A Mountain of Laundry

Why does a single guy with no fashion sense to speak of (and no real interest) have so many clothes?

One of the tasks on my agenda is sorting. Among the things I need to sort are clothes; which to take with me, which to have shipped later, and which to get rid of. No matter in which category the clothes belong, it's a good idea to launder them if they aren't already clean.

I've washed 8 loads of laundry so far, and the mountain doesn't seem to be getting any smaller.

This, friends, it what it means to be a pack rat. I've got clothes I haven't even thought of wearing in three, five, eight years, yet I'm putting them in the washing machine. Insanity.

What a relief it will be to reduce my burden; if I can't reduce my clothing inventory by at least 80%, I'm just not trying.

I've thought for some time now that it would be a good thing to simplify my life; this impending move (and all that goes with it) is forcing my hand.

I'm going to like it.

People First, Then Things

My social calendar is filling up. A beach day with the Berry Bunch, a cuppa with a school chum, a gathering of friends and family...busy, busy, busy.

People are asking for a sliver or a slice of my time before I leave, and they have every right. In fact, I want to spend time with those who are asking. I get a little stressed when I think about the things I still have to get done, but...priorities.

People should always be my first priority. I do have—I have to have—other priorities as well, but those other priorities should not and cannot trump people. I'll get the house cleared, I'll get rid of the things I need to get rid of, I'll get done what I need to get done, but people come first.

I sometimes lose sight of that. The scope of "things" I have to get done sometimes intimidates me, and (because I have this stupid notion that I have to do it all myself) I pay too much attention to it and not enough attention to what really matters. That's coming to an end.

Today is dedicated to getting things at the house to a point where I can use help. I also need to order a new dishwasher and disposer, but that won't take long (nor will getting things to the point where others can help). Oh, and I need to find some heavy-duty shipping cartons; I've got some heavy tube-based ham radio gear I'm selling, and I need to pack it and get a shipping estimate.

People first, then things. People first, then things. People first, then things.

Assumptions and Epiphanies

With all the "things" there are to do—packing, getting rid of stuff, arranging shipping—it would be easy to neglect the important things: face time, farewells, people.

It would be easy, but I just can't do it. The important things are... well, they're important; nothing matters as much to me as people.

Because that's true for me, I'm having a hard time (again!) accepting that to some people, I am not among the people who matter. They matter to me; why don't I matter to them?

The problem is my assumptions. I assume that because some people don't talk to me (even when I make the first move!) or don't respond to invitations or don't make time for me, they don't care about me; that I don't matter to them. And that assumption is unjustified.

I absolutely agree that actions speak louder than words. Where I think we (emphatically including me) go wrong is in misunderstanding what actions say. For example, when people don't talk to me or don't respond to invitations or don't make time for me, I've taken that to mean that they don't care about me when what it really means is that they don't talk to me or don't respond to invitations or don't make time for me.

All a person's actions tell me is how people act; it doesn't necessarily say anything about how people feel or what people think.

Am I hurt when people I care about don't talk to me or don't respond to invitations or don't make time for me? I absolutely am. Should I be?

I don't know.

If I'm hurt because I've assumed something that may or may not be so, then no. If I'm hurt because I'm not getting something I want, then maybe.

What I tend to do (and shouldn't do) is judge their hearts by their actions. Actions are all I have to go on, but sometimes actions lie. There's always more to the story than those of us on the outside know.

When I started writing this morning, I thought I was going to write a scathing condemnation of those I love who say they love me, but don't have time for me. Funny how the act of writing has changed my mind.

Bottom line? I shouldn't judge motivations on the basis of actions (or inactions).

Today

Woke up this morning refreshed. It's a beautiful day outside and not so bad inside, either. Today, I'm feeling it.

Even before I rolled out of bed, I felt good. It isn't that I'm suddenly at peace with everything—that might be nice, but it really isn't characteristic of who I am—rather, it's that I'm okay with not being at peace with everything, with not understanding everything, with not knowing what's going on, with ambiguity, with wonder...

I'm not so okay with the sadness of others, but today I accept how little I can do to alleviate it. Today I understand that I'm only responsible for what I can do and when I've done what I can do, my responsibilities end. I empathize, I freely offer what comfort and support I can, and that's it.

Tomorrow, maybe I'll think I'm Atlas again, carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. I hope not—reason tells me it's foolish to take up a burden not mine—but tomorrow will be what it will be. Today, I'm going to accept the gift of feeling good.

One of my high school classmates posted a quote by Albert Camus on his Facebook page this morning:

"The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion."

I like that. I aspire to that. And today...today...I believe it is within my grasp.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to divert a river; these stables won't clean themselves! (I may not be Atlas, but today I feel like Heracles)

Fetal Position

Today (Memorial Day) was... interesting.

I got up, 'blogged, reflected on the sacrifices of our war dead, went into town for breakfast and shopping, came back, got some stuff done, had lunch...spent a couple of hours in the fetal position (I don't know why) and now I'm on my way to being fine again.

I really wish I knew why I spent a couple of hours in fetal position. I wasn't moaning, wasn't crying, wasn't distraught... maybe a little depressed, I don't know why (and it didn't feel like my periodic clinical-type depression, so it must have something to do with my situation), but nothing dramatic. I was...resting?

I don't know. I would worry, but I wasn't worried while it was going on and I think I can trust my instincts on this. It's nothing to worry about.

