Sunday may have been my personal proverbial five minutes of fame. It was wonderful. It was exhilarating. It was nerve-wracking. It was addicting.
And now it is over.
I feel incomplete.
Like something is missing.
I am Empty.
This troubles me, so I muse. I analyze. I dig around, within myself, to find a root. To extract it. Completely. Like a weed, so that it will not spread. So that it will not choke-out the good that I have planted. Nurtured, painstakingly, until I saw the first blooms. My garden is fragile. Temperamental. I must always keep a steady eye and ready hand upon the first shoots of a weed.
So I dig. I think back upon this experience. It began a little over three months ago. February 9th, to be exact. The moment I read the non-conspicuous call for local writers to audition for a reading of their personal story on motherhood. I wasn’t expecting the invitation, which made it even more delightful; spontaneous. My response was immediate. Adrenaline rushed through my veins as I read the words, seek, writer, audition, read at Bing Crosby Theater. The call for the second annual Listen To Your Mother Show in Spokane, WA. Their invitation: Giving Mother’s Day a Microphone. I wanted a microphone! I wanted to share my story. My life.
I emailed for an audition. And my journey began. The pins-and-needles. The anticipation. The highs of the yes and the thrills of a journey upon completely uncharted territory. The approval. The acceptance. The comradery of other women with stories. Stories that you just don’t go around talking about in everyday life. Powerful stories. Soulful stories. Stories that by being spoken aloud bring connection in a room to otherwise total strangers.
This is when I realize, no wonder I am addicted. It wasn’t the lights, the stage, the microphone. I was living life to its fullest for ninety minutes on Sunday. I was in a theater of nearly 200 people. Some friends and family, but mostly faces unknown to me. And I was in the moment. I was in the intimate secret places of twelve women’s hearts. In their pain, their laughter, their joys, their fears, their tears.
It was real. And I want more.
But who wouldn’t? This is life at its finest. Life together. Life connected. Life intentional.
We all left the theater that night on a high. The speakers and the audience. The young and the old. The male and the female. It was truly amazing. Most of us probably had a hard time getting to sleep that night from the raw emotions coursing through our veins. But eventually we all did. And then we woke up Monday morning. Life goes on. Routine kicks in. Cinderella’s ball at the stroke of midnight.
And then it dawns on me as I write. Life goes on.
New stories are waiting to be lived.
Stories that will need to be spoken.
Stories that will need to be heard…maybe not on a microphone, but nevertheless, heard.