Nonna's Trees

"Megan, you're going to think I'm a little crazy," she said.

"Why?" I replied

"Cause I talk to the trees. The trees know everything. The trees see everything. The trees live so long because of their roots. And in my next life, I'm a gonna come back as a tree"

My Nonna talks to trees.

She's 93 and talks to trees, and I swear to you, she's the sharpest tack in the whole box, and still very much operating with a full deck of cards.

But lately, she's got a thing for trees.

We're all interconnected, she says. Like the roots of trees. 

She read somewhere about these trees. The roots. The magic. The all knowing power. 

I don't know where she read it.

In her typical sage like fashion, the words she took from it and told me have been running around in my head for days.

Trees. Roots. Trees. Life.

How many times have you just stopped to listen to the trees?

Have you ever just sat, without a cellphone or a conversation, and listened to the trees?

I don't think I ever have.

And I wonder if it's because she's older, that she stops to take it in. The sunshine. The green. The grooves of the bark.

I would imagine that her age does have something to do with it, for with the gift of growing old comes the understanding of the importance of slowing down, and stopping to stare and talk to the trees. 

And maybe if you stop to stare at the trees long enough, you'll start to slow down and take in the people around you.

There's something about knowing the laugh lines of your loved ones faces, and how the folds of their smiles deepen.

There's something about understanding the roots of what makes someone - what holds them up, what keeps them grounded, what allows them to flourish and thrive.

Too often we overlook the tiny moments of life in anticipation for something bigger and better. Life is made and lived in the moments of in-between, in the times you stand and stare at the trees.

Your Core (Not a Fitness Piece)

I've been struggling with the words swirling around in my head lately.

There are so many things happening in this world that keep me up at night.

There are so many things to say.

And yet, I don't even know where to start.

And then today I applied for a job, and part of the application was to write about core values.

Core values.

It’s been a while since I’ve put those to paper.

And perhaps it’s because I’ve been too busy trying to live them out - for what’s a core value on a piece of paper if you don’t actually practice what you preach in real life?

But it's something interesting to dig deep into - what's at your core?

I value my family.

I value my friends.

I value my work.

I value education.

I value art.

But it’s more than valuing them.

I believe in them.

I believe that every child who walks through the doors of a classroom deserves the support of the adult who’s teaching them, but more than that, I believe that said child should have the belief their educator.

For if we cannot see the potential and goodness in our students, how are they to see it in themselves?

I believe in setting the bar high for each and every student that comes through the doors of whatever classroom I'm in, and I believe in being there to help guide them and give them the tools to reach that bar.

I believe that this world, at this current time is insane.

I also wonder if it’s always been this crazy, but now our eyes and ears are finally open to wrongness. I wonder if the screens that we’re so attached to have forced us to look at our own evils more closely. For it’s become hard for rational humans to turn their eyes away from the hurt and heartache in this world - and I believe that’s actually a good thing.

I believe in the goodness in people, and that perhaps it’s easy to see the flaws in others rather than seeing their humanity, but I believe we can be better than that.

I believe that if more people saw the light in one another, more people would start to see it in themselves - and the ripple effects of that sort of kindness know no limits.

I believe in the transformative power of theatre and art - that it can shape lives and spark hope and be the mirror that we all need. 

I believe that good leadership is wrapped up in a myriad of things. 

I believe that in order to inspire new leaders, we need models of good leadership. Good leadership is about knowing how to delegate, and trust those who work for you. I believe that at the heart of good leadership is knowing that you don’t know anything. A leader is supposed to lead with a balance of love and strength, and put those around them at ease.

But at the crux of it all, good leadership is knowing how to listen.

For if you cannot listen to those around you, how can you possibly lead?

The Empathy Muscle

Megan, it makes me sad when my classmates feel like they're not loved. Because everyone should feel loved. And when they don't - they'll be really sad and commit suicide and that's not OK.

He's 12.

And I thought to myself, what happens between the years of twelve and adulthood that we stop caring about how much people are loved?

Of all the things in the world to fizzle and fade, why is empathy one of them?

For the past two weeks, I had the privilege and honor to teach two theatrical workshops to middle school students.

