Month: October 2023

We drove past this sign on the way to a workshop at Beaconhouse University in Lahore last Thursday. It gave me pause.

Master Biryani suffers from no lack of confidence. Lahore, Pakistan

Unlike Master Biryani, I worry about overpromising and underdelivering.

You see, I do believe in the potential healing powers of improvisation, particularly when the focus stays firmly on acceptance, non-judgment, and collaboration. Casim and I have been testing out this premise for the past two weeks, first in Islamabad and now in Lahore. By tomorrow evening (Inshallah/God willing), we will have conducted 18 improv workshops, presentations, and shows in just two weeks.

We’ve been busy.

And, I think, effective. At each of these events, we’ve lead the participants through exercises that encourage them to be in the present moment physically, mentally, and emotionally. I’d call this the crux of my CDAF (Citizen Diplomacy Action Fund) project. Witness my pedagogical stance below:

Teachers teach. At the United States Educational Foundation in Pakistan’s Lahore office.

And, I’ve left each of these workshops feeling energized and hopeful; the students–almost without exception–have participated with great gusto and commitment. I’ve learned a lot about short-form improv from Casim, and our debriefing sessions with the students, so crucial when connecting the lessons learned through improv exercises to a healthy mindset, become more succinct, more applicable with each session.

Casim, a talented and generous improviser, keeps me afloat. Together we explain how making your scene partner/friend/colleague look good alleviates self-consciousness and the anxiety that goes with it. Casim makes me look good.

Our connection, too, with Fizza Suhail, a trauma-informed therapist and a professor at LUMS (Lahore University of Management Sciences), has deepened our work considerably. Her discussions on attachment and attunement–our earliest relational connections and our subsequent ability to react in synchrony with others–have helped us explore how a playful, gentle, celebratory approach to human interaction can soften the petrifying effects of early trauma.

Casim Ovais; Fizza Suhail; me. A serendipitous convergence. (And they’re both really funny.)

We’ve gotten an exuberant response; I think we’re doing good work.

But I don’t want to be Master Biryani (remember him?) by promising the moon and stars. Our work is modest, as it should be. It’s also incremental, based on practice and repetition. Which is why I can’t stop thinking about the gentleman who sought me out after an evening workshop last week, wondering how he could possible use the “Yes, and…” approach when his country was, in his words, “falling apart.” “How will this training make a difference,” he asked, keeping his hand gripped to my forearm as he implored me for guidance.

Pakistani truck art with self-explanatory message.

His question caught me up short. Comparisons are odious, as my grandmother used to say, but I’ve wondered the same thing about my homeland, a place I love as much as the Pakistani gentleman at the workshop does his. What can improv do in the face of monumental challenges?

The scope of these challenges is daunting: Another mass shooting. A treasonous Speaker, second-in-line to the presidency. Wars which ignite and persist. Legislators mocking the less fortunate, mimicking their leader who threatens our citizens with violence, covering his ass by calling it all a joke.

None of it’s funny, of course.

So the question arises, again and again: How can we pursue mental health without crawling into a cave and praying–to whom?–for this massive madness to pass, for the constant barrage of horrible news to whittle down? What actual steps can we take? I didn’t want to offer improv as a panacea to the heartbroken Pakistani man. In that moment, I was stymied.

Have you heard of “screen apnea”? It seems we stop breathing when we first look at our screens. The smaller the screen, the longer we hold our breath. And then our nervous system engages in the fight-or-flight response and we find ourselves anxious and overwhelmed, all because of Facebook and group texts.

I finally responded, after I took a long breath, saying something like this: When we dread the future we often feel powerless. Our anxiety skyrockets. We can’t see each other for all the anger and despair. Improv offers a reprieve from this alienation by grounding us in the present moment. It can help us connect with others without regard to our affiliations, nationalities, sexualities, spiritualities. We can change this moment, and maybe the next, and then possibly the one after that. That’s something, right?

The Pakistani gentleman nodded. Maybe he didn’t believe me. Maybe he wanted a more encompassing answer. I can’t blame him, but I’ve seen the joy and lightness strangers can experience when they laugh together in the moment, and I told him that I hope improvisation can be a moment-by-moment antidote to all the poison in our shared atmosphere.

Maybe these pictures will help. In all of our workshops we stepped outside of the insanity and discovered something joyous. Witness:

At Olomopolo Media in Muslim Town, Lahore. Casim observed that practicing improv “inoculates” us from real stressors. An apt metaphor.

Beaconhouse University students, poised after a rigorous game of Zip-Zap-Zop.

A school picture? No! It’s the participants at the United States Educational Foundation in Pakistan’s office in Lahore. Thanks again to Casim and Fizza Suhail for bringing the PowerPoint to life and then some (we laughed; they laughed; we kept the staff at the USEFP office well past closing time)(thanks and sorry!).

