But in the midst of all that turmoil was this play at this little church. Our rehearsals were held at a small, white church with a steeple not far from my house. When I walked through the metal door in the afternoons for play practice, all of my problems melted away because I was with a group of people who were completely detached from the rest of my life. They were not entrenched in grieving or part of the group I was in process of being alienated from. As theater nerds are wont to be, this new group of friends contained some of the oddest but the most creative people I've ever met.

There’s a warmth and elation that comes with working hard on a creative project with people like that for long periods of time. I entered the world of fairies, kings, queens, the mischievous Puck, and people that cared enough to offer arms to fall back into when I needed them. Midsummers became a sanctuary for me.

During our weeks of rehearsing I laughed so hard I cried at my fellow actors. The twelve-year-old boy who played Nick Bottom was shy about saying his lines with swagger, so in order to get him to add some attitude to his scenes, Kate told him to say “And I’m awesome,” after every line. So after this tiny boy said “[the ballad] will be called 'Bottom's Dream,' because it hath no Bottom. And I’m awesome,” we were sent into fits of giggles at how adorable and brilliant it was.

The first day we performed it was bright, but slightly overcast outside. The windows in the chapel where we performed were glowing with frost. Our dress rehearsals had gone well and I was feeling radiant in the long, light purple dress with a perfect V neckline I was wearing on stage.

I remember being holed up in the kitchen before the first show. The anticipation was palpable. The day of the first performance, the guy playing Demetrius came down with the flu. So, being the only available understudy, Kate jumped in and filled the role. She wore her jeans and a slightly fluffy red shirt as a last minute costume and she played a smashing Demetrius. As the show went on, each performance made us all happier. Our lines came out smoother, our entrances got better, and by the end were all shining in the height of comfort onstage.

There is a play within the play, so my character and the other three main characters come out and sit on the front of the stage and “watch” near the end of the show. Casts tend to gel and get funnier just like good sitcoms the more often they are shown, so by the time our third performance rolled around, I, Hermia, Lysander, and Demetrius/Kate were nearly falling over laughing at how well the younger actors and Nick Bottom were doing.

After the play was over and we took down the sets, I felt what I can only explain as euphoria. The show had gone so well, I was feeling so grateful for my incredible friends, and I was smitten from on-stage romance that later turned into a real (though short-lived) one. The head fairy and the girl playing Thisbe went crazy with the lipstick and within minutes everyone’s faces were covered in bright pink lip prints.

Still glowing from our post-production adrenaline we took the customary trip to Big Boy’s and filled up a set of tables and stayed long into the evening. And in the moment of my “I’m powerful and sexy and I’m an actress!” boldness, I smushed chocolate ice cream onto the face of a boy who had been bothering me. (Who knew “smushed” isn’t actually a word?)

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream” connected me with people I would have never met otherwise. And they were weird, but those weird people loved me!

This is how a Shakespeare play saved me and what theater has always been for me: people loving me for exactly whatever I am, loving me for and encouraging me to express myself when I am feeling most alone. 

When I was very young my parents would read me this book. I still remember the drawing style vividly in my mind.

Later on in my childhood I took to Shel Silverstein. This poetry still has a special place in my heart and the illustrations are just unforgettable. 

Right before I hit my teen years my sister and I disocvered this book. I don't remember if my mom read it out loud to us or if we listened to it on book (how we spent all of our car time for a couple of years straight, book after book) but it was a heart warming story and I loved every moment of it. It had a sad ending, but all the love I encountered in the rest of the story made it worth it.

If/when we have kidlets of our own, I'll want them to remember these books too. It's rich storytelling like this that opened my mind and built the foundation for the creativity that inspires me today.

Here is a repost from February of 2010.

This is for clarification. This is why I do what I do. More specifically: this is why I write what I write.

I began pouring myself into writing just a few months before my grandfather (at peace, faithfully departed) passed away, and it was the day that happened that I discovered notebooks to be fearless and loyal friends. They never balked at what I was feeling or the questions I had. They wandered open-eyed through my daydreams and little stories I made up when I wasn't paying attention in class. The took my confusion without question and ate up my fear. This is where I learned to do what I do.

This is how I handle things still today, except I have an online venue and I have a few friends with the same writing style who hear me and appreciate how I say what I say. Even though they are few, I actually feel like I'm not alone and talking to a wall. Because with notebooks, while they are not deaf, they are mute.

Most of my emotions are poured out here. While yes, this is processing it publicly, this is also my way of trying to express myself and say things for everyone to see instead of keeping it to myself. I put things here that I don't know how to talk about.

I mean, how do I say "Well, I was actually really confused when you told me you were getting married to the girl you talked weekly about breaking up with. And maybe you thought what we had was different than it was--or actually I was probably the one who was confused. Either way the wires were crossed and I was completely blind to you when everything was right in front of me!" Or how do I say "You were one of the most poignant individuals I've ever had the privilege of speaking with, and I honestly think you're dead because you dropped off the face of the earth around St. Patrick's Day and I can't find you." Or how do I say "You are sending me completely contradictory messages, and you mean the most to me anyone ever could, but you've made me miserable and all I want for you right now is to hear my pain."

I can say all these things with precision now, but while they were all happening I didn't know what to do with myself. All I had were these very real emotions, and I wasn't sure why I was having them or where they stemmed from. It took time, understanding, and just letting myself just feel what I was feeling before I could even begin to see what was bothering me. This is my way of talking it out with myself, processing it, and saying "Really? So that wonderful note you left on my car in the rain turns out to be for nothing? I mean, I wouldn't change things because I'm happy, but I quite honestly have no idea what's happening."

I funnel my happiness into other places than my writing. So, my notebook, or blog, is the receiving end of everything else. While they all might be perceived as "bad" because they are emotions other than happiness, it doesn't mean I'm depressed or scared, or anything else. It just means I'm dealing with it. In fact, if it shows up here, it means I'll probably be alright because I've released it. I've pulled the pain, or confusion, or stories from inside my ribcage and sculpted a bird with it, and let it fly. This is letting my heart be instead of fighting like I have for most of my life. This is me loving myself for feeling everything and anything I feel.

So, this isn't depression. This isn't self-doubt. You need to know to read between the lines, to hear the mood of the message and not the actual words. These are my emotion pictures. These are photographs of my soul. This is the pure, emotional, white hot center of me talking. This is the poetry that spills from a mind awake. This is me being frank and honest with myself. ("Can I be frank?" "Certainly. Hi Frank, I'm Deanna.")

I don't want worry, I don't want pity, I don't want to hurt a flea, or anyone. All I want is clarity, the expression of self, to send the letters I wrote but never sent, and for someone to see me. I write this to find myself, to find understanding of my own soul, and for the few people that think like me.

This is my soul out loud. Tread carefully, for this paper dove is alive and fragile.