The program is called Project Hero, and no, it's not this hugs and butterflies and everyone stands around in a circle and sings kumbaya. 

It's a theatrical workshop teaching kids how to be more empathetic. It's a workshop that reminds them about what empathy is - and how to infuse that in their daily lives.

Because sometimes we forget that teaching empathy is just as important as math and science and English and history.

This program reminds students and faculties and schools about the importance of working the empathy muscle, and it's a beautiful thing.

Each and every year I marvel at what's like to be a middle school student in the digital age. Mean tweets and mean comments and laughter at the cost of someone else's pain swirl around the halls of the classrooms, following kids when they leave to go home.

It's nonstop for these children of the screen.

Screens for homework, screens for socializing - screens upon screens upon screens.

And somewhere amidst the glow of the latest apple product, they're forgetting how to talk to one another. They're forgetting how to feel.

And I go around in circles, trying to figure out how to fix it, how to make it better, how to heal and steel their hearts so that they can remember that the bits of humanity that keep us pulsing and beating are never found in 140 characters - but in the folds of someone's smile and the warmth of someone's hug.

Each and every year I marvel at what it's like to be a middle school kid, and then some of them blow me away with their sensitivity, their wisdom, and yes, their empathy.

Each and every year I wonder if my words will stick - if they'll find the courage in themselves to be people who feel for people, who care for people. who realize that the world needs more shoulders to cry on, and outstretched hands, and ears that will listen, and hearts that will love.

Each and every year I go into a classroom for Project Hero hoping to bring some light into the lives of these students, and they often bring such light into my own. 

The Love of Strangers

I just spend a week in Portland.

I met some of the most interesting people, and saw some of the most beautiful places I have ever seen. 

One night, the boyfriend and I went to a wine bar, and met a woman named Sam. It was a tiny place. It was warm and welcoming, and so we sat at the bar.

I'm always one for conversation.

So, we talked with Sam for the majority of our evening there. She was a mother of two small girls, lived in the suburbs, but worked in Portland. She grew up all over the country (her Dad kept climbing the corporate ladder.) I forgot where she went to college. But she did join the Peace Corps after - and was stationed in Honduras. We laughed about her stories from her time there. And we laughed about her fears about her daughters becoming teenagers. And we laughed about politics. And we laughed about life.

There was a lot of laughing. 

I'll never remember the color of the paint of the walls of that bar.

I don't remember the name of the wine we drank.

But I'll remember Sam. Her warmth. Her laugh. The floral print shirt. I'll remember her stories.

Because experiences are what sticks. Shared laughs and smiles. Moments of connection. 

Portland was filled with beautiful people and places.

Open souls who took the time to talk to two strangers from New York - and there was something so beautiful about that.

Tragedy struck when we were in Portland. Two brave souls, Taliesin Myrddin Namkai-Meche and Ricky John were murdered as they defended two teenage girls.

I'll never understand the need to hurt another soul. I don't get the desire to inflict pain on another. It just doesn't compute in my brain.

But I can't stop thinking of them who stepped up when they were needed. Strangers standing beside strangers, in solidarity of something bigger than them - fills me with something I can't quite describe. Bone sadness for their loss, and yet, hope for the goodness in humans. 

I read an article that said that Talisesin's last words were - tell everyone on this train that I love them.

Tell everyone on this train that I love them.

Dear Lord, what a beautiful soul.

Laying in a pool of his own blood - that's' what he says. Tell everyone on this train that I love them. I love them. I love them. I love them.

Love.

Even in the darkest moments, love is what we hold onto. Love is what makes the dark less scary. Love is what leads us to light.

Everywhere you go in Portland it seemed that there were public displays of love. Movements against hate. Celebrations of all people. For all people. And love.

Love was everywhere you looked, and though there will always be people who hate, I hope the heartbeat of Portland pulses with love. 

I hope we can all carry the love of these brave men and this city with us - I hope we hold it close in the days ahead, and let it lead us on in the darkest of nights. 

I hope our ability to love will always trump our instinct to hate. 

FOR THE MOMS.

I hope Marie marries a rich guy, she said.

I hope Megan is successful and can support herself and then falls in love with someone who she wants to share her life with, said my Mom.

