My sister gave me a blank book with a corduroy cover years ago with the idea that I might fill in the pages creatively somehow. I was ending an abusive relationship at the time, and I think she was trying to give me a private space for “me” again, where I might write about things and re-find myself amidst the smashed esteem and brutalized creativity.
I may be reading into that. Sometimes we see what we need to see.
I couldn’t think of anything to write, so I began putting in professional tips and tricks, notes and quotes about the craft of performing; things that I found particularly inspiring, or just useful as I began to re-cultivate my career. It’s the stuff you don’t always remember when you’re gearing up for an audition or interview, when you’re fussing with your hair, your clothes, directions and resumes. It became a sort of mobile grounding space where I could review techniques I already knew, things I ought to remember, and then release as I got out of the car. I started calling it “my audition book.”
When my car was broken into the second day of this New Year, a lot of things were stolen, as odd as the ones that were left behind. I’m still realizing little things that are missing and adding them to the list for the police report. It’s been an exercise in taoism, in letting go. Most were personal, and worthless to anyone else.
And then I realized my performing book was gone.
No, really?! Why? Who has any use for my scribbling and cut and pasted articles but me? What’s the likelihood they need counsel on Shakespearean verse, or how to approach 8 bars of your best song? Do they really need tongue twisters and solfege notes? I hadn’t left my work bag in the car (a new habit last year) so I had hopes that I’d brought that in, too. I was sure I had! Nope. I looked everywhere. Damn.
Let it go. Certainly not the end of the world. So I grabbed a new blank book. It’s smaller, one Mom sent in last year’s Christmas package. I opened it up, looked at its blank pages and thought, good lord, how am I going to remember all of the stuff that was in there: I wrote it down so I wouldn’t have to!
Wait, I called it my “performing” book. The sting began to fade as I realized that of course I have all that info in my head, somewhere, and it will be there as it is needed. The book was just a tool; not even a good luck charm. But attachment to the tool is just as misguided as attachment to the techniques. Let it go. Be the uncarved block. Be.
And as I sat in my chair facing my desk, I intuitively bent down, moved a small box to the side and saw my performing book nestled in the back of the shelf. Why or how it got there, I have no idea.