Winter Solstice Writing

Today is the winter solstice which means it is the shortest day of the year. The longest, darkest night of the winter. Here we are. Sigh. As I write at my desk, overlooking the quiet street below, it is already dark. This happens I guess due to seasons and axis tilt and other things I don't really know about, but the point of it all is that we are in the dark of the dark! And there is only light from here. Hallelujah!

It's been a rough winter for the U.S as a country and as collective communities---between police violence against people of color, more and more gun violence and mass shootings and profiling and demonizing of Muslims and refugees, my heart has been darkened. This is to say nothing of the violence, pain and suffering happening in the greater world including Turkey, Syria, Iraq, Paris, Lebanon and more. Always more. It can be overwhelming.

And the loud, angry voices heard in the dark aren't helping---voices of intolerance, voices of hate, voices of fear.  It's easy to be afraid in the dark.

Now certainly there is value in darkness: contemplation, silence, reflection and renewal can be found in periods of darkness. This dark day can be a special day, but it is the light we look to. The dawn after the night, after the storm. We always seek light. And yes, sometimes it takes courage to seek light from darkness. But tomorrow will begin to give us more light, little by little. It's a start. So now is the time for courage, for our voices to demand more light, in more ways than one.

May the increasing length of our days bring us increased generosity and tolerance towards our fellow humans. May the sustained light remind us of our responsibility to others and of the value of compromise and kindness. May this season of lights bring us deeper, action-driven empathy towards those suffering. May it keep our hearts open to each other, even just a moment longer.

May we remember it could be any of us in that dark in a heartbeat. Our roots are the same.

How to become an office superhero

I just finished teaching four days of presentation skills through improv and authenticity training.

To accountants.

Oi. :)

They started off skeptical. Completely. Skeptical. "There's a certain way things are done. There's a "company" way of presenting. Who was I to tell them otherwise, anyway?"

But my job was to help them be more authentically themselves and use that same newly discovered authenticity in their internal and external speeches. But as it stood now, there was no speech or speaker, there was only powerpoint and graphs and bullet points. There was no cohesion. No story. No sense of self.

They were afraid: What if higher-ups or potential clients didn't like who they really were? What if they thought they were 'unprofessional'? What if they failed? Good Lord, what if they failed? A questions we ask ourselves all the time. What if I fail? "If I am my authentic self, what if someone doesn't like it? Doesn't like me? And what if that person is important in my life -- like a boss or a spouse? Yikes. Scary indeed.

Being authentic is always a risk. But being who you are sets you apart from the pack. It actually makes you who you are. Being who you are is what no one else can do. Being who you are makes you happy and successful. Anything else is living a lie. And who wants to do that?

And when you bring that--that sense of authentic self-- to a speech or a presentation or a conversation. Jinkys! A miracle occurs!

Everyone presented a speech at beginning of the first day and the same speech, revamped, at the end of the last day. Transformation occurred.

Speeches that I could not even begin to wrap my brain around on day one suddenly made sense. People who I thought must be so miserable in their daily lives, suddenly came to life and were fully realized people standing in front of me. I listened. I was engaged---on topics I have no interest in!! Their authenticity brought about my presence. In other words, their realness brought about mine. We were alive again, in communication. Possibility existed.

This is what happens when you risk showing your authentic self: truth, engagement, connection.

Heck, you may even become an office superhero!

Lake Michigan Epiphanies

Improv teaches commit.

In order to have a successful scene, one needs to commit fully to where they are and what they are doing. Accept! Accept! Be there for real 100% and then see what happens. Usually funny, truth and the unexpected happens. It's why I love improv.

I spent eleven years in New York City without ever really fully committing, truth be told. Sure I had an apartment (several in fact!) I had friends and a community and a church and jobs and other things that make a home, but I never really made it my home. Of course, I would never admit that at the time. No way. New York was home!

Don't get me wrong, I loved New York, truly, but it was never really home. It was always a place I was for a while. I always wondered inside when I would leave. I mean, I kept an apartment in Minneapolis for that entire time! I had furniture in Minneapolis! Wine glasses! Things! Minneapolis was always my fallback. "Well, I can always return there!" (and who knows I still might for cry-i...) After all, friends and family and potential employment lived in Minneapolis. And this is to say nothing of the extended time I spent in Mexico, being gone for months at a time. I think it some ways it held me back from fully being present and accepting NYC as my home. I don't think that was bad or good. It just was.

