Joshua Rivedal's Blog, page 5

What are the Stakes Involved?

I saw a play over the weekend that had a whole slew of characters with nothing discernible at risk. Watching the show was like watching an animated Wikipedia page. The writer infused very little drama into the play and had the characters state what they wanted (good) but had them act in such a way that what they wanted didn’t really matter (bad). 
There were no stakes involved. 
As a writer, it’s important for the purpose of entertainment to ask while writing, “What is at stake if this character does not get what she wants? What’s the worst thing that could happen? What’s the best thing that can happen?” And simply by asking those questions, the vision of what to write becomes clearer and the act of writing becomes a bit easier.
That simple writing exercise reminds me to continuously find and figure out what the stakes are in the major (and minor) decisions that I make in business, life, love… and anything in between.
What’s the best thing that can happen if I do X? What’s the worst thing that can happen if I do X? Why? How? And then what? And then what? And then what? ... and so on.

Without having anything at stake when setting an intention, it renders our goal(s) impotent. Working at and defining what the stakes are when taking action on something, is like putting rocket boosters on your heels to propel you toward your desired goal. 

The Good News Project: Vol. 34— An Unexpected Lesson from a “Great” Dane by Ashley Kowalczyk

This is the thirty-fourth edition of The Good News Project: A series where anyone can share a personal story of inspiration or an event in life where they overcame tremendous odds. Everyone has a powerful story to tell and something to teach the world. (Here are guidelines on how you can write for The Good News Project.) Here we have Ashley Kowalczyk with "An Unexpected Lesson from a “Great” Dane"
--
Everyone has a different way to describe depression.  To me, depression is a dirty grey, worn, hole-ridden blanket that I’ve had wrapped around my body tightly even though it doesn’t keep me warm at all. I started struggling with depression when I was twelve years old and have dealt with it in varying degrees ever since. The most wrapped up in depression that I have been was when I was nineteen years old.
The story actually begins when I was fourteen years old attending Rockford Christian Camp… where I met Dane. He was different from all of the other boys, with his black band t-shirts and piercings. As a blossoming “Emo” girl, I was attracted to him instantly. But even more, he had a contagious laugh and the biggest heart out of anyone I had ever met. Dane had this magical ability to show a person a mirror featuring all of the good and beauty that they had inside of themselves. I fell for him fast and when I was fifteen we started dating. He made me feel beautiful and special, a strange feeling for a teenage girl with depression and a crippling self-image.
However, Dane had his own insecurities and struggled with a deeper depression than my own. He had self-injured and attempted suicide several times during his short life. We were together for almost a year before I broke up with him—I didn’t know how to deal with my own issues, let alone someone else’s. While we were apart, Dane experimented with drugs and eventually became addicted to heroin. After an attempted overdose, he decided to turn his life around. We reconnected, and at my insistence, Dane was honest with me about all that he was struggling with, and eventually we started dating again. 
Our relationship had its ups and downs as Dane fought with his demons, occasional relapse, and the belief that he wasn’t good enough for me, let alone anyone else. But we loved each other, and he asked me marry him once I had graduated from college. Even through all of his pain and suffering, Dane never stopped seeing the good in people or being the best friend everyone needed, and making me feel incredibly happy and loved.  When I graduated from high school and started attending Bradley University to pursue a degree in teaching, the only people prouder than him were my parents. Dane had also started working to become a counselor to help people struggling with the same issues that he had. 
On the day of March 11, 2010, shortly before his twentieth birthday and after six months of being completely clean, Dane lost his struggle with heroin. I soon felt my depression blanket encase me so tightly that I felt that I couldn’t breathe. My best friend was gone. Sleep was foreign to me, but I couldn’t make myself get out of bed. While I managed to finish my freshman year of college, I was completely lost. Why couldn’t he have kept a shred of the love he held for other people for himself? My anger towards God and Dane was only matched by my hopelessness, and I started coping in unhealthy ways. 
A few months after Dane had been gone, I saw a Facebook post from To Write Love on Her Arms (TWOLHA), an organization whose mission statement is:  “…dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury, and suicide.  TWLOHA exists to encourage, inform, inspire, and also to invest directly into treatment and recovery.”  A light bulb switched on in my head—even though Dane was gone, I could try to help people who struggled as he had, and connect with people who had felt pain the way I had. I contacted TWLOHA to start a chapter at Bradley University, and they connected me with a young woman who was also interested in starting a chapter at the school as well. We worked hard that year and formed a strong core group of people who were accepting and wanting to connect with other struggling people. For three years, I was the president of our chapter. We held meetings discussing issues related to mental illness, organized concerts, and invited speakers.  During this time, I started counseling and began sharing my own struggles with people that I trusted.  The depression blanket I carried around, once wrapped so tightly around me, began to loosen and I worked through putting an end to my unhealthy coping habits. I made amends with God, and found my strength in the people who loved me so dearly and would not let me give up.   Even though it has been four years since Dane has been gone, I still miss him and feel the impact of his love.  His life and death have taught me that I am stronger than I ever knew, and I can rely on the people I love to help hold me up when I can’t stand—as we all do from time to time.  I also learned to truly love and see people for all the beauty and good that they are. Conversely, I also needed to learn to see the beauty and good inside of myself, something I was not used to doing. I am trying to live my life without judging others, to see people the way that Dane saw them, and to look at myself the way that he saw me. As I finish my semester of student teaching, I am terrified at the thought of graduating but am excited to start the next chapter. My blanket of depression is looser than it has been in years. I know that I am strong enough to make it through anything and will be a teacher who incorporates a strong sense of community and self-love in my classroom.

