testament of agency; or, my artist sermon

My earliest theatrical experiences were inside the Charismatic Pentecostal Church, with our elaborate worship and expressive prayer. On holidays we performed passion plays. On mission trips we evangelized with morality plays. The art we created in the faith of my youth, and early twenties, was an altar-call of catharsis. It was a visceral, communal ritual that opened portals to realms beyond the physical, if only for a fleeting moment.

Today my faith looks different—in many ways, but mostly because the theatre is my church. A major part of my spiritual practice is playwriting. Every phase of the process, the writing hermitage, the collaborative rehearsal rooms, the live performances for a congregation of audiences, and every micro phase in-between is a sacred ritual in its own right. As I continue to reckon with the complicated faith of my past, my stories disrupt passivity. And in my journey of healing complex trauma, my stories empower agency. At the convergence of these two identities, my stories dismantle patriarchal whiteness, in earnest, with radical tenderness.

Stylistically, I would categorize my art as wholeheartedly character driven, kinesthetic, and inherently folksy. My characters combat various stereotypes by embracing the poetry of breath, body, and desire for connection. The worlds I build diverge from naturalism as they hang in the delicate balance between the otherworldly and the dirt of the Earth. In performance, my plays are a trauma informed, healing centered space that speak to the most abandoned places hiding within each of us.

Often, when the alchemy is just right, my plays tap into something larger than itself. It’s undeniable that my art is rooted in my Charismatic origins. Therefore, the art I create in the faith of my womanhood is an altar-call of catharsis. It is a visceral, communal ritual that opens portals to realms beyond the physical, if only for a fleeting moment.

In full transparency, dear reader, I feel compelled to share with you that as I’ve been sitting here on the porch writing this Testament of Agency; or, My Artist Sermon, beneath an idyllic blue sky in the Green Mountains of Vermont, a crimson winged wasp is slowly devouring her prey— a freshly paralyzed grasshopper. Stunned. Grounded. I close by reflecting on the significance of this ephemeral performance.