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This is what happened when I leaped–and why I’m gonna need to buy thermal undies

June 29, 2021 / dancallaway

Last May I expounded on oval pegs and told you I was gonna fill you in about my most recent elliptical cylinder epiphany–

–when I realized I was tryin’a hammer an oval peg into a circular hole–so I bagged up my peg purchase and headed to the customer service counter at Lowe’s.

I told you they have a flex return policy.

Last spring, I got an email from the Chair that Elon University was not offering me a full time contract for next academic year.

It felt like that scene from Bridesmaids when Rebel Wilson tells Kristen Wiig that she needs to move out.

Administration said I could fill a part time contract.

When I did the math, it meant I’d do 90% of the work I did as a full time faculty and get 35% less salary.

I cried.

I’d known in my gut-heart for a while that my season at Elon was ending.

But I love my students, my alma mater in general, and I’d become cozy in that well dad didn’t mean to miss my recital again kinda way.

When I read the Chair’s email, I was sad.

At the same time, I heard down in my gut-heart, “This is a good thing.”

Or as they say in the 12 Steps: rejection is protection.

I did weigh it. I cooked up ways to cobble together the adjunct salary, cover benefits, and fund groceries and mortgage payments from private teaching.

But the choice became clear once I did a little role play. I imagined you sitting in front of me. You asked, “Dan, should I take this offer?”

My immediate answer to you was, “Absolutely not.”

Melissa agreed. She was there before I was. She’s good at sharing her POV and letting me get my own answers.

I took a deep breath and had the phone call with our program director. He was classy, kind, and wished me well. I hung up, and I felt lighter. I felt excited. And uncertain. Future = ?‍♂️

Luckily, many years as an actor made the hmmmm what the hell is gonna happen next sensation very familiar. I didn’t have health insurance for a family of four to think about at those times, but still.

You’ve been here, too, right? I can tell by your face.

Are you there now? I sense you may be. And I’m here for it with all the empathy.

And I want to give you some tewlz ? to make the what’s going ooooonnn-intensive portions of your life a little more civilized.

Here they are.

? Tewl Number One: Talk to yourself like a decent parent talks to their kid.

Do you know about Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood?

It’s the animated spinoff ofMister Rogers’ Neighborhood where you can learn things like anger management, that grownups are sposed to come back, and giving yourself squeezes.

I recommend their short life lesson jingles for effective adulting.

Daniel’s Dad–

–always speaks in this low laryngeal whisper, and I think, who talks like that? Daniel’s dad–duh.

One day I was real barky with the boys, and it wasn’t going well. I decided just for funsies to talk like Daniel’s dad. I felt ridiculous, and the boys calmed the boop down.

Cool! I put on the DT-daddy voice on the regular now.

I even infuse my self-talk with a little low breathy parental patience. I slow down and get gentler. And I also have a good laugh because I’m all PBS Kids up in my psyche.

Have a little practice with your vocal tract shaping and choose your most comforting parental/caretaking figure. Give a go at saying things to yourself in their voice.

Even when I can’t help being a meanie to me, switching up the vocal sends me in a kinder direction.

And your Julie Andrews impression will be on point.

? Tewl Number Two: Write down what you do have some planning power over

There’s always something you have agency over.

Even if it’s, “I’m gonna sit here, breathe slow, and listen to these birdies singing.” ??(There’s a really good Daniel Tiger song about deep breaths, BTW)

When things shake and you don’t know what’s up–hello 2020/21–there’s always somewhere you can exert some influence.

Make your bed, donate a box of stuff that’s no longer sparking joy :), or Venmo 5 dollah to a friend and tell them to buy a coffee.

On the actor-singer side, you can visualize who you want to be when people start getting back into rooms and pretending to be characters expressing their in-most feelings through song.

Do you want more confidence with something vocal technique-y so you know it’ll work well in front of people? Reach out to someone who can help with that. Or Google! (ps I know a guy.)

*tiny action → call voicey person or google that thing

Are you recalibrating your self-relationship/ID in being a singing storyteller? Terrific.

A little journal barf is helpful–also reaching out to a friend who’s going through their version or a mentor who’s been through it (and undoubtedly going through a different iteration now).

*tiny action → invite friend or mentor to coffee

Do you feel generally stuck in a morass of Cheetos and Netflix?

Talk to yourself as your chosen caretaker archetype, put on your outside shoes, and go for a walk. Without some form of input from your phone.

You may still want to take it though, because you’ll get ideas and want to talk them into Google Keep.

*tiny action → go for a 30 minute walk, breathe, listen, look, smile, record your ideas when they percolate up.

?Tewl Number Three: Have a fro yo ? and make a God box.

You know I’m a faithy person.

On my dresser, there’s a box with several folded pieces of paper inside.

When there’s a thing I can’t solve or want to know the outcome of yesterday, I write it on a slip of paper, fold it, and I put it in the box.

Then when my brain wants to ruminate, I say in my best Daniel Tiger Dad voice, “God’s got it.”

I have to do this a lot. And sometimes I don’t, and I obsess. But when I remember to say God’s got it, I’m more peaceful.

No need to call it a God box. It can be just the place where you put things until life does its sorting out thing.

This helps me, and I hope it’ll help you, too.

Oh, and then you go get a fro yo. If there’s a Menschie’s near you, all the better.

There you go, my friend.

I hope you’re becoming more discerning about pegs and their respective compartments in your life.

And I hope you’re growing in love for yourself so that you choose what’s joyful. And to the things that aren’t a match, I hope you’ll say, “Thank you for the offer, and that’s not a good fit.”

