I could write you seven emails about the last weekend.

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

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

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

My brain chattered helpful survival tips every day:

“You can just cut that song.”

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

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

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

“It’s going to be beautiful.”

I knew it was true.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love Much,

Dan