I wish I could say that that describes my mom perfectly - but the reality is, that she's such an interesting human that such a statement wouldn't do all the layers of her justice.

My mother is a high school AP Spanish teacher, who's since retired and now translates for the court system. She worked full time, and yet, cooked homemade meals every day, and took care of my grandmother (and continues to do so). She worked full time, and yet, my childhood memories are full of sunshine and laughter and a mom who was always there. (So. ladies reading this who work and also have children and have guilt about going back to work - cut yourself some slack, I promise you they'll turn out OK.)

She's my greatest cheerleader, and yet, she's the one who always tells me what I don't want to hear, but need to.

My mother would always, and continues to move heaven and earth to make sure my brother and I are ok.

But it wasn't just about making sure there was food in our bellies, clothes on our backs, and a roof over our heads - it was about making sure we were kind to people.

It was about making sure we were kind to ourselves.

It was about making sure that we could do whatever we wanted to do - but she urged us to just do it. Don't spend your life talking about it - do it. And do it well. And if you fall, then get back up and try again.

My brother is going to be a doctor.

I'm in show business and a writer and a teacher.

I think she did ok.

And I know we've come this far because of her - so thanks, Mommy! 

Mother's Day is tomorrow, and I keep thinking about the loved ones I know who don't have a good relationship with their mothers - and you know what? That's OK. The relationship of Mother and Child doesn't always thrive in the biological sense.

But perhaps there's a woman in your life who's guided you, and loved you unconditionally, and been that force of unwavering support and strength for you. Perhaps you've never spent time in the womb of the woman who's been your mother -- and you know what, who cares? The beauty from motherhood comes from a love that knows no bounds. And that's what counts.

Mother's Day is tomorrow, and I keep thinking of those I know who've lost their moms. I can't imagine that pain, nor do I pretend to. But if you get the longing and urge to celebrate her, I hope you roll with it. I hope you listen to her favorite music and eat her favorite food and tell the stories about her that made you laugh. I hope you remember that someone loved you very much. I hope you look into the faces of the grandchildren she left behind, and remind them about their Grandma.

For this day is about celebrating our mothers - whether they walk among us or not.

I knew some friends who experienced a miscarriage this year. And I my heart breaks for each and every one of you. Words are most certainly not enough. But I'll say this - just because you aren't holding that angel baby in your arms today, doesn't mean you are not part of that club of motherhood. Tomorrow let yourself cry. Let yourself laugh. Let yourself remember what it felt like to feel your baby in a belly - even if it was only for a moment. Because in that moment, you became a Mom. And that is beautiful. That is something to celebrate. So tomorrow, give yourself permission to do whatever will lift and ease your spirits.

To my friends who are mothers - I see you. I see you taking your kids to the library and the aquarium, and making art projects in your living room. I see you working full time and still being the class mom. I see you working full time and working and going to school full time to make a better life for you and your family. I see how amazing all of your children are turning out - and I see that's because of you. Children aren't born perfect - it takes work and love and sweat and tears to make little humans reach their greatest potential. And not everyone sees the work that goes into motherhood - for it's a lifetime of work and worry that goes often unnoticed.

But I see you.

I see you doing a great job.

Even when you think you're not - you are.

I see you.

And so, I hope all of you have a wonderful day tomorrow.

Celebrate. Enjoy. Rest.

You deserve it. 

Your Planned Parenthood Story

If I got pregnant tomorrow, I'd have the baby. 

But that's my choice.

If I got pregnant while I was in high school, I'm not sure I'd be able to say that same thing.

Again, that's my choice.

I see the gynecologist regularly. I always pride myself on being "adult" about my health - vitamins, regular doctors visits, annual PAP exams, because that's important.

Because your health is important.

It seems like such a silly statement to write, and yet, so necessary in the time in which we live - for it seems to be slipping the minds of one too many.

I mean, how can we be expected to take care of others, if we can't take care of ourselves?

The older I get, the more I channel my frustration with the world around me into a piece of art. A play. A concert. An article.

Which is how "Because We Care: A Benefit for Planned Parenthood" came about - I wanted to create a benefit concert that would donate a portion of the proceeds to this organization that helps more women than I can count.

