Category: Making Your Work Satisfying (Page 1 of 4)

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

February 20, 2024 / dancallaway

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.

Compassion Grease™️ — Three questions in the morning will change your life.

January 23, 2024 / dancallaway

I told you how I started using Dr. Rangan Chatterjee’s three question journal prompts in the morning and evening, and some quiet and significant changes have happened.

Maybe a practice like this would help you, too.

I the morning, I write the answers to these questions:

What’s the most important thing for me to do today?

What’s one thing I’m profoundly grateful for?

And what quality do I want to show the world today?

To begin with, that third question had a big impact on me: What quality do I want to show the world?

One day, it was love and peace. Just the act of writing that down in the morning shaped my day.

I got testy with the boys, I remembered love and peace.

If things were getting harried getting out the door with all gloves, hats, and snow pants accounted for or my plans to get so much work done got waylaid by a slime cleanup on Aisle Kitchen Floor, love and peace reminded me they wanted a reflection into the world via me that day.

I kept hearing Carole King’s voice singing, “You’ve got to get up every mo-o-ornin….”

I was surprised writing a couple of words down in the morning made that kind of difference.

One day, when I knew my crankelstein temptaion would be high, I wrote “joy,” and colored a little fireball around it.

That helped me, too.

I walked through a day that normally would have slung me down into Moody Sludge Puddle Town, and I came through it with merely muddy Wellies. Made a huge difference in the environment of our home, too.

Another day it was “skill and confidence,” and I found myself contributing in helpful ways at a faculty council meeting surrounded by senior colleagues whose intellects and wisdom I admire. Well, look at that.

But, it was one morning answering the first question that proved most significant.

I had an interrupted night of sleep, Nugget Number Two was awake at 5:15, and my eye lid was doing the twitchy thing when I’m under-slept and overloaded.

What’s the most important thing for me to do today?

I heard clearly: “Go slow and show myself compassion.”

And for the “what quality?” question, I repeated the theme: compassion.

It transformed everything I did that day.

And I accomplished more going slow that day than I normally do with my usual frenetic go-to of cram this in between unloading the dishwasher and finding a podcast to listen to while I take the recycling to the corner before the trucks get there because I forgot to last night.

There were unchecked tasks at the end of the day, like every day, but the important ones got done, and in a joyful way.

When the boys kicked off or decided a Lincoln Log might make a decent weapon, I noticed my annoyance and frustration surge, and I realized going down this track lacked compassion towards me.

What would be a way that feels better? I went slower and intervened with a calmer voice. Chill Daddy can negotiate a magna-tile hostage situation much more effectively than Crusty Pop.

(Feel free to steal Chill Daddy and Crusty Pop for your next children’s book idea or jazz-blues fusion band.)

I noticed throughout the day all these emotional Charlie-in-the-box moments (we’re musical theater people, so you have to use The Island of Misfit Toys names) — I noticed when they popped up and startled me, I remembered to slow down (a step of trust), and to flow some understanding my way.

And I saw that the way I was doing things was more important than checking action item boxes on my list.

In fact, when I went slow and allowed the compassion to flow like chocolate fondue, I started to see what the most important tasks for the day actually were, the ones my 87-year-old self would endorse.

I still wrote a list that was too long — shortening my daily expectations is something I’m looking at — but, I saw my way of being was much more important than my record of doing.

Today, invite you to join me in the Slow Down and Show Yourself Compassion Club. (I’m Sergeant at Arms.)

I predict you’ll notice some things you’re grateful for, feel an unfamiliar yet welcome sense of love and well-being toward yourself, and maybe even notice that you’re working through your daily goals with more presence and compassion grease.™️

I noticed when I gave some to me (compassion grease™️), I was ready and eager to give it to the folks around me.

I wish and hope that you’ll let yourself slow down a tick and flow some tenderness in your sweet direction today.

It’s a wonderful way of being, and the atmosphere will change inside and around you.

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

Love much (this means yourself, too 💙),

Dan

PSHere’s that youtube video again where Dr. Chatterjee talks about those journal prompts.

PPS I’m on track with my book. Can I share the working title with you? Here it is:

Show Tune Recovery:
How Singing and Playing Pretend Helped to Heal My Trauma

Sound like a title you’d wanna read?

I’m picturing the jacket looking like an old school sheet music cover. I’ll let you know any more ideas I have, and please share any that come to you!

Lily Pad 🐸: Distraction’s not just a river in Egypt. Oh, wait.

January 9, 2024 / dancallaway

I told you last week that I got a lot out of reading Nir Eyal’s book Indistractable.

I’m still officially distractible, but something I’ve noticed are my internal shiny “squirrel!” triggers.

This is me sitting down to write and thinking, “I’ll check email, Instagram, Facebook, play today’s Wordle, or do some helpful Google research.”

It’s getting out music to practice and thinking, “I need to text that person back. And this closet could really use a quick declutter.”

You get it.

The helpful thing for me has been to backtrack and notice the thought and feeling that precedes the distracto-grab.

When I sit down to write, lots of ideas start to roil.

One I’ve noticed lately is a criticism of my voice and style.