And always remember–there’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story that only you can sing.

Love much,
dan

ps So, the leap from Elon worked out a lot better than I even knew it would.

The Callaway family is heading north to Boston where I’ll be starting a new position at The Boston Conservatory at Berklee in September.

I couldn’t be more grateful and excited for this new chapter. Stay tuned for all kinds of news from the Dunkin Donuts mothership.

pps My friend Jeanette Thompson, a remarkable human and world class soprano now serving on the voice faculty at the University of Miami shared this with me this week–

In this interview she shares her journey through bafflement, struggle, racial oppression, hurt, forgiveness, and faith to find herself in the perfect spot–a culmination of many slips of paper in her God box over many years.

I’ll tell you, my jaw dropped a few times as I listened.

I got to sing with Jeanette when I was in NYC, and she is just the best. I learned a ton from her life, stories, wine expertise, and musicianship. Enjoy. 30 mins.

And she’ll take you to church at the end when she sings.

ppps Even though I’m gonna be bizzy in Boston, I’m still available on the Zoom for lessons and such, so reach out if you need me. Best way is to email me here.

I’m also cooking up ways we can work together in the fall that centers on you, your goals, and community that’ll support each other, so stay tuned for that. ?

Our wee little house in LA sold for what ??? A meditation on your work’s value

June 21, 2021 / dancallaway

Hey, you luscious garden tomato ?

You might remember our 800 square foot stucco house sitting on the hillside of Stratford Road in Highland Park.

I planted a garden in our front yard, and we got some beautiful beets and rainbow chard out of those raised beds. Lookiiiit!

Me back in the day with carrots and my fave veggie….parsnips!

We also had a guava tree that stranger danger neighbors helped themselves to–and a persimmon in the back that mysteriously lost its fruit every October.

The Highland Park Fruit Thieves Association had their finger on the pulse of our front yard harvest season.

I loved the view from the living room window out across the Mount Washington neighborhood– stunning sunrise light usually splashed eastward across the hills.

I’d be awake, and Melissa would be trying to fall back asleep, offended and baffled by my obscenely early waking time.

When we decided to move, our realtor, Winnie, told us our house could sell for a higher number than I’d even considered.

This was great news because Melissa had bought the house in her early twenties (pretty badass, right?) right before the 2007/8 market crash (which made it a pain in the ass for a badass).

The house kept her in LA for years longer than she planned to stay because she was upside down like many mortgage holders.

Worked out great for me because I got to meet her!

So, to know that we were gonna sell and be a lil in the black was a huge relief.

That money helped us buy the used Accord I drove into the ground here in NC–we called her Margaret, the iron lady. ? Thanks, Margaret.

A hipster couple, Max and Miriam, bought our house, and they were featured on a fixer-upper house show. I didn’t realize we lived in a fixer upper–just that we needed a new roof.

When Winnie told us the number, I felt like Really? We can ask that much for this house?

But we asked for it, and we left LA just before I did further damage to my vocal folds screaming in gridlock on the 5 Freeway.

Cut to 2021, and Melissa’s bestie, Leo, sent her a Redfin link for our lil house on the hill.

Our wee little abode with the uneven front steps where I used to grow carrots and arugula in my planters sold for almost one. million. dollah. ?

Someone paid 200K above asking.

Mind you, the makeover show did some crazy overhauls, but still!

So, Dan, what does this home buyer with 200K to spare on a small stucco house in eastern LA have to do with me and my vocal dreams?

Everything, my friend. Everything.

The takeaway for you is this.

Somewhere, there is someone who is gonna want to pay 200K above asking for what you got. You’re gonna be like, Wha? Really?

You may even feel super uncomfortable and want to run and hide in Imposter Syndrome Alley.

But it’ll happen. Someone is gonna look at you–

and even if you don’t have that gussied-up deck featuring golden sunset views and a new outdoor closet storing your stackable washer/dryer instead of the corrugated shed under our kitchen window that we had to duck into–

someone’s gonna look at you and say, you know, you’ve got what they call great bones, and I want to invest in you.

Go where people see you and value you. If you’ve been in a place where that hasn’t happened in a while, you might have forgotten that it feels really good. And right.

Or you may be unfamiliar with the sensation altogether, and that means you just need some time to make the unfamiliar familiar.

You deserve to be around folks who see you, celebrate you, and see the gold in you.

Maybe together with your people you’ll build a castle with a nice view of the sunrise, and you’ll be the gatekeeper–

and you’ll open it wide for artists who want to bring the kind of beauty to the world that heals, crushes crusty opinions, and helps people see each other–see the soul and not all the bullshit artifice we throw up to try to compete.

We’re moving into a new zone, and I want you to know you’re gold.

You matter. You got beauty. You have gifts to bring.

I want you to notice where you and your gifts are seen, celebrated and needed. Put your body in that place, and turn on your Care Bear stare.

Because remember–there is only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much,
dan

ps I’m not just gonna tell you about the house and not throw you a link. Here it is. She looks nice. I don’t know about north of 900K nice, but somebody thought so.

pps I’m increasingly passionate about you having a build-your-own-castle brain and heart.

I believe it’s the way that theatre artists (YOU) are going to change our industry.

It’s how the stories and people that have been alienated will find their stage.

I’ll share with you more as I create tools that can help you with this.

For now, my inbox door is open, so please email me and tell me about the castle you’d love to build–what do you dream that theatre can look like when we are in a room together again? Tell me! ?

Or just say hey. I love hearing from you.

This is why I’d suck at crime. So I wrote you these poems.

