Category: Being Kinder to You — It’s Important (Page 2 of 4)

I’ve gotten better at letting love in.

I used to be less-than-absorbent.

Like that desiccated sponge at the corner of your kitchen sink, love water could run right over me and down the drain. 

By the time I started to soften and soak, I thought, “Well, this is very unfamiliar, nay, uncomfortable. I’m gonna scoot my damp self back over to the corner and seethe with envy at the Scrub Daddy. He sees all the action. AND with a perpetual smile on his face.”

The reasons for this are many; I’m not alone in my family line in the struggle to receive nice things.

In my case, I was lucky enough to go through a couple of proper pulverizations. 

More than that, though, the thing that softened my sponge was needing forgiveness. I smashed some folks on my way to plopping my soul in base of the grinder.

It was like yesterday when one of the Calla-nuggets destroyed the other Calla-nugget’s Thanksgiving craft. No amount of Elmer’s glue was going to Humpty Dumpty that together again.

I reflected, “You destroyed your brother’s project. What’s the reason you did that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Now he’s crying a lot. What do you think you can do to help?” I asked.

Fact is, there was no bringing the pinecone turkey back from its demise.

“Say sorry?”

I said, “Give it a try.”

“Sorry brother,” said the responsible party.

After a few sniffles, the injured party replied, “I’m working on it.”

(We’ve evolved from “BAD SORRY!”)

But that was such a clear picture of what forgiveness has meant to me.

I crushed some pinecone turkeys, and there was no amount un-crushing I could do.

All I had was, “I’m so sorry.”

And I was given the gifts of, “I love you. I understand. And I forgive you.”

And that’s how this sponge got his squeeze.

Letting love in means you have to open the door to your heart, and when your heart’s been broken, that’s scary.

(I’m convinced that’s why a lot of folks walk around with their head jutting forward (besides the phones) — the brain is trying to assess all situations before the heart enters the room.)

But there’s no other way.

When it comes to singing, this skill is one of the most helpful tools of all.

When you sing, you’re sending vibrating communication out with your exhale. But if there’s not a simultaneous welcome back to your heart, you’re missing the whole point.

It’s the completion of a love circuit, the balance of a natural cycle, like breathing in and out.

Telling a story is a welcome to your narrative party.

So here are 2 tools you can use to try this out.

🔧 Number one — sing the phrases of your song, and for each phrase, bring your hand slowly to your heart. You’re saying, “You’re invited to my unrepeatable experience of this story.”

The great thing about this is nobody can see what’s in there, they just know whether or not they’re invited.

🧰 Number 2 — think about your pharynx.

I joke with my students that the answer to almost any question I ask in lessons is “the pharynx!” Kind of like kids in Sunday school; the answer’s always “Jesus!”

Here’s your pharynx:

It’s where 90% of your resonance happens. (Nope, it’s not your mask. Don’t get me going on the get-it-forward thing.)

So, here’s what I want you to do.

Snort.

Feel where your uvula flops back against the back there.

That’s your pharynx.

Now hum your fave tune.

Meditate on that space. Notice the vibrating stream moving through it. That’s your most direct resonance location.

Now I want you to imagine your pharynx is receiving a fancy vibration massage.

Like the part of your back that needs the most TLC right now getting the best lavendar lotioned love. That kind of feeling.

Let your pharynx actually feel good getting those vibes from your vocal folds.

Like you’re slowing down to smell some unexpected fall roses, really tasting that bite of chocolate cake, or feeling sweet unconditional love from your doggy’s excited “your back!” panting.

(here were some in Boston last week — so pretty.)

If you’re enjoying your singing, guess who’s gonna be invited to enjoy it too? The folks you’re singing for.

Inviting someone into your heart and enjoying beauty — I imagine the world would be a much different place if more folks were doing that.

While you and I can’t wave a global scale love wand, we can do it in our own small sphere. And I’m convinced that makes a difference.

You know how I know?

Because it’s the folks who invited me into their hearts over a drink or on a stage, and showed me the beauty of enjoying a flower, a melody, and a smile — it’s those things that helped me let love in.

So, walk around today with your heart and head lined up, open your sternum door, and hum some tunes and enjoy those vibes.

Your song’ll give off love and bring it right back to you multiplied. And again.

These days it’s so important to remember — there’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story flowing love that only you can sing.

Love much,

Dan

PS Here’s me talking about how forgiveness changed things and singing “Shine” from The Spitfire Grill. (You can skip ahead to a little over 1 minute in.)

PPS You mighta missed last week’s email because I got a little behind on sending it out. There’s a terrific interview with Merri Sugarman from Tara Rubin Casting included that you’ll want to listen in on. Love and appreciate her point of view and her genuine care for actors. Click here to get it.

