Dan Callaway Studio

Feel Freedom. Love your confidence. Be a joy bomb.

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Crossing off Dreams — An unexpected and somewhat scary way to get clear, simple, and free

April 23, 2024 /

Sometimes after dinner, Melissa will be loading the dishwasher like a boss (she questions my dirty dish arrangement strategy). I’m an accomplished unloader, but my dish-putting method is more evolutionary Tetris.

She’ll see me staring into the mid distance toward the trees outside our kitchen door, and she’ll say, “What are you working on over there?”

Oof, you mean now or two seconds ago? I’ve had seven thoughts since then.

If you were able to slow-motion my neurons, you might see the following images:

A West End theatre.

Paperwork for a publishing deal.

Singing Valjean’s Soliloquy at one of the arena tours in Europe.

Soloing with a fancy orchestra.

Performing the one person show I wrote in an intimate theatre with a discerning and appreciative audience.

Buying a small farm near woods and creeks and turning a barn into a creative incubator.

Running a YouTube channel that demystifies singing and storytelling and makes theatre singers feel empowered and hopeful.

All that can run through my noodle in the time it takes to rinse the oxidized guacamole (tragedy!) off a plate.

My mind will bounce around to all these images, interpose some regrets and questionable professional decisions, and pretty soon I’m semi paralyzed.

I sit down to write half a scene of a one-person-show, and before I know it, I’m saying to myself, “Is this the right thing to be doing? How can I know this will pay off? I need a clear road map. There’s got to be a YouTube video on here somewhere that will tell me exactly what to do “

And actually, that kind of happened.

The algorithm delivered up an interview with this guy, Dr. K, a Harvard trained psychiatrist who speaks mostly to gamers. Not my demographic, but his videos were insightful.

In one video he talked about sabotaging yourself in a way I’d never considered — dream overload.

I was like — I think you’re talking to me Dr. K.

A few weeks ago I wrote in my journal — “I’m afraid to focus on one or two things because I know it means I’ll need to say no to 7 other things.” Felt scary.

Even with all the evidence in my life that mistakes and explosions and doodoo piles can all get turned to gold, I still fear errors, wasted time, and regrets.

But yeah, dream overload.

Dr K talked about steps 8 and 9 in the 12 Steps — making amends. How when folks start to say “I’m sorry” and repair things with the folks they’ve hurt, they get lighter and freer. A cognitive weight falls away.

Their mind isn’t trying to manage the emotional energy of that moral debt anymore.

A lot of things bear cognitive weight — unanswered texts, tricky conflicts, deciding which restaurant actually has the best cheeseburger.

And dreams.

So, I did an exercise this video recommended. I wrote down a list of dreams and regrets.

I let the list marinate for a while, thought about the items on it through the day, breathed them in and out on a jog, asked for wisdom and guidance.

Then I sat down, and I crossed off three quarters of the dreams on my list.

I thought I’d feel sadness.

I felt relief.

I felt lighter.

As I crossed things off, I wasn’t smashing them with a shovel. I was recognizing their wings.

I trusted that dreambird would migrate where it was supposed to go, and maybe their hatchling’s hatchling would fly back my way if that was right.

I felt lighter, and my focus became simpler.

I also saw some of my freed dreams were possible (uncontrollable) outcomes of a central satisfaction — telling stories, singing, and making someone else’s life better.

I invite you to try this.

Take some time to write down on paper the dreams and schemes pin-balling around your noggin. Give them some time to marinate and soak. Get out near trees and grass and walk around, let these ideas play around.

Then sit back down and see what it feels like to let some of these go so that you can offer focus and fire to the few that you sense will bring you and those you share with deep satisfaction.

Don’t worry. You don’t have to donate your dreams forever. You can put them in a box and check in on them in 6 months if you want.

If one of the things you crossed off won’t leave your insides, then that’s a message.

But make some choices, and start moving in a direction.

I heard a Navy SEAL being interviewed (YouTube, of course) who said when you’re lost in the forest, the worst thing you can do is stand still. Move in a direction. If it’s the wrong one, you’ll find out when you get to a vantage point and turn around.

Let me know how it goes for you!

And if the action you’re thinking of taking can make one person’s day better, then do it. It’s worth it.

There’s only one you, and someone needs to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much,

Dan

PS I encourage you to take the 30 minutes to listen to this interview with Sara Gettelfinger who’s in WATER FOR ELEPHANTS on the Bway right now. This interview is wholehearted and courageous.

You’ll never regret it. And a simple, generous way to make choices

April 16, 2024 /

Almost 2 years ago, I was kissing the boys good night and about to leave the bedroom when Noah said, “Daddy, can you hold my hand?”

Well, sure, I thought.

My brain also sent up a little alert:

What about all the parenting advice you’ve followed to help these two become independent sleepers? You hold their hand one time, they’re going to start depending on it.

And then I thought — one thing I’ll never say is, “I wish I’d hugged or held my boys’ hands a little less.”

