I made it through the front doors of 8 Fenway Tuesday morning thinking, “Is this what frostbite feels like? I think this is what frostbite feels like.”
I said hello to Chris who commandeers the lobby desk of the Conservatory like a friendly, short-haired mage who drops [r]s and available room knowledge with equal munificence.
I wound my way back to the side of the building where my studio sits on the 4th floor only to see a very able bodied student shouldering their way into the cramped, slow elevator I coulda used that morning.
The stairs it would be. I climbed and thought, “Why don’t they label the second floor 2.75 because of that extra flight they throw in for funsies?”
I finally completed the ascent to my studio.
Only I couldn’t see through my glasses because mask fog ?. I popped my specs on top of my head, dropped my two bags, peeled off my coat and unwrapped my scarf.
Only when I did, my muffler caught the temple tip of my defogging lenses, and the next thing I knew I heard the distinctive clack of my Warby Parkers on the tile floor.
I also cracked my phone screen an hour later that morning when trying to position it on a music stand for a self-tape because, duh, I left my tripod on my desk at home.
All this cracking reminded me of my conversation with Chris that morning. She was reading her new library book, and I asked her what the latest literature was.
It was a bestseller mystery series about a guy named Inspector Gamache (of course, I thought she said ganache) called How the Light Gets In.
“Oh, like the Leonard Cohen song,” I said.
“Yeah,” said my Massachusetts mystic, “They talk about the song in the book.”
I was referencing Cohen’s song, “Anthem” that says,
“Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”
Don’t you hate that, too?
I mean, there’s the initial comfort of oh, phew, my busted self gets some light shone in there because I’m banged up like a dragged-across-the-patio-too-many-times terra cotta pot.
Then there’s the part that wants to source my own C batteries for my survival kit flashlight, thank you very much.
This week I been busted, cracked, and as my British friends say so beautifully, shattered.
And Mr. Cohen was right. That is how the light gets in, dammit.
Through Cathy, Tom, and Stanley who sent us soup, rolls and cookies with a sage quote from Cookie Monster:
and through my college musical theatre class who sent us this gorgeous peace lily
and the perfect words
Through a seaside therapy day trip to Melissa-Lee’s Little Rhody-
Through more light rays shining into the cracks this week than I can name.
I’m grateful.
Where are some light sources giving you some needed sunshine this week? I’d love for you to notice how that phototherapy feels on those busted up zones.
I’m finding more and more those are the places of illumination entry.
Sending you my care bear stares today, and reminding you that there’s only one you, and folks need to hear the song that only you can sing. ?
Love much, Dan
ps I have to show you a few more pics from Warwick, RI today.
pps If you ever want to send someone gourmet soup and rolls that’ll make them feel really loved and cared for, Spoonful of Comfort is a great place to look. And the cookies are delish, too.
I’m a late processor. Late for what? I’m not sure.
I’m a take-my-time processor. That’s it.
When I was in London, ??my voice instructor would sometimes pour us both a whiskey and ginger before a lesson (in tea mugs).
I remember the end of one session while another was beginning, she sent me to the corner off-licence for supplies. That’s when 22-year-old me learned what a Moscow Mule was.
At some lessons she was sweet as pie, and other lessons she said things to me that made my throat catch, my stomach clinch, and tears sting my eye corners.
I never knew which teacher I’d be seeing that day. And I wondered why I felt stressed biking down to Brixton every week.
A year after I’d moved to NYC, I was walking down Second Avenue when in an 8-part harmony angel choir theophany moment ?, I stopped in my tracks and said out loud, “Sylvia was an alcoholic!”*
I just thought all Londoners drank that much. I did bartend in a pub, so I had plenty of evidence.
But yeah. A little slow in the evidence assimilation there.
As I tell you that, a list of dodged bullets runs like a dang-that-was-close news ticker through my young adult years.
You see, for various reasons in my childhood, my mind learned to file potentially painful information in the “Process Much Later” file. ?
While this has caused problems (ask the active paperwork inbox in my still-unpacked studio), it’s also brought benefits.
I’ve navigated scenarios so chaotic that if you proposed them in script form to Lifetime TV, they’d tell you to bring them something realistic.
My brain created all kinds of back door exits in response to life traumas that are very handy escape hatches when I encounter crap-tastic circumstances.
Don’t get me wrong. My lil-Dan coping mechanisms have wreaked their share of havoc.
Thousands of dollars worth of therapy and credit card interest later, I’m here to tell you I’ve come to a spot where I can usually meet my psyche’s brilliant survival tactics with understanding and gratitude.
They even work in my favor sometimes.
Big emotional event?–My mind organizes the ordeal into the deal-with-later file, and I know one day I’ll let the snot and tears dribble. But today I may just have to pay bills.
What are the things that little you did to cope that keep showing up today?
Did you know that your voice tells you about these kid skills too?
?Tongue tension, for example, is often a belief that you need to press back your expression because you might have run into negative consequences for letting out your feels.
?Pharyngeal constriction (intense whispery/constrained feeling) can link to earning love through meeting a perfectionistic/impossible standard.
