Storytelling

The stories we tell ourselves are enormously powerful. For example:

For most of my life I found myself, on the basis of a single (romantic) encounter or very limited involvement, telling myself a story about “the future.” She was “the one,” we were going to be “forever,” she was “perfection,” we were “amazing” together… all because that was the story I wanted. Those stories were enormous burdens to lay on another’s shoulders, and it warped and ultimately destroyed every “storied” relationship. That led to other stories I’d tell myself: I wasn’t good enough, love wasn’t for me, love wasn’t worth it, my life was over.

I’m learning to tell new stories, now, and I’m trying to avoid telling stories about the future. The stories I tell are more like this: “What a nice evening.” “This is an awesome moment.” “I’m happy right now.” “This feels good.”

These stories are short stories, but they’re true stories. They’re stories about the moment. They leave space for the possibility of love, even of mutual love, but they don’t assume it and don’t place an undue burden on another or myself. And I find these short, true stories make disappointment a lot less bitter, because I'm not invested in an entire narrative arc.

The future is unwritten and unpredictable. Staying in the moment helps me deal with uncertainty, far better than does constraining it to my self-serving narrative. I want that brass ring relationship and I’m wide open to it, but I’m not trying any longer to make any encounter fit some script. If it comes, it’ll come as a natural consequence of the episodes we write moment by moment, encounter by encounter.

As with everything else in my current life, this is a practice. It isn’t an achievement I unlock by winning a boss battle, it isn’t a destination I reach after a journey: it’s a routine, a discipline, a practice. I start wherever I am at any given moment and do what is in me to do, and that is sufficient.

It matters, what stories I tell. The stories I tell are the meaning I make of my experience, my existence.

Life is less like a symphony, more like jazz, less like a play and more like improv. And that’s awesome!

Not Without Ambition

It’s such a human thing, to set goals and select destinations. “I’m going to lose 10 pounds,” or “I intend to retire at age 55,” or “I plan to visit all the inhabited continents on the earth” vie with perhaps more lofty examples like “I will be kinder,” or “I just want to be happy,” or “I will achieve enlightenment.” And maybe it isn’t such a bad thing that we set goals and select destinations, only…

Only what if you actually achieve them? What happens after you lose 10 pounds or achieve enlightenment? What do you do if you actually succeed?

If you’ve ever dieted to “lose 10 pounds,” you know what happens after you succeed. Usually, you gain back the 10, plus a dividend. Never having achieved “enlightenment,” I can’t really speak to that particular goal, but in general it has been my experience that accomplishing a goal—be it weight loss or being happy or whatever—does not always mean keeping its product, nor will we necessarily be satisfied even if we do. the achievement or accomplishment often feels hollow, and we’re left asking, “Is this all there is?”

My dad took early retirement from the school district that employed him as a teacher. He loved teaching (and to this day I run into former students of his who tell me how significant he was in their academic lives), but found himself at odds with out-of-touch administrators and foolish policies; retiring was a matter of principle, and Dad was always a man of principle. He retired without a qualm and didn’t look back, but for a while after, things looked a little iffy. One of the smartest men I’ve ever known, but he didn’t seem to know quite what to do with himself. He had achieved a milestone, but didn’t know where to go after. Eventually, he decided to serve the public in elected office (water board), and all was well.

That’s the trouble with goals as we usually think of them: they mark the end of striving, and it’s the striving itself—the journey, rather than the destination—that fulfills us. The outcome and the action taken to achieve it are inextricably linked for us; when we stop acting, the outcome recedes from us.

Almost accidentally, I’ve found an answer to this quandary. Instead of framing my ambitions in terms of accomplishments, I articulate them as practices: actions and consequent outcomes as a series of ongoing disciplines or journeys, not as actions that end when the goal is achieved. “Losing 10 pounds” becomes “living healthy,” “wanting to be happy” becomes “living a happy life,” and “achieving enlightenment” becomes “always seeking greater enlightenment.”

I’m discovering that the best way to be happy is to “do” happy: to always be doing what makes me happy, to always be choosing what makes me happy, to always be seeking greater and richer and deeper happiness.

There’s no end to a practice, and that’s a good thing; it reduces the pressure to “get it,” and makes it easier to celebrate progress. After all, it’s in growing toward the sun that a tree becomes a tree; it’s the journey that makes the hero, and not the journey’s end.

