It’s an old-fashioned word: at its most literal, a blood connection. But also: shared characteristics or origins. Affinity, sympathy, rapport, harmony, understanding, empathy, closeness.
It seems unlikely, even with the heady blend of performance, personal essays, and the topic of motherhood thick in the air, that eighteen strangers could form any kind of lasting bond over the course of two three-hour rehearsals and a single performance.
The spark of it was there as soon as our director sat us down in the first draft of the order of our readings. It kindled amongst shared threads on Facebook. By the time we left the second read through, it burned: a merry little flame of kinship between us.
If our kinship is a fire, it’s a bonfire right now—huge, bright, crackling, still fueled by the power of connection, sharing, sheer nerve, and the magic of performing. Before too long, it will be more the sustained glow of embers. Not nearly so dramatic as the bonfire, but quiet and warm and comforting. That warmth is what we’ll carry in our hearts once the light has dimmed.
I have no doubt that we will carry that light with us. The same way that I still feel the flickering of kinship with the women who shared my camp summers, or the woman who was my first college roommate, or the friends with whom I shared other stages over the years.
Emotional experiences leave their embers in our hearts. The best ones glow forever.
I know I’ve thanked the co-producers and cast of Listen to Your Mother Boston before, but it took me a while to really process the experience. Thank you all, from the bottom of my heart, for your stories and your friendship and your sparkle.