Never going to happen.

So, I plopped between their twin beds and held both their sweet little paws while they flopped around, taught me about dinosaurs, and eventually conked out.

Two years later, I still hold their hands while they fall asleep.

Mind you, I’ve gamed the system.

Now that their bedtimes are different, the process takes longer, but I carpe the end of the diem to listen to audio books, play the NY Times word games, and catch up on my YouTube Watch Later list.

Melissa and I also flirt via Instagram messenger.

She’s curated a quality menagerie there, and she shares the riches.

There are some FUNNY folks on the socials. I’m grateful for the yuk yuks.

I’m always like, “Look at them, making the videos and putting it out there. Go ahead.”

And then I’m like, “How LONG did it take to conceive, shoot, and edit that video? How much of their life is devoted to, throat catch, ahmhmhmhmmmm, content creation?”

Con’-tent. A noun. Meaning the stuff that’s inside a container. I guess that’d be contents.

Con-tent’. Adjective. Being peacefully balanced, fulfilled, and grateful.

An irony, noooo?

These brilliant folks make content and contribute it to a technological platform that’s designed never to be content.

Especially with Instagram and its cousins, you’re talking about a 48-hour life span before everyone’s moved on to the next hot take on “Can I pet that daaawwwg?”

(That’s exactly how I talked growing up, PS.)

Stresses me out for them.

I’ve got an ambivalent relationship with the socials.

I’ve paused my accounts, read Cal Newport’s books and listened to lectures about digital minimalism, fired my accounts up again and scheduled more than a year’s worth of, hmhmhmhmmm, content, in a spread sheet, been elated that something I posted helped someone else, and spent many more hours than I wanted to recovering from snark slime slung my way in the comments section.

I also dislike the window it opens on my human susceptibility to all the Vegas-y scroll-scroll-scroll dopamine drip manipulation brain grab techniques they wield.

I’m also not a fan of how the platforms puff oxygen on the fires of surface knee-jerk statements on complicated, nuanced, both-and situations.

And as soon as you click a button in favor of such statements, it’ll serve you more to confirm the bias it just detected.

But I was thinking about something walking into work the other day.

When I write this email to you, and you write me back and say something like, “Thank you. This is exactly what I needed to read this week.” That alone makes it worth it.

If I know I lightened someone’s load for the day, that’s worth it to me.

And it occurred to me — that’s a great standard for decisions. “Will the thing I’m sharing lighten someone’s load? Will it encourage someone? Will it give them something that helps in any way?” Worth doing.

I think this is a great way to think about sharing stories and songs, too.

Is this ringing true in me? Is this wholehearted and honest? And will this make someone’s day better in some way?

It reframes our work because we’re seeing the world rather than worrying about how the world sees us. (A HUGE trap with the socials and life in general now. How do you not consider that when part of your brain may very well have merged with the phone camera?)

I’m remembering what Betty Buckley used to say in class in NYC 20 years ago: Be the seer, not the seen.

Made no sense to me at the time.

But now I get it. If you focus on what and who you’re seeing, your very observation can change the atmosphere around you. Quantum mechanics has been telling us that for years now.

If you turn the critical lens toward yourself, you collapse your love waves into picky particles, and I don’t think that’s how humans are designed to thrive.

How you see someone affects them, I’m convinced of this.

Think of one instance when someone saw a possibility in you that you were blind to, and how that probably changed your life. You and I have that very consequential ability right in the eyes of our heart.

“Will it lighten a load? Will it encourage? Will it offer something that helps? And does it ring true in me?” Then yes, go ahead.

We’re so inundated by choice, that’s a specific yet generous rubric to guide us. Spans from complimenting the cashier’s earrings to getting that one-person show on its feet for your trusted friends in your living room.

Just like hugs and holding hands, if it’s something you’ll never wish you did less of, go ahead. Do more of that.

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

Love much,
Dan

PS Great podcast interview with Betty Buckley that reminded me about the seer not the seen. https://open.spotify.com/episode/4yPahxBIqsRKqAFce81i3o?si=5168d2f9265c49c5

PPS Three people worth following — 

Tabitha Brown

Good News Movement

Justfrogetaboutit — (links to IG)

Running from what? Why’m I doing this again? And I need a snack.

April 9, 2024 /

It’s Patriots’ Day in Massachusetts which celebrates the role this state played in the Revolutionary War.

It’s also the running of the Boston Marathon. We went into Boston yesterday to see my Conservatory kids do Something Rotten, and it was a mess. The city, not the show. (They were terrific.)

Between race people and Red Sox people and your garden variety Massholes, we made it in and out relatively unscathed.

We even got a cookie and a blondie at Flour Bakery, so BONUS!

Walking down the street and holding hands with Melissa is one of my top favorite things in all of life.

The marathon goes right through Ashland a mile from our house, so we might try to get a peek at the folks who need to run, even without anything chasing them!

