In Service To...

I am a theatre artist. I direct, write, act, and design for the stage. I may not make a living at it—I may never make a living at it—but that doesn't change who I am. I may be many other things, as well, but those other things do not make me less of a theatre artist; if anything, they make me a better one.

We theatre artists tend to have "robust" egos, and necessarily so; it takes a healthy ego to dare the stage and an unknown audience's reaction. Confidence is another and perhaps a better quality to have, but confidence alone is not enough; every artist knows that audiences are unpredictable and good work does not always receive a positive reception. Ego partners with confidence...that indomitable sense of self-importance convinces us that we will be adored, and rightly so.

Although ego has its place, it wants tempering, and ofen doesn't get it. An ego unchecked is common in theatre—the "diva" or "prima dona" is a stock character type for good reason—but such an ego tends to overshadow the art of theatre. An unconstrained ego leads an artist's work to be all about the artist; it becomes narcissistic and selfish, failing to evoke the empathy of the audience or elicit the catharsis that wins an audience's acclaim.

What, then, can temper or counterbalance the ego that might otherwise turn art into mirror-gazing?

I think humility is an essential quality in a theatre artist, one that must be assiduously cultivated and constantly exercised. It is essential not only because it functions as a governor—keeping ego in proper bounds—but also in its own right; humility is key to artistic performance.

Humility is crucial because theatre artists serve neither self nor audience (though both must be served); rather, theatre artists serve the story. It is the story that will, if properly served, serve both the artist's self and the audience's desire for catharsis.

While ego is required to execute a performance, it is the enemy of creation. Humility is the friend of the creative impulse that is the foundation of artistic endeavor; the quality that lets an artist set aside self-consciousness and self-importance and simply create. Humility is what empowers a director to tell the story the playwright wrote, rather than the director's own story. Humility is what empowers a playwright to write the story that needs telling, and not the one that feeds the playwright's ego. Humility is what empowers an actor to create and embody a character that isn't the actor, but that needs to live in that story on that stage. Humility is what empowers the designer to create the best setting for the story, and not the setting that shows off the designer's cleverness. Humility lets "self" get out of the way of the divine creative spark.

We all serve the story. We're all here to tell the story. The playwright is the oracle who serves the story by penning it, and the rest of us—director, actor, designer, whoever—serve the story by interpreting it, incarnating it, contextualizing it...breathing life into it.

If we serve the story and not our egos, we do what is best for the story whether it was our idea or someone else's. If we serve the story and not our egos, we do our best for the story regardless of whether we think it's beneath us (because it isn't about us). If we serve the story and not our egos, we may truly call ourselves artists.

Too often "we"—directors, playwrights, actors, designers, technicians, whoever—too often we confuse the artist with the art. The art has its own identity, its own reality. The artist matters—the artist builds a fire for that divine creative spark to kindle and nurtures the tongues of flame that warm us all—but it's the fire that warms us and not the artist.

We serve the art and not ourselves. We serve the story. When we don't—when we serve ourselves—we betray the art and, like Narcissus, we lose ourselves in our own reflections.

Confidence is necessary, and ego has its place, but humility is the key to being an artist. We must always be "in service to" the story we tell on the stage.

Smack Me If I Ever Say I've Got It Figured Out

I can't imagine ever feeling like I've got life figured out.

I think if I ever do feel that way, I'll have real cause for concern. You see, "life" is pretty complicated. Even if the biology was all I was talking about, it would still be too much to "figure out" in one human lifetime, and to my way of thinking, the biology is just the beginning; not the least of it, but not all of it, either.

Life consists of many things: biology, physiology, psychology, environment, experience, and relationship are just a few. And each of us is marvelously complex in every single element that constitutes life. Any one element would make a subject worthy of a lifetime's study, and none of them would reveal all their mysteries in a single lifetime. If I decide I understand life, what it really means is that I've decided to stop exploring life's labyrinthine complexities.

But although I can't expect to figure life out in one measly lifetime, I can figure out parts of it. It isn't that life is inherently beyond our understanding; it's just that there's so much to understand that I'll run out of time before I've got it all. I can figure out enough to live a fulfilled and satisfying life. Some things—maybe even very simple things—will remain baffling for much of my life, perhaps even for my entire life, while other things—perhaps even the most complex and mysterious things of all—will reveal themselves in surprising ways.

But such revelations as may come can only come to one who is receptive, and should I decide I've got life figured out, I will have made myself unreceptive to the unfolding of life's wonders. He who thinks he knows something cannot learn it.

So I try to embrace the awareness that there are things about life and living that I don't yet know. I don't want to just accept it; I want to revel in it, for those vast tracts of ignorance are territories yet unexplored, and my life is not over while there is more for me to learn.

(Okay, speaking practically, my life is over when I stop breathing. But you know what I mean! And I would rather die while still unraveling the mysteries that constitute my life than live any time believing there was nothing more to know. God save me from complacency!)

So if I ever say I've got life figured out, smack me on the head...then point me at this blog.

Beauty and Attraction

I'll never be the first choice of someone who makes the appearance of a guy her primary criterion for attraction. Not that I'm unsightly—on the contrary, I'm a good-looking guy—but I am not (nor would I want to be) the kind of drop-dead gorgeous that would have women posting pictures of me on their social networking sites with the caption, "Can I have this, Santa? Please?!?!"

So I'll never inspire the kind of desire reserved for the likes of Tebow (or whoever represents the current masculine ideal); good! Because I don't think a woman who makes the appearance of a guy her primary criterion would really suit me, you know?

It isn't that I think appearance should be off the list; after all, appearance is among the criteria that I consider attractive (plus I'm a good-looking guy), so it would be the height of hypocrisy (not to mention self-defeating) to expect a woman to disregard appearance altogether.

It's just... appearance is ephemeral. I'm lucky to have retained decent looks for as long as I have but from this point forward, "distinguished" is my best hope for the future (and at that I'm lucky that "distinguished" is considered attractive).

It would be awful to believe my appearance determined my worth. the pressure would be overwhelming. And no matter what I did, inevitably time would wear away my handsomeness (and therefore my value). Sooner, rather than later, I would find myself desperately scrabbling just to slow the decay. And desperation is not sexy.

The thing is, even if I was Adonis incarnate and immune to the ravages of time, my looks still wouldn't be my best feature. Looks should never be anyone's best feature.

Some qualities—attractive, at least to me (and, I sincerely believe, attractive to many)—are within our control and can improve with age and experience. Those are the qualities I promote in myself and value highly in others. In terms of what I find attractive, those qualities are higher criteria for attractiveness than appearance. And I think the same would be true of any woman who would "suit" me. While I have to keep reminding myself that I'm a "good-looking guy," I just am a decent man, a caring man, a kind man, an intelligent man, a generous man, a loving man. Those are qualities that improve over time, and I believe they're attractive, too; certainly I find them attractive in the women I meet.

Attraction is the seasoning that makes love romantic, and it matters. Our culture over-emphasizes physical beauty, but we can look beyond physical beauty (which fades like any hothouse flower) and find beauties more substantial and lasting in the hearts of one another. It is a choice—whether to accept our culture's conditioning or to look deeper—and what we choose will powerfully influence who we are attracted to and how we relate to who we are attracted to. If all we see is physical beauty, what will happen in the relationship when it bows for Time's passage? Will the relationship end?

Khalil Gibran wrote of beauty:

All these things you have said of beauty,
Yet in truth you spoke not of her but of needs unsatisfied,
And beauty is not a need but an ecstasy.
It is not a mouth thirsting nor a hand stretched forth,
But rather a heart enflamed and a soul enchanted.

It is not the image you would see nor the song you would hear,
But rather an image you see though you close your eyes and a song you hear though you shut your ears.
It is not the sap within the furrowed bark, nor a wing attached to a claw,
But rather a garden for ever in bloom and a flock of angels for ever in flight.

People of Orphalese, beauty is life when life unveils her holy face.
But you are life and you are the veil.
Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror.
But you are eternity and you are the mirror.

