizarre melange of perfectionism, insecurity, egomania and sensitivity that can short-circuit the truest parts of ourselves and leave us susceptible to a strange condition - amnesia. We can forget who we are. We forget that no matter HOW great or frustrating or confounding the obstacle in our creative path, we usually have all that we need to surmount it right there within us if we just take a moment to breathe and to trust. But on occasion the amnesia will win, and it will grip us, and we will be led away from ourselves and away from the promise of the moment. I will always strive to put my very best on the stage. And sometimes, my very best efforts will fail. I don't know why typing that has made the tears fall... maybe it's that horrible feeling - the feeling that you've given less than your best to the audience, to the script, to yourself. Hmmm, I've just had a little epiphany. I realize that if I'm a good director at all, it's because I simultaneously feel both the actor's and the writer's quest so very deeply.
I seek nor expect perfection in anyone else, yet when it comes to my own work I hold myself to a standard that I would never let the people I care for hold themselves to. Faltering is healthy, important... mandatory. It is the springboard to growth. So I am sitting here, now at 6:08 a.m, trying to embrace the fact that once in a while, my A-game will elude me. I will feel ready, be ready, and for reasons either concrete or completely indefinable, I'm not going to shine. Because that's life, and there is no perfection other than in our illusions. Not that this is a new discovery, but an intellectual knowledge of something and an emotional acceptance of it are two vastly different things indeed. You can never invest too much in the art. You can, however, invest too much in its ability to determine your worth. So now I can say "Wow, I sucked", and not think myself any less the artist. Most importantly, I can remind myself that I'm not defined by any singular moment. Each creative soul's work is a collection of many thousands of moments, and the symbiotic relationships to those with whom they commune. The moment, the people, the audience - will not always give you what you need. Some things will be out of your control. But so far, I think I'm coming out ahead.
A friend of mine told me "You're really taking this to heart." Yeah, that's what I do and that's who I am. The things that matter to me hit me square in the heart. Most of the time, that serves me very well. Maybe the fact that I'm so affected by it makes me arrogant... perhaps it is a lesson in humility that I never knew I needed... Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when we should practice to self-analyze. And what bliss we might find if we could self-actualize instead.
I haven't decided if I'm actually going to publish this note yet - feeling pretty raw right now. Maybe when I wake up I think "Oh no, not gonna share this stuff." Or maybe I'll want to share it more than I can imagine. I have never appreciated the Serenity Prayer the way I do this minute. Wow, the sun is up... crazy. But now, I believe, I may be able to sleep.
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