I am still in a season of reflecting on where I want to
live, what I want to do, and who I want to share it with. But in the course of
my reflections, I’ve realized I’m ready to be challenged in my career. I feel
I’ve grown all I can in my current gigs, and I don’t feel like I’m in the right
environment to go where I want to go.
Or so I thought.
In answer to my unspoken prayer, God gave me Birdy. On the first day of rehearsal, I
felt him say, “Calm, child. Tranquila.
Stay where you are—you’re not done here yet.”
It’s been years since I’ve heard His voice so strongly.
Birdy is certainly
challenging me on multiple levels.
Professionally, it is the largest set I’ve ever worked with.
A three-story scaffolding structure, five bays across, with two stunts
performed at the top level. There are additional voices in the room. This is a show that wants to move
to NY. Stakes and tensions are high.
Managing everyone’s expectations, energies, logistics, and
artistic vision is in fact a challenge on this one.
But this production is also challenging my heart. In an age
in which women are stepping into their truth with more power and support than
ever before, it is all too easy to forget how wonderful most men are. I am in a
near-constant state of defensive positioning. Ready to own my space and my time
when needed. Experience, not just anecdotes, has proven this outlook necessary.
As one of three women in the room, I was guarded walking in.
The Birdy rehearsal
hall is a room of men in which I am not uncomfortable. And in which I was
reminded it is okay for men to explore and share this story of masculinity and
human connection. Many in the cast commented on how they had never been in an
all-male cast before. They discovered a different way of communing with each
other, of interacting. And it is important and valuable and necessary. It is
refreshing to be in a room of men who approach masculinity in a healthy way.
Day two I actually felt a wave of tension release from my body because I need
not be on guard with these men.
My beautiful cast, my sweet, sweet boys approach and perform
the material at a monumentally high caliber. The care and precision with which
they navigate each beat, meticulous in their work while remaining faithful to
the ensemble and the story as a whole, is awe-inspiring. I welled up multiple
times in rehearsal, and it is not uncommon for me to call the final sequence of
the show through tears.
These actors have challenged me to raise my game, to step up
to the plate. They have held space for me in a way no other group of actors has.
I often felt I was failing them in my inability to put on a happy face and
exude positivity. But they told me (and believed it) that we are on the same
team, and they are there to support me as much as I am to support them.
Do you understand how rare
that is for a stage manager to hear or feel? Stage management is terribly
lonely, and this gig certainly didn’t cure me of that. But to have such
explicit support from my cast is truly remarkable.
During tech, I reached a state I can only describe as “zen”.
I was exasperated, exhausted, and beaten down by the demands on my brain, my
emotions, and my time. I called my support system crying at least twice. And
yet simultaneous to expressing my frustrations, I was comforted by the
knowledge that I wouldn’t trade anything for this gig. My involvement in Birdy is precisely what I needed.
I needed the opportunity to rise to the occasion. To
navigate high stakes and high tensions, (not to mention onboarding a new
designer one week before tech and a new actor the day before tech). To shift
how I interact with certain people, to reframe my professional value, and to
solidify my priorities as an artist.
This is going to be a hard show to let go. I still don’t have an answer as to where I go next. But I
feel more grounded, somehow. And lighter. And for now, it’s enough.
