The Beauty Is...

Hi friends! It's been a while since I've updated this lovely blog here, and truthfully it's because I don't like to force creativity. As graduation approaches in May, I get less and less enthused by anything that resembles work and recently, for some reason, writing anything has felt like work. Chalk it up to exhaustive amounts of journalism I don't want to do or writing about things I'm sick of learning, but I've avoided blogging and I'm not ashamed of that fact. Something tells me I may be close to outgrowing this particular blog and once I graduate I may have to start something new. If or when that happens, I will release WMWC out into the ether, a perfect time capsule of a few years of my life as a college student. If you can't tell, I'm working very hard to accept change...

Excitingly enough, there's also something else I'm working very hard on: a show.

Nice segue, huh? Many of you already know this because, let's face it, you actually know me. And if you know me, you know that I'm probably talking nonstop about this show, humming the songs, and generally living in Florence in my head while the rehearsal process chugs along. So if you're sick of it, you have my full permission to quit reading right now. I won't be offended. But for whomever is along for the ride, I want -- no, need -- to write about this show, this process, and the general way it's changing my life for the time being.

First thing's first, I am playing Clara in The Light in the Piazza by Adam Guettel. It is fully acceptable if that name does not ring a bell. Every family member I tell does the polite little nod, Oh yes maybe I've heard of that?, and then asks how they can get tickets. I will spare you all the specifics of it, but it is simply the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. I played Eva Peron in my sophomore year of high school, where I had about six hundred costume changes and died of cancer on stage a full act after screaming DESCAMISADOS from an infamous balcony in four-inch heels. Clara is harder. That's partially because this isn't high school, and singing on pitch is no longer the number one reason why you get cast in a role. It's also harder because I know how to do this now -- I've spent three and a half years preparing for this process and it would be a shame to waste the opportunity to finally put it to good use. To do something appropriate for me, a show I love -- the closest part I've ever had to a dream role. Scratch that: This IS my first dream role.

So immediately I have to admit that there is enormous pressure when playing this part. Clara has the emotional and mental capacity of a 12-year-old, due to an unfortunate miniature equine accident in her youth. (Side Note: When I saw this show on Broadway and Clara's mother, Margaret uttered the words "...And the pony kicked her..." I busted out laughing. There, it's off my chest. Judge as you will.) But you can't play Clara "dumb." Nor can you play her innocent, naive, excited, or any of the other things one might associate with the overall framework of the character. Beyond that, the program I am part of breeds wonderfully talented singers and musicians. Almost every girl I know could sing this part, and 3/4 of them could sing the shit out of it. It isn't enough to make it sound pretty -- it's a dream role for any young, bright-eyed soprano who thinks Adam Guettel is a genius. One can't help but hear the Are you good enough? voice on a daily basis when you know there are dozens of Claras waiting in the wings. What makes me good enough? Sometimes it's deafening.

And really, that's the first thing I'm learning about myself doing this show -- what makes ME good enough. First off, I'm a hard worker. I take this more seriously than anything in the world, I put professionalism above any other quality I want to be known for. When someone speaks about me, I want the first words out of their mouth to be, "She's so wonderful to work with." What else qualifies me for Clara? Essentially, I'm finding that we are eerily similar. We are both absorbed and overtaken by love and romance in a similar way. We are quick to find joy in simple pleasures, in the sunshine, in the feeling of just living and being. And I find that in playing Clara I don't have to mask my own awkward naivete on stage. She, too, is afraid and unsure when it comes to romance. I may have more experience than Clara, but to me love has never lost its ability to terrify and thrill simultaneously.

Of course, I haven't even touched on the music yet. The score of Piazza is the dictionary definition of "lush." When we add an orchestra into the mix, I know I will cry -- it is only a matter of how often and how much it will impede my singing. The music fits my voice and my range like a glove and there are moments when I am singing and I think that I might float -- just look down and see myself hovering. As if Mr. Guettel's score could work actual magic and defy gravity. There is a feeling in the room when the cast sings together that is of mutual respect, admiration, and general awe, not at our own ability to handle the music, but a sense of "I couldn't have said it better myself." Sometimes, I think that if I were to be in a particularly excited state in my own life and I were to break out into song, Adam Guettel's words and music would slip out of me naturally. He makes musical theatre make sense, makes it feel more real and raw than anything that could happen offstage.

Which is just one of many reasons why this show is a blessing in my life. For the first time since doing shows in high school, for the first time since I can really remember, I am blissful in my everyday life on a consistent basis. My life is speeding towards a goal, towards something utterly spectacular. My brain is on overdrive trying to work through the puzzle of Clara, of her life and her relationships, and sometimes I feel as if I'm coming down from a high (call it the post-rehearsal-hangover, if you will) when the pressure is off and I'm just me again, headed back to my messy little apartment where I find I couldn't be farther from the Duomo. Sometimes when I'm walking to the subway at night after rehearsal, smiling and enjoying the feeling of the wind whipping around the beautiful buildings, I wonder how I ever lived without these feelings. It's like being in a relationship with someone and finding yourself unable to picture the demise of your love -- it's so enjoyable now, how could it ever end?

But the show will end. On the evening of April 4th, this will be over. I might never play Clara again and she may be reduced to twelve italicized words on my resume that are skimmed over, attached to the thought, "Oh okay, legit soprano" by callous casting directors and the like. But right now, finding her language and playing her truthfully is enriching my life. I can never thank the universe enough for these moments, I can only hope I'm blessed with more.

