On Friday night, I attended a one-woman show with a playwright friend. We didn’t know we were walking into immersive theater, which neither of us favor, but the actress won us over with talent, kindness and ease. “Every Brilliant Thing” by Duncan MacMillan and Jonny Donahoe explores the subject of suicide with grace and comedic vulnerability—initially through the eyes of a child who makes a list of every brilliant thing in life to present to her mentally ill mother. Starting with what a seven-year-old would treasure like ice cream and water fights, the list grows as the character grows up to joys such as the smell of old books and hairdressers who listen to what you want. After the show, audience members were encouraged to add to a master list posted on the wall. I added, astronomy binoculars.
The play reminded me of a gift moment from college that I experienced with an extraordinary young man I’d met my freshman year. John had just returned from a semester in Nairobi the fall that I started school. He was the son of dairy farmers, and he grew up in the North Country region of New York State. Something about his sincerity, gentleness, connection to nature, and deep commitment to the truth of the moment started me on a quest. Then also, there was his humor.
John once instigated a water balloon fight with me around the dorm. On a spring afternoon, armed with colorful water bombs, we ran at top speed down hallways, bursting through outside exits to re-enter by other doorways, hiding and finding each other in full-out strategic water warfare. The crowning moment came when I, complete with weapon ready to fire, ran out the back door of the north wing, certain that I’d just seen John run out seconds before. I was so sure I’d seen him that when I stepped out of the building, I paused to look for which way he’d turned. At that exact moment, splat! — the latex landed atop my head and burst, thoroughly drenching my body. I looked up in complete disbelief. There was John, laughing so hard over my reaction to his unexpected attack that he nearly fell off the second floor balcony.
That water balloon moment always lights up with joy, freshness, vitality, and the gift of exploding laughter. Everything about John’s presence in my college days inspired me to be true to every part of myself. He goes on my list of brilliant souls who steered me toward the unmasked—presence over pretense, authenticity over authoring—a lesson that unfolds continually as its fearless vulnerability settles into my heart.