I'm sitting here with a 101 degree fever. I've just gotten dressed, and I'm about to go lead a short series of callbacks for the play that I'm directing. (Don't worry, I'm on antibiotics -- not contagious, just cranky.) When I was in college, I came down with a horrible case of mono right as I was to begin rehearsals for my thesis project. I could barely get out of bed, let alone articulate a coherent thought. But the moment I stepped into the room with a group of actors -- ready, hungry, anxious actors looking for engagement -- everything came back to me. There was a gust of energy that came from the sheer passion of the space. Then, of course, they left and I broke down into a useless mess on the floor.
This is how I know that I am meant to do this work. (And how I know I won't collapse in the middle of some poor actor's script reading.) Our art is alive. It is about human-to-human connections; it is kinetic.
So, when this is the ONLY thing I can manage to do when I can hardly eat, shower, or stand up? Yeah, I'd say that's a pretty good sign.