They brought a woman from the street And made her sit in the stalls By threats By bribes By flattery Obliging her to share a little of her life with actors
But I don't understand art
Sit still, they said
But I don't want to see sad things
Sit still, they said
And she listened to everything Understanding some things But not others Laughing rarely, and always without knowing why Sometimes suffering disgust Sometimes thoroughly amazed And in the light again, said
If that's art I think it is hard work It was beyond me So much beyond my actual life
But something troubled her Something gnawed her peace And she came a second time, armoured with friends
Sit still, she said
And again, she listened to everything This time understanding different things This time untroubled that some things Could not be understood Laughing rarely but now without shame Sometimes suffering disgust Sometimes thoroughly amazed And in the light again said
This is art, it is hard work And one friend said, too hard for me And the other said, if you will I will come again Because I found it hard I felt honoured
“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart
will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping
it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it
carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all
entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your
selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it
will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable,
impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”
I came to know of and work with The Transport Group at the beginning of 2011 as a cast member of their immersive production of Michael John LaChiusa’s Hello Again—directed by Jack Cummings. It was my first job in New York.
When Jack gives me another chance to write for this newsletter, perhaps I will tell you all about rehearsing this play above the old (sadly now closed) Pearl River in SoHo, the parrot that lived there named Rudy, and the seemingly centuries-old elevator that Nikka Lanzarone (who played The Whore) was constantly getting trapped in. I can tell tales of our 3am tech rehearsals lit by the late night street lights of our beloved New York City.
I can also recount with vivid detail my epic hours-long audition for the project in which I read and sang for every.single.female.character. in the play, and yes, sure, brought little props and different outfits for each (and perhaps more remarkably, that everyone just sort of let me do that…)
I can recount the company’s first publicity photo session filled with a little bit of nudity and a whole lot of laughter, and, I, newly arrived in New York City, wore not much more than Bob Stillman’s arms.
Ultimately I was honored to play the Young Wife amidst a cast of some of our most gifted singing actors—as brilliant as they were brave, and it’s been a joy to see them skyrocket personally and professionally. It has been equally thrilling to still be on the same text thread with all of them 10 years later. It is a testament to the ferociously devoted companies The Transport Group builds, but also to the indescribably powerful bonds the theatre fosters; building families out of an aggregate of strangers.
But I am not going to write about those wonderful memories.
Today I am going to write about a memory emblazoned permanently on my mind as perhaps one of the greatest theatrical moments of my life. A small moment. A moment in which I did very little. Being an actor can be virtuosic, but just like in life, sometimes the magic happens in the silences.
On December 18 2017, I was participating in a benefit concert of Man of La Mancha for The Transport Group— a blinding collection of Broadway’s finest had been lined up to share the leading and supporting roles, and to sing every note of the score with a full orchestra.I was assigned some lovely moments that evening to offer my take on Aldonza — the whore Don Quixote perceives to be not only an angel, but his true love.
None of those moments was more precious to me than the scene leading into the finale of Act 1— the anthem of the evening and delivering the message of the play itself. I spoke a few words, I looked Jason’s Quixote in the eyes, and then? I listened. I bore witness to Jason Danieley singing “The Impossible Dream,” and it forever, alchemically, changed me.
At this time in my life I was rumbling with a crushing experience with a chronic illness (that I have now, gratefully, recovered from and cured). I didn’t know how to operate in the world, I didn’t know what it meant to be well— what kind of healing to ask the Universe for.
Jason (a genius I’ve respected for decades and a friend I’d made my Carnegie Hall debut with a few years before), was facing his own personal “windmills” that frankly, aren’t my stories to write about.
Both in rehearsal earlier that day, and backstage before the scene, we didn’t speak of any of it. We didn’t know the details of one anothers’ struggles exactly, nor do I believe we needed to. But as we stood in the wings preparing to walk out together I felt something connect us—like a chord of light wrapped gently around each of our hearts, not tugging, not forceful in any way, just joined. Anyone who has ever been in the theatre will tell you: there is no breaking-open of the heart quite like those moments silently shared in the hush of the wings.
We strode out and began the scene. Eyes locked, and unadorned. I had been in hiding with so many people in my life during that time, yet I felt no need to “hide” from Jason, no need to protect myself or preserve anything for my dignity. Our actor-selves just asked one another a question:
“What have you been through?”