What You Allow is What Will Continue

The wallpaper on my laptop reads, “What you allow is what will continue.” 
For the past year, I’ve had this statement as a backdrop every time I sit in front of my computer.  A gentle reminder that, “Dude, if you don’t like what’s going on in your life, your business, your creative world—don’t sit in it, find a way to alter or change it.”
Easier said than done. Most agents of change come into one’s life in the form of an unavoidable crisis or at least by force. As long as we maintain the basics—a little cash in the pocket, a good meal once in a while, and maybe a single day off—we hold off on making changes for another week. I’ve been there: a relationship that lasted five years too long, a working situation that should have been quashed soon after it started. It was safe for a time to be in those places, but they eventually outlived their usefulness. By allowing those conditions into my life, they would continue on and soon kill my spirit (and almost did in a very big way). 
Depending on the circumstances, finding the will to change one’s own situation could mean tremendous upheaval or it could simply be slight adjustments that make a world of difference. Change requires planning and testing… and action. 
Sometimes (almost always) your planning and testing fall short. You fall flat on your face and can lose time, money, and sleep. You’re left to scramble and figure out how to “MacGyver” your way toward your desired outcome. 
You may not be as “safe” walking this tightrope toward the change you desire… but you certainly are free (not “freer” but simply “free”). Your efforts as a change agent for self, will be regarded and duly noted by others—and will allow them the audacity and courage to become a change agent for their own self. 
Perhaps you’re super self-aware and already work hard at making the necessary changes in whatever quadrant of your life you need. Maybe you’re not. Maybe I needed to re-learn this lesson… and so I thank you for indulging me this opportunity.
Choose yourself. Nothing is impossible. Slip that little apostrophe in and add a little space: I’m Possible. Damn it, it’s the truth. 

The Good News Project: Vol. 33— The Trigger for an Uncommon Compassion by Jane Beller

