On Compliments, the People Who Show Up, and Learning to Believe Them
I am terrible at accepting compliments. There. I said it.
I mean, I'm not terrible in the sense that I throw things at people, but I may tell them to shut up when they say something nice. I'm polite. I smile. I say something self-deprecating. I usually manage to make the person who was trying to compliment me feel like they now have to defend their compliment in a court of law. It's a gift, really.
One time, my friend Emily was telling me how much she loved working with me as a director. She was sharing some genuinely lovely things about her experience, and rather than simply receiving what she was saying, my brain immediately launched into what can only be described as a full-scale investigation.
She's just being nice because she's my friend. Or maybe she's saying this because she wants me to hire her again. But maybe she actually means it. That's weird. I'm not THAT great. I mean, if I were that great, wouldn't more theatres be asking me to direct? But I know I'm good at what I do. I love it. I work hard. I pour everything I have into it. Oh, that's dumb. She's just being nice. But she said it, so maybe she means it. Oh, no. She's getting her firm voice on. Oh, dear. JUST SHUT UP AND SAY THANK YOU.
And somewhere in the middle of my spectacular internal meltdown, Emily stopped me. "No. Take it. Take the compliment. I mean what I'm saying, and I'm not just blowin' smoke."
Well, alrighty then. "Thank you." See? I can be taught.
The funny thing is that Emily isn't the only person who has said these things to me. I've heard similar compliments from Linsey and Katie and other artists I've been fortunate enough to work with over the years. People whose opinions I respect. People whose talent I admire. People I genuinely love. And yet, somehow, when they tell me something wonderful about myself, my first instinct is to explain why they might be mistaken. What is THAT about?
I've spent most of my professional life pursuing excellence. It's something I believe in deeply. In fact, the philosophy I've tried to build my work around is pretty straightforward: Discipline in the WORK. Excellence in the ART. Achievement in the PERFORMANCE.
I believe in preparation. I believe in collaboration. I believe in doing the work, even when it's difficult, inconvenient, exhausting, or nobody is watching. I believe the work matters. And I know I'm good at what I do. There. I said that, too.
That sentence is surprisingly difficult to write without immediately following it with seventeen disclaimers about how much I still have to learn. Because I DO have a lot to learn. I make mistakes. I have weaknesses. I've made artistic choices I would absolutely reconsider if given the opportunity. There are directors who are better than I am, and there always will be. But none of that means I'm not good at what I do. Both things can be true.
And yet, there's this strange little contradiction I've wrestled with over the years. I've directed productions that have enjoyed strong ticket sales. I've had wonderful audition turnouts. I've received generous feedback from actors, designers, audiences, and colleagues. And sometimes, despite all of that, I don't get invited back. I don't always understand why.
And because I'm apparently incapable of allowing a professional disappointment to remain simply a professional disappointment, I sometimes turn it into a referendum on my worth. Well, if I were really that good, they'd ask me back.
Which is ridiculous, of course. There are a thousand reasons a theatre might make the decisions it makes. Artistic direction. Scheduling. Budgets. Relationships. Opportunities for other directors. Things that have absolutely nothing to do with me. But knowing that intellectually and believing it emotionally are two entirely different theatrical productions. And sometimes the emotional production has a much larger cast, a bigger orchestra, an unlimited budget, and absolutely no intermission.
Then today happened.
We had our load-in and build day for our fall production of The Best Christmas Pageant Ever at Mesa High School, and my people showed up. Woolsey was there building. Jude was there building. Angel was there working on lighting and managing the production. Dori stopped in to check on things and figure out her painting schedule. And Emery came by, told me she missed me, and said that if I ever needed anything, she'd happily come running back to help.
Which was lovely, until Dori and Angel immediately chimed in with something along the lines of, "Be careful what you wish for, or you'll end up like us. Twenty years later and still working for free!" HAHAHAHA! And I just stood there, laughing, with my heart about ready to burst.
Because here's the thing. Angel and Dori have been part of my professional theatre life for decades. When I started thinking about the productions we've done together, I realized we're approaching our THIRTIETH show. Thirty. THIRTY! Throw Aurelie and Allyson into the mix, and you've got what I affectionately call "The Dream Team."
These women know me. I mean, they REALLY know me. They know my strengths. They know my weaknesses. They know my quirks, my expectations, my creative process, and probably exactly what my face looks like three seconds before I announce some ridiculous idea that will require everyone to work harder. And somehow, they keep showing up.
