Debut: (n) a first public appearance on a stage, on television, etc.

During my midnight curtain call at the end of the day, when I take my bows (or lumps) over the events surrounding that given twenty-four hours, I begin to ruminate.

By two o’clock in the morning, when I briefly stir, my brain is already trying to invent, produce and cast my next debut, which should begin six hours later, at eight o’clock.

What do I envision?

What do I think a debut should include?

New and improved? Most certainly.

Excitement?

A specific energy toward the practical and the general sense of goodness?

By the time I stir again, around five, my brain has enlarged this plan, and suddenly it all seems plausible. I not only believe I can fund it, gather the energy to perform it, but also that there should be a great market for the debut of my new self.

• Less eating.
• More mercy.
• Thoughtfulness.
• Humor.
• A “clever” here and there.
• And exercising my body as I exorcise my bad memories.

As I doze off to finish my night, I am enraptured with the possibility of being recreated—so transformed that others will notice, be thrilled for me and challenged to do the same for themselves.

When I awaken at eight and begin the cleaning, brushing and dressing, I try to dredge up memories of my nighttime plan.

They seem fragile—as if touching them or even moving toward them causes them to crumble in my grasp.

Yet as I begin the day, I try one thing–then another.

Something I remember from my stage-planning the night before.

By noon the debut is over, and unfortunately, it resembles the previous day’s performance.

I know I can do better. I know “better” is in me.

It’s just nerve-wracking to stage a debut.