?And hypofunctional phonation (not enough breath energy for a vibrant sound) can shine a light on areas where you’ve judged you don’t deserve things.
I remind myself, and I tell my students that these things are all tryina help you.
Your tight tongue is protecting you from the danger your expression got you in in the past.
Your constricting pharynx is trying real hard to keep you doing the things that get you love and acceptance.
And that stingy air flow is keeping that story alive about not deserving nice things so you don’t have to grieve over the years you’ve ID-ed with the deprivation that got shellacked on you as a kid.
I’ll often ask a student to pause and meditate into the spot that’s not doing what they want it to do.
They have a little conversation with their tongue root or their pharynx, and just like when you ask anybody a genuine question with the desire to understand, those parts of the body speak up.
When we can meet the parts of ourselves that seem to be getting in the way with empathy and compassion, we learn a lot.
I guarantee you it’s a lot more effective than shouting, “JUST RELAX!”
This week I invite you to notice the patterns little intelligent you cooked up to survive, and maybe give your baby psyche some props for their resilience brilliance.
When we invite these things to share their stories with us, they can mellow out, and they can even integrate themselves into some healthy adulting if we can partner with them in a gentle and conscious way.
And remember, beautiful you with your intricate assortment of survival skills, there’s only one of you, and folks need to hear the story that only you can sing.
Love much, Dan
ps *re: my London story, names have been changed, and I still talk out loud to myself on city streets.
pps here’s the bar where I worked in London. The Havelock Tavern. Still there in Brook Green. I enjoyed working there, and it’s where my love of cooking started.
The thing about the trash and recycling situation in our ‘hood is that we have to transport our household refuse to a far-ish away curb where the town trucks collect it.
When we first learned the ways of the community, I loaded our lil recycling bins and authorized orange trash bags into the Radio Flyer wagon and rattled my way to the aforementioned drop zone.
Now I make it happen with the seat down and a tarp in our lil green hatchback. ?
Last week it was raining.
I’d taught a full day in Boston, we’d put the boys in bed, I’d taught another lesson that evening, and by 9pm, the weather was still BYOArk. ?
“I’m gonna take the trash to the curb in the morning on my way to the train,” I announced before collapsing on the sofa.
The little Jiminy Cricket voice inside piped up and alerted me that this plan was much like the fabled “I’ll just get gas in the morning,” but I assured my conscience insect that this was a different deal.
Cut to Thursday morning.
I’m leaving the house with my two bags and mug of coffee and speed kisses, and it’s the same chunk of time I always allow to get to the train station, except I have to get the gahbage in the cah.
I sling it in the back and make my way to the dump site. “Flight of the Bumblebee” ?plays while I situate the bags and bins among my neighbors’ contributions, and I zoom my merry way toward the station.
Then the school bus intersection-blocks me. ?
And the kids are taking their SWEET time getting on.?
Then there’s the kid who’s waiting in the car with his mom who gets out after the kids get on the bus and saunters to the waiting doors. ?
(I make up a sad tale of why he’s waiting with his mom instead of with the other kids and say a prayer for him because maybe school sucks right now. But still! I gotta go, kid!)
Everything’s fine. I’m gonna make it. The trees are beautiful. The air is cool. I’m sill catching the earlier train, so there should still be a couple of parking spots on the near side of the tracks. More praying. ?
I get to the main road toward the station, and the half a mile stretch that’s usually clear is backed up. ?
I check the clock.
Still time.
Jesus, take the wheel and get me to the train on time.
The parking lot comes into view.
The train that originates at the Framingham station dings along and stops beside the platform. I’m sitting in traffic surveying the parking sitch while the train sits twenty feet away.
The. Parking. Spaces. Are. Full. ?
God grant me the serenity to figure out how to get this Scion to off-road across these tracks and into a spot legal or otherwise that won’t be noticed by traffic authorities.
Such a provision doesn’t emerge.
I must wait in the left turn arrow death lane to make the around-my-ass-to-get-to-my-elbow journey to the north parking lot.
I can still make it.
I drive at a speed that I’m positive will allow me ample braking time for pedestrians while also conveying me to the nearest spot to the track crossover.
I pull in. I park.
Phone ✅ wallet ✅ keys ✅
I jog-sprint up the crossover stairs two at a time, Chariots-of-Fire my way over the tracks, and shimmy down the stairs on the other side doing some clever choreo with my messenger bag and the old Tom’s tote I carry my apples and trail mix in.
I’m on the last landing when I hear the train brakes hiss and the fateful DING DING.
I will not be taking part in this particular train journey.
There she goes without me.
I did play out a running along the platform waving my hands shouting waaaaaaiiiiiiit for meeeeeeee scenario in my head, but I’d already nearly clotheslined myself with my bag strap hurtling down the metal stairs, so I’d already met my opportunities for humiliation quota.
Womp Womp.
Not gonna lie. When that train pulled out I felt like a three-year-old expecting Reese’s Pieces who’d just been served a plate of room temp boiled Brussels sprouts.