I just wonder, you know? What was going on that made that the appropriate reaction? What brought it on, and what took it off?

I don't know.

Not knowing should, if past history is any guide, have me absolutely climbing the walls, and I'm not doing that, either. I'm strangely at peace with not knowing. Oh I want to know, but it's not causing me any distress that I don't know and don't know how to find out.

I'm chill.

I spent a couple of hours curled up on the couch in fetal position doing nothing, I can't describe with any confidence what I was feeling or why I was there, and I'm chill.

Maybe this is what it's like for a caterpillar in chrysalis, dreaming himself into a butterfly.

Last Days

It's Memorial Day. My last Memorial Day on the Mainland.

Memorial Day is important to me. My military service was in peacetime so none of those I served with paid the ultimate price that Memorial Day honors, but members of my family have, and since my service I have known a few who likewise have paid with their most precious treasure; their lives.

From the time I was a Cub Scout, however, I have been awed and humbled by the stories of the heroes for whom this day, once called Decoration Day (because it was a day when the graves of our honored war dead were bedecked in remembrance of their sacrifice), is celebrated. My family has a military tradition, and I was raised to respect our military and to always be mindful of the sacrifices on which our liberties were founded. That's one family tradition I never rebelled against.

(I fear that those liberties have been so far eroded as to make a mockery of those noble sacrifices, but that's the subject of another blog.)

Memorial Day (honoring those who have died in defense of our nation and its ideals) and Veterans Day (honoring all who have served, and not just those who died under arms) were and are two holidays that for me have never been simply a day off or a day for a special sporting event; rather they are true Holy Days, to be observed with ceremony and solemn contemplation, whether publicly or privately. I don't object to family barbecues or sporting events on these days, but for me, the days are first and foremost about those who served.

And today is my last Memorial Day on the Mainland.

Since deciding and committing to going, I find myself hyper-aware of the importance of "lasts," at least to me. Yesterday was my last day sharing ministry with the Burbank congregation of the Community of Christ. Friday was my last day as a teacher in the Antelope Valley Union High School District. Last Sunday was my last performance as an actor in Antelope Valley community theatre. All these things are things that matter to me—things I love—and knowing they are "lasts" is...well, it's sad.

It's also sad that I didn't know the significance of the "lasts" that came before my decision to go: Christmas, Thanksgiving, Veterans Day...

I am not sad to be going. I am excited to be going; my heart lifts in anticipation of what is to come on this new adventure.

I am sad to be leaving; leaving friends and family, leaving the place that's been my home for most of the last 44 years, leaving a job I once loved...

It's my last Memorial Day on the Mainland. I will spend some time in personal reflection on the sacrifices made by service members (including military service animals who so-faithfully have served their human fellows in conflict), then I will exert myself in preparation for going. I have a lot to do.

As I work, I will remember. You remember, too.

I Forgive

It isn't easy, but I'm working hard to forgive those who have wronged me, particularly those who (in my view) have wronged me in my professional life.

I'm not doing it for the sake of reconciliation: if I were staying, that would be important but since I'm going, reconciliation is probably impossible, not to mention irrelevant.

I'm not doing it for their sake or their benefit: I don't think they care whether or not I forgive them, and if they don't care I can't imagine how my forgiveness would affect them.

I'm not even doing it to be noble: as much as the next person, I like to imagine myself as some "paragon of virtue," but I know the difference between what I imagine and what I really am, and in this case what I really am is selfish.

First, I don't want to be the kind of guy who doesn't forgive. It's a matter of my own self-image; I have to forgive them to be the kind of guy I want to be.

Second, I don't want to give that kind of negativity any of my mental real estate. I'd rather reserve space in my mental landscape for positive, uplifting, happy thoughts; don't want the crap attached to unforgiveness cluttering things up.

Third, I don't want to carry the baggage of resentment and anger into the awesome (and ambiguous) adventure that is my future. It has no place in the life I'm making for myself.

In the cases I'm thinking of, forgiveness does not mean pardon. I do not excuse the wrong done, nor explain it away; it was wrong! Nor does it mean pretending there was no harm done; I suffered (and suffer) harm. It doesn't mean forgetting they wronged me, and it doesn't mean extending trust to them.

What it means is that I am done seeking either justice or vengeance. No longer will I pursue recompense or recourse, retribution or revenge. No longer will I seek to balance the scales, paying them back for what they did for me. It's been said, "An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind," and whether in justice or in vengeance, that is the path of unforgiveness.

If this is a competition to see who gets away with the most—the most 'stuff' or the most power or the most whatever—I concede the match; they win. But for me, it's no competition at all, and the way one wins is by giving up notions of balancing scales, of justice and vengeance, and simply divesting oneself of the burden or resentment.

So "they" screwed me. So what? If I hang onto resentment, they keep screwing me without even knowing they're doing it; I've become an accomplice to my own violation.

For very selfish reasons, then, I choose forgiveness. I choose it because it's noble (and I want to be noble), I do it because it's good (and I want to be good), but most of all, I do it for very pragmatic reasons: for the good of my soul and for the lightness of my being moving forward into an awesome new life.

Silence Speaks Louder than Words

So...

You do understand that in a little over 5 weeks, I won't be living on the same continent as you any more, right? That there will be half an ocean between us? That if you ever decide you do want to hang out with me, it will be impossible unless you come to me? That "someday" is about to become "never?"

