From Brick to Loyalty and Beyond

Once, many years ago, I remember receiving the highest compliment I could ever have received.  A friend of mine—for reasons I have since forgotten—said to me, "You're a brick."

I, being terrible at receiving compliments, turned it aside in my customary literal fashion, making some joke about being heavy or not being rectangular or some such nonsense.  I have entirely forgotten my exact response, but the memory of the experience remains strong.  Why when I received a compliment that warmed my heart to its core would I act as if it meant nothing to me?  Why did I not even give the customary "Thank you" that politeness deserved?

We humans are contrary creatures.  We want things and then go to great lengths to avoid receiving precisely what we desire.  Why?  It might be from fear.  Or guilt.  Or some desperate feeling that we could never be worthy to receive anything good.

Let us return to the idea conveyed through the wonderful compliment I received.  Apparently this term has become dated, at least according to the online Oxford dictionary, which defines it as "a generous, helpful, and reliable person."  The online Merriam Webster dictionary mentions nothing about its archaic nature, but simply states its meaning as "a good-hearted person."  These definitions speak to a meaning you might well guess simply from studying a brick, which has a certain solid quality about it (although their quality may be declining also...).  The term implies a certain steadfastness, a reliability, a loyalty.

We do not always find that loyalty, even though we desire it.  In the words of Shakespeare (Henry VI, Part II, Act V, Scene 1):

O, where is loyalty?
If it be banished from the frosty head,
Where shall it find a harbor in the earth?

Loyalty certainly seems to be a rare quality these days.  Loyal friends are difficult to find, although a great treasure when one discovers them.

Thoughts on loyalty often lead my mind to the haunting lyrics of a song known as "Gollum's Song."  I will leave aside any comments on the appropriateness of the title for the sake of the point I wish to make, for that argument would be a lengthy aside.  In any case, the line from the song I mention bewails a lack of love and loyalty:

"No loyal friend was ever there for me...."

By contrast, Tolkien himself proposes a beautiful and keen insight into what true loyalty and friendship are through the mouth of the Hobbits in The Lord of the Rings:

“But it does not seem that I can trust anyone,' said Frodo. Sam looked at him unhappily. 'It all depends on what you want,' put in Merry. 'You can trust us to stick with you through thick and thin—to the bitter end. And you can trust us to keep any secret of yours—closer than you keep it yourself. But you cannot trust us to let you face trouble alone, and go off without a word. We are your friends, Frodo.”   

Friendship is a topic I ponder often.  Many problems in society and wounds in our own hearts could be healed if friendship were taken more seriously—as seriously as the Hobbits took it.

That truth leaves me with many questions.  Why, for instance, do men and women seek so desperately to find their partners and then cut themselves off from anyone who might be there to support them along their journey when the relationship gets tough?  Why must a close friendship automatically be required to be sexual?  Why does society regard friendship so poorly?

Throughout my life I have been blessed with many wonderful friends—some of which amaze me still by their beautiful loyalty—and there are few things I value more highly than friendship.  I have grown so much through those friendships.

I am myself, if I may boast a little, loyal in my friendships.  Sometimes I wonder if I am too loyal.

Loyalty seems a difficult quality to have in excess and yet perhaps it is possible after all.  Sometimes it can mean clinging to the past, holding onto the nostalgia of past experiences, and longing for the continuance of old friendships.  It can become controlling, needy, and desperately afraid to lose the good of the past and accept the gifts of the present.  One desires of course that all good things remain, but in reality they must ultimately come to an end, as that trite expression reminds us.  

Sometimes one must say goodbye.  Sometimes one must let friends follow other paths as distance, physical or mental, broadens the gap between them.  Sometimes one must let go for his own sanity.

Yet the loyal heart lets go only with difficulty.  The loyal friend desires to be there when the going gets tough, even if the other withdraws.

As one committed to loyalty, I assure you that I am here if you need me.  Despite my own flaws and failings, I will remain as true to you as I know how.  I will reach out to you even if years have passed since we last spoke and I think you no longer care to continue our friendship.  I will call you on your birthday just so you know you are loved.  I will write you a letter to know I am thinking of you.  If I happen to be in your region of the world, I will let you know.  Time may be lacking these days, but the desire for friendship and the will to be loyal are not.