June 14, 2021 / dancallaway

Parenting toddlers means that Melissa and I are swear-word spelling bee ninjas.

We can cuss a blue streak letter by letter faster than Cookie Monster can devour chocolate-sprinkled carbs.

However, the thing about our system that fails is that when Melissa speaks in alphabet code, I’ll reply with,

“Oooooh, so you want to take the boys to the SCIENCE CENTER?”

We joke that I would suck at a life of crime.

I’d be the one by the getaway car asking the police officer how fast she thought I could get from zero to 90 because, after all, we’re going to need all the horsepower we can get once my accomplices roll out with the loot.

This is why I’m a musical theatre misfit toy. I wanna bring what’s inside to the outside and sing about it for three maybe four mins.

It’s also why I write poems.

Here are three that I wrote for you in the last couple weeks.

I hope you’ll let yourself have a moment of slowdown, read one whose title draws your eye, and have a smile or heart-hug moment you wouldn’t’ve had otherwise.

Sparrow in Manhattan

I always remember a story Ghana told me
At work in downtown Manhattan one morning.
She saw a sparrow on a railing. Free
And loud, she sang in celebration adorning
The horn-exhausted air with vibrant chirp-
Chirps! God’s eye was on this creature chanting
Significance into the tiny park. Usurp-
-ing her iron throne was impossible. Just planting
Her feet on another bench would establish her domain.
She sang because she was happy, and Ghana told
Me it made her feel liberated somehow–that hearing
The bird’s song cutting through the cold
Cacophony hugged her with God’s ceaseless nearing.
I heard a bird in Greensboro today and recalled
My friend’s story of this winged singer unwalled.

Low Hanging Fruit

When I watched A Star is Born with Lady
Gaga and Bradley Cooper, I thought that “Shallow”
Song was really good. During a shady
Walk pushing the stroller watching marshmallow
Clouds in the May sky, I texted an old
Student of mine: “Hey There! Do you know
That “Shallow” song from A Star is Born?” Bold
Choice, I thought, for a pop song in her book to show
Off that top belt range. She politely replied
That she knew it and would check it out. It was kind
Of like when I heard “Someone Like You” and tried
To add it to my rep–what a find!
It worked for comedy once, though–came in handy–
Overdone songs: more than just ear candy. 🙂

Today is Refrain from Terrorizing Yourself Day

Today is Refrain from Terrorizing Yourself Day.
You get to walk the unfamiliar road
Of kindness and gentleness toward your soul by way
Of fierce protective honor of the load
You’ve chosen to carry thus far. You
Can put the pack down now. All that weight
Was not your burden to haul. Walk through
This next stretch barefooted, and meditate
Into the sound of your voice singing a tune
With happy intervals. You believed that sack
You left behind contained supplies you’d soon
Need, not joyless stuff now behind your back.
Leave it there, and try a skip or leap.
Cartwheels’ll come soon, though not cheap.

That’s all for today, my fellow sharing what’s inside traveler.

I’ll abstain from secrecy-requiring crimes today if you will.

Always remember there’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story that only you can sing.

ps if you just. need. more. poetry. in your life, today’s your lucky day. Can you say bonus sonnet???

Holy Paw Patrol Dance Moment

I park the boys in front of “Paw Patrol”
When I make their lunch. By the time the shells
Are al dente or the PB and J’s read’ to roll,
Jude runs into the kitchen, his toddler cells
Ready for action. His wide eyes telegraph
That it’s that time. “Dance please!” he calls and lifts
His sweet sausage-y arms. I have to laugh
And pick him up. This is one of life’s gifts.
When we enter the living room, Noah’s ready
To join the choreo, so I hoist each nugget on a hip
And wait for the pup dispatch jingle. Steady
We go, I step-touch and try to keep my grip.
These boys are always interrupting chores,
Injecting joy, and opening fantastical doors.

Wha Happen to the Cookies? ? Three Silly Steps to Existential Fizziness

June 7, 2021 / dancallaway

Hey, are you gonna eat that pickle??

The cast of characters at Artie’s Delicatessen was the clear winner for best ensemble. For everything.

Today, lemme introduce you to Sandy.

Jaded from repeated late night Bronx journeys on the 2 Train, her face always said “Now whaddaya want?”

But somehow Sandy slung pastrami and sauerkraut faster than you could say “The swiss on my reuben is perfectly broiled.”

I was a terrible waiter. And I didn’t know a Matzah ball from a wiffle ball. “What is that large round dumplin’-like object?” I asked myself on day one.

The manager regretted his hiring decision immediately.

I forgot orders when I was in the weeds (which for me meant more than six tables).

When asked where my pin was, I would hold aloft my writing implement. (Pen and pin are homonyms in North Carolina, y’all).

And I regularly threw a wrench in the black and white cookie inventory.

What I lacked in table waiting skill I made up for in toothy smiles and hillbilly naiveté.

Sandy was the opposite of naive.

One quiet evening shift she returned from a bathroom break and soapboxed on the plight of the early 21st Century American woman and shared toilet facilities.

“It’s like they can’t contaminate their pristine asses,” she lamented.

“You go in, and it’s like somebody delicately squatted with a fire hose. And then what am I supposed to do? I been on my feet all day.

“Now I’m supposed to perch like a goddam flamingo so I don’t get their Upper West Side stroller pushing piss on my own tush. I’m not cleaning that up. They don’t pay me for that.”

I nodded my wide-eyed noggin in agreement because Sandy knew things. And I never used the word “pristine” the same again.

I hated going to work at Artie’s, but I loved my corned beef on rye and coleslaw lunches. Those and the missing black and white cookies.

