I Can Only Hope...

Just yesterday I was writing about a Christmas musical I'm working on in Salt Lake City....about the fact that one of the songs is Seasons of Love, from RENT - and how the world always needs more love.

...

Today one of my best friends told me that she's finally pregnant with a little girl.

And then, during lunch, one of my new friends said Paris is burning. It's in chaos. There are explosions. There are hostage situations.

.......and here I am, once again at my computer.

On one hand, I feel like words cannot reach moments of such terror and tragedy.

And yet, on the other hand, I feel like it's the words that we share now are the most important ones of all, for they will be the beacons of light that pierce through such darkness. 

I can't wrap my head or my heart around what happened in Paris today, November 13th. I just can't.

Today was horrible. It was deplorable. It was awful.

The terror and violence that occured today was, and will always be, inexcusable.

I'm an ocean away, and yet, my insides hurt for the people of Paris, and the entire of country France.

I'm an ocean away, and yet, my insides hurt for all of us.

For we have to do better.

We must do better.

Today one of my dearest friends told me she was finally pregnant with her little girl. And all I can think about is that child.

Is this the world that we're bringing our children into?

It can't be. It just can't.

We have to do better.

We must do better.

Freedom, joy, and choice were under attack on November 13th. But I can only hope that we, as a collective, will not give such monsters that victory.

I can only hope that we condemn such violence. Over and over and over again. Never should excuses be made for such acts.

I can only hope that we start to talk to one another more. To listen to one another more. To support one another more.

I can only hope that we begin to learn about the things that we do not understand, and respect the differences between us. Differences will always exist - but it is how we treat those differences that count.

I can only hope that love will triumph over hate, that good will prevail over evil, that after such darkness one will face the brightest of light.

I can only hope...

Now, an ocean away, I pray for Paris. I pray for peace. I pray for love and compassion to sweep The City of Lights on it's darkest day. 

And I hope...

I hope that one day we are able to sympathize with whatever tragedy falls upon our fellow brothers and sisters. Cause the comparison of horror is just...sad. Pointing fingers and presenting personal and political agendas when people are grieving is not progress. It's regression. We all cry the same salty tears. We all bleed the same blood. We all need some more love.

Seasons of Love

A cup.

Lately, if you’ve tuned into the interwebs, you’ve heard some commotion about the Starbuck’s “Christmas” cup. 

What’s the issue? It doesn’t have SNOWFLAKES. It’s red, it’s green, but there are snowflakes missing…and it’s created somewhat of an uproar.

And all I can say is…WOW. I think Jesus is just shaking his head in sadness. In the fact that we seem to be missing the point of Christmas altogether with petty arguments such as this.

Because like it or not people, this is not what Christmas is about.

…

This month, I have the honor and privilege of being part of It Happened One Christmas at the Pioneer Theatre Company in Salt Lake City.

It truly is a lovely show, fusing Christmas favorites from both prose and music into a delightful story.

One of the songs, is Seasons of Love, from the Broadway show RENT.

And, quite frankly, it’s a brilliant choice for the holiday season.

Allow me to remind you of the lyrics:

Five hundred twenty-five thousand

Six hundred minutes

Five hundred twenty-five thousand

Moments so dear

Five hundred twenty-five thousand

Six hundred minutes

How do you measure-measure a year

 

In daylights- in sunsets

In midnites- in cups of coffee

In inches- in miles

In laughter- in strife

 

Five hundred twenty-five thousand

Six hundred minutes

How do you measure a year in the life

How about love

How about love

How about love

Measure in love

Seasons of love

Seasons of love

 

Five hundred twenty-five thousand

Six hundred minutes

Five hundred twenty-five thousand

Journeys to plan

Five hundred twenty-five thousand

Six hundred minutes

How do you measure the life

Of a woman or a man

 

In truth that she learns

Or in times that he cried

In bridges he burned

Or the way that she dies

 

Its time now to sing out

Tho the story never ends

Lets celebrate

Remember a year in the life of friends

 

Remember the love

Remember the love

Remember the love

Measure in love

Seasons of love

Seasons of love

Measure in love. IN LOVE. IN LOVE. IN LOVE.

Christmas, dear folks, is not about a snowflake count on a coffee cup. It’s about love. About giving. About selflessness. About heart.

It’s not about the material. It’s about the moments shared with those that you love. It’s about celebrating the goodness that exists in one another - in cherishing the tiny moments that slip under our radar all too often in other moments of the year.

Christmas is about birth. About life. About love. About celebration. It should be a day when we all come together - not an excuse to further any divide.

