Call Me "Sister Nancy"

When I was in fourth grade, I desperately wanted to be a nun.

I was a student in Sister Rosaleen's class. She was a very strict nun (a cliche born in truth).   Even given her rigidness, there were a group of us girls who really connected with her. As I recall, she didn't care much for the boys.  In her defense, I have to say, the boys were "Grossssss!" (of the milk-up-the-nose-with-a-straw kind), and I didn't much like them either.

Over the years, I've often wondered what it was that made me so interested in joining the sisterhood.   I had just experienced two Catholic Sacraments, confession being one of them. It was a profound experience as a little girl.  In my young mind, I likened it to this idea that by admitting/sharing/divulging my innermost thoughts of what I wish I could do differently, I could be forgiven and start again.  Fresh.  Oh boy.  This was something I wanted more of. And I must have figured being a nun gave you a premium on forgiveness.  I wanted in.  I also remember the nuns at my grade school having the most delicious meals.  I forgot my lunch on two occasions over the years and the Sisters of Notre Dame were kind enough to feed me - yummy sandwiches, homemade banana bread, crunchy apples (not mush balls) - a lot better than than my dried up peanut butter sandwich.

But a couple of years later, while still in Catholic grade school, I volunteered to participate in a skit to be performed in front of the class.  My first comedic role was born - a ditzy weather girl (in pink short shorts and a Bermuda top, no less).  The skit involved me painting my nails while delivering the weather.  When I started pointing to the temperature highs and lows, my nails got stuck to the map because they weren't quite dry.  Laughter ensued.  Comedy gold, right?  But I actually DID hear laughter for the first time.

And because of that laughter, a seed started to grow.

I did not become a nun. Some of those same boys who seemed so annoying in fourth grade, somehow changed. And became cute hockey players for the star 8th grade team. Goodbye sisterhood, hello flirting.


I gave lots of thought to becoming a flight attendant. My father worked for Northwest Airlines, so he was obviously an influence. Travel was an exciting thing to think about.  But in looking back, more than the exotic locations and the uniforms I coveted (to this day, give me a white button-down and I'm in heaven) was the amazing confidence these women exuded.  Everything they did seemed effortless and they could talk to anyone without blushing - a painful self-consciousness I struggled with - and sometimes still battle to this day.

In high school, I performed in a few musicals (so proud to be on the same stage as my big brother).  Secretly, when I would watch the Academy Awards, I would dream about acting. Even the Miss America pageant provided me with inspiration for pursuing that seemingly unlikely dream.  But no one says, "I'm going to be an actor," at least not where I'm from and not back then.

Although my family was a big influence:  seeing my brother Tom on stage in high school plays, taking dance lessons from my uncle and performing in dance recitals, watching my father played banjo and my sister Sue play guitar.  My sister Barbie and I created neighborhood shows in our garage.  We even had a sister act called The Singer Sailors, complete with yardsticks serving as canes and our Dad's sailor hats from his time in the Navy as part of our costume.  Our number one (and only) tune was an original song we wrote entitled, "We're the Singer Sailors."  Catchy, no?

College.  A general ed theatre course my first year in college pushed me over the edge.  Introduction to Theatre and Film was taught by a truly amazing professor, Ron Perrier.  (I later learned about the History of the Greek Theatre from him, as well.)  I had to admit it.  This acting thing was not going away.  I stalked the theatre majors, watching their work on stage, admiring their funky dress code - unlike what everyone else was wearing on campus.  And I eventually became one of them.

A year after graduating, I drove my little car out to Los Angeles.  And have been here every since.

From nun to flight attendant to actor might not seem like a logical progression, but upon reflection all three involve service.

Service to God.

Service to travelers.

Service to the story.

My acting teacher and mentor, Diana Castle, talks about finding the greater purpose as an actor.  The actor's mission is not a self-serving one but for the greater good of telling the story - the actor is the single human who connects to and shares the stories of all humans being.

I still think about what it would be like to be a nun.  And I still longingly look at the flight attendants' uniforms.  But through story, I can still be those things.  Through my imagination, the possibilities are endless.