And now I have moved to Chicago. And I almost felt myself falling into the same trap. "I'll try Chicago for a while. Who knows for how long..." Not that there is anything wrong with that. It's how I have lived my last 14 years, but something has shifted (age?) and I feel the need to lay down some roots, to stake some claims, to be fully present where I am and in what I am doing...to commit. I said it: I feel the need to commit. So I went back to Minneapolis and picked up my wine glasses. They're all here now.

So, yes, I live in Chicago. And for now that's where I'll be. I'll still likely flit off to Mexico now and then to run an artist residency or two, as I do love Mexico :), but probably less. I want to work in Chicago and be a fixture, not a guest.

Recently, I was walking on the beach of Lake Michigan near my new apartment that I have committed to being in for at least the next year or two, and I was thinking, "I'm super lucky!" I have work I mostly love, an agent who believes in me, opportunities in Mexico and elsewhere, I have new friends, a family who lives close, an amazing new apartment that makes me happy and I can walk to a beach!! The beach!

I am here and the truth is --- I love it.

And even if sometimes I don't...just saying the words changes things.

"How do you like chicago?"

"I love it!"

I'm committing. And then --- who knows? Maybe Chicago will commit to me.

Rings and all.

Mexican Manners

So I spend a lot of time in Mexico.

I love it for so many reasons: the people, the culture, the food, but not the least of which are the manners I have consistently noticed and experienced in this country.

For example, when someone walks in a room where people are, (and by people, I mean strangers) the entering person almost always say hello. "Buenos Dias!" to almost all the little groups of people and then they respond! "Buenos Dias stranger!!" (Well, they don't say "stranger", but you know what I mean.) I love this!!! How civilized! You walk into a room or a bus or a restaurant and you greet those already there! Why not? It's pleasant people! Pleasant!

My other favorite Mexican tradition is when you walk by someone eating or about to eat you say, "Provecho!" --the Spanish equivalent of bon appetit. It's so polite! Everyone says it--to strangers! I love it! "Enjoy your food! Provecho! Even though I don't know you! I wish you a pleasant mealtime experience! Provecho!"

I even say it now. When I walk by someone eating, I give them a little knowing smile and like a local say, "Provecho!" They look up to thank me, thrown for a moment perhaps because I am not Mexican, then with a smile full of pride for the polite gringa, they thank me.

De nada. De nada.

Lesson for us all: It takes so little to make someone's day pleasant.

Manners: underrated

I heart MX.

Refugee art

It's been a while since I have spoken about all the beautiful Iraqi and Syrian refugee art I have for sale. For the past four years, I have been trying to sell art for my professional artist friends, who also happen to be refugees. I met many of them in Syria. Some are still there, some are back in Iraq, some are living elsewhere in the region and a few lucky ones have been resettled to a third country. They are all from Iraq or Syria and they are all still in need, having had there lives completely uprooted due to the violence.

Many of you have bought pieces. Thank you! If you could... sharing this link would be most helpful. It's a direct way to help a refugee artist.

If you are interested in more pics or more information including prices, please comment and or email me at kimschultz1@gmail.com. Also, if you are interested in a particular artist and want to see more of their work, I can put you in touch. Prices are all reasonable. Please see website for sizes and more.

www.iraqirefugeeart.weebly.com

May peace prevail.

Muslim in America

I have been thinking a lot about little Ahmed from Texas. A 14 year old boy feeling the effects of a country and state and school filled with fear and bigotry. He just wanted to show an incredibly cool clock he built and instead he gets humiliated, cuffed and arrested because, let's be honest, he was Muslim. A young Muslim boy---the recipient of all the hate and religious intolerance this country is experiencing, dimming our alleged beacon of light. The worst part is by arresting him like that and parading him cuffed in front of his schoolmates, they were only perpetuating the fear, the narrative that: "Islam is bad! Ahmed is bad! Be afraid of him and others like him! Clearly, he's a terrorist! All Muslims are terrorists!!"