Sacred Space

Last Wednesday I wrote Loneliness as a kind of “sunshine” process whereby I exposed some festering frustrations left unresolved after my transformation (chronicled in Maui Summer of Love 2013). Writing Loneliness proved cathartic: it and subsequent conversations began releasing me from unconscious resentment that was beginning to sour my disposition, and in fact put me in the path of my next big epiphany.

Back in August, one of the things that pushed me past the “tipping point” was the “Law of Attraction” as expounded in the book The Vortex: Where the Law of Attraction Assembles All Cooperative Relationships by Esther and Jerry Hicks. I found the assertion—that by changing what we think about or dwell on (and thereby changing our “vibration”) we also change what we attract—powerful, and as I began to try to apply it, my experience of life began to change in almost every aspect. As I strove to focus on the hoped-for rather than the absent, the hoped-for increasingly appeared in my life, with one glaring exception.

That exception is what I wrote about in Loneliness. Over nine months, I rationalized that my issues with loneliness demonstrated a reasonable limitation to the Law of Attraction, to whit: when what I hope for involves others, they (properly) have a choice, and my hope or expectation cannot and should not be expected to coerce their choice.

I think, though, that a part of me knew that I was missing something. Of course my “vibrations” cannot and should not coerce another, but why didn’t my “vibrations” attract those who were humming the same tune?

Well, they were. In this one area, my hopes were:

1. too specific
2. focused on what was lacking
3. utterly bereft of gratitude

By focusing on a specific outcome, I was excluding too many possibilities. By focusing on lack, I was attracting lack. Because I was grateful for the “wrong” things, I was damping my “vibrations” to the point of silence. Yet I was stuck: I couldn’t really envision what I longed for as already existent since it was “obviously” not present in my life in the present, and I struggled to find something I could be grateful for in the present that related to my longing.

The day after I wrote Loneliness, I had an epiphany (these things just keep coming!). I found a metaphor that works for me—that expresses my longing without being too specific, that makes room in my life for what I seek, that identifies something for which I am grateful—and like so many epiphanies in the last nine months, this one has transformed my (perception of the) world.

After all that buildup, it better be good, hadn’t it? Well, it’s good to me, anyway; your mileage may vary.

It’s simply this: the (currently) unoccupied “spaces” in my life—where the things I long for “fit"—are sacred because they reserve room for what’s to come, because they represent my longings without defining them too specifically, and because they have sufficient reality (like "negative space” in art and architecture) that they are “things” for which I can legitimately be grateful.

One way I think of it is like the nursery expectant parents might prepare in advance of a child’s birth, especially if they haven’t determined the child’s sex in advance. It’s an empty (but sacred) space, no matter that it’s been painted and decorated and furnished, until baby arrives, yet how much love is lavished on that empty room? It is an investment of the heart in an undetermined future, endowed with bright expectancy.

Likewise, I prepare sacred spaces in my heart. I endow them with bright but indeterminate expectancy and lavish them with love. I furnish and decorate them based on what I think might occupy those spaces, but I know I might get it wrong and I am prepared to repaint and refurnish and redecorate when the time comes. In the meantime, it is a present pleasure just to have that space available.

That’s how I’m approaching a show-less summer, too. I’m confident of the personal wisdom of my decision (although I love theatre and my theatre ʻohana and I know I’ll miss the camaraderie and excitement of being a part of the living, growing organism that is a theatrical production), and while that “show space” in my life feels all echoey and strange right now, I intuit that by leaving that sacred space empty for a time, other sacred spaces—spaces I may in the past have neglected by my devotion to Dionysus—will benefit.

I trust that what will fill my sacred spaces is already part of the world. I believe that whatever comes is perfect in itself and for me. I am grateful for the sacred spaces in my life and in my heart, beautiful both as they are and as they may be when occupied.

I think I’ll paint the nursery ochre.

Loneliness

For as lonely as I feel, you’d think I’d avoid solitude.

The truth is that I don’t hate being “alone”—sometimes it’s exactly what I need, and generally it’s at least restful—but I don’t enjoy “loneliness.”

