Journal Prompts 2 — Confesssions

Journaling is not just a little thing you do to pass the time, to write down your memories—though it can be—it’s a strategy that has helped brilliant, powerful and wise people become better at what they do.

Oscar Wilde, Susan Sontag, W.H. Auden, Queen Victoria, John Quincy Adams, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Virginia Woolf, Joan Didion, John Steinbeck, Sylvia Plath, Shawn Green, Mary Chestnut, Brian Koppelman, Anaïs Nin, Franz Kafka, Martina Navratilova, and Ben Franklin. All journalers—just to name a few.

It was, for them and so many others, as Foucault said, a “weapon for spiritual combat.” A way to practice their principles, be creative and purge the mind of agitation.
It was part of who they were.
It made them who they were.
It can make you better too.

Whether you’re brand new to the concept of journaling or you’ve journaled in the past and fallen out of practice, this ultimate guide to journaling will tell you everything you need to know to help you make journaling one of the best things you do in this year and beyond. You’ll learn not only how to journal, but also about the benefits of journaling, the famous journaling of the past 2,000 years, the best journals to use, and more.

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Prompt:  Confessions

Do you have anything you would like to confess (even if it’s just to the pages of your journal)?

    •    Nobody knows that I . . .
    •    Dear ____, it weighs on me that I never told you . . .
    •    The biggest lie I’ve ever told is . . .
    •    Is there anything you feel guilty about?  Is there anything you need to be forgiven for?
    •    What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?
    •    What’s your secret desire?
    •    What’s the most outrageous thing you’ve ever done?

Journal on.

Questions from Book Tour - Part 7

Book tour!

1. In addition to grieving and overcoming pain, the book really seems to explore keeping up appearances in a lot of ways. What did this tragedy instill within you about that and how society so often avoids talking about death, in general?

     Death is the Great Unknown, and most human being love nothing more than snuggling up and getting all cozy with certainty. The trouble is— certainty hardly ever truly exists in our lives.

     The greatest fears all living things hold within them is the loss of someone they love and the loss of their own lives. Avoiding death and survival instinct is built into the tiniest amoebas, and they don’t even have intricate death mythology or structure of beliefs about an afterlife. Humanity has been mythologizing death since we had cognizance, one to make peace with it for our own demise, but also to ease the profound suffering of being left behind in death by anyone we love.


     Around Christmas, my mom and I were going through some of her life treasures in the basement.
    “Oh I like those shoes,” I said salivating slightly.
    “Patience, Al, you can borrow them now but you keep them when I’m dead.”
    “Roger that, Mom.”
    “Cheer up. You’ll get it all when I’m dead! Who am I gonna leave it to— the cat?”

     This level of banter is pretty standard for us.

     But the other day I experienced a very special career highlight, and my wonderful, witty mother was there to bear witness. We have an unspoken tradition where after every major life event of mine (such as an opening night, a book launch, a concert), she takes me aside and we pause a few minutes to revel in what has just transpired. After we did that, I paused as said:
    “Mom. Just so you know, this tradition means everything to me.”
    “Me too,” she replied.
    “And,” I continued after reflecting a moment, “I don’t know about the details of the afterlife and all that, but I’m just letting you know now, that if you do get to come back and haunt or visit or say hi, this ‘after the show’ moment would be when I’d really like to know you’re popping in.”
    “Okay,” she said, then smirking added “Good talk.”

     We laughed. Life and death and real-talk chat is no big deal to the Silber ladies anymore. As you can see, the ability to so blithely operate in that kind of dialogue does not put a damper on the joyous occasion, it made it even more memorable, without being a huge downer.

Ta-DA!!! Real Talk!

     Taking death and grief out and looking at them directly seems unpleasant, unnecessary and downright “grim,” but it removes the stigma from a human experience every single one of us is going to have sooner or later, and avoiding the subject is not going to prevent it, and certainly not the solution for making any kind of peace with it.

