It's what I learn from the great actors that I work with. Stillness. That's all and that's the hardest thing.
Learning how to be still, to really be still and let life happen - that stillness becomes a radiance.
Still, it can be more effective to accomplish what you need to accomplish with the minimum effort. Watch Anthony Hopkins. He doesn't appear to be doing anything. He is so still that you can't see him working, but you are drawn into his character through his very stillness.
Many writers who choose to be active in the world lose not virtue but time, and that stillness without which literature cannot be made.
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Recently, the idea comes to me nightly that I must dart out of the life I'm living--make major changes, do something huge, move across country, change my career. But the continuum of that idea is complete and total stillness, to root myself exactly where I am and whittle away my activity, so I'm quiet with myself more often and have more room to hear God's instructions.
I'm stilled, this fall by the brilliant colors. I don't know if it is just me, but the trees seemed to change overnight, and on my walk to the jogging path, my mouth hangs open with awe. What was I busy with when the change started? Why didn't I watch the slow advent of autumn? Was my mind racing with places I rather be? Suddenly, the creek is dry; I could walk across it. And the cottonwoods are bright yellow, and the trees lining the streets on the walk to the creek are deep orange and reds. There was a seasonal shift that I missed.
Now, I've bought a crock pot because I've always wanted one and the weather and my long days at work insist on slow-cooked meals.
I want to soften my heart slowly, in the same fashion as the stews I'll make. Let the cold around it warm over months, so by springs first blossoms, I'll be heart-warmed and ready.
I just finished writing a play about trees and the play is really about making a choice about where you root yourself. And the trees wonder over all the things they get to notice that people don't get to notice because of the constant movement.
So, I am here, still, and planting myself in the rich earth of the Central Valley, and in the calendar of the school year, which helps me better connect to seasons, as we change and break as the seasons shift.
I'm learning stillness, so I can stand on stage for several moments and say nothing--and you will know everything about me.