Let’s celebrate. 

Let’s forget about the naysayers - and remember the love.

Taking My Own Advice

I've always felt like the moment you put something on paper, the moment you type something out…it becomes official.

Maybe it's silly, maybe it's the writer in me, but alas, it's this thing I have.

So I suppose the time has come to type the following - I was chosen to be an Karen Azenberg's SDCF Observer at The Pioneer Theatre Company, for their production of It Happened One Christmas. I'm trying to be very eloquent at the moment. But really, if we're being honest, all I want to to say is - 

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

(again and again and again - AHH. And all the happy smiley emoticons. The one's with the heart eyes, too.)

See, in the spirit of honesty, I've always wanted to be a director. I saw my first Broadway show in 1991, and I think it's safe to say I've had a love of theatre and storytelling ever since.

But, I'm a little too practical for my own good at times. 

Perhaps it was fear of rejection. Perhaps it was just good old fashioned practicality. Perhaps it was a constant internal battle, wondering if I was good enough….

…who knows.

But, when I came out of college, I went right to graduate school for theatre education. To me, that was the smart move. The grown up move. The practical move.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love teaching. I'll always love teaching. I spent last year teaching six periods of theatre to the brightest kids I've ever met - and directing them in their school productions. They taught me more about education and life and art more than any class I ever taught in graudate school.

And most of all, they taught me to take my own advice.

Go after what you want, I would tell them.

Don't let anyone tell you you're not good enough, I would tell them.

Chase your dreams, because there are few things worse than looking back on your life with regret. I would never want any of you to go through that. 

At the end of the year, one of my student's, we'll call her Laney, said...

I hope you take your advice. I hope you chase your dreams, too.

Ah, from the mouths of babes.

I suppose it was at the end of last year that I knew I needed to make a leap. I needed to open myself to all sorts of directing opportunities, and not be tied down to a traditional classroom setting.

And so, I made the scariest decision I've ever been faced with in my professional career, and left the classroom this year.

It wasn't something I decided lightly, but, it was something I had to do. I needed to try. I didn't want to always be wondering.

I decided to apply to the SDCF Observership Program agian - but this time I wouldn't limit myself to NY theatres. (I had applied to the program for the past two years, but only limited myself to NY theatres, and I was never was placed with a director.)

Once again I got into the program, but, just because you get in, doesn't mean you get placed with a director. Once an Observership Opportunity arises, you have to write an essay/statement to the director, explaining why you want to work with them and why you're a good fit for their show. Then that director decides if they want to bring you on.

I interviewed with Karen, and she picked me.

I think I'm still in shock.

I always tell my students that one of the biggest signs of adulthood is knowing when to ask for help, and knowing when to say thank you.

Naturally, gratitude must always be paid to my parents, for supporting my wild artistic endeavours. I'd be living in my car if it weren't for them. That's no joke - it's quite true.

My brother also plays a huge role in keeping me grounded and putting things in perspective. Thanks, kiddo. 

But I'd also be remiss in not thanking my mentors who've helped me along the way - Emma, Greg, Kate, Josh, Loni, Scott, Mana, and Susan….and plenty other folks along the way. But these guys, well, they wrote me recommendations, they answered my questions, the helped me network, they gave me opportuntities to direct and produce and learn and grow - and for that I will be forever grateful.

Thank you all. For your guidance. For your trust. For sharing your wisdom. For taking a chance on me. 

We don't live in a vaccum. The relationships you make, both personally and profesisonally, are all interwoven. And in the theatre profession, the great Mana Allen would say, is a tribe. A tribe of artists, yes. But it's a tribe of people coming together to create something bigger and more beautiful than themselves. It's a tribe of people coming together to leave this world better than they found it. It's a tribe of people giving voices to those who have lost the will to speak.

Sometimes, it's easy to get swept up in competition, and forget about the tribe.

But helping one another, (no matter what your profession may be), is so vitally important. It makes your tribe stronger. It makes the world better. It makes the work last longer.

Thank you to my tribe. I'm so fortunate to know you all. 

Promise Me That

As the winter is rapidly approaching, and our doses of sunshine get less and less, I know all too many people who fear the winter months. 

Originally this piece was published on HelloGiggles, but I suppose it should live here, too.

. . .

They say that loss is part of life.

Okay, I can get that. I can wrap my head around that…sort of.

The problem comes when I start to try and wrap my heart around that. And then things just do not compute.Do. Not. Compute.

To lose a person that you love, it kills you a little bit. A lot. I know, I’ve been there. You just try to understand how things happen. Why things happened. How things could’ve gotten so bad.  How could he betray you?