I can't really say what that might mean...it is a mystery. Beauty is a mystery, or it ought to be; so much more than smooth skin and clear eyes and shining hair. It ought to be something ineffable, and it ought to be something we can create in ourselves, rather than simply have through good fortune.

Christmas

Anyone who knows me knows that at an emotional level, the Christmas season is difficult for me. It is among the times I feel most lonely, despite wonderful and loving family and friends. It isn't anyone's fault; it's me, and no one else. Since it is not my custom to hide my feelings, those in my circle of friends and family know that I find the Christmas season rough, and they know why.

Nevertheless, there is something truly magical about this season; for me, it's filled with signs and portents telling us not just how we should be(have) at this time of year, but year-round. And more frequently than at any other time, Christmas time is when I'm most likely to see people at their best, with the divine spark burning brightly in them and illuminating the world with buttery light. Granted, it isn't everyone—sadly, the season brings out the worst in some folk and there's no getting around the the fact that as a species, we humans aren't so good at being noble—but it's more than at any other time of the year, and it's a blessing.

The catch is that, now that I know we can be(have) nobly and generously and kindly and wonderfully, I am left wondering why we aren't like that all the time?

It's like, once you do it correctly once (whatever "it" is), you can no longer excuse yourself with, "I can't," because you have demonstrated that in fact you can, and parents, teachers, and bosses don't forget.

In this season I celebrate the birth of Jesus, who I try to follow. I try to make manifest the word of the angels who, according to the Gospel of Luke sang on Jesus' natal day: "...on earth peace, good will toward men." Maybe they were describing God's perspective toward humanity, but based on what Jesus did in his life, I think that to strive for peace on earth, and to maintain good will toward men (and women), is a pretty righteous thing to do.

So I invite you to spread the love this season as practice for spreading it every season. Do love—act in loving ways toward all your neighbors, whoever they may be, wherever you find them—don't get so caught up in the commercial aspects of this time that it brings out the worst in you when it could be bringing out the best. Let the light of the divine spark warm every heart. And once you've proven, to us and to yourself, that you can be noble and gracious and good in this season, extend it into the next season and the next and the next. As Scrooge said he would do, keep Christmas in your heart the year round. Or if not Christmas (because you have different beliefs than me), keep good in your heart. This old world of ours would benefit from whatever good we can bring.

Poetry

Last night a former student posted "Say something Poetic" on a social network. Being the smart-ass English teacher I am, I immediately responded with, "Poetry is the sword of the soul" (off the cuff, spur of the moment; certainly not a particularly thoughtful or artful response), which led to a series of more-or-less serious exchanges which ultimately led to... this.

You might guess that poetry—in fact, all manner of aesthetic expression and experience—is important to me, and if so you'd be right. "Important" may in fact be too weak a word for what poetry and other aesthetic elements are to me, and not just to me. In my view, aesthetic experience is essential to human existence.

As Vincent and I bantered, my casual comment evolved into something meaningful (at least to me). Vincent asked if maybe the soul wasn't the sword of poetry (since without a soul, words wouldn't be written on paper), and I responded asking if the soul could exist apart from poetry or poetry apart from the soul. For me, posing the question was enough to conjure the answer: for me, poetry and the soul are inextricably intertwined, and one cannot exist without the other.

As with all arguments, it starts with definitions of terms. The soul—for me, in this context, speaking not literally but metaphorically—the soul is that ineffable, intangible, transcendent part of our being that is more than the sum of its parts. Maybe it's the synergistic sum of our thoughts and emotions and experiences. Maybe (and this is part of what I believe) it's that plus a "divine spark" that is the gift of God. Whatever it is, I believe that it needs aesthetic stimulus as much as our bodies need oxygen.

Which leads to my working definition of "poetry." For me, in this context, speaking not literally but metaphorically, poetry is the aesthetic part of us. It isn't just words, spoken or on a page; it is music and dance and art and the wordless experience and expression of awe at the mysteries and commonplaces of life. It is the breath of our souls; when we breathe it in (inspire), our souls take in an essential element, and when we breathe it out (express), we give of our essence to inspire others.

Without breath, I die. Without poetry (in the broad sense), the soul dies, or if it doesn't die it sleeps or hibernates. Breath is life. Poetry is the soul's life.

As an actor I long ago discovered how important my breath was to my performance. Not only is breath literally the life of my craft; it is also (part of) the medium of it. The emotions and physicality as well as the voice of my character are founded on my breath.

So it is with my soul. What poetry I breathe, in and out—and how I breathe it—affect my soul's life, moment by moment. Sometimes I gasp, sometimes I breathe slowly and deeply, sometimes I take shallow sips, and each both indicates of my soul's present state and influences its future.

Grrrrrrr!

I am... aggravated.

Yesterday, I began writing about a subject dear to my heart—one I obsess about; one of my most magnificent obsessions. I was "in the moment"—words like dragon's fire out of my heart and through my fingers and onto the screen. It was the real thing...

And then just as I was ready to post, BlogPress, the iPad application I was writing in, crashed. Crashed hard. So hard, in fact, that it won't even start up.

I shrieked aloud (frightening my cat). I raged. I didn't throw my iPad down on the floor, but I was tempted. What I lost was good. It was important (at least to me). It was cathartic and significant and I really wanted to share it with those interested. And then it was gone.

Today, I'm not as angry, but I am sad. I'm grieving. I'm even experiencing the "denial" phase of grief; I won't delete and reinstall BlogPress because I want to believe that the words are still there somewhere, and that maybe the next time the program is updated I'll be able to recover them.

Sometimes words are just words, and sometimes they're like children, precious and full of promise and potential. These were my children, and I lost them at the moment of their birth. You may say I'm making too big a deal of it and I can't argue, but since I don't have children, only two things will survive my eventual death: the memories of my relationships and my words.

In the Terry Pratchett novel The Truth (and others), the dwarves make a big fuss about things like erasing blackboards and using movable type. For the dwarves, words have a power and identity of their own, and there is something deeply wrong about erasing them or breaking them down into parts (letters).

As a writer, I believe that. I believe that (sometimes, at least) words are vitally important. And BlogPress killed some hundreds of my word-children.

Sure, I should have saved early and saved often (as I remind my students to do), but in the giddy ferment of ideas, sometimes I forget.

That makes it at least partly my fault.

Add guilt to the grief.

Grrrrrrr.

Love (Is a Many-Splendored Thing)

Without a doubt, love is my favorite subject. Love is almost always on my mind, love is something I see a lot of, love is something I try always to do... you might almost say I'm obsessed with love.

I make no apologies for my obsession—I think of it as another “magnificent” obsession—but before you plan an intervention, let me clarify...

I'm not talking about romantic love. Or at least I'm not talking exclusively about romantic love—rather I'm talking about what makes it love (rather than infatuation or affection or good old-fashioned lust).

I wouldn't want anyone to think I have anything against romantic love (or infatuation, or affection, or "good old-fashioned lust"), either. I am passionate about passion, and the passions associated with romantic love go to the root of me; nothing can shake me the way they can.

What I'm talking about is what elevates emotion—fraternal or romantic affection, good will or friendly feeling, liking and appreciation—to love. Love is not a feeling, no matter how closely we associate it with feeling. Love is not something we suffer, something that happens to us, something that we can't control. No, love is something well within our control, something we decide, something we choose.

Three sources inspire my grasp of this "Crazy Little Thing Called Love."

1 Corinthians 13 (NRSV) says, "Love is patient, love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends."

Those aren't feelings—they're choices; things each of us can control about how we behave toward another.

"Sonnet 116 (William Shakespeare) says, "love is not love / Which alters when it alteration finds, / Or bends with the remover to remove," and "Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks / Within his bending sickle's compass come, / Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, / But bears it out even to the edge of doom."

Again, not feelings so much as attitudes; things within our conscious influence. We can choose to be steadfast in the face of a beloved who changes over time; we can choose to stay the course no matter what time brings. If love is only one thing (and it's really many things, but there is one thing without which love is not love), it's "commitment."

In other words, the feelings we associate with love are not love in and of themselves; rather, they add savor and flavor to the core commitment that makes love so important. With one kind of feeling we have fraternal or familial love, with another kind of feeling we have Platonic love, with yet another kind of feeling we have Agape love, and with still another kind of feeling we have romantic love, and each of those flavors of love is wonderful in its own way.

