Dan Callaway Studio

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

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Late Processor

I learned before my mind could name feelings
To tuck unmanageable sensation away
In unlabeled boxes assigned to the Healings
Of the Miraculous Variety Department. One day,
These will be processed in an orderly fashion free
Of messiness or confusion or surprises —
The unnamed documents would simply be
Remanded to the file labeled “guises”–
An infinite folder holding all manner of unsayable
Observances and temporarily renaming
Events until the things that seem unprayable
Explode from the cabinet in a paper storm of blaming.
So far, it’s been a workable system, I’d say.
This sheet’s labeled “later.” File under “A?”

Let’s eat and get some rest

These times are tougher than that thing you never
predicted you would get through. Look, though. Here
you are. You made it! Knowing that whatever
may come, looking back on times -- when fear
seemed like the strongest voice and you were sure
there wasn't any road to lead you out --
can help you see there was a path of pure
connection guiding you through why and doubt
and how and ow! And look! You're here. It may
well suck, this current course (required), and you
will learn the thing and share it on the way
with someone else like you in search of clue.
I don't know why the shitty times teach best.
So while we're taught, let's eat and get some rest.  

Communication

Today I planned to finish grading things
and made a list of other tasks that now
escape my memory, but in the slings
and narrows of my busy mind, the how
of these accomplishments made war with chores
that cried out from the kitchen sink and mocked
me in the form of toys and books in floors
and empty battery compartments locked
away until I find the right screwdriver.
Melissa asked me what was wrong, and not
long after she inquired, I spouted five or
eleven things I'm hoping she forgot. 
I'm learning to communicate my brain.
I'm finding saying words makes things more plain. 

Christmas Lights

We went to spot some Christmas lights tonight
just after second-night black olive pizza
and re-do lemon birthday cake that might
have had vanilla ice cream. Nothing beats a
repast of simple carbs with easy clean-
up. Well, some simple carbs and wine. And cheese. 
We loaded up the jammied boys between
the winter coats and mittens left to freeze
in our back seat; Melissa DJ'd as 
we listened to our two-year-old sing rum-
pa-pum and J-I-N-G-L-E jazz.
Our two-year-old reminds me of the days
when colored lights would sing my heart ablaze. 

The day I chose to help the world be kind

The day I chose to help the world be kind
and gentle to itself turned out to be
the same cold day I lost my shit and mind
while hauling my two toddlers furiously
away from slides and swings where I decided
to take them stoller-free and lacking snack.
"You do not screw with schedule," Wisdom chided,
as I wrangled noncompliant wrigglers back 
toward the distant car in need of fre-
quent stops to pull my Wranglers up. The scene
was dignified to say the least, and me,
the model of a modern major mean(ie).
Oh yes, the day I chose to share the ways of kindness--
Some days you wish life had some more rewind-ness.

Your enough-ness

Brené Brown wrote, “The opposite of scarcity isn’t abundance; the opposite of scarcity is simply enough.”

This stuck with me. I have lived most of my life believing the former duality.

When I perceived scarcity, I saw the absence of abundance. I was blind to all the enough within and without.

I go back to the story I’ve told about sitting in my car in front of a check cashing joint in North Hollywood crying because I couldn’t even get a usurious payday loan to cover all the bills I had said yes to.

Looking back, in that moment I actually had enough. I mean, here I am right? I made it.

I knew to call a friend and ask for help. This assistance bore no interest and came with a lot of empathy. This friend also didn’t really have a large cushion to spare, and still he lent. He had enough.

Let’s take a second and look in. Yep, your heart, where you really live, the real you that’s not your hair, skin, clothes, eye color, or bank account.

Are you looking? I’ll wait.

Look, you’re enough! How can you not be? You’re a miracle of creation here on this earth skewl with me, learning as you go down the road. How beautiful.

Have you tried affirmations? I swore off of them. (Though I’ve stumbled upon a cool way forward with them that I’ll share soon.)

Yeah, affirmations when you say, “I am all these grandiose amazeballs things,” and your brain says, “Pssshht. Um, look at your resume.”

The thing with I am enough is that you know it’s true. Enough is just right. You’re enough to be reading this, enough to contemplate this, enough to look inside and see, oh wow, there’s a whole lot of enough there.

Yesterday I said that when we sing, we can open our hearts and invite people in. They don’t know what’s in there, only whether or not we are being hospitable. That’s where all that enough lives.

And just think–I invite you in there, you see, “oh, Dan is full of all this enough. Wait a second, I’m a human just like him. I bet I got all kinds of enough, too.”

You would be right. It’s sweet. It’s full of rest. It’s powerful. It burns away the illusion of our separation and better-or-worse-than-ness.

In every present moment, you are enough. I am enough. You have what the moment requires–washing that dish, putting on that shirt, projecting a hello to that person in the grocery store through your mask and squinching up your eyes so they can see you’re smiling.

