I started my day in conversation with Sarah Bellamy (a true blessing in its own right) about Penumbra Theatre Company and being able to live in a time where we can directly name the work we're doing around advocacy, social change, and eliminating racism in the theater. I am also sitting with the mourning and celebration of Nelson Mandela's life, work and legacy. He is a living testament to a time, space and energy when the fight for freedom came at a profound cost, but he lived long enough to see powerful change as a result of his efforts. Many of our own civil rights leaders and freedom fighters were not granted that grace. Of course, there is more work to do in many areas including theatre. 

My conversation with Sarah also allowed me to engage more deeply with a series of personal losses that have happened over the past year or so ... which resulted in this morning meditation...

Growing up in Tennessee Colony was difficult. Racism, prejudice and attitudes toward poverty have done much to damage my self-esteem, optimism, sense of wonder and enthusiasm for life. Daily, I am reminded of the work needed to nurture my spirit. I don't always win, but having dear friends and a supportive family is a salvation.

Over the course of the last year or so, I have lost three people who have loved me for most of my life. These people were my god parents, Debbie and James, both to cancer, and a dear family friend, Alan, who we lost on Wednesday to a heart attack. 

All three were friends of my father and mother. I loved speaking on the phone to Debbie and James when I was little. They lived in upstate New York and only visited a couple of times to my recollection. So, it was special to know that someone, who lived so far away, cared about me and wanted to talk to me. I was penpals with their daughter for a long time. Also, I have many treasured childhood memories in the home of Alan and his wife Mary. Playing on their living room floor, going on fishing trips, eating and laughing together, and watching them in friendship with my parents.

I remember asking my father once, "Why do they love us and want to spend so much time with us? Why do they love me?" They weren't family and so I didn't understand. Also, I had never met anyone on my mother's side of the family and so learned early that bloodlines don't automatically assume love. He explained, "They love you because you're you and you bring them happiness." 

To be loved by someone outside of your bloodline for simply being you and perhaps for the joy you bring to their lives is a wondrous experience. To lose that love is equally challenging. 

​All of which led me back to Mandela Nelson, a man who was loved and admired by so many. I am one of those people. I was inspired by his fight for freedom and humbled by his commitment to peace and reconciliation. His spirit drives the work that I do around Diversity and Inclusion in the American Theatre. It's hard to contextualize all that I'm experiencing right now, but I want to thank Madiba for his life's work. I want to thank those who believed in me, even when I didn't believe in myself. I want to move forward in service. Thank you for all who give me the opportunity to do so.

The thing about core values is that once you establish them, they will be tested. Constantly and at varying degrees of intensity. You must continually nurture, finesse, and engage them. In doing so, you will either re-avow your allegiance or release them. Quite frankly, it seems that the more you honor and live by them ... the more you firmly hold on to them, the greater the test will be. As great as holding on for dear life to a twig in the midst of a tempest. You dare not let go, for you must protect yourself and the twig. You're in it together. Such a moment happened to me last night:

It was just past midnight. I was lying down in bed. My upstairs neighbor was either watching porn or playing videos games. There were odd and random sounds and bad music playing. Really, it could have been either. 

Despite efforts to the contrary, I was wide awake. I turned to my side and placed a pillow over my head. This strategy has never worked to drown out sound, but the effort--its dramatic release of frustration--seems worthy of repetition. I saw a blue light flashing on my phone indicating a message. I'm waiting to hear back about several exciting job opportunities, so every message is read with eagerness and enthusiasm. 

I read the email and was struck. I was being asked to consider something that put my personal, professional and artistic integrity on high alert. My heart started racing and leapt into my throat. It was difficult to breathe. My vision blurred and I was thrown into a fit of tears recounting the number of times I'd been asked to whitewash a situation and put conversations about racial equity, cultural awareness, and gender parity aside for the betterment and ease of the room. 

But then I remembered the line that I drew some years ago ... an invisible, but palpable line that stood between who I am (the essence and truth of my honor and dignity, and how I choose to live in the world) and what I am willing to walk away from no matter what the cost. By meditating on that line, I contemplated what it would mean to cross it and the silence I would have to bear if I agreed with the conditions set forth in this email. 

Make no mistake, the cost of walking away from this situation would be great and public, but I would have to walk away. I would neither be able to stand the hypocrisy nor stomach the lies. What's more, I wouldn't be able to advocate for women playwrights and theatre artists of color or continue the work that I'm doing around Diversity and Inclusion in the American Theatre with any credibility. 

That line, which temptation, greed, convenience and power, oft tempt to erase brought me comfort, hope, empowerment and sanity. I renewed my allegiance and slept a good, uninterrupted sleep. As for the rest, we'll see what unfolds.