In the end, perhaps true loyalty lies deeper.  Perhaps one must be courageous enough to let go even of what seems to be the loyal response so that the friendships may continue into eternity.

The Food of Inspiration

Let me introduce you to the most amazing food for inspiration (although not by its proper name, as then you couldn't eat it—see Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll if you are not familiar with that reference).  Perhaps you have already guessed what it is.  If not, give it a try.  Hint: it actually is not chocolate.

In any case, and without further ado, except a brief imaginary drum roll....

The food of inspiration is ice cream.

My grandmother has repeatedly assured me that ice cream is brain food.  The brain typically provides the functions necessary for inspiration, so it makes perfect sense.

Rather than draw my conclusion from the above syllogism, however, I pull it from personal experience.

I was at a bit of an impasse with a writing project.  Some might call it writer's block, but I tend to dislike that term—more for reasons of contrariness than anything else, I suppose (although I may one day address this idea in more suitably rational form).  I digress.  My point is that I was doing just about anything I could to avoid trying to work on said writing project.  After all, there is no fun in gazing at the computer while that powerless feeling of despair at ever being able to get any further grows and grows....

It is amazing all the things one can do to avoid working on a writing project.  Even the things that I would naturally avoid—like cooking for instance—suddenly seemed far more important than working on that dreaded project.  Time slips away very quickly in this fashion.  I believe in most circles they call this procrastination.

Then—lo and behold!—my mother returns from the store and offers me an ice cream bar.  I accepted of course—who would say no to ice cream?

As I enjoyed the delicious crunch of the chocolate coating and the soft cold cream of the vanilla ice cream, I found my mind relaxing.  The thought of the play I had been avoiding came to mind.  Then—voila!—all of a sudden I knew what to do with it.

So if ever you find yourself lacking in inspiration, you may consider learning from my example.  All your practiced efforts to defeat writer's block may be of no use.  You may just need some ice cream.

Warning: Do not try this at home without supervision from a qualified health professional unless you possess sufficient willpower to prevent excessive intake which can lead to side effects such as obesity, diabetes, heart disease, and inability to be productive without ice cream.

You Must Say "Yes!"

A little while ago, I was ushering for an Improv show at a local theatre and—per my instructions—stood in front of a door curtained off where the audience was not supposed to go.  The purpose of my standing there, as I understood it from my previous time ushering, was to keep the audience members from wandering backstage.

So as I stood there trying not to look completely stupid, the owner of the theatre happened to come along and mention that I did not really need to stand there, as the door really went nowhere.  It turns out, there was a bunch of junk behind the curtain now, so no audience members would go through it.

As I stood there, watching her walk away and feeling superfluous, my thoughts took a strange turn.  Rather than feel stupid, I decided to say yes to superfluity.  I would stand there in all my superfluousness and be the best superfluous-usher-standing-in-front-of-an-unusable-exit that I could be.  So I owned my superfluity.

That is what Improv teaches.  "Say, 'Yes!'" you are told.  Actually to say, "Yes, and...." but that is a topic for another day.

What a perspective it is to say yes to the most foolish things, eh?  Instead of feeling like a failure, or feeling guilty, or feeling like one ought not to belong to society or existence of any of those ridiculous negatives, one can own even the ridiculousness and superfluity.

I guess this is what people mean when they say snidely, "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade."

In conclusion: say "Yes!"  And be superfluous if you cannot be useful.  A toast to superfluity!

"Death . . . "

"...comes for us all, my lords."

So says Sir Thomas More in Robert Bolt's excellent play, A Man for All Seasons.

Death is a topic brought to my attention of late through its intrusion into the steady pace of irregularity in my life.  Also, I had read not long before a psychological-spiritual book addressing fear in terms of death: the author made the point that death is what we fear most, whether physical or psychological.

Fear of death can cause us to do strange things.  If you look at the fear of death in its broadest sense (including psychological death), perhaps you might even trace everything back to it.  (Forget Freud for a moment.)

How do we deal with that fear?

Well I would argue that the fear of death is not of death itself, for we do not truly understand what death is.  Indeed death may even be what we desire because it brings us to what we long for most.  Think of Hamlet:

To be, or not to be? That is the question—
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them? To die, to sleep—
No more—and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished! To die, to sleep....

Yet he is afraid of death because of what lies beyond.  Also, I would argue, because he is powerless.

