About six months ago I was in a play here in Boquete called Proof. The script won the Pulitzer Prize
for its writing, so the director made sure we all knew that we needed to memorize
our lines VERBATIM, because if the writing was good enough for a Pulitzer,
nothing we could improvise in its place would come close to being as good.
That’s all well and good in a scripted situation, but lately
I’ve realized that I’ve fallen out of that kind of territory, and that the
subsequent improvisation is tougher than it looks.
I’m trying to do something different here than I’ve ever
done before. As of yesterday (February 5), I’ve been in Panama for a year, and
I can safely say that the person I am now is very different from the one who
arrived. To be honest I’m not sure how differently I seem to outsiders, but I
certainly feel a hell of a lot different than I ever have, and that comes with
its own set of challenges.
I have realized that, even when it wouldn’t serve me, I’ve
always been casting about for a script to follow in any situation.
First date? Great. Talk about mundane things, don’t use too
much of your vocabulary, try not to be too excited, definitely don’t eat too
much, give some time for a kiss at the door, but not too much time, because
that would be needy. Second date? Repeat, but maybe increase the amount of time
at the door just slightly.
Uncomfortable situation, with someone who won’t shut up,
won’t stop talking about themselves, or drunkenly holds onto you and tells you
they love you? Be patient, be polite, and know it will soon be over.
Something emotionally hurts beyond all recognition? Hole up
in your house where no one can see you cry and weather the storm alone.
These are all old scripts of mine, and as comfortable as it
can be to repeat the words I’ve learned by heart – such an apropos term, don’t
you think? – the only way to break out of it is to toss away what I’ve always
known and go for something else – something new: a different approach; some
different words.
How TERRIFYING. If I handle it off the cuff, -- if I let
myself slap that drunken hand off my arm, lean in for the kiss myself, or show
up at a friend’s house on a day I just know I’m not going to be able to hold it
together without sobbing and seeking an embrace -- if I have no idea what I’m
going to say to them, I have no idea how they’re going to react to me, either.
And therein lies the hard part, invisible audience: losing
the illusion of control and realizing that there’s much more freedom and beauty
in it than in using the words that may have never worked the way I wanted to
them to, but certainly got me a response I was expecting. When I’ve scripted
out the response, however, I haven’t made room for any of the magic or music
that can come from spontaneous and heartfelt human interaction.
This hurts. It hurts more than I ever expected. It hurts
more than I ever wanted it to. It feels
in a way I’ve never let myself feel. I am angrier, sadder, happier, louder,
more terrified and more emotionally raw than I ever could have been before, and
in the midst of all these feelings, I am bumbling around in the dark, trying to
find the words to turn on not just the light, but the right light: the one that leads me further down my path instead of
back to the old scripts I’ve shoved into a dusty corner.
I don’t know what I’m
doing. That’s what it really comes down to. It’s all new, and not in a bad
way, but it’s a scary way nonetheless. I can’t even pretend to know anymore. I
give up trying to script my life, trying to anticipate the next step, predict
my way through the next month or try to anticipate in advance how to sandbag my
defenses for the next storm, because not only do I have no idea what the next
storm will be, if I guess incorrectly I will have spent a lot of time and
energy building a defense that I didn’t need in the first place.
So here’s to making room for the improvised moments of
magic: the possibility of golden unexpected connection, and to moving forward
despite the fear.
Love and unscripted kisses
Morgan
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