Tag Archives: Acting

Falling Into Books


Sometimes when I’m reading a book, I have to lay it down because a certain sentence or a phrase has just passed through my body and forever altered me. It takes a few minutes or a few hours to adjust to the frisson of energy carried by those words.

I have to stop and breathe those words deep into my body. The soft caress that comes with a phrasing so beautifully gentle it’s as if they are growing down from the heavens and up from the earth at the same time. The first green shoots of the daffodil in January, the crocus in February (here in Vancouver anyway). Strong and resilient, yet tender and vulnerable.

Sometimes they are the sudden crashing of a heavy spruce into the ground. My body shudders with the strength and fury of the sentences driving deep into my being.

They are words that meet and grow in my heart.

Oh, how I want to write like this!” I think, as I lay the book across my heart, hoping to infuse myself with the talent through some kind of magical osmosis.

For as long as I can remember I’ve wanted to be a writer. And then I wanted to be a dancer on the Carol Burnett Show. And when I was introduced to the world of plays I added Actor to that list. To me they are all interconnected threads of creativity, cut one away and my entire world begins to unravel.

I feel so at home surrounded by words. Surrounded by the world of storytelling. I grew up the daughter of a broadcaster, playing among sets at the TV studio, appearing in TV shows, specials and commercials. By the time I was six years old I was winning public speaking contests, too young to even know to be nervous. It was as natural to me as breathing.

I wrapped my imagination around me like my own favourite blanket. I still do. Whenever I am feeling lost or alone, I reach for a book and immediately ground myself in the wonders of the world within.  Reading and writing (and acting) are as integral to my spiritual practice as is meditation and prayer.



Filed under Spirituality, Writing

Turning Trauma Into Art


I’m sitting in the Anchor Eatery in the next neighbourhood over from mine, which is currently without power for the next two to three hours.  I’m cozily ensconced beside a gas fireplace with my custom ordered vegan smoothie, listening to the conversations floating past from this table and that.  The rain continues to pour down outside, but we’re all warmly happy here drinking our smoothies and lattes and eating our scones.

I’ve just returned from NYC where I studied with my great teacher Larry Moss, who is not only my acting teacher but also one of my most treasured spiritual teachers.  Acting has become one of my most profound spiritual practices.  When I immerse myself in the study of a play, in the world of “my” character, I oftentimes find lost fragments of myself that I hadn’t known were lost.  I find where and when I’m not breathing fully into my whole body, and where and when my voice becomes trapped or choked down.  My character speaks to me from the inside out and reveals herself to me in colours painted from the well-spring of my glorious swampy reservoir of memories and emotions.  So, so much of great acting is learned and practiced technique.  And so, so much of great acting is the unfettered access to that deep swamp of healed wounds.

To dip into the ink of sores still festering, that we have either long forgotten or have actively chosen to ignore, is to step into dangerous territory.  We risk losing ourselves once more in the darkness of the injury and our physical bodies act instinctively and stop our voices and our deep, belly breathing, which is the conduit through which we travel to the magnificence of our swamp.


To honour the writer, to honour the story and the truth of the character, I have to know which parts of myself to bring to the table and which parts do not serve.  In order to allow the character to animate fully into the truth of her being and in order to fully serve the story the writer has imagined, I have to first not only learn and become proficient at the technique of my craft, but equally, and perhaps more importantly, I have to do my own deep, ongoing inner work.  I need to work on healing all of my wounds on every level – physical, emotional and spiritual.  It is only when I come from a neutral place of being that my character is fully brought to life.  And when that happens….it is magical and mystical.

Which brings me to the impetus for writing this in the first place – I have always been a tangential writer.  My last post pulled back the curtain to reveal the sexual abuse that happened to me as a child and it was shocking to many and instigated a domino of clunking healing.  My job here – and by here I mean here in my physical existence – is to free my voice, in all ways.  To stand in and speak the truth of the feminine.  To crack open the feminine heart.

Larry Moss says, “There is no higher healing than turning trauma into art.”  By writing the words that shines a light on the childhood sexual abuse, I am calling on the power of the Midas within me and I’m invoking the powerful alchemy of turning my wound into a powerful force of healing.


And here is the important element – without this there is no healing, there is no gold being offered.  In order for my words to be an agent of healing for others, I must FIRST HEAL MYSELF.  Otherwise I am doing a great disservice.  If I have not done my own inner work and if I am not writing from that powerful place of higher healing, then what I am doing instead is spreading the poisonous toxins of a still infected wound – and that is dark magic.

