A Moment Of Panic

Lessons Learned

Lights To Black

We were fifteen minutes from show time. The cast of youngsters was well prepared and perfectly ready to shine. The adoring audience of family members and friends had trickled in and, with fresh bouquets on their laps for their after-the-show stars, these enthusiastically supportive folks were a-buzz with gleeful anticipation to finally see in context the lines they had been hearing in isolation for months. Costumes, check. Props, check. All cast present, check.  We convened the full cast backstage for our final detail check and for the “fire-up, yes-you-can, you are awesome” talk. They were set, and, now, on their own, as I left them to go to the piano to accompany their show. Just prior to the curtain opening, the mood for the performance would be established with a quick five minute overture of music from the show, while the youngsters waited excitedly in the wings with their happy toes on the starting line ready to dash into the opening scene. As I sat upon the piano bench, our light technician took the lights to black; time for the overture. In the blackness which was fully charged with expectancy, I realized there was no light on the piano. Each second of blackness weighed as an eternity on this accompanist who could not see her fingers to play the overture. Everyone waited, but only one waited in sheer panic. Overture. Now. Before anyone noticed the problem. Reaching for the keys, those familiar friends I can see in my sleep, I set my hands in relation to middle C, closed my eyes and began to play the overture. It wasn’t perfect. But it was okay. It fit the bill.  It provided the adequate and expected mood-setting opening crescendo that ushered in scene one and then the rest of the youngsters’ brilliant performance.  In the flurry of accolades, applause, photos and flowers that followed the show, no one noticed the deep sigh of relief exhaled by the accompanist who would never forget a light again.

Looking At Creativity 4

Lessons Learned…

Creativity Unwrapped 4

Play is the root of creativity, and creativity is the root of innovation.  Children need to play.  We all need much more time in the course of our days to feel the joy, the freedom, the absolute delight of eye-sparkling, imagination exercising, friendship building, playful fun. Such time would do us all a world of good.

Scene 9:

(President Lincoln and Secretary Stanton at the White House discussing war plans while President’s boys are running and playing all over the White House)

Stanton: They’re a little rambunctious.

Abe: They’re boys.

(more playing)

Stanton: We are trying to save our country.

Abe: They are playing.

(more playing)

Stanton: Can’t you tell them to stop?

Abe: Of course I can, Mr. Stanton, but I won’t. These are sad, dark, painful times.  Agony and grief are everywhere. These little ones are lost in the joy and wonder of childhood play. They lift my heart, and they remind me of the hope we must have. Let them play, Sir. Let them play.

Let them run, let them be, full of fun and perfectly free, let them play oh let them play.

Let them laugh, let them hide, let them sing inside or outside, let them play oh let them play.

They are children too quickly they grow; give them joy, give them hope, give them room so they’ll know that you love them.

Let them dream, let them build, imagination can only be filled when they play oh let them play.

Let them care for many a pet, let them splash and get themselves wet, let them play oh let them play.

They are children too quickly they grow; give them joy, give them hope, give them room so they’ll know that you love them.

Tad and Willie played and played through the halls and gardens of the White House with all of their pets and toys. Their happy interruptions and antics warmed the heart of their dad and always brought a smile to his mostly serious face.

(from Forever Honest Abe by Darcy Hill)

If we value innovation, we must value creativity, and if we value creativity, we must value play. We simply must.

The Show Must Go On...

Lessons Learned…

About Being Prepared

We were fifteen minutes from show time. The cast of youngsters was well prepared and perfectly ready to shine. The adoring audience of family members and friends had trickled in and, with fresh bouquets on their laps for their after-the-show stars, these enthusiastically supportive folks were a-buzz with gleeful anticipation to finally see in context the lines they had been hearing in isolation for months. Costumes, check. Props, check. All cast present, check.  We convened the full cast backstage for our final detail check and for the “fire-up, yes-you-can, you are awesome” talk. They were set, and, now, on their own, as I left them to go to the piano to accompany their show. Just prior to the curtain opening, the mood for the performance would be established with a quick five minute overture of music from the show, while the youngsters waited excitedly in the wings with their happy toes on the starting line ready to dash into the opening scene. As I sat upon the piano bench, our light technician took the lights to black; time for the overture. In the blackness which was fully charged with expectancy, I realized there was no light on the piano. Each second of blackness weighed as an eternity on this accompanist who could not see her fingers to play the overture. Everyone waited, but only one waited in sheer panic. Overture. Now. Before anyone noticed the problem. Reaching for the keys, those familiar friends I can see in my sleep, I set my hands in relation to middle C, closed my eyes and began to play the overture. It wasn’t perfect. But it was okay. It fit the bill.  It provided the adequate and expected mood-setting opening crescendo that ushered in scene one and then the rest of the youngsters’ brilliant performance.  In the flurry of accolades, applause, photos and flowers that followed the show, no one noticed the deep sigh of relief exhaled by the accompanist who would never forget a light again.