Free Ride

(Well, not free...)

Among the many things I claim to be—teacher, preacher, actor, writer, poet, student, scuba diver, biker—when writing I find I tend to neglect the "biker" part. And that's not fair.

I don't suppose I'm a "typical" biker. Sure, I ride a Harley, and sure I've got tattoos, and I absolutely love to ride, but I'm not really affiliated with a club and most of my riding is solo. I feel the fellowship of the road and the almost-mystical freedom bikers know, but I don't obsess about riding any more than I obsess about scuba diving or writing or whatever. I don't drop every spare dollar on my bike (a beautiful 2009 Harley Davidson Road King Classic), although I do spend money on it once in a while, and I don't ride every chance I get, though I prefer riding to driving in principle (and because it's more economical fuel-wise).

Still, there is a freedom I find when riding; there is something therapeutic about rolling down the road with wind in my face and sun on my skin and the rumble of the engine beneath. There is something profoundly empowering about twisting the throttle and accelerating away; away from my mundane existence, away from my worries and frets, away from my frustrations and anxieties, away.

There's more to two-wheel therapy than escape, however. Sometimes it's what's in the rearview, and sometimes it's what's in front of you, but often, often, it's the ride itself that is therapeutic. It's a powerful sensory experience: wind against your face, sun on your skin, the sounds of the engine and the tires on the road, the smells of the countryside, the warmth, the chill, the sights—all these things stimulate senses too-often anesthetized by our modern mediated lifestyle.

And riding is empowering...in a world where so many of us are so often at the mercy of forces outside our control that a sense of empowerment is precious and rare.

Physics may play a part in it; even a heavy pig like my bike—810 pounds plus rider—has a better power-weight ratio than all but the most extravagant of automobiles. Occasionally some young driver in a souped-up import will pull up next to me at a light and want to "race." I don't do that—I have nothing to prove—yet ironically my normal, measured acceleration is almost always better than said import can manage with the accelerator pedal floored.

Acceleration equals Force divided by mass (A = F/m), so for a given Force (engine power), the lower the mass the higher the acceleration. My motorcycle weights a third or less what even that little import weighs, and my engine produces a great deal of power (Force) for its size, so the little import really doesn't have a chance.While the import's engine is whining away and the driver is frantically rowing through gears, I smoothly, effortlessly just accelerate away.

Power like that can be intoxicating; that's why some riders do foolish things (and get themselves messily killed). I find it liberating, and I think many other bikers do, too. And yes, sometimes it's very satisfying to put other motorists in the rear-view, as well.

Maybe you're wondering what stimulated this blog. It isn't a subject I write on, really—it isn't really about the traumas in my life or the epiphanies that excite me—so what brought this on? Fair question...

This morning my Harley goes in for its 35,000 mile service, and while it's in I'm having a different pair of handlebars installed. All this is in preparation for next weekend's Laughlin River Run, an event that draws bikers from across the country. I've never been—let's face it, I'm not a "typical biker," not into drinking and dancing and breaking the rules for the sake of breaking the rules, so it's a bit of a foreign land to me—but with recent traumas (ah-HA!) and their effects on my schedule, I found myself free and some friends were attending, so I figured, "Why not?" Something new, something different, something outside my comfort zone, might be just what the doctor ordered.

So Friday morning a couple of friends are meeting me at my house and we're taking the scenic route to Laughlin: 350 miles, with lunch in Lake Havasu before the final leg. I'm looking forward to it. Escapism is part of the appeal, and two-wheel therapy is in there, too, and good company won't hurt...

Here's to riding free!

Worry Wart

(Okay, it's not a wart...it's a mole.)

It's a mole that my tattoo artist noticed on my back a couple of weeks ago. He said, "I'm not saying it's cancer, and I'm not saying it's not; I'm just saying it looks different than the other freckles on your back...it's got texture. You should get it checked out; I won't be putting any ink over it today."

Last week the doctor excised it and sent it out for biopsy. I'm due back in her office on April 26 to have the sutures removed, by which time she should also have the biopsy results.

I'm not all that worried. I'm concerned, but only in my most hypochondriacal moments am I more than a little anxious. Even if it is cancer, chances are it'll be easily treated and not too serious. And if it is serious, there's not much I can do about it until we know. I'm not borrowing trouble over a mole.

I wish I could say the same about other eventualities...

My post a few days ago, Leap Before You Look, is me grappling with my penchant for worry. Intellectually, I appreciate the importance of taking chances and the value of risk, but emotionally I am risk-averse. I tend to want to hedge my bets, cover my bases, play it safe.