Yesterday about 2/3 of the way into Boston, I said to Melissa, “Those folks will still be running at this point. AND have a ways to go.” Bless em, God.

Got me to thinking, though, what kind of focus does it take to decide you’re going to run a marathon? Training for said marathon, and then running the 26+ miles…whether or not you choose to display a number sticker on your car. Up to you.

But what’s that runner’s reason for this? And what do they tell themselves for early morning training? What do they say when their brain logically tells them, “This is an insane pursuit. You should stop and have a snack.” Perfectly reasonable.

Do you know Tabitha Brown?

I watched her make a kale salad on Instagram today, and then she got a word from the Lord. She looked right in our souls from her kitchen and said, “You getting distracted.”

How do you know about me, Tab?

I mean, there’s been a lot going on in Calla-town. If life were a college course, I could be getting all kinds of extensions. (Though I did get taxes in this weekend. Boom! And ouch.)

But I have to be honest.

When I do have half an hour to sit down and write a scene, revise the musical that had a reading 18 months ago, or make a funny postcard for the casting director I’ve committed to bug every 6 weeks, I’m amazing at answering work emails, researching the best place to watch the marathon, or playing Wordle.

So, today I’m reaching out for your help.

What do you do to transcend or sublimate distraction? Write me back and tell me! I’ll share with the class.

And if you’ve run a marathon, how did you train? What did you do on days you didn’t feel like training? Fill me in.

One thing I do know, though, and this helps. I’m a forgetful creature. I forget why writing stories is so important, why singing means so much, why I still feel a tap on my shoulder telling me I have more to share.

We have so many chances for distraction. So many ways to get pulled off the path. Like, actual technology platforms designed to commandeer our brains and dominate our attention.

We have to exert a huge amount of choice energy to stay on the path.

So, I invite you today to write down why the thing that always taps your shoulder and burns your guts is crucial to you. Maybe investigate what’s behind that knee-jerk jealousy you feel about that person you have thing about. That’s a map and points you to the kind of work you you need to be sharing. (A helpful idea from Julia Cameron.)

I’ll do it, too. And for real — write me back and tell me how you diminish distraction. Share with the class.

And here’s one big why — there’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing

Love much, Dan

Is that necessary? Hot goss burning me up inside like a geyser of red hot indignation

April 2, 2024 /

I get judgy when people gossip.

Can’t they think of something better to talk about? How sad.

Oh, if you want your business known, just tell Chatty Pattie over there.

(A statement which itself crosses the line into the center Gossip Town.)

But I’m just telling you so you can be warned. And to pray for Pattie, of course, bless her heart.

(“Hot Goss Initiators: Survey says,” DING! “prayer requests!”)

A friend and colleague was visiting the Conservatory last week, and we grabbed coffee before the studio class they were going to teach.

A mutual acquaintance came up in conversation, and before I knew it, I was spilling the goods about an awkward Messenger exchange that didn’t put the aforementioned in the most favorable glow.

I didn’t even offer a prayer.

I felt something in my gut shift as I casually exposed this person — a deflating, slime balloon.

I tried to say something a little kinder to recover, but the goo had been slung.

Later on, my guest sent me a link to the training program they were teaching at, and it looked like some good work was going on.

I checked the About page and discovered the program was founded by someone I have a yawning respect deficit for. Someone who’d done hurtful things to friends, and, ironically, figured into a betrayal matrix in my own life.

The impulse arose. What oblique yet morally superior barb could I sling about this entrepreneurially savvy turd monkey?

I wanted to tell my friend what kind of jerk wagon they were working with, but then I remembered leaving the Dunkies that night and throwing casual shade on that other person.

And I heard a wise voice inside say, “Is it good? Is it true? Is it necessary?”

Um, not really. Yes! And no.

I zoomed forward to ask near-future-Dan, and he said, “Better leave it.”

Grrrrrrrr!

But, I want the people to KNOW. As if it might not be general intel among the theatrical community that this particular person may have engaged in assy behavior.

I wrote back, “Looks like some great work going on there,” which was true, and sat while the gossip geyser in my guts abated.

It was hard not to splay the indignant truth on IG messenger, but after an hour or three, I was grateful I practiced what career coach Barbara Deutsch calls containment.

It was also a statement to myself.

The things this person did that hurt me have less significance now. I even noted the lack of charge when I saw this person’s name. It had been high voltage several years ago when those syllables came up in conversation. (I did not restrain my opinion in that instance.)

But, a few things I learned from deciding to zip it this time:

It was a little hard to do. And worth doing.

I noticed I was a little proud of myself. Choosing not to engage that was a loving act toward me. And my friend didn’t need that noise, either.

And it reminded me how useful the three Socratic sieves are. Is it good? Is it true? Is it necessary?

What would our hearts and minds be like if we kept this top of our consciousness?

It would change how we talk to ourselves, what kind of media we read and soak into our brains, and it would help ALL interpersonal communication.

