What Makes Us Think This?

As a theater performer and creator, I’ve been through the gamut of truly vulnerable moments. 

I’ve poured my heart into auditions where no one cared if I was even in the room, and I’ve performed for audiences of 500+ who responded with standing ovations. While each experience offered its own lessons, the one thing that remained constant was practice and showing up.

Art and healing have so many parallels that I’d argue healing is art. Both begin from a place of unknowing, like a blank canvas. Or maybe from desire, without fully understanding how things will unfold.

So what does a performer, a musician, a painter have to do in order to do it? Start. 

Starting is the foundation of practice.

It means getting something on its feet, script in hand, exploring how a character will live, breathe, move, and interact. It’s always awkward at first. You stumble, quite literally, and ask yourself, “How is this going to work out?” 

Yet, somehow, it does. But believing that’s where the work ends?
That’s the real trickery.

To think we’ve somehow mastered something because we’ve created one thing is truly laughable.

From there, it’s more rehearsing, more unlearning and relearning, especially when new collaborators are involved. Even when you understand the basics, you’re never exempt from practice. 

A great creator always rehearses or practices their art. So as a human, what makes us think that we are any different?

Why do we assume that just because we’ve gone through a lesson, a shift, or a meaningful conversation, we’ve reached the end of the learning? And if we don’t get it “right” the next time, whatever that means, does that really mean we’ve failed?

In those moments of repetition as a performer, I have always taken away value: friendships that have resulted in best friends, lessons on what to do when you completely forget the plot but have to continue because the spotlight is on you, and ways to amplify my yes or no in an industry that often intimidates your individuality right out of you. 

But never ever have I stepped away as a performer thinking, “Wow! I’VE DONE IT! I HAVE NOTHING LEFT TO LEARN. MY ART IS COMPLETE.”

To be against rehearsing and consistency is to be against the foundation of creating.

My creations have always served a deeper understanding of myself, that in order to keep getting better, I must keep putting myself out there. I must keep rehashing, rehearsing, reworking. 

The same applies with healing.

What magical things can we create if we were to keep practicing and learning from our successes and stumbles?

Happy rehearsing!