Invitation to a Living Rehearsal

Dear friends, family, and kindred spirits,

Recently, someone asked me,
“Do you have a script for your play?”

It stayed with me.

Part of me resisted—wanting the work to stay fluid, improvisational, alive in the moment. Another part whispered about fear—of being seen, of being fixed on the page. Yet another part longed to be outside, in the garden, listening to birds instead of sitting at a computer. And still, a quieter, steadier voice reminded me: this work is no longer mine alone. Others are joining. They need something to hold onto, too.

This past Sunday, while sitting with all of these inner voices, something unexpected happened. I came across two pages of notes—written not by me, but by my 9-year-old daughter as she watched my rehearsals at home.

Her words were vibrant, intuitive, and full of heart. Spelling didn’t matter—what she captured was essence. Emotion. Transition. Meaning. She reflected the piece back to me with such clarity and care, it felt like being seen through the eyes of a compassionate, brilliant director.

Something opened.

I found myself at the computer—not forcing a script, but allowing a kind of “director’s score” to emerge. The characters came alive in front of me again, this time in dialogue not just with me, but with something larger. What began as a one-woman autobiographical performance is now gently evolving into a collaborative, even familial creation.

The process did not end with the performance—it continues to unfold.

And I would love for you to witness a part of that unfolding.

You are warmly invited to a soft rehearsal showing:

This is not a polished production, but a living, breathing moment in the creative process. You are welcome just as you are—friends, non-friends, family, chosen family.

Come if you’re curious. Come if you want to feel something. Come if you simply want to be in the room.