A whole pile of expression blocking bricks stack and mortar themselves into a protective wall, and I sit there believing this voice that says something like, “What if someone reads that one day? Did you know your handwriting looks like a third grade teacher’s from 1978? Are you a 46-year old man or Marian the librarian?”

A lot of the mean stuff is old remarks from my childhood that I absorbed.

When I was a boy, I loved beautiful things.

I loved music and flowers, and when the little league football cheerleaders shook their shiny pom poms, I felt bubbles in my stomach under my jersey and shoulder pads. I thought hot pink was an especially inspiring color, and I loved the rainbow tennis racket strings that came into style in the late 80s.

These affinities didn’t cohere well with camo, hunting, fishing, football, or engine repair.

A lot of sideways looks and comments like “that boy ain’t quite right.”

Or the time in a summer recreation program when the head counselor asked me in front of all the other campers, “Are you a queer?” I was 10, and I didn’t know what that meant.

I felt like I was outside the givens of being a man. Layer onto that a deep judgment of my own dad for a list of reasons in my little boy’s head, and you get a really tricky relationship with masculinity.

This sampling of messages and barbs emerges from the subconscious soup like alligator eyes, and before I finish a paragraph of neat cursive, its jaws chomp down on the idea that I wanted to tease out with my roller ball in my Leuchturm 1917 journal. (Fountain pens are too high maintenance, I tried them, of course.)

There were relationship moments when I heard from a woman, “Don’t cry like a bitch” or “Yeah, I don’t like it when men cry.”

You know in your brain not to let these things in, but as I found out as a kid, I’m a tender hearted sort, and my emotional body is absorbent.

All this to share with you one source of intense emotional sensation that sets off alarm bells in my psyche to reach for a thoughtful article from The Atlantic or a McVitie’s chocolate digestive. (My soul wears a cardigan and drinks PG Tips, clearly.) Something to distract my brain or to carbo-riffically muffle any intense feelings that may be trying to process out of my belly region.

Who knew your Instagram scroll was shielding you from such an underbelly?

But this gentle intention to notice the emotional impulse that precedes the distraction grab has been a godsend. I’ve been getting better at noticing things with curiosity and gentleness, and I’ve found it helps me move through with confidence and love. I can feel a sensation and survive.

All this to share with you — whatever you want to work on, you can start it wherever you can open a door. Wherever you can set your foot, put it there.

Some authors call this lily padding. Wherever your sweet froggy brain finds itself in the pond, you can start there and then leap to the next nearest amphibian tuffet.

It looks like this:

You have to prepare “I Dreamed a Dream” for your Fantine call back.

“I’m so excited. I love this song. I love this show.”

“Crap, this is Les Mis. This is Fantine. This is a big role. Do I go more Patti Lupone or Lea Salonga or Ruthie Henshall or figure out how to make it TRULY my own???”

“Okay, here I go. Ahemhemhemheeemmmmm…. ‘I dreamed a dream in time gone b….’ Wait. Let me see if I can find a good backing track. Should I get a piano track or an orchestral one? The audition will be piano, so. No, never mind. Slow down. I need to really think about the song. Go through my lyrics. Oh, God, don’t make me monologue this. Wait! I know! I need to read the novel. How am I going to become Fantine if I don’t understand how Victor Hugo originally conceived of her? I can get that online. But I’ll be distracted if I read on my computer. Let me get on my library app and reserve that. What? It’s available today? I’ll go pick it up. I’ll find a coffee shop where I can nestle in and, wait! How am I going to sing the Shaa-a-a-a-a-aaaaame! part? I need to call my voice teacher. No, I’ll just search those who-sang-it-best comparison videos on YouTube and steal the ones I like the best.”

So here’s the thing.

All of this brain brew is a way to delay work because that’s where we’re going to encounter frustration, questions, and falling short of how good we want it to be. We need to spend enough time with it for things to integrate.

But in order to delay the discomfort of, “Crap, is this going to be any good by the time I do it in front of people?” we reach for seemingly productive activities that hold the work at a distance.

But the other thing is this. All of the above ideas are lily pads.

Jumping in to sing can show me I don’t have enough specifics in the lyric, so I need to do some imagination work.

Singing with a track can show me my breathing’s wonky somewhere, so I need to slow down and take it apart.

Reading the novel can show me that I don’t actually have time to savor Hugo’s piercing of the human soul through language, so I’ll have to table the tome for the time being.

But all these activities can get me going in a direction.

And if I need to make a several-point turn to get going another way, I can do that.

Sometimes I autopilot onto the Mass Pike toward Boston when I’m supposed to be driving to Albany, and I have to drive several miles to exit and turn around. It’s frustrating, but at least I know the direction I’m trying to go, so even going the wrong way is taking me where I need to go eventually.

So, I invite you to watch your intense emotional sensations with curiosity and gentleness.

Let yourself hop onto the first lily pad you see.

And remember that even your attempts to avoid your pain can be one of the floating dots you can connect to create satisfying work.

After all, there’s only one soul who can distract, protect and obfuscate in just the way you do, and all us other pain avoiders need to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much,

Dan

PS I got to do a terrific production of Bright Star here in Mass at the Franklin Performing Arts Company. A terrific place to work with a top notch team and a thriving performing arts school.