     My suggestion is to very simply: think and talk about it. Recognize that you might be avoiding the subject out of discomfort or fear. The more you accept the reality of death and grief, the more you can get on with the business of truly investing in and fully living your life.

the real Rabbi Daniel Syme

2. Why did you make the choice to fictionalize Rabbi Syme [in After Anatevka]?

     What a wonderful question. Ah, beautiful beautiful Rabbi Daniel Syme...

     I went about fictionalizing the real Rabbi Syme (who is chronicled literally in WHGP) into the fictional version that captured his spirit, in Rabbi Syme.

     The real Rabbi Daniel Syme was a crucial advocate to and for not only me, but to and for my father’s human legacy.

    Fictional Rabbi Syme (in After Anatevka) is based very loosely upon the real-life Rabbi Syme (chronicled literally in WHGP)—loosely because my description in the novel is not so much a literal, but more of an evocative recollection and honoring of his influence. Real-life Rabbi Syme and I only spent a collection of minutes together in 2001, but they were crucial minutes. He gave me the gift of delivering the eulogy at my father's funeral service, as well as bearing witness to it when he lead the funeral service, and above all, he gave me an hour of his time months later, reminding me of what was eternal, and chartering a map toward the beauty, strength, and individuality my faith. Irreplaceable gifts one can never forget.

     The fictional version of the character was my way of honoring the man who was my father's advocate, and thus, Perchik's (who is modeled in many ways after my father). He was also my first spiritual teacher of any kind.

    The influence of Rabbi Syme proves another true-to-life maxim: that we never know the depth of the influence we have upon one another. A fleeting moment to one, might bear a lifetime of profundity to another, for better and for worse. So it is in these tiny actions that we must recognize that our influence on earth is vast, has meaning, and should never be taken for granted.

To read more about Rabbi Syme click here:
The Real Rabbi Syme
The Real Rabbi Syme continued




3. What questions do you still have for G-d?

Why so many Fast and the Furious movies, Big Guy?



4. Later, with the chapter "Where Memories," you state that you "have always clutched fiercely onto ordinary moments." As I was reading the book, I had a pad of sticky notes + immediately scrawled "Anton Chekhov," whose plays featured plots with very little actually happening (The Cherry Orchard is a favorite of mine). Many people don't or aren't willing to find the poeticism in the mundane, the little moments that don't seem to many anything on the surface. Is it human nature to only remember the big, life-changing moments?

     It is interesting you mention Anton Chekov and The Cherry Orchard. I don’t state it directly, but the “mysterious man” Perchik meets in the Moscow bar in 1903 (about 2/3 of the way through After Anatevka) is indeed Anton Chekhov. I drop about a dozen or so clues, even going so far as to have Perchik inspire Chekhov with the phrase “All Russia is our orchard…” but I never state it explicitly. It was my little nod to the theatre.

     I don’t think it is human nature to only focus on big life moments— I think many people vividly recall the seemingly minute details of their lives. What I think most people do not practice is the meaning-making around and of these details. Making meaning of our lives is why many people participate in religion, why they read and go to the theatre, why they read horoscopes and attend spiritual gatherings. Not every human being finds meaning-making fruitful— some prefer to live utterly in the present and that is okay if it works for them.

     I happen to be a person who not only enjoys, but needs to make meaning of my and all human life. I do think I have a gift for creating a myth around an experience almost instantaneously, but as a few very wise friends have observed, sometimes my speedy ability to mythologize hijacks my experiencing of the moment itself. And noting that, I endeavor to stay fully aware in the present, and meaning-make later.

with Rabbi Syme

Risk by Anaïs Nin

And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to Blossom.

©Nick Bantock

Ask Al: Missing Shows

I realized recently that so many of my "Ask Al" questions come either from curious laymen, or artists who are either in training or embarking upon their careers. In other words—not from working professionals who are asking their colleague for support or insight. I exchange texts and emails (both asking and answering) with my friends and colleagues all the time, and I thought it might be interesting to hear about the cares and concerns of high-flying professionals and what concerns them on a daily basis.

In this instance, a friend in a Broadway musical reached out about missing performances due to illness. Many performers are flooded with guilt and shame, as well as fear and insecurity. What my friend and I worked through was a crucial part of self-love and acceptance, as well and, I believe, applicable to all professions.

