Above all things, ten days in India was exercise in deconstructing the dichtomy between mind and matter. For much of the trip, I relied on my old habit of intellectualizing. In order to deal with new surroundings and challenges, I depended on my intellectual capacity to keep me secured to the ground. I could decide when to engage, and with what, and with whom. I could douse my mosquito net with Deet 100. I could keep my eyes fastideously fixed on the ground in front of my muddied tevas.
But India soon rejected my tendency to neatly place mind over matter. Cars carrying dozens of faces, cows carrying hundreds of fleas, and people carrying thousands of years of history came at me from every angle. My precisely planned and packed suitcase spent four days flying over Europe. One of our actors was too ill to perform at our largest and most grandoise venue. I was unable to compartmentalize all of the things I was seeing and feeling and smelling and tasting. There was no time to think. No time to reorganize. No time to fill my stream of consciousness with the familiar rains of brainstorming. The monsoon had washed away my careful plans into polluted sewers of Varanasi.
And so, I started looking up.
As soon as my gaze extended beyond my comfort zone, I saw a city full of vibrancy and a group of my peers with a brilliant knack for improvisation. Together we navigated the spidery streets of an ancient city. We made up for eachother's faults. We shared Rupees and Pepto-Bismol and unconditional support. We were often unrehearsed and unshowered, but each of us, in our quiet ways, rose to the occasion.
In the sweltering heat, in the ghostly shadows of crumbling brick buildings, in the presence of peacocks and camels and domesticated cows, in the company of incredible writers, actors, and artists, I finally began to understand what it meant to "trust the work." My rambling brain shut its rambling trap and I was able stand in the twinkling tea lights of Raja Ghat with the utmost confidance that we would succeed. And in my opinion, we did.
In this country you cannot look down. It is too alive. It is always changing. Today, I reflect on this as I pack my souviners and smelly clothes into my carry-on. Our stay at Nirman has made an intregal impression on my development as an actor, as a student, and as a world citizen. I have learned stories and rules and rituals. I have looked into peoples' eyes. I have peeked into a facet of the human experience that is so radically different from my own that it has forced my eyelids open and jerked my chin straight ahead.
"Own the world," said Nita, our host and teacher, "not just your own country but the whole world." Although this advice is simple, it summoned from within me a previously untapped passion; I want to do things that are universally meaningful; I want to find the fine, transparent, but unfathomably strong threads that connect all of us; I want to continue to look up, up, and out.
To my friends and supporters, thank you for your boundless trust. I will carry the echos of this ensemble, this production, and this experience with me as I move forward.
"We left the house peacefully. Together we left the house."
Namaste.
Jane Huffman
But India soon rejected my tendency to neatly place mind over matter. Cars carrying dozens of faces, cows carrying hundreds of fleas, and people carrying thousands of years of history came at me from every angle. My precisely planned and packed suitcase spent four days flying over Europe. One of our actors was too ill to perform at our largest and most grandoise venue. I was unable to compartmentalize all of the things I was seeing and feeling and smelling and tasting. There was no time to think. No time to reorganize. No time to fill my stream of consciousness with the familiar rains of brainstorming. The monsoon had washed away my careful plans into polluted sewers of Varanasi.
And so, I started looking up.
As soon as my gaze extended beyond my comfort zone, I saw a city full of vibrancy and a group of my peers with a brilliant knack for improvisation. Together we navigated the spidery streets of an ancient city. We made up for eachother's faults. We shared Rupees and Pepto-Bismol and unconditional support. We were often unrehearsed and unshowered, but each of us, in our quiet ways, rose to the occasion.
In the sweltering heat, in the ghostly shadows of crumbling brick buildings, in the presence of peacocks and camels and domesticated cows, in the company of incredible writers, actors, and artists, I finally began to understand what it meant to "trust the work." My rambling brain shut its rambling trap and I was able stand in the twinkling tea lights of Raja Ghat with the utmost confidance that we would succeed. And in my opinion, we did.
In this country you cannot look down. It is too alive. It is always changing. Today, I reflect on this as I pack my souviners and smelly clothes into my carry-on. Our stay at Nirman has made an intregal impression on my development as an actor, as a student, and as a world citizen. I have learned stories and rules and rituals. I have looked into peoples' eyes. I have peeked into a facet of the human experience that is so radically different from my own that it has forced my eyelids open and jerked my chin straight ahead.
"Own the world," said Nita, our host and teacher, "not just your own country but the whole world." Although this advice is simple, it summoned from within me a previously untapped passion; I want to do things that are universally meaningful; I want to find the fine, transparent, but unfathomably strong threads that connect all of us; I want to continue to look up, up, and out.
To my friends and supporters, thank you for your boundless trust. I will carry the echos of this ensemble, this production, and this experience with me as I move forward.
"We left the house peacefully. Together we left the house."
Namaste.
Jane Huffman
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