Personal experience confirms for me this reality.  It is not so much a dying of self that I fear, but the feeling of powerlessness, of not being in control, of losing all that I perceive as good.

If you look around you at all the people trying desperately to seize power in their various ways, either over themselves or others, you may agree with me.  We want to feel in control.  We want to look like we have it all put together.

Yet this very need for control cuts us off from those around us.  They may fear us.  They may envy us.  It is doubtful whether they will love us.

Again I find myself facing the old theme of vulnerability.  All the paths seem to lead there these days, as if it were the Rome of human life—of the interior world.  For in choosing vulnerability, we accept our powerlessness.  We accept the pain, the ache that will not go away, our loneliness, our fear, and all the shadows that we wish the light would banish.  Then their power over us begins to fade and we realize that there is a deep undiscovered country within us, a secret cell where none can trample save if we open the gate, a sanctuary for what we treasure most.

If we flee the pain, if we flee the powerlessness, we cut ourselves off from the depths of our own hearts.  Nor can we bridge the gap to another's heart.

Only a full three-dimensional object can cast a shadow.  The flat characters of poorly-written fiction have no shadow because they are not fully human.  If we would be fully human, we must accept that shadow side, embrace it, and let it take its place in our lives.  Only then can we grow.  Only then can we be fully human—fully alive.

Ought we to fear something that makes us beautiful and whole?  In the words of Hamlet:

Not a whit, we defy augury: there's a special
providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now,
'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be
now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the
readiness is all: since no man has aught of what he
leaves, what is't to leave betimes?

Sometimes One Just Needs a Bit of Humor

I find humor in strange places.

Often I laugh at my own jokes because I am the only one who finds them funny.  If others find my jokes funny, I tend to remain serious (and then people can't even tell I am joking, but that is another problem).  It is a strange paradox.

Although those around me may grow tired of my punning and literal humor, somehow it never grows old for me.  Perhaps I have the gift of having a child's sense of humor, for a young child will ask again and again for the same good thing and never tire of it.  Imagine loving the present so much that you wanted to live it again and again....  Imagine seeing such treasure in each moment!

Aside from my penchant for literal humor and an occasional ill-timed morbid joke, I have another form of amusement recently discovered.  I would like to share it with you, for no matter how much I may laugh at my own jokes, I still desire to make others laugh more.  Sometimes it becomes a sort of game for me with friends.  I often measure how well I know people by whether I can make them laugh.

Enough about me.  I want to tell you about this new form of humor.  Perhaps you have guessed it already from the pictures, but I doubt that you have guessed it fully.  (If you have, however, you must possess the precise mental approach to life that suits you to be my partner in a traveling Improv troupe, so please submit your application below in the comments.)  All right, what is your guess?

I suspect that you have discovered that these are pictures of a compost pile holding tea bags with lovely trite sayings.  If that is so, you are entirely correct.

The sayings on tea bags can of themselves be quite humorous.  As for example that first picture where the little tag says, "Patience pays."  Every little child knows that it certainly does not pay.  Patience only means that the parents forget that the child needed something and the true way to get what you need is to scream and cry and throw a fit.  I am fairly sure that is the opposite of patience.

Well have you ever considered how amusing these sayings might be as dialogue tags from a compost bin?

Yes, there is my secret bit of humor: compost speaking through dialogue tags.

How can you look at something like that and not think of a dialogue tag from some comic book?  It is too perfect.

So next time you find your day rather dull and humorless, you may just want to check your compost bin and see whether it has any messages for you.  Note: essential ingredients are actually having a compost bin (any bucket is satisfactory) and drinking Yogi teas (or other tea with suitably silly mass-produced sayings).

I leave you with one last question and all of its existential implications: what is the compost in your life saying?

"I choose all!"

Why cannot one do everything?  I would if I could.  I suppose that is why I call myself a jack-of-all-trades.

I have quite a full life right now.  I have more jobs and projects and ideas than I can possibly handle with my current energy levels and mental stamina.  Yet somehow I cannot help but want to do more.  My heart is restless and desires to encompass all that is good.

These thoughts were sparked by an email I received from my former professor.  She passed along a job opportunity to be a drama teacher across the country.  Realistically I have absolutely no reason to consider it as I prefer the left coast and, as I mentioned, I already have more than sufficient demands upon my time and energy.  Of course reason did not stop me.  I considered it.  Perhaps I might say rather I envied it.  I was not content with what I had, but wanted more.  I want everything.