However, if I dip my pen into the blood of my healed wounds, then my words can act as a catalyst of higher healing for others.  And this is where the reader of my words can sometimes become confused.

If they read my story of sexual abuse and find themselves feeling great pain and discomfort, then that is their body speaking to them, telling them that they have an unhealed wound inside of them.  The arrow of the story has pierced their own wound and the blood they feel flowing is not mine, but their own.  The pain they feel is emanating from their own wound.  And this is the both the rainspout of their confusion and also of their possible cleansing.  They think they are feeling the pain from my own original injury, when in fact, they are feeling the pain of their own, long-hidden wound.

my hand outstretched over a background of summer grass, the word truth written in red inside a red heart

It is the healed Truth of my wound that is the alchemical agent.  As I write and as I act, I pull from the blood of my healed injuries to bring the alchemical truth to light.  I never, ever write or act from the poisonous venom of unhealed wounds.  If you feel pain when reading my words, lovingly ask yourselves what within you is asking to be healed.  What a gracious opportunity you have been given.

“The soul always knows what to do to heal itself. 
The challenge is to silence the mind.” ~ Caroline Myss




Filed under Sacred Contract

The Discovery of Writing

What treasures lay hidden right out in the open?

What treasures lay hidden right out in the open?

When I meditated this morning I asked for guidance on what was stopping me.  The answer came to me from my beloved Inner Being who reminded me that writing should be a form of discovery.  Just like when I’m onstage playing to be in the moment, not simply reciting the memorized lines, but instead, discovering afresh each new line as it comes to me.  Memorize the words, do the work and then let it go.  Let the audience see the discovery happen.  This is what engages, connects and makes the performance so much more powerful.

Marion Bridge rehearsals...

Marion Bridge rehearsals…

I need to strive to do the same thing with my writing.  When I know the story, because I’ve lived it, it’s the same thing as having memorized the lines of the play.  I need to allow myself to wander through at random and not worry about what came first. The linear aspects of the story.  Blurred lines and muddy waters.  Simply swim through those waters and see what weeds get tangled in my thoughts.




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Filed under NoBloPoMo, Writing

All Trees Are NOT The Same ~ Truth in Storytelling


I’m a Storyteller, sometimes through acting and sometimes through writing.  It’s both my vocation and my occupation, so I take it very seriously in a not so serious way.  After all, I’m not a brain surgeon.  No one will live or die by my words, but sometimes those words, either through my pen or through my body, will bring the beginning of a healing.

I’m also a voracious reader.  I think it’s a requirement of my vocation and occupation.  If the only thing around to read is a cereal box, I’ll read that…often while pretending to film a commercial at the same time (that’s where the line between acting/reading/writing often blurs)

Another word for my vocation might be Truth Teller.  This is where the ‘serious’ part of being a Storyteller comes into play.  “Play.”  I don’t use serious to mean ‘severe’ or ‘humourless’; I use it to mean ‘with conscious intent.’  We build a world with our words, and our trust and believability is built on a foundation of truth.

I’ve written before about a ritual I have as I wait in the darkened wings to go onstage when I’m acting.  “I close my eyes and go within.  I ask to be used as an agent of healing and to honour the words of the playwright.  May I dwell in the breath of the Truth.  May my healed wounds touch one within you and so begin your own healing.”

Before my fingers touch the keyboard of my laptop I sit quietly with my intention.  May I dwell in the breath of Truth and write without shame, blame or guilt.

State of WonderI’ve just finished A State of Wonder by Ann Patchett, one of my favourite authors.  The vast majority of the book takes place in Manaus and then the jungle along the banks of the Rio Negro in Brazil.  The setting is one of the major characters of the book and the only non-fictional element.

I’ve recently returned from a pilgrimage in Brazil, where I spent magical days on a small boat cruising the Rio Negro and I was excited to be immersing myself once more in the sublime peace that washed over me there.

But the Rio Negro that I experienced is not Patchett’s Rio Negro.  In fact, it is so far from my experience that I wondered which one of us had gotten it so wrong.

Before I left on my journey I did a bit of research, reading the requisite guide-books and getting advice and inoculations from the travel clinic.  “Take lots of mosquito repellant, with the highest concentration of DEET possible!”  And so my suitcase was weighed down with numerous bottles of DEET packed neatly beside an equal amount of sunscreen, just waiting to ward off the hoards of mosquitoes and other winged annoyances that promised to surround my every moment in the Amazon.