I hadn’t done a contract since 2019, so it was great to tell a story for folks again. Here are a few pics of me as Daddy Cane using my native NC dialect. If you add a key ring on my belt, I look just like my dad.

You Are the Choice: Leo DiCaprio devotion, fufu flour negotiations, and octogenarian imagination experiments

December 19, 2023 / dancallaway

Sometimes you get to see a former student do something stratospheric and sparkly.

Back in 2014, I met a shiny junior from Elon University who was spending a spring in LA. I still have the little blue bird candle holder Phylicia gave me with a thank you card.

What I didn’t know was the following fall, we’d move to North Carolina and she’d be a member of my very first college voice studio.

One lesson, we were halfway through “As Long as He Needs Me” from Oliver. Phylicia side-eyed me, I shook my head in agreement, and we stopped the song. Not for her.

She even forgave me for suggesting an ill-suited Lionel Richie gem.

Phylicia had a lot of patience with me.

And over the next 10 years, I’d watch from a distance as she developed patience for herself, too.

She launched out of the program at Elon on to the national tour of The Lion King and swung on the road and Broadway. Maybe she invented #thelionswing?

She took the leap back out to the West Coast and dove into writing.

During the panorama, she kept folks entertained with her video documentation of life with her Congolese mother in Maryland. I’m still in awe of mom’s fufu flour negotiation game.

So about a year ago, when the trailer for the musical version of The Color Purple appeared, it was both nuts and inevitable that Phy would be playing Young Celie.

I’ve just been smiling and giggling watching all of her posts before she heads out to press events all styled and having a blast.

Recently I saw a clip of her on the Jennifer Hudson Show, and something she said rang up in my heart.

She talked about the casting process and how she’d first been turned down for the role of older Celie. The feedback was, “Did you know that you actually read quite young?”

Later, she was working in a (zoom) writer’s room when she got the call and heard the words “You are the choice.”

That’s a sentence that every actor dreams of hearing. All of us want to get picked. That’s a deep human need.

But something occurred to me when I heard that sentence come out of Phy’s smiling phace. There was a choice before the choice.

Phylicia got to a place where she said yes to herself.

And my mind went rewind back to LA 2014 when she decided to take a leap and spend a semester in another time zone while studying in a rigorous musical theater program where a lot of students didn’t want to leave in case they missed an opportunity.

Something in her heart knew that she wanted to explore other geography.

And I don’t think it’s a mistake that this particular success she’s celebrating is a musical adapted for the screen.

Sometimes I like to do the rewind.

I imagine a fairy godmother materializing and telling Phylicia while she was Lion Swinging that in a few years, she’d be laughing with Oprah on daytime TV. (I actually think deep down she knew things like this would happen.)

You are the choice.

The first two words of that sentence are the most powerful ones. When you say “I am,” pay attention to what follows those two syllables.

When Phy was joking on IG about marrying Leo DiCaprio or winning an Oscar five or six years ago, she didn’t know that part of her vision for herself would show up as a role in a film produced by Steven Spielberg, Oprah, and Quincy Jones.

But she held her vision and purpose with care, love, and humor.

I’ve started a new practice. It’s been powerful for me. I started writing letters to me as my 87-year-old self.

I say things like, “I’m so grateful we decided to do that as a family.” “I’m glad I took that leap and wrote that book.” “I’m happy I got to perform this role in this place. How lucky.”

I look back on my life with gratitude and satisfaction, and I counsel the nearly-46-year-old me about what I’m going to be glad I invested my time in.

When I look at myself from nearly 90, I savor these accomplishments with gratitude and grace. I’m thankful that I got to live certain experiences. And the sense of grasping or God-I-hope-I-get-it has dissolved like sugar in a cup of PG Tips.

You know how you feel when you’ve arrived at something you’ve been waiting for a long time? A milestone you expected to fulfill you?

You might experience deep gratitude and even awe. And at the same time your mind sends out a search party to find the next thing you’re going to look toward.

Interesting how we do that.

My nearly 90-year-old perspective brings everything into focus. And I’m noticing from my octogenarian p-o-v that the greatest of these is indeed love.

I want my life to ripple out love, kindness, and generosity. I hope a lot of that gets expressed on stages singing with beautiful orchestras in terrific locations.

I’ve got all of these events I imagine collected by the year 2056 wrapped up in a blanket of knowing I’m loved and that I let love pour through me — that’s the thing. This is what my soul’s going to cherish when I’m no longer in a body on Earth.

You are the choice.

My very identity lives in my choice to love and to notice when I’m not, and then to open to let some in (it’s inexhaustible). Just like breath, freely I receive, and freely I give.

We all know when we’re living there. It’s expansive, peaceful, satisfying, and free.

And we know when we step out.

You are the choice.

Your very essence, if you take a moment to breathe and look with gentleness, you’ll notice that you’re made out of love.

That’s what I notice. I know it to be true.

You’re made out of love just like I am, and when I open my heart and invite you in, your spark recognizes my spark, and we re-member.

I can’t think of a better medium for that exchange than singing.

You are the choice.

You know how I know? Because you’re here.

