Unbridled sobs erupt from my throat.
I surrender to the unforeseen emotional upheaval and press my hands onto the stilled steering wheel and cry out the relentless waves of a piercing, clean sadness.
The parked car becomes a dark refuge for my meltdown, and I’m relieved for the cover of night, for my distant parking spot from my bungalow abode, so I can be in the soft murmurs of an October evening and alone with a sorrow that is turbulent and sweeping.
Again, I find myself wishing that these tears were about a romantic curiosity, but they are almost unbearable in their salty sting because they are about my creativity.
Specifically, the tears emerge from a wound snapped awake in improv, a tendency that has been spotlighted as a detrimental trait in scenes, and the weight of this pattern, of its spell-like influence on stage and off-stage in my life, drops a cold stone of truth that initiates a wash of tears.
“Take your time.”
This is a familiar of teaching advice.
Practice patience in setting up scenes.
Take a few deep breaths and ease into a character through space-work (pretend to wash dishes, type at a computer, swipe left on the phone).
Wait a beat to answer.
Improvise from a centered foundation of calm, active listening, and then spontaneously respond.
I’ve heard this coaching note before, and though the teacher speaks to the group, I perceive that this note is aimed directly at me.
On stage, I rush. I rocket forward. I hum in high-energy. I race into characters and relish in whipping up on-the-spot storylines and twists.
The spontaneity of improv enthralls me, and provides a theatrical channel of expression for my energetic imaginings.
And yet, the high-energy, emotional player that I am would be stronger if I implemented a pause.
I feel compelled to roar into scenes, not to dominate and out-shine, but with an intention to assist, to keep the things flowing along for teammates, but I end up tangling up the scenes, even stepping on the other Improv actors’ lines because I interpret a long stretch of quiet as a silence that needs to be filled, and I cut-off their ideas and their own character processing and developing.
“Take your time.”
Even if the coaching note isn’t directed toward me, I know this is a piece of advice that echoes out to cover all areas and most of the issues in my life.
Why do I feel like I cannot take my time – on and off stage?
The question sits in the passenger seat as I gaze through watery eyes at the glistening cityscape winking in between the sway of trees.
I present the question to my spirit-word guide.
I let the intention of the year of Speak catalyze a truth that needs to be heard.
I go fast on and off stage because I don’t think I am worthy of taking my time, of taking space, of taking time to speak.
I overly accommodate.
In traffic, I panic if I sense the driver behind is irritated with my cautionary driving and will make speedy decisions to accommodate a cruising stranger’s road pace.
I prefer to pay with cash instead of my card, but if there’s a long line behind me, I’ll skip to the easy swipe of a card because I feel a spike of anxiety over counting my change and potentially taking other people’s time.
I clip my conversations short to create listening space.
My past relationships ache in unbalanced gives and takes where I proclaimed myself listener and granted all the space for the talkers and takers. And in their company, I became increasingly aware of how I wished to be someone who is mindful of the duration of their speech and shares space.
So, I fast-forward my stories. I tidy up my truth. I begin to share and then feel the pang of hurt when their eyes flicker elsewhere, or they look at their phone, or comment on the surroundings, and I shut down and give up the space because I don’t feel safe in being heard.
In my year of Speak, I see that this is a disservice for the talkers and takers.
I will speak and I will take my time in the telling of stories and truth. And this is their learning, too, of listening and giving.
This is a deeper affirming that I am safe, because the urgency to quicken the momentum in an improv scene or when I am making a life-decision originates from fear.
A past self used to see such hurried action as a positive accomplishment in succeeding and going forward toward dreams.
Now, in retrospect, I recognize the anguish and stress resulting from all the striving I would pressure and press onto myself in the failed attempt to propel forward.
Typically, I arrive back to the original question feeling tired from pursuing a forced path.
I’ve experienced and now actively surrender into the power of pausing before I make decisions. When I grant myself the time to listen, to discern and trust, a path, in time, is revealed and it is one of ease and offers and delivers my needs.
This is a mindful practice that rewires my reactionary tendency to jump and race into decision-making, and I’m still in the journey of paving new neural pathways, but I do fall into traveling those well-worn engrained patterns and conditionings.
And this my darling is all right.
“Take your time.”
The improv coach’s guidance carries forward into instructing my openness to the here and now as I unapologetically cry and fully feel. The crying initiates a reckoning, a recognition, a cleansing of the soul-work so I can proceed refreshed and informed in heart-heard truths.
I am worthy of being listened to and worthy of being heard.
I have the right to take my time so I can move through this world mindfully.
When I drive, when I pay for my cappuccino, when I contemplate taco choices at Whole Foods, I relinquish the projected responses of those around me so I can intentionally navigate the world with patience and ease, which actually, in the end, provides a higher service for those that enter and leave my presence and company.
I am worthy of taking the time I need to gather information, read the scene, and speak.
I commit to infusing a pause into the pace of my day so I can be relaxed in my truth, my own value, and let love, and not the wide-eyed reaction of fear, lead me to breathe and be, and offer the effortless space for others to breathe and be.
My crying begins to subside, and my heart pounds louder from an emergence of hurts propelled to the surface by the spotlight on the stage.
Take your time.
I pause and the pause creates the time to exhale completely before stepping out into the night, and in purposefully pausing, I am empowered to listen, trust, engage and improvise with the scenes of life.