My ego scanned the morning for someone or something to BLAME!
The school bus!
No, that sauntering kid.
The traffic!
The Massholes that took my parking spot!
The minivan who didn’t go IMMEDIATELY when the left arrow turned green.
Then that real annoying gut grab when I arrived at the end of my accusation algebra.
As Elphaba so aptly belts, “It’s meeeeeeeeeeee ?.”
The equation solved for one Dan Callaway who coulda a) taken the trash out in the rain or b) left the house early.
Dammit Janet.
Here’s the good news for you, though, from my train debacle.
? I was only five minutes late for my first lesson. Phew. Then, the lesson after that had to cancel, so we had extra time to learn about breathing. woot!
? I saw a colleague I’d been meaning to talk to for a couple weeks getting off the train, so we were able to chat.
The great news is that yes, that train left the station. And as they like to say in the 12 Steps, rejection is protection.
Or as my girl Byron Katie taught me, you’ve been spared. That’s the only possibility.
There was another train. There’ll be another train.
Or maybe you even have a car and an EZPass—there’ll prolly be traffic, but there are transport possibilities.
And then there’s the list of other modes that may be available to you.
What’s your bye bye train?
Have you allowed ample time to let your toddler self rail against the unfairness of it all? Go ‘head—you gotta do it before you can see clearly. Let the rain fall and the storm clouds clear.
Now, what’s available to you so that you can get a little closer to Boston?
Phone a friend? ☎️
Call that teacher or coach that’s been popping up on your radar? ???
?Take out a scrap piece of paper and a pen and write down things that might be fun like ?“sing in front of folks and enjoy it,” ?“tell a great story in a theatre with terrific people,” or ?“write a story for me to tell that no one else seems to be telling right now.” ?
Are there some idears popping up that weren’t there when you started reading my sordid train narrative?
Hope so. Write em down!! ✏️
You can always email me with some ideas, and I can help you trouble shoot, too. I love cooking up crazy things for you to try.
So yes, the train left.
And clearly you weren’t meant to be on it. You know how I know? You weren’t on it.
Congratulations!
Start making your way to Boston another way, and you may end up in an awesome surprise destination you didn’t even know was on the conductor’s route. (This is almost always the case. See my post from January 2020 for anecdotal evidence. Thanks, Life.)
No matter where you are on your journey, REMEMBER THIS! Yes, I’m yelling. There’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story that only you can sing.
Love much, Dan
ps You know I gotta hit you with the family Halloween pic. We had a blast trick or treating in our ‘hood, and people were so EXCITED just to see other humans having fun together.
pps And I liked these shots I grabbed of the Framingham station on a much less harried day.
It started the day we said, “At least the boys sleep through the night.“
The hubris alarm sounded in the guard tower surrounding Mount Parentis, and the child rearing gods said, “Initiate spoke-too-soon protocols for the Callaway household.” ⚡️
Our younger one explores all manner of nocturnal disruption technologies these days.
The standard event occurs at any point in the dark time when there’s a sleep cycle shift change.
From the far reaches of the boys’ room, a clear, high-overtone rich screlt (scream-belt) invades my dream about showing up to school with no pants.
“Daaaaaaadddyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!”
After this successful audition for Judas in JC Superstar comes the determined elephant rampage toward the bedroom door, and then it’s time to share the material he’s prepped for the Off-Bway revivals of Stomp and Blue Man Group. With more belting.
So far, no amount of “What would Super Nanny do?” or “What did that gentle parenting course teach us about this scenario?” 3-am questioning has availed an answer. We’re figuring it out as we go.
Number one way to guarantee that you experience an unwanted event in its fullest form is to judge someone else who’s going through said event.
I’ll explain.
Friend posts on social, “So my little one was up AGAIN at fill-in-the-ungodly-hour-here, so here we are doing some crazy thing while everyone should be sleeping.”
Cue my self satisfied mind saying, “Well, if you’d just read The Happiest Baby on the Block like I suggested, you wouldn’t be experiencing these problems that are clearly rooted in your failure to properly teach your child to sleep through the night in utero.”
Yep–you wanna have it happen or do it, judge somebody. This is all anecdotal and experiential, but I’m pretty sure it’s right.
Oh, also, if you wanna feel contracted, self-righteous, tense, and a little smoldery in your tummy, judging is a direct path to that as well.
As any parent will tell you, we were all such terrific mummies and daddies before we were blessed with 24-7 human wellbeing patrol.
You got any of those? Moments where you were like, “Dang, I was way harsh about that, and now I’m all samesies but even more.“?
Silver lining side-note–We did have some good group productivity in the wee dark hours.
The boys apparently inherited my penchant for early morning get er done.
My message to you from today’s bleary-eyed missive is two-fold.
1. Notice whom and what you like to get judgy about.
and
2. Remember that this will change.
Elaboration for numero uno–The things I get judgy about are express train maps right to the places where I’m the meanest to me. If I’m unable to give myself some grace, I’m not gonna give it to you.
No matter how nice and encouraging I’m telling myself I’m being about your issues, I can only give you the love and understanding I’m willing to give me.