I used the sunscreen liberally and often but squirted myself with DEET just once, a precautionary covering my first evening on the river in advance of the swarms of mosquitoes and bugs that never did materialize.  I asked our guide, Luiz, “Where are all the mosquitoes?”

Sunset boat on Rio Negro

Sunset boat on Rio Negro

It turns out that the Rio Negro (the largest left tributary of the Amazon), unlike her more famous sister, the Amazon River, rarely has a problem with mosquitoes.  The river gets her rusty black appearance and name from the biodegradation of the surrounding jungle, and that biodegradation of the dead organic matter also makes the river very acidic, something the mosquitoes and other pesky insects don’t like.

The meeting of the Rio Negro and the Amazon

The meeting of the Rio Negro and the Amazon

This is where Truth comes to play in the fiction sandbox.  If an author, such as Ann Patchett, chooses to set her story in a location that actually exists, then she is beholden to use that location truthfully, most especially if that location is so central to the story that it becomes a leading character.  You can’t insert constant swarms of mosquitoes and insects into a story just because you want to if doing so means lying.  Either change the location or change the elements of the story to maintain integrity and truth.  Believability and trust.

It turns out that Ann has never been to Brazil and certainly has never set foot in the jungle along the banks of the Rio Negro.  She decided to do her research along the Peruvian Amazon.

When asked if she visited the jungle about which she writes so extensively, she replies in part, “I wound up going to Peru instead of Brazil because I wanted to go on a boat trip and I wanted a certain type of boat. I didn’t want to go on a cruise ship or on some nasty little raft with cockroaches.  In Peru, I found a boat which was so perfect. I thought the Amazon in Peru is the same as the Amazon in Brazil. A tree is a tree, a snake is a snake.

(read the entire interview here.)

She thought wrong.  She lost my respect when she said, “A tree is a tree, a snake is a snake.”

One tree....

One tree….

One tree is as different from…

High water mark from record flood in 2012

High water mark from record flood in 2012

…another tree….

A buttress rooted canopy tree

A buttress rooted canopy tree

….as another tree.

She also gets her snakes wrong in State of Wonder, giving the anaconda the characteristics of a python in one crucial scene.  How could Ann Patchett, who writes with such beauty and such power, get it so wrong?  I sit in sadness when I think how cavalier she seems.

The job of a storyteller is not simply to tell stories and entertain. We are Truth Tellers.  It is our responsibility to weave our tapestry of tales using the strong threads of truth.  To do otherwise does us all a disservice.

What do you think?

my hand outstretched over a background of summer grass, the word truth written in red inside a red heart


Filed under Brazil, Writing

The Dark Truth of Healing

In the wee small hours of the morning….While the whole wide world is fast asleep…..

Frank Sinatra’s soft, smooth voice wraps around me and warms me from the outside as the toasted walnut tea hugs my insides.  My daughter gave me this CD on a September afternoon six years ago, just after I’d been pushed off the end of my world and was desperately looking for something to hold onto.  Something to keep me breathing.   I would light my forest of candles and listen to Frank over and over and over again.

“Once upon a time, not so long ago and not so far away, there lived a King and Queen in a huge beautiful palace.”  So begins the second half of Slumming, the play I’ve just finished as part of the Vancouver Fringe Festival.  I tip toe into this 30 minute almost monologue as my character, Grace, eases away from Britney, the young street worker who has just been raped.  Britney has asked for a ‘made up story’ and Grace is looking for anything with which to give comfort.  The play has suddenly taken a turn into darker territory.

I begin the play as an obviously unstable street person, yet one who is just as obviously not used to living on the streets.  Throughout the almost monologue I slowly lose the tics and characteristics of Grace “the street person” and grow to become the Queen within the fairy tale.  The words I speak hold great power.

The fairy tale is a story of great betrayal and an even greater, darker revenge.  The very last words of the story strike like MacBeth’s dagger and kills any remaining comedy.  The coda of the play leaves many in tears.  There is such power when Truth is carried with strong intention and conviction.

Several days pass and I receive an email from the writer and director of the play.  She writes, in part, “Writing the fairy tale in Slumming — and then watching you render it so wonderfully — has been cathartic for me.  I no longer feel anger towards_____; in fact, I feel nothing.  I feel free.  I keep waking up saying “Free at last!  Free at last!””

