Shadowland

The thunder and rain outside are impressive tonight (would be even more impressive if they were inside, I suppose).  Right now it feels good to be in my room at the Fulbright House and away from the elements.  I’ve chomped at the bit a few times here, wanting to get beyond the walls of this garden and shake myself free from the people who have insured my safety. My trip to Taxila this morning was not approved and so I spent a good three hours at the Fulbright Office, making lots of headway on a script for a show I’m in on May 3 (hello, Susan Shehata!) and jiggling my restless legs in fits of frustration. Here’s what Pakistan looked like, to me, this morning:

I also did laundry, earlier:

And I goofed around with the camera (photo credit: Javed!)

I had a similar feeling when I was working in the Off-Beat Comedy Club on the Disney Cruise Line.  I could see the shore (Florida! Grand Bahama!) but I couldn’t get there without diving off the side of the Disney Magic and creating an international maritime incident.  Time stood still.  I did justify my English degree on that ship, however, mostly by reading lots and lots of Virginia Woolf.  I stand by this statement: Virginia Woolf is not depressing, but I’m not sure she’s the author to pursue if you have lots of time on your hands and don’t want to ruminate on the fleeting nature of existence.  Still,  I needed something new to read after finishing three of Mohsin Hamid’s books and so I got another copy of To the Lighthouse, one of the most beautiful novels on the face of the planet. In it, Mrs. Ramsay, the heartbeat of the book, is listening to the waves on the beach and has these thoughts:

…[the waves] had no such kindly meaning, but like a ghostly roll of drums remorselessly beat the measure of life, made one think of the destruction of the island and its engulfment in the sea, and warned her whose day had slipped past in a quick doing after another that it was all as ephemeral as a rainbow–this sound which had been obscured and concealed under other sounds suddenly thundered hollow in her ears and made her look up with an impulse of terror.

I got antsy this morning, and I’m not sure if reading Virginia Woolf helped.  But then, after a delicious meal of dahl and boiled rice at the Fulbright Office (it was really good) I went to a place called Therapy Works and lead an improv workshop for counselors-in-training.  Arsalan, my very helpful contact from Theatre Wallay, had estimated that there would be about 15 people in attendance.  When I arrived there were 52.  And because Therapy Works focuses on holistic models of psychotherapy the students were ready to give Virginia Woolf a run for her money when it came to processing. Simple games mirrored parent-child interactions; physical movements became the embodiment of intra-psychic dynamics. I showed them how to do space work so that it looked like they were holding a ball in their hands; they made the space ball into a metaphor for defense mechanisms and oppositional identity development.  And we laughed a lot and ran out of breath and proved that cultural caricatures are, by their nature, two-dimensional.  Take a look:

After the workshop (and some good samosas which I covered with ketchup) (I told myself, “ketchup must mean something else in Pakistan”; it does not), I was able to sit in on the first half of an Introduction to Counseling class.  It was run like a seminar with the professor questioning the students in between far-flung but fascinating observations.  The main focus of the class was on Jung’s shadow, that (often) undeveloped and unclaimed part of our personality that we unconsciously conceal out of shame and fear. He asked the students to try and access their shadow and, if possible, give it voice.  I don’t want to violate any of the students’ confidentiality or imply that anything particularly shocking was revealed, but I was moved by how open the students were with the struggles they faced.  Nothing that was said would be out of place in a classroom in the west, but what did strike me was how much familial expectations dominated the decisions the students faced. When the professor asked me for input (what?) I said that many people I know in the States struggle with being alone and isolated, that the claustrophobia of over-invested families wasn’t nearly as common as the loneliness of individualism.

Not exactly the stuff of improv, but not completely separate, either. I do think the only scenes that really engage us are the ones that cast a shadow; if the darkness isn’t there then nothing is at stake and the scene is just silly.  Even with the heavy talk in class today there was also a lot of laughter, often out of relief and recognition. And, of course, there was anxiety and worry and bravery in the face of these demons, at the sound those waves make when all the chatter dies down. The professor was kind and direct: he said we can’t work with others in their pain if we’re not willing to look closely at the pain in ourselves.  And if we can’t access our pain–and our shame–then all we have to offer is sympathy and advice, both of which offer cold comfort.

I’m on the verge of saying something like “we’re much, much more alike than we are different,” and I think that’s usually true, but if I said something like that my shadow would assert itself at being revealed for being kind of trite and then it would project this fear of being over-earnest onto others and allow me to question their intentions and decide that they’re really just looking for attention, like actors and improvisers do.