This is where I hand the contraband baked good to you and elucidate the philosophical significance of the Artie’s ladies’ loo.

People have peed on the seat.

Toilet seat cleaning is not in your official job description–except for that “additional duties” BS they always put in the bottom to cover their A.

We all use this.

What? This bathroom.

Especially now that we’re sharesies.

Yep, we own this.

I’m gonna share a phrase with you that I use when I encounter seat pee not of my spraying.

My life coach-spiritual director-Lambrusco drinking buddy Kaye Kennedy taught it to me:

“It’s not your fault, but it is your responsibility.”

Damn it, Kaye.

Back in college I read Madeleine L’Engle’s Walking on Water. The Wrinkle in Time author had a big impact on me. I wrote a sonnet about her and everything.

In the book, she wrote that she saw writing as a lake.

(***Wait, I looked it up, and she was actually quoting Jean Rhys who saw writing as a lake, but I’ll digress before I start MLA citations)–

L’Engle agreed that writing was a lake, and she was a small tributary to the lake–that she didn’t matter, that the lake did, and that a writer has to keep feeding the lake.

When I read that as a 21-year-old, I was pissed.

I wanted to be Niagara freaking Falls pounding significant amounts of H20 into that reservoir and upstaging the whole scene with my magnificence.

Yeah, of course I’d feed the lake, but um, look at me!

My ego aimed to be a wonder-of-the-world natural marvel and failed to see it was really just pissing on the seat and leaving it for Sandy.

Sorry, Sandy.

A list of my own dysfunctional actions/inactions spring to mind. I’ll assign them to fictional characters in a novel one day.

You got one of those coulda-done-better lists like me?

Good. That list has a lot to teach us about today and tomorrow.

I’ve logged scads of time with my head so far up my own pristine ass that not even the Bronx-est of Sandys could pry it loose.

So what does all this water lake toilet imagery mean for you? Relief.

And not just the I-made-it-to-the-bathroom-just-in-time kinda succor.

I’m talking existential floatiness–when you take the five seconds to see your colleague-fellow-artist-friend and honor all the fresh water they contribute–

–the warm and honest sound of their voice, their penchant for filthy limericks, and being the first person at your door with Matzah ball soup when you’re down with the flu.

I recommend 2nd Avenue Deli. Artie’s is closed now.

When you look out and decide to celebrate the things your friends are doing, it lifts you, frees you, and your heart opens to surprises.

Here’s how to do it–

Scroll your chosen social. Go ‘head.

Pause when you encounter a post from a fellow artist that makes you feel a lil tight.

Number one, say “great for them.” It can be sarcastic. That’s fine.

Number two, if you’re feeling jeal-y, what part of that experience are you wishing you could have? That’s a map.

What’s a tiny action today that’ll get you closer to the version of that experience that’s right for you? (Mine is sending you this email.)

And number three, if you have the relationship with that person, send a lil message or comment and tell them how pumped jazz-hands happy proud impressed woot woot you are.

See if that does anything.

We’re looking straight ahead at a changing industry where old stories and systems are having an overdue reckoning.

I want to be an artist who helps to build a new beautiful, and if you’re reading this I got a feeling we’re on a similar page. And that beauty-build has to be together, all of us looking at that life-giving lake.

I’m going to end with this–Jonathan Larson said it. “The opposite of war is not peace. It’s creation.”

Let’s get our creation tributaries contributing.

And be a sweetie. Wipe the seatie. Or else–Sandy.

Love much–dan

ps You know I’m up on the Zoom helping you make free, impressive, sustainable noises. Do yourself a solid and book a time with me so you’ll know how to make the sounds on your own ?, feel confident and consistent in all the rooms?, and sing with love for yourself, the song, and your voice ?. Just click here to email me, and we’ll make a date.

pps Have I told you about this episode of Unlocking Us? Brené Brown interviews Dr. Angus Fletcher on the 25 Most Powerful Inventions in the History of Literature.

When he talked about how Greek Tragedy helped veterans suffering with PTSD I was mind-blown. It confirms our instincts about the power of story–and that’s what we’re carrying forward, the power to change our sphere with that world-sculpting tool. Here it is again if you wanna listen.

ppps Need a lil more intel before you go swiping right on a lesson time? You can just beebop on over to my about page to see if you think this relationship could be legit.

pppps JK

How Sand Toys and Donald Duck Pillows Will Set You Free

June 1, 2021 / dancallaway

and the thing that got me drug searched in Arkansas

I log significant playground hours these days.

And the pandemic has got me all social anxiety like–ack! there are humans at this slide and swing structure! Retreat!

We’ll go find an open field with sticks and dirt somewhere.

One thing the playground teaches you is that yes, your instincts speak the truth–some humans are ass clowns.

There’s one shaded park we frequent that sports a quality sandbox and an assortment of donated/discarded play kitchens, water tables, and plastic tractors in need of wheel repair.

Some days I’m on top of the dad game, and I remember the buckets and shovels.

One such day, the boys took a sandbox intermission to climb the wrong way up the twisty slide and left said toys unattended.

ps they didn’t have playgrounds like this when you were a kid, right? I used to DREAM about the metal death jungle gym at the Kernersville Hardee’s–seriously, lie in bed at night fantasizing about that whirley slide injury trap.

Anyway, once the boys, blessed with fancier playground options than I was back in 1918, vacated the vicinity of their sand buckets, a gaggle of stranger-danger children descended upon the dollar store toy trove.

Time elapsed. By the time Jude returned to find his blue plastic bucket, a lil 6-year-old sister friend was using it. Cool–Callaways love to….SHAAAARE! We always say.

