It’s not a bumper-sticker sentiment. It’s a hard-won, sleep-deprived, tes-stained truth that keeps me lacing up my Doc Martens and heading back to the table night after night, because theatrical wonder doesn’t make itself. You have to show up and build it.
I love my life when the Stanley Hotel groans awake like an old friend, when the hallway light catches the edge of a card and turns it into a tiny sunrise. I love the hush before a show, the rustle of curiosity as strangers lean in, and the soft clink of glasses right before we start telling the truth with metaphors.
I love the repetitions, the rehearsal that looks like nothing from the outside and everything from the inside. The notes scribbled on napkins. The prop that needs one more polish. The line that finally lands after weeks of sanding. The craft repays patience with grace.
I love my life because it lets me sit across the table from you and say, “Let’s pretend,” and then we both realize we aren’t pretending at all. We’re remembering. We’re remembering that mystery is a birthright, that a story told at the right moment can mend a frayed edge, and that a single raised eyebrow can be a lighthouse.
I love the slow drives home with the windows cracked, the night air rinsing off the adrenaline, the applause still rattling around like coins in a pocket. I love the messages from folks who were skeptical and left a little softer. I love the crew who make the show look effortless and the ghosts who keep us honest.
I love waking up and watching the sunrise over the beauty of the ancient, wize mountains. Walking my dog in the shadows of those silent giants. The quiet, contemplative moments in my quiet home.
I love my life because it keeps demanding the best of me; more attention, more kindness, more nerve. It asks me to be both host and herald, to welcome and to witness, to hold a silence and then fill it with something worth hearing.
So, yes: the inescapable truth is that I love my life. Pull up a chair. I’ve been saving you a seat.
Across the table.
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