Many years ago I was in the first production of a new play, “Little Messages” by Dean O’Donnell. The whole cast and crew fell in love with this play, with the beauty and pathos, with the process, and with each other. Although the subject matter was hard, we believed in its humanity.

When the first review came out, we were devastated (I hadn’t yet heard Frances Cuka’s wisdom on reviews!). The review flattened a new playwright, a young theater company, and a group who had committed completely to telling this story.

We were shell-shocked. The worst thing that can happen to a creative endeavor is to lose one’s belief in the magic. We were jolted back into reality, as if we’d been living in a false world, a world of folly and naivete. I can’t tell you how hard it was to walk back into the theater to prepare for the evening performance.

As we entered, instead of moving towards our dressing rooms, we were invited by the director, Daphna Fields, to lie on the black-painted floor of the theater, close our eyes, and listen. This is what she read to us: Read on…