But when lil one-year-old Judelet reached his hand out in an interrogative gesture toward the sand receptacle, this newly arrived towhead decided this dollar store acquisition was hers.

Jerking the bucket to her chest and twisting her torso away from my kid, she emphatically belted, “Mine!”

Daddy defender rose up in me, and before I could rush in to make the situation needlessly dramatic, Jude said, “Okeeey,” and bolted toward the parking lot.

He’s always sprinting toward paved spaces where automobiles may zoom. So I reprioritized.

This whole sand bucket incident got me thinking about you.

How many times have we seen that plastic pail lying there on the ground, and our eyes got all big and shiny like Gollum with the ONE RING?

I’ve done it. For us singery actory folk, it often comes in the form of a role.

We get that audition, and pretty soon, we’re planning the witty opening night cards we’ll design with that joke everyone will think is hilarious. Just me? Embarrassing.

Reminds me of my first day in kindergarten. No one filled me in on how the nap-time cubby system worked.

So when I saw that Donald Duck pillow, I pulled it right out, hugged it to my chest, and announced to my classmates in my best soprano twang, “I got Donald Duck!”

When Mrs. Muncus brought a sobbing Lisa Dalton over to my nap mat, my face flushed, and I realized my kindergarten faux pas.

That wasn’t my Donald Duck pillow at all. You could have gone easier on the shame face, Mrs. Muncus. Honest mistake.

And props to my Mama who bought a pattern and sewed a Donald Duck pillow for me after the incident. Thanks Mama.

The point? That’s not your sand bucket, and that’s not your Donald Duck pillow. You know how I know? It belongs to someone else.

And please take a moment to remember when you did get the role. What was that experience like?

For me, it wasn’t one of possession but one of temporary collaboration. I got the chance to stand inside that story and that music for that moment of time.

It’s on my resume, but now I’m listening to the birds sing outside my window rather than the orchestra swelling “Think of meeeee” as the opera box hydraulically slides me on stage. That was cool.

And guess what-y??–that wasn’t my role either. I was the understudy.

The UN-derstudeeeeh? I think that was a line in the first scene of Phantom. See? Can’t even remember.

Same with anything I would have called a possession in my timeline–my orange fisherman hat I wore everywhere in my early twenties comes to mind.

I’m convinced it got me pulled over and searched for drugs in Arkansas en route to Nashville one time.

Also earned me a new moniker in Portland OR when a bright-eyed, possibly homeless street sage looked at me outside Powell’s Books and shouted “Hey, Australia!”

Where is that hat? No clue. I loved it. It wasn’t as cool as I thought it was. And my friend Tregoney Shepherd still calls me Australia.

Wait, look! I found one piece of photographic evidence–Multnomah Falls, OR, I believe. And I’m pretty sure that’s my Lost Colony shirt.

Anything we have the opportunity to stand beside, be near, use–we may have a piece of paper that says we’re the owner, but that merely means that we are responsible for it.

So when the thing doesn’t come your way that you’re convinced should have come your way, can I give you a lil reframe on that?

Maybe you’ve been spared that responsibility.

And maybe that’s an opportunity to say “thank you” instead of “eff you” to the people who didn’t open that door.

It takes time.

You have to move through your feels when Lisa Dalton IDs you as the pillow thief with Mrs. Muncus standing by as kindergarten DA.

But look, here I am! I made it.

Yep, that sand bucket prolly belongs to another kid.

And if you get to use it for a while, I hope you pack that puppy full of playground dirt and make the best castle tower base anyone’s ever seen.

Let’s walk through life appreciating the things we get to stand near, sometimes use, and make nice for the next person.

And most importantly, let’s possess love, compassion, tenderness, and honesty with the one sphere we’ve all been given the responsibility for–ourselves.

I sound like a dad–

You take care of yourself!

Signing off and singing this to you–??remember! There’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story that only you can sing.

ps I wanna know your sand bucket story. I have many–a Les Mis national tour (thrice), two Broadway shows where I screwed myself in callbacks, and an exciting academic job opportunity that got canceled because of the pandemic. First 3 that come to mind.

What’s been a sand bucket you realized belonged to another kid? Did you find something else open up as a result, or are you still like, um that’s my damn dirt dumper give it back?

I mean–go for it, see what happens. It’s hard in these recreational equipment streets.

pps The new Pink documentary on Amazon is an unvarnished look into the grindy badassery of Pink, and a very interesting view into the RESPONSIBILITIES she carries with her brand and career. Check it out if you wanna see her family realness on the road and watch her fly like sequined Wonder Woman through Wembley Stadium while belting “So What.” Dang, Pink. Dang.

What I Learned from Chris Gilbert

May 25, 2021 / dancallaway

I think of my friend, Chris, a lot these days. He died a year ago in February.

We did shows together when I was in LA. Like you do in Los Angeles, you say you’re going to get together, and then, well, freeways.

But every rehearsal, every reading, every greenroom bagel and schmear–I always walked away from time with Chris feeling lighter and loved.

His cells exuded kindness.

On paper, I believe I’d have been in Chris’s colleagues-I-hug ✔️ category.

I also know that if I needed a flat tire rescue from the side of the freeway or became suddenly homeless, I coulda called Chris, and he’d have braved the 405 gridlock, put fresh sheets on his sofa, and bought me a hot dog.

You know when someone’s affected you deeply–but if Judge Judy told you to cough up documentation of your friendship, you’d have a few parties and a lot of rehearsals, but no actual meet-ups at In-n-Out Burger?

That’s Chris. Whatever concentric circle of his life you belonged to, he made you feel like you were on the inside when you were with him.

