I never wanted fame.
I never wanted prestige.
I just wanted the chance.The chance to perform. The chance to create art that lived and breathed right in front of you, on the stage or the screen. The chance to stir emotions within someone else, to help them laugh, or think, or process their own hurt. The chance to give them space to forget about the life they’re living, if only for a moment, and step into a world we created — full of possibility.

I feel the most at home when I’m on stage. Funny that the first time I’ve shared those words with anyone is on my public blog. . .

In high school, I made a conscious choice to drop out of my theater production class. I can still remember that night when I told my director. (Believe me. That is saying something.  I don’t remember yesterday, much less 13 years ago).
Rehearsal had ended, and I was waiting outside for my mom. I was alone, in the quasi-dark. I remember wanting to get out of the theater as quickly as I could, and not speaking to anyone. I don’t remember it being an emotional moment, which might have been the impetus for quitting — I felt like it didn’t matter. Mrs. Gage came up beside me, and said, “I hear you’re thinking about quitting”. She wasn’t looking at me.  I was glad, too. I don’t know that I could have said “yes” if she was. She asked why, and I gave some lame excuse about church (literally one night a week) or band (not really a conflict at all), but something to take the focus away from me and my knack for quitting things that  I might be good at one day because hard work is scary. (Looking at you, piano lessons). She said something about talent and that she didn’t want to me to, and how  I could letter as a sophomore in the spring,  but I had already spoken with the counselor about changing my schedule at the semester, so it wouldn’t have mattered what she said.

I was stubborn and prideful.
I would’ve told you a thousand times that it didn’t matter. I threw myself into my music, which, made me a decent horn player, so I’m not complaining. But, the truth was, and is, it did matter.

If I couldn’t perform at school, I would do something at the community theater. So I learned about light design. And I loved every minute of it. . .except for that one show that I turned all the lights on in the light booth. . . I would’ve told you that it filled the void. That being that close to the stage was almost just like being on it.

It wasn’t.

But I couldn’t go back to my theater teacher and beg for her to let me back in. No way. So  I decided to audition for the Tisch School of the Arts at NYU. Yep. (Full disclosure: part of that was because it was far, far away — in all ways — from the swampy town I grew up in. . .ok, it was almost all because of that).

But. . .

I didn’t do it.
I didn’t even try. I didn’t let the admissions people tell me, “No, thanks for playing and good luck”. I did it for them.

I can speculate on the life I would’ve led had  I not told them “no” (and if they had not said no, too). I can imagine where it would’ve led me, what opportunities I would’ve had. The stages, the scripts, the characters that would’ve been mine.
But, honestly, I’m not sure I would’ve been ready to fully appreciate that life had it been given to me at 18 or 21 or whatever.

I hope with this new year comes a renewed sense of bravery. Maybe that bravery is roaring and loud, sounding a battle cry.  Maybe that bravery is a quiet persistence that tries again and again. Maybe that bravery is a bravery that says, “I have no idea” when the world expects certainty. Or maybe, just maybe, that bravery is the small voice, filled with child-like wonder that says “What’s next?”
Whatever that bravery is, peace be the journey.

Shalom.