Category: Uncategorized (Page 2 of 9)

You know I’m a rooster riser — about 4:58am my brain sings “Good Moooorniiiing,” and promptly delivers me a list of things I should begin working on IMMEDIATELY.

?: “You set up the coffee last night, right? Good. That’ll save us some time. You can bang out a few pages of that novel you’ve been meaning to start. before the boys wake up Then you can declutter that cabinet with the lemonade jugs and dehydrator. Oh. You didn’t set up the coffee. This sets us back, but we can pivot. We can always pivot.”

Meanwhile Melissa’s next to me with her normal-person circadian rhythms all like, “What’s going ON over there?”

I sneak out of our room and tiptoe the Mission Impossible route from our door down the stairs to dodge the especially echo-y floorboards that reverb into the boys’ room. (Jude inherited my is-it-morning??? gene.)

Most of the time, the coffee will be in the cup, and I’ll be down to bidess putting out an email fire (when I planned to answer messages only AFTER I did some creative work). Just when I’m like, “Okay enough procrastination station, let’s DO THIS, clickety clickety clickety…..” I hear it.

The drop of the Cookie Monster water cup from the twin bed overhead.

Like the distant Orc drums echoing in Khazad Dum after one of the Hobbits dropped the clanky bucket down the old well in Fellowship of the Ring. 

Here ends the morning quiet.

The boys have a wakeup clock that turns green when it’s time for them to come downstairs in the morning, but as well as they can sometimes read their Sesame Street dictionaries until it’s officially 6am, there’s usually a lost plush toy emergency or urgent dream update that calls me upstairs. 

When I’m dogged about the morning’s task — it MUST be completed!!! — these interruptions irritate me like a “One Lane Ahead” sign at rush hour behind a school bus.

But the other morning I got a lil revelashawn.

I was scrawling down a few thoughts in my bullet journal. (I’ve been doing this write-down-five-dreams exercise in the morning, and it’s simultaneously awesome and gut dredging, so my brain was all wiggle waggle.)

It was jury day at school, and I had all manner of oh-dookey-I-forgot-all-about-that-loose-end thoughts nattering around in my noggin that then avalanched into holidays-then-next-year things, and before I knew it I was a decade down the road, age 55, and I still hadn’t turned in that syllabus to Academic Affairs!

Then I slowed my roll and asked myself a question — what do you want for this holiday season and after?

And I wrote, “I want the days to be enjoyable, loving, and connected.” 

Then I wrote down, “Enjoy. Love. Connect.”

And I’m here to tell you these three words have helped. 

When I’m feeling annoyed, perturbed, or agitated, I say to myself, “Enjoy,”

and after I roll my eyes at myself, I’ll notice,

“this clean, warm water coming out of this faucet is pretty neat.” or

“the way Noah’s pretending to be a pirate karate master and saying ‘hi-yarrrrrr!’ is pretty cute,” or

“this triggered argument I’m having with Melissa right now because I didn’t know she left her phone in the car, and she waited outside the Market Basket at madhouse rush time in 25-degree weather waiting for me to pick her up for 15 minutes is a great example of how we get super cross with each other and say sorry and hug. That’s a big deal, the whole sorry-forgive process.”

I’ve remembered to say these words to myself about 35% of the time, and that percentage of life has been sweeter.

This also happens to be a terrific thing to say to yourself when you sing. ? Enjoy, ? love, ? connect.

Try it out in all the places. I can’t always remember it or find something immediately enjoyable, but when I notice something to appreciate, the sweetness factor increases.

And that’s what I want for you, especially in the tricksy month of December. 

And if these three words don’t resonate with you, you can try the three that my student Hammond and I came up with for them with this week: Werk, slay, serve. 🙂 

What I DO know is that I enjoy you, I love writing to you, and it’s a treat to get to connect to you like this.