In The Prophet, Kahlil Gibran writes On Love. The poetry is beautiful—I commend the entire volume to you—and the take-away is that love leaves you vulnerable, love has a price, and no one unwilling to be vulnerable or unwilling to pay the price can enjoy the fullness of blessings that love can bring.

In a previous post on social networks, I wrote that for me, it all starts and ends with love:

• love makes me vulnerable, and I proudly bear the scars of wounds suffered for the sake of vulnerability
• love makes me trusting, and I proudly wear the motley suited to such folly
• love makes me generous, and I gladly accept the cost when others take advantage of my generosity

Love is choice. Love is behavior. Love is commitment. And love is persistent—it is a commitment sustained through all the weather and all the seasons of life. It isn't about what you get; it's about what you give.

Love does not have to be reciprocated to be meaningful. Unrequited love is not tragic; it's just love. If I had to choose between being loving and being loved—if it was "either/or"—I would choose to be loving.

Happily, it's not either/or—while not all the love I give is returned, I am nevertheless greatly loved—so I don't have to make that choice. But I don't love in hopes of receiving love in return; I love because I choose to be loving, and one who is loving loves without expectation of requital.

I choose to love, and only hope to be loved in return.

Gang Aft Agley

The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
Robert Burns

or

The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often askew,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!

The best-laid schemes often go awry... even the best-laid schemes. And few of Man's schemes are well-laid at all.

The Founding Fathers had noble intentions. They proposed a government in which one man had one vote, so that each had equal interest and equal representation. Abraham Lincoln called it "government by the people, for the people, of the people," and vowed that it would not perish from the Earth. These grand sentiments were enshrined in well-laid schemes articulated in documents like the Constitution and Bill of Rights, the Gettysburg Address and the Emancipation Proclamation.

But even the best-laid schemes "gang aft agley."

In my lifetime, perhaps despite the best efforts of persons of good will or because of the apathy of the common citizen, "government by the people, for the people, of the people" has been replaced with government by the elite, for the elite, and of the elite. "One man, one vote" has become "one dollar, one vote," and whoever spends the most dollars wins. The wealthy elite have hijacked government "by the people, for the people, of the people," and even in some instances convinced some of "the people" that it was in their own best interests to allow it. The wealthy elite have purchased legislators outright, and the government serves their interests and no other.

The American Dream has become a pipe dream for the vast majority of common folk, even the most deserving and able. The dice are loaded, the game is rigged, and no matter how smart you are or how hard you work, you will be lucky to have as much as your parents did.

Banks and corporations are "too big to fail," so the government uses the contributions of common folk to bail those banks and corporations out. Corporate risk is underwritten by working Americans who receive no corporate profits, while the government dismantles the social safety net that once provided a soft landing for those same working Americans in time of trouble. A bank's bad decisions may land it in the sewer, but the government will ensure that it (and its officers) will come out smelling like a rose. Is the same true for a working American?

In George Orwell's dystopian novel Nineteen Eighty-Four the protagonist, Winston Smith, is told that "Two plus two equals five." He rejects the statement as false, but the assertion is repeated again and again until he begins to doubt his own certainty and finally comes to accept the false as true.

Likewise, citizens are likeliest to believe what they hear repeated most. Since the Supreme Court has granted corporations the same "free speech" rights as persons, corporations may now spend as much as they like in promoting their candidates and proclaiming their messages as often as necessary. Anyone unable to muster equivalent funding will find her or his message buried under an avalanche of advertising. This effectively multiplies the vote of those controlling the corporations in proportion to spending.

One dollar, one vote...

Government by the almighty dollar, for the almighty dollar, of the almighty dollar...

Thus dies the American Dream...

Thus dies America...

Gang aft Agley.

Incidental Finding

I'll admit, I'm a bit anxious right now; anxious to get the CAT scan over with, and anxious to hear what it finds.

Wait, that's not the beginning.

On Saturday, September 24, 2011, I injured myself. It was during the final open water session of my PADI Rescue Diver class and I was acting as a victim for one of my classmates, who was carrying me up the beach on his back. I breathed at just the wrong time, coinciding with my rescuer's step, and I felt a 'pop' in my ribs, accompanied by some meaningful pain.

The pain subsided, I finished my rescues without too much trouble, and all was well (or so I thought).

Within a few days the pain had diminished but not vanished. My students extracted a promise from me that if it hadn't got better by Monday (October 3, 2011), I'd get it checked out; they repeated to me what I've frequently said to them: "Take care of yourself! You're no good to anyone if you're unhealthy!"

Fast forward to yesterday. I got up, got ready for school, and by the time I arrived was in significant pain. Dammit... So I arranged for a sub and went to Urgent Care to keep my promise.

Doctor thought it was quite likely costochondritis, an inflammation of the ribs' junction to the sternum, but ordered x-rays to rule out rib fracture. No problem... until the doctor came in and told me that there was no fracture, but...

But... there was an "incidental finding."

It's an innocuous phrase, but my blood ran cold. An "incidental finding" on an x-ray of the chest region for someone whose dad died of lung cancer not quite 3 years ago is perhaps-understandably frightening. I controlled myself and paid attention as the doctor continued.

She described the "incidental finding" as a "nodule" in the region immediately above the injury site, and probably unrelated. She told me that she wanted to refer me for a CAT scan. What can a person say to such a thing? I said, "Okay."

I'm trying to keep my head about this—I'm aware that the odds are good that it's nothing to be concerned about—but sometimes fear gets ahold of me and I think about the years I smoked, or my exposure to asbestos when I was in the Navy, or the prevalence of cancer in my family. I know I'm a bit of a hypochondriac so I dismiss the worst of my fears as probably unfounded, but "probably" isn't the same as "certainly," and I can't say that they're certainly unfounded.

At any rate, the CAT scan is scheduled for Monday afternoon, and it shouldn't be too long after that that I'll know.

But in the meantime, I am anxious.

Funny thing, though; as I was thinking about writing this 'blog, I thought of a different kind of "incidental finding," one that would be just as disruptive as this one could be, but much more welcome.

People say that when you stop looking for love, that's when it finds you; love happens while you're looking for something else. Love is (or often is) an "incidental finding." You're looking for something else, you're doing something else, and WHAM; love.

It's strangely comforting, thinking of love in the same terms as whatever this damn thing in my chest is. Maybe it's good news.

Remember to Breathe

"The beatings will continue until morale improves" is a quote that has in times past amused me more than anything else. I understand the irony—I am an English teacher, after all—but thought of it as satiric hyperbole more than anything else; I'd never been in a situation where it was all-but-literally true.

Things change, however.

For the last couple of years, I've labored to maintain my native optimism in an environment where the beatings, though figurative rather than literal, were no less humiliating and no less demoralizing for the fact that they were figurative. I'm optimistic by nature and want to believe the best of everyone, so although insult after insult and injury after injury would drive me to the depths of despair, I would rise again and again, optimistic about people and their motives.

I'm still doing it, too. After more than two years of insulting, degrading, dehumanizing, demoralizing treatment, I still haven't learned to stay down; while I can be driven deep, I still pop back up like a cork in the ocean.

I'm not happy about that, though.

I'm tired. I'm tired of being treated the way I am. I'm tired of my comrades being treated the same way. I'm tired of optimism; as things stand I have no good reason for optimism in the short term. A big part of me wishes that I wasn't so irrepressibly optimistic—it would be a relief to give up, throw in the towel, surrender my dreams and ambitions—but in so many situations my optimism is a blessing. Lately it's a bit the worse for wear; it's gotten quite a workout keeping me "up," and I'm not sure how much lift remains.

It's a sad thing when one is so demoralized as to almost wish for an end to optimism.

I'm just grateful that I only feel this way in one part of my life. Granted, it's a big part—so big that changing my circumstances would mean a change in almost everything about my life—but it's still only a part of my life. In the rest of my life, I'm pretty happy and satisfied. My morale is high in other parts of my life.