With Casim and the NUR International University psychology students at Fatima Memorial Hospital in Lahore after a FIVE HOUR workshop! Real stamina.

My feet on display after our show “Laughing Matters” at Olomopolo Media. A glorious evening where the performers and the audience members changed roles with ease. This is for Jen Scott: It was the definition of an Infinite Game, if an infinite game can allow itself to be defined.

Thanks to Olomopolo Media for hosting two workshops and our show. Cheers, too, to Fizza Suhail who improvised on stage for the first time and made it look effortless.

Casim and I fly to Karachi this afternoon. I’ve loved being in Lahore. None of these photos does the majesty of this place justice, but I’ll give it a go:

Outside the Badshahi Mosque in Lahore.

Domes and minarets above the canopy of trees.

Puri in flight before sizzling in oil. Outside the famous Capri Restaurant, Lahore.

Lahore at night on the grounds of the Gymkhana. The word “gymkhana” derives from an early term for tennis. Or polo. Alligator shirts and stuff.

The garden outside Olomopolo Media. Could sit here all evening.

Compelling sculpture outside the Quaid-e-Azam library.

Watchful cat in the Bagh-e-Jinnah (Garden of Jinnah) (Jinnah was Pakistan’s first governor-general).

Quiet morning in Lawrence Gardens.

The hosts at NUR International University sponsored me at the Lahore Gymkhana, a kind of country club that has turned its back on the modern world. Strange, quiet, serene, colonial, hidebound, exclusive/exclusionary. Residents must adhere to a four-page dress code. I left my crocs at home:

“Where luxury comes as a guest to take a slave.” Thank you, Joni Mitchell.

The Lahore Gymkhana at night. Thanks to the hosts at NUR International University for letting me stay here. The breakfasts alone recommend the place; by the time the tenor sax renditions of 500 Miles, Jambalaya, and Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina had looped I’d find myself well into my third serving of halva. Sugar, oil, flour, butter: addictive.

Imposing guard with kind eyes at the Lahore Gymkhana.

A few more photos from Lahore:

Wrestling with a peacock in Lawrence Gardens. The real ones–which show up when least expected–could take me in an instant.

My mug is everywhere. Here I’m hovering above the welcoming committee at NUR International University. They gave me beautiful flowers, too.

Casim points at my face with a collection of colleagues at Fatima Memorial Hospital.

(Days have passed; now I’m in Karachi. As I type this I’m sitting on my bed in the Karachi Gymkhana, waiting to start again. Here’s a preview):

Does this need a caption?

In the meantime, I’m going to take a page from Master Biryani’s book and offer some unsolicited and universally applicable advice. Please use it wisely:

I like comments. Lots of them. Just saying.

How about this: I’m back in Pakistan on a Citizen Diplomacy Action Fund (CDAF) grant entitled “Supporting Community and Mental Health through Improvisation.” Five days in and I’m only now starting to get my bearings. In fact, when I’ve tried to come up with a cohesive blog entry I’ve punted and, instead, watched all sorts of Instagram reels featuring clumsy panda bears and (why?) anacondas that have somehow slithered into people’s HVAC systems.

I’m here promoting mental health.

Thank you, CDAF.

…and improv, it seems, where we let go of our expectations in order to find inspiration in the present moment (a place where anxiety–which is future-oriented–can’t flourish). My best laid plans have been leading me in circles, so I’m going to take inspiration from my non-linear thoughts and let the (mostly) random order of these photos tell this story.

Onward. Sort of.

Taken from the in-flight screen on Qatar Airlines from Doha to Islamabad. My plane is huge.

The US State Department funds this grant (thank you!) but unlike the previous Fulbright experiences, it doesn’t determine housing or transportation. If you weren’t one of the dozens of travel agents and worldly friends I consulted to arrange this trip, consider yourself lucky.

Once onboard the plane(s) I watched wellness videos provided by Qatar Airways to ease my concerns (are my compression socks working? Should I be able to feel my toes?). After 37 hours of travel I arrived in Islamabad at 3:00am. My talented and funny co-facilitator Casim Ovais picked me up and drove me into town.

Casim Ovais with me on the terrace of the Fulbright House in Islamabad. An engaging storyteller, he.

Jet lag and personality got the better of me at first. I continued to fret about the things in my line of sight (I need eyedrops but can’t keep my eyes open wide enough to use them; the time difference involves simple and impossible math) and about things far beyond it (the world is on fire; the world is really on fire).

Don’t Worry, Be Happy by Emily Starck (2022). How did she capture the human nervous system so perfectly? And ironically?

The day-to-day, moment-by-moment focused my buzzing mind. Some evidence:

Looking out over the Fulbright House gate at the Margalla Hills above Islamabad.