This is the thirty-third edition of The Good News Project: A series where anyone can share a personal story of inspiration or an event in life where they overcame tremendous odds. Everyone has a powerful story to tell and something to teach the world. (Here are guidelines on how you can write for The Good News Project.) Here we have Jane Beller with "The Trigger for an Uncommon Compassion"
--Picture this. You spend an enormous amount of time inventing worst-case scenarios in your mind, worthy of the most ridiculous soap opera story lines. You are irrationally fearful of becoming homeless. You jump at loud noises. You have the most frightening nightmares several times a week. The term “day-mares” seems absurd to most people but not to you—you laugh because you understand exactly what it means. You have this voice in your head telling you, several times a day, that you should “just kill yourself.” It speaks as if suicide is the simplest solution to even the most banal problem.
I lived that way for twenty years. Then one day I was called upon to do jury duty. I couldn’t look towards one side of the courtroom. I was shaking violently. I was terrified. When they tried to calm me down by saying I might not have to serve in this actual courtroom but “down that hall where that door is,” I looked down the empty hallway and screamed.
Something was terribly wrong.
I stumbled out of there crying, called my sister, and told her I was crazy.
Rewind, twenty years earlier, I was fifteen and my sister was nineteen, we were abducted by a man. He posed as a policeman. He took us in his car to a dark street. He held a knife to my back, pushing my face into the car radio, and sexually molested my sister, with me in between them. He told us repeatedly that he was doing this for our own good. That there are bad people out there. That he was doing us a favor.
The cops knew who it was the minute we called them. He was not a first time offender, but they had never successfully convicted him. Five months later, we were in a courtroom. The defense attorney tried to accuse us of being prostitutes. Our kidnapper was a few feet away, staring me down, unblinkingly, like Charles Manson. The defense attorney kept badgering me, asking me how many fingers did the man put into my sister’s vagina. I was still a child. I was virgin. I felt as if all the grown ups in the room had abandoned me.
We put him in jail on two counts of kidnapping, one count of assault with a deadly weapon, and one count of sexual assault. I do not regret putting him in jail. I never have. I couldn’t have lived thinking he would do this to anyone else. But the court case took its toll on me.
Fast-forward to jury duty those many years later. I was once again a traumatized fifteen-year old girl, and he was staring me down from the side of the courtroom. Afterwards I went to see a therapist, and he said, “well you know you have PTSD, right?” Clearly, I didn’t. I had seen many a therapist before, but PTSD wasn't mentioned. It wasn’t a known entity, yet.
PTSD is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It is a mental health condition resulting from a traumatic event. Humans are born with an innate need to avoid or defend themselves from danger, and we all have natural flight, fight, and freeze responses. It is normal to feel fear when you are in these situations. But people like me feel fear when there is no danger. A trigger is the catalyst that brings on these reactions. It could be something as simple as a song, or a scene in a film, or a television program. It could be a news event, a loud noise, or a person’s emotional outburst.
When I am triggered, I become dazed and feel like a deer in the headlights. That is my "freeze" response. Or I can get speedy and jumpy, and sometimes I impulsively remove myself from an uncomfortable situation. Those are my “flight” responses. I feel the need to physically defend people when I perceive a danger. That is my “fight” response.
Not knowing I was triggered all those years, not knowing what PTSD was, I did not know I could find help.
I found the right therapist for me. Simply put, she makes me feel better. I work very hard in therapy, and I leave her office every time with a renewed pep in my step. I have actually skipped down the city street after leaving her office! That skip is her doing. She helps return me to the same funny child I once was.
Talk therapy and EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization & Reprocessing Therapy*) are tools that have changed my life. And I get to do them with probably the kindest soul I've ever met. I am learning how to understand PTSD and live peacefully with it.
I don’t have to pretend to be brave and act tough all the time. I can just be me. I am not frightened as often. I have learned to recognize signs of my PTSD, and I now have tools to gently pull myself back in off the proverbial edge.
They say that PTSD never goes away. But instead of it being a living nightmare, it has just become a part of me to which I must consistently tend and look after. I now more naturally choose friends who are empathetic and understanding, and who choose positive paths around their own roadblocks. And it has actually given me a gift—not only can I empathize with others’ struggles, but I can offer them a sort of uncommon compassion. That is the silver lining to my dark cloud. I can show up and bring them a small ray of sunshine.

* For more information about PTSD Peter Levine’s books are highly recommended. Though for those with PTSD, getting help is the answer.
* For more information about EMDR and/or to find a trained therapist go to: http://www.emdr.com

Why the World Needs You to be an Aristocrat** (Note the asterisks)

Now that I have your attention with those two asterisks in the title, please see the definition of aristocracy that came across my desk this week.

** “I believe in aristocracy, though—if that is the right word, and if a Democrat may use it.  Not an aristocracy of power, based upon rank and influence, but an aristocracy of the sensitive, the considerate and the plucky.  Its members are to be found in all nations and classes, and all through the ages, and there is a secret understanding between them when they meet. They represent the true human tradition, the one permanent victory of our queer race over cruelty and chaos.  Thousands of them perish in obscurity, a few are great names.  They are sensitive for others as well as for themselves, they are considerate without being fussy, their pluck is not swankiness but the power to endure, and they can take a joke.: ~ E. M. Forster, from Two Cheers for Democracy

We should ever strive to be an **aristocrat in our every dealing, whether in our sales, our marketing, our partnerships, or with our loved ones. 
How much more could we achieve individually and collectively when we apply this definition of aristocracy to ourselves? How much peace would we find? How much rest?
The aristocrat, the plucky, give extra of themselves—their brain, their time, their love. 