Who knows?  Maybe I'll even reprise the weather girl.  Or the Singer Sailors.

Anything is possible.

This Means War

I was in grade school. Sixth grade as I recall.  Young enough that boys and girls still 'fought' with each other (fighting being the younger variation of teasing or flirting) and still called each other by their last names. “Hey, Johnson!” - my given name.   I attended a Catholic grade school just over a mile from my home.  And in those days, we had to walk to school.  Winters being what they are in Minnesota, there was plenty of snow on the ground, the depth of which you had to walk through by lifting your legs like you were marching.  It took focus and energy.  It took even more focus and energy when someone was in your path, making it difficult.  On this particular day, there was a boy from my class making it difficult - once again. I had begun to dread the walk home, knowing that I would probably be pummeled for the umpteenth time by snowballs thrown one after the other by a boy nick-named Marshmallow.  This nick-name was a variation on his last name which I will not divulge because I feel certain he has turned out to be a fine upstanding man and I do not want to sully his reputation. 

At any rate, I was on the last portion of my walk that constituted Como Park - just one long block from the streets where homes (and witnesses) were situated - when the snowballs began to hit me. I was alone.  And I'm sure I was afraid.  But I was also used to it.  I expected it.  Of course that didn't make it easier.  There might have even been a tad of resignation.  “So, my young life has come to this - defending myself against snowballs.”  However, more than anything, I was . . . pissed. 'The hit' had happened regularly enough that my fear turned into anger.  Maybe even defiance. I don't know how or why, but a spirit rose up inside me. When the snowball hit my face and filled my glasses with white chips of ice, I heard myself say, 'Marshmallow, this means war!"  (I think I stole that phrase from Lucy of Peanuts fame.)  I ripped off my glasses, threw them aside, and started making my own snowballs. And tossed them as fast as I could cement them in my palms. 

Adversity. Well, at least a childhood version of adversity. 

This memory has moved forward in my mind because of the stories I've been watching on film of late.  Catching up on last season's Academy nominees, adversity is a consistent theme (one could argue that is true of all stories). Everything from “Captain Phillips” to “Dallas Buyers Club” to “12 Years a Slave.”  Even films like “Saving Mr. Banks” and “Her” revolve around overcoming personal adversity.  In talking about his film “Gravity,” Alfonso Cuarón discusses the fact that most of life is filled with adversity with only a sprinkling of joyous moments in between.

Is it the time we are living in that these adversity-driven films are prevalent?  Is the 21st century fraught with more problems and conflicts than previous centuries, hence a slew of stories with the same theme?  The wonderful writer and historian David McCullough says there has never been 'a simpler time.'  Every time has been difficult for the people who are living it.  Certainly my younger-self would say “Hear, hear!”  If that is true, then adversity is a part of our humanness.  Perhaps our attraction to watching these stories on stage, film or television, witnessing adversity in others is something that helps us overcome our personal insecurities and fears.  It's part of the reason I love watching the Olympics or the Kennedy Center Honors - it gives me hope and encouragement to see an athlete or artist overcome all the odds.  It's also probably why I hated watching re-runs of sit-coms like “I Dream of Jeanie,” where nothing ever seemed to go right for Major Healy.

I am often struck by what makes one person fight, push and ultimately conquer while another person struggles, exhausts and is defeated.

Is fear the common denominator in all of this?  And if so, do some of us allow it to overtake us, and others feel it, but push through it anyway?  Does anyone out there live without fear?

I go through periods of experiencing fear in the middle of the night. I wake up for whatever reason, and the Rolodex cards start flipping - like a checklist of topics that can make me worry and fret and even regret.  Money, career, family.   “Why did I. . .?  What if I. . . ?  How can I. . .?”  It's a vicious cycle that can be hard to break. If I allow it to, prayer can calm my heart, and help me to sleep.  I envision God's angels carrying my prayers to heaven and helping me fall into a deep slumber.  But I'm not always able to let go and allow that to happen.

I think it's because rooted deep within me is something that, at times, is not allowing the present to work its magic.  When I think about it, in nearly every area of my life, the need to be present in the moment is difficult to maintain.  As an actress, it is a constant struggle to be able to tell the story with freedom no matter who is in the room.  Engaging the play-spirit, as Diana Castle says, and not being ahead or behind, but being in the here and now. 