Celie sings it perfectly at the end of the musical:

I believe I have inside of me
Everything that I need to live a bountiful life.
With all the love alive in me
I’ll stand as tall as the tallest tree.
And I’m thankful for everyday that I’m given,
Both the easy and hard ones I’m livin’.
But most of all
I’m thankful for
Loving who I really am.
I’m beautiful.
Yes, I’m beautiful,
And I’m here.

There’s nothing more beautiful than your soul. There’s nothing more beautiful than my soul. And there’s nothing more beautiful than us recognizing each other and calling out the gold.

There’s only one you. You’re here so folks can hear the story only you can sing.

Love much, Dan

PS Go see The Color Purple, opens on Christmas Day.

Shenanigans — Civil engineering challenges in Boston’s Metro West and how rainy nighttime driving applies to your creative life

December 12, 2023 / dancallaway

I’m imagining the civil engineering society of the Greater Boston area got together at some point and said —

“All right, all right, listen up — we’re dealing with old horse paths here. The roads are narrow. They wind in all directions. And there aren’t any alternative routes.

“So, here’s what we’re gonna do — we’ll just hew to the historical legacy of these questionable thoroughfares and make sure the lighting at night is true to the road’s 1805 founding. There won’t be any.

“And reflectors? Paul Revere didn’t need them, did he?

“And we’re not so profligate as to squander tax funds on things like reflective paint for white and yellow lines. No. When it rains and it’s dark out, folks can maneuver themselves through the small ponds on Route 9 using bat sonar.”

Maybe it’s because my eyes are gonna be 46 this month, but I’m not about the night time rainy roads around here.

The other night I drove home in the rain and literally missed my exit off the Mass Pike.

Signaled, followed the signs. I saw the arrows, but the road? Nope. Had to rumble my way back on to the highway and try my best to intuit the next offramp via ESP.

This morning Melissa and I thanked our guardian angels, lucky stars, and trusty green 2009 Scion XD —

(her name’s Willow — purchased in Hollywood. We joke that she’s been super traumatized by all the East Coast weather she’s been subjected to in the last 9 years.)

— we thanked them (angels, stars, and car) for getting us to Newton-Wellesley hospital this morning where Melissa’s having a long-anticipated surgery so she won’t feel like her abdomen is in perpetual revolt anymore. I’m excited for a new chapter for her. 🙏

But all the recent nighttime wet-road driving around the Boston area’s got me thinking — isn’t that just like your creative life?

You’re driving along wondering if your headlights are working or not, trying to make out if that’s asphalt or a hydroplane disaster pond in front of you.

An oversized Infiniti SUV barrels past you smacking your windshield with a puddle wave, and the Yukon behind you decides high beams are the appropriate selection when tailing a wee hatchback.

When you’re a singing storyteller and have a desire like

🪄 play a role in a beautiful show with a company of excellent people and get paid a workable wage for it 🌟

the road to the stage door can feel like dark New England rain driving.

It’s not like you can bump your CV on LinkedIn or apply at your local musical theatre branch.

There’s auditions.
And there’s finding out about the auditions.
And there’s getting to the auditions and getting in the door.
And there’s having materials that’ll serve you and the needs of the production(s).
And there’s reaching out to casting folks over and over with no response.
And there’s spending hours creating self-tapes that you hope get watched.
And there’s getting used to being back in an actual room with real people after you’ve been putting everything on video.
And there’s the very recent reality that one microbe can shut down an entire art form that you’ve dreamed about being a part of since you heard the high school chorus sing that arrangement of “I Dreamed a Dream.”

Oh, and you need to be really good at compelling, honest, wholehearted storytelling while singing in an adrenalized state.

Blind driving on Route 9 is easier.

BUT AND — rainy pitch-black puddle skid motoring has some lessons to teach us.

🌧️ You can only see the road you can see in front of you. Aim in the safest direction you can, pay attention, and refrain from using cruise control.

☔️ Some assholes get assholey-er in rough conditions. Let your wipers do their work, and focus on your lane.

🌂 If a car is going effectively in the direction you want to go, use their tire tracks and tail lights as a guide for a while.

⛈️ Take a deep breath and slow down a little. No need to put on your hazards. You’re moving. You’re taking care of the road in front of you one headlight zone at a time. You keep driving, you’ll get where you need to go.

⚠️ Sometimes you miss Exit 117 to Framingham because you can’t see the road. Keep driving. You can get off at 111, and there’ll probably be less shenanigans on the quieter lanes.

You’ll get where you need to go.

Your heart rate will spike. You’ll swear. But you’ll get there.

Take care of the road you can see in front of you.

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

Love much,

Dan

PS Melissa and I had a terrific day date a couple weekends ago — got to see several of my BoCo kidz do great work in City of Angels. 👏

We had lunch at Petit Robert Bistro in the South End (or as I like to call it, Lil Bobby’s.) Highly recommend if you’re in Boston. The mussels were the best either of us ever had. All broth was duly sopped with freshly baked baguette. And our macarons to go — my mouth’s watering just remembering them.

PPS Surgery went great 🙏

Change of Plan — Blueberry muffin mind tricks, staring at walls pretending, and other life trajectory changers

December 5, 2023 / dancallaway

Every morning after I get off the train, I stop at Flour Bakery + Café on Dalton Street because if you BYO cup, you get coffee for $1.50.