Good, true, necessary. And I’ll add beautiful.

Adjectives that describe you very well.

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

Much love,

Dan

PS Have you heard about The Heaven and Earth Grocery Store by James McBride? It’s just a beautiful book. I listened to the audio, and it’s excellent. Good, true, necessary, and beautiful.

PPS And do you know the work of Nilaja Sun? I’m late to the party, but her play No Child… is exceptional. What a wise writer and open-hearted storyteller.

PPPS Shout out to my Voice Teacher from Elon, Cathy McNeela. Yesterday was the spring recital for my BoCo nuggets, and I caught myself making the following Cathy faces:

deep nostril breath before a long phrase:

Open mouth deep feels when a student is being all brave and courageous in their storytelling

And the sweet flowers the schmoopie seniors gave me. I love these kids, what a privilege.

Where’s the stage? I dreamed a dream, and it was crazy.

March 26, 2024 /

For more than twenty years I’ve dreamed variations on a theme:

I’m in a show I haven’t rehearsed for. I can’t find my costume. And I never get to the stage.

Recently, I dreamed I showed up to sing with the good people of First Presbyterian Church of Burlington, NC, and someone asked me to sing “Bring Him Home” from the Les Miz. Alain Boublil and Claude Michel Schonberg would be in attendance.

My friend Bill Solo (who played Jean Valjean on Broadway and many national tours) was going to accompany me, and I’d come prepared to this dream! I brought not one but TWO copies of the song with me.

As I walked in a smooth fashion to the piano (just as I teach my students to do), I couldn’t find the sheet music.

It disappeared from my binder.

I learned this event also happened to be a party? Hosted by voice actor queen Tara Strong, it turned out.

And since I still couldn’t find my music (neither copy), we decided I’d sing later.

I never got to sing the song.

I even asked Tara if she could help me print the music from Music Notes.

She said, “Sure!” and walked over to a computer she called Doja Cat, and told it what we needed.

It didn’t print my music, but it did pop out a delicious autumn-themed meal featuring roasted squash and rosemary.

If you have insight on what my subconscious has been trying to communicate to me ever since college with these never-making-it-to-the-stage dreams, fill me in, Dr. Freud.

But do you ever experience this feeling of thwart in your artistic life?

You send the emails. You make your own things. You invite the people. You post on the platforms. You show up at the auditions. You take the classes. You worry if maybe you’re becoming transactional in your relationships.

And still you feel a little like me in my dreams where my costumes disappear off the rack and the hallway from the dressing room to stage left gets all morphed like Dr. Strange meets Inception.

I recently wanted to be seen for a project. My terrific agent said, “I’ll reach out to casting.” Thanks 👍. Crickets. I even went in for an open call for the project. More crickets (it felt like). I knew folks involved and everything. Not a fit.

In fact, most attempts I’ve made to audition for projects since the panorama, doors have remained closed.

The story that goes through my head: They think I’m a professor person now. Or they’re not thinking about me at all.

Maybe that’s wrong. Maybe there’s a grain of accuracy there. Dunno. No one’s confirmed or denied.

But when I slow down and listen to my life in this season, I see that I’ve had all this amazing time holding my boys’ hands at bedtime.

And teaching keeps finding me.

(Even at my last audition, I ran into a long time student from LA who needed a hug, some love, and a few therapeutic vocal exercises.)

I remember something I often tell students: a closed door is direction.

I look around at the closed doors, and I realize a few things.

There are just a few roles in current musical theatre that I want to play right now.

And the roles I really want to play? Someone needs to write them. And that someone is me.

I’m working on it. Along with the book I’m writing. (I’ll let you know if I can work on two projects at once.)

So, if you’re like me in my anxiety reveries, and you hear the show starting on the monitor while you walk around lost in the halls with half a costume on, maybe it’s time to pause and ask if you’re trying to break down the wrong stage door.

There might be a story that’s been tapping on your shoulder that only you can tell.

How will you do it? No clue. But I do know you’ll never find out if you don’t get out your pen and paper or recording device and start getting some things down.

Jump to the first lily pad you see, and you’ll be surprised at how clear the geography of the pond starts to become.

There really is only one you (and me), and folks need to hear the story only we can sing.

Love much,

Dan

Is this weird? It totally is. You got any ideas?

March 19, 2024 /

I went to an audition last week.

I prepped like I believed that phrase “there‘s no such thing as too much preparation.”

I chose a song that was perfect for the character I had in mind,

transcribed and transposed it in Finale,

even worked it in studio class to give my students an object lesson – see how your 46-year-old professor who’s been doing this for a while still freezes with panic sometimes and shouts creative profanity when he messes up that part. Again.

(Side note — my students had the BEST notes for me. Bravi y’all!)

The audition went fine. I was satisfied with my work, and onward you walk.

It got me to thinking about us theater storytellers, though — this crazy audition game we play.