Notice this in your life when you’re all, “I’m much nicer to my loved ones than I am to myself.”
Do a lil observation of the thoughts you don’t let out of your mouth. Are they 100% charitable?
And expansion on #2– when it comes to your circumstances and the ones we’re judging in others, let’s remember that they’re gonna change. That’s why all the clichés are about change.
Zoom back 10 years. That was a different scene, right? Were you doing some things back then that now-you has a better handle on?
And when you’re singing, see how this might be helpful? ?
I get to see a lot of students managing the ill effects of a predominately Western classical music education–a world full of wrongs and rights and shame judgments based on the sounds you’re tryina make come out of your mouth.
The only wrong sound you can make is one that hurts. Don’t repeat those.
All the other ones have some use and some place somewhere.
That’s where the time and change comes in.
Find the people who can help you make the sounds you wanna make to be the storyteller you wanna be, and commit to showing up to the soundmaking lab over and over.
In time, you’re gonna say nicer things to yourself about the enjoyable vibrations coming through your vocal folds, and you’ll look back and say, “Look how much that changed.”
Go gently, you beautiful soul. Give love and generosity to you, and as Mrs. Lovett so wisely counseled Sweeney Todd before his psychotic break at the end of Act I, “Time goes quickly. See? Now it’s passed…waaaait.”
Oh, wait.
You get the point.
It’ll change. And we have some influence on the trajectory of that change.
Most importantly, though, remember that there’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.
I drove to NYC this weekend to teach and see some of my former student supahstahs be fabahlahs at 54 Below.
On my way down Interstate 84 through Massachusetts’s autumnal glory?, I found myself in a behind-2-cars-going-similar-speeds-side-by-side situation.
When the offending left lane pokey butt finally moseyed to the right, it was like Star Wars reverse warp speed in my little green Scion as a stream of harried New Englanders whooshed by–very eager to get to Connecticut on a Saturday morning.
The car causing all this kerfuffle? A Prius. It’s always a Prius.
I normally refrain from always and never in my moral pronouncements, but you tell me, even if you are a responsible and considerate Prius driver (and I know several), does this truth not bear out in your experience?
After the Escalades with Greenwich dealer plate frames barreled by, I scooted my lilttle electric wasabi butt around my fellow Toyota motorist and made my merry way Manhatttan-ward.
Side note, I was excited to take a leisurely Saturday morning drive along the Merritt Parkway, but folks be cray on that road. I was like, calm down, people. Can you not see the stone bridges, 50 mph speed limit signs, and lack of shoulder?
Prii (Pree-eye), though, they always make me think of life’s unexpected delays.
You had any of those lately?
On Saturday, I got to teach not one, but two of my dear students from LA days–back in the little blue singing cottage on Vineland Blvd.
Those were some days. I swear I encountered more wildlife in and around that building in North Hollywood than I did growing up in the cowntry in NC.
I lost one student when a mouse decided to run across a rafter mid-lesson, and there was also the possum-raccoon death match ?in the crawl space that I heard while updating quickbooks. The loser of that battle alerted my olfactory senses to the altercation’s outcome about four days later. (It was the possum.)
But back to my LA beebees. One I started teaching when she was 12 and her email address included the words “onbroadway,” and the other had just finished up at USC.
Saturday, my 12-year old Broadway dreamer showed up a 25-year-old performer with NYU degree in hand and tons of skill, and my USC grad recently earned their masters at ACT and is navigating this new landscape as a trans actor.
In both lessons we looked at the shape of the industry as far as we could understand it today, and after some discussion, we shrugged our shoulders and said, “Let’s sing.”
In both conversations, I came back to the same truth–storytelling is worth it.
I looked at both of these tremendous artists that I had the privilege to share some time with on Saturday, and I saw a world of possibilities in both of them.
?I saw collaborations with friends ?creating new work in small-ish rooms that would ask new questions that would have to travel to bigger rooms one day ?new points of view that I’d never considered that these two beautiful voices would sing about.
Yes, the industry’s a cluster. And commercial theatre is gonna make choices that make money. We know this.
The new voices we want to hand the microphone to, that’s on you and me. And small beginnings are beginnings.
The industry might feel like the Prius going under the speed limit in the left lane. But eventually, a lane will open. Hell, you might even have to drive on the shoulder for a little while. And then there’ll be times when you just have to make your own road.
And this brought me back to the central truth of why most of us are here. We love stories. We wanna tell them. We wanna sing them. And I’m here to tell you that it’s worth it.
You can tell them. You can sing them. And I believe you can even create ways to pay your bills doing it.
I wrote a musical. I started working on it in 2012. It’s been percolating, plot changing, song shifting. Characters have appeared and disappeared.
To go further it has to get on its feet, and I need collaboration.
But here’s the thing–if it doesn’t go any further, I’m so grateful I wrote it. Writing it has been precious, and living in the story has made me a better human.
I haven’t made any money from it. Not many folks know about it or have heard the songs.
But so far, it’s been worth it.
What you do is worth it. By itself, it’s worth it.