The problem is, when I refuse to gamble on anything, I make it impossible to win anything. Sure, I can't lose, but neither can I win, and some things can only be won, never earned. If those things—call them the prizes in life—are things I want, then I have to be ready to risk and the greater the prize, the greater the risk. And as with my mystery mole, the outcome can't be determined in advance.

It seems everyone, or almost everyone, is encouraging me to leap, to jump, to "go for it." I hear it from my young, reckless friends. I hear it from my more seasoned, cautious friends. The voice of my heart clamors for it, what I used to call "the voice of reason" argues in its favor, and even Facebook's "Message From God" app told me this morning, "There is no failing, only results. Be courageous and push yourself to new heights."

I get it. I get it! I'm ready to leap, and leave worry for the warts (okay, moles.)

Leap Before You Look

I love it when the world changes right before my eyes.

It isn't that the world itself literally changes; rather, my perception of it changes radically thanks to a new thought or (more commonly) thanks to something someone else says. It's like the scales drop from my eyes and I see exciting new possibilities highlighted in neon light where before I saw only the everyday world of my limited imagination.

That happened again just recently. I crave a change—my life is currently literally unsatisfactory (and I know what "literally" really means) and I'm trying to change it—but I've tended to measure my efforts against the rulers of 'practicality' and 'common sense,' minimizing risk and 'being responsible,' and today I find myself wondering, "What the hell was I thinking?"

I'm not advocating irresponsibility, just for the record—I think it's important to take responsibility for the consequences of one's actions, and I think that it is important to "be responsible," whatever that really means—but I am suggesting that I got caught up in a false and artificial construct of what constitutes "being responsible." I somehow equated responsibility with conformity—to social norms, to family history, to other people's expectations—when that isn't it at all.

I believe that being responsible is and must be a personal synthesis. I believe that what it looks like is different: different for different people, different at different times, and different under different circumstances. I believe that "being responsible" depends.

I also think that for me, 'practicality' and 'common sense' and 'being responsible' made handy masks for the real issue: fear.

I was (and am) afraid. Afraid of the unknown, afraid of taking chances, afraid of the future, afraid.

But I am unwilling to be ruled by fear. I remember the Bene Gesserit Litany Against Fear (from Frank Herbert's Dune series):

I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.

Don't misunderstand me; I know the value of fear—as teacher and survival mechanism—and would never want to be fearless. Rather I want to be courageous, facing my fear and letting passion and judgment temper it. Fear gets a vote, but shouldn't get a veto, if you see what I mean.

According to "conventional wisdom," you should always look before you leap. It's reckless to jump when you don't know what you're jumping into...there may be jagged rocks just beneath the surface or a tiger hidden in the tall grass. And all that is true.

But "conventional wisdom" will quite likely lead to a conventional existence, and I crave something different—something astounding—rather than something conventional.

So perhaps-just maybe-to get what I want and be who I want, I should leap before I look.

This I Believe

I believe that the universe is God's.

By that I mostly mean that the universe is not mine. Its function is not to make me (or anyone) happy or treat me (or anyone) justly or please me (or anyone). Its function is to be what it is.

By the same token, I believe that the universe is no more against me than it is for me. The universe neither favors nor disfavors me. How could it? I am a part of the universe—a part of its fabric, a component of its body—and not separate at all.

The universe is God's—not mine, not yours, not anyone's—and I do not believe that God tweaks the universe to anyone's particular benefit (or detriment). God leaves that to those of us who (having free will) may choose to act in one way or another.

God's favor isn't something I look for from the universe. I don't see hard times as punishment from God or good times as rewards. I try really hard not to believe that the universe works like a scale, balancing evil with good or rendering justice from injustice. I am well aware of how lucky I am (and how little I 'deserve' the good that is in my life), and I am just as keenly aware of how unlucky others are (who 'deserve' far better than they get).

I believe that I am responsible for what I do in the universe, and that it is up to me to make the most of a bad situation or make the best of a good situation. I believe that I am responsible both for my own responses to circumstances and for the consequences of my own actions.

I believe that when bad things happen to good people, I am empowered to act on their behalf. I believe that when bad things happen to me, I am empowered to act on my own behalf. I do not believe that in either circumstance the universe will somehow 'make it right'—in this universe, that's up to me and other persons of good will.

I believe that the universe is God's, and that God expects me to do what I can to make it better—for myself and for others—so I'm not waiting for God (or the universe) to set things right; I'm doing what I can to set things right myself.

And I am grateful for the many dear friends who—consciously or unconsciously—are doing likewise.

Above all else, this I believe: that we are given the chance to be God's grace for one another in God's universe, and when we bless others, we are blessed.

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.