Some might say that in the world of business, this idea of an aristocrat could be a little too romantic—but I’ll retort that this kind of chivalry is not yet dead. 

The Good News Project: Vol. 32— It’s Harder to Receive Than to Give by Paul Paire

This is the thirty-second edition of The Good News Project: A series where anyone can share a personal story of inspiration or an event in life where they overcame tremendous odds. Everyone has a powerful story to tell and something to teach the world. (Here are guidelines on how you can write for The Good News Project.) Here we have Paul Paire with "It’s Harder to Receive Than to Give"
--
When other parents hear that my wife and I have triplets, their reaction is typically the same, “Wow! That must have been difficult.” They’re right, but not for the reasons they (and you) are probably thinking. 
Having triplets was difficult emotionally, physically, and financially. But money is earned to be saved and spent on things that are important. I never regretted spending an entire year’s salary to have children nor the cost of caring for them within the first six months of their life. My children are important to me (my wife also thinks jewelry is important, I’m not convinced yet.)
Having triplets was difficult physically for my wife. Two months bed rest at home with a one and a half year old on the loose, followed by three months of daily pills and shots while on bed rest in the hospital with the doctors stopping premature labor multiple times. But her body is strong and she was happy to endure hardship for her children.
It was difficult physically for me as well, but nowhere near the magnitude that it was for her. Late nights prepping things at the house so that it would be ready for when the triplets came home—things like putting up sconce lighting so we didn’t have to worry about a rogue kid pulling down a floor lamp, building and painting a nursery for three, traveling to see our one-and-a-half-year-old daily and then my wife every weekend—it wasn’t grueling, but it was taxing.
Once the triplets were home it was physically demanding as well, however, we had an outpouring of help for the physical tasks. We had hired a doula to take care of the 3am feedings three nights per week. Family, friends, neighbors, and friends of neighbors came over to help with laundry, dishes, cleaning, and caring for the children (sometimes that simply meant spending time with them.) 
The emotional challenges were probably not what people would expect either. Three bawling babies were not nerve wracking to me and potty training wasn’t all that difficult. Show a three-year-old girl a magazine full of dresses from which she gets to choose one if she uses the potty fifteen times in a row, and boom, no more diapers. Sure, each kid has their own personality, which at various times (terrible twos), can be challenging, but on the whole it wasn’t terrible. Even when family expressed their concerns over how difficult this could and would be for us, I took it all in stride and didn't let their fears become my own. 
For me, the emotional challenges came from people helping, and our needing the help. It’s often said that it’s better to give than to receive; however, I found it is harder to receive than to give.  
Our society stigmatizes people who ask for help. I, like a lot of people, don't look favorably on the panhandler in the street, or the television evangelists asking for money. Movies and the news media have taught us to not stop and give help to someone on the side of the road (how many times have you thought while watching a horror movie – ‘No!  Don’t pick him up!’). Asking for help was difficult.
When you ask for help you have to relinquish control. This. Was. Difficult. People did what they were comfortable doing, and some of those things weren’t on my list of things I thought needed to be done. Each of the things they did was something I could do, but with the added work of caring for the newborns, there just wasn’t enough time. Maybe they made dinner. Maybe they scrubbed the toilet (Admittedly, I never would have done this with or without time being available to me.) They were happy to help, and I was grateful for whatever they did, even if it was something simple or mundane and not on my list.
However, I also struggled, sometimes, with how people completed tasks. “That cup doesn’t belong in that cupboard.” “Why are my shirts in that drawer?” It wasn’t that it was done better or worse than how I would’ve done it; it was just different. My house was different. My things were touched or moved and that was a struggle for me. In the midst of all the other upheaval, the additional change shouldn't have bothered me. But it did. It made it hard to receive the gift they were giving—their time, their effort, their love.
Was having triplets difficult? Yes. But not in ways I ever could have imagined and, not in the way in which anyone ever spoke about. Changing how I responded to situations instead of trying to change the situation around me was the most difficult part of having triplets (even beyond dealing with the overwhelming amount of work). As a result of this change, I’m a better person.
None of the potential problems—premature birth, birth defects, or long-term health problems came to fruition. We have four healthy, happy, beautiful kids. We also have an abundance of deep friendships—more than we had before we had our children. I learned that people are blessed when they give, and if you don’t ask for help, you can hinder God from blessing them… and yourself.
Having triplets has taught me there are times when I need to relinquish control (don’t let my kids read this), and to receive help when it’s offered (especially when someone offers to scrub the toilet).