So let’s take the thing and take steps to share it because chances are there are folks out who’d be touched, moved, delighted, and maybe healed by your courage to open your heart and invite them in.
No shade to hybrids, you silent shifty vehicles. You help us slow down, and maybe you even saved us from an unpleasant altercation with an Escalade from Greenwich later. Who knows?
One thing I DO KNOW–There’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.
How many it’s-not-a-sprint-it’s-a-marathon 26.2 sticker clichés can you pull up?
I get the whole long-haul wisdom of the massive distance race imagery. The thing about this analogy is that it’s filled with stressful givens–
??♂️There’s a slew of lean game-face runners with their numbers pinned to their shirts ready to pound you into the pavement.
⏱It’s a one-time event.
?There are no nights of sleep involved (or other forms of rest).
?There can only be one winner.
Enter your life as an artist and/or singer. You look around at all the create-y people around you, and someone said “It’s not a sprint, it’s a marathon,” and not only do you think there’s a race, but you think y’all are competing for the same finish line.
A ridiculously talented and beauty-hearted student came to their lesson this week, and when I asked them what they were liking about school, they said, “The people.” ?
When I asked them what was tough, they said, “Feeling like I have to catch up.” ?
Number one I was so grateful this student opened up and shared this with me. We took a few minutes to play around with this thought—I have to catch up.
The student was so game and willing. We took that thought–I have to catch up— and asked, “Is that true?”
It was a gift for me to watch this singer go right inside to their heart to see what the answer might be. Very quickly, I saw the student’s face open like sunshine peaking behind a cloud.
They told me there was nothing to catch up to, nothing to compete with, nothing to do but do their stuff and learn their things.
And as they imagined their peers succeeding, a bubbly joy fizzed up in the room.
Then they sang their song, and I freakin cried because their heart was so wide open and beautiful. I have the best job.
When I compete, I contract. I compare. I look outside and ask what’s the minimum I have to do to be better than.
Competition can be really fun when there’s a game and agreed-upon rules.
But artists get really jacked up when we start to make up a rules-y game where there isn’t one.
You hear folks say, “You gotta play the game.” What game is that, exactly?
Thing is, when you show up and do your work in a way that brings you satisfaction, find the people who can help you do your work with skill and generosity, and share that work, things start to move.
People start to say thank you. And then surprises start to happen.
People you don’t know hear about you from those people who said thank you before, and they ask you if you wanna come play. And so on.
Let’s review—
?? Show up
? Talk to/invest in your people—coaches, teachers, collaborators
?? Share your things in all the ways you can
⚽️ This gets rolling.
(But it’s not a game!)
It is, however, fun! And scary. And challenging. And terrific. And unfamiliar. And satisfying.
Truth is, some things (most things) take longer than we want (double marathon category), and some things show up more quickly than we feel we’re ready for.
Both things are a mercy.
I look back on the things I wanted when I was in my 20s, and if I’d had the skill and integration to get those things, I’m not convinced I had the character to sustain.
Delays in my life have been gifts.
Didn’t feel like that at the time, of course, but the look-back is instructive.
So, if you’re racing and you’re tired, I invite you to look at the reality around you. Are all these crazy folks even competing in the same event?
Maybe you can stop by one of those nice people holding the paper cones of cold water and orange slices, catch your breath, and ask yourself what kind of course you even want to be on.
Here’s permission.
And no matter what course you’re jogging down today, remember that there’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story on only you can sing.
Today’s a big birthday for a dear mentor, teacher and friend—One of the biggest reasons I do what I do.
I met Catherine McNeela at a singing competition when I was in high school.
I remember thinking she dressed a lot cooler than the other teachers parading their prize pupils around the halls of whatever college we were at.
She invited me to study Music Theatre at Elon College after kindly counseling me on the phone that one of Tevye’s monologues I learned for the Mount Airy High School production of Fiddler on the Roof wouldn’t be the best selection for my audition.
I followed her advice and performed an equally ill-chosen speech from Tom Stoppard’s The Real Thing.
After singing “Vittora mio core” and then doing my very best Alan Campbell impression of “Sunset Boulevard” –complete with jacket-over-the-shoulder cross stage right– the folks at Elon said, “He can sing. Let’s hope we can teach him to act and dance.”
I rolled up the next fall not knowing a jazz shoe from a Reebok. And you shoulda seen my face when they explained what a dance belt was.
I arrived in Cathy’s studio a very capable brain ? attached to a disconnected, terrified body.
One day I sang “Anyone Can Whistle.”
I’d struggled through the rep Cathy’d assigned me that semester—unable to connect, clueless about how to move air out of my face, and singing flat a lot. Womp womp.
That day, though, I stood in the crook of the piano, Sharon LaRocco, piano goddess of the ages on the keys ?, looked into the corner behind Cathy’s door and sang,
“What’s hard is simple. What’s natural comes hard. Maybe you could show me How to let go Lower my guard Learn to be FREE ? Maybe if you whistle… Whistle for me.”
Cathy nodded her head and said, “You’ve thought about this.”
