The Light Will Find You

I dabbled in acting when I was younger. Shakespeare, some contemporary pieces, the kind of amateur theatre that takes itself seriously enough to matter without quite taking itself seriously enough to be pretentious about it.

One of my favorite nights on stage was performing a play called Over the River and Through the Woods — the title taken from the old saying, over the river and through the woods, to grandmother’s house we go. The playwright is Joe DiPietro, and the play is a comedy about a young Italian American man in his late twenties navigating his relationship with his grandparents. It is warm, funny and hits very close to home if your family happens to be Italian.

Mine is.

The show was amateur in the best sense — solid production, real effort, paying audience. The actors didn’t see much of the ticket money but that is beside the point and well and truly in the past now.

What matters is one particular night.

My entire family came to see the show. My Nonna. My Nonno. The full contingent. The people whose approval, when it comes to matters of Italian family pride, is the only approval that really counts.

And the lighting guy didn’t show up.

I walked onto the stage for my opening monologue, and a spotlight hit the right-hand side of the stage. So, I walked into it. Then a spotlight hit the left-hand side. So, I walked into that. Then another. I was essentially chasing lights around the stage like a man trying to catch his own shadow, delivering a monologue in an American accent while silently processing what was happening.

Eventually I did the only thing that made sense. I raised both hands toward the lighting box — a universal gesture that I hoped communicated raise the house lights and leave them there — and that is exactly how we did the rest of the show. Full house lights. Every wrinkle visible. Every seat illuminated. The theatrical equivalent of giving up on atmosphere entirely and just turning on the overhead fluorescents.

My Nonna and Nonno loved it. Or at least they loved seeing their grandson running around a stage in an American accent for an hour and a half. With Italian grandparents the distinction between loving the performance and loving the performer is never entirely clear, and I have always been grateful for that ambiguity.

The show didn’t go to plan. It rarely does. Life rarely does.

But you give your best regardless. You walk into whatever light is available. You raise your hands when you need help and you keep going.

The spotlight will find you eventually.

You just have to stay on stage long enough

Paul Mercuri
Wake Up Here Founder

Stories – Wake Up Here