But then something happened. (Did his school Irving MacArthur High School in Texas apologize? No. Actually the opposite, although an apology would have been the proper response and could have created a learning moment.) But people stepped up. It's like what I was talking about in a previous blog about the refugee crisis. In this case it was a really important person: the President of the United States. Holy cow, you guys. President Obama tweeted this:

How amazing. I was so proud of our president for stepping into this and tweeting a HUGE show of respect and support for Ahmed. if only all of our leaders would step up in ways like this and be role models instead of "must-get-re-elected-fear-mongering-crazy-people". What a game changer that must have been for Ahmed. Follow that by hundreds of thousands of tweets supporting him: #istandwithahmed and special invitations from Facebook, Twitter and MIT. What a day!

And now, maybe just maybe, a little sting of this day is off for Ahmed. Maybe, just maybe he realizes he is okay, smart and yes, even valued in this society even if he has brown skin and a Muslim faith. Maybe, just maybe, he will accept that he is not a criminal or a terrorist as he said he felt and has been called---but just a kid, like every other kid in his school, a good kid in a crazy world. Maybe now he knows that although many of us are fearful and bigoted, not all of us are. It takes just one to step up, to change the tides, to take that heartbreaking look of fear off his face. It could be any of us in a different situation.

We have opportunities every day to be more of who we say we are, who we want to be, who we claim to be as a people. We are a nation of immigrants who seem to have forgotten that fact. We are a nation founded on religious freedom, yet seem to now think that only applies to Christianity. We claim the "land of the free and home of the brave" but have become the "land of the intolerant and home of the fearful."

Shame on the teachers and administrators at Irving MacArthur and the local police. Shame on them for perpetuating hate and stereotypes, for teaching their students fear and bigotry, for reacting from their lowest selves. Shame on them for perpetuating the Muslim-as-terrorist narrative, as Bitter Gertrude blogged. And shame on the current political voices encouraging, even embracing that fear, bigotry and yes, the narrative. Shame on them. We have a responsibility to not let these voices go unchecked, to not let bigotry and xenophobia reign, to see that acceptance, goodness and generosity become the loudest voices in the room.

But thankfully good is coming out of this. I can only hope more will, that our true colors will fight to shine through. And I hope Ahmed's life brightens in ways he can't imagine because of this shameful event. Maybe ours too.

#istandwithahmedandmuslims #weareallthesame #manufacturedfeardamages #nicejobpotus #hashtagheaven #I'vebeenbloggingalot #you'reabeacon

I wonder...

I wonder if this essay will be interesting.

Ha!

We (or at least I) spend so much time hoping. I hope I get this job, I hope I fall in love. I hope I have money. Hope hope hope! We hope our kids do well. We hope we don't get fired. We hope we win the lottery! Hoping is hard. And disappointing. There's always room for disappointment in hoping. So lately, I've taken to using new language. And it's wonderful.

I recently read Susan Jeffers' Embracing Uncertainty. And I gotta say although second half is kind of a snooze, first half is a game changer! There are a couple of her exercises I use regularly and love! One of them is the idea of wondering. She says by changing this one word "fear of the uncertain is replaced by curiosity." I like curiosity. Curiosity is fun! It may have killed the cat, but I think that's a lot of hype.

So nowadays, I always try to wonder instead of hope. I wonder what will happen. I wonder if they will call. I wonder if I will be a success. And I gotta tell ya: It's a wonder! Life is better while wondering. It's full of possibility. It may be a simple language shift, but it actually can lead to a larger transformation if you're open to it. For realz.

Wondering takes us out of fear-based worry, takes us out of the crowd, takes us out of the what-if mentality. Wonder is child-like, open and yes even hopeful, but it is not hoping. It's the step before or maybe the step after -- I don't know. But it feels different. Better. Breezier. Easy, breezy, beautiful Cover Girl. And the best part? There is no disappointment in wondering because there is no expectation. I mean, after all, we're just wondering.

Try it. It works.

(I wonder if you will...)

These Eyes

I seem to have Mexico-adopted a dog while I am down here. This guy:

Or maybe rather---he adopted me.

I was sitting on a bench eating my second taco al pastor, my personal favorite down here in Mexico, when this dog approached me with these eyes. He was begging yes, but not so much begging as, I don't know...asking? He looked at me as if to say: I'm really hungry and I need you. Can you feed me? You are my last hope. Now I assure you I am not crazy. I know dogs don't talk, let alone think like that...probably. But I swear: he kindly asked me for any food I could spare.