I have an escape planned, should my ability to endure run out before circumstances change. It'd mean a big change in every aspect of my life, but I'm not afraid of change; I relish it. And knowing I have an exit strategy makes it just a little bit easier to endure the current situation.

In the meantime, "The beatings will continue" and morale will continue to decline. And all I can do is remember to breathe.

As Time Goes By

O, wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,
That has such people in't!
The Tempest Act V, Scene 1
William Shakespeare

"How beauteous mankind is!" This is what I'm seeing lately. Perceptions are shaded by our own attitudes; in times past, what I saw better matched:

People are strange when you're a stranger
Faces look ugly when you're alone
Women seem wicked when you're unwanted
Streets are uneven when you're down

So what's changed? I'm still single, still doin' my thing, still lonely... so how have I gone from "Faces look ugly when you're alone" to "How beauteous mankind is!"

It's a good question... and has an answer that continues to astound me even as I enjoy its essential simplicity.

"I've changed: "Gallants, I am not as I have been" (Much Ado About Nothing, Act III, Scene 2, William Shakespeare). My attitudes have changed because my beliefs about myself have changed, and the outward manifestation of these internal changes are giving me an entirely new experience.

Just this weekend I flirted incessantly (shyly, but still I attempted it). I flirted with waitresses and fellow motorcycle riders and a pretty woman at church on Sunday. And in virtually every instance, it was a good experience; the women flirted back or rewarded me with a more-than-casual smile, or in one instance practically dragged me outside to show me the congregation's new meditation garden (her project, I gathered).

It isn't that I think any of these experiences mean too much—I'm not suggesting that I've suddenly become irresistible to women, or that any of the women in question are looking to jump my bones or something—it's just nice. It's encouraging. It's affirming.

I've thought I was attractive for years—maybe a decade, maybe even more—but haven't ever really felt it. And because I haven't felt it, my confidence has suffered. Now I feel more confident. Because i feel more confident I act more confident. Because I act more confident I attract more positive experiences. Because I have more positive experiences, I feel more confident. This is a Merry-Go-Round I want to ride for a while.

As my confidence rises I see things—I see people—in a different light. Maybe that isn't a really big deal in the larger scheme of things, but it is a big deal to me.

"A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh," and I'll take it at face value, expecting nothing more and enjoying "it"—a smile, a kiss, a sigh—as the blessing it is, "As time goes by."

The Fable of the Foolish Fisherman

Once upon a time there was a fisherman who rowed his boat out into the middle of the lake every morning, and rowed it back to shore every evening. He spent a lot of time on that lake... and he never caught anything.

I blame his technique; I think he was missing something. You see, he never baited a hook or cast a lure. He just rowed out to the middle of the lake in the morning, and rowed back to shore in the evening. He was waiting for the fish to jump into THE boat.

To be fair, that had happened, once... a long time ago. A beautiful fish, and he'd simply sat agog while the fish flipped and flopped and eventually slipped back into the lake. Ever since, he'd been hoping that it would happen again; more, he'd been hoping that the same fish would jump back into his boat.

I tried to explain to him that the odds against such a thing happening once were enormous and that the odds of a repeat were astronomical, but he just shook his head and went about his business.

This fable is broadly applicable. It applies to how for most of my life I sought a companion, whether "for a while" or "for life." It applies to how many seek jobs or opportunities or understanding or hope. It's the "wait and see" approach and it assumes that if something is "meant to be," it'll happen and it doesn't matter what you do or don't do.

The thing is, the only way that fisherman is going to catch any fish is to take appropriate action. He can't just do any old thing; he's going to have to bait his hook or select a lure, he's going to have to cast his line into the water, and he's going to have to keep doing it.

Heck, if he does that he might even catch the one that got away. He probably won't, but it's a lot more likely than for that same fish to jump into his boat two times. And if he doesn't bait and cast, he'll keep coming ashore with nothing.

What I Did This Summer

It's been a good summer so far—I've been to Hawaii (which always does my heart good), I've been SCUBA diving (in Hawaii, off Catalina Island, and off Laguna Beach), I've done some important work around the house—and even as it's winding down it continues to be good; I'm getting good value out of almost every day.

Right now I'm sitting in a condo in Las Vegas waiting for my friends to wake up. I've been here since Wednesday, when I met up with friends Jennifer and Ricky (who came earlier and had some adventures of their own). I've been eating and swimming and singing karaoke and—because I'm determined this summer to make some changes in the way I meet the world—I've been practicing some new social skills, like exchanging smiles with a woman or letting myself be seen admiring one (my habit for most of my life has been to admire women surreptitiously: a quick glance, then look away so as not to seem "rude").

It all boils down to confidence, and mine is growing. And although the milestones may seem trivial to those for whom all this becomes second nature, for me each is a hard-won gem.

For example: While out and about yesterday I looked an attractive stranger right in the eye, smiled, and held eye contact until I received a beautiful smile in return. The fact that I actually held that is a fairly big deal to me (although since that's one of the things I've been practicing I have done it before), but what's a really big deal is that I did it without having to think about it and decide. I didn't consciously realize I'd done it until a few minutes later. I just did it (sorry, Nike). The lessons are sinking in.

I'm also learning to trust the positive things people tell me about myself (or how they perceive me). For me, this is huge. I've typically made self-deprecation my ground state, excusing and minimizing any compliment I was ever paid; the best I've been able to do is say, "I see your point, but..." And the use of the word "but" generally contradicts whatever was said before. A phrase like "I see your point, but..." essentially means, "Yes, but really 'no.'"

By doing this, I've essentially said to whomever paid me a compliment, "Thanks for the kind thoughts, but you must be deranged." How insulting, to tell someone who's paid you a compliment that you think they're crazy! (If I've ever done this to you, by the way, I apologize. It won't happen again.)

I'm getting much better about this, not only thanking those who pay me compliments without qualification, but (and this is enormous!) believing them.

So I'm growing. Not there yet, but on my way, and I'm happy with the progress I've made. It's exciting!

In fact, things are going so well that I've discovered what needs to come next (and I can start working on this right now). It's audacity—the boldness to act on impulse without too much concern for the endless chain of potential consequences which tend to paralyze me.

If I feel the impulse to put my hand on a woman's waist (not some random stranger's; give me credit for that much sense), I should; if I want to tease her or compliment her or hug her, I should. Not indiscriminately, not without some judgment, but boldly (and ready to accept correction with humor and good grace).

So what did I do this summer? I changed my life (and I'm not done yet)!

How about you; what did you do this summer?

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad 2

Who'da Thunk?

I probably shouldn't blog when I'm depressed, and I'm depressed this morning. No particular reason; my depressions, while never formally diagnosed, seem to fit the model for the kind of depression caused by brain chemistry, rather than circumstance. I don't have any reason to be depressed; I just am.

I feel justified in blogging this morning because even though I am depressed this morning, my attitude about it is different (and better).

For some time now, I've had a pretty functional relationship with my periodic depressions. Experience has taught me that they are baseless, that they are endurable (though painful), and that they pass in time. All I have to do is wait them out, and they go away. I've learned to endure them. They still hurt and I don't enjoy them, but they are endurable and, at an intellectual level at least, I have come to terms with them. They don't rule or ruin my life; they just make some days difficult.

I noticed the tell-tale signs this morning: pressure in my chest and tightness in my throat, a dark mood, a sense of gravity dragging at my face... and as I thought to myself, "Oh, boy—here we go again," I also thought, "This is just depression. It can affect my feelings, but I don't think I want to let it affect my attitude any more."

My next thought was, "What was that?"

As I've explored this a little further, I'm finding that a side effect of my positive self-talk over the last couple of weeks (dealing with issues of confidence and self-esteem) is that I'm no longer so much at the mercy of my emotions. Yes, I still feel what I've always felt—whether fear or doubt or passion or joy or whatever—but the new habits of thought that are forming aren't shaken by my feelings the way my old thoughts were.

This is an unexpected side effect, but a nice one.

What I thought would happen is that over time I would be just a little bolder in social situations, a little braver, a little more outgoing. All that seems to be coming, though I'm not there yet. I never expected to gain some mastery over emotions that have always overmastered me.

Who'da thunk?