The Good News Project: Vol. 31— Risk and “Writing” Your Own Ticket by Zach Lichtmann

This is the thirty-first edition of The Good News Project: A series where anyone can share a personal story of inspiration or an event in life where they overcame tremendous odds. Everyone has a powerful story to tell and something to teach the world. (Here are guidelines on how you can write for The Good News Project.) Here we have Zach Lichtmann with "Risk and “Writing” Your Own Ticket."
--It was not yet three weeks into my first teaching job when my boss said, “Zach, I want to speak with you this afternoon, in private.”             Why in private? Did I screw up? Has something terrible happened?
Later that day, it only got more bizarre as we had our one-on-one conversation. “Come in and shut the door. And sit down.”
As I shut the door, there was no time to sit before the first question: “You're a writer, yes?”
I was hired to teach English. My boss had interviewed me, knowing that I had been writing since my fist grade teacher made us keep journals. In one genre or another, I'd been writing all my life. I'd earned my bachelor's degree in English at Penn State and my questioner already knew these details well. I suspected some kind of hook behind the baited question, but for what reason? Coolly, I replied. “Yes. Mostly, I write poetry.”
“I thought so.” An envelope was slid across the big brown desk with a single nodding gesture for me to pick it up. As I opened it, I saw a red Valentine heart on the face of a white card. “Each year, I throw a private poetry party for Valentine's day. I'd like to invite you. Of course you should bring some of your poems to read. And bring a date.”
I'm sure my raised eyebrows were giving away my bewilderment.
“You understand that I can't invite all the teachers and staff, so you cannot tell anyone that I invited you. I would not want to give the impression of favoritism. I assure you that is not the case. I simply invite poets and those who have a great appreciation for poetry.”
Of all the possible conversations, I had not anticipated an invitation to a secret poetry party. Bring some of my poetry to read? In what style? Love poems in honor of the Valentine theme? Before I could ask any questions, I was dismissed. I hid the invitation in one of my work folders until I got home.I called on a friend to get her opinion on this private party and to see if she'd accompany me. She had plenty of questions.
“Do you know of anyone that's going?”
“Nope. It's secret. I can't ask around about it.”
“Well, what poems would you read? And how many?”
“I don't know...”
 “And poetry is art,” she added. “What if your boss thinks something in a poem is inappropriate? It's like showing a whole non-work side of yourself.” She made me consider some of the real dangers of attending and reading poetry in front of my boss. “And you're a teacher in a public school. You have a public image to maintain. Do any of your poems have curses in them? I wouldn't read any of those if they do,” she warned.
I felt uneasy about subjecting my writing and my job to such politics.
As the RSVP drew closer, I had to make a decision. If this really was a Valentine Poet's Party as the card indicated, then these folks had to appreciate good poems. My boss didinvite me privately to escape the usual politics of public schools. I decided to make a go of it, and I narrowed down a selection of three good poems.
The party was lavish. Catered meats and cheeses, cocktails, and every color fruit had been displayed in platters and crystal dishes. Valentine hearts tastefully adorned the private estate. I began meeting poets and writers. It wasn't red-carpet Hollywood, but it was some of New Jersey's finest poets under one roof. (Apologies, but I did pledge confidentiality, and some things are sacred.) Discussions on publications ensued. My work had only been published at my university's and graduate school's magazines. While not insignificant, that was not the same as swimming with the big fish. My pursuit of pedagogy and my passion for empowering young people through their writing was an all-consuming endeavor. Yet, there I was, chatting with other authors and rekindling my desire for having my own work published.
An announcement was made to adjourn to the reading room for the official poetry reading. Several poets performed. My boss clapped as heartily as the rest of us did after each poet read, even after the juicy poems. With that, I figured I hadn't come there to merely listen, so I got up and walked to the front of the room for my own reading.
I read my first poem, and I received a solid clapping response. I read two more and the poets gave me an even greater salute. Then, it happened...
When I sat back down in my chair, a hand reached from behind me and shook me by the shoulder. It wasn't my boss's hand. A red-haired lady leaned forward and pointed to the poems I held. “That last one is mine,” she said.
I didn't understand what she could mean. I'd written the poem three months earlier, and it was one of my personal favorites. My scrunched eyebrows implored her to explain herself. “That's mine now,” she repeated before introducing herself as the editor of a literary journal. “I want that for our next issue, so don't let it go to anybody else. It's mine.”

