Last night S and I went to see Quiet Come Dawn, a “choreopoem” about birds, queer love, ecosystems, and violence. It was a moving performance; so moving, in fact, that it nearly brought me to tears. In typical fashion, I forced them back, though the ever-perceptive S could clearly read my face. He asked me, probingly, on the walk back to the train, “What did you think about the play?”
“It was good. Fine. I liked it,” I responded curtly. I then turned my gaze to the taco truck down the street, claiming hunger.
I wasn’t able to articulate the truth to myself until this morning. One of the central themes of Quiet Come Dawn is healing from violence/trauma/fear/uncertainty. The main character, Rook, goes through a powerful personal transformation - from living in fear, anger, and victimhood, to living in empowerment, courage, and joy. She learns how to heal herself and thereby, quite literally, learns to fly.
The scene where Rook fights her demons and musters up the strength to spread her wings is haunting. It shook me at my vulnerable, frightened core, the space where the Whole Me resides and bumps up against the Partial Me on almost a daily basis. The Partial Me is a ground-dweller, perpetually stuck, small, quiet, meek. Contentedly immobile. The Whole Me yearns to Dance. Sing. Speak Spanish. Write. Speak Up. Be Bold. And just like Rook - To Fly.
The enormous divide between the Partial and Whole Me has been getting inevitably smaller as I approach my 30th Birthday, our pregnancy plans, and The Conversation with my parents about it all. I feel pressure mounting in my cells with every family planning book I read, wedding blog I visit, and existential crisis conversation I have with friends.
I know there is a better, stronger, happier version of me trapped somewhere inside my body. My tongue, heart, hips, feet all ache to be free. And last night, watching a human learn to soar like the birds was just another reminder of the sweet journey that awaits.
No comments:
Post a Comment