Enjoy.

 * * *

    Dear P(al), 

    I have the fate of laryngitis from this all-over-the-place weather. As a result, I’m missing shows and feel totally defeated and unworthy and just plain gutted. The shame of being given the enormous honor of leading a company, only to let down that company, the producers and the audience is a level of guilt I can't bear! Yet, without my voice, I can't do the job I have been tasked to.
    Can you tell me it’s ok to be sick? I feel as though these thoughts are keeping me from truly healing!
Love you,
"Them"

*

    Oh, my friend.

    First things first— you are anything BUT unworthy. You are a beast of a performer, spirit, athlete, and artist. Illness happens to all of us for any number of reasons. It is not an indication of weakness or lack of commitment in any way. You’re sick. It’s not your fault. It’s not a crime.

    Second— missing shows is always hard because you’ve been tasked with a high honor that I know you revere. But if it is any help for a “re-frame” — I always like to think of the CHARACTER and what they need. Taking the pressure off of myself.

Ask:
     “What does this character need from me to get her story told today?”

And:

     “Am I the best person to tell her story today?”

— if the answer is no, then say:

     "I should step aside and allow someone else to take care of her story until I can return."
Because that outlook has the wisdom, maturity and ego-less energy of recognizing that this isn't about you and your fame or glory, it is ultimately about putting the character first, and that is the thinking of one's highest self.

    Finally — I know you (like so many of us) suffer from a mix of fierce ambition as well as imposter syndrome. I identify with that. I think moments like these can exacerbate that fear — the fear that somehow we don’t deserve these honors and opportunities we’ve fought and bled for. That somehow our luck is catching up with us and we’re going to be revealed as hacks.

That’s just your fear taking you hostage. It’s a liar.

    I love you so much.
    And I believe in you.
    And I’m really honored you trusted me with this.

Al


*

    You. Are. Yoda.
    I cannot thank you enough for this. 

— "Them"

Backstage at BC/EFA's Broadway Backwards

About Broadway Backwards:

"Broadway Backwards is the annual celebration where men sing songs originally written for women and vice versa. In doing so, gay and lesbian stories are told through the great songs of musical theatre and sung by our favorite Broadway performers. Broadway Backwards began as a grassroots concert performed at the Center in 2006. The event quickly grew and now is performed every year in a Broadway theatre. Since 2010, the evening has been produced by Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS and benefits BC/EFA and The Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual & Transgender Community Center in New York."

 

Sharing a dressing room at the New Amsterdam with Robyn Hurder and Bonnie Milligan:

©Michael Kushner

Preparing for "Louise" in "All I Need is the Girl" opposite Robyn Hurder as Tulsa.

©Michael Kushner

Robyn Hurder and I only take frameable photos. One of the greatest nights of my life.
A beautiful scene for a beautiful cause.

with Robyn Hurder ©Michael Kushner

Journal Prompts 1 — Lists

“The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it.” — J.M. Barrie

A pen coupled with paper can serve as a powerful life tool.

Journaling (or keeping letters or diaries) is an ancient tradition, one that dates back to at least 10th century Japan. Successful people throughout history have kept journals. Presidents have maintained them for posterity; other famous figures for their own purposes. Oscar Wilde infamously said: “I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read on the train.”

All you need is a piece of paper and a writing implement. (Although some people nowadays use their computers or even wonderful journaling apps. But you could use an 18th-century mini chalkboard too. If that’s your thing. Whatever works for you.)

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How To Begin Journaling
Your journaling will be most effective if you do it daily for about 20 minutes. Begin anywhere, and forget spelling and punctuation. Privacy is key if you are to write without censor. Write quickly, as this frees your brain from “shoulds” and other blocks to successful journaling. If it helps, pick a theme for the day, week or month (for example, peace of mind, confusion, change or anger). The most important rule of all is that there are no rules.