As I realized what she meant, all I could do was smile and happily agree to give it to her for publication. It became my first published work outside of college. The risk I took that Valentine's Day changed the course of my life. After several more years of teaching, and a few more small publications, I decided I'd make the leap to write full-time.
My first novel, Dynamo, was recently published, and when I visit schools for writing-workshops and author-visits, I remind students of an important lesson: there's risk in everything meaningful, and you have to put yourself out there in the world. After all, you never know who's sitting in the audience. ***Bio:Zach Lichtmann is an author, writing-workshop facilitator, and arts advocate. He is currently booking writing workshops and Skype sessions with schools. His YA novel, Dynamo, (an urban adventure story, inspired by true events) is changing teens' lives. Visit Zach's author page WriteHardest.com for more information about his writing and adventures.
Dynamo Tagline:“Becoming the person you want to be is the greatest fight of your life.”
Dynamo Synopsis: Between Matt's best friend, Alex, standing on a table to ask out a girl in front of 300 students, and the odd, new English teacher telling everyone to call him "Prometheus," Matt knows his world is changing. He even starts daydreaming about the sea-eyed girl that pinned him to the cafeteria table, but any chance of regaining normalcy would dissolve forever after he witnesses a violent crime--and does nothing to stop it. Under his nightmarish guilt, Matt swears to create a mechanism inside himself--something that will allow him to act without fear. He sets out with his tight group of friends to challenge himself with a series of secret missions. But, the authorities in school, the cops in the street, and the violent criminals in two cities have their own agendas. As the crew of four friends clashes with these forces, Matt's obsession to create the dynamo within may become deadly.

A couple of pieces of press from the Off-Broadway weekend (May 16-18)... and a few other quick notes

The debut of The Gospel... May 16-18 was a success! Four shows with fantastic audiences.

A couple of takeaways:

1) We have to change the name of the show for future incarnations. People are afraid of the word "Gospel" and it turns people away.

2) We have good video and that will help keep the show alive.

3) We have a great new script to work with and great direction from a world-class director in Brent Buell.

4) There is a ton of love in this world. I was sick as a dog the entire weekend, and the amount of people who came out of the woodwork to support and help nourish me back to health was outstanding.

A couple of radio interviews we did in advance of the show:

1) Stagetology—Click here: http://stagetology.com/?p=675

2) Valerie's NJ—Click here: http://www.my9nj.com/story/25528610/the-gospel-according-to-josh
(We made the front page of the My9 Website on Thurs. May 15)


Thank you so much for your support on this trial Off-Broadway run of the show! It was a ton of work and it couldn't have happened without the many hands that helped and the love and good vibes from friends and strangers alike!

Much love,
Josh

The Good News Project: Vol. 30—A Daughter’s Forgiveness… and The Ripple Effect by Jessie Fahay