I could write you seven emails about the last weekend.

Scott Nicholas and I did our songs at Green Room 42 last Saturday, and it couldn’t have been more satisfying.

Every day leading up to the show, my brain said,

“YOU did this. YOU emailed the venue and set up a date. YOU picked these songs and invited all these folks.”

My brain chattered helpful survival tips every day:

“You can just cut that song.”

“Maybe you’ll get that crud Noah brought home from school and have to cancel.”

“If you don’t invite that person, you won’t have to feel disappointed if they tell you no.”

But the few moments I let myself get quiet and listen, I’d hear a voice (of the still, small variety) whisper in the middle of my torso,

“It’s going to be beautiful.”

I knew it was true.

My brain was a lot louder, and therefore much more noticeable.

Much like our brightly resonant 4-year-old when Melissa tries to relay one fact about something that happened to her on any given day after I get home.

I hear the scientists have figured out that our brain trains ?? automatically switch to the track to Negative Bias Town as their default route. Something about avoiding predators.

It’s a good thing to know because you can meet your brain with understanding when it’s so eagerly contributing to the committee meeting.

I’ve found, though, that if you can get a little bit still and check in with where you know things (for me it’s around my guts), that info is what you need to stick with.

It’ll lead you into zones where you’ll have to use your courage, and that means you’re going to feel scared.

But, that’s when I say to myself, “Self, what will Future Dan be glad you did?”

And present Dan is so grateful I went ahead and shared that show.

The collaboration was heavenly. (I’m truly lucky to work with Scott Nicholas — singing with him is like riding on a magic music cloud. He’s boss.)

And the sweetest experience was sharing it with folks in the room and loved ones online.

Folks from many years and places in my life all gathered — I’m convinced the gold of a life in theatre is the friends you get to make.

Melissa and I were reflecting on all the good people we’re blessed to know; it’s nuts, and I’m so grateful.

All this to say there is only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing. And your only-you-ness feels so everyday that you don’t realize how special and different it’s going to be for somebody else.

I guarantee if you let yourself do the thing that’s scary that the quiet voice peacefully and firmly tells you is the satisfying path, you’ll be surprised by who gets moved, healed, and encouraged.

Now go sing, and make a show and invite your people.

And look at these sweet pics of our boys living their best Central Park life.

Love Much,

Dan

Neil Degrasse Tyson said,

“The human genome is admirably complex, and it’s fair to ask whether there’s a finite number of humans it could make.

“The answer is yes, but it’s 10^30 – an incomprehensibly big number. The fact that you and I are alive is against stupendous odds.”

Every week, I say to you, “There’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.”

I believe this. For you.

I often exempt myself from this axiom.

In fact, if you have the privilege to teach, the things you say most are the things you most need to learn.

Last week, I posted a short video of a terrific William Finn song, “Anytime,” that I plan to sing in the show on Saturday. I’ve always loved this song.

When I chose it, I thought of all the fancy folks who’ve sung it.

I thought of all the recordings I stopped after the first few lines because I have strong aesthetic opinions.

I thought about the time I read a role in an NYU reading, and William Finn was there and maintained an unimpressed poker face throughout. I was certain he thought I was terrible. 

Welcome to my particular neuroti-scape.

Pieces of this memory menagerie all surfaced just in the selection of a song.

Even in choosing to share the song on the socials, I felt wiggle waggle.

Last Tuesday, all manner of apocalyptic visions assaulted my noggin while I tried to teach.

“Three people will be at your show.”

“The risky song you chose isn’t going to pay off.”

“The people you thought were going to be there aren’t showing up for you.”

I was having a hard time.

I shared with a couple students why their usually competent silly-noise-making teacher was forgetting to play F-sharps that day.

Anytime I make something up for myself to do: a concert, a recital, a musical, I hit a moment of —

YOU made this up. YOU did this.

And it feels like I’m in nursery school and the teacher’s holding up the picture of an ostrich I colored purple saying, “Who ever heard of a purple ostrich?”

(One day I’ll write a children’s book about a purple ostrich. Or you can!)

Thing is, I do know there’s only one me. I have evidence that when I share songs, it means things to people. I even believe I’m loved and worthy of love.

AND my brain’s negative bias (just like yours) works to keep me hidden and unexposed (read: protected).

As I wrote this to you, my brain was like, “You sure want to share THAT much?”

I mean, speaking as an over-sharer from way back, it’s an important sieve, but in this case, yes, I do want to share that much.

So that?

So that you know that all of us are managing our own cerebral chatter collectives; and a lot of times we don’t give ourselves the grace to breathe through our nose 7 times and witness our thoughts as a compassionate friend.