Conclusion
I dare say that journaling is one of the most important things to do in your life. If done effectively, it will change everything in your life for the better.
You’ll become the person you want to be.
You’ll design the life you want to live.
Your relationships will be healthier and happier.
You’ll be more productive and powerful.
Enjoy.

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Prompt: Create Lists

You can create lists of many things, such as the following:

    •    Places you’ve enjoyed visiting.
    •    Things you’ve done that you previously thought you could never do.
    •    The people you most admire.
    •    Your favorite books.
    •    Your favorite movies.
    •    Your favorite songs.
    •    Your top five short term goals.
    •    Your top five long term goals.

I've Been: Winter 2018/19

• playing Titania in A Midsummer Night's Dream

• hosting the Chicago edition of The Hanukkah Hoedown!

• feeling more lonely than I ever have in all my life

• wondering why some people are absolute jerks

• letting go

• accepting

• endeavoring to reveal my inner self

• Writing writing wrting...

• freezing my ass off in Chicago

• "Chicago-ing"(at Steppenwolf, the Art Institute, IO Improv night, Magnificent Mile and many more wonders)

• baking paleo bread

• participating in a really interesting and genre-busting play-reading of The Block Association Project with a phenomenal group of talents

Reading:

•  So Sad Today: Personal Essays by Melissa Broder 
•  The Nightengale's Sonata
• The Big New Yorker Book of Cats
• New Family Values by Andrew Solomon
• The Night Watch by Sarah Waters
• Why You Are Who You Are from The Great Courses
• The Disappearing Spoon by Sam Kean
• Dare to Lead by Brené Brown



My sisters!

• Daring Greatly by Brené Brown

• recording a cut song from Fiddler on the Roof titled 'Marry for Love' (which was ultimately replaced by 'Matchmaker') with Roslaind Harris and Neva Small (Tzeitel and Chava from the Fiddler motion picture, respectively!)
  

with Rosalind Harris and Neva Small

• hosting friends from far away (both named Alexandra)

• reuniting with my Fiddler family at 54 Below!

• re-connecting with old friends who live locally!

• hanging with MamaSilbs

• and (shockingly, surprisingly... in THE most unlikely of places and circumstances) falling in love... 

Him. <3

'Romance Sonambulo' by Federico Garcia Lorca

Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea
and the horse on the mountain.
With the shade around her waist
she dreams on her balcony,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
Green, how I want you green.
Under the gypsy moon,
all things are watching her
and she cannot see them.

Green, how I want you green.
Big hoarfrost stars
come with the fish of shadow
that opens the road of dawn.
The fig tree rubs its wind
with the sandpaper of its branches,
and the forest, cunning cat,
bristles its brittle fibers.
But who will come? And from where?
She is still on her balcony
green flesh, her hair green,
dreaming in the bitter sea.

–My friend, I want to trade
my horse for her house,
my saddle for her mirror,
my knife for her blanket.
My friend, I come bleeding
from the gates of Cabra.
–If it were possible, my boy,
I’d help you fix that trade.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
–My friend, I want to die
decently in my bed.
Of iron, if that’s possible,
with blankets of fine chambray.
Don’t you see the wound I have
from my chest up to my throat?
–Your white shirt has grown
thirsty dark brown roses.
Your blood oozes and flees
around the corners of your sash.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
–Let me climb up, at least,
up to the high balconies;
Let me climb up! Let me,
up to the green balconies.
Railings of the moon
through which the water rumbles.

Now the two friends climb up,
up to the high balconies.
Leaving a trail of blood.
Leaving a trail of teardrops.
Tin bell vines
were trembling on the roofs.
A thousand crystal tambourines
struck at the dawn light.

Green, how I want you green,
green wind, green branches.
The two friends climbed up.
The stiff wind left
in their mouths, a strange taste
of bile, of mint, and of basil
My friend, where is she–tell me–
where is your bitter girl?
How many times she waited for you!
How many times would she wait for you,
cool face, black hair,
on this green balcony!
Over the mouth of the cistern
the gypsy girl was swinging,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
An icicle of moon
holds her up above the water.
The night became intimate
like a little plaza.
Drunken “Guardias Civiles"
were pounding on the door.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea.
And the horse on the mountain.