Loneliness is different from solitude. Loneliness is a feeling, one that can be experienced even when in good company. In my experience, it’s feeling separated, standing apart. It has relatively little to do with others’ actions and a great deal to do with my actions and perceptions. That suggests that I can change it—can choose not to be lonely, since it’s my actions and perceptions that shape that sense of loneliness—but I have not yet learned how.

It’s tempting to blame my loneliness on others, to say:

• “Nobody thinks to include me!”
• “Nobody talks to me!”
• “Nobody loves me!”

but really, it isn’t true. I’m a great guy, people do talk to me, I’m well-liked and even loved…

What happens is that I don’t let others know I’d like to be included and I don’t initiate conversations. It’s true there are reasons I don’t do those things, just like there are reasons I tend to keep to myself in social situations and reasons I tend to leave early, but those reasons aren’t justifications to blame others for my loneliness.

I don’t want to heap blame upon myself, either. I’ll take responsibility, but like I said, there are reasons I behave the way I do. Accepting responsibility for my actions is a shift in perception; I once believed that “No one thinks to include me,” “Nobody talks to me,” and “Nobody loves me!” Now I don’t project motives like I once did, and that counts as growth. :-)

Why, then, don’t I let people know I’d like to be included? Why don’t I initiate conversations with others? Why do I keep to myself and leave social situations early?

My initial answer—the one that is my conscious justification for my actions—is that I don’t like to impose or intrude. It’s true, as far as it goes; I wouldn’t want anyone to feel obligated to include me, so I make myself small and take pains not to presume a welcome in the absence of an explicit invitation. Additionally, I am shy, and keeping to myself is a manifestation of that shyness. If you’ve ever read any of the internet articles purporting to describe introverts, you may recognize that many of the traits attributed to introverts are mine.

Upon reflection I realize that (of course!) there’s more going on. There’s the habit of avoidance formed by ancient fear of rejection or hurt, the habit of “playing small” so others can have the spotlight, the habit of playing it safe (when the last thing I want is safety)…old habits formed in the crucible of self-loathing and tempered in the quenching bath of doubt. That crucible is cold, that quenching bath long dry, but the habits persist.

Still, I crave social interaction, deeply desire a sense of belonging, and really love that sense of connection with another human being. It’s one of the things (not by any means the only thing) I love about doing theatre: as long as I’m in a show, I’m part of an ‘ohana and I belong.

My decision recently to not compete for a role in the Maui on Stage production of Legally Blonde: the Musical was a difficult one for just this reason. It’s the first time since my third month on Maui that I haven’t been in a show, and without school in June and July, neither of my customary social settings will pertain. It was difficult to opt out, and although I think I did the “right thing” for me, I am uneasy about a summer without a show.

The other option was to compete for a role not because the role interested me or offered a meaningful acting “stretch,” but just because I couldn’t bear the thought of being apart from my friends over the summer. I’ve done that before, many times, and it would have been easy to do that again. This time I believe I’m strong enough to stand on my own, but I’m not certain of it; hence my uneasiness.

And all this is just part of my loneliness. The lack (for almost my entire adult life) of a romantic relationship leaves a sharper taste in my mouth. All the same issues apply but the stakes are even higher, and I have less of a track record in romantic endeavors than in just about anything. I’ve had more broken toes than romantic relationships (even counting high school and church camp romances).

That’s particularly bittersweet since I’ve come to understand how wonderful I really am. When I thought poorly of myself, it seemed only reasonable that I wasn’t anyone’s romantic partner. Now, knowing myself to be good and worthy (and damn good-looking), it stings. I was always good and worthy (and damn good-looking), but without the self-confidence I have now, I sabotaged every attempt ever made to rescue me from myself. And timing is everything…

I’m lonely. I don’t intend to stay lonely, but I don’t think I’m owed companionship, either. If I don’t learn to reshape my actions and perceptions, loneliness may remain my “albatross.” Yet even if I do reshape my actions and perceptions, nothing is certain. No one is (or should ever be) obligated to include someone for any reason, and there is no guarantee that a change in me will produce a change in my circumstances. Although I don’t believe in “destiny,” I might be destined to be alone. “It is what it is,” as the saying goes.

And it’s all good. I remain hopeful (if not exactly optimistic), and I continue to seek and to grow. If in the end, solitude is my lot—my choice in the eyes of some—I am now and will be happy.

And sad… sometimes, they go together. :-)