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.