The Dividend

In practical, observable terms, the only difference is a few seconds. Just a few seconds' longer regard has made all the difference.

For years now, I've smiled at people I meet. Even strangers, even pretty women (two groups that have always intimidated me, "pretty women" most of all). I made a deliberate choice years ago, as part of my always-ongoing efforts to better myself, to meet the eye of those I met and smile. That's a good thing, right?

It absolutely is a good thing. The weird thing is, I never felt like I was doing any good—for myself or for the people I smiled at—by doing so. I never felt like it made any difference. I kept at it because philosophically I still believed it was a good thing, and because it had become a habit. But it felt like an empty exercise.

Until recently, that is. Recently I determined to be bolder—to "fake it 'til I make it" with respect to social self confidence—and part of that has been to hold the gaze of others. And lo and behold, I learned something I'd gone years without noticing.

When I meet someone's gaze and smile, they usually smile back!

I know, radical stuff there, huh? "Thank you, Captain Obvious!"

But I never knew.

I never knew because as soon as I'd smiled at someone, I'd avert my gaze. I don't know where it came from, but somewhere I got the idea that it was impolite to look a stranger in the eye for more than a second or so at a time, and I was embarrassed at the thought that I might get caught at it. I didn't feel like I had the right to look, especially at an attractive woman.

So I missed it. I missed seeing the consequences of my actions, of my smiles. I never saw them smile back. I never saw the obvious signs that my smile was welcome: that it made someone's day a little better, or lifted their spirits, or whatever it was that their smiles signified. I went for years thinking that my efforts to be pleasant were ultimately meaningless, and I was wrong.

All it took was a few seconds' longer look, and my whole experience changed.

No, not everyone smiles back. Occasionally, someone will scowl or frown or just remain blank-faced. That's the exception, though. I used to think it was the rule.

So another valuable lesson learned. A smile is an investment: pay attention for long enough to receive the dividend.

I have come to know...

That I am only fully accountable for the things I can control.

I've always had a good handle on this reality in some areas of my life, but in others it just hasn't sunk in. But it's sinking in now... and that's good news!

I am responsible for the consequences, both to myself and to others, of my decisions, but (assuming I act with reasonable consideration) I am not responsible for others' feelings and I am not responsible for the decisions others make. I am primarily responsible for my own feelings and actions.

This is empowering—it means that I have phenomenal power in the ambit of my own internal and external life—and liberating—the way others feel about and behave toward me (whether they like me or not, whether they join me in my endeavors, whether they treat me well or poorly) is their responsibility, not mine.

Like a lot of people, I have tended to carry the weight of others' feelings and expectations on my shoulders. I've tried to act to bring happiness to those I care about, and to meet their expectations for me. When someone who matters to me has been unhappy, or thought poorly of me, or acted in ways I knew were unhealthy or unwise, I have felt responsible; as if their unhappiness or poor perception of me or unwise actions were somehow my fault.

I have taken responsibility for things that are not my fault, and because I didn't like those things, I have not liked myself as much as I should.

But recently I have come to understand that it is right and proper and good to only take responsibility for things that are my responsibility: my own well-being, my own pleasure, my own emotional state, my own happiness, my own choices, my own joy.

Eleanor Roosevelt once said, "No one can make you feel inferior without your consent." I've liked and admired that (obvious!) observation for a very long time, yet have failed to internalize it as I should.

This summer, my efforts are applied to personal empowerment and liberation as means of finding personal fulfillment. I am owning my shit and shedding as much as I can of the baggage that has hindered me. And it's going well! With apologies to Shakespeare:

"Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer..."

Made glorious summer...

What I say, what I feel, what I do... these are my responsibilities. And I'm happy to take them. They're enough. Let others say, feel, and do what they think right and proper; that's their responsibility. I'm not going to worry overmuch about things that aren't my responsibility.

I'm going to enjoy my glorious summer...

Finally Learning the Lesson

It's important for me to remain motivated as I pursue the self-confidence I ought to have. It would be easy to stop affirming my worthiness before the confidence I articulate becomes an emotional habit. I want it to stick, however, so I'm constantly on the lookout for what improved self confidence will pay, and what the status quo has cost. The payoff is the carrot of my motivation, while the expense is the stick.

On the plus side:

• Confidence is attractive and sexy
• Confidence makes me more likely to assert myself; to go for what I want
• If I am confident in myself, others will have greater confidence in me

On the minus side:

• If I lack confidence, I don't pursue the things I want
• If I lack confidence, I expect the worst rather than the best
• If I lack confidence, I distrust others' interest and affection, even if declared and shown

I was contemplating that last one the other day, not to beat myself up over it, but simply to understand and be aware of it. It's been my bugaboo when it comes to relationships of a romantic nature.

Contrary to my own protestations I am not altogether inexperienced when it comes to relationships. I am relatively inexperienced, but I have had a few. In almost every instance it's been the woman who broke things off, but in retrospect I don't blame them. I think I understand the part I played in the way things turned out.

In just about every instance, the woman in question was (is!) a wonderful woman and a wonderful person. If I were to name names, those of you who know those women would agree that they are amazing and committed and true. In just about every instance, the woman sincerely cared about me and saw me as not just worthy, but worthwhile. Each worked to convince me, but I would not be convinced. Eventually, the effort became too great a burden.

Other times, I'd meet a woman, maybe we'd go out, I'd want to call them... but doubts born of a lack of confidence persuaded me that I shouldn't. I'm sure that I flushed a few opportunities down the toilet because of that.

It's like getting involved with an addict or alcoholic. It's one thing to support someone who is working on her/his recovery, but another thing altogether to live with someone who can't or won't try to save her/his own life. If I'd trusted any of them and worked to improve my own confidence, well... my life might have turned out very differently than it has.

But it's never too late, I guess. I've reached a tipping point, thanks in large part to another great woman I've encountered. I'm becoming as confident as I ought always to have been. I look back at those other relationships—failed, perhaps, but precious and valuable gifts nonetheless—and at long last the view is sweeter than it is bitter; far sweeter.

And looking forward, I see a brighter tomorrow. I finally feel what those wonderful women have been trying to tell me; that I am quite a catch. A dear friend, who is numbered among those wonderful women mentioned above, once told me that I was good at being in a relationship; I just wasn't very good at getting into one.

I think I'll be better at that, now. I'll probably be a little clumsy—I haven't had much practice, after all—but I won't be afraid, and I won't sabotage things.

This makes me smile.

Unnatural Number

(No, that isn't a typo; I didn't mean to type irrational numbers)

In mathematics, many strange classes and categories of numbers exist: irrational numbers, complex numbers, superreal and surreal numbers... and they fit within the universe of mathematics; they have their place. They have no place in my brain, but they still belong in the abstract reality of mathematics.

When numbering and counting things in nature, fewer classes and categories of numbers are useful. As a practical matter, enumerating things in nature involves just two numeric possibilities. You can have none of something—unicorns (sorry!), political scruples, circles with a ratio circumference to diameter = 3—or you can have more than one—narwhals, spoiled celebrities, stars.

What you can't have (or can't have for long) is one of something.

It's said that "nature abhors a vacuum" and that's just not true: look how much vacuum there is in the universe! What nature really abhors is uniqueness. In nature, for any class of things—any species, any class of celestial body, any geographic feature, any thing—there is either more than one of them, or there aren't any at all.

I'm not talking here about the kind of fine points that make each of us a unique treasure to others. I'm talking about the big stuff. One is a transitory number: If there's one of anything it won't be long before there's either more than one or there aren't any at all. One is an unnatural number.

The upshot of all this is simple, really: if you encounter one of something delightful and for whatever reason it doesn't come to you, do not despair. If there's one, there are almost certainly others.

I'm not saying why this makes me happy...

Patience My Ass...

According to Edmund Burke, "Patience will achieve more than force. It's been famously said that "All good things come to he who waits." They say, "Patience is a virtue." "Patience is the key to contentment," they say. And they might very well be right.