You

read a break down,

choose a song that sounds like the world of the show,

has a story like the one your character would sing,

wear the clothes that suggest a costume,

but don’t get too costume-y.

Really want the role,

but don’t present as needy.

Answer the questions of the breakdown well,

but remember it’s not about what they want,

but it is, but don’t try to figure that out.

This is why I saw a couple of people in the holding room I’m sure I recognized from auditions 20+ years ago only with various degrees of manic desperation crinkling their brows.

I thought oh no, it looks like this is the center of your life, showing up to the calls and singing the songs and talking to the other folks about how it went in the room. I felt sad.

Of course, I have no idea if the things I projected on these strangers was accurate, or just a swirl of my own fear and ambivalence, but it did make me consider why auditioning is such a specific and tricky practice.

Auditioning requires that you understand the show, understand what piece of the show’s puzzle you might be, and then you need to figure out how to clearly convey your understanding through song choice, shirt choice, and vibe choice.

This one particular piece of this one particular puzzle calls on one facet of your overall skill set. If you were an architect, that day you’d feel like you’re sharing a blueprint of a backyard shed, while on the shelves of your studio, you have drafts of libraries, museums, and art deco skyscrapers.

No wonder actors fall into the kitchen sink trap.

I’ll shoehorn the journey of Oedipus into 16 bars and add an opt up. Shipoopi!

It’s the impulse to share, and the reason we joined to the drama club.

I can keep on making up stories and playing pretend? Yes, please! Oh, and sometimes people laugh, cry, and clap? Sign me up!

When Noah, our older boy, gets home from kindergarten, he heads straight to the living room, builds a ship, or a pyramid, or an army base out of Duplos, and begins a whole production playing all the characters featuring Elmo, Bluey, and a Ninja Turtle.

It’s delightful to hear his imagination fly.

Auditions ask us to narrow that wild, child-like stream into a very focused task, and the annoying truth of most creative endeavors is — you find a lot of freedom inside limits.

So, perhaps, rather than bemoaning how reductive an audition might feel, what if we combined our imagination powers with the rules of the game? (Auditioning is very Chutes and Ladders.)

The audition breakdown is like the instructions. You learn the object of the game and understand if it’s Candy Land or Settlers of Catan. You devise a strategy song choice, decide what game piece you think you are, and you prepare and share.

I find the more focused you are on the task of the audition, the more committed you are to your particular point of view, somehow the multi-facets of you naturally emerge and shine.

It’s not something you can be aware of, but your focus on the story along with an open heart creates human connection.

If you go in a room prepared to tell the story you crafted, alive in that moment, and open your heart, that’s a successful audition.

And then there’s this question for you:

What would be a way for you to create and share a rich story that features those blueprint drafts you’re so proud of on your shelves? Your sense of humor, dialect skills, well-honed belt-mix and accordion playing all in one show? 🙂

Dream up some possibilities, write them down, and practice them and share pieces with your trusted people. Then you’re on your way to building your own thing. No audition necessary.

Anything you make will be unrepeatable because there is, after all, only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much,

Dan

PS You’re precious, and you’re loved. You may feel like you just had to slide way down a long chute on the board game. I’m confident that your next few turns are going to redirect you to a terrific ladder you may have missed the first time through. Keep doing your thing and share. 💙

Reco-Bombing — advice for everything except how to magically change your emotions

February 27, 2024 /

The chair emerita of voice at BoCo (the woman who hired me — thanks, Patty) is in LA teaching a semester at USC.

She posted recently that she can’t find her favorite salad equivalent on the West Coast. (The haloumi salad at Tatte– delish). We’re spoiled for choice in Boston, it’s true.

I sent her a few recommendations from my LA culinary memory file. I was pleased to see the Mendocino Farms has ex-PAND-ed. I used to get their sammies on Grand Street back when I did shows downtown. So good.

But then I asked my brother Ben who lived in Angeleno Heights for several years.

He was always finding the best top-secret Mexican mole joint that put special fairy cacao in their sauce or introducing you to underground Ethiopian cuisine served in a secret alley somewhere between Mid-Wilshire and the Byzantine Latino Quarter.

So, I reached out to him for ideas, and pretty soon, I was hitting Patty’s text inbox with more culinary establishments than she’d be able to fight traffic to get to by the end of April.

You ask me a question about singing or food, you made a mistake.

I will make sure you know everything I know and follow up to see if you tried that Mark Bittman biscuit recipe yet.

I love telling people about great finds. I love sharing great restaurants, books, podcasts, and hard-knock lessons from audition rooms I stank up.

Watch out for this, and you gotta try that.

It makes ma feel like I helped you. And my ego likes knowing things, too.

But then something will happen.

I’ll be around someone I think is fancy, and my brain short circuits.

I’ll say “you too” in response to “Have a nice flight” or “Enjoy your meal.”

