The One about Joy.

Most of what I remember about high school was my involvement in the theatre program during my sophomore, junior, and senior years. The other classes I took, save a couple, sort of just breezed past me with little interest. I remember my teachers, sure; I remember the basics of each class. But very little stuck out to me.

Except for those classes in that little black box. It's safe to say that was my second home. I spent countless hours before and after school in that classroom, getting to know very tender people and trying to get to know myself. I learned countless lessons in those three years, and that is, after all, where I started actually doing shows. I feel like I owe a lot to that place.

More specifically, I owe a lot to a particular individual.
This sweet lady spent literally hundreds of hours talking to me about anything and everything. She was there for me during times of serious struggle. She helped me through every little thing. I didn't make her job easy, but she still showed the most unconditional love for me and the rest of her students. She gave me such a drive to actually get out and do something with the talents I'd been given. Such invaluable lessons learned in just three short years.

The gratitude for this special mentor comes especially lately because one thing she said to me during my senior year has been on the very brim of my mind over the past few weeks. The thought initially came about thanks to my last post; what started out as a negative energy turned into my being able to reflect on past wisdom and positivity.

During one of my saddest times, I remember running to her - crying, of course - in a state of helplessness. I very distinctly remember saying, "I don't know how to be happy anymore." It's hard to say if she remembers this conversation, and it's hard to remember every little detail myself. But somewhere, shortly after I said that, she said, "Happiness, though it is a choice, is a fickle thing. Joy is a condition of the heart. Teach yourself how to restore joy."

I didn't get it then; I don't even really suppose I felt joy before that. I'm not saying that I had it bad for 24 years; I had and have the sweetest family, the most tender friends, the best opportunities... I just was choosing and conditioning myself in a way that disallowed true joy.

But today, six years later, joy has been restored.

Joy is a condition of the heart. One can feel joy no matter what is going on around him or her. Unlike happiness, which is dependent on circumstances, joy is a condition of the heart that we can hold to no matter how difficult life becomes. No matter how lonely I might get because I'm a single girl, 24 years old in Utah, surrounded by relationships. No matter how fat I might feel one day. No matter how frustrated I get at work. No matter how bummed I get about classes. No matter how tired I feel. No matter.

My mom, another incredible and inspirational woman in my life (as I've expressed several times before), has said to me over and over for literally as long as I can remember, "All I ever wanted you to do is love yourself."

And I do. I am my own best friend; I know myself better than anyone knows me; I like spending time with just me; sometimes, I even think I'm hilarious (sometimes I'm the only one who thinks so, and that's okay, too).

That's not to say that I don't get in fights with myself. That's not to say that sometimes I don't want to be by myself. That's not to say that I don't appreciate and treasure and hope to nurture every sweet friendship I have in my life. Remembering that happiness is contagious, I choose to surround myself with positive people who share my values, goals, and dreams. I have immense joy and joyous occasions in my life everyday. I'm going to do everything I can to refresh it and keep joy restored.

I know this sounds cheesy, but I'd be a fool to say that my whole life isn't cheesy. It certainly is. A cheesy, happy, sometimes bumpy, but eventually absolutely beautiful and joyous life.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

The One where I'm "Strong."

If you're not in the mood for an old-fashioned pity-party, I'd walk away now. Today has been a really tough day for me. I don't have days like this very often. Do I have contemplative days, quiet days, frustrated days? Yes, absolutely. But sad doesn't happen to me often anymore. "Sad" hasn't even really been a part of my vocabulary in relation to my personal feelings for over six months now. But today was sad. If you're still reading, you can still turn back now. You're just in for some serious whining.
Somewhere in my 24 years, I decided that having an independent and strong personality was the way I wanted to live my life. Collectively, from the things I have experienced and how I have been raised and the career path I have chosen, I guess it makes sense. I can't put my finger on any one thing or any one specific moment that made me this way, though.

In a deep conversation I was having with someone not long ago at all, this topic came up in relation to the fact that I have only really had one "serious" romantic relationship my entire life. (We began the conversation by discussing my weight loss, and I mentioned how I thought that while it wasn't my main intention for losing the weight, an added bonus would be gaining some positive attention from men.) "It's not about what you look like, Angela. You scare people," this someone said. "You give off vibes that you don't need anyone to take care of you but yourself, and men like to take care of women and prefer not to be scared of them. You're so good at being their best friends, though."

To say that these short sentences hurt my feelings would be an understatement.

I think it hurt because I know it's true.

People have talked to me about my "intimidation factor." I've always hated hearing that because I never wanted to have the effect on anyone. Ever. I didn't want to be walked on, no, but apparently I crossed the fine line of showing that and scaring people away.