I've tried, God knows I've tried. I've made myself available, I've volunteered to do all the traveling and visit you in your neighborhood, at your convenience. I've "put it out there" on numerous occasions. And do you know what response I've gotten? A big, fat nothing.

I love you, I do, but forgive me if I wonder whether you love me. I don't seem to be on your priority list at all. When we've been in the same place at the same time we've had great visits and you've said you want to hang out with me more, but when push comes to shove...

Sometimes silence speaks louder than words.

In just 25 days, my Harley will be at the port being loaded onto a ship; no more chances to ride together (something we've talked about for more than three years). In 39 days, I will be in Hawai`i; no more chances to get together and sit together and visit and laugh.

I miss you... don't you miss me?

That's what I thought.

This is It

Today is the day. The end of an era. Not a very long era, really—either eleven or fifteen years, depending on when you start counting—but an important, a significant, a meaningful era, at least to me.

Today is my last day of actual work in my school district.

Paraphrasing what an acquaintance said, I'll be (hopefully temporarily) joining the ranks of the Gentlemen of Leisure.

My contract term runs through June 30 and my health insurance is good through August 31, but my days of showing up end today. And while part of me is excited, thrilled even, part of me is very sad.

I've served the young people of the Antelope Valley for fifteen years. I've seen former students of mine become parents, activists, even colleagues. I've watched (and I hope helped) them grow. I've been "Papa Negaard," "Cobra Commander," and a host of other things to young men and women.

And today it ends.

Today I say goodbye to my last class—a group of kids some of whom I've known for three consecutive years—and it's going to be tough. I love my students—even the annoying ones, even the difficult ones, even the defiant and challenging ones—and saying a final farewell not just to a group of kids I love but also to the job which provided me the opportunity and context in which to love them (and hundreds of others) is...painful.

Oh, I'm excited to be putting the toxic elements of my job behind me—grownup drama, mostly—but...I will miss serving the kids of the Antelope Valley. Sure, I hope to be serving other kids in a new place, but those kids won't displace the kids already in my heart; my heart will just have to expand to make room for them.

And it will. I know that it will.

If everything goes as planned, at 12:35 P.M. I'll be throwing a leg over Hermes (my Harley) and hitting the road for a purely-symbolic long distance ride to figuratively put the nastiness of my soon-to-be-former position in the rear view. That'll be a time for cleansing tears. When I arrive home, I expect to be...I don't know: resigned, refreshed, determined, ready.

Just another step. Another step.

Chrysalis

(In this post, I talk about how things seem to me. I wouldn't want any of my dear friends or family to see in this a criticism of them: I know that you have my best interests at heart. Never doubt that I love, honor, and respect you. Never doubt that I will miss everything about you. Never doubt that this is about me—selfishly self-absorbedly me—and not about you, though it may read differently. It's hard to write about this without seeming to make others the problem.)

I've been pondering the implications of this move for my sense of self—my identity as I see me, influenced by how others see me—and the prospects excite me.

Like anyone, I am influenced by my environment, and I'm realizing that sometimes a familiar environment inhibits change. It isn't something anyone chooses; it just happens. Once you are settled into a place, there's a tendency to stay the way you were when you entered that place; it's familiar and predictable, and if you don't change you know what to expect of others.

By the same token, we tend to (unconsciously!) put pressure on others to remain the way they are, even if we sincerely (consciously!) believe they need to make changes. If an acquaintance or friend changes habits or attitudes or whatever, we tend (without malice or even intent) to put pressure on them to be what they've always been. Maybe we tease them (never consciously intending to influence them) or we react badly to what's new and different about them, or we remind them of how they were before the change, or we make a big deal of what's different. None of these are (consciously!) intended to influence our friends, but all of them can.

That's how peer pressure works: it isn't people telling you to do what they want you to do; rather it's people subtly and usually unintentionally, through thousands of indirect signals, indicating the way of conformity.

Conformity has its place. A society depends on a modicum of conformity for its security and stability. Peer pressure is not automatically and necessarily a bad thing, and at least to a point, conformity helps us all get along.

Change is uncomfortable at best. When those we care about change, we are (unconsciously!) uneasy. So without malice and without intent, we tend to apply pressure opposing change, sometimes even as we verbally and consciously encourage change. We don't even know we're doing it.

What's all this got to do with my move and my sense of self?

Most of my dear friends and family would agree that there is room in my life for positive, affirmative, meaningful and significant change. I've been told on numerous occasions (and I've agreed wholeheartedly) that I ought to change this or I ought to change that. It's true; in order to find greater fulfillment, I must change.

So why haven't I?

Because in the place and society I've been in for the last umpteen years, I've been comfortable. Not always happy, not always fulfilled, but comfortable. And it is hard to surrender comfort.

That's where this move becomes relevant. By moving—to a place where I don't really know anyone, where the culture is different, where everything is different—I've already surrendered comfort, and, freed of the (unconscious!) impulse to please people I know by being what I've always been, I am primed to reinvent myself.

Could I do it here? Sure I could. Would I?

Well...

So far, I haven't.

I'm not certain I'll do it there, but I think a fresh start offers an amazing opportunity. And some of the things (and some of the people) that have come into my life in the last two months have catalyzed the coming change. I feel like I'm just about to enter a chrysalis, and the butterfly I'm destined to be will be emerge in Hawai`i.