Some questions are medicinal, just in their being asked. “What have you been through” is prime among them. It’s transformational to be in the presence of another human being with both a willingness and a capacity to hold space for the truth of another. Even while stuck in the dense mud of our own realities, even as our bodies are “scorned and covered with scars,” may we all endeavor to be the kind of person who says:
“Though I may not see this experience of life through the same set of eyes, I see you. I hold your feelings, fears, vulnerabilities and recognize our common humanity. I take your concerns to heart. And in remaining here with you for this moment, we are both transformed.”
That was what happened to and for me when I stood beside Jason as he sang “The Impossible Dream.” It is what happens when songs are really prayers.
Prior to the COVID-19 pandemic I don’t know that the world at large really knew how to listen. Perhaps it didn’t wish to. I am not immune—it is terrifying to really listen—and perhaps part of that culture is what made me ill, and it has only been in this silence of quarantine that I have had a chance to heal. Who knows? After this year I don’t think I know much for certain anymore.
But what I do know is that hurriedness is so entrenched in the ways that we communicate, that when something significant is shared between people it's often not given the proper time to breathe. To settle. To marinate, and ultimately absorb.
What would it be like if we were to normalize long pauses, deep breaths, and unencumbered gazes filled with compassion and without expectation? What if in our scenes, and pauses, and songs-as-prayers, we could, with our creations, push through the unfathomable cracks, the great gully-trenches and dried-up canyons of every broken heart? And what if in those songs the lyrics were:
“And I know if I'll only be true To this glorious quest That my heart will be peaceful and calm When I'm laid to my rest…”
What if in the making of art we could strive, with all of ourselves, to stand for something good? To tell the truth. To fight evils. And what if our greatest glory isn’t in the winning, but in the striving?
I don’t think that is an Impossible Dream. Because we do it in the theatre. When we are brave. And skilled. And, as I was that night with Jason, sometimes when we are just so broken open by life’s trials, that we cannot help but listen and get lucky.
The song ended. The experience of it left me trembling. Jason turned, and extended his hand to me. It was a gesture of something shared. We walked off stage arm in arm.
May we all strive, dear friends— with “our last ounce of courage.”
I love this Alec Silver human person so much. So on our 2-year-anniversary, we took a leap.
In this era of the Coronavirus— of collective isolation, grief, loss, adversity and hardship—I, like all of you, have been through, and learned a few things. If our shared human experience has taught me anything it is this:
There is only NOW, and LOVE (in all it’s forms) is ALL. WE. HAVE.
You know? The phrase “This too shall pass” is true of more than just adversity. Joy, TOO, shall pass if we do not seize it and cherish it while it is before us.
So Alec and I seized the joy AND the moment.
So with three people present, we eloped in a fairy-tale-snowy Central Park, merging two ancient cultures and creating a new one, together.
Our friend and Rabbi Samantha Frank, perfectly married us. One of my best friends on earth, my friend-partner Alley Scott got ready with me before, and gifted us these beautiful flowers by Mimosa Floral. Our pal Michael Kushner took these fabulous photos (and served as a witness!).
And yes, I did: I wore RED.
To anyone out there that is having trouble seizing joy: it’s okay. Life is hard right now. Be kind to yourself. But joy is there to be seized in the large and in the small.
To
anyone out there who believes that certain dreams are not available
to/for them, take heart: stay open; life can be surprising (says this
37-year-old first time bride...well...if you don’t count the 500+ times I “married” Adam Kantor...)
I’m tightly embracing you (in this fuzzy red jacket My Mom found—that somehow perfectly matched my dress...)
Alec,
oh how I love you. I have never been more certain of anyone or
anything. Thank you for being beside me in literal sickness and in
health, and above all, for the honor of picking me.
As we move through these final Days of Awe between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, may we embrace Quiet and pause often. Inside the loud and raging modern world, may we hold that rage but balance it with the noticing of simple joys, embracing natural beauty and the micro generosities gifted to us. May we look for opportunities for kindness and connection.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
And, where there is pain; where there is death and anguish and injustice and rage—let us be courageous in humbling ourselves. Be brave in asking for forgiveness, and gracious and expansive in our willingness *to* forgive. Forgiveness sets the forgivER, free.
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our
children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we
put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the
shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.
