We artists are passionate creatures. Of course, how else do creations birth themselves? Says she on the birthday of her oldest daughter…..
And…last night I experienced a phenomenal blow that brought forth sobs from the gut, not to stop until I finally fell asleep.
The gift of the new day? This sacred day of my daughter’s emergence?
FIDDLER ON THE ROOF.
Years ago, when theater was vibrantly a centerpiece of my existence, musical theater was in the mix as well. My voice was lyrical with an expansive range but never strong enough to play the lead…HOWEVER…thanks to directors who ‘bet on me’..I played various singing roles that to this day make my whole body laugh.
One of these was Fruma-Sarah in Fiddler on the Roof…the butcher’s dead wife…with hair sprayed white and stiff to stand out in all directions, face painted pure white with ghost eyes, and my hilarious song to be SCREAMED SANG while on the shoulders of a ballet dancer…both of us shrouded and I, therefore, NINE FEET TALL….and the chorus dancing and stamping all ‘round while I cursed and scolded…HOW GREAT when one is not only allowed but cheered on wildly to perform such a part?
Today Fiddler came. The music…every single word to every single song, that I not only know by heart but can still speak the roles of the characters… carried me from joy to wonder to sorrow to life’s journey to leaving Anatevka to you name it.
I laughed and cried and sat still and grounded myself.
L’chaim!