So what is the answer? Because if indeed our lives are full of more adversity than joy, we are all going to repeatedly come up against this struggle every day.  

The poet Rilke said:

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

Living the questions.  I like that. I love how the pressure to be and do and accomplish is taken out of the equation when you are living the questions. 

Taking the pressure off of myself doesn't give me permission to eat a bag of croutons on the couch while watching re-runs of “Sex in the City” (too specific of an example not to be true?).  I still need to push, create, learn, even when I'm not sure what the result will be.  Living the questions is being present WITH the fear and WITHOUT the fear. It's ok if you don't know the answers. They will come to you.  Or they won't.  And if they don't, maybe the answers aren't important. 

Leave it to Mr. Rilke, who lived over a century ago to reach forward in time with a profound wisdom. Perhaps Mr. McCullough is right - there hasn't ever been a 'simpler time.'  There's now.  And I'm grateful for that.  And for the questions that now brings.  So maybe, the next time a snowball hits me in the face (metaphorically speaking, of course), I'll say, "This means war." Or I'll be reminded to just live in the question of “How do I get this snow out of my eyes?”

Dreams, Prayers and Kevin Costner

My husband, Lindsay, and I watched TV "live" the other night - a rare event at our house due to the DVR ("Digital Video Recorder" – in case you ever wondered what those letters stand for) having died.  We were waiting for the replacement box to be delivered, and in the meantime, we were stuck with watching whatever happened to be on at the moment.  It's strange to think that, as kids, we watched live TV all the time - it was all there was.  You had to be home at a specific time to watch a specific show on one of three networks (four, if you counted PBS).   And you had to watch the commercials.

At any rate, scrolling through the on-screen TV guide, we looked for a movie that was about to start. (Another technical advancement since childhood days of reading the TV listings in the newspaper. Remember newspapers?  Gee, they were swell.)  And then we saw it:  "Field of Dreams."  Neither of us had seen the movie since it came out in 1989.  Selection made.

Having loved this movie 20 years ago, I was interested to see how it would hold up.  I remember seeing  "Shenandoah" with Jimmy Stewart on a Saturday afternoon re-run when I was a kid - I balled like a baby at the end.  When I insisted on watching it again with Lindsay because I wanted him to see this great film, I was surprised at how cheesy it was, and frankly, not very good.  My 10 year-old self liked cheese, I guess.

"Field of Dreams" certainly holds up (screenplay by Phil Alden Robinson and he directed, as well).  The clothing and hair-styles are classic 80s of course, but Kevin Costner is impossibly young and Burt Lancaster gives one of his last performances.  He's terrific, with his old-school speech that fits so perfectly for the Doctor from the past.  But what struck me most was how different the message of this film was for me, twenty years later.

The first time I saw this movie unfold, it seemed to be saying, "listen to your gut, follow your dreams, all will be well."  Kevin Costner's character plows over his cornfield because he hears a voice telling him to build a baseball field.  He listens to the voice, and without going into the entire plot, it all turns out pretty well.  

Yes, I still believe that can happen.  You work hard, you listen to God/Holy Spirit/your gut and you succeed.  But disappointments can take their toll on a person in this business over twenty plus years.   Heck, any business.  Life in general.  Everyone has their share of disappointments.  So the "baseball/apple pie/Iowa is heaven" tone of the film, while sweet, seemed too much like fiction to my older self.

But something else grabbed me as I watched.  I was struck by the character of Dr. Archibald "Moonlight" Graham, played by Mr. Lancaster.  A one-time baseball player, circumstances prevent him from pursuing his dream and he ends up becoming a doctor (not a bad "second" career).  In recalling his missed baseball opportunity, he says:  

"We just don't recognize life's most significant moments while they're happening. Back then I thought, 'Well, there'll be other days.' I didn't realize that that was the only day."