I had.
I let myself sing about things I believed if anyone knew I was thinking—traumas, buried secrets, my daily dance with self-loathing—a shame pit the size of Gibsonville, NC, would open and swallow me.
But no shame chasm gaped, and no one pointed and scoffed.
It was just me and two brilliant artists in the room sharing music and recognition of the truth.
I learned that day it was a little safer to feel.
I also learned that day that when you sing, people can’t see what you’re thinking about. They just know if you invited them in.
I learned to unlock the door and open it just a crack that day at Elon College.
Flanked by her illustrious LP library and her snow globe menagerie, Cathy challenged, nurtured, called out, inspired, and encouraged me. I’m one of hundreds of students who can say the same thing.
Did you know that this door to your heart is the secret to all impossible-to-compete-with sparkliness?
It’s the voice print that only you are.
It’s your diamond human soul that invites all the other diamond souls to come to your party.
You say welcome here to all my human mess, confusion, working it out, love, guffaws, sarcasm, compassion, understanding, and the occasional fart.
And the person who’s there to hear your story knows it’s a legit invitation. They can’t help but come in and have a slice of that Ina Garten chocolate cake you’re serving up.
The reason we don’t do it (invite folks in like that) is because it feels like nothing.
You didn’t make you show up on this planet with your glittering self, so letting people into that is super humbling and real real uncomf for the ego who likes working, earning, and deserving.
Yes, be excellent in your work. Give yourself your best.
Then know you’ve done your work. Feel your heart pound as you step in front of folks, raise your sternum a little bit, let a thought arise, and welcome people in.
Try it out in the everyday, too. See if you don’t give a little lift to the person slinging your morning coffee. I’ll be interested to hear.
And always remember—there’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.
Love much,
Dan
ps Remember I’m going to be in NYC Saturday Oct. 16 teaching at the American Opera Center studios. (They don’t care if we belt.)
There are a few times left, so just email me and let me know you wanna work together. Your heart’ll be so open you’ll be Care Bear starin’ all the way down 7th Ave.
(Rate is 150/hr, 75/half hour. Proof of vaccination is required at the Opera Center.)
pps I can’t just tell you about Ina Garten’s life-changing chocolate cake and not hook you up with the recipe. Here you go! Cathy McNeela, you deserve a slice of this today. A chorus of grateful students and I say thank you and we love you.
One habit I’ve picked up since the boys were babies is wiping stuff on the back of my shorts.
I can’t single out the moment when I looked at the banana puree on my index finger and decided that grinding it into my khaki cargos was a lot easier than walking over to that kitchen towel hanging in front of the sink.
But I crossed the threshold, and now I’m an incorrigible wipe-things-on-my-butt kinda guy.
Every few days Melissa will ask, “What’s that on your shorts?”
No memory.
Just an orange streak of something that happened at second breakfast.
How did it come to this? —Presenting my person in public with a kaleidoscope of colors swiped in indiscriminate diagonals across my hiney–
Probably the same way that habit you’ve been rocking for a while instantiated itself into your neural pathways.
One day you tried a thing, and it kinda worked.
If it was singing, it got the sound to come out.
Interpersonal? It got the person to leave you alone?
Professional– It made the boss-like person think you had it together.
So then you hit repeat. And again.
Soon you were practicing this habit, and before you knew it you were sporting crusty green smears on your keister.
This is when we have to step back and take a look at what we’re actually practicing.
My students in the MFA Teaching Lab reminded me of an adage last Friday— practice doesn’t make perfect. Practice makes permanent.
Is that thing you do bringing joy and satisfaction into your life? Do things flow better when you do it?
Or does it have that really annoying quick fix feel? That bothersome but true gut grab that this isn’t sustainable.
How about your singing?
Is there a challenge or two that you could use a magic wand for?
Are there sounds you think are unmake-able for you that if you’re honest with yourself would feel really great to make?
Joyful connection and confident skill you know could be a thing if you just knew the way in?
I have a solution.
If you’re gonna be in or around NYC on Saturday, October 16, email me back here and type one of two things—
?“Dan, I wanna book a lesson time with you on that Saturday so I can get some tools to get my connection, confidence, and skills rolling.”
??“Dan, I wanna join that small class you’re teaching Oct 16 from 6-9pm on how I don’t have to forget about my vocal technique at all—in fact, I can make it my authentic storytelling superpower. Please hold my spot.”
I’ll email you back, and we’ll make a plan for what you’re gonna work on.
?Or come to a Red Sox game and have a lesson while you’re at it.
Hey, check out this sign across from Fenway Park—if those lightbulbs could talk, huh?
I love spotting beautiful things around Boston.
I hope you’ll notice those things you do this week (AKA our habits) and ask yourself, “Is this bringing satisfaction and joy?”
And give yourself a gentle listen for the answer.
If you’re asking about my nighttime cereal habit, then Yes! Yes it DOES bring satisfaction. AND joy.
And coffee. I mean, what is life, even, without coffee?
All right—I’ll ask me about my habits. You ask you about yours. Deal.
