I feel like this week is hurtling by. The show feels shorter; we start, and before I know it we’re in the final scene. I’ve changed clothes and characters more times than I can count, and now I’m suddenly aware of counting down.
Someone asked me after the show tonight if I’ll be sad to see it end. I don’t think I will. I’ll miss it, of course, but I think I’ll end this run with a sense of completion. I have lived the beauty of these stories each night to the best of my ability. The experience feels complete in itself; it doesn’t need to linger in melancholy.
It will linger, instead, in the words and stories it has firmly imprinted in my psyche.
I’m compiling a list of favorite lines, the ones that reach out to me every night. These I will miss, but I’ve committed them to memory from hearing and/or speaking them time and again, so they’ll never leave me. Tonight I am remembering lines about the very act of speaking:
Woman: “I ask the help of the gods, who know the trick: change me, and let me speak, better than I know how . . . “
Therapist: “So it remains important, and salutary, to speak not only of the rational and easily understood, but also of enigmatic things: the irrational and the ambiguous. To speak both privately and publicly.”
Each night as the play begins, I stand in the wings and hear my friend Park say, “let me speak, better than I know how . . .”. Her next line is my cue to go on.
I carry that prayer with me as I step on stage, and I will continue to carry it even after we close. Let me trust the story; let me get out of my own way; let me feel at home even in the irrational and ambiguous. Set me free.
That, to paraphrase a certain bard, is a metamorphosis devoutly to be wished.