I’ll get dysregulated by an unexpected smell that triggers a painful memory, and I’m dealing with anxiety that I subsequently scold myself for having. (There’s a reason I tell you to be kind to yourself every week. I need to hear it the most.)

Just last night and this morning, a thing came up between Melissa and me, and rather than sharing the anxiety with her, I kept it to myself saying, “No one would understand this. I don’t even understand it myself.”

The outcome — by not communicating, I ended up hurting her feelings and making my brain go even more haywire in the trigger/confusion spiral.

I love to give advice, and in the throes of nervous system overload, not only do I have no advice for myself, I’d be impervious to it if I had it to offer.

If I get knocked emotionally sideways, it’s hard for me even to check my email. All practical functioning slows way down.

Then, of course, I tell myself about all the folks I know who continue to plow ahead just fine in the face of emotional adversity. Why can’t I just get on with my day?

Truth is, the way my brain and nerves work, I actually do have to stop for a moment. I have to understand that I’m going to be a little loopy and cognitively challenged until I gain equilibrium again.

I hate it.

I want the fast fix. But that’s as available to me as a slam dunk competition victory. (Still getting over scoring for the other team in peewee league.)

When I get blindsided, I have to understand that my list of recommendations isn’t going to do it for me. I’m going to need to embrace my current membership in the linear time experiencer club, take several deep breaths, notice my physical sensations with as much compassionate curiosity as I can muster, maybe take a walk, and phone a friend.

If you’re going through something tough today, I hope you’ll give yourself the gift of time and acknowledge that it takes some moments to travel from one place to another.

This is true in your songs as well. It could take 4 or 5 phrases to get your brain and breath balanced. We’ve bought the lie of the immediate fix. (And what’s wrong with me that I can’t get this magic wand to work?)

You and me — we’re beautiful, frail, resilient, complex, simple, multifaceted humans.

I can tell you how to get your mix more flexible, where to find a solid cheeseburger in Boston, and the best chocolate cake recipe you’re ever going to make, AND, I could be waste-deep in hot mess town at the same time.

Wish I could skip it. When I figure out how, I’ll let you know.

In the meantime, I hope you’ll give yourself the gift of time, breathing, moving, and the space to let yourself have a process. I’m still resistant to the whole idea.

I do know this, though. For sure. There’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much (that includes you),

Dan

Personal Grooming Failure 👃 — mean people on YouTube and moisturizer (?)

February 20, 2024 /

Melissa asks me regularly, “Did you moisturize?” And in Massachusetts February, you don’t need to respond for the answer to be apparent.

I’ve been to dermatologist appointments only to discover my knees looked like ostrich skin downwind of a dying campfire; you have to put lotion on that?

I’m the same with face grooming/stray hair management. 

I posted a recent YouTube video, and a very kind commenter remarked they couldn’t keep watching because of the sunlight illuminating a prominent nose hair. (I take my first light troll as a sign that I’ve been more consistent on my YouTube game. ✊)

I do fall off the nose hair trim train on a regular basis, and Melissa’s keen eye and brow kit are the only things preventing my super-occular blonde caterpillars from merging into unified crazy professor forehead larvae.

Other personal grooming infractions: mirror-free shower shaving (always neck patches left), stray side fliers from self-administered haircuts, and perpetually crusty knuckles through the New England winter.

I’m proud to report I’m a member of the Habitual Flosser Society, though. (The hygiene practice AND the dance.) My gums are popping.

Melissa and I were talking at bedtime about how funny it is that we have bodies.

While I deeply enjoy the physical world and much of what it entails — singing, hugs, and cheeseburgers come to mind — the things I heard my parents and grandparents say about aging are showing up in my experience.

You notice changes in your hands, lines on your face that stay after you smile, or your photo app shows you a video from 10 years ago, and you’re like, “Hmmmm, I had a pretty abundant amount of energy then.”

You watch physical changes happen while the you you’ve always known stays inside there.

My great grandma Allie said she still felt like she was her 16-year-old self trying to see out of eyes that had begun to fail her.

When we’re younger, we’re prone to fuse our inner awareness with our outer presentation, or at least depend on/blame it. As the body changes and telomeres shorten, we may start to get a clue that one of these things is not like the other.

On the other side of this existential pancake, I’m getting more clued in to how teeny and limited I am.

The essential me senses endless possibility and eternal opportunity. Then I notice I’m in a body that can only be in one location doing one thing at a time. (Still haven’t perfected my Hermione Granger Quantum Time Turner — I’d be dangerous with that.) I’m limited. 

So, there must be value and precious learning in this small, boundaried life. 

We know that terrific creativity flourishes inside a clear frame — a 14-line sonnet, a 3-act structure, a 1-2-3 punchline setup.

And if this is true, no wonder we all get a smidge cuckoo the more information, opinion, and comparison flies our way.

To acknowledge your beautiful teeny-ness, you have to let the fact itself in, and then you have to de-select all the sideshow noise jangling around you — usually from that little rectangle most of us are carrying around these days.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my dad lately. He died two years ago this month, and as I drove to school last Saturday for program auditions, I got a deep sense that he was cheering me on and maybe pulling some heavenly strings.