HOW?

It echoes in your head until you just want to scream. You’ll do anything to block it out.

I know, I’ve been there.

It’s not fun. It’s actually a hellish ordeal. It’s that bone sadness that you cannot shake. The kind that seeps beyond the tears and into your heart and into your heart and your bones and you’d just give anything to just make it stop. You become tired. You are past the point of sadness. Sleep is what you crave, sleep is what you need. Sleep is welcome. Sleep is a savior.

I know, I’ve been there.

Depression is like this black abyss that just takes you in. It clings to you. It covers you in its think blankets and does not want you to come up for air.

I know, I’ve been there.

But, there is a light at the end of the tunnel. I promise you, that at one point, that thick blanket starts to thin, and streams of light start coming through. They prod you to cling to something else, something better, and something greater….

When that blanket starts to smother you, let those that love you lie next to you. Let them be your shoulder to lean on, let them catch the tears that fall, and yes, the tears will fall.

But it’s okay; I promise it’s okay.

There are people there who love you. There are people that will bring you up. Know that you do not deserve the pain; you do not deserve the darkness…

You deserve the love. All of it.  Every single piece of it.

Promise me you’ll never apologize for the depression. Promise. I know that you’re not doing it for attention, you’re not doing with intention…you can’t control it. You wouldn’t wish the cold numbness on your worst enemy.

I know, I’ve been there.

But….

Promise me you’ll take the hands that come to help. Promise me you’ll lean so that you don’t fall. Promise me you’ll cry, so that you may begin to heal.

Promise me that.

WAIT FOR IT.

I'm willing to wait for it...

Wait for it, wait for it, wait for it, wait for it...

It's interesting how life ebbs and flows sometimes...

See, the shooting Oregon has disturbted me a great deal. 

I mean, I hope it's disturbed everyone a great deal.

But when tragedies like this happen at a school…it cuts me a bit deeper. Perhaps it's because I've been in a classroom for my whole life. Perhaps it's because, even if I'm out of the classroom - I will always think like a teacher. 

So when there is a school shooting - the faces of my students flash before my eyes. The faces of my colleagues become burned in my brain. I think of how many familiies will be effected - how many lives will be changed. How many hearts will be broken.

Lin Manuel Miranda's new musical, Hamilton opened this summer. And I've been trying to not listen to the soundtrack yet, because I want to hear the music for the first time when I see the show. 

I tend to listen to music when I write.

And as I opened  iTunes just now - something made me want to search for the Hamilton soundtrack.

I randomnly clicked on the song, "Wait For It", and the words just hit me like a thunderbolt.

You see...

I'm willing to wait for it.

I AM waiting for it.

Unfortunately, at this moment in our lives,  life doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints...

But I'm going to wait for it. I'm going to hope for it. I'm going to do my part in making that day come. 

There must be a time when we stop arguing with one another. When we stop hating one another. When we start to love more than we hate -- when lifting another person up is more favorable than tearing each other down.

I'm not saying that there will never be differences - our differences is what makes this life we lead more interesting, more bright, more full.

What I am saying, is that I'm waiting for the day when our differences are not the thing that tear us apart. Our differences cannot be the thing that warrants murder.

And so…I wait.

I wait for the day when mass murders aren't commonplace. I wait for the day when we learn how to get along as brothers and sisters. I wait for the day when the answer to problems or strife or anger or grief is NEVER solved with a gun. But with a pen. With a conversation. With an ear to listen…or even shoulder to cry on.

We all cry the same salty tears.

We all bleed the same red blood.

When are we going to get that?

I wait for the day. 

I wait for the day when we stop hurting one another. I wait for when we stop caring about who we marry. I wait for when we stop trying to dictate each others medical care. I wait for when we focus on issues outside of our comfort zone. I wait for when we think globally, rather than egocentrically.  I wait for the day when we care more for our fellow man than a celebrity break up. I wait for the day when we rationalize away the taking of innocent lives in a mass shooting. 

I wait for when we judge one another for our characters and our hearts. 

Call me naiive,

Call me silly,

But as Lin Manuel Miranda so expertly wrote...

I'm willing to wait for it.

A Man Named Sam

At one point this year, I remember telling someone that I was 29. And she looked at me, horrified, and said - don't ever say that again. You look like you're 24.

Yesterday I'm stood by my best friend as she buried her father.

Today I'm going to turn 30.

And you know what? 

I'm going to shout it from the rooftops.

Bear with me here. I promise I'm going somewhere with this.