Well, now you remember, I really like tacos al pastor and I only had two, and one was already gone ...and well, I was hungry. But this dog! So I gave him a priceless piece of pork. It was then I saw his body: emaciated, shrunken. He looked at me again. I gave him more. Then he lay/lie/laid down and not the good lay-down --- the "I might be dying" lay-down, which I don't think I have ever seen before. But in this moment, this is what I knew to be true.

I went inside and got him some water and placed it front of his limp body. Then I went and bought him his own taco. Beef this time, no tortilla. The taco place thought I was nuts. "No tortilla, por favor. Su para un perro." He scarfed it up. I got him to drink the water. He eventually drank the whole thing. He was clearly dehydrated. I bought him more food and refilled the water container. He started to perk up. I pet him, encouraged him to drink more water. He looked at me again with those eyes...and I started to cry. I can't tell you why I cried, but I did. Maybe he was fine. Maybe I exaggerated. But something in his eyes. I saw him, desperate: this soul, this life. And I cried. I sat with him a while, just being with him and after a while he eventually he got up and trotted off. I maybe saved his life. I maybe didn't. But I stepped up.

There's been so much in the news lately [thankfully] about the dire refugee crisis in the Middle East and Europe. Devastating photos and stories. Lives. People. Dev. a. stat. ing. And I hear politicians and random small people spouting on about walls and aliens and illegals and jobs and thieves and not enough and go home and we can only take 57 and not our problem. And then I look at a photo, at a person's eyes, like this brave man and I see him. I see another soul, another life. And I cry.

This photo in particular made me weep. This man. Clutching his children.

We are all the same. There really are no borders or countries or lines. They are created. False. Arbitrary. We are all people and some of us need help right now. Some of us need a damn taco. Or a hand stepping out of a boat, or a safer way of getting to safety.

I traveled to Syria 6 years ago, before everything turned so, so south. And I often wonder how and where those people are I met. Are they still alive? Did someone help them? And the other millions I didn't meet, who can't protect their children or save them from sure death? I mean, these people would rather risk likely death on a rickety, overpopulated boat in the middle of the ocean than risk certain death where they live. Think about that choice. I met with refugees in Syria. I heard their stories and their choices. Do you honestly think we should send them back? These desperate, delirious people? I wouldn't. I couldn't even send back the dog.

So every day, he comes back, looking for more food and I feed him. Four days later, he's starting to look a little better, maybe. He still looks at me with those eyes and I can't turn away. How can any of us?

It's time we stepped up.

On being happy

So...

Recently a friend, whose name shall remain anonymous (Adrienne), posed the question to me: When are you happiest?

An interesting question.

I am happy in Mexico. Happy feeling loved by dear friends. Happy laughing. Happy by water. Happy in my new apartment. Happy while acting. Happy drinking good coffee or good beer. Happy in the ocean. Happy in one of my long 'life' conversations with my mom. Happy creating something. Happy looking at a full moon. Happy traveling. Happy on the beach. (Did I mention water?)

But happiest?

I suppose I am happiest when I am living in the present moment fully, as improv teaches, appreciating all the nuances and particulars of this time of this day. I'm happiest when I am breathing in life---like at the beach or with friends or onstage. I am not happy when I am not present. That's the truth. So check yourself: if you're not happy maybe you're not really here.

I believe the more present you are in your life, the more you create the kind of life where you are happy in that present moment. Does that make sense? You shape your moments by living in them fully. Eventually you shape more and more moments into "good" ones because nobody wants to live in sucky moments.

Right now, as I type this, the sun has set and I am sitting on a sweet balcony overlooking a beautiful plaza in Guanajuato. Yes, I am happy. But I am also aware and that makes me happy (er?). I hear the constant chopping of a food vendor across the square. I hear a late night worker hammering something a block away. I smell fresh tortillas from below. I see streetlamp shadows play on the square. I hear voices of locals and tourists walk by. I see a man with a backpack probably walking home. I feel the slight chill of the breeze against my bare legs. I hear laughter and some guy making a weird "Heh! sound. I am present. To it all. I shaped this moment. And I am happy. Right now.

Maybe even happiest.

How about you? (Adrienne wants to know...)

A little kindness...

I have been looking for a new apartment. Not an easy task, as many can attest. After seeing yet another mediocre apartment, I walked by a coffee shop and decided I needed a coffee. Needed. I stepped in and ordered a small dark roast. As I rummaged through my purse, I suddenly remembered pulling my wallet out of my purse last night to purchase something online and never putting it back. My wallet was still on my couch.