Yet without the experiences and influences and relationships I've had in this environment, I would not be ready to spin my cocoon. Without you (and you know who you are), I would never have found the courage to take the next step. Without this—all of this: good and bad, encouraging and discouraging, joyous and sorrowful—I would not be who I am and could not be who I will become.

As this caterpillar wraps himself up in silk, he wraps up the treasures that are you and here and tucks them next to his heart. He's taking you and here with him, for he cannot bear to be altogether parted.

Aloha!

BITE ME

My mission for today: clear my classroom.

I've been teaching high school in the district for 11 years. Over that time, I've accumulated a lot of 'stuff.' Much of it is 'stuff' I don't really need; today I haul as much as possible to the dumpster.

The 'stuff' I want to keep, I need to box and label. Anything that I'm likely to ever want in Hawai`i needs to be prioritized; there are things I need as soon as possible, things I need as soon as practical, and things I need eventually, and since Mom's going to be stuck mailing it, it's up to me to make it easy for her to know what to mail when.

I tend not to throw anything away, because deciding to do so feels so final. But I have no choice; my goal is to have my room absolutely empty and ready to check out at the end of the day tomorrow. That way on Friday, I show up, say goodbye to my students during the first block of the day, and check out during the final block of the semester.

I'm tempted, oh so tempted to, at the end of the day, go across the street, drop my jeans, and expose my lime green boxers with the words "BITE ME" across the seat. Oh, I'm tempted. But I won't; I am a professional, and no matter the provocation, I will not behave unprofessionally.

I'm allowed to imagine it, though, aren't I?

Mahalo

Sick of It

(The title is deceptive; disregard the normal connotation and read on.)

Last night I was scheduled to work a tech rehearsal of IOT's production of Dora the Explorer Live!: Dora's Pirate Adventure at Arbor Court Community Theatre. I'll be running sound for the show one weekend, and it's time to get my bearings.

Within a few minutes of arrival, I was drowsing; my energy was low. I checked my blood glucose and when I found it normal, was at something of a loss. Why was I so tired? Well, I've been tired before; I knew I could power through it.

A few minutes after that I started to feel nauseous. What the hell? Where did that come from? I do not have time to be sick! Maybe it's transient; I decided to wait it out.

Half an hour later, no better; worse, if anything. I could think of nothing highly likely that might be causing these symptoms—I had "cheated" a little on my Primal lifestyle and eating habits the day before but nothing major, and I was sad that Laughter on the 23rd Floor was over but I've been sad over shows ending before, and neither of those seemed likely in and of themselves to be implicated in feeling craptacular—but the cause wasn't as important as the effect; I wasn't going to be able to stay through rehearsal.

It occurred to me, however, that those two potential causes might "pile on" with the overarching concern in my life to cause the symptoms I was experiencing. That concern was the subject of two blog entries yesterday—I'm Sorry and Antinomy—so clearly it's a pretty big deal.

By the time I asked Wayne (my best friend and the executive director of IOT), I was pretty sure that emotional considerations were at the root of my problem. When I asked to be excused and said that, Wayne looked me in the eye and said, "Believe me, I know."

We are not divided beings: mind, body, and spirit all discrete and apart. We are one being: mind, body, and spirit fused. Our mind and body and spirit are unitary. "Heartsick" may be an emotional malady, but it affects our body and mind. When we are physically ill, our minds and spirits are affected.

I am "sick of it," not in the sense we usually use that phrase (tired of something repetitive, tedious, and annoying), but rather in the sense that the legitimate, appropriate, and necessary cares of the moment made me sick. So okay...

It's okay, I think. The future can only be reached moment by moment. There aren't any shortcuts. We don't go from hurt to healed without going through healing. It's like grief (it's very like grief; anyone who doesn't think I'm grieving doesn't understand at all): you don't necessarily have to do the steps in order, or in the same way others do them, but you don't get to skip the work. No one can wave a wand and make you whole.

I wouldn't be surprised if people wonder how I can talk about incredibly painful things and keep smiling, even through tears. It's simply this: I know that the feelings are real, that the people I feel for are worthy of strong emotion, that the circumstances deserve a powerful response from me. I'm not ashamed of my strong feelings; on the contrary, I believe they mark the significance of others in my life.

If sometimes those strong, worthy, meaningful emotions make me sick? Well, I can't say I'm happy about that, but I'd rather that than not to feel at all.

Antinomy

an·tin·o·my noun an-ˈti-nə-mē 1: a contradiction between two apparently equally valid principles or between inferences correctly drawn from such principles

I was first introduced to the concept of antinomy in a beautiful science fiction short story with that title, written by Spider Robinson. The example given in that story was of a devout Catholic whose fiancée experiences a call to be a nun. He might be excused for being resentful—in a sense his fiancée is breaking trust with him—but his devotion to his faith means he is supposed to rejoice for her; he can't even be angry.

This is a term not well enough known.

We've all experienced this: two legitimate principles that contradict one another. How are we supposed to feel? Which side should we be on? Do we have to take a side?

This post is a follow-up to my earlier post, I'm Sorry. If you've read that, I'm sure you see the connection. I have two equally valid principles that contradict one another: on the one hand, I ought to be excited at the new adventure I've chosen, against all odds and despite my own trepidation; on the other hand, I ought to feel sorrow at the people (really, it's the people and not the things) I'm leaving behind. How does one feel excitement and sorrow at the same time?

