Missing the things you loved the most

When we lose that passion, try and remember what ignited it in the first place.

I used to be an actor. Well, that might be a bit of a stretch.

But, I used to love acting. I wanted to be an actor more than anything in this world. I may have mentioned this in previous posts of mine, but as a child, acting was one of my main interests.

I was given the opportunity to be part of a local amateur dramatics group from the ages of around six to twelve; it was the highlight of my childhood.

I was always the youngest there, but truly felt as if I was part of a family. Singing, dancing, acting, speaking, laughing - we did it all.

Then I went to high school - and I fell out of love with being on stage.

I fell out of love with a lot of things really - being confident, mainly.

It is hard to fake it when you do not want to make it anymore.

In my high school, it was tradition for us to put on a rather elaborate production every year as a pantomime as opposed to a traditional Christmas service; we hosted versions of Robin Hood, A Christmas Carol, and a few more tales injected with musical influences. Seeing those performers; I dreamed of being one too.

One class scene later where I was chosen to do a solo without even being present in the lesson where I was selected, I did not act after that.

But as I looked back and realised I had not been on stage in years, I could not help but recollect what joy being on the stage brought me.

I wished to get that confidence back from somewhere, to feel that joyous and full of life again - I remembered the man who encouraged it in me in the first place.

Putting a costume on always felt like a relief for me.

The above pictures are taken from when I was part of a local production we put on of a The Wizard of Oz inspired musical - with elements and tracks from The Lion King, Nancy Sinatra, and the stories of Dr David Livingstone and HM Stanley. An eclectic mix - but trust me, it worked.

If I could have one thing in this world, it would be a copy of that production we did; I would give anything to watch it back today.

I played two parts in that play - a main part of the cowardly lion, and a side-part as a train conductor before Dorothy made it to the Yellow Brick Road. Honestly, you could not write it.

The man behind it was a man called Clive, and he inspired so much greatness in me. I saw the passion he had for theatre, for performing, for people. He brought out the best in every life he came into, and never failed to make us all laugh.

Clive was a vicar who had spent his life volunteering, working with many local charities and setting up his own in the process; he even walked part of the Great Wall of China to raise money for a local hospice! But his true love was theatre, and he adored putting on productions that involved as much of the community as possible - tickets were always affordable, and as many volunteers were involved in the production process as possible.

In fact, being part of Clive’s productions was a family tradition for us; my aunty was in a unique version of The King and I as a child! For my sister and I to take on this huge assignment of playing main parts of Dorothy and the cowardly lion in The Wizard of Oz - we were so nervous; but deep down, we knew it was going to be so much fun.

Arguably, that was one of the best summers of my life.

Spending my days rehearsing songs I had sung a million times to myself before, strapping mic packs to my fur-covered back, profusely sweating under hot lights, seeing the smiling faces in the front row, then getting home knowing I would be doing the exact same thing tomorrow - it was pure joy.

I miss it, I do. I miss the happiness that performing brought me, and how it felt to be part of a real community. I have not done any acting since - but I do hope I can come back to it one day.

Unfortunately I cannot make the above picture any bigger (due to the poor quality and me not being able to find the original article!) but an article was written about mine and my sister’s performances in our local paper - it felt massive.

Clive was always honest with us, and never spared criticism where it was needed; he wanted the best performance out of us, even if majority of our ticket proceeds would go to charity and the audience was only members of the community.

We still went out there every night and gave it our all.

That is me at the front - the cowardly lion!

Being part of such a big theatre deal (in our small town in North Wales, anyway) felt like a really proud moment for me; it still goes down as one of the best things I have ever put myself forward for.

I remember being nervous to say I wanted to be as major a role as the cowardly lion; I was only eleven at the time, and was surrounded by adults, and teenagers whom were all older and more experienced than me.

Still, I defied my own odds and got the part. I still think about that.

I think about the confidence I had in myself to go for what I wanted whenever I am dealing with personal imposter syndrome, or professional criticism at work. I may be the youngest person in the room still, but I am in the damn room.

I deserve to be there - otherwise I would not.. you know, be there.

I try and emulate that confidence and self-belief as much as I can; having received my autism diagnosis in the last couple years, dealing with mental and physical health setbacks, family dynamic changes, job loss, and a lot more, it can be tough at times. But, I remember how consistent eleven year old me was.

It inspires just a little bit of greatness in the darkest of times.

But the point of this piece was to echo my appreciation for the man behind all this - Clive. I am twenty two now, and have not seen Clive since we wrapped our final performance of The Wizard of Oz, which was just before I turned twelve.

Ten years I have gone without performing - ten years without seeing the man that moulded my love for theatre, musicals, singing and acting.

I found out through a family friend that Clive was recently diagnosed with dementia, and I stayed up in bed last night thinking about how difficult it must be; watching the man who inspired greatness in so many people around the world not even recognise himself anymore.

The memories may begin to become more hazy for him, but I hope he understands the impact he has had on me, my sister, and so many young people across our community and around the world - there will never be another man like him.

So thank you, Clive, for teaching me what it is to feel loved - loved by a wealth of people who share the same passion as you, and what it is to fall in love - in love with a craft that delivers the best gift of all - a smile.

Those feelings will stay with me for the rest of my life.