This is the thirtieth edition of The Good News Project: A series where anyone can share a personal story of inspiration or an event in life where they overcame tremendous odds. Everyone has a powerful story to tell and something to teach the world. (Here are guidelines on how you can write for The Good News Project.) Here we have Jessie Fahay with "A Daughter’s Forgiveness… and The Ripple Effect."
--
I’ll be honest—when folks ask me for a personal inspirational story, I have a difficult time thinking of what that might be. A part of me feels as though my journey to how I got to where I am as a theatre producer, author, and speaker may come off as too whiney or typical—I was a frustrated actress. What actor hasn’t wished things could be easier? I’d like to meet that person. But I didn’t just want to be famous—I’m someone who had always had an interest in participating in theatre arts that make a difference.  I had seen a lot of powerful productions in the past that I thought could really support sustainable change if they raised awareness for a certain cause or were aimed to educate.  That is where the idea of my not-for-profit Theatre Company, Ripple Effect Artists, came along. But what is the personal unleashing story from my own past?  I had to dig deep to think about this one.
What is it that makes an organization work? Communication. Dedication. Hard Work. Perseverance.  Blah. Blah. Blah. This is stuff we already know. Here is what I propose—an organization and furthermore the richness of one’s life is dependent on the quality of one thing and one thing only—relationships.  The relationships and how much we can trust each other within a company as well as being open, allowing for times of vulnerability, being able to ask for assistance, being able to work together is determinant on the quality of relationships.
The birth of Ripple Effect Artists Inc. was able to happen because of one of my own personal relationships being completely transformed. This relationship is now someone with whom I work extremely closely and who is one of the most active Board Members of the organization.  Five years ago, if you were to tell me I would be working diligently with this woman, I would say to you “Well I love her, but I don’t think I could ever work with her.”  This woman is none other than… my mother.    Our relationship throughout my early twenties was fine. We got along great. Spoke pretty often. Yet, there was a block in my ability to be completely open with her. Why? Incidents in the past of course—and these are incidents that cannot be erased or corrected. So what do most human beings do? We hold on—we carry around all the anger and resentment that may come with those incidents. See we had a tumultuous history, my mom and me.  If you were to meet her now, you would have no idea that she would even be capable of these things—yet, they happened. Like any mother, she had her times of stress, worry, and frustration with her only daughter whom she loved. How did that stress manifest?  I got hit in public. What happened in my adolescent years?  I got told I was too overweight. As an adult I thought I had pushed these many awful incidents out of my memory, but they lurked. And the child inside of me felt the need to protect me from the danger from my past.
One day it all shifted. Someone set an example from me. I witnessed a young lady get on the phone and forgive her father for leaving her and her mother at such a young age. When I asked why she did that, she replied “I wanted to live a life where I am not constantly afraid that someone will leave.” So what did I do?  I got on the phone.
“Mom, this is really hard—but I’ve been holding on to resentment due to the negative comments you made about my appearance and also that you hit me as a child. I am telling you now that I forgive you. I do not agree with what you did—but I can forgive it.”
And then I heard silence. My thoughts were racing. “Did I just screw things up?  Did I make her upset? Am I going to regret bringing up these past events? What did I do?!”
And then I heard with her voice choked with tears: “I could not have asked for a better gift for my sixtieth birthday.”
And in that moment, I realized what all the religious fanatics go crazy over—forgiveness. Did this make me a born again? No. It made me realize the power of forgiveness, completion, and closure in a way that I had never discovered before. From this, I got the ability to receive my mother’s love.  I was able to communicate with her with complete honesty and vulnerability. A couple months later, I made another scary phone call. “Mom. I want to be a producer and start a theatre-company that makes a difference. We need resources. We need money.” Her response: “I am ready to write a check.” 
Since this conversation, Ripple Effect Artists Inc. has become incorporated, and has mounted six well-reviewed productions that have raised funds and awareness for multiple advocacy groups.  We have also mounted readings and five different major fundraising events. We have a staff of four, a board of thirteen, and an ensemble of twenty-eight actors and directors. There have been several news articles about us in various theatre news outlets. We have an event space and an office. We have artists and business professionals committed to using theatre as a vehicle to provoke dialogue and move audiences from apathy to action. We are a community committed to greatness while making an impact all based on thriving and positive relationships. And it all started from the transformation of an incredibly special relationship.  For my incredible Mother, my best friend, and my angel in life who has supported this company through all its journeys, none of this could have happened without her. 