 I am so gratified and so grateful to have been given the honour and opportunity to play a part in her healing.  It has also been an important step in my own healing and journey towards forgiveness.  I’ve been working especially hard this past year to come to a place of complete compassion and forgiveness.  To remove the thin sticky threads which keep me from giving and receiving open-hearted love.

The brilliant and mystical Larry Moss says, “The imagination is bigger than anything you can remember from your own life.”  I manifest the truth of this when I play the character of Grace on stage; when I stand over the sleeping King in the fairy tale and raising MacBeth’s dagger on high, “stab the cheatin’ bastard in the heart!”

Throughout the run of the play I greet many friends and relatives at the end of the performance that give me hugs of congratulations and words of “well done.”  Some are wiping tears from their eyes and some chuckle knowingly, “I guess you didn’t have to go too far to find the emotion and motivation for that, did you.”   They’re talking about my own story of betrayal.

And here’s where I’ve stepped into a magical discovery.  As I weave the story of the fairy tale, casting a spell of make-belief, I come to realize that my own painful curse has been broken.  As I speak the Queen’s words of her wounding betrayal I am no longer able to use the power of my own story to drive the performance.  I try and try to envision my used-to-be husband and my own Other Woman, but they keep disappearing into the vapour of the spell, and the engine of the performance threatens to choke and sputter.

Instead, I call upon the incredible power of my imagination and use that to fuel my words.  Instead of the face of my own betrayer, I see the man who betrayed the playwright.  It is he who appears amidst the smoke of the spell I am casting.  And just like that, I discover that I’ve forgiven those that have wounded me.

I have healed my own wound of betrayal so well that now, as an actor, I must use my imagination instead of the tool of substitution.  What remains behind are great gifts; the intricate, delicate and subtle shades and tones of my emotional pallet that I can now use to colour my performances.  This is where my own Truth comes out to play, and instead of wounding it comes out to help in the healing of others.  What is in the One, is in the Whole.

And so, as I sit behind the wings and listen to the gathering audience laugh and talk before the lights darken, I close my eyes and go within.  I ask that my heart remain open and vulnerable and that I paint the words of the play with the blood of my own healed wounds.  I ask to be used as an agent of healing and to honour the words of the playwright.  May I dwell in the breath of the Truth.  May my healed wound touch one within you and so begin your own healing.













Filed under Betrayal, forgiveness, Theatre

Balancing In The Sea of Creativity

I find I am unable to focus on multiple projects at once.  Multi-tasking between creative platforms seems beyond me, and so while I’m immersed in the world of acting, my writing becomes the forgotten child crying for attention.

It feels like I’ve been in rehearsal for forever, there are so many characters living inside me, like multiple personalities, that it’s beginning to feel a bit over crowded.  It’s a high-class problem, but my writing child is crying louder and louder and it’s getting harder and harder to put her back to bed.  I’ve got one more play, one more character to bring to life before I can slip out the backstage doors of the theatre and bring my writing child out to play again.

Finding balance is always a challenge for me.  Living a creative life can be exhausting instead of fulfilling.  As an actress I never know when the next gig is going to come, each job feels like it might be the last, each opportunity too good to pass up.

I’ve gone from Queen Margaret in Henry VI and Mistress Page in Merry Wives of Windsor, to Blanche DuBois in Streetcar Named Desire, to Annie in Alan Ayckbourn’s The Norman Conquests.  Great characters, all of them!  And now I’ve been given the opportunity to bring a character to life for the very first time in a two-hander written by a wonderfully gifted playwright friend of mine for the upcoming Vancouver Fringe Festival.  Grace, in the world premiere of Slumming, written by Barbara Ellison.

I’ve gone full out since early spring doing what I absolutely love, and jumping with both feet off the highest cliff into my deepest fears and my biggest, thickest blocks.  And I really feel in need of a deep rest.  This month of rehearsals and production meetings, heading towards our opening night September 6th, I’m working to find balance.  Giving myself permission to sit quietly and read out-side, surrounded by my over-run garden and allow my physiological, spiritual and creative batteries to recharge.  Finding balance.  Creativity needs some alone, quiet time.  Simmering time.  Meditation.  Balance.


