YAWP

Women in veils are not silent.

For the past seven years it's been my privilege to direct for the YAWP Program and Playwriting Festival at Stony Brook Southampton college.

The heads of YAWP explain it best - 

The Young Artists and Writers Project (formerly the Young American Writers Project) is dedicated to mentoring middle and high school students in the development of creative expression and critical thinking through the writing and visual arts.

Sponsored by Stony Brook Southampton's MFA in Creative Writing and Literature and Southampton Arts, YAWP programs pair professional writers and writing teachers with high school and middle school students in a variety of innovative, inter-disciplinary writing workshops in area schools, as well as on Stony Brook's Southampton and Manhattan campuses, including:

Playwriting
Screenwriting
Poetry
Personal Essay
Fiction
Visual Arts

… all of which conclude with special projects and presentations, as well as potential vodcasts, blogs and/or publication in the YAWP Ezine.

The goals of YAWP include:
• To enhance critical thinking, collaboration and communications skills.
• To help each student find and develop his or her unique voice and point of view.
• To use creative expression as a way to solve problems and promote global awareness.
• To advance 21st century skills while supporting ELA requirements.
• To provide community outreach for Southampton Graduate Arts.
• To develop and support the next generation of writers, readers and artists.

YAWP school-based workshops are offered throughout the school year, and can be custom designed to fit the needs of an individual school. They can "push-in" to Creative Writing, English, Theatre or other academic classes, or they can be an extra-curricular or retreat program. School break workshops are offered on the Stony Brook Southampton and Manhattan campuses in the summer as well as during winter and spring breaks. YAWP programs can be particularly effective for at-risk students, or for those who find writing and communications skills challenging in the traditional academic environment.

Seven years.

Seven years of helping the voices of young writers come to life on the Avram stage. Seven years of rehearsals. Seven years of being privy to the inner most thoughts of the teenagers of the time.

Each year I'm in awe of the heartbeat of the teenagers who participate in this program. They're thoughtful. They're curious. They're compassionate. 

They want to leave this world better than they found it.

The cynics of the world scoff when I say this. They say...just wait until they hit adulthood. They won't be so idealistic then they say. They won't care so much then, they say.

I say they're wrong. 

I say this program teaches these teenagers how to think beyond their own orbit. How to put their words to good use - and harness their voice and power in a method that will stick with people. Resonate with people. Affect people.

This particular festival struck a chord with me.

I was asked to direct a play called The Hijab. It was about two sisters who are Iranian immigrants, one who wants to cover, and one who wants to shun all remnants of her life in Iran.

Women in veils are not silent.

That's a direct line from the show.

Women in veils are not silent.

Woah.

Right?

I mean, what a play to do in this political climate.

What a play to be written by a fourteen year old in this political climate. A fourteen year old, who IS NOT EVEN MUSLIM.

Not even Muslim.

When I asked her why she chose to write about this she said, I think sometimes are not always accepting as they are in my school. I think we need to embrace one another a little bit more.

She's thirteen, and she's thinking bigger than her own personal orbit.

She's thirteen, and she wanted to write about this. About religion. About family. About school. About acceptance.

It's heavy, and yet encouraging.

Yes, I'm encouraged by this young playwright, this young student of mine. Encouraged by the younger generations who have the compassion and room in their hearts to think beyond their own orbits. I'm encouraged by a younger generation who wants to change the world with pens and not swords. I'm encouraged by a younger generation who seems to be rooted in kindness. Peace. Love.

I'm reminded of the words of Edmund Burke - the only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.

And I say - it's refreshing to meet good teenagers who do everything in their power to put goodness back in this world.

Irrespective of your creed, race, and/or gender, there's one simple truth that still remains - we're all here, just trying to breathe same air and walk the same earth, and make something beautiful out of this mess we call life.

A Robin's Dream

One of the greatest artists I have ever known passed away almost two months ago.

She was one of the greatest theatre professionals I have ever known.