This idea reminds me of a story.  Leonie felt she had outgrown her toys so she brought a basket full of them to offer to her younger sisters, Celine and Therese.  Celine chose a nice ball.  Therese, however, took the whole basket, saying, "I choose all!"

I feel like that.  I want to choose all.  That is why I find choices so overwhelming.  How can one choose a single good thing and not all the good things?

Metaphor on the Human Condition

The other day I had a conversation with my sister about that consuming fear of burdening other people that we human creatures seem to have.  It is foolish really.  I know that on an intellectual level.  I mean I am always honored when people share with me their deepest struggles because I know that they trust me and that they are giving me a part of themselves that reveals them on a more profound level.  In other words, vulnerability is lovable.

Yet somehow, despite my head's evident wisdom, my heart refuses to believe it.  I still fear that others do not want to hear about my struggles, that they will think less of me for it, or will not take my struggles seriously, and so on.  You know how it goes.

Well in the context of my conversation with my sister, a metaphor leaped to mind and I let it burst out.  In the sharing of that metaphor, we met more deeply in our agreement.

What is the metaphor, you may ask?

A jack-in-the-box.

Perhaps I need not explain, but I am oft known for being too subtle.  Hence I will provide some words of explanation.

We are all hiding in our boxes, afraid of popping out, but secretly hoping that someone will wind us up enough to let our true selves.  We cannot come out of our own volition.  We must wait for someone who cares enough what lies inside.

Proof that I am not Ebenezer Scrooge

Google tells me that I can make money from my blog.  That sounds great.  Isn't that what every writer wants after all—to have a way to earn a living from writing?

There is of course a catch.  After all, there is no such thing as a free lunch, as someone said sometime and everyone else repeats until it becomes a ridiculous cliche.  But I digress.  The catch is this: in order to earn money I have to allow ads to display on this blog.

Is that a significant problem?  In our culture we see ads everywhere.  Every time you read a magazine, do an Internet search, look on Facebook, listen to the radio, and so on, you find yourself unwillingly—or willingly—subjected to some version of this-is-the-best-thing-ever-and-you-should-totally-spend-your-hardearned-money-on-it.  We experience these things so much we mostly ignore them, unless they are funny in which case we laugh and later can't remember what was being sold to us.

Probably if I had told Google yes I wanted ads on this blog so I could make money from it, you would not even have noticed.  You would have assumed that Google had yet again found a way to make money to keep a free service going.  Yet I prefer to be more honest.

Maybe I am being dramatic, but it seems to come down to whether I want to buy into commercial society.  I can give in to the advertising industry's ubiquitous presence and promote it because of what I get from the exchange, or I can stand on a lone island lifting up the flag of unspoiled artistic endeavor and high ideals, watching as I float farther from the mainland....

Which would you do?

“Those who surrender freedom for security....”

The day before yesterday I had a conversation with an artist-friend that left me wondering whether I could honestly refer to myself as an artist.  I have never questioned that before.  In fact, I have never had the least doubt that I am an artist.  It turns my world a little topsy-turvy to face the bald assertion that I may in fact have fooled myself into thinking so.

What would you do in the face of such a crisis?

I face this crisis because I found myself completely incapable of expressing coherently the reasons for frustration with my efforts at art thus far.  Now lack of ability in communication need not necessarily warrant believing that I am not what I say I am.  Yet for the second time I experienced an encounter with a dedicated artist.  She had taken a path furthering her art and was thinking deeply not just about what art means but also about her individual contribution as an artist—her individual approach.  Last time another artist-friend of mine had surprised me with deep thoughts on the connection between art and monasticism.  I had nothing to contribute either time except appreciation of their ponderings.  The deep thoughts I expected myself to have in response were entirely lacking.

While at university, I took a theory of theatre class and there also faced a gaping hole.  I was supposed to write about what made good drama in my exam for that class.  I went in without sufficient preparation because I did not realize how far I was from knowing what made good art, let alone good theatre.  I pride myself on being able to recognize good art.  Yet to define and defend a reasonable description?  It was impossible.

I excused my failure then as the result of having too much on my plate with work and theatre classes each demanding my full attention.  It seemed a reasonable excuse.