(Note how I avoided using the word lying or laying, as I get scared every time I approach it in a sentence and so completely skipped it...but back to the gripping drama.)

GAH! No money. The baristo (Male barista. I'm coining that.) had stepped away from the register. I looked at the woman behind me in line. "I left my wallet at home!" I exclaimed sadly. She raised her eyebrows and nodded a bit. The baristo (Yup. I said it again.) returned and I glumly told him I must have left my wallet at home. "Oh," he replied. "Sorry." And then he began to pour my coffee back in the urn.

Poured it back in the urn!

Now. I'm not saying that he should have given me the coffee or that I deserved a free coffee or that anyone else was responsible but me for forgetting my money and not being able to buy a coffee. And I know they are a business and make money selling things and that if they gave away all the coffee they would have to close their doors. And maybe the lady behind me only had enough money for herself or had just bought another stranger coffee and was over it or who knows what! I know all this.

But I walked out of that coffee shop disappointed, (#firstworldproblems) not only in my empty hands but in the universe. I had clearly wanted a coffee, making mention of my caffeine need to the baristo before I discovered my missing money. Also, I had ordered a small drip, not a huge mocha frapayappa -- a small drip! What's that cost? And neither the lady behind me or the coffee dude offered to pay. Were they obligated to? Of course not. Were they responsible for my having coffee or not? Of course not. Could they have? YES!

I think I would have. It's $2! And it's nice.

It made me realize our days are FULL of opportunities for kindness, small little gestures that make a difference in a person's day and even life. We have these opportunities all the time. Does it have to involve money? Certainly not. It's waiting a few extra seconds to hold the door for an approaching stranger. It's smiling and saying hello to someone on the sidewalk.  It's about leaving a larger tip to the Korean lady who gave you a pedicure because you just read an article about how little money they truly make cutting peoples toenails. And yes, perhaps it's offering to pay for someone's coffee when they forgot their wallet.

These moments of kindness are gifts, not only to the person receiving it--- but to yourself. It all comes back around.

So keep your eye out for these opportunities to be kind because, as supposedly Plato said: everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.

Now I need to go buy a cup of coffee...

inspiring teachers

So I had a teacher back in college, a theatre teacher who rather changed my life. Vivian Fusillo is her name. Amazing woman, like none other. She cast me in the first show of my freshman year --- A three-hander even! We immediately bonded.

Bright red hair with a personality to match, small-town Kansas native,  former model, Vivian was unique, to say the least. She was also often tricky to pin down for an answer, suffered from huge and  unwarranted insecurities and constantly told amazingly true stories about all the A-list English actors she worked with in the past (Think Gielgud, Olivier and Burton).

That was Vivian; Brilliant, sometimes frustrating, always inspiring Viv.

She encouraged me through casting me early. But it wasn't just that. If she hadn't believed in me, I'm not sure I would have. How great is that? And how grateful are we for great teachers --- teachers who see and believe and encourage. Teachers who see us before we do.

Vivian is a recent recipient of THE KENNEDY CENTER/STEPHEN SONDHEIM INSPIRATIONAL TEACHER AWARD. Wooh. She has received many awards over the years for her work at Winona State University, but this is a big one.

In order to receive that award, they asked the nominator for a specific story to be told about the teacher that inspired you, not multiple instances, but one. How fascinating. What's the inspirational story you would tell of your hero/mentor? Well, it got me thinking...

For me, for Vivian it was this: Her love of the pause. Yes, the pause. If there was one thing she taught me in that first time on the Winona State stage, it was to stop talking and pause. Just be quiet. Stop. So I did. Or I thought I did. Dozens of rehearsal hours that first fall together at WSU were filled with her randomly yelling from the house, "Pause!" and me responding, "I am!" and her shouting, "No, you're not!" I didn't get it. I thought I was pausing. She drove me crazy. "Just let me act, lady!"

But eventually I got it. Eventually I was able to just be quiet on stage and listen, to let something happen in the nothing. Eventually I understood how valuable it was to stop and let it all sit, to simply rest and let us all digest for a moment. Eventually I saw what she did.

This is true in life, as well as onstage. How often do you stop, pause, sit for a minute and let it all soak in? Breathe. Maybe not enough in our busy world.

Vivian taught me this skill as an actor: the power of doing nothing, really; the power of just breathing. I learned it through Vivian and still to this day, almost every time I pause heartily onstage, I think of her.