But she was also a sister. Daughter. Teacher. Mentor. Wife. Friend. Mother.

Mother.

I think if you asked her, she'd say one of greatest roles yet.

But alas, I digress.

This woman, well, she taught me how to embrace my love of creativity. My love for theatre. My crazy curly dark hair. In a world full of high school football games and kickline and cheerleading squads, she taught me that there was a place for me - the artist, the introvert, the storyteller.

This woman, she passed away suddenly a little less than two months ago.

Without a word.

Without warning.

Without a goodbye.

Gone. Just like that.

The other night I had a dream about this woman.

We were all under a white tent.

I couldn't even tell you who was there exactly, except it was all of "us"...

So many faces...laughing, smiling, talking.

We were all there to celebrate, to commiserate, to chat.

And then, she walked in.

It was weird, cause we all knew that she had passed away - and yet, there she was...in a blue and green and white and black long flowing dress.

There was a scar on her head from where she had fallen...

...and she was smiling.

And true to form, she wiped our eyes from the tears of wonder and joy and sadness that streaked our cheeks.

Don't cry, she said.

I reached up and touched her scar. 

Did it hurt? Were you scared? 

Oh Meg, sure it did. But our scars, our scars are make us what we are.

I woke up pretty soon after that.

But that dream, it's stuck with me for over a week now. And the crazy part of it all is that it feels like something real. Something true. Something that actually happened.

And I know that sounds nuts.

And I'm not going to sit here and rationalize it.

But I am going to type the strength that I've gained from it.

Our scars - our scars are what make us who we are. Every cut, every bruise, every scrape - they give color and depth and strength to our souls. Every mark and scar and wound that we cannot see - they can be the weights that drag us down and sink us, or they can be the badges that set us free. That let us speak the truth That help us spark a conversation of change.

Our scars make us who we are.

They are not something to be hidden under make-up or hushed conversations. They are marks of a soul that has weathered a storm and come out to see the rainbow.

They are the hushed pieces of our lives that we can learn from. Grow from. Rise above.

It's the scars that make us who we are, and the scars who tell us who we are not. For it is often that the greatest of heartache and pain is often met with times of the greatest of strength and compassion.

People we love can often leave us sooner than we'd like, sooner than we'd hope sooner than we are prepared for...and it can sometimes leave a wound so deep that one can never imagine it ever being healed.

But we carry on.

And we do better. 

We get up every morning, and remind ourselves to breathe in and out all day long, and live a life that makes us proud. That makes us happy. 

We get up every morning, and try to do good.

For we're not, nor have we ever been alone in this world. And our actions affect others. And we hope that those actions will be pearls of wisdom. Of hope of inspiration. Of motivation. Of love.

For our scars are what makes us who we are. 

And so we make a vow to live a life where we show our scars as badges of honor - as a reminder of how far we've come. 

It was 1998, and we were all in a dusty old barn. And one of the biggest idols of my life sang to her students and an audience full of people, I Will Remember You, by Sarah McLachlan. 

I had always dreamed of singing, but I could never do it in front of people. Acting? Sure. Singing? Not so much.

And there she was, my birthday twin, singing her heart out to her beloved students, letting the audience partake in this tender moment.

Her scar perhaps was letting them go...

...their scar was having the strength to leave.

18 YEARS LATER, and so much has changed.

She's gone, and we're all still here.

The bravery and beauty of that moment is something I'll always carry with me. I still can't listen to the song without tearing up, but one day I'll weep not for the memories...

...and smile at the thought of what was, and what will be.

Theatre is Not Selfish.

The smoke wafted into my face.

"You want to be a wriiiitah, eh? Well, I hope you're selfish. Cause all writers, especially those for the theater are selfish."

Four years ago I had just taken the leap into self producing, directing, and creating my own work. Four years ago I had just recieved my first press tickets for thewriteteachers.com to see A Time to Kill. 