I haven't always been this way. I needed someone to take care of me for a long time. I literally cried everyday of my life until I was 14 years old. I even remember the first day that I didn't cry and considered it quite the feat. Maybe that contributes to it. Maybe I realized, even that early-on, that being a softy didn't really get me anywhere. But when I was in high school, I insisted that I continue to be taken care of by those around me. But then came a time where I decided to start "mothering" the people around me; for whatever reason, my senior year of high school, especially, I felt the need to protect the people I cared so deeply for. And it never stopped. I learned how to fend for myself and go off to war (figuratively speaking, of course) for my loved ones.

I look around me and can't help but notice the timidity of so many women. The idea baffles me. I don't know how to be that way. I have gotten most of what I want because I have worked so hard and eventually earned it. But maybe that's not the way I should be. Maybe if I step back and back off of my ambitious nature, I won't be left alone to fend for myself.

Contrary to what vibes I might give off, I want to be able to just run to someone and tell them my woes - without judgment or ridicule or without trying to figure it out. I am strong, yes, but my feelings are so real, I swear it. I cry, I laugh, I get angry, I get excited, you name it.

Strong doesn't mean emotionless.

I want and need to be taken care of, too.

The One with the Tale Gush.

In the last eight and half years, I have performed in 22 productions. From the beginning of my journey in 2002, playing an 11-year-old redheaded orphan (at age 15) to 2011, where I played a vengeful and victimized villain, I have been on quite the ride. Each show has had its effect on me, and each show has to open and, eventually, close. On to more things, yes, but what a heartbreak to leave such sweet things behind.


As I mentioned a few entries ago, A Tale of Two Cities is no exception to this rule of hurting to let go of a show. And this past Saturday marked the day that I would have to say goodbye to that chapter of my performance story. When I woke up on Saturday morning, I immediately had to fight the tears from falling. As the day went on, that didn't change. I couldn't talk about it ending or I would become an immediate puddle. Sweet friends in my dressing room even amused my childish nature by pretending like we still had four weeks of the show left to perform, that we were only halfway done. That trick only lasted so long; during and after the curtain call, I sort of let my emotions go, and I wept. Obviously, I became obsessed with the show; I expressed my love for this show very clearly in just about every post since the beginning of the process.

It was just so different.

I told a few people this as we discussed closing the show: it's like going to church every other day. It always felt so out-of-body, so spiritual and uplifting... even with the role that I was playing - the villain. I've played roles bigger than this one, so it wasn't its size that made such an impact.

It was its heart. The show's heart. The cast's heart. The crew's heart. The writer's heart. The audience's heart. The character's heart. I fell in love with everything about this production. It was or seemed to me to be absolutely perfect, and it came into my life at the best time that it could have.

I don't talk much about my spirituality in this blog - mostly because I think there is such a fine line of what's awkward for people to read and what's not, and while I do write what I want to write about on here, I still want people to want to read it without any reservation or hesitation. But I'm going to tread that fine line today. My spirituality has been a very private thing for most of my adult life. I credit that to the heartache I experienced with my most serious romantic relationship when I was 17 until I was 19 years old. (Another story for another day.)

Because I do keep my testimony of my spirituality to myself, experiences like Tale are especially prominent in the building up of my religious experiences. Anyone in that cast would have a hard time denying the tenderness of the heart of the show, and I fully believe that the love we have for and showed each other throughout the rehearsals and performances was a result of our recognizing its depth. I'm just going to say it: I know we were being watched over constantly by a much Higher Power during this production. I can't deny that. In fact, I don't think I've ever been so sure of something.

A big theme of this blog, I've noticed myself leaning towards, is gratitude. I don't think a single entry goes by without my using that word or words relating to it - thankful, opportunity, lucky, etc. I don't do it on purpose; it just happens. When I'm writing, I find myself especially open to expressing my emotions; I find myself, almost every time, overcome with gratitude for my everyday surroundings.

Next Saturday, I'll start the next chapter with Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. I'm positive I will love every minute of it as well; I'm sure I'll fall in love with the cast; and, hi, it's my biggest dream role. I really cannot wait for it; it will be a big party (but a challenging party because I am scared to death of it). It will make its own imprint on my heart, I have no doubt.

I'll do my best not to gush about Tale after this. I know it's time to let it go. I know it's time to focus on the EXCITING things ahead (and thank goodness for that, because the excitement ahead softens the blow of saying goodbye to this "baby"). Consider all of this closure.