Now I am home with plenty of time to spare and nothing has changed.  I do have two jobs and several other projects to balance while trying to spend time with my family and have something of a social life so I feel a little fragmented.  I could use that as an excuse.  I could pretend that my recent revelation means nothing and settle back into my comfortable routine of learning how to juggle everything except my juggling balls.

Yet I prefer honesty to illusion.  I would rather choose vulnerability than security.  I prefer truth to comfort.  At least that is what I believe in the ideal; we need not discuss at present how much (or how little) my ideals manifest in my daily life.

Security, I mentioned.  That is an important word.  Perhaps the important word.  The founding fathers of the United States of America fought for freedom and upheld it as the principle ideal guiding their actions.  Today, we care more for security than freedom.  In fact, when most people say freedom these days they do not actually mean freedom but rather security.  We want the security to be able to live a comfortable life and choose to do whatever we want; we do not want freedom to choose the good, the true, and the beautiful at the expense of comfort and a feeling of security.  We want our rights and our privileges, not the responsibilities of freedom.

I have fallen into that trap.  Even though I have not sought out a high-paying job, purchased a nice new car, and treated myself to the latest electronic devices, I have still settled for security and comfort.  I tell myself it is reasonable.  After all, I had to pay off my loans and become financially independent; one cannot rely on one's parents forever.  So I get up, say my prayers, do my work, try to keep up with my correspondence, take care of my health, and fulfill each duty of the day in a steadily-rolling repetitive cycle.  I might say I have a good routine.

Yet when I look at this cycle of must-be-dones and should-be-dones, I am reminded of a disconcerting quotation from one of my favorite books, Manalive by G.K. Chesterton:

"All habits are bad habits," said Michael with deadly calm.  "Madness does not come by breaking out, but by giving in; by settling down in some dirty, little, self-repeating circles of ideas; by being tamed."

I have been tamed.  I have bought into the pragmatic viewpoint of the modern world.  I plan ways to keep myself comfortable and secure without debt to worry about or uncertainty regarding how I shall bring in money in future.

I do not mean to devalue virtues such as responsibility, nor do I wish to cast mud upon the idea of the duty of the moment; yet I cannot help but feel that these values are less bound to comfort and security than I would make them.  They must be shiny and living things.  They cannot be so far from the ideas of risk and abandonment to Divine Providence as the practical mind would place them.

Perhaps my intuition applies more to artists than to the general populace, but I rather doubt it.  I think it far likelier that we are all addicted to the false goods of security and comfort in an unhealthy manner.  These idols will not save us.  They will not make us happy, although they may make us content.  I might say that I am content with my life.  By this I would mean that by attending to the duty in front of me and seeking to obtain my comfort and security I am feeling less pain and experiencing fewer extremes: I no longer ache with the pain of the dark empty void within.

Today seems to be a day to quote Chesterton.  In his play The Surprise, the characters of the Princess and the Poet give a piercingly illuminative take on being content as opposed to receiving our deepest desire:

PRINCESS (after a silence). I do my best. I think I do some good. Nearly all the people round here own their own land, and all those that cannot have good regular wages. They seem contented. There are few complaints. Every man is secure of finding ale in the ale-cask; every man has a pig at the pig-trough. But as for dancing—well, perhaps they are not a dancing sort. Perhaps they are not a singing sort. And as for thanking God in the street...no, I won't say they are not a thanking sort. They are—well, they are contented and I am content.
POET. You are a little sad. People generally are when they say they are content.
PRINCESS. Oh, no, no—
POET. Oh, my God, what am I? Mud out of the highway soiling your carpets; a rag blown over the wall. But will you let me speak one moment for all the ragged people on the road, the truth that your officers do not tell you; what I know out of the very mouths of the poor of God?
PRINCESS. What in the world do they want?
POET. They want surprise. They do not want sufficiency or security. They want surprise. They do not want regular wages. They want irregular wealth. You say they can always find a pig at the pig-trough and ale in the ale-cask. If ever, one fine morning, they found the pig in the ale-cask and could drink ale out of the pig-trough—they would think they were in a fairy tale.

I hesitate to agree wholly with the poet and yet my heart knows he is right.  I act as if I want regular wages to support myself and expect to find everything where it belongs because I like to have it all within my control.  Yet it does not make me truly happy; at best it makes me content, which the Poet points out usually involves at least a little sadness.