And four years ago I was standing outside some bar in Chelsea, listening to someone whom I was supposed to admire and look up to, tell me that the only way to be an artist is to be selfish.

Excuse me while I go vomit a little.

Or maybe a lot.

Because gee, the artists whom I've grown and love and admire in these past four years are anything but selfish.

They're giving.

Giving of their time, their talents, their love, their art.

Giving of their support, their gratitude, and their critiques. 

The tribe of artists I have come to know are some of the most giving people I have ever met - and it just…it gives me hope.

Hope for a world where people learn to support one another. Hope for a world where people lend a hand to those who need it. Hope for a world where compassion triumphs paychecks.

DUETS with The Write Teacher(s) Volume 3 is happening this Friday, and while this was a brainchild of mine three years ago, this level of artistry is happening because of a generosity of spirit of people whom I have come to know, admire, and adore.

Thank you - Stafford Arima, Stephen Bogardus, Preston Truman Boyd, Katie Rose Clarke, Lilli Cooper, Vadim Feichtner, Danny Gardner, Joe Iconis, Lizzie Klemperer, Ben Krauss, Lauren Marcus, Ellyn Marie Marsh, Laura Osnes, Zoe Sarnak, Jennifer Ashley Tepper, Katie Thompson, and Cortney Wolfson.

Theatre is not made in a vaccum.

Theatre is not selfish.

Theatre is one of the most giving artforms there is - we bear our souls. Whether it is on paper, onstage, via the lights, via the set, via the sound, via the music, via the direction - a work of live theatre is a piece of the hearts and souls and voices and dreams of those who have dared to make their dreams come alive for others. For strangers. For you and me.

And gee, I don't think that's selfish AT ALL - do you?

. . . 

DUETS with The Write Teacher(s) Volume 3 plays Feinstein's/54 Below on April 15th. Tickets are available via this link, or calling 646-476-3551.

Feinstein's/54 Below is located at 254 W 54th Street, New York, New York 10019

You Hope It Sticks

Theatre, it connects us all.

And yet...sometimes I think we forget about how much we're all connected.

Our actions affect one another. Our work affects one another. Our perspectives and outlooks on life - they can be palpable. 

My father is directing a production of This Wide Night at Guild Hall of East Hampton. Two of my closest friends are starring in the production. Other friends of mine are doing the technical aspects. 

Yesterday, they had students attend from a school that houses troubled youth.

For five years, I worked at an alternative high school teaching theatre and English. I worked with students who hated education. I worked with students who had horrible home lives. I worked with students who had drug addictions. I worked with students who were juggling being a teenage parents.

It was draining. It was rewarding. It was tiring. It was invigorating. 

It was a tiny million things and large ones all rolled up into one that I can't quite explain. For teaching in situations like that will age you, it will change you, it will stay with you.

Often it seems like your students don't care.

And truthfully, in that time and place they don't.

But you pray that something sticks. You keep trying to get through to them, to listen to them, to learn from them - and hope that they learn from you.

Today I got an unexpected Facebook message...

Hey I don't know if you remember me, but I was your student from Rocky Point Alternative High School. This is probably really strange but I wanted to let you know that I just saw This Wide Night at Guild Hall yesterday, and I know one of the lead actresses. I knew I thought the directors last name sounded so familiar! It really was an amazing show. Anyway, I'm starting college this summer, and was just remembering how much time you, as well as the rest of the teachers invested in trying to teach me. Sorry I didn't appreciate it then, but I definitely do now.

What a message.

What a blast from the past.

Of course I remembered her. 

It was a year when all the students seemed like they didn't care. It was a year when all words appeared to fall on deaf ears. It was a year when every effort felt thankless.

And yet...here we are.

Years later.

Apologies and gratitude, and knowing that my words did stick.

To all of my teacher friends trying to get through difficult and trying days - know that they hear you. Know that you matter. Know that your efforts are for something, that one day, even if you're not around to hear it or see it or know it, they will look fondly back on their high school years and think - thank you for caring.