I don't know that one does. I know that what I do is alternate. In public I (mostly) embrace excitement. I (mostly) save the sorrow for solitude. It isn't that I'm trying to pretend I don't feel sorrow: rather, that which is the cause of both my excitement and my sorrow is also causing others some sorrow, and I don't want to burden them with mine.

There will be a time when we will grieve together. For now, we all have a real need to be functional. Catharsis will have to wait. And when we are suspended between two equally valid principles—when antinomy is the right word for where we're at—catharsis is hard.

I'm Sorry

Yesterday I trod the boards of the Antelope Valley stage for the last time. Yesterday I said goodbye to a part of my life that has profoundly shaped me over the last 12 years.

Yesterday I cried.

It's not the first time I've cried on this journey. It's not the last time I'll cry, either. Tears seem as much a part of this journey as smiles are, though most people only see the smiles; I mostly cry alone.

Not because I'm ashamed to be seen crying or because I worry what people will think; I couldn't care less whether or not people see my crying or judge me for it. The things and people I'm crying over deserve every teardrop. It's just that right now, the moments when it hits me are solitary ones.

That'll change.

Today I said goodbye to the stage, which is important and worthy of tears. But too soon I'll say goodbye to the people I've met through the theatre—what I call my theatre family—and that's going to leave a mark. I think that the tears I cry over them will not be solitary ones.

I'm leaving people I love and who I think love me. We're all losing someone important to us. We've all got cause to grieve.

I do think, though, that in some ways it's easier for me. After all, while I'm losing people I love, it's because of a decision I made; it's the consequence of my choices. My family and theatre family and friends are losing someone they love, but they didn't do anything; this loss is being imposed on them. I, at least, inflicted my loss on myself; the catch is I'm also inflicting their loss on my loved ones. It's my doing.

I think that makes it harder for those I'm leaving than it is for me. I'm not saying it's not difficult for me—it is—I'm just saying that it's easier for me than it is for my friends and loved ones.

That realization sucked, by the way. To realize that this choice, which hurts me so much, may be hurting my friends and loved ones more...just sucked. And to realize that all of it—my pain and theirs—is my doing is just about enough to break my heart.

So let me say I'm sorry. I am sorry to inflict this on you.

I won't—I can't—take it back. I must and I want to move ahead. It feels right. It feels good.

But it hurts, too. It hurts me to be saying goodbye to you (and you know who you are), and it hurts me to know that my leaving hurts you more.

No wonder children throw tantrums when they can't have two (mutually exclusive) wishes at the same time. That's what I want. I want to have my cake and eat it, too. I want to do what's best for me and do what makes you happiest. But I can't have both.

This pain is not going away any time soon.

Swan Song

Today is bittersweet. Today I take the stage for the last time in the Antelope Valley. Today one of the most important chapters in my life to date ends. And here come the tears...

I know that in the next six weeks, these tears will flow again and again, and I don't begrudge them. Whenever something important ends, there's pain if not outright injury, and whether pain or injury, the end of something important deserves tears.

Yes, I wrote the end to all the chapters ending soon—it seems that every new beginning comes after a (happy or unhappy) ending, and I made the choices knowing full well that these would be among the consequences—but even though I'm the one ending it, I am sad. Even when it's a loss I choose, I still lose. So let the tears flow...

The chapter that ends today—the Antelope Valley Community Theatre chapter of my life—began some twelve years ago, when I auditioned for and was cast in Cedar Street Theatre's production of Damn Yankees. I played Vernon Linville, a ballplayer on the Washington Senators, and had the time of my life. In that show I met Wayne, who has become my best friend.

Twelve years later, I've acted in nearly 40 shows, directed a dozen, designed several, seen three I wrote make their way to the stage...Damn Yankees planted the seeds in me that led me to pursue teaching theatre as a career, led me to graduate studies in theatre, led to many of my finest and most precious memories and friends. That show and its aftermath transformed me; among the ways my life is marked, BDY and PDY (Before Damn Yankees and Post Damn Yankees) are important.

Twelve years later, I am finishing a run as Milt Fields in It's Only Tuesday Productions' presentation of Neil Simon's Laughter on the 23rd Floor, and that's it. Finis. The end.

I'm proud of what I've done PDY. I'm happy to have been a part of so many productions, to have contributed to the founding of It's Only Tuesday Productions, Wayne's theatre company, to have met and shared the stage with so many wonderful people. Antelope Valley community theatre has been at the heart of my life for twelve years now...

Of course there are tears.

Out of the Zone

(Nuts-and-bolts posts are coming; once I finish the run of Laughter on the 23rd Floor on Sunday, I'll have more attention to focus on getting things done, so expect me to write about clearing out my classroom, garage sales, house rental, and the like shortly.)

Today's reflection begins with a quote:

"Life begins at the end of your comfort zone." -Neale Donald Walsch

This quote, which a dear friend from my undergrad days at Graceland University posted on Facebook this morning, got me thinking. It seems that I've always believed it to be true—the things that really matter to me: learning, growth, love—all happen outside my comfort zone. The things that (for me) make life life aren't really "comfortable" things.

I'm not suggesting that they're painful—it's not pain as such that makes them uncomfortable—rather, they're uneasy, messy, disruptive things...yes, disruptive. And as with exercise, there can be some discomfort—aches and the like—accompanying these wonderful, meaningful, important, significant, uncomfortable things.