Their coffee is delicious, and the pastry game is epic.

I usually skip the food and just get coffee. They know me now, so they grab my cup and ask, “Dark or medium?”

Except for last week. My friend at the register said, “What do you want today besides your coffee?”

The upsell skillz caught me off guard.

She must’ve seen the eyeballing the blueberry muffins next to the currant oat scones.

And before I could say “No thanks, just coffee,” I heard myself blurt, “Blueberry muffin.”

In the space of two seconds, I noticed multiple thoughts.

I mean what kind of morning crazy pants must I BE just to get coffee when this pastry repast splays itself so wantonly before my gaze?

And

I mean, I don’t want to disappoint the employees of Flour Bakery + Café by not ordering a sunrise carbohydrate.

My mind was Jim Carrey’s Grinch yes-no-no-yes monologue.

So, out the door with my little blueberry muffin brown bag I departed.

I tell the pedagogy students at the Conservatory that we make a plan so that the plan will change.

And the plan always changes.

It makes me think about how we know exactly how a song is going to go.

We know who we’re going to sing to. We know we’re on that park bench next to the sycamore tree where the pigeon pooped on our shoulder that time.

We know what our imaginary partner just said during the introduction to make us sing the opening line of our song.

We smell the spring tulips growing in the flower bed next to the tree. We even crafted some swans gliding across the water in the distant pond.

Then we get on the stage or in the room, and all we can think about is how fast our heart is beating, wondering if we remembered to zip in the bathroom, and that the gap in the curtains we chose to sing toward just looks like a gap in the curtains. Where’s the sycamore tree with its dappled bark????

All the things we imagined aren’t coming up like they did in the shower.

So, we focus harder.

Usually, this leads to existential pain and your consciousness hovering out like a critical drone shooting comments into your brain while you’re just trying to tell the story you so meticulously devised.

You weren’t planning on someone asking you what you wanted with your coffee.

But see, you made a plan. And you have to make a plan so that the plan can change.

So, say “thank you” to the rapid heartbeat.

Check your zipper or just accept it it might be down.

And remember that you can look at a gap in a curtain and let it be a curtain gap.

In the meantime, why don’t you go ahead and take the pressure off of you to focus so hard on yourself partner?

Think of all the serious conversations you’ve had with folks only to notice that your attention wandered.

All that to say, we made a plan. Now it’s going to change. And we just have to deal with it. And that can be exciting.

This is super true in big life as well.

Back in 2019 in the before times, the Callaways were planning to move to the Jersey ‘burbs.

I was up for a job at NYU and was on campus for final interviews on March 9, 2020. A lot of people found that their plans drastically changed around that day.

But we’d made a plan, and we were making steps. Then, new information directed us in other ways.

The closed the door in NYC meant I got to spend one more year at Elon. That year deepened and sweetened my love for teaching and clarified the privilege that I have to walk alongside singers like you.

It also opened the way for us to head to the Boston area and for this gift of a job at the Conservatory.

This was nowhere on my radar when Melissa and I were pulling carrots out of our front yard garden in Los Angeles 10 years ago.

This is all to encourage you that it’s all right if you feel blindingly clue free at the moment.

Take out a piece of paper and write down at the top “Wouldn’t it be cool if…”

Then write a few things down.

Make some plans, and take some steps. Google a thing. Write an email to someone who knows something about something.

The original plan you have won’t be what it looks like later. Just know that.

I believe what comes will be even better.

Make a plan so the plan will change. It’s probably going to be frustrating. But if you just keep taking steps and adjusting to what comes, you’re going to find satisfaction and gratification in walking toward what you know to be the direction of your contribution.

Some days you may purchase an unexpected blueberry muffin.

Other days, it’s being amused that your brain’s thinking about pop tarts, instead of your song scenario.

And other weeks it’s letting yourself feel sad about a closed door and waiting with expectancy to know which direction to go now that you’ve been redirected.

Make a plan so the plan can change.

And I suggest one of your plans can be to sing something today because there is only one you and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much, Dan

PS It’s Melissa’s Birthday today! I made her a chocolate cake with cherry buttercream frosting. I had a terrific plan to make some cherry syrup that I was going to drizzle over the top. It ended up looking more smeared-atop-an-English-muffin than boulangerie dreams, but I’m confident it’ll taste nice.

Oh, here’s the only chocolate cake recipe I use. You won’t find a yummier one.

PPS In the plans changing category for this week, we were having a fun time drawing pictures yesterday morning.

Noah tried to copy a picture of a helicopter I’d drawn, and when he got frustrated with his attempt, he wadded up the paper and threw it in the kitchen trash. I fished it out and asked him what was up. He was really sad and frustrated that he couldn’t draw the helicopter the way I drawn it. I got out the crayons and made a little creation with what he’d done. I was pretty pleased with our collab 🙂

Poor kid has inherited my perfectionism gene. I seriously pray I can help him navigate it early.

PPPS if there are any typos or horrible grammatical errors present in this email, I’m going to blame our younger nugget Jude. Here’s a snapshot of my experience getting this email sent out to you today.

My Mistake — This keeps happening. I’m working on it

November 28, 2023 / dancallaway

Noah’s been wanting to decorate for Christmas since Halloween. He could NOT understand why anybody would wait until after Thanksgiving to haul out the holly.