Brussels.

I think of Brussels, and my heart breaks.

I think of Ankara, and my heart breaks.

I think of Paris and the wounds that have not healed and it still does not compute.

I think of Jaffa, and Kenya and the other places ad faces that terror and evil have touched and my whole body feels heavy.

How long is the list now? Better yet - when does it stop?

Today was a day I spent working at my desk, writing, writing, and writing. And I could see military planes flying overhead. I could hear their rumbles and growls.

Perhaps it's the teacher in me, but the question in my mind, the only thing occupying my thoughts all day long was, what do we tell our children?

I mean, honestly..what do you say?

There are a lot of little folks in my life who I love more than anything, there are quite a number of people in my life who are pregnant, ready to bring life into this world, and I can't help but wonder, what kind of world are we creating for them? What is this legacy we leave behind?

I cannot, and will not, condone such violence.

And I'm confident in saying that there is no man or woman who walks this earth, that is of sound mind that would ever justify what happened today.

But what does that leave us with? The normal, sane, intelligent folks of the world don't condone senseless violence and blowing up airports and train stations and movie theatres and schools and  concert halls. Ok, great.

But now what?

I want to know what to do.

I've always wanted to know what to do. Give me a task. Give me a goal. Give me a cause. Give me something. Cause sitting back and watching people do unspeakable, despicable, disgusting acts in the name of another has never really sit well with me.

See, I believe that the good people of this planet are on the same page as me. That the lot of us recognize that such violence is NEVER justified. I believe that the good people on this planet do not want this violence and terror to be the normal for our children, and our children's children.

I cannot believe that we, as people, will let such darkness squelch out our light. I have to hold onto hope. To love. I have to hold onto the strength that comes from compassion and support of your brothers and sisters.

I want to know what to do.

But all I have is this. We must be there for one another. We must be an ear to listen. A shoulder to cry on. Open arms that welcome an embrace.

I believe that love triumphs over hate. And I believe we must do better.

We have to.

Little Shop of Dreams

There's something about an empty theater that soothes me. Revives me. Inspires me. Sure, it's beautiful when each of those seats are full -- but there is also a certain magic that occurs in those moments after the show has started...when the dust has settled and the ghost light is on, and the story that has just been told still lingers in the air.

That is, by far, one of my favorite moments in any run. For the magic that has undoubtedly happened onstage cannot ever be repeated, no two performances are ever completely identical. That's the beauty of this artform - it forces us to remember & to embrace change. It demands that we cherish moments of connection and intensity and collaboration, moments that, despite the pictures and videos that may have been taken, can only really be repeated in our memories.

🌿

I just wrapped up a prduction of Little Shop of Horrors. The entire production involved almost 90 teenagers.

TEENAGERS.

I just worked with 90 teenagers, and yet, I'm still living.

But all kidding aside - I just watched 90 teenagers work together for three months. They all had different skills. They all had different weaknesses. They all had different strengths. They all were different.

And yet, their differences came together for a greater good.

Those differences came together to create a piece of art that will last in their hearts and souls for as long as they live.

Those differences came together, and united a group of people.

Perhaps our politicans should take a theatre class, eh? Not for public speaking - but to understand what it means to work with someone whom you do not like. To work with someone that has a different set ideals than you. To work for something bigger than your immediate universe.

I've heard it said that actors and artists have the biggest egos in the universe.

Instead I'd say this - perhaps they have the smallest ones, for a true artist is more concerned about the work at hand than his or her own ego.

To the cast, crew, & pit of Little Shop of Horrors - I hope these memories stay with you for the rest of your life. I hope you always remember of a time when a group of young adults came together for something bigger than themselves. I hope you remember that with hard work, love, & passion, all things are possible. I hope you know how proud I am of each and every one of you.

Love and Gratitude

LOVE SONGS for V-Day Volume 3 is coming up.