As the movie continues, Moonlight Graham is given a chance to relive his baseball days as a young man (on the field that Kevin Costner built) and it's a wonderfully moving moment.  He finally gets to live his "field of dreams."  Unfortunately, Kevin Costner's little girl falls off the top of the bleachers and stops breathing.  Kevin looks to Moonlight Graham to heal her.  The old doctor does, but in doing so, gives up his second chance at baseball.  (Turns out, the little girl was choking on a hot dog.)  Watching this part of the story 20 years later, I found myself re-thinking what this movie was all about.

Instead of it being a story that validates our dreams coming true, maybe it was actually saying, sometimes our dreams don't come true in the way that we want them to - and we don't really understand why. Sometimes, you don't get the part, sometimes, you don't get the girl or boy, sometimes, people die before they should.  We can't understand it.   Life doesn't always add up to hard work ruling the day.

And that's okay.

Because along the way, if we are paying attention, we can still learn, we can still grow, we can still experience life with passion, with joy, with the little things like doggies, and good books, and a nice glass of wine, and for me, a wonderful part to play, even if it's just in my living room.  And of course, people in our lives who we love and who love us.

Garth Brooks wrote a song that says, "Some of God's greatest gifts are unanswered prayers."  I guess that's what I'm learning along the way.  Sometimes, things don't work out the way you want.  

Be grateful anyway.

Tennis, Anyone?

My husband Lindsay and I were fortunate enough to take a real vacation last year.  (A friend of mine defines "vacations" as destinations that do not involve visiting family.  Visits to family are called "trips.")  At any rate, we went on a vacation and stayed at a hotel with a tennis court.   I'm not a great player, but I try to get on the court once a week.  When the sound of the ball hits the sweet spot on my racket (and that happens sometimes) it's a pretty amazing feeling.   And I love the little skirts you get to wear.

When I learned the the hotel offered a free hour with their tennis pro, I jumped at the chance to try to improve on my weekend game - and maybe even undo one or two bad habits I had learned over the years. As it turned out, I was the only hotel guest to show up for the free hour, so it became my own private lesson.

What a gift. We worked forehand and back hands and serves, of course. He ran me around the court, and I was actually starting to feel like I was learning something that my weekend tennis partner would notice in our Saturday rallies. But with each stroke we focused on, the instructor repeated the same phrase over and over again: "You aren't following through."  Even my double-handed back hand - a more often than not sure-fire winner - garnered the same lackluster remark: "You aren't following through."  Huh?  How is that possible?  "I feel like I am," I defended.  And then he showed me where my racket stopped, and boy was he right. I wasn't following through.  To correct this, I started to bring the racket all the way back and then all the way across my body until my arm crossed my face and was near my opposite shoulder.  The power was amazing.

What a metaphor for my life.  Follow-through.  Kind of a scary concept.  Following through requires courage - a mentality that says, even when you don't feel like it, even when you think it doesn't matter, even when you feel discouraged and think it's pointless, follow-through.  It's a mental game.

This certainly applies to acting.  Working on your mentality is just as important as working on the story.    My acting coach, Diana Castle, teaches this brilliantly.  She talks about being the master of our mind.  And implores us to take Rilke's first "Letter to a Young Poet" to heart:

"This before all:  ask yourself in the quietest hour of your night:  must I [write]?  Dig down into yourself for a deep answer.  And if this should be in the affirmative, if you may meet this solemn question with a strong and simple "I must", then build your life according to this necessity. . ."

To me, this "I must" burns in every champion.  The U.S. Open is in full-swing right now (pardon the pun) and I recently watched a series of interviews with some of the tennis greats:  Jimmy Connors, John McEnroe, Serena Williams.  They all have their different strengths and weaknesses.  But mentality is the linch-pin.   When asked how much of his success was about the mentality and the will, Connors agreed emphatically, "That's it.  Every body plays good tennis; it's what you bring over and above that."  That's the common denominator in terms of winning and losing.  Follow-through.

With fall around the corner, I'm determined to follow-through, to see where it takes me, to take on a champion's mentality.  I  doubt I'll be playing in Wimbledon next July.  But who knows what other doors may open?  Maybe that's where the fear comes from.  What if one's dreams really did come true?

Can cleaning the bathroom create art?