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

Love much,
dan

ps This was a terrific interview from the Mel Robbins podcast with Dr. Becky Kennedy about triggers and the body’s memory. I found it tremendously helpful.

pps Last week’s Tell me bout it Tuesday was about ways we can move air out of our face. There’s more than one way to exhale when we sing. That’s here.

ppps Are you watching 1899 on Netflix?? It’s trippy, and my jaw dropped more than a few times. Very well constructed. We’re now watching the creators’ previous show Dark which is also masterfully constructed and so crasssszy. I recommend if you’re into brain bendy thrillers. 

Any control issues I’ve managed to work out via therapy, divine intervention, or cookies remain firmly entrenched in the kitchen. 

Just ask Melissa whose anxiety meter hits red zone whenever she enters a three foot radius while I’m chopping parsley.

My brothers’ romantic partners have reported similar phenomena, so it’s clearly genetic and, therefore, not my fault.

This morning, I was making an omelette in my prized oversized commercial pan from Ocean State Job Lot.

I’d missed the boys’ second breakfast window, and after several skirmishes over who would possess the one T-Rex to rule them all, Jude was belting “I’m huuuungry” on slide-y scales with a very draggy soft palate.

I sang the Daniel Tiger reminder song — “When you wait ?, you can play?, sing or imagine anything?.”

But my glucose-depleted 2-year-old was not feeling the calming tunes.

EEEGGGGSSSS!

Breathe, Daddy, breathe.

The omelette finally set on the bottom, so I hauled the pan over to the sink to execute my best Julia Child skillet flip.

One. Two….

Daddy I’m huuungry

One. Tw…..

Daaadddyyyyyy

One. Two. Three. FLIP!

And somehow, I managed to hurl one third of the wet-on-top omelette out of the pan and splatter it across the countertop and floor.

Daaaddddyyyyy!

Three. Two, One…..?

You know that scene in Sweeney Todd when he’s about to slit Judge Turpin’s throat, and Anthony runs in?

I was Sweeney post bleed-block.

Melissa scuttled the boys out of the kitchen, and I sputtered out a different Daniel Tiger song while I wet some paper towels.

For me, parenting points my face straight into the gaping chasm of abject failure:

I lose my shit; I get sarcastic; I expect my 2- and 4-year-old boys to have fully functioning prefrontal cortices.

Mid-fail, I usually hear a low whispery Instagram influencer voice in my mind’s ear: “Your boys need you to help them co-regulate.”

I roll my eyes at the imaginary frenemy and retort, “How’m I sposed to co-regulate anybody when I can’t regulate mySELF?”

Failure and I are on familiar terms:

I’ve snotted and cried through voice lessons, heaved and sobbed in front of class strangers, and yodel-cracked A-flats in front of paying audiences. 

And that’s just the list from the artist zone. I haven’t even enumerated my interpersonal/relational explosions.

But, parenting’s been the daily express train to the end of me. Like, by 8:30am. 

And, being Daddy to these lil nuggets is one of the the great privilege-miracles of my life.

What’s a thing you know (like my control freak DNA :)) you arrived on this planet downloaded to do?

And what’s the thing about your transcendent wiring that presses your nose into failure on the regular?

The thing about it that’s at once divine and sucky is that these failure spots are where the gold is.

For me, parental eye rolls, sarcasm, and impatience point all fingers back to the places where I talk to myself like dookie. 

It also highlights the places where I say no to myself for no good reason.

Because I said so! 

This is creative ideas, projects, the show that needs to get on its feet for a workshop.

So, thank you oversized omelette flip meltdown.

The other healing (or as Jude says, heawing) comes when I say, “Buddy, I lost my patience. I’m working on it. Will you please forgive me?”

Hug. “I love you, Daddy.” 

What if we said that to ourselves, too?

Hey buddy, I’m sorry I grounded you that time and said you couldn’t even sit down and write down a list of songs you might wanna sing for that cabaret. 

And I apologize for the time I wouldn’t even let you audition for that show because I told you you weren’t what they were looking for anyway. Way harsh. 

I think we might be onto a very hea(w)ing practice — the apology to ourselves.

I’ll write the folks at Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood and suggest a new life hack jingle.