As a teacher, I see the impact learning can have. Many years ago, in one of my education classes at Graceland, I read that a change in behavior is the most sensitive evidence of learning, and that idea has stuck with me. Learning changes behavior. Learning changes the learner. I see it in my classroom: when students make a personal connection with a concept or idea—when they own what is taught and truly learn it for themselves—they are affected, sometimes quite powerfully. It disrupts the status quo. I think any of us can look around and find evidence of how disruptive learning truly is, which may explain why some prefer ignorance.

To see how disruptive growth is, all you have to do is walk down the sidewalk of an older neighborhood that has trees lining the street. Your feet will tell you about growth and disruption. As those trees grew, their roots heaved and cracked the sidewalk. Our comfort zone has a definite size, and growth will exceed those boundaries sooner or latter. If we insist on planting ourselves in a pot and growing, we're going to crack a few pots in the course of it. Growth cannot both continue and be kept within our comfort zone.

Love is perhaps the least comfortable, most disruptive thing of all. Not that it isn't comforting in time of trouble so much as it's troubling in time of comfort. Love changes and challenges us; it demands more of us than simple pleasure. When another's wellbeing becomes as important to us as our own, our behavior changes. We do things differently because another's wellbeing has become as important to us as our own. And a change in behavior (to bring us full circle) evinces learning.

Somehow or another, I find myself in middle age. There was a time in my life when I thought or assumed that as one aged, comfort became more important and more appropriate. Now that I find myself older, I don't think that's true.

No matter how old I am, no matter how long I live, I will always value learning, growth, and love (and the greatest of these is love), and these things cannot be contained within my comfort zone.

For me, my comfort zone is a casket, and I'm not ready to lie down yet.

This reflection brings me comfort. It affirms to me that this grand adventure is harmonious with my values and nature. It brings me peace.

6 weeks, 3 days, 2 hours 24 minutes.

Accentuate the Positive, Eliminate the Negative

One of the few Facebook apps I bother with is Messages From God, not because I think they are what the name suggests—I am well aware that the app is a computerized engine for randomly picking an "inspirational" missive from a database—but rather because sometimes the message is inspirational and often surprisingly apt.

This morning's Message From God had some great tidbits in it:

On this day, God wants you to know...
... that today is going to be a great day.
Don't start your day with a negative attitude. It's hard to understand why so many people wake up each morning feeling defeated when each day holds so much potential. The possibilities that today offers are endless, so eagerly anticipate wonderful happenings. It's easy to let blessings go by unnoticed if you're not looking.

For most of the last couple of months, I've been caught like a fly in amber negativity. Sure, I've had reason to be—I've had some pretty negative experiences (but really, who hasn't?)—but that doesn't mean it was the right thing to dwell on the negative. Sure, it's understandable, natural, all too human...but that doesn't mean it is right. Negativity doesn't do anything to eliminate negativity; rather, it reinforces it.

The best counter to negativity is positivity (and not just or only a positive attitude, although it starts with that). A positive attitude—an optimistic and hopeful attitude—go a long way toward eliminating the negative, but once that attitude is in place, action gets the job done.

Over the last couple of weeks, although I hadn't actually consciously decided what I was going to do with my future, the decision to just go was crystalizing in my subconscious mind, and people noticed. They may not have known what my decision was—some may not have known there was a decision pending—but as that decision worked its way into my psyche, my demeanor changed. People started saying things like, "You look more relaxed," "You glow," "Your smile is back." And once I bought my one-way ticket and committed myself in deed to this path, the effect became even more pronounced.

Even amid the stresses and sorrow that accompany the decision, I feel my heart lifting. I've cast off the burden of negativity I've been carrying for months, now.

I don't know how this adventure is going to turn out. I don't think that's knowable at this point in the journey. All I know is this: by acting on a positive impulse (albeit one stimulated by an incredibly negative experience), I am reaping dividends of the soul.

So "don't start your day with a negative attitude" (no matter how justified you are in having one). Find optimism and hope. "The possibilities that today offers are endless, so eagerly anticipate wonderful happenings." Don't "let blessings go unnoticed" because "you're not looking."

Keep your eyes open; blessings are all around you: in people, in places, in things.

And if you what you see in your path isn't what you want, change course! I'm not saying you should quit your job, rent your house, and move to Hawai`i without any specific prospects (although I'm not saying you shouldn't); what I'm saying is, act on positive impulses, on optimism and hope. Act to change your destiny... it isn't predetermined and you can remake it (and yourself) whenever you choose.

Look at me. Those of you who know me know that I tend to be risk-averse; that I tend to put others' needs ahead of my own; that I tend to accomodate myself to others' plans and intentions; that I tend to adapt and get along, rather than act and move along. But those are my proclivities, not my destiny. When adequately provoked, even a mouse can roar and a leopard can change its spots. If you don't like who you are or where you are going, change!

For me, right now, nothing could be worse than not trying to change. For me, it feels healthier to fail spectacularly attempting something magnificent (the risk I run) than it would to succeed modestly attempting mediocrity.

As I posted in One Foot on a Banana Peel a while ago, My Awesome Life really is awesome. I'm awesome. And so are you (or if you aren't, you can and should be). There's nothing awesome about wallowing in negativity.

Cast off the negative and be awesome. I'm doing it and it's... well, it's awesome!

The Rubicon

Well, it's done.

As of yesterday afternoon, I have a (non-refundable) one-way ticket to Hawai`i. Seat 20C on Hawai`ian Airlines flight 3 from Los Angeles to Honolulu, departing 10:40 AM on July 3, 2012, is my seat.