Some of you know this has been a
challenging time for me. (Not losing sight of the fact that it has been a
trial for everyone on earth during this life-altering COVID pandemic).
I’ll explain less cryptically when I am ready, but for now, know this: It makes the timing of my beloved Alec's’s proposal this weekend extraordinarily perfect.
Insane bonus points for the bluest of blue gemstones, and refashioning this ring from My mother's gems and the melted down gold from my Dad’s wedding band. [*weeps*]
I had no idea, was utterly shocked, and quite truly believed love like this would not happen for me.
It
goes to show that working on ourselves, remaining open (even when it’s
terrifying) and allowing life to surprise you brings about the truest
definition of magic I can muster. Plus, Alec and I already reeeeallly
know the meaning of the phrase “in sickness and in health...”
Alec,
this was the easiest YES of my life. Thank you for your access to joy,
for the way you cherish, for your unconditional support, discerning
mind, compassionate soul, and for being your singular, irreplaceable
self.
It’s here. Yom Kippur 2020 and whoa boy do we all have a lot to atone for, personally and as a society at large.
The first communal prayer service of Yom Kippur actually takes place immediately prior to sunset on the evening of Yom Kippur. This service is called Kol Nidre (“All Vows”). These are the first words of a special legal document that is recited at the beginning of this service and is traditionally chanted, recited or sung, three times. (The singing of a legal vow-based legal document? Sounds kinda like a medieval “One Hand One Heart.”)
There are several melodies and versions used, but here is my humble attempt at the “Fromm” version (which is my favorite), up a step from the original key because, soprano. Also, because it is traditional to wear a white garment for the whole of the holiday I’m giving you several all-white garment *lewks* Just call me The Woman in White. LOL.
The Kol Nidre legal ritual is believed to have developed in early medieval times because at various times in history Jews were forced to convert to upon pain of death, and make vows to another faith. Vows in those days were very different than they are now— they were lifelong and permanent.
However, after the danger had passed, many forced converts wanted to return to their Jewish communities, but because of the seriousness with which the Jewish tradition views verbal promises (remember the *draaaama* of “They gave each other a ‘pledge’ from 'Fiddler On The Roof!'), the Kol Nidrei legal formula was developed precisely in order to enable those forced converts to return to the Jewish community, absolving them of the vows that they made under mortal duress.
Thus “All Vows” was created and remains a crucial part of the ceremony to this day.
It’s an interesting time to think on vows we have made under duress. On broken promises and an affirmation to do and be better.
Wishing you all every possible grasped-at joy during these dark days, and May we all *vow* to be better in the days to come.
Many special thanks are due that made this video possible — - Rabbi Matthew Green of Brooklyn Jews for inviting me to participate in HIGH RESOLUTION - Rabbi Samantha Frank for teaching me alllll about Kol Nidre. - Alec for allowing me to drag him to the east river to film this - And last but not least Cantor extraordinaire and very dear old friend Marla Aviva Beider for the sheet music and supportive guidance.
The 10 days beginning with Rosh Hashanah and ending with Yom Kippur are known as the Days of Awe (Yamim Noraim) or sometimes translated as “the Days of Repentance.”
This is a time for deep, not-screwing-around introspection. A time to consider the sins of the past and own, acknowledge, and ask forgiveness from others for those wrongs, before Yom Kippur. (The, hopefully righting the wrongs you committed against them, if possible, and making a sincere commitment not to do that wrong again.)
Thus the Ten Days of Awe are an opportunity for change.
Sign me UP.
In 2020 our society has awakened to the fact that we as individuals and as a society have much to #atone for. From a deadly virus, to systemic racism and its violence, to environmental abuse of our one and only planet, political polarity, and so much more. We MUST be and do better.
The actions that can change our existence AND our fate are considered to be “teshuvah, tefilah and tzedakah," repentance, prayer, good deeds.
But in order to truly atone, we have to be willing to acknowledge and embrace our imperfections.