Melissa had a dream where he showed up recently. She said it was like he rode in on the frequency of whatever dream she was having and invited her to another channel. He brought her into a white waiting room, and my mom and I were there, too; we all sat together. He held my face in his hands and said, “I’m so proud of you.” His beard was white and trimmed, and he’d been making a lot of jokes with my papa Basil (Mama’s dad).

I’ve been blessed with dream-visits from folks who’ve moved on before me. (Papa’s shown up a few times. One time he said, “I’m so glad you came across the pond to see me.” Another time, he poked his head through while I was jogging and told me not to name Noah after him. “Don’t call him Basil,” he said :))

I believe our people are near and experiencing the limitless possibility I feel bouncing inside my rib bones.

So, here my soul sits inviting your soul to come visit with me and take a moment to remember who we are. (This is also what happens with good song sharing.)

My earth uniform needs moisturizing and stray hair trimming according to 2024 western grooming standards, but my soul is sparkly splendiferous. Yours, too.

And I believe if you let yourself listen and know in the way you know you listen and know, you’ll hear what your unlimited self wants to do inside this very limited and beautiful blink of an eye we call a life span.

For me, I know one thing I came here to do is to sing, and I mean to focus a good amount of attention on it. If I can make one person’s life better with a song or an email, I believe it ripples out forever.

You, too. You have no idea how significant a smile in the trail mix aisle at Trader Joe’s can be.

I do know this: There’s only one you, the you that transcends your fingers, eyes, and hair, the you who knows and re-members, only one. And you’ll leave folks better when they hear the song only you can sing.

Love much,

Dan

PS Here’s that video with the nose hair. 

Drop and Give Me 5? Ridiculously small things that get you there

February 13, 2024 /

I’ve been getting the nudge recently to exercise my muscles.

“OK, OK,” I tell my health angel self. I’ll do some push-ups. Right after I eat this bowl of cereal at 9:30 PM and watch a Father Brown mystery on BritBox.

(We’ve hopped aboard the Father Brown train. It’s got the remarkably high murder rate for a small Cotswolds village, a sufficiently hubristic conclusion-jumping chief inspector, and just enough scenery and scones to make you feel cozy when you’re at day’s end exhaustion.)

But yeah, Lady Felicia screaming (she always seems to discover the bodies) isn’t a big inspiration to align my body in a perfect plank and execute push-ups.

My brain says, “Just do 25 push-ups a day” and I reply, “OK, but first, a cookie.”

I was talking to a student at the Conservatory about practicing. We were working on an exercise to get chest voice and head voice to play nice.

I said “eight minutes a day with one day off still gets you to 48 minutes of practice in a week. That’s 48 minutes you wouldn’t have banked if you told yourself, ‘Well, I don’t have an hour, and the practice rooms are full.’”

The terrific thing about being a singer is that you can practice anywhere.

You can work breath coordination walking down the sidewalk.

You can go full Carnegie Hall in your shower.

You can mark through lyrics and imagine stuff in the car or on a train.

You can even get curious about the crusty woman in line at the Boston Whole Foods and wonder, “Maybe my character in that William Finn song had a similar morning.”

Chances for layering and integration are everywhere.

I then confessed to my student that I do the same thing with exercise.

“Oh, no full free weight set-up here with inspirational music and a water cooler? I clearly can’t move my body today. I mean, I already take the stairs!”

And I said to the student, “You know, 5 pushups is better than no pushups.”

So, I got down and did 5 pushups. Not so hard! The next day, I did 6. The next….

This is a tool I picked up from James Clear’s book Atomic Habits. By atomic, he means teeny — and impactful.

If a plane in Los Angeles adjusts its nose a mere 2 degrees, that’s the difference between landing in New York City and Washington DC.

What’s a thing you’ve been getting a nudge about?

Something you know would be satisfying but you say, “I rarely have time, and seriously, what difference is five pushups going to make?”

What’s the smallest representation you can make today to show yourself you value this?

Will you put your butt in a chair and write and/or look out the window for 15 minutes?

Will you find the sheet music for a song you’ve been wanting to learn?

Will you give yourself a moment to remind yourself what your values are?

I’ve found I have to go back and revisit the values I wrote down in January because I forget.

There’s a reason the Old Testament writer said, “Scribble these down everywhere and tie them on your head.” We blank. Humans slide right into entropy if we don’t attend to and nurture the things we value.

Do an experiment this week, please. 🙏

Pick one thing, and do something so small that your ego committee scoffs, “What difference will that make?”

Do it, and tomorrow, do a little more.

And when the day comes that you don’t do the thing or you forget or you eat Doritos instead, gently re-board the train the next day.

What would happen if you rode that train for a year? Future You knows the approximate depot where you’ll disembark. 