So, yes, Dr. deGrasse Tyson is correct; you are a mathematical miracle.

And you’re still going to have to act while you feel afraid.

Me too.

When the boys say, “Daddy, I’m scared,” I say, “I know buddy. I’m here.”

Then I say, “Remember we have to feel scared first before we can use our courage?”

Yep, fear is the prerequisite for bravery.

And to trust that the inimitable diamond of your soul that you showed up on this planet with — to trust that opening the door to that is inestimably transcendent — that feels fragile.

We have to DO something, right? PROVE something. SHOW something.

And yes, there are levels of skill we want to integrate; it’s satisfying to do excellent work.

And while we do that, I want you to think about beautiful voices you’ve heard, but you just couldn’t make yourself care.

And I want you to remember voices that were not what a snobby voice teacher might call pleasing, and you cared a lot.

It’s about the open heart and the courage to share it.

Because, yes, there is only one you, and folks need to hear the story only 10-to-the-30th-power you can sing. (And you’ll often be surprised by who they are, if you ever find out.)

Love much,

Dan

PS Listen to Scott Nicholas tear up “The Dream” by Rufus Wainwright in rehearsal this week — haven’t posted or edited this yet.

PPS Speaking of building skills, did you know they’ve been building a medieval castle in France for the last 20+ years using all the materials and trades as practiced in the middle ages???? I didn’t. 

My newsfeed sent me an NPR story about it. Fascinating, and I want to visit one day.

The other day I was getting off the train in Back Bay, and I felt a little guilty.

I looked around at my fellow commuters with furrowed brows, sighing deep breaths to build their courage to face the day. Spreadsheets were involved, I’m sure.

(I stare at people in the city all the time. That’s the terrific skill you can build growing up in the country where folks eyeball each other all the time.

City folk don’t have the resources — as Barbara Kingsolver described in her novel Demon Copperhead, “you have to save your juice.” —

So that leaves me, Mr. Eye Contact on Main Street free to people study. I’m also super nosy, so I can’t help it.)

But I felt that little guilt twinge disembarking the double deckah; as I walked down the platform and up the station stairs, I was like, “How’d I get so lucky that my job is listening to folks sing in a building full of recently tuned Steinways?”

If you’d told 12-year-old Dan in Mrs. Smith’s music trailer classroom that was going to be his job one day, he’d have squealed and cut a cartwheel right there.

Last Friday, I was chatting with a collaborative pianist during a classroom change.

“Good semester start?”

“Yeah, great,” she said in her terrific Polish dialect.

“I know, I said — I was thinking today how I get to work in a building full of pianos!”

She agreed. “If you’d told me as a little girl in Poland I’d be here one day, I never would have believed you.”

And I grand jetéed out of the recital hall in celebration of a week getting to do this crazy job where I sigh, yell, screlt, shout, and mimic dramatic mezzo sopranos like it’s normal all while assuming various ego identities.

It’s silly.

I also listened to an interview with Arthur Brooks and Oprah at Harvard Business School on the YouTubes. (I do recommend Brooks’s article series in The Atlantic.)

Oprah talked about how helpful it is to review all the “you never knew you were gonna’s.”

I agree.

12-year-old me never thought I’d teach at a conservatory surrounded by folks who blow my mind. 

16-year-old me didn’t know sitting in the balcony of the Majestic Theatre in 1994 that in 8 years I’d be playing a role in that same show out on the road. 

And confused, anxious, wounded me through a big chunk of my life didn’t know that guardian angels, true friends, and loving mentors would help me heal and integrate enough to share (very imperfectly) some of the ways that helped me — mostly through singing.

(Confusion, anxiety, and wounds are still a part of me; they’re just not all of me. They also tell me to slow down, breathe, pray for help, and allow some compassion to me and from me.)

I’d love you to review a few times in your life when that version of you had no idea that later you would get to do something terrific.

And the same is true for right-now you.

We have no idea what splendid things we’re going to grow into.

There’ll be all the usual obstacles and snares, scrapes and snot, but I believe you’ve got the tools.

Know how I know? You’re reading this now. You made it.

What’s that terrific quote? You have a 100% success rate of making it through hard days.

Well done.

And here’s to what’s ahead — something beautiful you don’t even know about yet and wouldn’t believe if future you materialized and told you about it.

May you, one day soon, have to manage guilty feelings on a commuter train as you suppress the urge to skip.

And remember — there’s only one you. Folks need to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much,

Dan

PS This sweet child on the Instagrams trying to pet a bear cub exhibits my early dialect perfectly. I talked exactly this way (and it might be what my internal voice still sounds like :)) 

PPS Here’s the interview with Arthur Brooks and Oprah at Harvard Business School.