Filed under Meditation, Spirituality, Theatre, Writing

Freeing The Voice From Within

By the time I walk up the flight of stairs and into the room I’m working to shake the uncomfortable feeling that I’m late and the built-up frustration over finding the place in the first place.  I unzip my favourite short, red boots and leave them at the door and walk into the room, glancing around as I take off my raincoat and hang it up.  I see a slim man sitting yogi-like on a square brown cushion, his back against the wall, and he looks so at home that I wonder if he’s an assistant.  I have no idea what to expect with this weekend voice intensive and I have more than a bit of resistance and fear.

I just lied.  I do have some idea of what to expect, and that’s exactly why I have some resistance and fear.  I’ve taken more than my share of voice classes, and by this I don’t mean singing classes.  Although voice work benefits singers and complements their practice, let’s be very clear – this is NOT a singing lesson.  I mean voice work as in finding your natural, true and honest voice in all its powerful, resonant magnificence and vulnerability, whether through song or spoken word.  It’s the ‘powerful’ and ‘vulnerable’ part that creates the spark of fear and resistance within me.  And also because I don’t yet know how ‘safe’ this room will be for the exploration that is to come.  I’m taking steps into the unknown.

A man strides towards me, holds out his hand and looks me in the eye, “Hello, I’m Noah.  Welcome.”

“I’m Terri,” I smile back.  I recognize Noah Drew from his picture on his website and feel a bit of the fear slip away.  I look at the others gathering in the room, and am comforted by the same look of unknowing on their faces – we are in this together.  This eclectic little group of us, four women and three men, plus Noah and his assistant, Melinda, who is a kind looking woman slightly older than I am, NOT the cushion sitting yogi man as it turns out.

Noah’s website says, “Fitzmaurice Voicework is a highly physical approach to vocal training, that helps you communicate your thoughts, intentions, and feelings, with a free, flexible, and potent voice.  The work combines classical voice training with adaptations of yoga, shiatsu, Reichian bodywork and other body-based meditative practices.  It aims to increase freedom of breath, resonance, power, spontaneity and emotional connection – the full range of humanity that can be expressed in the voice.

The Destructuring phase of the work involves freeing body and breath from chronic tensions and “programmed” patterns, to allow deep spontaneity and presence.  In restructuring, we channel the wild impulsivity stirred up by the Destructuring into an open, healthy, supported voice.”

I’m always fumble-mouthed when it comes to describing to others what it is we do in voice classes.  My non-actor friends always assume I’m learning to sing.  I wonder, would I notice that I needed voice class if I weren’t an actor?  For me, the scene study and character study work that I do as an actress is what points the way to the inner Self work that I am called to do.  I don’t want any of “my” problems, tensions, blocks to get in the way of telling the truth of the story, in honouring the playwright’s words.  I need to get out my own way to let the truth come forth through my body and my voice.  And sometimes that means doing some heavy excavation work.

I’m playing Theresa in a scene from Shelagh Stevenson’s “Memory of Water”, a play with high-stakes, high energy and intense emotion and I can feel the front of my throat constricting at the height of the scene.  Instead of the beautiful potency of the emotions coming through, my voice is instead coloured with a shrill crawing, closing out any of the soft, underbelly tones of vulnerability.

I allow myself a moment of frustration, but only a moment.  What before might have derailed me for months, now guides me to my next task; more and regular voice work.  Through years of inner work I’ve learned that an expression of powerful intense emotions, especially anger, causes a constriction in my throat.  The ‘flight or fight’ response kicking in. After many years living with an emotionally abusive and unavailable husband, I learned that strong emotions are never to be expressed.  They were the sign of a very unstable individual, namely me.  Despite the years of inner emotional and spiritual work I’ve done, my body still re-members.  My body is telling me that I now need to do some physical ‘destructuring’ and ‘restructuring’ – to learn another way of being.  A more balanced and truer way of being.

So I say thank you to my throat for protecting me for so long, but it’s safe to let go now.  You can rest.  I spend the rest of the weekend surrounded by the courage and compassion of our little group of intrepid voice explorers as we each work to free the electrifying honesty of our voices.  We lie on mats stretching and moving and voicing all manner and shape of sounds.  Bringing breath to parts of our body that have long been starved of oxygen.  Here, in this small studio there are no ‘ugly’ or weird sounds.  We move about the room voicing and babbling and sometimes bringing forth our chosen song or monologue.  Seeing, hearing, breathing, exploring.

Noah leads a class in a destructuring exercise. Image from his website.

