How does this wordsmith, who expands small topics, reduce an extraordinarily layered experience to 451 words, the length of Eve Ensler’s monologue finale I was 4 privileged to perform – “My Revolution begins in the body” – and that I continue to recite once each day? I can but try or I may just cry, speechless.

Inseparable, “My Revolution” and I. The most powerful piece I’ve taken inside me.

How could I not love this poem that honours females, reveres earth, and respects all human beings, especially those who “feel too much”?

To “feel too much” is to “feel just right”. Mona, you feel just right.

Mona offered me something Unitarian ears might cringe at. Two words. Any guesses?

“Holy Trinity.”

Validation and visibility and voice. Validation as an artist – first-time actor that I was. Visibility – me alone at this podium in my little black tube dress (which I’ve nicknamed my fallopian tube dress), sharing the spotlight with nobody. Voice – “You have a big vocal range.” That’s something I hadn’t known.

What I do know is the power of monologue combined with Mona’s contagious mindfulness. Here’s looking at you, Mona!

And here’s looking at my VagSisters and our respectful rehearsal week together where I was awed by their hard work and buoyed by all the laughter…

But I had come to resent my monologue and struggled with it. Imagine hating a poem about love!

I’d ignored my soul, my reading, my writing and done what I most abhor in others: I’d abandoned the tried-and-true when something new and exciting came along.

I cried, wrote, asked my books for forgiveness (I hope I used all 5 apology languages), made a nest out of my favourite books and slept inside.

“We missed you,” they said, “but you looked busy. Please come back and write in our margins. We’ve missed your touch.”

“I’ve missed yours, too.”

Books are my personal refuge, my sanctuary. I love them. And this sanctuary at First Unitarian, I also love.

When I performed “My Revolution” here, the two things I most cherish in the world came together for the first time in my life. One – the arts, not part of my childhood, fully embodied here. Theatre, with music, poetry, stories…

And I was a performer. Validated, visible, vocal.

Two – my village, population 300, contained within these walls both evenings. Familiar and friendly faces. Just like back home.

Because of you, I am made whole!

Because you live community.

“A great community,” writes Lois Smidt *, “creates conditions where people can fall in love.”

“It is a place where we can make a fuss about one another.”

“A place where we can ask, ‘How did I ever live without you?’”


* Lois Smidt in John McKnight and Peter Block, The abundant community: awakening the power of families and neighborhoods. San Francisco: 2010, p. 148.