Yeah, I’ve yet to discover the fame, success, and ice cream path to deep life satisfaction and lasting learning. When I do, you’ll be the first to know which brand of Moose tracks did the trick. 

But until then, just remember there’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.

Much love,

Dan

ps If there were a day of song magic in NYC this summer

(Song Magic: simple ways to be sparkly, noncompete-able you; offensively simple story-technique tools; and a home-cooked meal)

would you be into that? 

If yes, just click this and hit send. 

pps Have you seen Physical on Apple TV+? It’s so well done. Terrific writing, and an artful deep dive into the art of toxic self-talk. 

Also, my pal Deirdre Friel does terrific work. She and I did a production of Cinderella back in the DAY at Arkansas Rep. She played one of the stepsisters, and she decided the reason she was so miserable was because she suffered from a perpetual cold. She also played piano and harmonized with me for a CD of hymns I recorded for my Papa when he was in his final days and I couldn’t get home. These are the things show folk do together. At any rate, it’s terrific to see friends who work hard and do great work get recognized. 

ppps And if you wanna jump in on some NYC song magic and food, email me back.

One habit I’ve picked up since the boys were babies is wiping stuff on the back of my shorts.

I can’t single out the moment when I looked at the banana puree on my index finger and decided that grinding it into my khaki cargos was a lot easier than walking over to that kitchen towel hanging in front of the sink.

But I crossed the threshold, and now I’m an incorrigible wipe-things-on-my-butt kinda guy.

Every few days Melissa will ask, “What’s that on your shorts?”

No memory.

Just an orange streak of something that happened at second breakfast.

How did it come to this? —Presenting my person in public with a kaleidoscope of colors swiped in indiscriminate diagonals across my hiney–

Probably the same way that habit you’ve been rocking for a while instantiated itself into your neural pathways.

One day you tried a thing, and it kinda worked.

If it was singing, it got the sound to come out.

Interpersonal? It got the person to leave you alone?

Professional– It made the boss-like person think you had it together.

So then you hit repeat. And again.

Soon you were practicing this habit, and before you knew it you were sporting crusty green smears on your keister.

This is when we have to step back and take a look at what we’re actually practicing.

My students in the MFA Teaching Lab reminded me of an adage last Friday— practice doesn’t make perfect. Practice makes permanent.

Is that thing you do bringing joy and satisfaction into your life? Do things flow better when you do it?

Or does it have that really annoying quick fix feel? That bothersome but true gut grab that this isn’t sustainable.

How about your singing?

Is there a challenge or two that you could use a magic wand for?

Are there sounds you think are unmake-able for you that if you’re honest with yourself would feel really great to make?

Joyful connection and confident skill you know could be a thing if you just knew the way in?

I have a solution.

If you’re gonna be in or around NYC on Saturday, October 16, email me back here and type one of two things—

?“Dan, I wanna book a lesson time with you on that Saturday so I can get some tools to get my connection, confidence, and skills rolling.”

??“Dan, I wanna join that small class you’re teaching Oct 16 from 6-9pm on how I don’t have to forget about my vocal technique at all—in fact, I can make it my authentic storytelling superpower. Please hold my spot.”

I’ll email you back, and we’ll make a plan for what you’re gonna work on.

?Or come to a Red Sox game and have a lesson while you’re at it.

Hey, check out this sign across from Fenway Park—if those lightbulbs could talk, huh?

I love spotting beautiful things around Boston.

I hope you’ll notice those things you do this week (AKA our habits) and ask yourself, “Is this bringing satisfaction and joy?”

And give yourself a gentle listen for the answer.

If you’re asking about my nighttime cereal habit, then Yes! Yes it DOES bring satisfaction. AND joy.

And coffee. I mean, what is life, even, without coffee?

All right—I’ll ask me about my habits. You ask you about yours. Deal. 

And email me here and tell me you wanna get some tools that’ll change the game for you in NYC on Saturday, Oct. 16. One-on-one or in a small, brave class 6-9pm.

And you’ll see what may or may not be staining the posterior of my pants.