Seriously, he woke up Thursday morning and said, “We get to decorate for Christmaaaaas!”

I can remember losing my mind about draping lights all over everything when I was a kid. It’s terrific to get to live it through Noah and Jude’s eyes.

We finally got the tree up and ornamented yesterday evening.

After being waylaid by a Saturday urgent care trip to see about an ear infection, a rogue LED on our pre-lit tree that never got resolved (even after Melissa and I undertook the Sisyphean task of replacing every unlit bulb in the strand), and general exhaustion, extracting the Christmas bins from behind the I’ll-get-to-that-someday boxes was going to be a mythic test.

That’s what I thought, anyway.

The true trial began when I tried “decorating” with the boys while Melissa braved the elements (mostly human) to source a new air mattress from Big Lots. My brother Ben’s visiting from Spain, and our current one’s motor gave up the ghost.

But yeah, placing fragile, tinselly things around the house in tasteful locations with 4- and 5-year old humans full of testosterone and opinions — I went ahead and pulled down the bourbon and the “Dad — Aged to Perfection” tumbler Melissa got me on my last birthday.

While I coaxed Noah into the half-bath to help me put the Santa toilet seat cover and rug into their coveted positions, I heard a loud crash on the kitchen tiles and Jude’s voice say, “Sorrrryyyy!”

I emerged from from the toilet room with wide T-rex eyes and saw that one of our Christmas cocoa mugs lay shattered on the floor.

I calmly said in my whispery Daniel Tiger’s Neighbohood Dad voice, “That’s all right, son. It was an accident. We’ll get this cleaned up together.” Then we sang a situationally themed song about the learning moment.

Nope. That’s not what happened.

I don’t remember my exact vocabulary, but the subtext was, “Why can’t you listen to me? I TOLD you to come into the bathroom with the Christmas towels! SEE? This is what happens when you don’t do what I say. This is the opposite of fun, and I’m pissed about it because Bing Crosby’s whistling “White Christmas” on the Alexa cube, and we should be happy, dammit! And LISTEN TO ME!”

The thing I’m grateful for is little Judelet’s ability to say a hearty sorry and move on.

He knew it was an accident, and he wasn’t beating himself up about it.

But in these moments of exasperation, it’s like someone pushes my reactivity-bot button, and up from the bile center come phrases like, “Why would you DO that?”.

I can feel how ugly and damaging it is when it comes out — like I’ve slimed the boys and myself at the same time. It’s not who I want to be, and it’s not how I want to affect them.

“I’m SORRY, Daddy!” Jude repeated.

I’m grateful for his sense of self. HE knew he was just trying to put the mug on the counter near where the coffee cups go. HE knew it was an accident.

It was just the moment I needed to regroup.

“I totally forgive you, Jude, and I wish you’d waited for me like I asked.”

We swept up the ceramic and finished turning our toilet into Santa Claus.

And I took a generous sip from my tumbler.

That moment wasn’t about Jude not listening to me. It was about me not feeling listened to.

It was also me telling myself a story of inadequacy. “If I were really an effective dad, my boys would listen to me and do what I say.”

And I made up a terrifying future scenario when I would yell at Jude to stop running in a parking lot only for him to ignore me and careen into danger. (Although the exact opposite thing happened that very morning after church.) Disaster outcome planning is rarely open to countervailing evidence.

But think about those three needs:

You need to be listened to.

You need to feel effective and adequate at your tasks.

You need to have some reasons to believe things will be okay.

Now think about how these needs get challenged every time you walk into an audition room or put your finger on the red circle on your phone screen and pretend you’re singing to somebody.

We ask ourselves, “Are the table people listening to me? I don’t know if they are. How can I get them to listen to me? I know, try harder.”

If we feel unheard and unseen, we can do the time-tested kid logic of, “If I’m not being heard or seen, then it must be my fault. I must be bad at this. There are other people who are so much better, clearly. I’m sure they get listened to.”

Or we hurl the blame outward. Also ineffective.

And that quickly leap frogs to, “This will always be this way. This is what auditioning is like. This is what being a singing storyteller is like.”

So we do one of two things.

We armor up. We don’t let ourselves want the thing, and we offer up half-alive songs what might sound just fine, but there’s no open door into the heart. The unheard, unseen, inadequate, always-like-this story goes on.

Or we quit.

But there is another way that brings satisfaction and joy to your work.

Here you go —

Listen to YOU. Are you even listening to the words you’re singing? I bet if you do, that story might come alive, and you might start to have a little fun.

Along with that, let everybody off the hook. Nobody has to listen to you. But I guarantee if you’re having you’re own auditory party over there, I’m gonna be all “I’ll have what she’s having.”

Assess your skills well. Do you need to bolster your tools? Are there things you need to integrate and gain confidence with? When you watch yourself back on video, are you meeting your own aesthetic standards?

This is a helpful question, and it gives you something to DO. You can get to work, and you can get better by spending 7 minutes a day on that technical skill.

Then you have evidence to show yourself — I am effective. I do have these skills. And when I don’t, I have the GRIT to acquire them.