It's an evening of musical theatre - songs of love, of hope, and of strength. But it's also an evening of stories.

Stories about how Planned Parenthood has helped you. Stories about how Planned Parenthood was there when nobody else was. Stories about how Planned Parenthood was the saving grace that so many needed, and continue to need.

Stories from each and every one of you.

Feel free to share yours via the form below, and do specify if you'd like your story to remain anonymous. 

So, here's to hope and strength and love.

Here's to supporting one another even if it's a choice that we wouldn't make ourselves.

Here's to all of you! 

Death and Meatballs.

Meatballs.

We were talking about meatballs.

And like a flash, I was sixteen again, and my Nana had surprised me with a pot of meatballs for my nineteenth birthday - all for me. My brother, my parents, my cousins, my aunts and uncles - nobody was allowed to eat the meatballs.

It seems silly to be talking about something like this, but it made me happy. The memory that surfaced from a conversation with my Schuyler about dinner turned into memories of meatballs. 

And it made me feel better.

See, there's been too many people I know who've lost loved ones way too young recently.

Brothers, husbands, fathers, friends - all gone before their 50th birthday.

My family lost our Ricky.

My friend Nicole from college lost her brother.

My colleague Adrianna lost her best friend from childhood.

My colleague Sarah lost the love of her life.

All of these people were under the age of 50. 

And I can't help but think - how do we keep their memories alive? Yes, their bodies aren't here...but that doesn't mean that we forget about what they meant to us, does it?

That doesn't mean we stop talking about them, does it?

It can't.

I won't let it.

My grandmother died in 2006 - that's over ten years ago.

And we still talk about her.

It comes in bits and pieces - a Christmas tradition, a picture, a story that has stuck to my fathers bones like glue.

But that's what remains of a life well lived - bits and pieces that stick to the ones that we love like glue.

The memories come and go, like waves that crash amongst the shore.

But just as the waves are a constant, so are the memories.

So how do we keep the memories of those we love alive?

In tiny conversations as you're deciding what to watch on Netflix. In the holiday meals that fill your bellies. In the celebration of new milestones, knowing that they would be proud. Knowing that they would love the joy of it all. It happens the wee hours of the night when you find yourself talking to the dark - knowing that he or she will hear you, wherever they may be.

Words string us along in this life, and words keep us around after we've left this earth.

Love, Loss, and Seasons

The sun is streaming through the window right now as I'm trying to work. I've been writing all morning and yet, it all seems crappy.

It's like my brain can't focus cause of the blinding light that teases me from outside.

And suddenly I'm thinking of you.

And suddenly I remember us clinking glasses, and cheering to being here. Being alive. Breathing in and out, and putting one step in front of the other when all you wanted to do was crawl under the covers and stay there.

And stay.

And stay.

And stay.

Cause when there's pain so unfathomable - it's hard to know when to stay or flee. It feels like being stuck in the mud, between the what used to be and what is.

The sun is shining, and I remember you saying that the seasons, they hurt the most.

Because the change seasons make his death all the further away.

Because the change of seasons means life is still spinning - and he's not here.

And I suppose that's the biggest change of all.

The empty space of where you physically used to be.

Cause I know your love didn't die along with you, and I know she knows it too.

But you're not here. And the seasons are changing and the sun is shining and something doesn't seem right about that. Something doesn't seem fair about that.

You've left this earth, and I've continued to watch too many other people I know lose the ones they love.

Brothers and husbands and best friends of people I know.

And once again I'm finding myself wishing I could take their pain away. I know it's silly. But I do. And I know I can't - but I'll keep trying.

And I'll keep writing.

So for those of you struggling with loss as the sun starts to shine again, know you're not alone.

I get it, that it still hurts. 

I get it, it doesn't seem right that the sun is starting to shine.

I get it, that with each new season, it's scary to think about how long your loved one has been gone.

I get it, that with each new seasons, there's a tradition and a holiday that you're expected to do without him. Or her.

I get it, I do.

But take a breath. 

And when you're ready, take a baby step.

Let yourself stand in the sun, and as the rays heat your face, think of that one whom you love. Let the sun dry your tears.