That's my story of my hero. Thank you Viv.

BIG and OVERWHELMING

I'm finishing final edits to my memoir before resubmitting to publishers and agents. What a haul. It's like birthing a baby---but takes longer than nine months, I tell ya! It's easy to lose your perspective, to lose the point of it all. Is it worth it? How do we keep our perspective? It's hard to keep a commitment to a long term creative project when there is so much daily life that gets in the way.

Can you identify? Have you ever lost or almost lost the will to finish a creative project?

For me, in order to continue, it's about breaking it down into little chunks. Palatable bites, if you will:

The idea of publishing my book is too big. Who has time for that!? But finishing the latest edits on the first part....thats sorta doable. Making a list of current agents I'm interested in? Sure, I can do that. That actually sounds like fun! But it has to be in small bite size chunks or else forget about it.

That's probably true of anything in life.  Bite size chunks so you don't choke.

I would love it if you would share your successes/tricks to keeping committed to a long term creative project in the comments below.

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale....

I've been digging around again in the land of storytelling for a new client I have with KSi. Our goal together was to create better, more authentic storytellers in their company, which will then also translate to a better communicating of the brand. Think of JetBlue, Google, Amazon, Starbucks---they are all brands with a strong story and we buy into those stories---daily! We buy into how those stories make us feel. We become part of an brand event they create for us---like a Facebook event but bigger and more subtle. Thats what a good brand story is. And I help to train better brand storytellers.

That session inspired me.

So I decided to start doing my own storytelling again. I used to tell stories in NYC, even winning a MOTH Story Slam. But I hadn't performed a story on a stage in years. But last week, I went to a storytelling event in Chicago---Story Club. I hadn't planned on telling a story. I wasn't really prepared, but there were a few spots open and they kept asking for volunteers. I kept saying "no" to myself. I wasn't ready. But then I asked myself: What was I waiting for? I wanted to tell a story and as unprepared as I was, the fact was I wanted to tell a story. So I dug around in my mental files for a story.

I had just told a story at the recent corporate training about jumping off a train in Prague, but how I used it there was more anecdotal. So how could I flesh out a full story, moments before I would tell it here? I sat at the bar, nursing my oversized beer (possible problem??) and figured it out. Then I went up to the host and asked if I could tell my story.

I ended up winning the audience vote that night---mostly because I jumped. 

We all have stories inside us. Sometimes we're not ready to tell them. Sometimes we haven't even identified them yet. But they always have value. They define us. Our stories make us who we are. And we all have one. It just depends on how willing we are to jump.

How willing are you to tell your story when the opportunity comes?

Iraqi refugee love story in Chicago

So. 

Six years ago I went to the Middle East and my life was forever changed. I fell in love with an Iraqi refugee, after hearing hundreds others tell me their horrible horrible stories over a cup of tea.

Then I wrote a play and later a book about the experience. Two books actually. The play had an off-Broadway run, a national tour and a performance at The John F. Kennedy Center. The first book, STORY DIARY was published here and the second book, THREE DAYS IN DAMASCUS, a memoir, is in hot pursuit of publication.

The Iraqi is safely resettled in Toronto. The heroine (me) is mostly recovered, but again, forever changed by the experience.

Fast forward. 

The world landscape has certainly changed, but what hasn't changed is the dire situation of refugees worldwide. Syrian refugees have left their country by the millions, and with the threat of ISIS, a new wave of Iraqis are forced to flee yet again. There is an even more urgent need to tell these stories. And No Place Called Home is mine--and theirs. 

It's an autobiographical love story and I bringing it to Chicago, first performance in over a year.
I thought I was done. I thought the play had run its course, but the refugees keep coming and the stories remain the same and I want to keep telling them. I don't want their stories to have been told in vain. I want to keep them alive.

The play is being presented as part of Silk Road Solos at Silk Road Rising February 19-22.  Local internationally acclaimed musician Ronnie Malley will be joining me onstage. Tickets and more information can be found at:
http://www.silkroadrising.org/live-theater/silk-road-solos

And here's a link to a New York Times feature on the show:
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/02/nyregion/02bigcity.html?_r=0

And here's a link to the trailer:
http://omarwashisname.blogspot.com/2011/02/no-place-called-home-trailer.html

Let's hope we do right by the millions of displaced people who are counting on us. Help me tell the story.