And email me here and tell me you wanna get some tools that’ll change the game for you in NYC on Saturday, Oct. 16. One-on-one or in a small, brave class 6-9pm.
And you’ll see what may or may not be staining the posterior of my pants.
And always remember—there’s ONE YOU—and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.
Love much, Dan
ps I claim total schoolmate I-know-him pride on Daniel J. Watts. Did you see what he did last night at the Tonys?
You know the folks who make you step back and say “day-uuuuuum!”? That’s Daniel.
I got this pair of Fry’s boots a little over a year ago.
I been lusting after a pair of these ever since my spensive-magnet eyeballs ??? spotted a pair in the DSW a few years back, but the price tag was a lil steep on that adjunct salary.
But I finally got me a pair. ?
Found a great deal. Just the right shape, just the right shade of brown.
I wore them to teach masked Musical Theatre Literature last fall and got a nice round of compliments on my fancy handcrafted leather kicks. Thanks y’all.
But by lunch my heels were a screamin.
That handcrafted leather seam in the back of the boot was rubbing a red swollen crease right below my leather loving achilles.
Plus, my left pinky toe was none too pleased.
I wore them a few more times saying the magic words, “Break-a in-acadabra,” but it’s been a slow slog.
So, the other Friday when I was gonna meet my Masters students for the first time, I thought it was the day for my hooves to be shod with the fancy stuff.
I tried them on, and I thought, hey, these are a lot comfier than I remembered. I think these are finally breaking in!
I threw my brown messenger bag over my shoulder (a forty-something professor look I’m noticing is kinda basic in Boston as the kids say), kissed Melissa and the boys, and headed out the door.
I did grab a pair of trusty lace-up boots that I knew wouldn’t hurt me and threw them in the passenger floorboard just in case.
By the time I parked at the train station, I had that lil gut feeling— the one you don’t wanna listen to :/— that my shoe choice wasn’t gonna work out.
But I thumped that lil shoe angel off my shoulder in favor of my shiny leather risk bootsies. I left my trusty lace-ups behind and flung my feetsies to the fatesies.
I was about 100 steps past Fenway Park when I my grave miscalculation became apparent.
By the time I arrived to the bottom of the four flights of stairs up to my teaching studio, I was walking like the dude who rode the water ride too early in the day at Six Flags.
I stopped in the bathroom for a little TP MacGyver-ing, but that was about as helpful as you’d think stuffing crumpled wads of poor man’s Scott tissue in your shoes would be.
I made the ascent to the studio and taught just fine through the morning, but then I had to WALK somewhere to get some food.
I grimaced my way to the fancy Berklee dining hall I heard tell about when the dining manager informed me that I was getting free faculty coffee in the wrong place (newbie problems).
The problem was it was full of students. And lines. It was like the cafeteria in FAME, and I’m still getting used to being around humans again. Coupled with the desire to scream, MY DOGS ARE KILLING ME! GET OUT OF MY WAY!—Couldn’t do it.
My heels told me in no uncertain terms that my next destination needed to be the CVS on Mass Ave, so through the streets I limped.
I did catch this cool photo on my way, though—love all that architecture. I bought a pack of purple and hot pink gauze and those sticky heel pads you’re supposed to put in your flats. They had a lovely design.
I collapsed on a bench outside an apartment building and took off my boots like I was auditioning for the trench foot number in the musical version of All Quiet on the Western Front.
I gave my poor feetsies some September vitamin D and proceeded to wrap my dogs like I was the principle dancer with Les Ballets Trockadero—go drama or go home. ?
Once I had my pink patterned heel pads in place (2 in each boot, thank you) and my left pinky toe individually wrapped (I was getting a mean blister), I was ready to make my way to meet my new grad students.
It did help. I’d progressed from a oh-he’s-done-for-the-season hobble to a why’s-that-guy-walking-so-slow-and-upright shuffle.
Class was great (I stayed seated), and I ginger-footed my way back past Fenway to the train platform and eventually to my trusty lace-up boots looking up at me from the floorboard saying, “I know you missed me.”
My tale’s moral?
Sometimes you wait and wait for that fancy thing, and then you get it, and you’re all whoopsie, this is not a good fit.
You remember back to that time when you felt the contracted, hold-up feeling urging you to choose the broken-in brown boots for that day, and you’re all like dang. Shoulda listened.
The shiny boots are not delivering the amount of awesome you forecast.
These things happen—and a lot of times, we’re spared from the fancy things we think we need. I can rolodex through several instances when shoes went mercifully out of stock.
I can also tell you many a tale about buying that pair at max markup and wearing those freakin foot crushers until friends had to team-lift me to get some help.
But if your fancy foot fashion is currently causing you a great deal of podiatric pain, go get all the hot pink gauze and stylish heel pads you need to walk the mean streets dodging all those aqua-haired emo musical prodigies trudging around in their Doc Martens.
And when you finally get your comfy shoes back on and power walk all the way to your office like Richard Simmons just drank a large Dunkies iced coffee with pumpkin swirl, you’ll be that much more grateful for a pair of sensible sneaks to carry you from A to B—as well as legs. ?= gracias.