He always reminded me of my big brother, too–they’re the same height–6’3”/4”. And he was kind like Joel.

When Chris and his family decided it was time for him to move into hospice care, he shared it with us on Facebook, prefaced with a warning that it was “long-ish,” –like a heads-up for the audition table people that you’re going to sing the whole song.

I went back to find that post on his page, and by the time I scrolled there, you could’ve sung all the way to “Seasons of Love” with your Rent cast recording.

Hundreds of people posted on his page, and they’re still reaching out–Wishing him a happy birthday this year, recalling a show blooper, or sharing pics of punny road signs–Chris was always ready to engage in good, clean wordplay.

Chris’s heart impact was not isolated to my experience–how could it have been? It’s who he was with everyone he met.

This isn’t a you-never-know-how-much-time-you-have kind of message.

–Not a frantic warning to call everyone you love to make sure they know or to start typing chapter one of that book you’ve been saying you’re going to write one day, dammit.

Chris’s spirit doesn’t put that kind of pressure on you. The ripples of my time with him amplify a gentler message–kindness and joy shape you and heal you like wet hands on turning clay.

In the face of the frantic, love and trust wrap our graspy illusions in a blanket that smells like your favorite grandparent.

This friend I got to do shows with–I look at the imprint he made, and on the crusty, grumpy days (grrr today), his presence still leaves me feeling lighter and loved.

Reminds me of Maya Angelou’s famous quote–that folks will forget what you said and did, but “people will never forget how you made them feel.”

At the end of Chris’s post he said

I’m grateful Chris didn’t know the tragedies 2020 had waiting in the wings–He’s been able to view that from a much wiser perspective than you and I did.

And I grab his wish, and fling it out to you with jazz hands —

That you’ll experience “joy, peace, and a desire to be more present and loving than you ever thought possible.”

I didn’t know Chris would still be teaching me a year and three months after he moved to his new address–it brings me joy, peace, and love to know that he continues to share his generous soul with you and me now.

Much, much love to you, Chris! You’re a precious man, and I thank you for always making me feel lighter and loved. This time included.

I can still hear Chris’s warm, kind baritone voice. There’s only one Chris, just like there’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story that only you can sing.

ps If you want your day to be better in any fashion, listen to Brené Brown’s interview with Brandi Carlile. She shares a story about a life-shifting rejection, and her look-back is one of the most beautiful examples of unconditional love and understanding I’ve ever heard.

pps And if you didn’t get your fill of country singer mysticism, scroll down and listen to Brené talk with DOLLY from last November. Just the best.

pps I really mean it–there’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story that only you can share. That’s my story and my song for today. Much love.

Oval Pegs Look Like They’ll Fit That Round Hole Sometimes

May 18, 2021 / dancallaway

I used to drive to Van Nuys every weekday morning.

Transplanted palm trees craned their bronto necks over the anxious cars fitting and starting their way through corridors of circa-1967 stucco apartment buildings, storefront attorneys, and corner malls.

It was depressing as hell.

I missed New York. I felt like I was on an alien planet, and I was driving to my job in the Purchasing Department at a Community Health Center.

I’d just returned to work there after doing a show. They welcomed me back because Alma, the best supervisor in the history of hated jobs, put in a good word for me. Thanks, Alma.

Data entry, spreadsheets and inventory: not listed on my special skills.

I had a severe case of temp-to-permanent-job-itis, and I’d just lived in the behind-the-footlights-live-audience world again.

Dispatches to Costco where I squared off in shopping cart chicken jousts with badass Armenian matrons were not my jam anymore. And how many styrofoam cups and powder creamers do you NEED, Independent Living Program???

Like I told you, I was in Purchasing, and that meant inventory. And that meant barcodes.

They wanted me to create a way to track all the desks, credenzas, and bunk beds with these barcodes.

And there was this one company they wanted to use. They made scanners.

I learned that the owner of said company was in thick with one of the headiest Center honchos, so okay. But their product didn’t include any portable thingy that you could track clutter with.

When I asked my supervisor how they proposed I carry the hundreds of stickered desks, filing cabinets and meeting tables into the room where the fixed-in-place scanner was, my questions went vigorously unanswered.

I suggested three other products we might use (with portable scanny thingies). Answer was no.

No problem. I’m an actor. I know rejection.

I’m also a Southerner, so I have a black belt in passive aggression.

I just stopped working on the project.

Add to that some long lunch breaks and early departures for auditions I chose not to mention to my supervisor.

Time passed. Alma called me and said in the kindest way you can imagine, “We won’t be needing your services anymore.”

It was fair. I was a shitty employee. Sorry, Alma.

I still don’t know who they got to carry the desks into the room where the immovable barcode scanner was.

You know the square peg round hole thing, right?

I’d been more of an oval peg at the Center for over two years. Just rounded enough to think, I can make this work. Maybe even full time. Yeah, this is fine.

I was good at answering phones. I’ll say that. I’m friendly as hell.

What about you?

Is there an oval peg situation you’re malleting into a round hole?

Now look, sometimes there’s a titanium quadrilateral rod that’ll never fit in any kind of you-shaped compartment, and sometimes you just have to make it work for a lil while. That ill fit might be paying your bills for a while. Get your food and shelter.

And what I’m saying is this–that is terrific information! The wrong peg-and-hole combo, that is.

I learned a ton at the Community Health Center.

It showed me many character flaws. And I saw a lot of people do excellent work every day with little fanfare. Not everybody needs applause when they key in the correct inventory code.