In our house, chores are divided up very evenly.  My husband does all the laundry and takes care of the floors (vacuuming every other day, now that we have a doggy).  I somehow became the person in charge of cleaning the bathrooms.  While it's not my favorite thing in the world, there are some pretty nifty (and probably non-eco friendly) products that make cleaning it a much simpler affair than in my mother's day.  But no matter the product, there's still a degree of scrubbing.

I realized a couple of years ago while directing a musical that this scrubbing time in the bathroom was actually pretty productive - creatively.  I would get out my sponge to scour the grout in the shower.  And my mind would begin the game of "Just do a quick wipe of the tile walls and be done with it" vs. "Spend some time scrubbing that stubborn dirt in the grout, get the step ladder out to wipe the ceiling down, scrub the floor with comet."  As I began to fight these two points of view, I realized how, similarly, there can be two conflicting schools of thoughts when working as an actor on a story (whether it's a large, luxurious part in an O'Neill Play, or a relatively non-descript part on a television show).

One can do the detail work, creating a specific world by using the language provided by the writer, living in that world in your imagination until it is impact-ful and specific.  This kind of work takes a long time - sort of like taking a toothbrush to the grout.  But the rewards are great.  It's what Diana Castle, my mentor and acting coach teaches.  And it's what I imagine Daniel Day-Lewis and Meryl do when they tackle a role.

Or one can just do a quick wipe of the shower walls - memorize the lines, understand the story with one's left brain, getting a sense of what the part should be, saying it out loud until it sounds like what "they" might want.

As I have been contemplating this kind of artistic work ethic, I started to think about my parents.  When I was a kid, my Mom wanted our help cleaning the house on Saturday mornings.  I wasn't exactly excited to help her - Saturday mornings were all about the cartoons on TV.  The chore she handed out that I just didn't understand was cleaning the baseboards.  The process involved getting on my hands and knees with an old rag (usually one of my brother's old t-shirts that had been cut up), lightly wetting the rag with water and wiping the dust off that little piece of wood on the floor all the way around the living room.  Groan.  Who sees that piece of wood?  Who cares if there is a little dust on it?  But, I couldn't convince my Mom.  So, we had clean baseboards.  That's just who she is - a very detail-oriented woman.

My Dad had a similar sensibility.  He passed away a few months and in writing his eulogy with my brother Tom, I was reminded of the kind of detail that he put into a project.  Every project he undertook, whether it was building a model airplane or constructing a sailboat or working on our brother Rick's cabin, he applied the precision of an accomplished engineer – with fully detailed drawings.

While neither of my parents was an actor (although my Dad was quite a tap dancer in his youth), I love knowing and seeing that a part of their work ethic is in me - the "detail" muscle so necessary in my acting comes from them both.

In Walter Isaacson’s biography of Steve Jobs, Mr. Jobs tells of a lesson he learned from his father.  “When you’re a carpenter making a beautiful chest of drawers, you’re not going to use a piece of plywood on the back, even though it faces the wall and nobody will ever see it.  You’ll know it’s there, so you’re going to use a beautiful piece of wood on the back.  For you to sleep well at night, the aesthetic, the quality has to be carried all the way through.”  Mr. Jobs certainly carried this over into his work at that little company called Apple.

What about you?  What are the traits you carry with you that come from one of your parents?

Some day, I would love to relinquish my bathroom chores to a nice housekeeper.  But in the meantime, I'll keep scrubbing the grout one tile at a time, thinking of my Mom and Dad, and remembering to keep up the detail work, when I clean the bathroom and in my work as an actor.

Up and Out

I love watching Charlie Rose on my DVR (usually while working out on the stair master).  His program is such an education in all things:  film, TV, theatre, literature, politics.  (I admit to more often than not deleting the segments on politics.)  Recently, I watched him interview Julie Taymor, a director most often associated with creating "The Lion King," as well as "Spider-man:  Turn Off the Dark" for Broadway.  She's created and directed many other wonderful films, opera, theatre, puppets.  Suffice to say, she is an amazing story-teller, with some of the most creative visual images you can imagine.  So, it's no surprise that Apple would want to hire her.

