I saw this television show about prison inmates who were given abused animals to rehabilitate. They would love the animal back into health, so it could get adopted to a good home. Only the top inmates got to participate.
One guy had a black Labrador named Molly. Molly hadn't been abused, except that she'd never been let out to exercise. Other than that, she was a cheerful dog. A fat cheerful dog. "Come on, Molly," he'd say, patting her sides, "That's a good girl." He'd throw the frisbee. She'd barrel after it, and come back laughing and winded. She'd have to stand and pant before she could go get the next one. "I just plan to run her," said her keeper. "She's a good dog. She's just got to run a while."
Two days ago it occurred to me, I'm Molly. Or rather, my body is Molly and I'm the big black guy training her. It makes me kinder. Like yesterday -- it's hot, I've got 8 hours of rehearsal, and I've sweated through my clothes twice. Normally that would make me cranky. Yesterday, though, I just grinned, and went, "COME on Molly, THAT's a good girl -- let's go rehearse. COME on! COME on! LET'S go talk to the actors."
I sit on the floor when I direct, with lots of standing up and sitting down. I love going over to work with the actors, then coming back to kneel and watch. They are in their bodies, I am in mine.
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