While you're improvising, you may come up with something which

Hear the words of Shelley Berman: “While you’re improvising, you may come up with something which will break him up. As soon as that smile comes out, you know that, hey, we’re having fun.” In this saying lies the eternal truth of play, of creativity, of human connection. Improvisation is not merely a skill of comedians or actors—it is the art of life itself. To step into the unknown without script or certainty, and to find joy in that very uncertainty, is the essence of what it means to live fully. The smile that appears in such moments is not only a reaction, but a signal, a shared acknowledgment that two souls have met in laughter, in surprise, in delight.

The ancients knew this truth well. In the marketplaces of Athens, the great orators often improvised, weaving their arguments not only with logic but with wit, catching the audience in bursts of humor. When the people laughed, when their faces lit with smiles, the speaker knew that the connection had been made. It was not merely words exchanged, but spirit touching spirit. Improvisation, then, is the spark that reveals the living bond between performer and listener, between one human and another.

Consider the tale of the court jester in medieval times. His role was not only to entertain, but to speak truth to power under the cloak of humor. Often he would improvise jokes or gestures that caused even the most somber king to smile. In that instant, walls fell. Authority and subject became simply men sharing laughter, and in the smile lay both relief and humanity. The jester’s gift was not only his cleverness, but his ability to create fun where heaviness reigned. So too does Berman speak of improvisation as the pathway to shared joy.

There is also a hidden courage in these words. To improvise is to risk failure, to risk silence, to risk the joke that does not land. Yet when the smile appears—when the other breaks into laughter—the risk is rewarded with connection. The joy is not in perfection, but in spontaneity, in the authenticity of the moment. This is why Berman says, “we’re having fun.” For fun is not crafted by careful design alone; it is born when people allow themselves to be vulnerable, to respond with openness, to meet one another in play.

And how often does life itself demand improvisation? The soldier on the battlefield, the leader in crisis, the parent raising a child—all must act without script, without rehearsal. Sometimes, amidst the uncertainty, a word or act of humor emerges, and in the laughter that follows, burdens grow lighter. Abraham Lincoln himself, in the darkest days of the Civil War, often improvised humorous stories. His cabinet, weary with the weight of war, would break into smiles, and for a moment, they remembered they were human. That laughter sustained them for the trials ahead.

The lesson is this: do not cling too tightly to your scripts, for the greatest joys of life are often unplanned. Learn to embrace improvisation, to risk the unknown, and to trust that the human spirit finds delight when it is surprised with sincerity. And when you bring forth a smile in another, know that you have done something profound—you have reminded them, and yourself, that life is not only duty and burden, but play and joy.

So let this wisdom endure: in improvisation lies freedom, in laughter lies healing, and in the shared smile lies the proof that we are alive together. Do not fear the unscripted moment; enter it boldly, with wit and with heart. For when the smile breaks forth, you will know that beyond all uncertainty, there is joy—and that joy is enough to sustain us.