Shadow Sherpa

A cacophony of shadows, and all I feel is fear as I sat waiting in the wings for our showcase showdown to begin. For who am I? Who the hell am I at this supposed late age in the game of life, old enough to have given birth to the entire improv class, to slam my feet forward into the center spotlight of the stage with fierce verve and trust in whatever impulsive reaction which spews forth from the nether regions of my unconscious?  

It is I, the restless, trouble-making kid that compelled teachers to huddle together and draw straws about to see who ended up with my needy, intelligent, disobedient, hilarious, disruptive, breaker-of-rules student-self who had burst forth into the quiet obedient classroom from the collective nightmares of newly minted teachers off the vine.

For why wouldn't those of us who began breaking the rules before we were even born, blazing a new pathway into the world by creating bread crumb trails that made the most sense to us, enter our later years, in our rule-breaking ways.  Flouting our wrinkles, dawning our grey.

Still, when sitting alone in the shadows of my mind I fear for my sanity in spite of years of therapy and spiritual spelunking. Improv is for the younger crowd with flexible bones and nimble feet, skin still tough enough to ward off the sticks and stones thrown at us by those who are too scared to show their bellies. Like a giant fish with crooked scars running out of my mouth and down my side, evidence of surviving the many tangled hooks that tried to take me down, I swim on to the stage into the middle spotlight, in spite of my fears, and allow the natural unfolding from the shadows to begin.

For just a moment, a very sweet moment, I feel free and my fins become wings to fly my spirit out of my tired old body and remember, ahh, we are deep down inside who we always thought we could be free and easy, free and easy, simply free.