In the more ordinary sense (the sense of waiting without demanding that someone "hurry up, dammit!"), I guess I'm fairly patient. But because I am waiting for something, I am not exercising the kind of patience that 'achieves more than force,' or 'brings all good things,' or 'is the key to contentment.' My problem is the expectation that some specific thing(s) will come to me if I wait.

But I think patience is more than waiting. Patience is waiting without expectation; patience is waiting without waiting for anything.

A lot of things are worth waiting for. But there's more than one kind of waiting, and the kind where you passively sit, expecting what you desire to magically appear, is useless. When you engage in that kind of waiting, you're expecting the world to give you what you want because you "deserve" it, or because "it's only fair," or maybe because you bought into the "All good things come to he who waits" propaganda. And the world just doesn't work that way.

Vultures are famous for their waiting... but the cartoon above, one of many renderings of the same idea, suggest that it's possible to have too much of even so good a thing as patience.

And while there are many quotes, proverbs, and aphorisms extolling the virtues of patience, there are some that take a contrary position:

"Patience is good only when it is the shortest way to a good end; otherwise. impatience is better."
"Patience under old injuries invites new ones."
"He preacheth patience that never knew pain." H. G. Bohn

Patience my ass...

Overdrawn at the Well-Being Account

Somehow, I've become the guy a number of people turn to for advice on relationships and life. In some ways I'm a strange choice—I haven't actually been in very many relationships, after all—but nevertheless I'm a good choice; I pay careful attention to how people live and relate to one another, I empathize with people's pain and joy, I think carefully about what I see and feel, and I can explain things pretty well.

One piece of advice I give again and again is, "Take care of yourself!"

So many of the people I talk to tend to put other people (or other things)—whether a family member, a significant other, an organization, or an ideal—so far ahead of themselves that they neglect their own needs. I caution and counsel these individuals to put themselves in the equation; maybe not first, but high enough on the priority list that they don't neglect their own needs.

I don't insist they put themselves first because I understand what it means to love someone or something. I know that love sometimes demands we put another's needs ahead of our own. And sometimes—like when a loved one's life is in danger or when choosing between a child's legitimate needs and a parent's reasonable wants—we can and should be prepared to make sacrifices.

What we shouldn't do (but often do) is put another person's (or organization's) every need ahead of our any need. It's like a household budget: we should prioritize so that all needful things are taken care of before we spend emotional capital on things that aren't vital.

The challenge is putting our own needs in the "needful things" category. When we love someone (or something), we tend to see our own needs as luxuries... and they aren't. Our emotional investment in who (or what) we love is drawn from a "well-being account", and if we draw it down without making deposits, sooner or later the account runs dry.

It's actually really good advice, isn't it?

The irony is that it's advice I've generally failed to apply to myself. For whatever reason (probably relating at least a little to poor self-esteem), I've felt that it was only right that I put myself dead last: after family, after loved ones, after friends, after students, after institutions, after programs, after everything.

Eff that.

It just occurred to me that there's a bit of a vicious circle—a positive feedback loop—in this. By putting myself last, I reinforced the feeling that I belonged last, which made it easier to put myself last, which reinforced my sense that that's where I belonged, which reinforced the habit of putting myself last... ad infinitum.

Eff that.

I am done putting myself after everyone and everything else. In fact, I am ready to assert that sometimes, I should put myself first; ahead of everyone and everything else. Not always, but often.

Eff always being a good sport. Eff being only or mostly a giver. Eff doing what others want when it isn't what I want. Eff all that.

If I'm ever going to persuade myself that I am as worthy as I (intellectually) believe, I need to treat myself well. I need to stop doing things just to please others and start doing things to please myself. If I'm ever going to believe in my heart that I deserve the good stuff, I need to begin by giving myself the good stuff I've got.

I need to make some deposits in the well-being account, and stop writing so many checks drawn from it.

Maybe that's selfish. And maybe that's okay.

A Chorus of Crickets

When I ask my students a question and no one has a response, after a while I say, "Cricket... cricket... cricket..." When all else is silence, what is left is the sound of chirping crickets (if you live where crickets do, too).

The sound of crickets, then, is a metaphor for silence; either literal silence or the absence of meaningful response.

Like many U.S. citizens/residents, I've been conditioned to be uncomfortable with silence. In recent years I've come to appreciate silence and even be comfortable with silences that others find awkward, but some silences (as in "the absence of meaningful response") still challenge me.

It isn't simply that I find them awkward. It isn't awkwardness at all. It's the "failure to communicate" that pushes me off balance.

Long ago I learned a mantra from one of my dearest friends: "Open, honest, maintained communication." I believe in communication the way coaches believe in discipline, or music teachers believe in practice; persistent, consistent, open, honest, and maintained communication grows understanding, and understanding grows all kinds of relationships: business/professional, collegial, familial, platonic, and romantic.

Therefore for most of my life, I've gotten worried when I could "hear the crickets." I'm a pretty good communicator, so when communication wasn't happening, I'd be out of my comfort zone and I got nervous. Coupled with a poor self-esteem that tended to paint silences in the worst possible terms, that anxiety created a positive feedback loop that made me feel worse.

Please note that those statements are written in past tense. "I got nervous," it "created a positive feedback loop," it "made me feel worse." That's how it has been in the past.

I still have poor self-esteem (though it's improving), but I am finding that silences are not creating the discomfort, worry, and bad feelings they would have in the past.

Part of it is that I've stopped trying to interpret it; sometimes a silence is just a silence.

Part of it is that I'm no longer so deeply invested in having things go "my way."

And part of it is that I have come to feel in my bones what I have always known in my head: communication is not one person saying something to another; communication is two (or more) people talking to and listening to one another, each working to make sure that what the other(s) heard is what s/he meant. If only one of the people is talking (or listening, or checking for understanding), then very little can be communicated.

Sure, silence can mean something. It probably does. But any guess as to what that meaning is will never be more than a guess. Knowing will have to wait until the silence is broken.

In the meantime, I'll enjoy the chirping of the crickets.

Sauce for the Goose

I remember the summer I worked as an intern with a church minister whose calling was to the LGBT community in New York City. That experience challenged me—when the summer began, I still had some vestiges of homophobia in me (well suppressed, but present), but by summer's end it had been pretty thoroughly eradicated—and it taught me some important lessons, one of which I only got half-right at the time. I'm just getting the second half today, more than 15 years later.

We spent a lot of time at a gay and lesbian center in Greenwich Village. One vivid memory, from my first day there, is standing at a urinal in the restroom, and being greeted by a woman headed for the stalls. That's when I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I wasn't in Kansas any more.

That summer, I got over a lot of hangups. It only took a week or so before events like the one above became commonplace and normal. I came to be blasé about things that would previously have triggered body modesty and embarrassment. As a result of that experience, I have largely lost my self-consciousness about my body (not completely; I still worry about whether or not a woman will like it).

Even better, constant exposure to the GLBT community eradicated any remaining vestiges of homophobia dwelling deep in my psyche. I already knew (at an intellectual level) that homophobia was unjustified and inappropriate; what remained before this experience was a little of the emotional reaction that I'd been conditioned to when growing up. That embarrassing remnant was blown away that summer.

The first time a man hit on me, I was uncomfortable. I didn't react badly—that would have been embarrassing and just plain mean—but I have to confess that it made me uneasy. I told the man that I was straight, which led to a conversation about why a straight man was hanging out at the LBGT center, and it was all good. I overcame my discomfort and everything was fine.

By the tenth or twelfth pass, I was over it. One man explained to me that a gay man's "gaydar" was just about as accurate as anyone else's—that is, not at all accurate—and that helped, too. I came to see the passes as a compliment; I didn't have to be interested in men to be flattered by a man's attention.

So there's the first half of the lesson: I learned to be flatted by a pass even if—due to sexual orientation, marital/relational status, chemistry, or whatever—I can't take what's being offered. I haven't always remembered this lesson, but it's deeply engrained nonetheless; it pops into my consciousness frequently.

The second half of the lesson—and I can't believe it's taken me this long to "get it"—is that the same is probably true of the women I might be attracted to.

I know, "Doh!"

I've always been hesitant to make a pass at a woman. Partly that's been because I fear rejection (I know, a whole 'nother kind of stupidity), but partly it's because I didn't want to piss off a woman who might not be interested.