And always remember—there’s ONE YOU—and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much,
Dan

ps I claim total schoolmate I-know-him pride on Daniel J. Watts. Did you see what he did last night at the Tonys?

You know the folks who make you step back and say “day-uuuuuum!”? That’s Daniel. 

I hope you can find his performance when CBS makes it available, but in the meantime, check his TED Talk “To accomplish great things, you need to let the paint dry.”

I used to drive to Van Nuys every weekday morning.

Transplanted palm trees craned their bronto necks over the anxious cars fitting and starting their way through corridors of circa-1967 stucco apartment buildings, storefront attorneys, and corner malls.

It was depressing as hell. 

I missed New York. I felt like I was on an alien planet, and I was driving to my job in the Purchasing Department at a Community Health Center.

I’d just returned to work there after doing a show. They welcomed me back because Alma, the best supervisor in the history of hated jobs, put in a good word for me. Thanks, Alma.

Data entry, spreadsheets and inventory: not listed on my special skills.

I had a severe case of temp-to-permanent-job-itis, and I’d just lived in the behind-the-footlights-live-audience world again. 

Dispatches to Costco where I squared off in shopping cart chicken jousts with badass Armenian matrons were not my jam anymore. And how many styrofoam cups and powder creamers do you NEED, Independent Living Program???

Like I told you, I was in Purchasing, and that meant inventory. And that meant barcodes. 

They wanted me to create a way to track all the desks, credenzas, and bunk beds with these barcodes.

And there was this one company they wanted to use. They made scanners.

I learned that the owner of said company was in thick with one of the headiest Center honchos, so okay. But their product didn’t include any portable thingy that you could track clutter with. 

When I asked my supervisor how they proposed I carry the hundreds of stickered desks, filing cabinets and meeting tables into the room where the fixed-in-place scanner was, my questions went vigorously unanswered.

I suggested three other products we might use (with portable scanny thingies). Answer was no.

No problem. I’m an actor. I know rejection.

I’m also a Southerner, so I have a black belt in passive aggression. 

I just stopped working on the project. 

Add to that some long lunch breaks and early departures for auditions I chose not to mention to my supervisor.

Time passed. Alma called me and said in the kindest way you can imagine, “We won’t be needing your services anymore.”

It was fair. I was a shitty employee. Sorry, Alma. 

I still don’t know who they got to carry the desks into the room where the immovable barcode scanner was. 

You know the square peg round hole thing, right? 

I’d been more of an oval peg at the Center for over two years. Just rounded enough to think, I can make this work. Maybe even full time. Yeah, this is fine. 

I was good at answering phones. I’ll say that. I’m friendly as hell.

What about you?

Is there an oval peg situation you’re malleting into a round hole?

Now look, sometimes there’s a titanium quadrilateral rod that’ll never fit in any kind of you-shaped compartment, and sometimes you just have to make it work for a lil while. That ill fit might be paying your bills for a while. Get your food and shelter.

And what I’m saying is this–that is terrific information! The wrong peg-and-hole combo, that is.

I learned a ton at the Community Health Center. 

It showed me many character flaws. And I saw a lot of people do excellent work every day with little fanfare. Not everybody needs applause when they key in the correct inventory code.

What is your oval peg? You’ll probably know immediately. If you don’t have one, congrats for now! 

If you do, it’s a perfect opportunity to get out your THINKS cap and take a look-see.

If you missed this brain-freeing tutorial including an acronym and a MUSIC MAN reference, you can check it out here. 

Or you can just keep reading and celebrate that you’re here right now.Woooooooo! 

You deserve to be on a path that fits you, a road that delights you–with less injury attorney offices and more theatres and independent bookstores, and a trail that helps you serve in ways that excite and fulfill you. 

You know how I know? This is how.

Think about a little kid you love. Or maybe just like. Or just make up a kid. 

See them in your brain. Do they deserve to be on the path that fits them? Do you want them to find the road that fulfills them and helps them serve in the most fulfilling way?

Me, too.