Here my mind returns to Anathan Theatre where I learned the importance of taking a risk.  Our drama professor told us that vulnerability was lovable.  Yet these ideas are the exact opposite of the modern values of security and comfort.  Which is the truth?

My heart tells me that risk and vulnerability are more satisfying, more deeply rooted in being human, and more likely to transform me into the person I was created to be.  I want to live in radical self-abandonment.  I want to fling aside the cares of security and comfort to pursue the ideas that come to my artist mind.  I want to be free to forget the world for a week because I am creating a beautiful work of art.  I want to be free to take that creation out into the world to share with people I have never met and not to fear what they might think of this baring of my soul.

So I ask myself: will I dare to set aside my efforts to control and seek instead a path that leads to the heights?  Would you?

I must close with some further words of Chesterton that somehow send a thrilling charge through my heart, urging me to face the coming storm by standing tall rather than crouching in the safety of some sturdy basement.  From The Ballad of the White Horse:

"I tell you naught for your comfort,
Yea, naught for your desire,
Save that the sky grows darker yet
And the sea rises higher."

"Oh, the Noise! Noise! Noise! Noise!"

Another point my writer-friend mentioned that struck a chord in my heart was the idea of noise and specifically whether we should be adding to it.  That is a question I have often asked myself on a conscious and subconscious level.

There is so much writing out there on the interweb.  People have written so many blog posts that you could spend decades reading them.  Then there are all the online messages, email correspondences, magazines, good old-fashioned books, and on and on....  Every now and again I try to catch up on my reading and I realize how futile it is.  I will never be able to read enough.  Maybe if I could get a job reading it would be possible, but the odds of finding someone to pay me to do such a thing are about as good as being able to build an amazing full-size schooner solely out of toothpicks.

All that potential seems overwhelming.  It begins to feel just like noise.

So why in the face of such noise should I do anything that might add to it?  After all it seems a little presumptuous to assume that I could contribute something of substantial enough merit to warrant the effort.

Yet who am I to say that I have not the competence?  We are not actually very good judges of ourselves or our own skills.  As Sir Thomas More put it in Robert Bolt's wonderful play A Man For All Seasons: "This is not the stuff of which martyrs are made."  He then goes on to become precisely that despite his best efforts to save his life and still remain true to his conscience.

Why should we not be equally poor prophets of our own future?  We may say that our writing is futile, that it is like dry shriveled leaves tossed about in the wind or some other suitably melancholic metaphor, but how do we know that it will not move someone's heart?

We like to think that we are good judges and that we know what will come of our work.  Yet many authors scorn the works that we consider their masterpieces.  It is a strange paradox.

It is almost as if there is some other power at work....

Approbation

Would it surprise you if I told you that I write on this blog solely in order to receive the approbation of my readers?  Would it surprise you if I told you that one kind comment could fuel several future posts here, a general feeling of well-being, and a belief that maybe I can actually be a successful writer?

Even if that is not wholly true, it is a little too near the truth for comfort's sake.

I mentioned in conversation the other day how much we artists seem to need that approval.  The response I received was that this fact does not apply only to artists.  Certainly that is true, for it is after all a very human trait.  Perhaps the difference for artists lies elsewhere: it is not that artists need approbation from others more than other humans, but that we are more willing to admit that we need it.  We can excuse that need as a natural consequence of creating for others.  It thereby sounds somehow less selfish and therefore more publicly acceptable.  There again we hide behind the mask of truth.

As I began to ponder that need for praise and recognition, I took up my directing book to read another chapter.  (The book, for those who are curious, is A Sense of Directing: Some Observations on the Art of Directing, by William Ball.)  There I found the idea of needing recognition, as applies specifically to actors, accentuated in quite strong language:

"Each actor who enters the profession carries with him from childhood a starvation for approbation.  As he grows older, he finds that acting is a socially acceptable form of doing something in hope of getting the kind of approval that he missed in his childhood.  A director understands that to an actor praise is like food.  The actor cannot live without it, cannot flourish without it."

It would be nice to pretend that the need for attention from others was somehow restricted to actors, or even to artists, as somehow that makes it less personal—because it is about the profession and not the person.  Yet if we are strictly honest with ourselves, we know that is a lie.  Our need arises from a deep reality of human nature: from the fact that we are not individuals, that we cannot truthfully sing out, "I am a rock, I am an island," but must rather recognize that we need others.  We are made for community.