When you’ve done your prep, when you’ve practiced the notes, when you’ve made the words your words that stand for your images and your thoughts, you can stand in that song and know that you are enough.

Dang, even if you haven’t done all the work, know you’re enough and do a great job. Trust me, I’ve been fooled by many a student 🙂 In fact, you can do all the homework, and if you aren’t on board with your enough-ness, there’s no way anyone else can be. You have to go first.

You. Are. Enough. Promise me you’ll say that today. I am enough.

Because you are, and you know you are.

And maybe somebody needs to see you live that in front of them so that they can get a beautiful clue about their own cozy, infinite, breathtaking enough.

Open the door

This is for those of you looking to embark on the arduous task of auditioning for the myriad and proliferating music theatre programs across the country.

This is also for any theatre singer who auditions.

This is also for me.

In case you haven’t noticed, this year it’s nuts.

Who even knows what skewl 20/21 might look like?

One thing that we can expect is that your audition experience is going to involve a camera.

I am the worst with cameras. ?? I seize up at headshot sessions. The only TV/film work I ever booked was from off-camera callbacks.

I feel your pain when you are looking to show your best self in a live art form via a two-dimensional digital medium.

Here’s a thing I’ve learned, and I hope it helps you. This works with cameras and real-live people.

I call it “open the door.”

It means that when we are singing our songs, we can choose to open the door or close it.

For me this is an actual focus I place right at my chest. I imagine that I am opening double doors and welcoming all listeners into this space where I need to sing this song at this moment.

I tell students that no one can see what’s inside your heart or mind, only whether you are welcoming them in or not.

This is a magic shift that allows us to make something with our audience rather than singing at them.

The same is true for the camera. I can invite the camera to be my collaborator.

When I do, it allows the lens to pull thoughts and story out effortlessly; if you are thinking it, the camera will see it.

This is great news. You have a partner that projects, amplifies, and communicates your authentic story for you.

Prepare, know your specifics, know the story you are living, then open the door.

***And if you need practice, fire up a video recording device and start making friends. As therapist Marisa Peer often says, “Make the unfamiliar familiar.”***

***??for some nerd-tastic follow up, look up the Double Slit Experiment and how quantum physics emerged from scientists discovering that reality is alarmingly shaped by the presence of an observer. The camera observes you, and in turn, you observe the camera. Go. Philosophize! ?Draw your own conclusions.***

The musical I wrote about forgiveness

I’ve been cooking up this musical since 2012, and this Myers Briggs ENFP knows it’s finally time to start sharing some songs.

In 2012 I had a significant list of amends to make, and there were those whom I held inside the imaginary cage of my own contempt.

I’m still learning what forgiveness means. And since I’ve needed a lot of it since 2012, I’ve noticed that it is alive and moving, welcoming us to collaborate.

It’s like breathing and singing. We can’t hold a note, we can only watch as the breath moves through us and we open to receive the next one.

This is “The Treasures We Owned” from ACROSS.

A lil story background:

In 1985, Lynn Steeple is a retired opera singer who teaches at Armstrong College in her hometown of Mt. Airy, North Carolina.

When she learns that her ex-husband will be the college’s artist in residence, she finds her life hurtling down an emotional mountain road in a truck with tired breaks.

This song happens in Act 2 as Lynn weighs the years she’s spent rehearsing the deeds of those who’ve trespassed against her.

A Prayer for George Floyd on My Brother’s Forty-Sixth Birthday

Jesus, I pictured you gathering your child
George Floyd
under your wings as he left his body
on rough grey asphalt.

The report said he was forty-six,
and I thought of my brother,
towering tall like George,
whose forty-sixth birthday is today.

I imagined a place where a big white man
with wavy brown hair like he
would be police-pinned bare-chest-down
eye-level with oil stains and cigarette butts,
his temple gravel-indented.

I have to imagine my gentle giant big brother
suffering a bony knee to his throat
and a hands-in-pockets “relax”
when he pleads for breath.

What’s make-believe for me
is you-better-believe for my human brothers
whose melanin riches make them poor
according to the story we’ve spun
based on our ability to see
.0035 percent of the light spectrum.

This tale gags
a hundreds-years nightmare scream
in the deaf presence of stopped ears.

Does your brown, scarred brow, Lord,
knit at our bleached, ignored grief
as you feel our refusal
to let through the howl for the things done
and those left undone?

Where do the pierced hands
that made spit-mud for the blind man
guide us?

Today I ask for blessings for my brother’s
forty-sixth year,
and I think of how my prayers depart
from the black mother
who pleads for anyone to guard her son
from those who obey inhuman agents
that insinuate that we are
separate.

May you smear the deep brown clay on our eyes,
the mud we’re all made from,
to see the moment when
George
met his mother when he called her
and, cradled beneath your wing
by your spear-stabbed side,
walked upright together into the place where
you hear their voice
and you will wipe every tear from their eyes.

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