So, I want that for you. I want that for me. I want MY kids to see their dad doing that. 

That’s why I’m writing this letter to you right now.

If you’re holding an oval peg right now, woot! You see it.

It makes you start looking for a round one. You may just need to return that oblong hanger to Lowe’s so someone else can buy it. Their return policy is super flex.

Your turn–please please comment and tell me about your planned peg exchange. 

Or…what was a time when you realized that peg just wasn’t that into you, and you had to go dig out that receipt?

Por qué comment? Porque I love to hear from you.

I learn from you, and I have a dreeeeam of sharing your stories with this community (with your go-ahead, of course) so that everyone can be living their round dowel best lives.

Stay tuned in the next few weeks because I’m going to tell you about a very recent peg swap in my life. 

You had no idea you were going to read the word peg so many times today. 

Always remember repeat peg reader, there is only one you, and folks need to hear the story that only you can sing.

ps For reals, I wanna know about a time when you got the lightbulb that this was just not a fit for you and what you did. This last year-plus has been an unmatched time to look at that, right? I wanna know what you’ve learned and what you’re looking at ahead. This article in The Atlantic was really interesting re: all that, too.

pps if you missed the video when I break down my silly yet very effective way to loosen up my brain darts, just click here and have a cup of tea for ten minutes. You’ll be kinder for it, and you’ll also find out what questionable choice I made with ice cream one time.

Noah just turned 3. Wha?

Like every human who experiences time, I’m a mix of where-did-the-minutes-go? and dang-this-day-is-longer-than-a-slow-tempo-Les-Miz.

I get to watch him figure stuff out, hear him say, “Daddy, the ceiling fan is like a propeller!” and notice how every sleeping emotion giant inside me gets jabbed awake by his sweet being.

He’s my soul mirror. He sparks deep-buried memories– “I was captivated by Cinderella when I was 3.” or “Oh I remember, that fascination with volcanoes.” 

He also inherited my intense emos. When he hurts over anything–from a snatched toy to a skinned knee–I can feel his cry in the middle of my stomach. 

And it makes me effing anxious.

These are sensations I muffle in the bottom of the clothes hamper while saying things like, “Suck it up. No time to hurt.”

And now these raw feels stampede through Noah’s prefrontal cortex like a herd of auditioners who just found out the sign-in table got moved, and I get to say hello to their hungry, eager faces again.

When I hold Noah mid-wail, my guts swarm like a poked hornets’ nest. I feel his tears and snot seep through my shirt, and the wise part of me knows he just needs a hug. 

Can you imagine if I spoke to him the way I spoke to me?

You might rightfully roll your eyes when your well-meaning pal says in her best breathy therapist voice, “Would you speak that way to your best friend?” 

Of course I wouldn’t. I’m not a b to my bestie. If you’re like me, you struggle to turn this love and care toward yourself, too.

You prolly absorbed a message somewheres that says, “The only way to grow is through brutal ass kickery. Humans are jacked up souls in need of Thomas Hobbesian constraint.”

I still hit rewind and play on that Fisher Price tape recorder.

Sometimes, though, I find the wisdom to press pause and question the message. 

You might remember the tale of the benevolent music director that showed me you could go from A to B with laughs and joy. Ego Dan is still giving that leadership style the side-eye.

What A to B are you wishing you could take the first-class Acela train to? 

If you could plug anything into Google Maps and ask Gracie (our name for GPS–Grace Patricia Smith) to cue you, where would you go?

I would love to know. Email me or share a comment, and tell me about it!

How-to vocal, what-the life stuff, or you just wanna know how I make irresistible salad dressing.

Whyyyyy, Dan? Why todaaaaay? (audition cut in my 20s)

Because I want to know what you need.

And I want to fa-lap-ball-change some tasty, nourishing morsels up in this blog space that’ll make you all Super Mario after that shroom. 

When you contact me me to say, “This helped!” I’m Luigi with the fire flower–I’m throwing fuego-balls at all those doom turtles coming at you, and I’m getting you to the next level.