I've crossed the Rubicon.

And you know... I feel okay.

I thought I'd feel some portentous Wagnerian dread—almost expected fat orchestral minor chords as an underscore in the soundtrack of my life—but really? Not so much. There's a little anxiety—set a countdown timer which immediately told me I have 6 weeks and 5 days to go, and that creates a little pressure—but when I woke up this morning, I felt little different than yesterday.

In some ways, in fact, I feel better.

There will be no more shilly-shallying around, no more second-guessing things. I've made my decision and committed treasure to it and that's that. With a definite date and a plane to catch, I must do each day what that day demands and live in the now, savoring and treasuring the good that is this chapter of my life. Too soon (and not soon enough) I will turn the page.

If you catch me paying too much attention to the next chapter at the expense of this one, call me on it. It will happen, but I don't mean it to and I don't want it to. I'm not gone yet ("I'm not dead yet!"), and what I have here and now is important. The people who are part of my life here and now matter deeply; I'll never be able to adequately articulate how deeply you matter to me.

Never believe, no matter how excited I seem for what's to come, that I don't know regret for the inevitable change in our relationships. Never believe that I don't know what this change costs me and you. I am the man I am now—I am able to take this step now—because I knew you.

I find myself tearing up just thinking about it.

What I'm feeling reminds me of the lyrics of the song "For Good," from the Broadway musical Wicked:

I've heard it said
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you.

I don't seek out people for what they can do for me, but I cannot deny that you (and you know who you are, don't you?) have had a profound positive influence on who I've become. "Who can say if I've been changed for the better?  |  But because I knew you  |  I have been changed for good."

As I count the cost of this radical move—and I count it every day—I pray that somehow, some way, I will find all you who are so dear to me in the next chapter of this book. I pray, too, that I have been (and will continue to be) a blessing in your life. More than praying, I trust that it is and will be so. I don't think you're done changing me.

I hope you aren't done changing me.

I have been changed for good.

Breathless

I'm actually doing this. I'm not going to do it; I'm doing it. That's an important distinction. I'm going, and that takes my breath away.

At first I was breathless with fear: paralyzing, stupefying,appalling terror. There was no question what made my hands sweat, my limbs shake, my gut clench, my breath catch: it was fear, pure and simple—that visceral reaction to threat that kept our primal ancestors alive in a menacing world. And fear is still part of it...

But fear is not all of it, not any more. Fear is not even the biggest part of it.

I'm breathless with anticipated grief. I am leaving my family, my theatre family, my friends, my best friend, my students (the only children I've known)... and I feel that loss as if I was already gone. "I miss you" doesn't come close to what I'm feeling, and I haven't even gone yet. I tear up every time I remember those I'm leaving.

I'm breathless with excitement. I feel the things I've always felt before a first date: anticipation, nervousness, hope. There's no knowing how it's going to be: if there will be "chemistry," if we'll be "compatible," if we'll "fit," who we'll be to one another. It's exciting!

I'm breathless with awe. Awe at the prospect of being where my heart has called me for so long, awe at the thought of remaking myself in a new place, awe at the boundless possibilities (including the possibility of epic failure). Awe at the amazing support of family and friends from whom "never was heard a discouraging word," but rather endless encouragement.

Breathless.

Tonight I'm reserving my (one way) ticket. Early in June, I'll book passage for my Harley.

I'm going.

Getting a Grip: Seize the Day

Carpe Diem.

A lot of us first heard "Carpe Diem" (seize the day) in the movie Dead Poets Society. It's a great principle—maybe a fundamental principle for those who dare—and it encompasses ideas like:

• don't wait for the perfect moment
• conformity is not required
• live in the now
• "you only live once" (and yes, I know that's a cliché and I hate the acronymification of it as "YOLO," but the implications of that phrase are apt)

As I strive to dare this—as I grapple with each day, trying to get a grip—I find it catalyzing change in me. I find myself wanting things I never allowed myself to want before. I find myself attempting things I never imagined before. I find myself having things I never thought to have before. I find myself living a life that is surprising and exciting, unexpected and exhilarating. Why?

Because I've set aside unwarranted worry about what others think and paralyzing fear about how others will respond. Neither the worry nor the fear are gone—I think that vestiges of them will be with me always—but where once they had primacy in my considerations they are now relegated to the rearmost ranks.

Before, if I wanted something I would hesitate to reach for it, fearful that my hand would be slapped. Now, if I want something I reach out boldly. My hand might be slapped, but so far it hasn't been, and if it should, so what? The lesson isn't "Don't reach for what you want," the lesson is "Don't reach for that particular example of what you want." I've been learning the wrong lesson, but I'm finally getting it right.

My life is changing. Not particularly in noble ways, nor at all in ignoble ways; just changing. Change can be "good," and change can be "bad," but change can also just be change, and that's what I'm experiencing. The changes I'm experiencing are for the most part morally neutral, but they make me bolder, happier, more confident, more comfortable, and more transparent (if such a thing is possible).

So Carpe Diem—Seize the Day... and take a good, firm grip. The more unpredictable the challenges, the more important that grip is. Hang on tight—it might be a bumpy ride—but don't hold back for that reason; the tornado might just take you to Oz.

Changes

(Graphic hopefully coming soon!)

Big changes seem to beget big changes.

