Two months of work. Two months of dreaming, building, overthinking, rehearsing, tweaking, hoping. And then, just like that, boom. It’s over.
The moment ends. The space clears. The tension dissolves. I’m left standing in the quiet aftermath wondering, Did it all happen?
If I’m being honest, I was nervous. We didn’t present until 2:30, and the whole day felt like one long inhale. Hours of preparation and quiet panic. At one point, we saw another studio had already set up with wine and drinks. We looked at each other, laughed nervously, and decided to make a last-minute dash to the winery.
And then, of course, my computer crashed. Nothing was working. Total tech meltdown. I felt helpless. Furious. Frustrated. I found myself praying, not to any one god, but to anything listening – the sky, the ground, the ancestors, the code itself. I rebooted everything, whispered my hopes into the void, and somehow it worked. Systems online. Deep breath.
When it was time to begin, I didn’t follow a script. I didn’t overthink it. I just started playing. I trusted the moment, and it held me. As people filtered into the room, the energy shifted and grew, and something clicked. I flowed. I spoke. I played. And I felt alive.
I had a little sample of my mother saying, “I love you.” I felt her there with me. So many years of loss haven’t melted the emptiness entirely, but in that moment, she was close.
People began wearing the little necklaces I had made, each one holding a pinch of sand from the beach, collected one slow afternoon under the sticky, hot sun. I had given them as mementos, tiny vessels meant to hold a moment, if only for a while. Maybe they meant something to the people who took them. Maybe they didn’t. But seeing them worn was a quiet affirmation, a reminder that something I created had made contact. All afternoon, I caught glimpses of them glinting in the light, swaying gently as people moved through the space. Simple. Quiet.
Later, we opened that bottle of wine from the winery and had a small, final celebration. I talked with people I hadn’t yet connected with, and somehow that made the day feel more complete.
And then, late into the night, Lyndon, Betsey, Madelene, and I walked up to the shrine. We sat on the stairs under the stars, drank more wine, and talked until two in the morning. We laughed. Got a little drunk. It was magic.
Betsy is missing since she took the photo.
I came here to release a small dream that had been gnawing at me. I didn’t need a spotlight, a stage, or even an audience. I just needed to make it real. And I did.
Maybe no one else will truly see it or remember it.
But I will.
This moment. This thing. This work.
I am happy.