Curtain: (n) a hanging piece of fabric
I can’t think of an occasion when the word “addicted” can be used in a positive way.
Yet I will tell you, there are certain things to which I am addicted.
One of those revolves around a curtain.
I couldn’t have been more than twelve years old the first time I stood backstage at a theater, right next to the beautiful velvet curtain that swept its way across the stage to close the production or open up to new story possibilities, encouraging the audience to use its imagination.
No matter where you are, there’s always that small space where the dressing rooms and the gathering areas empty out onto holy ground, where the actors, singers and musicians stand and wait to enter the stage and share their best.
I remember at age twelve, putting together a song with three other guys to sing at the school talent show. We had searched all over Columbus, Ohio for just the right ties. We all went to the same barber shop to get our hair cut two days earlier. My singing buddies had come to my house to dress and prepare for the evening. We had rehearsed our song over and over again, trying to fine-tune the musical excellence to the greatest extent of our pre-adolescent acuity.
There we were.
The small-town audience sat waiting, as we stood nervously backstage.
I remember being so close to that beautiful red velvet curtain that I laid my head over, resting it on the soft fabric. It was comforting.
Yes, it was at that point I knew I was addicted.
I wanted to spend the rest of my life backstage somewhere, waiting for the curtain to open so I could come and share the better parts of myself, hoping that the audience could find the better parts of their hearts.