A Deeper Kind of Play—Three New Exercises to Link Improv and Spirituality

A merry band of daring pioneers recently gathered in the coastal hills north of San Francisco for a workshop exploring the many-layered relationship between improvisational theater and spiritual practice. A few exciting exercises came out of our time together—check out these three and see what you think. I’d joyfully welcome any and all feedback from your experience with them.

Letter to God—For one of our warm-ups, we adapted a reliable standard, the word-at-a-time letter. Our instructions directed players in pairs to use that same format—alternating smoothly from player-to-player to “write” a vocal letter—to write a letter, yes, and to have the letter written to God from a child’s perspective. The issue, attitude, and theology of the child could emerge as he or she continued writing writing. Then, once that first letter had been written, we asked each pair to write a second letter back to the youngster…from God.

This single exercise may have generated the deepest laughter during our time together. Each pair, it seemed, found a sweet spot of creation through the construct. My partner and I, for example, discovered that our little girl was beseeching God for help with her little puppy’s recovery from an eye injury. It was only as we continued that we realized the sweet girl had played a role in the dog’s troubles—she had poked it with a fork! We got another surprise when God’s response suggested that such trivialities didn’t merit His concern or energies. Instead, God suggested she find a local vet or “some other deities” more likely to take up her plight. Nothing too brilliant, perhaps, but enough of a discovery to give us a lengthy and long-lasting laugh.

Some other groups also cackled with irreverent reaction—like when God suggested to their little girl that “God is everywhere and all around you. If you want to touch God, just touch yourself.”  Others channeled more poignant expression. Across the board, we all found delight in the discovery. The simple tweak took us to new places.

Spiritual Scrapbook—Earlier this year, my colleague Cort Worthington introduced me to Photo Album, a lovely exercise he uses with business school students to help them get to know each other and get comfortable with shared control improv story-telling. In Photo Album, one player “grabs” a photo album from a space-object shelf and begins to explain some of the imaginary photos in the book, recounting details and memories behind the “images” they find together. The listening player also adds in questions or clarifications which can be open-ended (“Who’s that with you in this photo?”) or more directly endowing (“What are you carrying all those books for?”). They can also build on what’s been mentioned before (as in, “Oh, your brother’s not in this one like he was before. How come?”). The exercise shows beginners they can find a natural creativity and demonstrates the fun of passing control of the ‘scene’ back and forth.

For our workshop, we adapted the photo album and turned it into a “Spiritual Scrapbook.” Here, we invited each person to share images from their own spiritual journeys, however they defined such a thing. Moments of personal breakthrough, difficult challenge, deep connection, and open vulnerability: whatever highlights or lowlights came to mind. Whatever made meaning.  In this case, we encouraged the listener to stay a bit more open-ended with inquiries, offering example prompts like:

• Where’s the photo of where you felt most alive?
• Ooh, that lighting’s cool. What’s going on there?
• This one looks unusual. I wouldn’t have thought of that as spiritual.
• The photos got kind of dark there.
• How old were you in this one?
• I can’t tell if your eyes are closed or open in this photo.

The Guest House—This exercise shares some elements with “House Party,” a playful short form piece that lasts until the host can name the endowed qualities of each of three guests at a party. It also goes much deeper.

We had just discussed the Shadow, a psychological term referring to the hidden or disowned parts of ourselves. According to Carl Jung, the term’s originator, Shadow integration represents some of the most challenging—and most rewarding—soul work we can do. The psyche longs for wholeness most, argued Jung. Those parts that we deny will leak out in toxic or destructive ways, whether through explosive release or more subtly pernicious projection.

As illustration for how we might relate differently to the Shadow, we shared Rumi’s provocative poem “The Guest House” and then based a scene on its images.[1] We asked one player to play herself at home and to have three “unexpected visitors” show up, one representative each for “the dark thought, the shame, the malice” that show up in her life. We did offer our protagonist the option to have her audience choose the uninvited guests but, thankfully, she found the courage to make the unwanted visitors examples from her own personality: laziness, wishy-washiness, and ridicule of others. That vulnerability gave the scene that much more juice. We also encouraged the folks playing the three visitors to go bold in their characterizations without being cartoonish. We wanted an element of realism to work with. Commit to your character. Be open to gradual change.

Given the set-up, it proved utterly fascinating to watch our lead struggle. Her visitors were, in fact, quite annoying and unpleasant. The more the scene went on, the more unpleasant they became, enough so that the protagonist eventually wanted to leave the scene to go get yoghurt or walk the dog that she knew she didn’t have. Perfect! We do so often choose to avoid the Shadow!

From there, we coached a few tweaks into the game on the fly. What happens if you tell the visitors just what you think of them? What happens if they thank you for your feedback? What if the visitors share out loud what they have to offer? Having been recognized, the visitors relaxed and, touchingly, decided to leave of their own accord. Laziness found some motivation. Wishy-washiness found some spine. And Ridicule found some humility. We let our protagonist stay on stage for a few breaths more to integrate all that had just happened. We in the audience needed a moment to take it all in as well. We had traveled to an authentic place.

Of course, there’s no guarantee that a second iteration of the exercise—or a first iteration with another group—would go so well. Different visitors might prove more or less hostile or recalcitrant. A new protagonist might prove more or less resilient or creative. Improv is improv. By definition, we’re walking into the Unkown. Still, it seems the structure has a strength that will pass on. The immediacy, the tension, and the honesty of the exercise all speak well for its larger potential.

These were just three of the new exercises we tried out at our first Improvisation and Spirituality retreat. I look forward to writing more about some others and to hearing your thoughts in reflection. How do these games work for you? How might you change them to improve them or alter their focus?