If it's one thing I've realized this week, more than ever, is that life is something to be celebrated.

Life is a gift. One that should be treasured. 

My best friend, well, we've been friends since we were ten. It's twenty years of friendship that I've loved and cherished, twenty years of fun and laughter, heartbreak and growing pains - we've seen it all. We've been through it all...

And through it all, our parents have been fixtures in our lives. Rocks. Anchors. Our compass when we needed it the most.

So, it's hard to imagine him not being here, sharing in our milestones as he always has - for her father was a great man. 

And even as I type this, the words seem to fall short….for, it's in those times of heartbreak that, sometimes, words just don't seem to be enough.

But, I'll try.

You see, her father was the type of man who made everyone around him feel included. Important. Loved. As my own father said this week - Sam was the type of man who was warm. Loving. He was a guy who you may not have seen everyday, but once you did get together, it was as if time hadn't stopped. He made you feel welcomed. 

I've spent the past 72 hours in a funeral home.

…and yet, I've never seen so much love. People came out of the woodwork, it was as if they couldn't do enough to honor and celebrate of the life of this father, son, brother, husband, uncle, nephew, brother-in-law, son-in-law, and friend. 

And as heartbreaking this has been, it's also been an extraordinary reminder about what a beautiful life he has led. The past 48 hours have been such a beautiful testament to a great man and a wonderful life.

Lately I've been stressing out about work...

…am I working enough? Am I making the right career decisions? What's the right life/work balance?

If the past 48 hours have taught me anything, it's that I hope to have lived a life like Sam, a life that has touched so many people. 

Because at the end of the day, it's not about the success in ones career. It's not about the degrees you earn, the books your publish, the shows you produce, the money you make...

…it's about the lives that your are a part of. The ones that will never be the same after you take your last breath.

…it's about the relationships you make on this earth. Those relationships cause a ripple effect - people are different because they knew you. 

See, life will continue, and they'll go on, but they'll fight harder and love stronger because they knew you, but they'll never stop missing you, not for one second. 

"Uncle Sam" - he's taught me more about life in this past week than I have learned in my thirty years on this earth...

…so here it goes:

Life is but a fleeting moment. Cherish those that make your heart happy. Never wait for a reason to celebrate - make the reasons for a celebration. Family and friends come before anything else in life - love them. Protect them. Encourage them. Lift them up so that they may be the greatest version of themselves.

Live…and enjoy this life you were given. Never give up on it, never settle for anything less than what makes you happy.

Explore. Adventure. But know the compass that gets you home. 

Admire strength, but know that true strength comes from knowing how to let others in - for there is a beauty in the friendship that allows one another to be there in his or her bleakest moments.

Never hesitate to show you love for those who matter most. Love, honor, commitment - these are precious jewels that have no price tag. 

We all will miss you.

We all will think of you.

You shall never be far from our hearts.

And if it's one thing I know for certain - the world is better because of man named Sam. 

Howdy, Y'all!

So, here I am.

Doing something I never thought I'd do.

WRITING A DAMN BLOG POST ON MEGANMINUTILLO.COM.

It's....different.

But alas, I digress.

Once upon a time, I had an English teacher who told me I wasn't very good at writing. I was a B+ student, but I didn't quite have that...special something to get the A.

And so, I accepted that for a year.

And then I went to college.

And POOF! Low and behold, I GOT AN A IN MY FRESHMAN YEAR WRITING CLASS.

My professor thought I was quite good.

Who would've thought? Here I was, thinking I was a B+ kinda kid.

And while I'm not here to rat on English teachers, (I happen to BE an English teacher), I'm here to say this - if you have a fire inside you, words to be spoken, thoughts to be heard, find a way to let them out...constructively, positively, and in a way that will put all your haters to shame.

Cause believe me, there will always be people trying to bring you down.

No matter how good your skills are - the negative souls will always be looking for a way to tear at what you've created.

But, there is an art to tuning out the outside chatter. Focusing on what matters. Focusing on what you want to say.

Surround yourself with those who lift you up - and it'll be that much harder for anyone to bring you down.

About my teacher...

I don't get it.

I really don't. As an educator, sure, I've questioned the work of some of my students. I've given them less than desirable grades, because the work was sub par...but I've never told them they weren't "an A Student"...I mean, what the hell is the point of that? To crush a kid's soul?

As an educator, I've always wanted my students to strive for greatness. I've always pushed them to achieve his or her personal best. 

Because for me, that's what it means to be a great educator.

To set the bar high and guide students to reach that expectation. 

XO,

M