What is your oval peg? You’ll probably know immediately. If you don’t have one, congrats for now!

If you do, it’s a perfect opportunity to get out your THINKS cap and take a look-see.

If you missed this brain-freeing tutorial including an acronym and a MUSIC MAN reference, you can check it out here.

Or you can just keep reading and celebrate that you’re here right now.Woooooooo!

You deserve to be on a path that fits you, a road that delights you–with less injury attorney offices and more theatres and independent bookstores, and a trail that helps you serve in ways that excite and fulfill you.

You know how I know? This is how.

Think about a little kid you love. Or maybe just like. Or just make up a kid.

See them in your brain. Do they deserve to be on the path that fits them? Do you want them to find the road that fulfills them and helps them serve in the most fulfilling way?

Me, too.

So, I want that for you. I want that for me. I want MY kids to see their dad doing that.

That’s why I’m writing this letter to you right now.

If you’re holding an oval peg right now, woot! You see it.

It makes you start looking for a round one. You may just need to return that oblong hanger to Lowe’s so someone else can buy it. Their return policy is super flex.

Your turn–please please comment and tell me about your planned peg exchange.

Or…what was a time when you realized that peg just wasn’t that into you, and you had to go dig out that receipt?

Por qué comment? Porque I love to hear from you.

I learn from you, and I have a dreeeeam of sharing your stories with this community (with your go-ahead, of course) so that everyone can be living their round dowel best lives.

Stay tuned in the next few weeks because I’m going to tell you about a very recent peg swap in my life.

You had no idea you were going to read the word peg so many times today.

Always remember repeat peg reader, there is only one you, and folks need to hear the story that only you can sing.

ps For reals, I wanna know about a time when you got the lightbulb that this was just not a fit for you and what you did. This last year-plus has been an unmatched time to look at that, right? I wanna know what you’ve learned and what you’re looking at ahead. This article in The Atlantic was really interesting re: all that, too.

pps if you missed the video when I break down my silly yet very effective way to loosen up my brain darts, just click here and have a cup of tea for ten minutes. You’ll be kinder for it, and you’ll also find out what questionable choice I made with ice cream one time.

What If Your Brain Became Your Singing Bestie? (? = ?BFF)

May 13, 2021 / dancallaway

How many teachers or well meaning actory friends have advised you to turn off all that mental chatter and just focus on, I dunno, an imaginary scene partner?

I’m not gonna tell you to do that. If you find a way to do it, let me know, though it sounds boring. Unabated mental yammering has kept my noggin entertained for over forty years.

In this video, you’ll find out about tools and gardening references that’ll help you

watch your thoughts like Jason Bourne clocks a crowded street peppered with secret snipers
slow your roll like someone just hit play on the Barry White Spotify radio and handed you a nice glass of Trader Joe’s vino
Understand how welcoming that pesky friend in is sometimes the quickest way to help them find the door
learn the counterintuitive, annoyingly simple way to poke your way out of almost any pickle
level up to black belt in one trait that’ll help you speed up your progress (also annoyingly simple)
practice the one body move that’ll smear icing on all this cake

All this and a stretchy reference to THE MUSIC MAN to boot. ?

What My Three-Year-Old Does a Lot Better Than I Do

May 12, 2021 / dancallaway

Noah just turned 3. Wha?

Like every human who experiences time, I’m a mix of where-did-the-minutes-go? and dang-this-day-is-longer-than-a-slow-tempo-Les-Miz.

I get to watch him figure stuff out, hear him say, “Daddy, the ceiling fan is like a propeller!” and notice how every sleeping emotion giant inside me gets jabbed awake by his sweet being.

He’s my soul mirror. He sparks deep-buried memories– “I was captivated by Cinderella when I was 3.” or “Oh I remember, that fascination with volcanoes.”

He also inherited my intense emos. When he hurts over anything–from a snatched toy to a skinned knee–I can feel his cry in the middle of my stomach.

And it makes me effing anxious.

These are sensations I muffle in the bottom of the clothes hamper while saying things like, “Suck it up. No time to hurt.”

And now these raw feels stampede through Noah’s prefrontal cortex like a herd of auditioners who just found out the sign-in table got moved, and I get to say hello to their hungry, eager faces again.

When I hold Noah mid-wail, my guts swarm like a poked hornets’ nest. I feel his tears and snot seep through my shirt, and the wise part of me knows he just needs a hug.

Can you imagine if I spoke to him the way I spoke to me?

You might rightfully roll your eyes when your well-meaning pal says in her best breathy therapist voice, “Would you speak that way to your best friend?”

Of course I wouldn’t. I’m not a b to my bestie. If you’re like me, you struggle to turn this love and care toward yourself, too.

You prolly absorbed a message somewheres that says, “The only way to grow is through brutal ass kickery. Humans are jacked up souls in need of Thomas Hobbesian constraint.”

I still hit rewind and play on that Fisher Price tape recorder.

Sometimes, though, I find the wisdom to press pause and question the message.

You might remember the tale of the benevolent music director that showed me you could go from A to B with laughs and joy. Ego Dan is still giving that leadership style the side-eye.

What A to B are you wishing you could take the first-class Acela train to?

If you could plug anything into Google Maps and ask Gracie (our name for GPS–Grace Patricia Smith) to cue you, where would you go?

I would love to know. Email me or share a comment, and tell me about it!

How-to vocal, what-the life stuff, or you just wanna know how I make irresistible salad dressing.

Whyyyyy, Dan? Why todaaaaay? (audition cut in my 20s)

Because I want to know what you need.

And I want to fa-lap-ball-change some tasty, nourishing morsels up in this blog space that’ll make you all Super Mario after that shroom.