And then open your heart. Prepare the hell out of your work. Then “connect, George, connect.”

Don’t perform. Prepare and connect.

Imagine there are French doors, latched at your sternum. Open them up, step out on your balcony, and say, “You’re invited in here!”

There’s nothing more beautiful than your soul, so trust the inward welcome.

Listen to you. Bolster your skill for your own satisfaction. Prepare and connect.

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

Love much,

Dan

PS I’m writing a book!

The focus is on telling you all the things I say in lessons that make people say “I wish I’d known that before!” in a systematic fashion while sharing my experience of singing as a way to heal.

Sound good to you? Let me know. Send me a quick email back and tell me if that’s something you could use.

Also, if you’ve got a singing while pretending issue you wish you could solve with a book, let me know! Any idea you have — I’d love to say thank to you in the acknowledgements 🙏📚.

Send me an email and tell me your ideas and what you need. What have you been looking for that you can’t find? Email me back by clicking here.

Crust Sponge 🧽 — Scrub Daddy envy and your pharynx’s secret powerz

November 21, 2023 / dancallaway

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.

The Only Thing You Can Control + listen in on Merri Sugarman from Tara Rubin Casting talk about simple things that make a big difference

November 14, 2023 / dancallaway

There was a callback for a production of Ordinary Days, and I prepared the CRAP outa that audition. PRE-PARED. I knew the song cold. I knew my point of view. I was ready to live this experience.

I did my thing. The director even let out a “Wow” when I finished.

I didn’t book that job.

But I remember that audition, and it’s a satisfying memory.

I also remember a callback for a production of Fiddler on the Roof. Jerry Bock and Sheldon Harnick were in the room. I started my work, and when the director gave me adjustments, I became the amazing shrinking actor.

Am I going to get this right?

How do I get them to pick me?

I’d already thought up my opening night cards and everything — a picture of me playing Tevye in the 1996 Mt. Airy High School spring musical. (Sounds crazy, no?)

I didn’t get that job, either.

I can still hear my agent delivering the feedback afterward, “They said you just got smaller and smaller.”

What did that mean? Talk louder? More gestuuuures?

Now I have a clearer idea what probably happened.

(After many years of getting the note in tech rehearsals — “Dan, look up, we’re losing your eyes,” I have a clue.)

I wanted to hide and be seen at the same time.

Auditioning is hard. You go in there after investing hours and dollars into preparation, throw your guts on the floor, and then the teachery people tell you just to leave it in the room. (Or on the self-tape. That one’s even harder.)

As I survey the times I shrank back, I see 3 things behind it all:

1. I wanted one of the table folk to give me my you-belong-here card.

2. I thought I needed a you-belong-here card.

3. And I believed what I wanted couldn’t be available to me. Because see number 1.

I loved what I did, and I wanted to do it on big stages. And I was using my career as a mechanism to tell me I was all right after all.

If I got picked, that must mean something, right?

And here’s the irony.

I’d already picked myself. I was already paying NYC rent, taking that subway to midtown, in the room singing the song.

But, the moment I walked in the door, I decided to un-pick myself and plop that responsibility in somebody else’s lap.

It’s like you invited me to dinner and asked me to bring the salad.

I say, “Great! My salad game is legend.”

Then, I show up at your house and ask, “Where do you keep your croutons? Wait, you only have iceberg?”

Same for you. You already decided that your life needs to include singing about your innermost thoughts and feelings in a narrative construct.

So, now your responsibility is to make sure you put together your proprietary blend of fresh greens, crunch, savory with sweet surprise, and get your dressing ratios right.

Slap that in a big bowl, and BYO utensils because you’re fixing to mix that UP when you get to the audition.

(And I always advocate for quality dijon and mayo in the dressing. Secret weapon? Maple syrup.)

You’re prepped for the party. Whether it’s an appointment or an open call, you’re invited. You belong there. Get in there and serve it up.

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

Love much,

Dan

PS That audition for Ordinary Days that I didn’t book? I look back on that with satisfaction because I was fully and deeply prepared. I did my work that day. And I’m committed to doing the same in every audition I have from now on.

I had the privilege of talking with Merri Sugarman from Tara Rubin Casting last week, and one of the things she returned to many times was this—

The only thing we have as actors is our preparation — the excellence of our work and choosing to open our hearts. Leaving the room saying, “Yep, I’d gladly pay the ticket price to see what just did in there.”

If you haven’t grabbed it, her book From Craft to Career: A Casting Director’s Guide for the Actor is full of practical insight.

If you do what she says in there, things will change.

Here are the links to check out our conversation. I’m still digesting all we talked about. I promise if you listen and do what she says, you’ll see growth in your career.

Part 1:
How has casting changed since 2020?
changes in audition procedures.
What does preparation mean?
One primary mistake actors make in the room.

Part 2:
How little moments turn into consequential trajectory changers
Trusting your nudges
What Merri sang when she booked Les Mis
All about follow up

Part 3:
Practical simple and straightforward things you can always do
Reality check on your skills, being real with yourself
watching people grow through the audition process
some tough truths that’ll set you free

My Inner Critic’s Dialects (on ridiculous dreams)

October 31, 2023 / dancallaway

I’ve got a thing for the Brits. ?? Melissa can tell you all about it.