Things I have intentionally given up: a List

- Facebook

- expectations

- super late nights

- Gluten

- Most grains

- Letting myself go down that deep, dark spiral…

- Negative self-talk

- Weighing myself. Basically at all.

- Pouring energy into thoughts, relationships, pursuits, and truly anything unworthy of my precious energy and hours on earth in this one glorious life.

- Reading books I “should” (I stick to reading the books I like)

- Worrying

- Grudge-holding

- “Aspirational” clothing

- Comparing myself to others


(and I'm happier for all of it, so so so much happier)

Shakespearean Cocktails: A List

COMEDIES
The Taming of the Shew - The Shrewdriver
A Midsummer Night's Dream - Bottom’s Up, Puck’s Fizz
Twelfth Night - What you Will
Merchant of Venice - Quali-Tea of Mercy
Much Ado About Nothing - The Much a Woo Woo

ROMANCES
A Winter's Tale - Exit pursued by a Beer
Cymbeline - Cym-Bellini

HISTORY
Richard III - The Gimme-let

TRADGEDIES
Macbeth - Bloody Mary Queen of Scots
Hamlet - Best Served Cold, Drowned Ophelia, Get thee to a Winery
Othello - Put of the Light Beer, Green-Eyed Monster
King Lear - Serpent’s Tooth 
Titus Andronicus - Bloody Tamora, Speechless
R&J - Juliet’s Emoji-hito 
Anthony & Cleopatra - The Cleopolitan  

Kidspoem/Bairnsangs By Liz Lochhead

it wis January
and a gey dreich day
the first day Ah went to the school
so my Mum happed me up in ma
good navy-blue napp coat wi the rid tartan hood
birled a scarf aroon ma neck
pu'ed oan ma pixie an' my pawkies
it wis that bitter
said noo ye'll no starve
gie'd me a wee kiss and a kid-oan skelp oan the bum
and sent me aff across the playground
tae the place Ah'd learn to say

it was January
and a really dismal day
the first day I went to school
so my mother wrapped me up in my
best navy-blue top coat with the red tartan hood,
twirled a scarf around my neck,
pulled on my bobble-hat and mittens
it was so bitterly cold
said now you won't freeze to death
gave me a little kiss and a pretend slap on the bottom
to the place I'd learn to forget to say

it wis January
and a gey dreich day
the first day Ah went to the school
so my Mum happed me up in ma
good navy-blue napp coat wi the rid tartan hood,
birled a scarf aroon ma neck,
pu'ed oan ma pixie an' ma pawkies
it wis that bitter.

Oh saying it was one thing
but when it came to writing it
in black and white
the way it had to be said
was as if you were posh, grown-up, male, English and dead. 

Another Alexandra

Dear Sasha, 

The cold has truly settled in here in Chicago and we’re looking forward to -17 as a high temp on Wednesday. It is warmer in Vladivostok. Next week it is projected to be -40 and -52 with the windchill. It will be warmer on the surface of Mars. *

 I had a wonderful friend visit this week— a friend made several years (2011?) ago during a one week workshop. Her name is also Alexandra. We fully intended to walk around Millennium park, but then (of course) the weather turned to such frigidity that we decided to keep our activities indoors. That included a great deal of tea-sipping and talking—delving into deeper and deeper depths, like taking steps down a beautifully lit stairwell of intimacy.  It was so soul-resorting to spend quality time with a true friend and almost-sister.  Alexandra is probably the only other woman in my life that truly feels like the relationship one might have with a same-aged family member (much like Arielle, though that is even deeper for Ari and I have shared our entire lives). 

Alexandra has had a difficult year—her life-force of a mother died of early-onset Alzheimer’s in July, and over the years we have shared a beautiful common-knowledge of grief. We both bore witness to our parents dying slowly, but mine was physical while hers was a mental loss. In that vein, her grief was complicated by the fact that the mother she knew and grew up with “died," while her physical body remained and was replaced by a new person who did not know Alexandra at all from day to day. 