Madame Defarge is the meatiest and most complex role I've ever played, and the truth is, I feel like I could play her forever; I would want to. If God would bless me with vocal chords of steel and anti-aging abilities after 40, it would be totally possible. More importantly, though, I forged new friendships and strengthened old ones. I learned things I never thought I'd learn and I felt things I never thought I'd feel. I received inspiration from everyone involved, and I feel like a changed person because of every single moment.

Lucky, lucky me.

The One where It's More Than Just Fun.

I made myself physically ill this morning stressing about things. Unfortunately, I am quite the emotional masochist; the second one thing starts to point in the "wrong" direction, I literally make a list in my mind of everything else that could possibly drive me off into the deep-end. Trust me, I know it's not one of my better qualities.

Responsibility is a scary thing. A scary thing that never stops. Now that I am inching closer and closer to my goals, I'm realizing that I have to become more and more responsible.
After an amazingly therapeutic five days spent with my sweet mother, I'm - forgive the Tale reference - recalled to real life. Dead car battery, Nutrition exams, design projects, class registration, work - it all decided to tumble down early Monday morning.

Thankfully, though, I was able to look back on the last few days spent with my mom and recognize how unbelievably grateful I was for every second I got to spend with her. Even though we spent hours watching movies and driving around everywhere, I don't feel like a moment of it was wasted time. Still, though, not long enough - imagine trying to fit in six months' worth of information into a five-day period. Not so easy.

Then, just this morning, I got an email in my inbox from her with a link attached from The Daily Camera: click here to read it. Along with the link, my mom said (and I hope she doesn't mind my sharing), "Live your dreams, and in the meantime, just figure out how to pay the bills. Love you forever..."

You might understand my writing pattern by now enough to know that it's time for another soapbox moment. I want to talk about something in regards to this article. Please understand that the purpose of this is not to toot my own horn or to toot the horns of performers in general. These thoughts are merely my personal opinions. Truthfully, they are teaching me more humility the more I think about them and nurture them. I know that there are still years and years of work to do and TONS AND TONS of room to grow.

As I've expressed in several entries before, A Tale of Two Cities has been a blissful and spiritual experience for me. Every show I am a part of plays a huge part in my everyday life, and this one is no exception. If anything, it's the ultimate example of that. I have learned so much about redemption and heart and hurt and gratitude and repentance and sacrifice by being a part of it.

As we greet people and as I watch people come down the stairs to exit the theatre, I see that simply by sitting in the seats and watching the story take place, they are walking away with the same lessons learned and/or reiterated.

About three weeks ago, I was asked to write an entry for the Hale Centre Theatre's blog. It was re-posted on Facebook and readers could comment on it. One comment really touched my heart and could easily be said to be the best compliment I have ever received. It read: "My wife and I came to see this show last night, and you all did such a wonderful job. As for your character, you played it so well that I was reluctant to shake your hand after the show. When I did, your hand was soft and your smile of appreciation genuine and sweet. You took us to a place we have never experienced, and brought us back safely. Thank you!"

Took them to a place they had never experienced and brought them back safely. What an absolute honor.

And that's just a very small part of what I've heard and seen. I have even found myself getting emotional as audience members descend the stairs from the auditorium and approach Kyle to thank him - through hugs and tears - for telling the story so beautifully and honestly. After one performance, I watched him hold a woman in a hug as she just wept. People have merely made eye contact and mouthed "thank you" as they walk out the door, and I understand. I get it. The story is enough to make a grown man weep, but this retelling - through the beautiful music and lyrics - allows these people also to immerse themselves in three hours of spirituality.

How many nights have I driven out of that parking lot after changing back into my civilian clothes and scrubbing my face clean of the stage make-up and felt like a better person because I was lucky enough to share the story with 600 people? Too many times to count.

No, I'm not running for President or nursing people back to health or working to cure cancer. I'm not building machines or even delivering important letters in the mail. I may not ever make millions of dollars; I may not ever win a Tony Award; I may not ever be a "Broadway star."

But every now and then I have gotten to and will get to share in the feelings of the people in the audiences I perform for. I have watched people come down those stairs after the show and shed tears that were being held in for a very long time. The show became their outlet of sorts. I feel like a contributing human being in the career path I have chosen. It isn't just about how great we feel when people shake our hands or review or applaud our work. I believe that those who have chosen performing arts as a career help people feel.

Life isn't just about making money. It's about loving and giving and feeling and learning.

I believe that if performing weren't a career option, if theatre didn't exist, if fine arts just weren't a part of life... the world would still spin. While there would be no music, no movies, no plays, no paintings - no such thing as an artist in any way, shape or form - the sun would still rise and set. The planets would still rotate around the sun. The seasons would still change. The world would still go on and on.

But really think about it... what a boring place this world would be!