Life goes on at the Fulbright House. (I may never use this.) (I will never use this.)

Ejaz and Sheeru (“little lion” in Urdu). Ejaz takes good care of us; Sheeru has other agendas.

Adeel, engrossed in the Pakistan/India cricket match. We were instructed not to talk during the game. Even now I’m concerned that I’m not using the correct terminology.

We wave at each other every time I leave.

Comforting straight lines between the boulevards in Islamabad. Excellent for channeling the frantic chatter of an anxious mind.

On Day Two I rode with Casim to the twin city of Rawalpindi. A world away from Islamabad, if only a half hour by car.

Saqafati Sure (Cultural Note) by Ahmed Habib (2020). Eerie similarity to Starck’s painting above. An old guide book I found compares Islamabad to Rawalpindi as “chalk and cheese”; “chaos and control” might also fit. Pindi, as the locals say, is vibrantly alive.

My CDAF project began:

I spoke about my CDAF project at the unveiling of the Pakistan Institute of Mental Health in Rawalpindi. An honor. The Urdu script behind me reads, “Untie the knots in your heart.” Poetry and psychology can coexist. See below.

Poster on the wall of the new PIMH clinic. I agree, for what it’s worth.

With the esteemed staff of the PIMH. One of the speakers elaborated on the logo: The endless circles in our mind confuse us; the strands of wheat, when ingested indiscriminately, make us sluggish. The goal, then, is to free the mind and disencumber the body.

Neon in a Rawalpindi coffee shop near the Pakistan Institute of Mental Health. A different approach to the troubled mind.

Visited four schools in five days to facilitate workshops; attended three rehearsals; gave two speeches, AND took part in this talk at The Black Hole, an educational and performance space in Islamabad named by an arts-conscious physicist. Casim-with-a-Q and Fizza shone!

Casim came up with the name “Laughing Matters” for our talks and shows about improv and mental health. Genius!

Along with Casim as co-facilitator, I’ve been leading workshops on the psychological benefits of improvisation. We do exercises that encourage participants to leap into the present moment even as they feel anxious or self-conscious. To do this, I spend a lot of time emphasizing that, in improv, our goal is to make our scene partner look as good as possible. We acknowledge the gift of their presence over and over and over again.

We also have fun, and, in one case, we had cake. I turned 64 on my fourth day here; the teachers and staff at City Grammar School in Rawalpindi got me a delicious red velvet cake. I’m becoming a crier in my old age (with or without eye drops). They sang; I got misty.

Celebratory photo at the end of our three-hour workshop. Cake, Casim, the school principal (next to me), and some enthusiastic teachers whose finely-honed improv skills opened my eyes, again.

Murals everywhere.

Rules, too.

At Bahria University. Modesty encouraged and enforced. Creativity unbridled, despite or because. I don’t know.

Casim is producing a documentary on Applied Improvisation–taking the skills used in improv and applying them to life outside the theater–while Abrar (center) has been our trustworthy and gifted cinematographer. He stepped in front of the camera, reluctantly, after our workshop at the National University of Sciences and Technology (NUST) in Islamabad. My goal is to make him laugh. I have my work cut out for me.

We’re also doing improv shows in three cities as part of the CDAF grant. Our first show opens tonight at Theatre Wallay in Islamabad. At rehearsal, the director and cast gave me a second birthday cake (chocolate with coffee icing). Oh, man.

Happy birthday to Eddie, too. I’m a twin in a family of twins; it felt good–and familiar–to be surrounded by the Theatre Wallay cast while I’m a world away from home. (Hi, Dennis.)

Moon over Theatre Wallay’s outdoor stage in Bani Gala, Islamabad. The logs are part of the set for a Flemish/Belgian play they’re producing, in Urdu, next month.

Casim oversees interviews with cast members for the Applied Improv documentary.

I chose two poems to end this meandering entry. My own words can’t encapsulate the strangeness of doing light-hearted improv workshops while the forces of authoritarianism and fundamentalism unleash such violent cruelty on the world. The poets Adrienne Rich and Mary Oliver will have to contain this fission.

Fission and Fusion by James de Villiers (2023).

Today, it feels right to put Adrienne Rich’s poem first:

Tomorrow, Mary Oliver’s poem may feel to me like “silly” words in my “personal weather.” For now, I like the fact that these poems comment on each other, one ending and the other beginning with that demanding pronoun “I.”

How to resolve this? In improv–for what it’s worth–we try to step into the unknown, the discomfort, the fear (and the joy). And then, moment-by-moment, we live with resolve, if not resolution.

One last thing: Improv’s not about me. It’s not about you. It’s about what we discover together. This takes practice.

Send me some comments, please.

Sunset over Rawal Lake in Bani Gala, Islamabad.