Sketch comedy and variety show television formed my earliest memories of performance appreciation. Born in earlier days, I’d have been the perfect cast member for the Lawrence Welk Show, a variety show from 1951 to 1982. Watching while visiting my grandparents, I fantasized about my dream job: “How lucky those people are to dress up every day in different costumes to sing, dance, and act.”
As an adolescent, I became a fan of another program infusing characters and music – and this one was downright hilarious: The Carol Burnett Show. My siblings and I were allowed to stay up past our bedtime to watch each week. Ironically, my young life’s most significant world-stopping trauma happened on the heels of a Carol Burnett episode. Comedy and tragedy are forever intertwined in my brain. Read More
On a balmy summer evening in 1973, my siblings and I sprawled out on beanbag chairs to watch Carol and her uproarious cohorts. As Carol tugged her ear to say “good-night,” my mother walked into the living room, turned off the TV, and braced herself against a wall. “I have something to tell you about your father.” He’d taken his life with a gun, alone in a hotel room.
I don’t recall coming together as a family at that moment. Instead, we retreated to our rooms, and I stared at the ceiling while crying through the night. In the morning, it was life as usual. We never talked about it as a family, and I never told my friends. I tried not to think about it, holding a deep-seated belief that allowing myself to focus on the painful loss of my father might kill me. Instead, I focused on being strong, intelligent, and independent. I wore that independence as a badge of courage. And it served me well… to a point.
Processing old grief is intensely painful and complicated work. I visualized my grief as a bleak, sad room at the end of a dim, narrow hallway. Dark. Silent. Still. The thought of entering it was terrifying. Much later in life, I realized through opening that door, stepping inside, and letting some light in, that I would not die. I embraced that pain as part of what makes me unique and special, and it allows me to tell stories with emotion and passion. It guides me to uncover the humor hidden in bizarre places. Indescribably, getting in touch with one’s dark place can bring light to others.
The benefits of facing this fear showed up in my personal and speaking life. I dismissed habits no longer serving me and embraced those parts of myself that were desperate for stage time. I quit comparing my successes to others and stopped shaming myself for perceived failures. I finally understood the uniqueness I bring to my life and an audience when I let my creativity run the show. Taking center stage in my own life led me to the most fun I’ve ever had.
I’ve finally achieved the show biz career of my youthful dreams. My virtual studio is a Hollywood-style retreat, complete with prop room, green room, and tech galore. I love teaching others how to bring their whole selves to the real or virtual stage. Leaders, trainers, and presenters all agree that there is no more incredible feeling than inspiring or entertaining an audience – even when that audience is just you.
My never-wavering personal affirmation: “Be your own best audience, and you’ll always be appreciated and entertained.”
Northwest Edutainer Rebecca P. Murray delivers high-energy virtual and live training for those ready to become confident, creative, and compelling leaders and team players. She infuses irreverent humor, inspiring stories, and entertaining musical theater excerpts into content-rich, high-stick playshops. Audience members eagerly engage in her one-of-a-kind interactive experiences, where they shine as the show’s stars.