I would extrapolate further that we find our need for approbation from others to be greatest where we find the least community.  When we live in a society broken apart from the root of true community life, we must seek ever harder to fill the hole left behind.  We connive our way into getting "likes" on Facebook, take "selfies" to show off our good looks, collect friends we have never met, haunt online forums where we can pretend to be experts on whatever topic we choose, produce clever 140 character tweets, and so on.  All of these things create a physical response as the brain produces dopamine, telling us that this is pleasurable.  They do not require much risk, but neither does the fruit last.  Only a few seconds or minutes later, we need another dopamine response, and another and another and another....

The alternative?  Someone brought to my attention that a good portion of land in Todi, Italy, was up for sale for a fairly reasonable price.  We could go and found a community there, live it out with all of its challenging and gritty details, and see which brings lasting peace.  Any takers?

Why Can't Humans Be More Like Spock?

Me: Why can't humans be more like Spock?

What in the Klingon Empire would've made them cry
Over something so paltry and small?
What could've depressed them,
What could've possessed them?
I cannot understand the wretches at all.
Humans are irrational, that's all there is to that!
Their heads are full of feelings and dramatics!
They're nothing but emoting, simpering,
grieving, sighing, whimpering,
sorrowing, maddening fanatics!

Socrates, why can't humans be more like Spock?

Socrates: I beg your pardon?

Me: Yes...
Why can't humans be more like Spock?
Spock is so careful, so neurological,
Eternally right, elementally logical,
Who, when you fight, will always show you what's true.
Why can't humans be more like Spock?

Why does every one do what the others do?
Can't the humans learn to use their heads?
Why do they do everything their parents do?
Why don't they grow up—well, like computers instead?
Why can't the humans take after Spock?
Spock is so reasonable, so predictable,
Whenever you're with him, you needn't fear.

Would he be slighted if I didn't speak for hours?

Socrates: Of course not!

Me: Would he be livid if I looked at him wrong?

Socrates: Nonsense.

Me: Would he be wounded if I never sent him flowers?

Socrates: Never!

Me: Well, why can't humans be more like Spock?

--

Dear readers, you must excuse me for that rather long and perhaps not so very clever parody (I hope you recognize its source), but it was so terribly much fun.  Also, it provides an apt introduction to my current topic: the matter of emotions.

Perhaps it is an entirely too personal topic at present, but I think I shall dare once more to do what the aforementioned (as in the last post) writer-friend of mine describes so perfectly.  I shall take all of the rawness, all of that vulnerable humanity, place it out where anyone may look at it should he so choose, and thereby hide myself.  In his words (and follow the link if you want to read more) about the use of words:

"...I am so frightened of being seen behind them, that I arrange them in ways that hide me too. In anything you see me write, you see me — whole and unbroken. But I am scared, so I’ve hidden myself among precisely painted lines spread out over huge canvases. I’m hoping it’ll make me a little less vulnerable." 

It is amazing to me how cleverly one can reveal one's deepest feelings and fears and yet remain perfectly concealed.  Often I find that all I need to do is substitute a plural first person pronoun instead of the singular and a deep, personal thought becomes a common statement of reality taken for granted.  It seems trite, unoriginal, and therefore scarcely worth a second glance.  What I can't say of myself, I can say of the whole of humanity.  I gain release of the built-up fears and emotions hidden behind the layers of walls and yet I remain behind the mask.

Emotions are such a strange thing.  Ultimately they seem to be the very warp of the fabric of vulnerability.  Hide your emotions and you hide your vulnerability.  Hide your vulnerability and you cannot be hurt.

Years of small disappointments and seeming carelessness on the part of others led me to build up such walls—walls that formed a defense of mistrust so sure that none could penetrate them with battering rams or kind words.  Something happened to change that.  It started with one persistent enough to gain trust.  Others came afterward and various characters and events and theatre and the walls began to crumble....

Vulnerability is lovable said my dear professor of theatre.  I didn't believe him quite.  At least I didn't believe him that my vulnerability was lovable; I hated it.  The vulnerability of others certainly made them lovable, as it revealed them as humans in need of love and support and not bastions of inimitable skill and unsurpassable rightness.  Maybe my vulnerability would make me lovable to others, but not to me.  And somehow we perfectionist types care less about what others think than about what we ourselves believe.

