Passion vs. Reason

If you’re anything like me, you sometimes experience tension between who you are and what you want. Sometimes your highest nature—your passion—dares you to do something fraught with risk and potentially disastrous, while your reason cautions you that the path to a desired outcome is tried and true. And, again if you’re anything like me, reason often wins the debate.

I’m not suggesting that reason is the enemy. On the contrary, reason is a necessary part of our nature, and there are circumstances when reason should triumph—particularly when the stakes are truly high, reason’s perspective is vital—but I’ve discovered that in me, “reason” is often a disguise for fear or desire. Reason dresses up my fears and wants, giving them (seeming) legitimacy.

For example:

Although I love theatre and performance (in musicals and non-musicals), I find vocal auditions quite daunting under the best of circumstances. I lack confidence in my voice, even though it’s served me pretty well over the years, because (even though I know better) I tend to compare myself with other singers, many of whom have years more training and experience than I. Because when I audition I want a role, I typically play it safe vocally for the sake of my desire, even if my “higher self” wants to do something different that might open up new possibilities.

In the last month or so, I’ve begun to “discover” a part of my voice and vocal range I’ve longed for, because if I can grow in this direction it will open up more possibilities, and I decided that for my next audition, one of my songs would be in that range. It was a risky choice because that part of my voice isn’t quite ready for prime time, but I was determined, and vocally I was close to what I felt would show off this broader potential. I decided to risk it.

Yesterday was audition day. I woke up second guessing my determination. I had another song on deck that I knew I could do well and I wanted—oh, how I wanted!—to ditch the song I’d been preparing all month and go with one that was safe and might get me a role I wanted. It would have been so easy to go that route!

I didn’t. I stayed the course, although I sweated and fretted and, when it came time to sing that song, I tensed up and lost some of what I’d had all month. And the outcome was that I was called back for roles I’d probably have been called back for if I’d played it safe. I don’t think the risk gained me anything. It didn’t really expand my opportunities. I could have played it safe, avoided all that stress, and it wouldn’t have cost me a thing.

Only, that’s not the point.

I’m glad I did what I did—glad I took the chance even though it didn’t go as well as I’d hoped, even though it made no difference in the outcome, even though it could have reduced my opportunities—because in taking that chance I pushed back against both fear and petty want and reached for what I really wanted. I didn’t let fear and desire dress themselves up as “reason” and ground my lofty ambitions—I went for it, even if my voice trembled.

Too often, we adults lose what we all had as children: the unselfconscious ability to try anything just because we can. In learning to think things through and anticipate outcomes, we bury that spark of spontaneity and daring for fear of failure. We become perhaps too pragmatic and practical—we “play small” and stay within the bounds of what we know, rather than pushing into the frontiers of what might yet be.

For just a minute yesterday, even though I was terrified and my voice—my whole being—trembled, I dared…and I didn’t die.

I think I’ll dare again.

Liberty Call

When I was in the U.S. Navy, I loved “liberty.” Leave was awesome, but it was a fixed amount and when you used it up it was gone, but liberty was a renewable resource.

For those who don’t know, “liberty” was time off—duty free time—and was generally granted when:

1. Your unit was in a place that accommodated off-duty activities (whether in port or on base)
2. Your daily work was done
3. You were not assigned “watch” or other supervisory duties during the liberty period

Those who have never served in the military may not appreciate the significance of liberty (I think other branches may have called it “on a pass”)—you are accustomed to having a work schedule, and your employer has no claim on you outside that schedule, certainly no authority to control your movements when not working—but for service members, the military absolutely has the right to control your movements. Even when off duty, I had no inherent right to leave my ship unless I’d been granted liberty by Command.

Perhaps you can see, then, why I loved liberty call.

Liberty call meant that I had no duties whatsoever until liberty ended. I could go out and get drunk (I often did—this was before I got sober and long before I got happy), I could stay up all night, I could shop or gorge or do any legal thing (legal according to the Uniform Code of Military Justice, admittedly a higher standard than civil law). It was freedom, for a night or a weekend, in San Diego or Singapore or Perth or Subic Bay, P.I.

You might be wondering why I’m dredging up all this admttedly-ancient history, and who would blame you? Five paragraphs and I still haven’t got to the point! Bear with me—it’s all relevant.

A couple of days ago, I read a post that made me think of…“elements”…I would like to be part of my life, but aren’t. Not so long ago, thinking about what I crave but lack would evoke feelings of bitterness and resentment and grief, but my practice has helped me grow beyond those reactions, and my reaction on this most recent occasion was very much like what I used to feel at liberty call. I realized that if those elements were part of my life, they would impose duties, as well, and while I would joyfully accept those duties (I would love to perform those duties in that service), I could also rejoice in not having them right now.

It was…“liberating”…to feel that way—to know that because those elements are not part of my life right now, I have greater “freedom” than I would if they were—even though I would trade that liberty for the sake of those elements without a qualm.

It’s another manifestation of “It’s all good,” and I’m happy to discover how far I’ve come in about a year.

I’m happy, full stop.

I’m happy!

Sovereign Souls

I see a number of internet memes that, while well-intentioned, just rub me the wrong way. The underlying sentiment is often a sympathetic one, but the phrasing has an unfortunate tendency to objectify people by talking about them solely in terms of what they do for (or to) others. A case in point:

“Some people come into your life just to teach you how to let go.”

There’s significant good in this meme—it encourages those hurting from rejection or loss to find some good in their circumstances—but at the same time it reduces “Some people” to mere objects, defined solely by the affect they have on “you.”

