What Stays

I have this cherished memory from a class in college. The class was “KJV II.” A theater class. A scripture project. It was towards the beginning of the semester. We each came with something memorized from the Old Testament. I don’t remember what I brought that day. In fact, I remember very little from early rehearsals. But I remember one moment. We were taking turns sharing our passages. Whoever wanted to go next would raise both of their hands and then we would follow them to wherever in the room they wanted to perform. A girl a couple years older than me - someone I admired and still admire - raised both hands, walked to the wall, sat down, took her time, and started singing parts of Psalm 137: “By the rivers of Babylon…by the rivers of Babylon…how can we sing? How can we sing the Lord’s song?” This wasn’t On the Willows from Godspell (though I love Godspell; I’ve been in it three times). She sang her own simple melody. For a moment it felt like we were all captives in Babylon. But she didn’t perform it in a polished or stylized way. It felt lived. Simple. Grounded. Honest. The room was quiet for everyone’s performance, but this moment quieted something deeper in me. I remember watching her and just being present. It didn’t matter how much or how little she memorized. None of that mattered. When she finished, there was a silence that no one rushed to break. Not an awkward silence. A held one. And then, slowly, with breath, someone raised their hands to go next. 

I’ve been trying to figure out, almost as I’m writing this, why that moment stayed with me. Was it the melody? Was it the way she had nothing to prove? Was it that I didn’t expect her to start singing? Was it the way she obviously held the text and the story close to her heart? And beyond this instance, why do some moments stay with me while others don’t? Why are some fragile and some permanent? There are years of my life I can barely remember. There are significant events in my life I can barely remember. And then there are moments. We do not remember days, we remember moments - the stuff in between days and months and seasons - the images and feelings along the way. When I was a freshman in college, I went to an annual event called “Workout Christmas.” For this tradition, we each chose a name out of a hat and were tasked with making something for that person to give at the event. It had to be “a little bit of you and a little bit of them.” A senior named Michael Olsen painted this special box for me. He even, quite impressively, painted my face on the side! The box has four drawers - one for collecting small important items, one for holding quotes, one for writing down moments I want to remember, and one for holding my pain and hurt. I used it every now and then for several years, but then I stopped. Now I really wish those drawers were overflowing with scraps of paper - especially the one for moments. I wish I needed buckets to hold it all.

Most moments have slipped by unrecorded. Maybe that’s why I am so grateful when a memory says hello, arriving as an honored guest. I remember a friend coming to sit next to me silently when I was grieving a tragic loss. I remember a friend “randomly” coming up to me, holding my face in his hands, and looking at me, because he felt the Lord asked him to (literally hours after I told God I wished someone would do exactly that). I remember going through a drive-through singing a punk song with an old pal. I remember playing Uncle Vanya for a silly assignment at Conservatory, yelling like a crazy old man…which reminds me of when I wrestled a snake in a production of Love’s Labour’s Lost. I remember several joyous occasions of getting unexpectedly soaked in the rain. I could go on. I want to. It gives me a feeling of gratitude for the ordinary and the extraordinary (maybe there’s not much of a difference). For all the moments that make up life - the lovely, the boring, the gritty. That moment from KJV II is one I can’t stop remembering. And I think theater is made of this kind of thing - moments you don’t want to lose. A breath before someone speaks, the audience laughing together, the silence after a line lands, someone discovering something true they didn’t know they knew. 

It reminds me of Moises Kaufman and Tectonic Theater Project’s “Moment Work.” He describes a way of devising theater that begins with moments - small units of action with their own beginning and end - rather than with a pre-written script, “writing performance as opposed to writing text.” With Kaufman, moments aren’t just experienced. They’re held with care, collected, arranged, and allowed to reveal meaning over time. They value and shape moments even if they let them go and never return to them. There is something beautiful about paying attention to a moment without immediately asking what it means or where it’s leading. To simply receive it with expectancy. Moreover, I’m drawn to it because it’s acknowledging that, as in life, people watch a play and remember moments more than plot points. I don’t remember “college.” I remember a girl singing Psalm 137. I don’t remember “grief.” I remember a friend sitting silently beside me. I don’t remember “faith.” I remember a friend holding my face after I asked for exactly that. This work asks artists to not urgently try to figure out the big story, but to pay attention to small, concrete moments and be delighted by the meaning those moments may end up carrying.

So…I don’t know why this is my first blog post. It just is. I invite you to treasure up moments and ponder them in your heart. Especially subtle moments that changed you. Also, to remember moments from childhood, there’s a fun game called “When I was a boy/girl.” Sit across from someone and just repeat the phrase “When I was a boy/girl…” and see what sentences and memories emerge. If you get stuck, just keep repeating the phrase without pausing until something comes to mind. And don’t judge whatever comes to mind. Just let it out. Remember where you came from. Remember the moments. Wow! You’re a living person. You’re living a life. Inhaling and exhaling - right now! I’m so glad you’re here on this earth with me. 

P.S. Expect this blog to read like a journal. I want to write mostly about how theater gives us practices for becoming more fully human. I’ll also probably post poems and maybe surprising things about my life or what’s going on at Witness Theater Lab. Stay tuned!