And no matter what’s on your feet right now (I just got socks), remember that there’s only one a you, and folks need to hear the story that only you can sing.
Love much,
Dan
ps I did make it to the Berklee dining hall the next week, and they’ve got the goods. I particularly enjoyed the TWO chocolate chip cookies I ate ?? and watching the world go by on Mass Ave as I finished prepping for my Friday class.
I was driving the boys around Holliston, Mass, last week.
It’s got all the New England chahm and just enough pothole patches to make it feel accessible. ?
This is what I mean—a few weeks ago we drove through Manchester-by-the-Sea on our way back from Gloucester, and I was like, y’all this is too much.
When I stopped at the full service gas station to pump my own gas thank you very much, the circa-long-time-ago houses nestled around me were precise, preened pictures dripping with window box flowers reflected in their preserved runny glass windows.
The sea peaked between steep-pitched roof lines, and the breeze swayed the weeping willows’ shaggy haircuts just so.
IT WAS TOO MUCH!
It was like one time on tour in Sacramento when I was making that tour money, and my friend Tregoney Shepherd and I did a gastronomical junket through Napa and San Francisco.
After three days of foie gras and micro greens paired with a perfect Sauvignon Blanc, I needed a fatty cheeseburger and a milk shake.
But so far, Holliston has a solid mix of make-you-wanna-puke-in-the-best-way charm while you still feel like you better be on your game when you order your large Dill-icious turkey sandwich at the Superette. (AND they have dollah cawfee ☕️).
So, we’re on one of the main drags, and I’m imagining what’s in the display case at Gaetano’s Bakery and what kinda beers they got at Crafted when I spot a little sign that says Aesop’s Fable BOOK store ??over a door tucked around the curve and on the lower level of this building. AHHH!
Too late, though, I missed the street, so I drove a big loop around town and decided to pass by again when I headed home.
As I approached the little enclave de commerce again, I missed another opportunity to turn on the little semicircular back street where Aesop sat, so I made my way around to the other end and made a right.
While I wasn’t about to extract both toddlers from their carseats and explore on foot, my search was rewarded with the excitement of an indie bookshop visit in my future, and I scoped out some of the other back-basement businesses in the building.
There was a mom and her 12-year-old kid walking their dog on the sidewalk, and I thought, that’s sweet. Why are they looking at me sideways?
I found out when she flagged me down through my open window and said, “Hey there—you’re driving the wrong way down a one-way street.”
Joops. ?
My NC license plate and I turned around in the nearest parking lot and headed back past the bookstore in the correct direction where I saw the prominent do-not-enter/one way sign that I’d missed while assessing Holliston’s quaint-meets-down-to-earth score.
As we drove past stone walls and slowed down for a wild turkey crossing, I noticed how my body felt when I learned of my traffic infraction.
My stomach tightened up. The muscles in the front of my neck felt all pins and needles like your foot waking up. And my tongue got all acidy.
My face flushed, and I felt a similar sensation as the time Jeff Lawrence pushed me white-shorts-butt-first into a doo doo brown mud puddle in first grade in front of a hoard of cackling second graders.
And I thought to myself—what’s up with this intense feeling when I find out I’m doing something clueless and technically wrong in a new place?
What does doing something wrong in public view bring up?
Why’s this embarrassment so inTINSE? (You gotta say it in New Zealander dialect.)
Then, of course, I thought about you and how you must feel when you try to learn a new thing with your voice or take a risk in an audition or wonder what choice’ll be most effective—
But we get stuck because we imagine mean table people holding our career fate in their hands rather than a well-meaning pedestrian warning us we’re about to careen into an intersection where no-one’s expecting a car to careen.
What did you learn about being wrong?
What did that mean for you? And do you experience a shame body takeover when you do something a lil embarrassing in front of folks?
I’m just curious.
I don’t have a solution to stop it—It’ll happen to me again.
I mean, it did this week when I helped myself to coffee in the school cafe where I thought a colleague told me that faculty got free coffee. See?
I’m gonna be playing the I’m-new-here card for at least five years.
But here I am—telling you about it. I made it. Phew.
So the trick is to be willing to feel the feels, learn that street is one-way next time I go to Aesop’s, and that I have to get my free coffee at the other spot between 7 and 9am.
I’m remembering a thing that Barbara Deutsch taught me. She told me to call fear discomfort. You can handle discomfort, she said. Yep.
That helps me move forward.
This new thing? Discomfort. I’ve done that before. I can move through this.
See if that helps you.
When you feel scaredy shamey—discomfort.
Oh yeah, I’ve done discomfort before. I’ve done hard things before. I can walk through this. Might need some of Charles Shaw’s finest and Ben and Jerry’s, but I can do this.
Yes, yes you can.
And remember–there’s only one you. And folks need to hear the story that only you can sing.
pps I made it through week one at BoCo Berklee–Loving the place and my students. I’ve also got a little bit of time in the week to teach you, so email me here if you need a lesson! We’ll get you on the books.
