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

Category: Things that make life better (Page 1 of 10)

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

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

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

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

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

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!

Visualization for Cynics: Forget your affirmations, and use my normal people brain trademark manifestation technique

Do you say affirmations?

Do you gaze in the mirror and say “I am” or “I have” statements deeply into your eyeballs while the authentic feelings of being that person or having that thing well up like an emotional spring from your solar plexus?

I don’t.

I’ve tried it.

Totally have.

I’ve written things down on sticky notes and put them all around the place to remind myself to say my sentences.

I’ve started vision boards. Halfway through I’d be like, “I don’t think this’ll work, and what a waste of time, glue, and old magazines.”

My brain’s just too quick to say, “But you don’t have a rustic farm property with ready access to wooded trails and a rehearsal barn.”

And yet — I do believe the words we use and things we imagine are powerful.

You know how I know this?

Because this MacBook Air I’m typing these words on? One day, somebody imagined a typewriter, and then somebody imagined a personal computer, and then somebody had to imagine a laptop, and the interwebs, and digital language, and all the other things I don’t understand at all, but that doesn’t stop me from putting my finger on the turn-this-thing-on pad at the top right corner of my computer.

Anything we see in the world that humans made existed as an idea first.

The reason we want to sing songs and tell stories? Somebody sang us songs and told us stories, and we imagined that one day we could do that! 

So, I think I may have cracked the code on creative visualization for us folks with quickly objecting brains trying to shield us from possible disappointment and tears.

It’s a two-parter.

You know how some of the manisfest-y people are all like, you must FEEL like you’ve already ACHIEVED your goal. How will that mountain of crisp Benjamins feel under your sun-lotioned skin as you fling superfluous cash off the bow of your yacht to the dolphins?

I’m like, listen, I’m just grateful I can knock out this Massachusetts gas bill over here.

But, seriously, though, think about when you have arrived at a goal. You heard the overture play on opening night in the wings. You adjusted your cap tassel as you heard “Pomp and Circumstance” solemnly sounded from the woodwinds. You made a final payment on a debt.

In all of my goal arrivals, I wasn’t jumping up like a 1988 Toyota commercial.

As Kander and Ebb wrote so clearly for Flora the Red Menace, it was indeed a quiet thing.

I have a feeling that when the dream arrives, it’ll feel quieter than the YouTube guru told you you were supposed to pretend it felt.

When the thing shows up, it’s usually because you’ve lived through enough questions, tries, failures, back pats, and improvisations to be able to integrate it.

And you’re like, oh, ok. I can do this.

When I started my gig at BoCo, I was like, “I can help these kids.” If you’d told me in 2012 this is where I’d be, I might have had a hard time believing you. I grew into where I am now.

So, imagine the thing. Yes. Imagine all the time. And just like any good actor knows, let the feelings take care of themselves.

The other thing I’ve been playing with is this. It tickles my Debbie Downer to bits.

Imagine all the PROBLEMS that will come with the achievement of your dream.

Not to dissuade you from your dream, but to help you imagine it even more vividly. We can use our brain’s negativity bias to help us in our creative visualization. Shakti Gawain would be so proud.

If you make a lot of money, you’ve got a crap ton of responsibility on your hands. You may have to hire and trust folks. You’ve got to manage that monetary energy. Your relationships might get tricky, and some haven’t-heard-from-you-in-a-while folks might conveniently reappear.

If you own that house you’ve been dreaming about, property tax can be a real splash of ice water. So can busted water heaters, HVAC systems, and roofs. Rooves? Roofs. There’s a reason I’ve stayed responsibility-free when it comes to yard work in my adult life.

And what if it’s career success? What kinds of things may pop up if you land that role in the fancy place? You may need to lead a more monkish existence. There might be exposure and folks at laptops with opinions. Maybe you don’t like signing Playbills 8 times a week. Just saying. You may feel really tired by show number 5 of a 5-show weekend.

What if it’s a tour or out-of-town gigs? Missing family and holidays and big events because they won’t let you out of your contract?

See how easy it is to come up with potential bummers?

And do you notice that even so, you still want the thing?

That’s great!

There’s always both-and.

I can’t tell you how grateful and deeply joyful I am to be a hubster and dad. Having my marriage and two sweet schmoopie pie boys is miracle-of-miracles territory.

And sometimes Melissa and I hurt each other’s feelings. Sometimes I don’t understand her, and she thinks about things in a completely different way than I do. Sometimes we get all cross-ways and have to work through our feefees. It’s always worth it, and it’s hard, and we both choose to show up and love.

And if you want to talk about the very end of myself, no resources left, and inner schtank under buzzing fluorescent tubes, you should see my internal environment when dealing with the boys on an exasperated day.

Just last week we had a day when everyone seemed to misunderstand everyone else, nerves were frayed and raw, and emotional reserves were scraping the bottom. And it was rainy.

Sucked.

And my life is a dream. What I get to live is an unimaginable blessing.

And that’s the most important part of the Dan Callaway trademarked manifest-your-dreams technique.

You can’t even imagine how terrific it can all be. I could never have cooked up the goodness that I get to live. But I did dream of sharing my life with someone kind, funny, intelligent, whole-hearted, and who shared my values. I did dream of being a dad. I just had no clue how terrific it could all turn out.

So after you’ve imagined all the various pains in the tuchus your dreams will usher into your life, let your imaginings float away like a balloon. Then one day while you’re paying a bill, you’ll look up and realize a part of your dream came true in a way you never even expected. You’ll feel a deep, quiet satisfaction, and you’ll dream about a new thing you’d love to happen and know you’ll be okay whether or not it does.

Let your imagination do its beautiful thing. And why not let it run wild in a song or two? Because there’s only one imagination like yours, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing with it.

Love much,

Dan

PS I listened to this book, Indistractable, on Audible and got a lot out of it. There’s also a good interview with the author on Diary of a CEO. I like this podcast — Stephen Bartlett is a terrific interviewer.

PPS I used some of my birthday money to get a subscription to the National Theatre at Home. I’m excited. I’ll let you know what I enjoy the most! And yes, I still get birthday money 🙏. 

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

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

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 🙏

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

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

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.

My Inner Critic’s Dialects (on ridiculous dreams)

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.

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