But why wouldn't (most) women feel the same way about a (gentlemanly) pass as I learned to feel about passes by gay men? Even if she isn't interested in me—because she's a lesbian, or married, or in a relationship, or isn't attracted to me—why wouldn't she at least see it as a compliment?

Am I wrong about this?

Just a Few Sit-Ups...

Years ago I caught Richard Jeni on TV, joking about the difference between the way men and women in our culture view their bodies.

Jeni contrasted women's (culturally conditioned) insecurity about their appearance, epitomized in the clichéd "Do these pants make my ass look fat?" with men's sometimes excessive confidence in theirs; according to Jeni, middle-aged Joe-Six-Pack (or kegger) thinks he's "just a few sit-ups from major stud-dom."

Jeni was poking fun at both sexes, I think; at women for being insecure about their appearance and at men for being so ridiculously secure about theirs.

So why am I writing about this?

We all know that although these clichés may be true enough to be humorous, they are also generalizations that do not apply to every man or woman in existence. We all know (well I know, and I hope you know) women who are secure in their appearance. We all know men who aren't cocky about the way they look. And those women and men strike me as healthier and happier on average than those at the extremes. The extremes—"do these make my ass look fat?" and "just a few sit-ups from major stud-dom"—aren't good for us, but they are where so many dwell.

For most of my life I've been an extremist, but not on the side of the spectrum men typically occupy. I've been irrationally insecure about my appearance/attractiveness/sexiness/whatever for almost my whole life. This insecurity has (metaphorically) crippled me, the same way it cripples so many others, and it's on the list of things I'm working to correct.

A few weeks ago I had my nose rubbed in just how irrational my insecurity is. An attractive, assertive woman made it amply clear that she found me very attractive. My insecurity frustrated her (understandable!) and she expressed that, as well. It is that experience (and that woman) that has catalyzed my most recent attempt to "get it right," to build up my confidence and "swagger."

The effort includes perseverance and affirmation, and this morning I looked at myself in the mirror and tried to see with honest eyes, rather than insecure ones. And you know what I saw?

I look pretty damn good, actually (no qualification necessary: not "for my age," not for anything). In fact:

I'm just a few sit-ups from major stud-dom.

Perseverance

In my previous 'blog, a commenter correctly pointed out that I have tried before to make changes, and I've failed. He wasn't suggesting that I not try; rather, he was noting (correctly) that I've been here before.


It wasn't news to me. I know I've tried before to make these kinds of changes in who and how I am, and I know too that I have not (yet!) been successful. I know that it all sounds good, and I don't blame those who are going to save their enthusiasm until they see I've succeeded. I understand all that.


I understand, too, that what really matters here is that I keep trying.

Thomas Edison had something to say about the importance of perseverance. He said, "I am not discouraged, because every wrong attempt discarded is another step forward." He said, "I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work." He said, "Nearly every man who develops an idea works at it up to the point where it looks impossible, and then gets discouraged. That's not the place to become discouraged." He said, "Many of life's failures are men who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up."

I don't intend to give up.

I am not certain that I will succeed in my attempts this time. I am optimistic—optimism is an integral part of the success I am seeking—but I am not certain. What I do know for certain is that I will not succeed if I do not try.


My real problem is the ridiculous amount of time I allow to pass between attempts. If I fail, I fail; do I really need two years to recover?


I say, "Hell, no!"


The other half of my commitment to address my shortcomings is a commitment to try again immediately (or nearly immediately) if I fail. It's time to 'man up."

Affirmation

So this self-esteem thing; as I continue to grapple with it, I've moved steadily from depressed through frustrated, and now I'm just flat pissed off. I refuse to be held hostage by my gut. I'm not putting up with this any more.

I've always felt that my 'gut' had the final say over me; that my mind (my best feature) couldn't really win the day. Because I believed that, I've never really put it to the test, instead just letting my 'gut' carry the day.

Well, screw that. Maybe it's true, maybe it's false, but I'm not going to let it go untested any longer.

I've heard that self-affirmation—repetition of a single positive thought over the course of time—can 'reprogram' our subconscious assumptions about ourselves. Hippy-dippy shit aside, this makes a certain amount of sense. One of the best things about being human is that we can make choices; we are not at the mercy of our genes. Just as we can be persuaded by the arguments of others to change aspects of who we are, so can we convince ourselves. It's another aspect of "fake it 'til you make it."

For the rest of summer, my mind is going to battle my 'gut' with consistent affirmations intended to build my social confidence. I will also take social risks that my 'gut' finds terrifying; my mind believes, and my gut is going to have to suck it up.

Don't wish me luck; I'm not going to need it.

Switzerland (resurrected from my MySpace 'blog - dated November 25, 2007)

Sometimes bad can foster good. As I reflect in incredulous gratitude on a big change in me over the last two months, I find myself pleased that some good came of being the way I was before.

The lack of confidence and assurance that's been a fundamental part of who I am for most of my life has very little in the way of an "upside." It's kept me isolated, earned me a reputation among some as aloof or arrogant, kept me from asserting myself in any number of circumstances—generally, it's been a millstone or albatross around my neck. And yet…

And yet it has helped shape me as a gentle man. It has helped me accept even painful decisions by others without animosity or recrimination. It has made me one who tries to see the other side, even if the "other side" causes me pain. It has made me a man to whom every relationship is precious, and it has made me a man who (for the most part) refuses to blame others just for having the gall to disagree with me.

I believe that good persons of conscience can and do disagree with one another. I believe that good persons of conscience sometimes even dislike one another. I don't, however, feel any compulsion to demonize those who disagree with me; to vilify them or cast aspersions on their intelligence, character, or morals. I don't have to be right, and even if I am right, I don't have to rub anyone's nose in it. If they are not deceptive or malicious, I can respect the dignity and humanity of even those with whom I strongly disagree.

Yet this belief, which I now hold strongly, started as a belief that if something went wrong, it was my fault; if I disagreed with someone, I was in the wrong. If, in the course of a friendship or relationship, I got hurt by another's choices, I always believed it was my fault—that I had myself to blame. And if I was the awful person who caused all this mess, I didn't want my awfulness to cause the other person to suffer guilt over it, so I made excuses for them.

Pretty neurotic, huh? Only in order to make excuses for them, I had to understand why they did what they did, and I learned something—once I did understand, I couldn't imagine blaming them for what they did.

Their reasons weren't always great reasons by my lights, but they were always understandable reasons. And if I could understand their reasons, even if I didn't agree, I couldn't get angry about it.

Even though I no longer blame myself, I don't automatically blame others, when they say or do things that bother or hurt me. Although I suddenly and surprisingly find myself self-confident and assured, I still have the habit (and I think it's a good one) of understanding, or trying to understand, why others make the choices they do. I still have the habit of… empathy.

It would be emotionally satisfying, when someone made a decision that hurt, to decide that he or she was an idiot, a demon, a monster, a you-name-it… but it wouldn't be true. And if it isn't true, is it something I want to buy into?

No, I don't think I do.

And that, Wayne, is why I'm Switzerland!

Like a Party Balloon

I've been thinking lately about ego. I have sufficient ego when it comes to many of my qualities—my intellect, my education, my acting, my speaking, my writing—but the area where it'd be most useful is the one area where I have an ego deficit. I want to grow my ego in that area—some (including me) might even say I need to; ego is part of self-confidence—but I've found it to be difficult.

An ego is an awful lot like a party balloon; the kind you blow up. It's like this:

• It's pretty difficult getting a balloon started. Until it's reached a certain size, it takes a lot of energy to inflate.
• Once a balloon is up to a certain size, it gets easier to blow up bigger.
• After it's reached that size, it's pretty tough for a while.
• If you keep blowing a balloon up, it reaches a point where the skin is thin and delicate, and it's easily burst.
• If you continue to inflate it beyond that point, eventually the balloon will pop.

Do you see the parallel? Like a party balloon, an ego:

• Is difficult to get started. It takes a lot of work to inflate it to a reasonable size.
• Gets easier to blow up bigger once it reaches a certain size.
• Is tough when it's not overinflated.
• Becomes delicate and is easily burst if it's overinflated.
• Can be blown up to the point where it self-destructs.