Sometimes I allow myself to be vulnerable these days.  Sometimes I even love myself for it.

Yet then there are the times when a piercing dart wounds that soft inner core.  It threatens to undo all the practice of allowing vulnerability.  I question: why does love have to hurt?

A wounded animal retreats from the world and hides itself until it has healed lest it should become prey to some hungry predator.  The instinctive response to hide oneself behind walls after being hurt thus has a perfectly natural origin.

I have heard often through my life that pain can lead to hardness of heart or to compassion.  The instinctive response—the natural one—is to steel oneself against all further attacks and build up wall upon wall to save the heart—that vulnerable (able to be wounded, as directly translated from the Latin) part—from future pain.  If this is natural and nature is good, then why should one choose differently?

We seem to admire that which is not natural.  (Take skyscrapers and movies for instance.)  Yet perhaps I may be so bold as even to say that we admire what is supernatural.

It is natural to build up walls, but supernatural to remain soft.  It is natural to save ourselves from pain and supernatural to choose to be hurt out of love.  It is natural for me to run from emotions and relationships that cause me heartache, but supernatural to remain at peace therein, trusting that good will come from constant effort to love.

I suppose the only conclusion that I can draw from the above ramblings on emotion and our human response thereto is this one: Spock is less than human.

The logic: if supernatural means above nature (as it does; see the Latin) and Spock can never choose to be vulnerable (it not being in his nature to have emotions in the first place), then he can never choose the supernatural path.  Since humans can choose to act supernaturally, they therefore are superior to Spock.

That is the head's response to the heart's question.  Yet which is ultimately more satisfying?

When it comes to art, I have absolutely no doubts about the answer.  I want to find in literature, in drama, in music, in all the arts, the pain, the heartache, and the loneliness that I would never bear in daily life.  Great art requires it.

However, when I must put my raw self into my art, I hesitate.  Somehow I carefully conceal myself while pouring out what I believe are my deepest feelings, but which fail to touch the deepest core I have hidden.  Maybe I have hidden it even from myself.  Maybe I must learn to live with that vulnerability—as both my director reading and spiritual reading these days suggest—before I can bring it forth in my art.

Alternatively, I could choose the path of logic and reason.  In short, I could try to be like Spock.

Could Spock ever be a great artist?

The Roads Not Taken

Throughout my life I have referred fondly to the road less traveled by, either for purposes of adventure while following trails through the forest, or, more personally, to refer to the winding road that I have taken through my life.  Lately, I have been thinking much about all those other roads, the ones I have not taken.  One of those roads is the one leading to prolific blog posts.  I was thinking about that particularly after an old friend of mine who is a fellow writer posted some of his rambling thoughts on writing that struck several chords in my heart.  He made me want to write again.  So this post owes its existence somewhat indirectly to him (thank you, my friend), even though I likely will not actually comment upon those elements that struck me; that I will leave for future posts.

For now, I want to reflect upon how that sense of the roads not taken often darkens the present.  Sometimes we get so caught up in fretting over skills not learned, places not seen, friends not made, and so many not-things, un-things one might say, that we can mire ourselves deeper and deeper into a place of dissatisfaction and despondency rather like the pit of despair.

Here there comes to mind some lyrics from a beautiful song of which I first heard through a wonderful musician I know; it is called Song of Sacrifice and here is a particularly stirring verse:

And the things you love begin to fade
Though you try to hold on
As you grip the sands with aging hands
Til all that's left is gone....

Not a particularly cheerful outlook on life, but so often true.  So many times I try to cling to things from the past, but they slip from my hands like the sands mentioned in that song.  Sometimes the thought of all those things lost, and all those un-things, make me think I might as well give up.  Today, though, I reflect that my focus on those things makes me forget that one powerfully present thing which is the road that I have actually taken, the road less traveled by.  There is great beauty on that road, perhaps greater beauty than upon those not taken.  If only I can learn to see it through all of the pain and heartache and un-things....

I hope whoever stumbles upon this blog will find here an encouragement to live more fully in the here, in the now, in the kaleidoscopic glory of the present moment.  Here's to the present, my dear readers, whomever you may be!