Now I’m belting this: 

There’s only one yoooooooo, and folks need to hear the story only yoooooo can sing. (And I can help you with that [u] vowel.)

It’s scientifically true. One you, and yes, I will help you sing [u] in multiple styles.

Remember to give my life a purpose, and click here to email me with your Acela train dream destination.

Or ask me “What is a train? I’ve been watching Facebook Live theatre for over a year.” I wanna help.

And if you’re still wondering, “Dan, how exactly DO I talk to myself and be kind to me without feeling like I’m carrying a dog-eared copy of The Secret in my messenger bag, I made you a video for that, and and I’ll post that on Thursday, so come back and see me then.

Can you believe Melissa and I are knocking on the door of our eighth anniversary? How was that eight years ago? Google Photo keeps reminding us of things that happened in 2013, and we’re both like, wow, look at all we didn’t know then. Right?

I didn’t know how brilliant I was being when I sat down on Melissa’s corner couch in Highland Park, showed her a picture of the Claddagh rings I’d bought on my iPhone, and said I thought getting married would be the best idea. Has this happened to you? You look back, and you’re like, I had no clue I was being that effing smart.

This year, I invite you to picture our lil home in Greensboro where we’ve locked arms in the pandemic toddler parenting trenches. We’re grateful that we’ve had jobs and enough sanity to keep the undies washed and the boys loved. Aaaand, here’s where I need to tell you what a bad-AHSS my wife is.

She listens. Like, seriously, she is interested in what’s going on in my mind and heart, and when I tell her about it, she meets me with understanding. We know this is a big deal.

She supports and trusts. Yesterday a friend sent me a job posting in a certain city very far from a beach, and I said, “You don’t wanna live there, do you?” And my ocean-loving wife said, “I want to live wherever we can be together.” I mean, come on, right?

We all had COVID in December, and we’re lucky that we came through. But Melissa’s been long hauling with tough symptoms. Her laser-like stubbornness has been this eff-you-COVID-I’m-gonna-take-care-of-my-boys engine. If I were feeling half as rough as she does, I’d be man-cold crying on the couch.

This year has been a time when old hurts have come up—you know, the ones you thought you checked off and are like, seriously, that again? And she’s been here in it with me.

So, she’s my official hero these days. See? Sometimes you don’t know how smart you are.

Which is the very reason why I’m humblebragging to you about my choice in life partner.

Because you are getting it right. If you think you are getting it wrong now, you are getting it right.

You know how I know? Because my choose-your-own-adventure blunders sent me careening into my dear friends’ back yard where I met Melissa. My choices were blind reactions to fear, pain, and wookin pa nub in ALL the wrong places.

You know I’m not suggesting you fling yourself onto life’s highway of dehydration and skinned knees in order to eventually find your true purpose—that interstate has a way of exiting you off at some interesting Shell stations already.

What I am saying is this: If lately the mean part of your brain has said, “I’m shitting the bed on this,” take it from a man who encounters toddler dookie on the daily–there’s soap and water for that.

Take a brisk walk sans-earbuds, listen to some birds doing whistle tones, and ask your in-your-heart-and-body self, “Am I doing the best I can do?”

If you hear a gentle yes, keep walking and go buy an ice cream.

If you get a nudge about a change that could bring satisfaction or relief, then go get that ice cream, and do a little something about that nudge.

A one-degree trajectory change makes the difference between your plane flying to London or Paris. Both are incredible cities, but you might not be feeling pain au chocolat this year.

Here’s the takeaway– God’s got it, and you’re going to come through.

I had no idea when I rolled up to hipster church in Pasadena in 2006 that I would meet ride-or-dies who’d save my life when it crumbled six years later and then introduce me to my wife and the mother of our scrumptious boys. You don’t know these things when you’re doot-da-dooing along.

If one of those nudges on your walk was to get your singular voice making sounds again, that’s what I (and Zoom) are here for!

Email me, and we’ll get you making free, joyful, genuine noises like a kid on the beach with a melt-down-your-wrist soft serve and your don’t-care belly out.

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