Seven weeks ago, I closed Fool for Love by Sam Shepard.
I played May, a bucket-list role of obsessive intensity that first got
me truly hooked on acting during a scene study class when I was 19. In that class, I remember rehearsing with my
scene partner as our professor had suggested, exploring what happened to the
relationship when we were physically very near or very far from each other, and
how closing or widening the distance affected us. This is a simple idea that is easy to
explore, but for me it was profound.
There’s something so visceral about these characters that a physical
exploration like that can’t help but illuminate their
connectedness.
I have been agonizing over how to write about Fool for Love. I need to reflect on the journey, to help me
move forward and continue to grow. But
this particular journey was so wrapped up in my personal life that it isn’t
possible to reflect only on the process of the play. If I want to write about this honestly, I
have to get personal.
I don’t know if I’ll publish this, but I need to write it.
Maybe I’ll work backwards.
I’m in the middle of a divorce right now, a process I instigated, and
for which (among other things) I’m in therapy for the first time in my
life. Like a baby giraffe dropped 6 feet
onto a rocky ground, I’m trying to find my feet and keep walking, because life
doesn’t stop and wait for me to figure things out.
A dear friend of mine observed that every relationship is
different, and unless you’re inside it, you can’t possibly understand the
intricacies involved. It can even be
hard to understand those intricacies from the inside. But there really is no room for judgment,
ever. This thought offers me some small
comfort as I struggle to explain to people why I have ripped two hearts to
pieces, or refrain from trying to explain and worry that everyone is judging
me.
And, I try to remember, too, that the world really does not
revolve around me as I was convinced it did in high school. People are not constantly staring and
judging. People have their own lives,
their own problems and joys. There’s so
much more to life than me.
And at the same time, my world begins with me: it’s what I
have and what I know. I guess I’m
learning to know my inner compass, to listen to my inner voice (the one that’s
deeper than the surface of my brain; the one that originates in my soul). I’m learning to trust that there’s something
profound in letting go and trusting myself.
Somehow, Fool for Love
taught me all of that. I had the joy of
exploring the obsession of a relationship that was completely wrong, of pushing
the extremes of feeling: love, hate,
jealousy, desire, fear. In exploring
those extremes, I began to discover the elasticity of the human spirit. We are amazingly resilient, and there is so
much beauty in vulnerability and risk. It
is only through risk and vulnerability that we can connect deeply: with ourselves, with each other, and with something bigger.
My God is Art. I didn’t
know that until really recently. I am
overwhelmed and broken and terrified; and I’m also supported and grounded and
deeply calm – because, I have Art. I can
create. I can express. I can explore. The journey has no end, and there’s something
deeply humbling about that. Even in my
brokenness, I know in my soul that there’s a long path ahead of me, a path that
is connected to many other paths, beautiful in its joys and perhaps even more
beautiful in its sorrows.
We live. We
love. We fall down and we pick ourselves
back up. We ask for help. We carry each other. We collaborate. We create.
We dream. We discover.
Goodbye, May.
Goodbye, Eddie and Martin and The Old Man. Goodbye seedy Mojave motel, and endless
lightning storms, and desert sage. Thank
you for teaching me.