When you contact me me to say, “This helped!” I’m Luigi with the fire flower–I’m throwing fuego-balls at all those doom turtles coming at you, and I’m getting you to the next level.

Now I’m belting this:

There’s only one yoooooooo, and folks need to hear the story only yoooooo can sing. (And I can help you with that [u] vowel.)

It’s scientifically true. One you, and yes, I will help you sing [u] in multiple styles.

Remember to give my life a purpose, and click here to email me with your Acela train dream destination.

Or ask me “What is a train? I’ve been watching Facebook Live theatre for over a year.” I wanna help.

And if you’re still wondering, “Dan, how exactly DO I talk to myself and be kind to me without feeling like I’m carrying a dog-eared copy of The Secret in my messenger bag, I made you a video for that, and and I’ll post that on Thursday, so come back and see me then.

1 Truth Bomb for You from the Ninth Circle of Hell (Seventh Grade)

May 4, 2021 / dancallaway

In seventh grade I did the world’s worst Clint Eastwood walk imitation toward the front doors of Mt. Airy Junior High School. My acid stomach rumbled, and I knew I’d be asking my first period teacher for the usual emergency bathroom hall pass.

My belly was always roiling in junior high. I’d transferred from the county school to the little city system. The city middle schoolers cussed a lot more than the county kids. Before I knew it, rumors about the new kid bounced like rogue dodgeballs around the beige cinder block halls.

Bullies shoved Moist Towelettes in my ears at lunch time, and kid gangs who summered by the country club pool said things I couldn’t track. But I did understand the cackling after the punchlines.

I’m sure you know a twelve-year-old can feel a lot of pain and fear, and that is why I hurt when I hear about anyone any age being bullied. And I’m grateful there was no internet in 1990.

My dad taught me how to throw a punch to defend myself against one particular redneck roughneck who took me into Dante’s deepest circle on the daily.

Picture this hell-scape set in the chain-linked grassy patch next to the school buses where this kid kept picking fights. Prepubescent Dan didn’t want none of that. Dad was trying to school me: Plant my feet, make contact, follow through.

I said through my tear-streaked face, “But Deddy, If I punch him, that’ll hurt him.” “I know son! That’s the point!” (And I wondered why I could never get all beast about football. I’m a lovah not a fightah.)

And here I am. I made it! And when life throws me some booll-shit, I can always say, “Come for me, bish. I made it through seventh grade with As and Bs.”

You and I both know now that nobody gets out of junior high unscathed, bullies and bullied alike.

And now get ready. You’re fixing to reap the benefits of the cold hard truths I grabbed like the last strawberry shortcake ice cream bar in the junior high war of emotional attrition.

Knowing you can take a punch is more important than throwing one.

Fast forward to my twenties. Uh oh. I was on a date in New York, and I managed to hail a cab on Houston Street on an about-to-rain, windy night. My date wore heels, and I’m sure I was being a drama tool (because…my twenties), so she was over it, and her feet were at anguish level red zone.

Every cab was full, so this taxi’s available light shone like a beacon in the humid, horn-saturated air. As the cab pulled over, three jaywalking bros about six beers into a weeknight bender piled in the back seat from the street side.

I’d been accessing some deep anger in acting class in those days, so my interior trailer park dawg was pulling at his rusty chain. When my date and her feet wailed in despair at the taxi thieves, I observed myself shout, “Get the f*ck out! This is our cab!”

Oh what did you just do, Dan?

One of the loaded bros rolled out of the back and squared up at me on the sidewalk. I looked straight into his eyes, and I said to myself, “Self, you are about to get punched.”

He looked at me for a protracted three seconds, and then he said, “Naw, man.” He stepped back and waved his pissed posse along. No punch.

I got in the cab with a little yeah-that’s-right in my sit-down. My date was not as impressed. What? I got the cab!

I wondered at this incident. Did an imposing guardian angel materialize over my right shoulder? Did I shape-shift into a reptile beast? Am I just that intimidating? ?

It was probably the Steve-Buschemi-from-Mr.-Deeds crazy eyes I had also been refining in acting class.

The point–I found myself in a scary place, and I realized I was willing to take a hit.

And while I do not recommend my actions of that evening to you, I did find a freedom that night that my twelve-year-old self on the patchy grass behind Mount Airy Junior High School lacked. Both versions of me were scared, but I knew between sheer stupidity and stage combat training, I was going to make it home from Houston Street.

That’s us–artists, singers. We make ourselves available to take emotional hits all the time.

We do it when we invest ourselves into the stories we sing. We do it when we stand in front of table people and open our guts gates and show the parts of us that got the shit bullied out of them in middle school. And we take the hits when the role we imagined playing a gajillion times goes in another direction.

I’m here to tell you I haven’t found another way. When I do find the success-popularity-and-ice-cream path through artistic risk, you will be the first to know.

But what’s most important for you is this–

You are resilient. Remember the thing you came back from that you thought was gonna end you?

You are flexible. Remember the duck-and-dive improv you pulled off as you yes-anded your way through that outa-the-blue shock?

You are strong. Snot and tears poured out your face, and you did the thing anyway.

You are smart. You’re reading this. You are a ninja of compassion, beauty, and connection.

And when you do show up willing to take the hit, remember the other two things I always tell my students and myself: It’s just crying. And you will get up.

Now go get yourself a fro yo. ??

If you’re currently in the getting up process, please know that if my ruminating Enneagram 4 self can cry, snot, dust off, and keep walking, I know you can, too.
You?Got? This?.

Dan Callaway Studio