I woke and walked toward the sun in the heat of summer morning. I hadn’t been asleep for hours. The first night after a full day of conference, of teaching, of non-stop conversations and listening and sharing and organizing; I was awake a good chunk of the night. Thinking about the writers in my play lab. The familiar anxieties: will this week of intensity work? Will the Wednesday evening of staged readings of plays that have yet to be written work? Of course, it will. I know that, I trust that, from experience. But I have to worry. The worry is part of my process. I am excited, also, by the NOT knowing. What will unfold, as surprise, for each writer, who will not know, who does not yet know what she’s doing, but will. Already, the energy of collaboration is bubbling in the lab. They want to help each other, they’re excited and enthusiastic, and they do. Still, I walk after little sleep and face the orange sun lifting from the horizon, lifting from the horizon of a cemetery, of gravestones, rising under the dark leaves of a black tree. Here is the sunrise of this new day of all the unknown aspects of a creative process. Questions, more than answers. I am curious, and aware of the responsibility of guiding this unpredictable collection of women’s voices, stories to be fleshed out and performed on stage by Wednesday. I have hardly talked to Frank, who is traveling. I have hardly spoken to the family; they are fine without me, still. When Franci calls me later to ask what plants she’s to water, I am glad for this connection to home. My plants are thriving, far away, with my dogs and my family, without me while I submerge into the experience of this dramatic and incredibly vital and transformative week. Instead of lunch: I nap. I am grateful for this refreshment. I find what I need. That’s the energy I take, in the afternoon, into the lab.
