Yoda continues teaching me the ways of the other realm. She says bliss is common when making contact with such a deep, profound part of ourselves. “Don’t be disappointed when the state fades. Only a master can maintain that energy for the duration of their corporeal lives.

“No, you are not a master.”

“Hey! Stop reading my thoughts,” I say playfully. I don’t actually mind when she peeks into my head since I trust her completely.

“One day,” she says. “Just answer one call at a time.”

“Are you not entertained?!” I shout amusedly at my empty bed, imitating Russell Crowe in Gladiator. “Have I not given you my all?”

Except nothing about my rehearsal is outstanding. Mediocre at best. I’m practicing for our final theater performance at the end of the year. Our task is to act out various scenes from scripts with depth and emotion, attempting to project that sensitivity onto an audience. We have finally started rehearsing actual theater seven weeks before the semester ends. I am alone in my room, standing in front of the mirror watching my painful attempts at acting. I beg my higher self to make a reappearance and teach me how to give to others what she gave to me, but she’s nowhere to be found. I’m still connected to my heart, but I feel like a robot every time I try to act. There is too much pressure to summon feelings, which are supposed to be private and only shared with people you trust.

Professor Nielson makes it look easy. She performs moving renditions of scenes from plays. I want to cry every time I watch her. “Vulnerability,” she says, “is the doorway to transformation. We as artists seek to provide the audience with a transformational experience, which can only come from an open heart.”

I look up the meaning of vulnerability. “The quality or state of being exposed to the possibility of being attacked or harmed, either physically or emotionally.” If that’s what it means, I’ve rarely been vulnerable in my life. I’ve seen glimpses of who I can be without all my defenses, but I don’t live in that reality yet. Professor Nielson is asking me to perform without my guards. I don’t know if I can. I’ve been behind a shield for so long, it’s still difficult for me to take down my protections. “Give your heart,” she says, “and you will find your power onstage.”

Professor Nielson suggests we read poetry, listen to music, or watch movies that move us in order to facilitate the opening of our hearts for our final monologues. I decide to watch movies. I rent Cold Mountain and Titanic from the library, two movies that always make me cry my eyes out. I watch the movies when I know Manda Panda won’t be home. I don’t want her to see me crying.