For those of you who aren't familiar, V-Day is a movement that was sparked by Eve Ensler's play, The Vagina Monologues.

V-Day is a global activist movement to end violence against women and girls. V-Day is a catalyst that promotes creative events to increase awareness, raise money, and revitalize the spirit of existing anti-violence organizations. V-Day generates broader attention for the fight to stop violence against women and girls, including rape, battery, incest, female genital mutilation (FGM), and sex slavery.

LOVE SONGS for V-Day is a concert where performers from across the city come to celebrate this cause. And Eve. And music. And love. We sing, we laugh, we smile,  we dazzle the audience, and then we donate a portion of the proceeds to V-Day.

It's this Saturday, February 13th, at Feinstein's/54 Below at 9:30pm. A limited amount of tickets are available here.

And while I should probably be writing another press release, or fixing schedules…I'm sitting here, typing this post.

(I mean let's be honest - it's 3AM - I should be going to bed.)

But I have gratitude on my mind, and I cannot sleep.

For it takes a village to put on a theatrical production.

And if you're lucky…that village is your tribe.

At the risk of sounding cheesy, they know your beats. Your heart beats. Your brain beats. Your creative beats.

They share the same dreams.

If you're lucky, you are surrounded by a tribe of people who are willing to put in blood, sweat, tears, laughter, love, heart, and all the nitty gritty feelings I can't quite put into words.

I think theatre is just that - all those moments in life that can't put into words. The moments that the most truly eloquent string of sylabbles still cannot encapsulate.

See, if you're lucky, you are surrounded by a tribe that becomes your cheerleader, your confidante, your sounding board.

If you're lucky, you are surrounded by souls who do not judge you should you send an email with a great idea at 2am.

No, they are the folks who get just as excited about said idea.

In my perfect world, I would hold this concert every year with each and every musician, performer, and composer who has participated in years past.

It would be huge.

It would be great.

It would make Eve Ensler proud.

It would be a reminder to the artistic community, and the world, that we are more connected than we seem to realize. That it does no good to draw lines in the sand to seperate us all - for an eagerness to divide, rather than unite, is not progression it's just…regression.

But alas, we have not booked Carnegie Hall or Radio City Music Hall…

...yet.

And so I am not able to include the everyone who's been a part of the growing tribe that is Love Songs for V-Day past and present.

But, I'd be remiss in not thanking them. Each and every year this concert grows beyond my wildest expecations, and it's because of the love of this tribe.

So thank you, 

Loni Ackerman, Tracee Beazer Barrett, Anna Ty Bergman, Will Buck, Micah Burgess, Maddie Shea Baldwin, Alex Brightman, Virginia Cavaliere, Max Crumm, Carmel Dean, Ariana DeBose, Lauren Elder, Jessica Lara Finney, Drew Gasparini, Samantha Gershman, Kerri George, Jessica Howard, Siri Howard, Joe Iconis, Melissa Rose Hirsch, Jessica Kahkoska, Hannah Kloepfer, TJay Kowalchuk, Dave LeBlanc, Meredith Lesley, Lauren Marcus, Angelo McDonough, Happy McPartlin, Marisa Miller, Ashley Moniz, Jessica Mortellaro, T.J. Newton, Taylor Noble, Chika Obiora, Ryan Scott Oliver, Drew Overcash, Alexander Sage Oyen, Josh Pemberton, Krista Pioppi, Olivia Polci, JP Qualters, Max Quinlan, Benjamin Rauhala, Peter Romagna, Rob Rokicki, Mike Rosengarten, Krysta Rodriguez, Andrea Ross, Anthony Rubbo, Monet Sabel, Zoe Sarnak, Dave Schoonover, Abigail Shapiro, Milly Shapiro, Taylor Sorice, Jennifer Ashley Tepper, Katie Thompson, Emily Tyra, Stephanie Turci, Christopher Lee Viljoen, Michelle Veintimilla, Alan Wiggins, Natalie Weiss, and Nat Zegree.

