One Order of Connection - Hold the Approval

Last Sunday I gave the sermon at my church - the Unitarian Universalist Church of Greater Lansing. This is something I do a few times a year. I enjoy it. I enjoy finding inspiration from something I've read or heard, conceiving a general theme, and letting it percolate in my head and heart for a while. Actually committing something to paper is a bit more of a struggle, but I enjoy that, too.

What thrills me most, though, is finally standing up on a Sunday morning and sharing with others something true about my journey. Last week I spent a lot of time exploring notions of "God" and "God's will." I wasn't sure how it would go. In a UU church bringing up the "G-word" can sometimes be like eating a Double Whopper at a Weight Watcher's meeting - even those who secretly long for it are pretty sure they shouldn't. So I was pleasantly surprised by the reaction of our congregation to my message.

I realized last Sunday that much of what I like to do for fun (act, speak, write, cook) involves doing or producing something that will be shared by others. Naturally, I want others to enjoy what I do or produce - that's a big part of why I do it. But I wonder sometimes if there is a little, lonely part of me that just wants approval. "Great job, Brad!" "Wow, this tastes great." "How did you learn all those lines?" "Where do you come up with these ideas?" Because I am a person, and not a machine or a mathematical formula, I'm sure that the need for approval is there at some level. Maybe someday I can live without being buoyed by the positive approval of others or crushed by their disapproval, if only I work hard enough to shed "attachments" that I've fine tuned for more than 50 years. Or maybe that is for another lifetime.

In the meanwhile, I realized this. What actually floats my boat is to be connected to others, really connected. I'm talking about "I can feel the energy flow between us" kind of connected. When I act in front of an audience or speak to a group, and it is going well, there is a connection and an energy exchange that is palpable and wonderful. The same is true during the "communion" shared by friends or family and me sitting around a table and enjoying food I have prepared. Far from being the psychological roadblock that a need for approval is, the creation and enjoyment of this connection with others feels totally aligned with my mission, my essence, my reason for being. No wonder I feel alive when I spend time on certain activities and dead when I spend time on others. On a soul level this "living-dying" dichotomy is true.

The key, I think, is to give up the need to receive validation of one mask or another from others and cultivate a way of living that garners recognition of true self from others. As hard as it is for plain old middle-America Brad to do this, how much harder it must be for celebrities to do it. How easy it must be for them to succumb to all the addictive idolatry thrown their way. Often stuck on a sound stage or recording studio or captured by paparazzi every minute of the day, how hard it must be for them to find moments of true connection with others. When I think of the death of Michael Jackson yesterday, for causes yet to be determined as I write this post, I am struck by the tremendous burdens of celebrity that he bore and grateful for the daily opportunities I am given to be real and connected.

I'm doing my "God's will" (Double Whopper) sermon at another UU church tomorrow. As I approach the podium I plan to place my order with God (or whatever spiritual short order cook the universe has to offer) as follows: "One order of connection, please, and hold the approval. Oh, and super-size that."

Here Comes the Judge

Unenlightened as I am, it is presumptuous of me to say why I am unenlightened.  But here's the thing: I judge others all the time.  It is a reflex, like breathing or blinking or salivating at the thought of sipping a full, round, meaty Zinfandel.  (I just squirted a little when I wrote that.) Whether my judgment impulse is a symptom or a cause of my lack of enlightenment makes little difference.  There it sits, like an angry zit on the otherwise smooth surface of my equanimity.  So I, in turn,  judge myself to be flawed and do my best to bear the shame of sitting in judgment of other flawed souls.  And on and on it goes.

I tend to judge people harshly based on three primary criteria:

• Do they fail to act ethically and with integrity?
• Do they fail to act with compassion and consideration for others?
• Do they fail to make wise choices regarding their own health and well-being and/or the health and well-being of those dependent on them?

When I cast around to find excuses for my inner judge I sometimes discover slight comfort in the notion that I'm only wanting people to act in a way that is best for themselves, for others,  and for the world.  Surely if we were to close our eyes and dream of utopia, we would see a lush, green world, with clear, unpolluted blue skies and seas, peopled with enlightened, healthy inhabitants who treat each other with respect and care, who keep their words, who share their wealth, who eat and drink and live in moderation (except for their consumption of full, round, meaty Zinfandels which have been found to be the elixir of life when consumed in large quantities) and who get at least least 30 minutes of aerobic exercise at least five times a week.  Oh, and there would be no more "realty TV" - in part because such programming has no place in utopia, but in large measure because such abusive mislabeling and tortured linguistics will no longer be tolerated.

