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.

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.