“You wanna watch anything tonight? Comedy? Action?”

Dan searches the BritBox subscription channel for moody, atmospheric drama set near the Lake District.

Must be DNA. 23 and Me tells me 81% of my ancestry vibrates from the Isles.

Lately, I’ve been dreaming of doing theatre-y things in the UK — teaching West End performers, working with dancers who want to sing more, performing at The National Theatre.

When I was in London in 2000, I’d walk over Waterloo Bridge, look across at the South Bank, and dream about getting to perform in one of the 3 iconic spaces there. No idea how to work out the whole visa situation, but I’ve never been too concerned with details.

My London leanings resurfaced in my psyche again this week, and I laughed when I scrolled to today’s email subject suggestion on my Google sheet (I keep a list of things I want to email you about.)

It said —

Can you tell from the talk-to-text that I was all like, really? You sure?

22-year old Dan wanted to perform at The National, and so does 45-year-old Dan.

May never happen. Given my citizenship status, the probability lowers even more.

But still, I want that to happen.

I imagine an extended season near London where Melissa manages a cutting-edge research lab with unusually extraverted science colleagues, the boys wear uniforms to school, and I get to teach and perform in and around the West End. And we all ride our bikes to the National Gallery.

I even drew a pic and wrote a poem about it one time

“Boys and their fancies!” Mrs. Lovett says. “What will we think of next?”

(My inner critic talks like a machiavellian East Ender when it’s not a mean redneck.)

Thing is, though, your hypotheticals have important info.

The specifics of them may never happen, but letting yourself dream the dream does a couple of things.

If you can hold your fantasies with love and gentleness, it makes you expectant.

A few weeks back at church, there was a talk about the difference between expectation and expectancy.

It was a nuanced and important difference.

Expectations project a specific outcome. And often, as they say in the 12 Steps, they can be resentments waiting to happen.

Expectancy has an open heart that knows it can wish for a thing, AND something even more nourishing, satisfying, and purposeful may appear that it never could have imagined.

When my life was in a major disintegration stage, a phrase started bubbling up from my heart: I’d rather have God’s surprises than my plans.

And it’s a both-and project.

Just like I ask Noah, “What would you like to have for breakfast?” I think God wants us to share what it is we want.

As a dad, when Noah requests “Waffooooollllls” with the knowledge that I want to help him out, it makes my heart happy. I want him to know that I want to help him.

Goes back to Einstein’s “I think the most important question facing humanity is, ‘Is the universe a friendly place?’”

And if Enistein can ask that question in his historical context, then we can, too.

All that was about expectancy.

The second thing all this dreaming does is that it gets your wheels turning so that you discover possibilities you would have missed.

Maybe the first idea isn’t something you can control or take action on, but it points you in a direction.

Maybe you can’t call up the casting director at the National Theatre and say, “Heeeey! I can’t work legally in the UK (YET!), but you clearly need to get me on your radar. Um, you’re welcome.”

But, you could start researching avenues to get your body to the UK and collaborating with theatre artists there.

I often tell students, “Put your body in the place, and do the thing.” Folks will start to notice.

When I was 22, I had no idea that I wouldn’t be able to find some other way to stay in the UK after my 6-month work permit expired.

And I’m glad I didn’t know. I’m so grateful for the time I had there and the friends I’m blessed with as a result.

So, let your dreamer dream; let expectancy bloom, and write down all the things that feel immediately delightful.

Your noggin may say, “How ridiculous.” Then you can say, “Yes, you’re right,” and then write down the next thing that would be so terrific if it ever happened.

Because for real — there is only one you (with your particular dreams), and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much,

Dan

PS Here’s the SONNET I wrote about the Anglo-dreams I have for our family’s UK stint 🙂

Some days I dream about how we could
Move to London, find a flat or part
Of a house on a close close to an ancient wood
Or anywhere near a park. We’d explore art
Galleries and eat cake in the crypt
At St. Martin and tool around the town on bikes,
Cross the river and see a play with a script
That I wrote. We’d travel north and take long hikes
Along sea cliffs.Then we’d build a fire
And drink hot chocolate and whisky. Back in town
We’d go to work and school, sing in a choir,
And drink pints in the pub, the Something and Crown.
We’ll go to the market for bread and leeks and flowers
And have soup for supper and talk and laugh for hours.

Category: Making Your Work Satisfying (Page 1 of 4)

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

Compassion Grease™️ — Three questions in the morning will change your life.

Lily Pad 🐸: Distraction’s not just a river in Egypt. Oh, wait.

You Are the Choice: Leo DiCaprio devotion, fufu flour negotiations, and octogenarian imagination experiments

Shenanigans — Civil engineering challenges in Boston’s Metro West and how rainy nighttime driving applies to your creative life

Change of Plan — Blueberry muffin mind tricks, staring at walls pretending, and other life trajectory changers

My Mistake — This keeps happening. I’m working on it

Crust Sponge 🧽 — Scrub Daddy envy and your pharynx’s secret powerz

The Only Thing You Can Control + listen in on Merri Sugarman from Tara Rubin Casting talk about simple things that make a big difference

My Inner Critic’s Dialects (on ridiculous dreams)

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