There were, effectively, two grieving processes for her to go through. I never knew Joan (her mother) in her titanic stardom of self, and it was heartening to know that over the years I have been of comfort to A as her mother slowly evaporated. By the time her mother did pass, the first grief was already thorough. I was honored to hold her experience both through the lens of my own grief of a parent, with curiosity and respect for its own distinction. 

In October, just before I left for Chicago, I drove up to New Hampshire to sing in her mother’s memorial service.  The weeks leading up to the service I was so mind-squashingly irritated with her. I almost couldn’t think about her without my brain exploding. She had asked me to sing at the memorial—a huge honor—but she had absolutely fallen off the face of the earth and I was at a loss as to how to proceed. I needed practical details to plan getting myself there, getting to Chicago, etc. Dear god Alexandra, my brain raged, I actually know first-hand that grief is crushing but I can’t be there for you if you don’t call me back!  

I tried her friends and boyfriend for help: what was I singing? What town was I going to? Do you realize how far away new Hampshire is? Do you realize how stressed I am trying to move to Chicago for 4 months, in only 4 days? What time was the service? Where? Where would we sleep? What in the actual hell was going on? This event very quickly became a major pain in my ass despite me desperately wanting to be there for her. As the day approached my frustration with her silence and scatter-brainedness mounted and nearly boiled over. I was a record-breaking level of grouchy.  

But, from the moment she and her boyfriend E piled into our rental car, I was transformed. Instantly. Over the course of the 48 hours encompassing the event, I’m wholly proud to say we shared one of the best, most hilarious, and most profound experiences of our adult lives. A treasured memory of laughter and sorrow and fullest humanity. I now own how thoroughly I projected her lack of communication as a lack of regard, and misinterpreted her silence as a lack of gratitude and love. I was wrong. She was, of course, just drowning. 

Alexandra, her boyfriend E (also a dear lovely friend) and I road-tipped up the country to her family’s home in New Hampshire. We sang along to terrible music the entire way. We told stories and laughed from our viscera. We vacillated from that laughter to tears in micro-seconds. We talked about real things. We talked about nothing.  We stopped at a being-renovated diner somewhere in deepest Massachusetts called “Athena 2,” (we never did locate Athena 1), ate gigantic over-priced salads underneath renovation tarps and laughed some more. Later, I helped her write her eulogy. I was her “other family” member and the family offered me a check after the service for my singing (which I, of course, donated to the Alzheimer’s Association). I got to know Alexandra, her family, and above all, her mother in a way I lack the language to express— but I recognize it as a sensation I still long to share with close friends about my father’s life. I bore witness to something deep and fervent and eternal. 

Basically: I was profoundly wrong.  I’m so glad I was wrong.  I learned the lesson thoroughly. I will never be such a grouchy pants again.  I should also mention that Alexandra was in a Broadway show (called “Head Over Heels”) that opened and closed in a matter of weeks, and thus, her highs and lows this year were on the Richter scale of intensity. This was her second week off after the close of the show, and she chose to spend it with me. I was very touched. 

Alexandra arrived on my doorstep last Wednesday on the first stop of what she is terming her “Grief Tour 2019.” All we did was light candles, snuggle Tati and one another, and talk at length about things that truly matter deep into the night. We occasionally ate food, sleep, bathe, and I did take breaks to go to work at Chicago Shakespeare Theatre. When we weren’t doing those things, we were having a great deal of fun at Improv Shakespeare and the Art Institute. This visit somehow felt like the closing of the circle of memorial experience in October—like an echo. 

And I, of course, needed her too. I am lonely here and feeling unseen in that deep way that feels so necessary to me. I crave to know others deeply, and also to be known at the same depth—the latter sometimes being challenging for me, as discussed.  When she left there was indeed an Alexandra Socha-shaped hole in my apartment, but what remained was her essence, the fullness of my heart, and a little notebook labeled “SCREENPLAYS ABOUT MY CAT” with a long heartfelt note within it.

“To Alexandra, The only Alexandra I love more than myself.”

 My heart swelled, and off I went to play the fairy queen.