I'm at the "getting it started" phase.

So What's Up With This 'Blog's Name, Anyway?

If you've read much of this 'blog, you've already figured out that it isn't particularly humorous. Mostly, it's snapshots of my internal life or bits of my personal philosophy or occasionally rants and raves. Serious topics, in other words, so "One Foot On a Banana Peel" may strike you as a bit frivolous.

But "One Foot On a Banana Peel" is a pretty good metaphor for those topics. I write about life (as I know it), and life (as I know it) is uncertain and precarious.

I think that at least occasionally, all of us feel that unsteadiness. Maybe it's when we are waiting for a job interview, or we're proposing marriage to the love of our life. Maybe it's before we get on an airplane, or when we move to a new city. Maybe it's when we see a newborn baby, or when we say our final farewell to a beloved parent. In those moments we have our noses rubbed in the unknown country that is the future, and it can tip us off balance.

The thing is, the future is always unknowable, and we always stand with "one foot on a banana peel." I don't say this to scare anyone; I say it because it's true, and living with the truth is better—more realistic, more fulfilling, more rewarding, and ultimately more joyful—than living with a convenient and comfortable fiction.

Even as I make plans for the future—and I do, make no mistake about that—I try to be mindful of where I'm standing: one foot on a banana peel. I try not to focus too much on that nebulous future at the expense of the tangible present, because I am well aware that the present is all I've really got.

Take, for example, my current (somewhat embryonic) five year plan to move to Kaua'i. I'm planning for a future I cannot depend on—any number of circumstances could derail that plan, and many of those circumstances would be just fine with me. So the things I'm planning are things that don't trap me on that train and no other. They're things that enrich me now, as well as empower me to move if, when the time comes, that's still what I want to do.

The trick to standing with one foot on a banana peel is knowing that you are. If you know you're standing on a slippery service, you stand differently: weight forward, alert and aware, ready for shifting footing. And if you're ready, you can adapt to it when it happens.

A Father's Honor

I am glad there's a day to celebrate fathers. There should be. Fathers (and mothers) deserve celebration, at least if they've been parents (and so many have): made sacrifices and committed their time, attention, and treasure to their kids' well-being. I believe that days like Father's Day really, really matter.

That being said, the day itself has been bittersweet for almost as long as I can remember. A number of things contribute to that mixture, ranging from the... "difficult" relationship between Dad and me from adolescence until just before he died in February of 2009 to my own unrealized dream of being a dad. But despite the decidedly-mixed emotions I experience on Father's Day, I would never want anyone to think I disapproved of the day or its meaning.

Dad

Since Dad died, the day has had an added taste of bitter (and of sweet): bitter because he isn't here any more and sweet because he still lives in my memory.

No one is perfect, but when I was young my dad seemed perfect to me. I remember him playing with me in the snow when I was five years old, and making a marvelous fool of himself in a school talent show the same year. I remember fishing trips; getting up at some ridiculously early hour and riding down to Ventura with a boat following the truck all the way. I remember feeling safe and empowered and loved.

I put my poor dad through more than a fair share of anxiety, too. There was the time I fell against the sheet metal dashboard of his surplus mail truck: the sharp edge of the dash gashed open my forehead. Like any scalp wound, this one bled profusely, and the shock and pain of it caused my eyes to glaze over. When Dad looked over to see how I was, he thought I was dead. And there was the time when I knocked myself out goofing off on a boat launch dock at Ventura Harbor; I'm sure Dad had that "What if?" moment: "What if he'd rolled off the dock into the water? What if he'd been caught between the boat and the dock? What if..."

Then, just before I reached adolescence, Dad had a heart attack. After he recovered, he seemed different to me; more distant, sterner, less playful. In retrospect, and based on what Mom and other of his age peers have said, I think he pushed his family away after the heart attack because he thought his death was imminent. He was trying to prepare us to deal with his loss. From my perspective, he seemed demanding and unforgiving, expecting me to just get it right. I think he wanted me, as the oldest, to be ready to be "the man of the house" when he died.

I was too young to understand. All I really knew was that Dad wasn't the same any more; didn't play like he used to, was more serious and sober, was different. And I mourned then: it felt like I'd lost my dad, even though I saw him every day.

Dad didn't know that; I've always been pretty reserved, and once he changed I was even more reserved around him. And it may not have occurred to him that there was a problem that needed addressing; he sincerely believed he was not long for this earth, and the problem would resolve itself. We butted heads, a lot, because I resented the change and because I didn't want to be what he seemed to want me to be and because—I have to face it—we were a lot alike: intelligent, stubborn, independent, determined.

Of course the joke was on him... he lived more than 40 years after that heart attack. And gradually, as he came to terms with the idea that maybe he wasn't going to die just yet, the funny, sarcastic, playful, delightful man he really was resurfaced. The birth of his granddaughter—my niece Madison—catalyzed... I sometimes think of it as a kind of resurrection.

And it was good to have him back.

Dad's motives were pure. He was doing the best he knew how to take care of the family he loved so much. And despite our conflicts and disagreements, I never stopped loving him, and I never doubted he loved me. He didn't always show it (and neither did I), but I think we both knew.

Still, we never actually reconciled until he got sick. I was living in his house—I'd sold my mobile home, and the deal for my new house hadn't closed yet—and for a while at least, I had time to spend with him. We didn't talk much, but we spent time together. Companionable time. Time just to be father and son. And I had the honor and privilege of helping care for him as cancer ravaged him. I had the privilege of being with him when he died. I got to say goodbye.

I can't tell you how important it was that I got to say goodbye. The time I had with Dad in the weeks before his death and the opportunity I had to say goodbye before he died, let me feel like he and I finally resolved our differences. It was among the finest gifts he ever gave me, with my life and my home growing up and my extended family and many wonderful memories.

Now, I miss him. Not more than anyone else does, but I miss him. That's one of the spices that flavor my emotions on Father's Day; I miss my dad.

Me

The other main spice is my unrealized dream of being a dad.

I can't remember the first time I dreamed of being a dad. I know I was pretty young—not older than 19 or 20, and maybe even younger—and from that first imagining, it has been a constant in my life. I love kids (truth of the matter is, I love just about everyone, but I especially love kids). Whether smelly infants or silly 'tweens or surly teenagers or whatever, I love 'em.

That isn't to say they can't annoy and aggravate me—they absolutely can—but even in those moments I'm committed to them and interested in their well-being. I find them irresistible and amazing and delightful. Even when I was myself a surly teenager, I still enjoyed being around kids younger than me; I don't remember ever being "too cool" for kids.

Because fatherhood was a dream for me (and is; this has never changed), I actually and deliberately worked to make myself better "Dad" material. I paid attention to what the dads I knew did. I paid attention to what kids responded to. I did what "Dadding" I could; when my cousins or their kids were around, I played at being dad to them as best I was able. And I looked forward to that day, surely imminent, when I'd get to be a dad in fact; when I and my (hypothetical) partner would begin raising a family.

And it kept not happening. There were lots of reasons why, most beginning and ending with the personal qualities that made it difficult for me to get into a relationship that might lead in that direction.

I am an introvert (see 10 Myths About Introverts for some insights). That can be an obstacle. I also suffer from craptastic self-esteem and precious little self-confidence (though I'm making progress dealing with those: intellectually, I get it, but emotionally, not yet). I'm shy, too. It takes a pretty special woman to get past all these barriers and overcome my defenses to the point where she can see that I'm worth it. And all that overcoming takes time... understandably, women generally find someone who doesn't make it so difficult.

So here I am, *mumble* years old, and still no partner and no kids. I haven't given up hope—I am optimistic despite all the reasons I have not to be—but here I am. I'm surrounded by great dads with great kids and I want to count myself among their number... but I'm not a member of the club.

I do not begrudge fathers their honors on Father's Day (or any other day). Far from it. I envy fathers on Father's Day (and pretty much every other day). I honor the spirit of Father's Day, and in my heart I celebrate it.

But I can't not taste the bitter mixed in with the sweet.