Future You also knows there’s only one you, and you’ll love it if you do what it takes to sing the song only you can sing. I say this every week because I need to hear it the most.

Now go sing!

Love much,

Dan

I’m Just a Kid — Today-You is Past-You’s Future-You

February 6, 2024 /

Back in our LA days, Melissa and I were babysitting for our God kids, Josh and Ashley.

We had a great time hitting a balloon through the house, (I’d later learn from Bluey that this game is called Keepy Uppy) feasting on chicken nuggets, and watching Frozen.

The hour was late when little Ashley leaned against the TV cabinet, closed her eyes and sank to the living room floor. She then announced, “I’m just a kid!”

And of course, from that day forward, Melissa and I adopted this statement to encapsulate any moment of general exhaustion, delirium or depletion ineptitude. Or as we call it for me in our house, 9 PM.

The last few weeks in the Calla-house have been challenging, and we’ve been held up by praying parents, friends bringing dinner, brothers taking days off work and taking boys to school, aunties getting grocery gift cards and movie vouchers — truly sweet evidence of a caring community when we were convinced we hadn’t quite cracked the “We live here now, New England,” residency test.

Our friend, Jesse, brought us not only a quality quiche, but fresh baked bread, brownies, blueberry muffins, fudge cookies, and a pumpkin chocolate chip loaf. And wine.

He just got his bake-at-home-for-money permit, so once he starts shipping from Sherborn, MA, you’ll be the first to know.

But yeah, there’ve been some curveballs of late, and there’ve been many “I’m just a kid” moments.

Only, I noticed for me I don’t say this with understanding of my human limits.

In fact, the more depleted I’ve felt over these weeks, it’s been fascinating to notice how my inner conversation digs right into the familiar ground of self criticism:

“Oh nice, Dan, remember how you said you wanted to focus on understanding and grace today? Hear how you just talked to your kid?”

“Good thing folks are bringing you dinner. You can’t even stay on top of putting laundry in the washer.”

“All those official plans and schedules you structured in your syllabus, and week two you’re already behind. Are you really going to follow through?”

Oof. Writing them out, I’m like dang. If that doesn’t spike your cortisol…

But, when the statements natter away in my head, they converge like a bad 20th Century choral work and sound halfway-reasonable cloaked in the cacophony. Caca-phony 😊

As my friend, Michael Pereira, always used to say — “That’s so not healing.”

Then, all that gets followed up with “OhmiGod, listen to yourself. You’re so cruel to you.”

Why do we need no assistance kicking ourselves when we’re down?

For a lot of us, this critical voice emerged early as a protector.

Maybe criticism from the big folk in your early life came with feeling rejected or isolated. Few things are more painful for a human, so perhaps your brilliant young psyche figured out…”if I PRE-criticize myself, then maybe I’ll avoid all the pain and fear that comes with chastisement from large people.”

I’m remembering a voice lesson in college when I listed all the things I needed to work on after finishing an Italian song. While I was mostly accurate, I couldn’t even let myself be a student. To be taught.

I even flinch and take a deep breath before I read student evaluations. Mind you, I’ve read some cruel and unfair offloads in those before, so the body keeps the score, right?

But, remember last week when I encouraged you to ask Future You for advice? Future You is often a great guide.

And I also remember that Today Me was Future Me when I was eight, and eight-year-old me needs some love and affection from Today Dan.

I’m just a kid.

Thing is, when we are just a kid, we don’t know that. We believe we’re these gravitational centers, and if there’s a hurricane spinning around us rather than an orderly orbit, we’re prone to blame ourselves. Gotta be our fault.

We don’t know that we are just a kid.

So, Today Me can look with curiosity at the part of me who’s the automatic harsh exactor and ask, “How old do you think I am?”

The inquisitor answers, “Seven or eight.”

Then I just let that part of me look and ascertain that I am, in fact, 46. Oh.

Then, 46-year-old me can put an arm around 7-year-old me and say, “You’re just a kid, Dan. And I’m going to take care of you. I love you. You get to learn. You get to mess up. You get to say sorry and repair, and you get to know there’s a big person who’s here to hold you if you need to cry.”

There’s a part of you who’s still just a kid, and Today You who’s made it all this way can reach out to them with compassion and say, “I’m here.”

You may need to take seven slow breaths first, but it helps.

It’s only when that kid gets the message they are safe with and loved by you that the childlike trust that’s necessary for playful storytelling can bubble up like a root beer float.

So, give it a go today.

Past You is saying what my four year-old son is so good at saying when I get all crusty and struggle town with him: “I want a hug!”

I stop, and I hug him, and we move through.

I know that’s available for you, too, schmoopie pie.

Another thing Jude said this morning: “Daddy, I’m a treasure!”

Yes you are my, sweetie pie.

And so are you.

God only made one — Mathematically implausible and statistically mind blowing miraculous you. And folks need to hear the story only you can sing

Love much, Dan

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