The Good News Project: Vol. 29—More than a Survivor by Marcia Gelman Resnick

This is the twenty-ninth edition of The Good News Project: A series where anyone can share a personal story of inspiration or an event in life where they overcame tremendous odds. Everyone has a powerful story to tell and something to teach the world. (Here are guidelines on how you can write for The Good News Project.) Here we have Marcia Gelman Resnick with "More than a Survivor."
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It is often said, and I believe, that you are only as happy as your least happy child. I am a mother who buried three children. My only surviving child had Hodgkin’s disease within two years of the death of his brother. Now I am the happiest I have ever been. I am a survivor and this is my story.
Married when I was not quite twenty-one, after a few years I wanted to have a child. My two older sisters already had children. Every year on Mother’s Day, my dad would take the whole family to a hotel to celebrate the moms in our family. I was the only one not a mother, and it hurt.
My first born, a son, was born in February 1974. He lived until the age of twenty-eight. However, he was born severely brain damaged, microcephalic—a condition when a person’s brain does not grow. He could not speak, hear, talk, and was totally unaware of anything. All he had was a strong heart. We kept him at home for about six months, and then put him in a home where he could get proper care. I still wasn’t really a mom.
In August 1976, after taking fertility drugs, I gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl. The twins were a little premature, but were doing well in the hospital. They were almost ready to go home, when my daughter stopped feeding. The doctors could not figure out what was wrong. They tried absolutely everything, but she was failing. She died at age three weeks. I was twenty-eight at the time, picking out a coffin and cemetery plot for my daughter. Thankfully, my son, Doug, did come home.
After all we had been through, we finally had our precious child. I was a mother. Two-and-a-half years later, we were blessed with another healthy son. After all the tragedy, I believed that my share of loss was over, and that my two sons would grow up to be happy, healthy adults… boy, was I in for a rude awakening.
At the age of twenty-two, on the day his girlfriend broke up with him, my son Doug took his life. We did not see this coming. When people are depressed, many put on a mask. I did not even know that he and his girlfriend were having any problems. Whenever I asked him how he was, his answer was “excellent.”
How does a parent feel when they lose a child to suicide? I felt like my world had come to an end. I was just a normal, regular person. I had buried one child, and one child was severely brain damaged. Why me? I was on a planet all by myself. How could this happen to me? What do I do now? I was totally clueless as to what to do to continue on with my life without Doug. My friends helped me find support groups with other “normal” parents like me who had also lost their children to suicide. They were on this strange new planet with me. I went to every in-person support group available. I joined an on-line support group, Parents of Suicides (POS). We grieved together, we supported each other, we understood each other. We were in a club that no one wanted to be in—a parent who lost a child to suicide. I gave up my law practice. I had to take care of myself and my one surviving child.
Then my surviving son was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s disease. We had to get through this as well, and we did. He went through chemotherapy, which was successful. He was only twenty-two, but he handled the situation with grace and humor. He also is a survivor.
I have buried three children. It is still surreal when I go to the cemetery and see the names of my three children on graves. No parent should ever have to see that.
Where am I now? I still am active in POS, which I joined right after Doug died.  Many of my closest friends, whom I met through POS, lost children to suicide. I have traveled to New Zealand, Australia, and South Africa several times, and to Georgia (U.S.A.) often, to spend time with my fellow “sisters” who have lost children to suicide.
I have facilitated a support group for “Parents Who Lost Children to Suicide” for nearly five years. I participate in a volunteer outreach program run by the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP). At the request of a newly bereaved family, two outreach volunteers go to their home and offer support and guidance. My husband and I participate every year in an eighteen-mile overnight walk for AFSP— a nonprofit organization that raises money for suicide education, research, and support. Why do I do this? There were wonderful people who helped me get through the shock of losing Doug, and who helped me to start living again. Now I want to be there for others who are just starting out on this journey of grief. Giving back and helping others is the only way to give meaning to Doug’s death.
Who am I now? I recently turned sixty-five and to celebrate my birthday, I had a girls’ weekend at a spa and we had a great time. I love to travel, go to the theater, ski, and play tennis. I have a wonderful family and dear friends.
Best of all, my son and his wife gave me the most amazing gift ever—a grandson who is now three months old. I could not be happier. Life is good right now. *** My bio: Marcia Gelman Resnick. Born and raised in Brooklyn, New York. I live in Manhattan, and New Jersey on weekends. I have been, at different periods in my life, a math teacher, and a lawyer. I am a wife, mom, grandmother to my beautiful grandson and grand puppy. I am a survivor. http://www.douglasklein.bravepages.com/