Each of us is a sovereign soul, charting a course by design or intuition or accident—or some combination thereof—to our own heart’s-home. Each of us (including the ones who reject, abandon, hurt, or hate us) has myriad intentions and purposes, hopes and desires apart from the rest of us.

As each sovereign soul pursues its own self-determined “destiny,” it encounters others and acts according to those unique intentions, purposes, hopes, and desires. Sometimes one sovereign soul’s course is compatible with another’s; other times, they conflict. Whatever happens, each sovereign soul carries gifts for those they encounter in the form of lessons.

Lessons are not always easy. Sometimes they’re painful and usually they’re hard and often they’re unwelcome, but they can be precious gifts. That’s not to say that everything anyone does (no matter how awful) is justified—cruelty in its many forms cannot be excused just because it may teach a lesson—rather, it’s to say that sometimes, maybe even often, our suffering can be in some way redeemed if we find the lesson.

The point, though, is that people never come into our lives just for us. They are sovereign souls, just as we are, and probably just as lost as we are ourselves. We stumble into one another and sometimes all we can take away from a painful encounter—the only thing that makes the pain tolerable—is the lesson.

Why I'm Not Taking the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge

Let me preface this by saying that people should do what they want—if they want to do the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge and/or they feel it’s an effective way of raising awareness of a terrible disease, they should follow their hearts. Good deeds are good deeds.

I’ve been issued the Ice Bucket Challenge. I will not be participating in the Ice Bucket Challenge, not because I believe there’s something wrong with it, but because of my values, my beliefs, my relationship with charity, my “issues.” There will be some who accuse me of being a spoilsport (or maybe an elitist), and while what others think of me is none of my business, perhaps one or two are interested in why I won’t play along. This is my answer.

One powerful influence on my values with respect to charity is Matthew 6:3-4:

But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your alms may be done in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.
New Revised Standard Version

I’m not suggesting that the Ice Bucket Challenge is irreligious. I’m not quoting scripture as some universal authority that must bind and compel anyone, believer or no. I’m not suggesting anything about anyone except me —from a very young age, I have felt that my charitable giving was a private thing, nobody’s business but mine, nothing to boast about or even let others know about, lest feeding my ego become my motive for giving.

The ALS Ice Bucket Challenge has raised awareness—and a lot of much-needed money—for a worthy cause. Yay! That’s awesome! I decline to participate not because ALS doesn’t deserve the—attention—it does—nor because it doesn’t need or deserve the support—of course it does. I decline to participate because I’d rather just give without fanfare or fuss, because I want the attention on the cause and not on me, because I’d die of hypothermia if I did an Ice Bucket challenge for every worthy cause—causes dear to my heart include but are not limited to:

• the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation
• the American Heart Association
• the American Cancer Society
• the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society
• the Alzheimer’s Association
• the American Diabetes Association
• the ALS Association
• the AIDS Foundation
• numerous conservation organizations
• numerous arts organizations
• numerous youth service groups

I do what I can. What I do, and for which organizations, is personal. Given how much of my life I live publicly (this blog is an example), it may seem inconsistent that I choose to keep this private, but there it is. It is consistent with my values, and that is going to have to be good enough.

Aloha!

Nothing Wrong With Me

As I settle into the excitement of another school year, I reflect on a summer very different than I anticipated (and in some ways uncomfortable) and realize that it was…good.

For a number of reasons, theatre is my primary social outlet—the structure of a production provides a framework within which I know my place, and the collaborative nature of theatre makes relating with one another expected—and when I’m not in a production I find myself slipping into a more solitary (and lonely) pattern. While perhaps it is my nature to be solitary, it is not my desire, which is among the reasons theatre is so important to me—theatre is my ‘ohana and I love it and those who inhabit it intemperately.

For four months now (and counting), by my own choice I’ve been apart from that context, and for much of that time I’ve been somewhat idle, too—while for teachers summer isn’t the idyllic repose others imagine it to be, it is outside the classroom and sans students—leaving me to my own devices and solitary vices.

And it’s been lonely.

Of course I could have invited myself into the lives of my fantastic friends and I would have been welcome, but outside the production context, I just don’t. Everyone has work, everyone has rehearsal…it feels like an imposition, even if intellectually I know better. So I just don’t.

I had the opportunity to be in a show this summer, and I chose not to be. I knew the price of that decision when I made it, and while the price was high, I feel good about that decision and more importantly, I feel good about my reasons for doing what I did. While I confess the importance of theatre to me as a social outlet, I am a theatre artist, and the artistic aspects of theatre outweigh even the substantial heft of the social element. I made a hard choice for a good reason, when it would have been easy to compromise to avoid solitude.

What made it good—good despite the loneliness and idleness, good despite missing my theatre family—is that I actually felt I was in good company. I found myself contemplating the growth I’ve experienced in the last year, and calling it “good.” I spent a lot of time with and on me, and it felt fine. I didn’t like being lonely, but for the first time ever it didn’t make me feel insignificant or unimportant or unvalued. It gave me time to process all that’s changed since RENT closed, to find places in me to celebrate and cherish all I’ve become.

With school back in session, I have a focal point in my students and my teaching practice, which eases the loneliness. And while nothing is promised, I hope to be back in rehearsal soon. I look forward to being back in my element. In the meantime, I’ve gained another measure of peace and contentment, knowing that whatever my circumstances, I’m okay and more than okay.
There’s nothing wrong with me.

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.