Ms. Taymor told a story on Mr. Rose's program about Apple asking her if she would be interested in designing an App for the iPad.  Her response was no.  No to Apple?  Who does that?  Charlie Rose asked why and Ms. Taymor responded (and I'm paraphrasing), "Why would I want to create something where you are looking down into a little box.  I want to create something that forces you to look up and out."

Up and out.

Hearing this quote, I was instantly brought back to December 4, 1999, the day I gave the eulogy for my dear friend Elaine Welton Hill.  Elaine was a wonderful actress and director who died too young of ovarian cancer.  I met Elaine shortly after I moved to Los Angeles.  I was pretty green.  She directed me in a monologue at a theatre workshop in Studio City.  The thing I remember most about that first encounter with her as an artist (aside from being afraid of her) was that she kept telling me not to look at the stage floor, that there was nothing on the floor, to look up and out so everyone could see my eyes.  When I look back at her life, that was how she lived it:  looking up and out, dealing with things head on, moving forward, never wallowing.

Up and out.

Of course, we all love to look back, right?  Looking back can indeed be helpful.   "Those who ignore history are condemned to relive it."  But, how much looking back should one do in one's own life?  For myself, have I been looking back too much of late?  Perhaps.  Part of it has been focused on career, feeling like the days pass and I haven't accomplished nearly what I would like.  I'm not getting any younger and that's not a phrase you want to hear in Hollywood.  And then there's always the question of why haven't I booked/auditioned for "fill in the blank."  Another part of the looking back is focused on goals I set at the beginning of the year to put better habits in place - habits that still haven't become muscles yet:  Put in that yoga DVD, drink less wine, spend more time in prayer, keep your desk clean.

And a big part of my looking back has been the death of my father.  He passed away on December 16, 2012.   I look back on his death and wish there was a way I could have seen him one last time.  I look back and wish I had called him more.  I look back and wish we had more to say to each other.  I look way back and wish that my father and mother had never divorced.  I look back and remember his laugh.  I look back and remember that wonderful day in October - just two months before he passed - when my sisters and brothers and my mom and dad were all together.  Yes, that's a wonderful memory.  

My father knew he was dying.  My sister tells me in his final days, he did a lot of looking back.  And I think he had some regrets that haunted him.  That hurts to think about.  But, I know he doesn't have any regrets now.

So, where does this all lead?  I believe there should be some looking up, some looking out and some looking back - but not in equal percentages.  My brother says he always knows a person is lying if they say "I have no regrets."  I think he's right.  We will all look back and have regrets.  But, if we can keep reminding ourselves to look up and out, to keep pushing ourselves forward, that will encourage growth.  As an actress, that is vital to the craft.  As a person, it's vital to being alive.

I should add that looking down from time to time can also important.

That way, you won't trip.

Mantra for 2011

Profound quotes from the month of December, 2010.

First, from the December issue of Oprah:

"Until you accept the magnitude of your function, your unconscious mind will sabotage any attempt to show your full magnificence. Your self-concept has to match your manifestation or else the manifestation is doomed. In fact, if you diet and lose weight, your mind will either put the weight back on or trip up in some other area. In order to lose weight on a permanent basis, you want a shift in your core belief about who and what you are. This is the miracle you seek."

- Excerpt from a letter that Marianne Williamson wrote to Oprah, regarding Oprah's struggle with weight. In the article, Oprah says the letters from Marianne were the genesis of Marianne's book "A Course in Weight Loss."

Then, two days ago, I read a beautiful speech, (I would call it a prayer) in a book called "The Art of Possibility." It is reported that Nelson Mandela addressed these words to the world at large, but in researching it, that doesn't seem to be true. Still, it is beautiful nevertheless:

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?

You are a child of God.

Your playing small does not serve the world.

There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you.

We are all meant to shine, as children do.

We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we're liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

This was again written my Marianne Williamson.

I am taking these two quotes with me into the New Year as a sort of mantra for 2011 - to remind myself whenever I become afraid. Or when I start to think about turning another year older in twelve months, or when I start to think negatively about opportunities for "older" actresses or any number of other things that may make me doubt God and His desire for me to reach my fullest potential.