So here is the real question that I need to ask myself:  when I judge others, what does it say about myself?  I don't always like the answer.  When I judge the lack of consideration of the person who parks across the line and crowds me, who talks in a loud voice behind me in the movie theater, who speeds up to run lights that are clearly red so as not to be inconvenienced by a short wait, and so on, I have to examine that darker part of myself that wants to live only for myself.  When I judge corporate muckrakers who are greedy and unethical, who prosper at the expense of others, and who make decisions without regard to the ecology or the public weal, I have to look at that part of myself that doesn't trust the abundance of the universe and wishes I could only take and not give.  When I see others smoke and drink and eat junk food and empty calories to excess, I have to look at my own past or current relationships with tobacco, alcohol and food and my tendency, from time to time, to have abused each.  In almost every instance, when I judge someone else I do it because it's easier to judge them than to acknowledge my own shadows and demons, to "honor" their presence in me without acting them out.

On three occasions in my life I have had "peak experiences" and have been in "transcendent states."  Interestingly, my experiences did not occur in nature (as they do for many people) but when I was by myself in a place with a lot of other people present.  Once it happened when I observed people dancing on the dance floor of a St. Louis hotel bar during happy hour.  The second time it happened was in Hart Plaza in Detroit when, after a business meeting, I wandered over to the early hours of the "Hoedown in Motown" and watched people from all walks of life dancing to country music.  The third time came in Chicago, walking along the bustling streets, after watching a movie (Woody Allen's, "The Curse of the Jade Scorpion" - hardly a likely springboard for transcendence.)  During each experience, I went into a state where time stopped, where I felt an energy flowing through me that was a near part of all those around me and those elsewhere, where everyone I saw was beautiful just as he and she was, where I felt calm, peaceful, and happy, and where my inner judge - that miserable bastard - shut up.  In Chicago I walked up and down the streets for about 15 minutes in utter bliss, floating along, loving everyone I saw and smiling at the shock I saw in their faces when they looked in my eyes and saw something they could not understand.

The problem with having a peak experience is, of course, returning to the valley.  What a letdown.  And yet, what is there to do but to keep on living and learning?  So while I continue to judge as a reflex, I know in that deeper part of myself that judgment of others is not a reflex that I need to stay alive, but rather one that keeps me from being fully alive.  (At least that's my judgment and I'm sticking to it.)

Finally Facing It

After getting email invitations from a couple of acquaintances - I really couldn't call them "friends" - I joined Facebook. I may have been the last middle-class, middle-aged white guy in America to do so. At least that's the way it seems. Almost everyone belongs and almost everyone knows more tricks and Facebook techniques than I do.

When I added my brother-in-law, Pete, as a friend, his welcoming post back to me said, "Welcome to your new addiction." Since that time I've found that I check the site three or four times a day. I'm secretly thrilled to play the part of social voyeur. My "friends" trot out a variety of information about their lives, both mundane and profound. I ached for one young woman whose marriage ended, for one young man who relayed his sadness coming home alone after a night out, and for another friend who wrote a touching remembrance of his nephew who died a couple of years ago. I chuckled at the angst of another middle-aged pal who took the quiz "What Random Object Are You?" only to discover that he was a fishbowl. I've smiled at pictures of friends with children, friends in exotic places, friends engaged in their passions. Some of what gets posted is remarkably personal, as if the friend were writing only for himself or herself and not his or her tens or hundreds of "friends." At first this self revelation seemed strange, but then I thought about what I do in this blog. It's different, if at all, only in form and degree.

I now believe that, on balance, the Facebook scene works to pull people together and not, as first I feared it might, to put distance between them by substituting digital "sound-byte" content for meaningful contact. Facebook gives us frequent little reminders of our connection to people (friends, relatives and acquaintances) who orbit in our lives. It may even encourage us to reach out in person to those whom we would enjoy getting together with but whom we unconsciously neglect in the press of every day demands.

There is, of course, a commercial engine that drives the world of Facebook, an engine that runs faster the more we use its various fun features. To its credit, Facebook gives us fair warning. Click on the link to take the "What Random Object Are You?" quiz and this disclaimer pops up: "Allowing What Random Object Are You? access will let it pull your profile information, photos, your friends' info, and other content that it requires to work." And what does Facebook do with your profile information? It helps others sell you things by placing targeted ads at the side of your home and profile pages. My profile tells my friends (and Facebook) that I am a fan of Tori Amos; an ad at the right of my profile page tells me how I can click over to a site that features an interview with her. My profile says that I enjoy creative writing and one of my posts reveals that I have just started writing a play. Wow -there in the column of ads is one for a Short Script Competition and another for a book called "The Soul of Creative Writing."