Let yourself stand at the edge of the ocean, and watch the waves crash. Remember the joy that they once gave you both, and give yourself permission to feel that joy again. When you're ready.

Think of the love that you had, that you have, and remember that even though the sun will continue to shine and the days will continue to tick on - no time can ever diminish the love that existed between you both. 

And as you watch the stars twinkle under the summer sky - think of the love that was wrapped up in the one that you lost, and imagine that the love they had for you is now shining amidst those stars.

With the change of seasons doesn't have to come a change of heart.

You can go on living and loving, but you don't have to stop remembering. You don't have to stop missing.

Big Little Binge

International Women's Day was March 8th.

It's a month later and I wonder how many of us forget that. It's a month later and I wonder if that sense of sister hood and unity and love has stayed with us. 

I wonder if it will continue to stay with us.

One can only hope.

I often think of the women I know and love, and hope for them. I think of the ones I have yet to meet, and hope for them still.

Ladies, I hope you feel comfortable in your own skin. When you look in the mirror, I hope you see beauty staring back at you.

I hope you are fortunate enough to surround yourself with people that make you laugh, and if that's not the case, I hope you have the strength to hold your head high.

I hope you dream until your very last breath, and I hope you never let another person define what that dream means for you.

I hope if someone is hurting you, whether it be a bruise on your face or a bruise on your heart, I hope you have the courage to leave and let them go.

I hope you never feel like you have to choose between soft and strong and sexy and smart and funny and quiet and shy. You can be them all if you'd like. You can pick and choose. You get to decide. If you want to be a Mom I hope you do it. If you'd rather not I hope nobody makes you feel about it. It's your choice. It's always your choice.

When you hear the cries of other sisters, I hope you stand by their side. And when you learn of their successes, I hope you celebrate them, too.

I just binge watched Big Little Lies. 

And yes, I can't stop thinking about it.

Based on the same-titled best-seller by Liane Moriarty, Big Little Lies is a dark and comedic tale of what really goes on in the sunshine drenched town of Monterey, California.  It's a tangled web of doting mothers, hot shot husbands, picture perfect children, and picturesque landscapes. At the core of the story are five women, Madeline, Celeste, Jane, Renata, and Bonnie. The story that unfolds is from the deepest corners of their hearts, and the secrets that they have long tucked under the rug.

On the outside, they may appear like they have it all. But nobody really has it all, do they?

And when a murder happens - those California plates shift and fall, and true character is revealed.

In a word, the show is outstanding.

Dig deeper, and words seem to fail.

For the most beautiful parts of this series are not within the written dialogue, but the subtleties of body language, female body language. 

The knowing looks, the observations, the perceptions. 

Big Little Lies is a glorious example of the complexities of the female spirit and psyche, and the power of what happens when females stand with, and for, one another.

It's outstanding, it's exhilarating, and it leaves you with hope.

Hope that one day women will crave community and collaboration over competition.

Hope that it's OK to mess up and try again.

Hope that it's quite alright to have a child and want to have a career too.

Hope for a better tomorrow.

This piece was originally posted on Glass Heel, here.

spring & summer shows of '17

A growing list of shows I'm producing and directing in Spring and Summer of 2017:

UPCOMING CONCERTS + SHOWS:

• "DUETS with thewriteteachers.com Volume 5" at Feinstein’s/54 Below on April 22nd. Purchase your tickets here.

• "Because We Care: A Benefit for Planned Parenthood" at Feinstein's/54 Below on May 15th. Purchase your tickets here. 

• "NEXT Concert Series: Bridge the Gap Volume 2" at Don't Tell Mama NYC on June 7th. Purchase your tickets here.

• "H. A new play by Megan Minutillo" at The Classical Theatre of Harlem. Tickets available here. 

• "Daniel Koek's West End Story" at Feinstein’s/54 Below on July 9th. Purchase your tickets here. (Use the code DANIEL5 for $5 off your main dining room tickets.)

• "Women of the Wings: A Celebration of Female Musical Theatre Writers" at Feinstein's/54 Below on August 4th. Purchase your tickets here. (Use the code FMTW5 for $5 off your main dining room tickets.)