This year, Broadway's season includes Eclipsed, Waitress, On Your Feet, and The Color Purple.

This year, women like Lupita Nyong'o and Phillipa Soo and Renee Elise Goldsberry and Jasime Cephas Jones are making history.

This year, I'm once again producing and directing the third annual LOVE SONGS for V-Day at Feinstein's/54 Below, where on  February 13th a group of beautiful and talented and amazing artists will gather at Broadway's Supper Club to celebrate love and life and the message of Eve Ensler's work.

Last year, I featured a cast of all female performers.

This year, the evening will feature music written solely by women musical theatre composers. Because they deserve to be celebrated. Because their words are wonderful. Because women are shaping the landscape of musical theatre. Because women are shaping the world as we know it.

Because it's the year of the woman. The girl. The old lady.

Because it's the year for us all.

#LoveVDAY54

Give A F*CK

The snow is starting to fall, and I can't sleep.

I keep thinking about this father and son I saw walking along the side of the road when I was driving home the other day.

(I don't know if they were actually father and son. But that's what it seemed like.) 

He was pushing a stroller, and there was a toddler trotting alongside him. They had winter coats on…and he also had a cardboard sign on his back.

HOMELESS was the only word I could make out.

And, well, I'm not proud of it, but I kept driving.

The snow is starting to fall, and I can't sleep.

I keep thinking of that man and child.

What are the going to do if the blizzard strikes as bad as they say? Where will they go? What will they eat? How will they stay warm? Would the five bucks I had have helped?

Recently, I saw this post on the interwebs that I thought was brilliant.

It said - 

"Why do people brag about not giving fucks? Do they think it makes them more appealing? Like hey look at me, I'm a heartless asshole. The best kind of people are the ones who give plenty of fucks, the ones with massive hearts who give too many fucks. They are my favourite kind of people."

Again I keep thinking of that man with the toddler.

The snow keeps falling. 

And he's still in my mind.

Again I'm drawn to this quote.

GIVE A F*CK.

In the age of empowerment and independence and social media highlight streams, we've learned how to take control of our own destiny. And that's a beautiful thing.

But somewhere along the line we forgot how to care about each other.

The term "give no fucks" has become a favorite. A GODFORSAKEN HASHTAG.

Everyone wants peace. Everyone wants equal rights for all. Everyone wants rainbows and unicorns and all things happy (don't get me wrong, I'm on that happy train too), but…how are we supposed to live in peace and harmony if we don't care about one another? If things like #zerofucksgiven is a trendy thing to do?

The snow is falling.

And I still don't know where that man and toddler are going to wind up.

But, I give a fuck.

I do.

I think we all should start to give a fuck a little bit more. 

I think we'd all be better off.

Viviene

A week ago, my dear friend Kate gave me the greatest gift. She had asked me to teach a theatre class at The East Hampton Senior Citizens Center. My teaching experience is quite extensive, and yet, it had never included senior citizens.

But when Kate asks you to do something, you say yes. 

It's usually good for the heart.

It always feeds the artistic soul.

So, I said yes.

I walked into the center, armed with my lesson. I had recently developed a workshop entitled, "Words to My Younger Self", in which the students of the class would pick a piece of advice that they wished they had known when they were younger. They would write out this life lesson, and then perform their monologues for the class.

The director of the Center loved the idea.

I loved the idea.

All was well.

I walked into the classroom, and began to organize my papers, and put out pens. I counted chairs, making sure we had enough. I began to put the chairs in the circle.

And then my students began to walk in.

Bud was 85 years old.

Jean was in her early 70s.

Brianne was in her late sixties, and had suffered head trauma.

Trudy was in her mid 70s. 

And then there was Viviene. 

…Viviene was 97.

It became crystal clear that writing, well, that wasn't in the cards.