Angel and her husband, Woolsey, moved to Florida six years ago because of his Air Force assignment. We've missed having them here. But now they're back, and today, being together again felt like putting on an old pair of comfy slippers. We just fit. There was no awkward adjustment period. No figuring out how to work together again. No need to reestablish trust or explain ourselves. We just fell right back into the groove.
And we laughed. Oh, how we laughed!
We reminisced about Angel turning off the lights while Dori was trying to paint a set. About Allyson trying to dress a set in the middle of a rehearsal. About hanging things on walls that were still wet while insisting, "I'm just looking to see if this works. I'll move it!" About Aurelie finding a costume she knows I'll hate and then hiding it on someone to see when and if I find it and what my reaction will be. The same old nonsense. The same old people. The same old love. And it was magical.
I felt my stress drop almost immediately. Not because the work was suddenly finished. It wasn't. We still had a show to build, a million things to accomplish, and the usual theatrical chaos waiting patiently around the corner. But I knew I was in good hands. Capable hands. Hands that had helped build shows and solve problems and create beautiful things with me for years. I knew I wasn't going to fail. And perhaps more importantly, I knew I wasn't alone.
There's something extraordinary about working with people who speak your language. Not just the language of theatre, although that's certainly part of it. I'm talking about the unspoken language that develops when you've spent years creating something together. The trust. The shorthand. The ability to disagree without threatening the relationship. To challenge each other without questioning the love. To laugh when things go sideways because you know, somehow, you'll figure it out.
We've weathered some crazy challenges together. We've learned from mistakes, celebrated successes, navigated disappointments, and grown into better artists because of each other. And somewhere along the way, we became family. Not the kind of family that exists because we're obligated to one another, but the kind that keeps choosing to show up.
Today wasn't about my abilities as a director. I wasn't standing there evaluating my resume or trying to figure out whether their presence meant I was talented enough. I was simply happy. Ridiculously, overwhelmingly happy. I felt at home.
And as I've been thinking about Emily's compliment and today's experience, I've noticed something interesting. When Emily told me how much she appreciated working with me, I questioned it. When my theatre family showed up today, I didn't question a thing. I didn't wonder whether Angel had some ulterior motive. I didn't question whether Dori was just being polite. I didn't assume Emery was offering to help because she wanted something from me. I believed them. I trusted their love. I knew exactly what their presence meant.
And I wonder why it's sometimes so much easier to believe we're loved than to believe we're admired.
Maybe it's because accepting a compliment requires us to sit with the possibility that someone sees something wonderful in us that we haven't quite learned to recognize in ourselves. Or maybe it's because we spend so much time measuring our success by the opportunities we receive that we forget there are other ways to recognize the value of what we've created. I don't know. I'm still figuring it out.
I still want to direct more shows. I still want opportunities to grow and stretch and create. I still want my work to be recognized and appreciated. And I don't think there's anything wrong with that. I can want more professional opportunities and be profoundly grateful for the artistic life I already have. I can know I'm good at what I do and acknowledge that I have plenty of room to grow. I can feel disappointed when I'm not invited back and believe someone who tells me they loved working with me. And perhaps most importantly, I can be a work in progress and still be worthy of the kindness, admiration, and love people offer me along the way.
That's a lot of ANDs. But that's life, isn't it?
I think about the people who have shared a stage, a rehearsal room, a paintbrush, a lighting console, or a ridiculously ambitious idea with me over the years. The ones who have stayed. The ones who have returned. The ones who have become part of the fabric of my life. And I realize how extraordinarily blessed I am.
I am one lucky sonofabitch. Really, I am!
I don't know why every professional opportunity has or hasn't come my way. I don't know what the next chapter of my artistic life will look like. And I certainly haven't mastered the art of accepting a compliment without first subjecting it to a thorough psychological evaluation. But today, standing in a theatre surrounded by people I love, laughing about wet paint and lighting cues, I didn't need any of those answers. I was home. I was happy. And I was exactly where I wanted to be.
Maybe the next time someone tells me something wonderful about myself, I'll remember how easily I believed the love that surrounded me today. Maybe I'll resist the urge to explain why they're wrong. Maybe I'll simply trust that they mean what they say. And maybe, just maybe, I'll hear Emily's voice in the back of my head.
"No. Take it."
And I'll smile and say thank you. Without a single disclaimer.
Well, I'll try anyway. HA!
