With the baby on his lap

Our Seattle auditions are a small tribal ritual. Karen is the artistic director of this twice-yearly rite. Like most good theatres, there is a family at the heart of it. The accompanist, Mark, played bouncing ragtime tunes with the baby on his lap, the baby's hands resting on his.

Outside, many of the same actors we've just seen audition, are now sorting headshots, making coffee, and joining us in the audition room to watch, a privilege for the volunteers. In theatre, no one wears just one hat.

The auditors are as glad for the breaks as for the auditions. It's a time to congratulate each other on shows, catch up on careers, and meet new folks in town. The ACT became friendly, to my mind, because of their casting director's beaming face. Stone Soup Productions became intelligent and warm, because their artistic director gave me so many good actor recommendations. Jennifer Lavy, an amazing singing director with whom I've had little time to visit due to her PhD workload, sat gracefully under the trees in late-afternoon light, reflecting on how theatre theory is, at its heart, spiritual.

Now THAT is worth all my time.

Theatre is homey. So is opera. No matter how grand the finished product, or how big the house, our rehearsal rooms are small. It's a close-knit world, and we all know each other -- gypsy makers of a sweaty, ephemeral ware.