The ancient alchemist and philosopher Hermes Trismegistus spoke of examining a “perfectly-imperfect” existence here:
“Rise
above all time and become eternal, then you will apprehend God. Think
that for you too nothing is impossible, deem that you too are immortal,
and that you are able to grasp all things in your thought, to know every
craft and science. Find your home in the haunts of every living
creature, make yourself higher than all heights and lower than all
depths. Bring together in yourself all opposites of quality, heat and
cold, dryness and fluidity. Think that you are everywhere at once, on
land, at sea, in heaven, think that you are not yet begotten, that you
are in the womb, that you are young, that you are old, that you have
died, that you are in the world beyond the grave. Grasp in your thought
all of this at once, all times and places, all substances and qualities
and magnitudes together. Then you can apprehend God. But if you shut up
your soul in your body, and abase yourself, and say ‘I know nothing, I
can do nothing, I am afraid of earth and sea, I cannot mount to heaven, I
know not what I was, nor what I shall be,’ then what have you to do
with God?”
Basically? The Days of Awe are a time for healing.
But in order for us to heal, we must be willing to be wrong. Sometimes really wrong. (And I know I know: for some of you/us, being wrong can feel equivalent to emergency heart surgery, or swallowing a jarful of bees.) But no human in perfect— it is in the endeavoring that we experience enlightened growth as a constant, evolving practice.
May your next few days be filled with both repentance AND awe... They are both there if we seek them.
It goes without saying at this point that Rosh Hashanah 5781 is not going to feel like Rosh Hashanah 5780.
Never has the ancient meaning of “who shall live and who shall die” felt like it has had such specific meaning as it has this year—
:: It reminds us that each of us is here for a brief time. ::
I always welcome chances to “start again—“ be it Jan 1, a birthday, or a new school year.
Personally, I don’t love “New Year Resolutions” I prefer affirmations or intentions...
SO: I am setting the intention to cultivate health, nourishment and wholeness.
For my individual body,
the health of the world in the wake of COVID19,
political progress,
peace,
health of the planet,
...and all our souls.
The #Hebrew word for SHALOM, is related to the word for *WHOLENESS,* SHALEM.
In that I see that health is comprehensive— we must treat the “whole organism—“ of our bodies, society, and planet.
We have a lot to heal right now, and healing is an essential part of wholeness—we are being called to get VERY uncomfortable and face our mortality, our biases and to engage in productive conflict. But the fruit of those efforts? Is hard-won growth.
In these final hours of 5780, the Torah calls: . You stand here today in this moment With all those you love, With all those with whom you joyfully share this passage through life. . And you stand here today with all those you have been taught to call other, And those you have learned to demonize and hate. . You stand here today with all those who came before you, The generations upon whose shoulders you stand. . And you stand here today with all who will come after you, Your children’s, children’s, children Who will some day call you ancestor.
Rosh Hashanah is another chance for a new beginning.
I like Rosh Hashanah late, when the leaves are half burnt umber and scarlet, when sunset marks the horizon with slow fire and the black silhouettes of migrating birds perch on the wires davening.
I like Rosh Hashanah late when all living are counting their days toward death or sleep or the putting by of what will sustain them— when the cold whose tendrils translucent as a jellyfish
and with a hidden sting just brush our faces at twilight. The threat of frost, a premonition a warning, a whisper whose words we cannot yet decipher but will.
I repent better in the waning season when the blood runs swiftly and all creatures look keenly about them for quickening danger. Then I study the rockface of my life, its granite pitted
and pocked and pickaxed eroded, discolored by sun and wind and rain— my rock emerging from the veil of greenery to be mapped, to be examined, to be judged.
Beginning is one of the hardest parts of anything.
Because you have to commit.
And committing means you have to make a decision for reals saying you are doing X rather than something else. Which requires risk, and sacrifice.
You don’t have to know how to finish what you start. But you must. Start.
Starting requires faith, it requires an openness, and some small level of intention but no defined end goal. (Note I said *intention* and not *direction.*)
To make art is to commit to starting something. The “something” will then grow and change with time. Don’t judge the idea or the result, celebrate the fact that you are having creative output at all—no matter the quality.
Ending and beginning something are very different things. Do not deny the joy of creation, the singular, other-worldly process of creating something that has never existed before YOU brought it to this world.
Don’t wait fir the perfect moment. Don’t wait until you lose the weight, or have all your ducks perfectly in a row, or have heaps of cash secured.
Just...start. Sit at the desk. Grab your pencil. Go to the piano. Open your voice. Strap on the dance shoes. Pick up the paintbrush.
There’s no perfect moment to wait for. Except? For now. NOW is the perfect moment.
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