You’re Telling Me

As our Spring Show nears, my nerves are setting in. And as we all fall into place with knowing our words and listening to our practice CDs, people are catching wind of my big solo. At last night’s practice, one of my favorite gentlemen (married to one of my favorite women in the group) was talking to me about the piece. He said that he was listening to it in the car and was just struck by the lyrics and the power and the meaning of the song.

If he was struck, how do you think I feel?

I wanted to say that out loud, of course, but as I don’t wear my birth mother hat everywhere and someone I don’t particularly enjoy was also involved in the conversation, I just smiled, nodded and said, “Oh, yes, I find it difficult to sing at times as well.”

And I do.

Not at rehearsals as my mind is thinking about things like, “Where is my next stage placement? What do I do next? And what’s the next word? OH NO! WHAT IS THE NEXT WORD!” And then I sing next line just fine as I’ve known the song for ages. I don’t know why the word panic exists but it does. Just part and parcel with performing, I suppose. But at practice, I’m not usually focused on the meaning of what I’m singing. I hope, of course, that I can use some proper emotion in the final performance but, at the same time, I don’t know if I’ll be able to recognize that process or not. Performance mode is different than other modes of being.

But in the car or in my living room or in the shower… it hits me. What I’m singing. What the words mean. What I would do for any of my children. And the relinquishment. And general point of the song and the choices I have made and… so on. I get overwhelmed. I get teary eyed. My throat closes. I’m unable to continue singing at times, it overwhelms me so much. I would give my life for her, for either of the boys. I want so much for them. I wanted so much for her and the only way I saw her achieving any of it was to let someone else take the reins of parenting. Seeing how amazing she is now, I know that I did the right thing then but that knowledge doesn’t always take away the pain or the feeling of missing her so deeply that it hurts to breathe at times.

I’m not sure how I will handle it, her being at the performance on Saturday night. I likely will not be concentrating on her presence by the time the curtains part. I’ll be thinking about choreography and words and costume changes and other things of immediate importance. I am concerned, of course, as I kill myself (behind a screen, so just my sillouhette is shown) at the end of the medley. I don’t think my oldest son will pick up on what just happened. But she’s very observant. Perhaps I should convince D to distract JD, N and the Munchkin during the last ten seconds of the medley. All the same, I’ll be back out on the stage for the next song, smiling and very much alive.

In the next month (as opening night is a month from today), we don’t have enough practices but, at the same time, we have so many. I’m nervous. I’m excited. And I’m thrilled that those I love and care about so dearly will be in attendance. Hopefully I keep the emotions in check.