I had a mild panic attack for a second. (Nobody could tell, of course.)

What was I going to teach these people?

Theatre games, the director said. You know, like, improv!

Now, while I appreciate the help, IMPROV was not going to work with this crowd. It's hard enough to do that with a group of students who are in performance training.

Luckily, improv was always my favorite. And so…I switched gears real quick.

I'm fortunate to have two of my grandparents still with me. My grandfather is 91, and my grandmother, my Nonna, she's 90.

And it was the words of Nonna that echoed through my brain at that moment...

"Megan, us old people. We have no future. We know that. So what makes us happiest is talking about the past."

And so…we spoke of the past. The pulse of theatre is based in storytelling, and the collective wisdom and experience between all of them was huge. So, with me gently facilitating the questions, each of them told their story, and then they each gave me a piece of advice.

Each and every one of them lit up as they recounted the stories of the good ol' days. The reminsced about old neighborhoods, old celebrties, and what life was like, 20, 30, 40, 50 years ago. 

I wish I could've bottled up the magic that happened.

For some reason, Viviene was my favorite. Later on I was told that she has terrible short term memory, and often forgets where she is, but, in that hour with me, she had no trouble sharing about her life, and was not shy about giving me a piece of advice.

With a difference of sixty-seven years between us, she told me:

"Don't break the law. Always stay on the right side of a question - when's someone's asking you something, you have to make a decision of how to respond. Make the right one. Be true to yourself. Be kind. Remember that it's never too late to find love. I was a painter, an author, and a teacher, but I was not lucky in the love department. But I never closed myself off to it. Don't ever close yourself off to it."

What a woman, eh?

And as we are entrenched in this Christmas season, and forge our way into 2016, I hope we remember Viviene's words. For it's not the things in life that count - but the people you meet, the stories you listen to, and the new memories that you make.

Thank you, Kate, for one of the best Christmas gifts I have recieved. 

You Matter

Because you matter to me
Simple and plain and not much to ask from somebody
You matter to me
I promise you do, you, you matter too
I promise you do, you see?
You matter to me

You matter to me. You matter. To me. You matter to me.

Say that on repeat, because I'm starting to realize that not enough people hear those words. Not enough people at all.

....

I've walked past too many homeless people than I care to count.

It's a lot.

I mean, if you work where I work, it's inevitable. If you live in New York, it's inevitable.

But still, it's a lot.

And while I walk past these individuals more times than I care to count, it's never not once affected me. 

How can it not?

Cries for money. For food. For a life that's better than the one he or she is living - that sticks. Those are not cries that can roll off my back so easily. Each cry, it sticks.

This month, I'm working on a show in Salt Lake City.

Today was my first day off, and so I wanted to explore. To walk. To see this city. 

The second I stepped out of my building, I was confronted with a homeless woman.

And she wanted to ask me a question...

Maybe it was Paris. And Beuirt. And Kenya. Maybe it was the fact that I was called to this city to create art. Maybe it was the  sad state of the world in which we live - but something made me stop.

I listened to her questions. 

I told her not to worry as she apologized for her cold sores - and I took in as much of her story as I could.

And I'm reminded of a new song by Sara Bareilles - You Matter To Me.

Because you matter to me
Simple and plain and not much to ask from somebody
You matter to me
I promise you do, you, you matter too
I promise you do, you see?
You matter to me

In light of recent events, I'm wondering how often we forget to tell this to the people we care about. Not just lovers - but friends. Family members. Co-workers. People who make your life better - if only for a moment.

The world is not big enough to think that we're all isolated from one another. We need to matter to one another more - and we need to tell one other of the worth that we have in each other's lives. 

You matter. You always matter. Sheltered or homeless - you matter. You were once a light in someone's life - and even though it may dim, there's no reason why that light has to extinguish for forever. 

Life will always be complicated, but complications do not diminish your worth.

Take the time to listen to one another. Take the time to tell those whom you love that they matter.