It’s the last exercise on the last day and once more the fear begins to slowly spread tentacles throughout my diaphram, threatening to squeeze my breath up into my chest.  A boa constrictor wrapping his way up to my throat.  We are sitting comfortably on the floor, some on cushions, some stretching out on yoga mats.  I take my water bottle and notebook and set my meditation cushion against the wall beside Steven my brave new yogi sitting friend.  I need to feel the support of the wall behind my back as Noah describes how to approach our last performance.  We each have fifteen minutes to explore the stage area.  We are in complete control right down to ordering our fellow class members to not pay attention to us if that’s what we want.  We choose when to be the intrepid voice explorer, listen to our bodies and step onto the stage when we feel the electric impulse to move.

I wait until there are only two more of us remain, moving before the fear can paralyze my muscles.  When I am performing in a play or on set acting in a film or TV series, I might have a flutter of butterflies flittering through my body but I never feel fear.  This, however, is entirely different flock of flying creatures because I can’t hide behind a character.

“No one pay attention to Terri!” Noah calls out as I unfold from my cushion and walk to the middle of the stage area.  I walk slowly and turn around to look at the bowed heads of rest of my classmates.  A couple are writing quietly in notebooks, several more rest their heads on their arms.  No one is looking at me.  I turn my back to them and breath deeply down into my belly, swinging my arms and jumping softly up and down.  I glance back at my still inattentive audience and am amazed at how relaxed and free I feel.

I stand facing them, close my eyes and start voicing, gliding up and down, becoming a roller coaster starting deep in my abdomen and soaring up to the roof of my soft palate.  I close my mouth and hum, imagining the sound vibrating behind my eyes, out the back and top of my head, the back of my throat, filling the satellite dish behind me and bouncing back out to the front of the room.  I play with a few lines of my monologue.

“Who can find peace in such extreme times

Ah, wretched man! Would I had died a maid”

“I want Gordon to pay attention to me.” I demand, and smile back at Gordon as he raises his head to watch me.  I notice a frisson of heightened excitement in my chest and bounce on my toes and shake my hands to let the feeling run through me rather than get stuck.  I try a few more lines.

“Ah, wretched man! Would I had died a maid

And never seen thee, never borne thee a son”

Before I know it I’ve spent fifteen minutes playing with my voice, my body and with the attention of my audience.  I have just the men pay attention, then just the women, sometimes all of them and sometimes none of them.  I ask them to see my heart, to find something in me to love, to find a piece of joy in me.  I crouch and whisper, I stand back and become loud.  My throat opens to allow the anger and love of Shakespeare’s Margaret to stream out.  I feel completely relaxed and at home.

“Can I work with you?” Noah asks, and with my happy “yes” he offers me small suggestions.  He brings my attention to when I lean forward at the waist for emphasis, which causes my voice to constrict, then to the slight forward thrust of my chin.

“You are the Queen, make them come to you,” he advises.

I move to the far back of the room and begin again, moving my hand to the base of my head to remind myself to keep pulled up and not thrust out.

“Who can be patient in such extremes?

Ah, wretched man! Would I had died a maid

And never seen thee, never borne thee a son,

Seeing thou hast proved so unnatural a father

Hath he deserved to lose his birthright thus?

Hadst thou but loved him half so well as I,

Or felt that pain which I did for him once,

Or nourish’d him as I did with my blood,

Thou wouldst have left thy dearest heart-blood there,

Rather than have that savage duke thine heir

And disinherited thine only son.”

I have no problem finding the breath for Shakespeare’s long stanzas, in fact I don’t even think about it, it just happens naturally.  I can feel my voice vibrating in my eyes and my throat remains open and relaxed right to the end of the angry, emotional speech.

“Wow,” Noah says simply, “what a powerful voice.”

I can feel the power of the vocal vibrations throughout my entire body as I performed my monologue.  It feels like release and complete freedom.  Release and freedom from that internal, oftentimes unconscious, internal Judge that constantly passes sentence on every word that comes out of my mouth.

This is what voice work does for me.  It offers liberation from a lifetime of constriction and brings breath to parts of my body that have been long starved of oxygen.  It loosens and dissolves the mask of protection that has become so a part of me that I’m not even aware of its tight restrictions until it’s gone.  It allows my truth to be spoken without impediment.  It offers a path to awareness and healing.



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Filed under Archetypes, Theatre, Voice