I Love This Man

Okay, so, it's been a while. That's the first and last time I'm going to refer to my mysterious blogosphere disappearance (read: I've just been really busy.) But, lo and behold, I have been inspired! Instead of putting up some sort of lackluster paean to, I don't know, being stressed or hating the holidays (both of which I have recently experienced) I instead want to share with you a testament -- an ode -- to the manliest man of them all. The one who doesn't so much as set me ablaze but, instead, makes me feel safe. Protected. Well-prepared for whatever life might hand me.

This guy.

If you're a Discovery Channel watcher, or an excitable 8-year-old boy, or a survival enthusiast, you recognize that snake-chewer up there as Bear Grylls of the television show Man Vs. Wild. Here is the premise of the show: Drop Bear out of a plane. Watch him fall. Watch him rock climb, slide down trees, dive into icy cold water (more on that later!), kill little animals, make fire, and find civilization. He does it all. As a former member of the British Special Forces and a certified Bad Ass (seriously, he has a license), Bear Grylls is the only person in the whole world who can keep me interested in things like Nature and, yes, even rock climbing. (Sorry, Boyfriend. Your crimps and your jugs are tame compared to what Bear does on some of those slippery, crumbling rock faces. Don't worry though, I don't hold it against you.) Still, Bear Grylls is the fluffiest of the hardcore. His sweet British pronunciations -- "I made a raahhhft out of DEH-bris and sticks!" -- and his thoughtfulness -- "I think I'll save this snake head for my little boy" -- are utterly charming. He is the perfect dichotomy of sugar and spice, of naughty and nice. A man who can slay a pig on camera but who can still tell you the proper way to slide down a knobby tree is "like a koala bear." Awww.

You may be wondering why ON EARTH I have chosen Bear Grylls as the ultimate reason for my return to blogging. Don't worry, journalism students, I haven't forgotten my hook. Today was the first episode of the new series, and though I missed it, I did watch the two reruns that followed and was quickly reminded of what Bear Grylls does to me: he makes me sit, in rapt attention, cataloguing all of the information he rattles off. Yes, Bear, I do remember what I can use to soak that turban to prevent heat stroke (hint: urine!) I am currently dropping your "how to light a fire without a flint or a match" demonstration into the safety deposit box in my brain. Instinctually, I work hard to file away each and every useful scrap of survival technique, because who knows? Life is crazy, and though I don't currently have any trips to the Mojave desert planned, you never know.

My love for Bear Grylls was sparked one night a few years ago, while babysitting my niece and nephew. My nephew, who was probably seven or eight at the time, had two current obsessions: Man Vs. Wild and Deadliest Catch, both on Discovery Channel. In fact, he could actually recite Bear's opening monologue in Bear's accent, which was both entertaining and impressive. But long after the kids had gone to sleep, I found myself transfixed, tethered to their DVR. It had never occurred to me that I might need to know how to slay a snake (bash its head with one swift blow) or locate water in the sahara. Bear knew so much, and suddenly it was apparent to me that I knew so little. Teach me, Bear, I thought, as he climbed inside the Scottish mountain goat. Teach me.

The next day after babysitting, my mom and I took the two dogs for a walk in a woodsy Connecticut park. We followed signs but soon we were wandering in circles without any hint as to where the entrance to the park was or even where we could locate picket-fenced civilization. I wish I could say it was getting dark, or late, but all I can really gripe about was the fact that we were tired and lost and the dogs were giving us looks like "Okay, walking is great and everything, but we would like some water and our beds now." That's when it came to me.

"Mom," I started, and before I knew it I was recounting Bear Grylls' every word. "If we can find moss, we'll know where the water is!" (A moot point, since we were, in fact, watching a river rush by us.) "We can extract water from elephant dung if we find a good heap of it!" (Another useless fact, considering Connecticut is home to about as many wild elephants as leprechauns.) But still, I had these facts, these tidbits of life-saving info. Eventually, we followed the sound of lawnmowers to refuge, but nonetheless I was shocked. Since when did I remember anything worthwhile or nature-y? What about Bear Grylls had stoked such a fervor for survival?

Elephant dung cocktail, anyone?

I still haven't found the answer to this riddle, to this unbridled attraction I have to Bear Grylls and his show. In truth, I don't even find him all that physically attractive. But somehow, when I watched him shed all of his clothes to wade across the icy river in Alabama, I was still interested. And then, when he came ashore, his "meat and two veg" blurred (his words, not mine), and started doing "200 press-ups" to warm his shivering body, I was in love. And not because he can do 200 press-ups, or even because he was man enough to wade across that frosty river. No. I was in love because he threw on his windbreaker and proceeded to do his press-ups pant-less, without blinking an eye, or even considering the fact that there was no need (none, whatsoever) to delay putting on his pants. It just wasn't really necessary, then and there, to wear pants. And a man who doesn't really see the value in pants... well, that's a man of my heart.

So here's to you, Bear Grylls. You swim in water with dead squirrels but you also probably drink tea and play fun games (like skin the snake!) with your little Bear cub. Because of you, I will know how to make that raft, or that grappling hook, or that animal trap when the time comes. And in my head, it will come. One day, when I am dropped out of a plane onto frozen tundra or left alone to scale mountains, I will hear you in my head, Bear, coaxing me, comforting me. "Come along, just like a koala bear," you'll say to me. Or, "Hold your kindling like a butterfly -- not too tight so you hurt it, but not too loose so that it flies away."

So profound, Bear, so profound. Not only are you a beast, but so, too, are you a poet.