As I walk this walk, I find that it is changing me. I find myself making different decisions than I might have a couple of months ago. I find myself behaving differently than I did a couple of months ago. I find myself feeling differently than I did a couple of months ago. I don't think that my values have changed—the same values I have held for some time still prevail, I think—but in response to the massive uncertainty I face, those values must be applied in new ways if I intend to live with integrity.

For example...

I try to make honesty a guiding principle of my life. Even if it will cost me something I want, I try to tell the truth. I try to tell it with kindness and compassion and empathy, but honestly.

So I'm leaving, and I know approximately when, and all of a sudden I'm confronted with opportunities (yes, multiple opportunities) for something I've craved my whole life. I'm not going to say what it is—those of you who know me well can probably guess, but the details aren't really important—but suffice to say that it's something I hunger for and yet something that is incompatible with my imminent departure.

What that means in terms of honesty is that I find myself having to speak a truth that was never the (emotional) truth for me before: "I'm not interested in..."

Another value I hold is emotional availability. It is an important part of who I am that I am emotionally available both to those with whom I already have a relationship—family, friends, students, whatever—and to new, potential friends, students, whatever. Yet with only two months remaining before things will change, I find myself less emotionally available than is my habit. It's still a value, but a value that is tempered by circumstance; while I remain emotionally available to those with whom I am already involved, I'm not available to new friends in the way I would normally be.

Maybe I'm kidding myself—maybe my values are changing, and if so that will give me pause—but I hope that my values remain intact and I'm just applying them in new-but-honest ways to a novel situation. Certainly that's my intention. Still, I find myself a bit at sea and a little uneasy.

Nietzsche said, "That which does not kill us makes us stronger." I'm not sure I always agree, but I will say that any experience that we survive will change us. It may make us stronger, or more sensitive, or wiser, or crueler, or sweeter, or whatever. It might make us better or it might make us worse...what it won't do is leave us unaffected. And the bigger the experience—the greater the disruption—the bigger the change.

I'm becoming more daring (some say "reckless"), I find...not just in resigning and moving, but in other aspects of my life. I'm finding confidence I never had. And while I still feel fear...I am not afraid.

In the Beginning

Actually, it's not the beginning. The beginning was a couple of months ago, and like most beginnings, it began with an ending.

I thought the rest of my life was pretty straightforward. I thought I knew the future, at least in general. I thought I could make plans on the basis of what I thought things would be like.

I thought wrong.

In one short week, my prospects went from satisfying-if-a-little-boring to grotesque-and-miserable. Things (and people) I thought I could count on changed or turned their coats. My mundane-but-satisfying professional life became a horror.

I still like what I do (I'm a school teacher) and I still like those I serve (students), and I still like and respect (most of) my colleagues. But the well was poisoned, and if I stay, I'll have no choice but to drink it.

That's no way for a self-respecting human being to live if s/he has another choice, and luckily, I do.

(I'm not knocking those who for good and sufficient reasons can't or shouldn't do what I'm—in fact, I envy you your spouses and families and the like—it's just that, for the first time in my life, the lack of those blessings is a positive. If I enjoyed those blessings—and I consider them to be great blessings—there would be no Renegade, "reluctant" or otherwise.)

That rather ugly ending catalyzed my evolution from respectable, predictable, mostly-conforming upright citizen to renegade. It has helped me confront my fears and insecurities, it has forced me to do what is best for me, it has pushed me far out of my comfort zone...and I'm glad. I'm afraid, but I'm exhilarated, too.

As I have evolved, so have my plans. I began the application process for employment in Hawai`i as a teacher while at the same time exploring other opportunities nationwide, with the thought that Hawai`i was my first choice and other options were great consolation prizes and that if nothing else manifested, I'd suck it up and drink the poison ("for just one more year") while I pursued the same kinds of opportunities and additionally applied to MFA (Master of Fine Arts: sort of the PhD of arts disciplines) programs.

But in just a couple of weeks the poison had begun to work on me, and I had to scratch "suck it up" off the list of viable choices. I had to get out; staying was intolerable to me. I began thinking about leaving even if nothing was on offer, and that's when the fear really hit.

I like my security. I like stability. I am not averse to change, but I like to manage it to minimize risk. What I was contemplating offered no security, not stability, and no possibility of managing the risk. It would be a leap of faith.

I don't want you to think that I did all this thinking and considering on my own. I discussed everything with family and friends, all of whom have been enormously supportive throughout. I bounced ideas off my sainted mother and no matter how radical and reckless they were, she saw possibilities in them. My siblings likewise have contributed and continue to contribute to my evolution. Friends and theatre family are part of the collective that has helped me think and choose.

I also don't want you to think I'm unaware of the precious treasures I'm leaving behind, in the form of family, friends, colleagues, students, activities, experiences, and opportunities. I'm keenly aware of the cost of making so radical a change. I count it daily, and treasure the time I have, knowing how short that time is.

Yes, I've decided.

And to make it difficult for me to chicken out, I submitted my letter of resignation last week, effective at the end of this school year's contract term. I'm cutting the cords that bound and secured me to this job, this district, this life. I'm going to rent my house, pack my household, up and go.

If nothing in the way of opportunities is on offer, I'll take myself to Hawai`i, to sink or swim. If I haven't heard by the first of June, I'll buy a one-way ticket and see what I can make of it.

I'm going. I'm going. In some ways, I'm already gone.

I'm going renegade.