There is nothing wrong with this, of course. Worse things have happened to me than having others sell me products and services that I might want. In the end it's up to me to decide what I want or need, and you can't blame the provider of a "free" service like Facebook from trying to figure it out. Retailer Amazon (www.amazon.com) has been genius through the years at analyzing what we buy and offering us more of what it thinks we want. If I'm honest with myself I have to admit that I've discovered and bought a lot of very good books and music that I might never have known existed without my friends at Amazon taking care of me. I've expressed my thanks with thousands of dollars of purchases.

Facebook isn't yet an addiction for me, but it does give me a pretty good buzz. And so, for now at least, I'll keep looking, with permission, through the windows of my friends and acquaintances while they undress their lives in front of me. Occasionally I'll even undress in front of the window myself, at least down to my psychological boxer shorts. Through it all, I'll let Facebook offer me opportunities for commerce (as long as it is gentle and respects my long-time, committed relationship with Amazon).

Things Ended, Things Begun

Sometime around 4:15 on Sunday, April 5, I looked down from the top of the castle stairs onstage and cried out in a big, booming voice, "Lay on, Macduff,/And damned be him that first cries, 'Hold, enough!'"  I exited upstage left, fighting.  And that was it.  My part in Riverwalk Theatre's production of "Macbeth" was over.  After helping strike the set, I took my sore muscles, bruised bones, and exhausted brain home.  I had just ended something huge and challenging, and I felt complete.  The next day I got my hair cut and most of the dye pulled out of it, and picked up my "normal" life again.

As a special treat to myself for finishing the play, and to Cary for finishing a 10 week winter quarter teaching German to undergrads at a college 90 miles from home, we went to Las Vegas a couple of days later.  It felt good to see the sun, have a few good meals, hang out by the pool, and walk the strip.  But on that Friday morning I got a call from my sister, a call that I had been expecting (and not wanting) for a long time.  Her ex-husband, Tom, father of my striking 18 and 20-year old nieces, had died earlier that morning from the cancer that he had lived with and battled for about seven years.  He died on my youngest niece's 18th birthday, as if it had been his intention to bring her safely to that place in her life where one phase would be ending and another beginning.

And so I got thinking about all kinds of endings and all kinds of beginnings.  Right now I see so many of them weaving through the lives of those that I love.  One daughter about to move from the west coast to the east coast where her husband will be stationed as a doctor in the Navy.  The other applying to grad school at the University of Michigan even as she negotiates the terrain of a new love.  My sister closing the chapter of her life revolving around her ex-husband and her daughters and both figuratively and literally writing the chapter that will follow.  My wife coming to grips with the likely possibility that the universe has plans for her that don't involve teaching German at a college or University, and struggling to hear her next calling amid the noisy chatter of every day life. My nieces saying goodbye to the man who loved them so fiercely and quite literally lived his life for them over the last several years - all this at a time when they need to deal with school, and romance, and career paths, and all the other new beginnings that 18 and 20-year olds everywhere deal with.  Many endings, and many beginnings.

And what about the old Brad-meister?  Amid all the major life changes my loved ones are facing it seems trivial to admit that I am struggling with the end of my play.  But I am.  Or more accurately, I am struggling with picking up my "normal" life after the play.  Why?  I guess because for a couple of months or so I was engaged in a pursuit that so clearly furthered my personal mission, one that helped the dream of the universe come true, one that created something of value and made connections in a world where all too often there is destruction and disconnection.  Don't get me wrong - I am a good lawyer.  I take my work seriously and exert all the creativity and good spirits I can to get financing transactions done for my clients (mostly schools, and cities and universities - important and meaningful stuff).  But yesterday I spent a disproportionate part of my day agonizing over the logistics of turning a big document around and sending it out over cyberspace to about 20 people who are, for the most part, unlikely even to look at it.  Part of the agonizing - testimony to my own debilitating compulsions for making my work internally consistent, I am sure - came as I tried to help my secretary figure out how to make all the quote marks in the document straight (some of them were curly).

The world, with all its current needs and troubles, needs me to focus my talents on some task other than conforming quote marks.  But what is it?  There's the rub.  I'm in the middle place where one phase of my life is ending, or needs to end, and another is beginning, or needs to begin.  It is uncomfortable to be in this place because, when I try to see what is next for me, I am pretty much in the dark.  But maybe that's as it should be.  Michael Meade, storyteller, author, and scholar of mythology, anthropology, and psychology, writes this in his book, The World Behind the World: Living at the Ends of Time:

Each initiatory passage requires that we become lost to all that we know.  The keys that unlock the doors of wisdom have to be found in the darkness or else fashioned from some loss.  If the keys were in the light everyone would already have found them.

It helps me to know that its more than just all right to be in the dark and to feel loss, it is necessary for growth.  In my heart I hope such a notion could help those whom I love, too, as they navigate the rough waters of their new beginnings.  But I'm guessing it will take a while, and a few more beginnings and endings, before it does.  And so it goes. 

Why Real is Better Than Perfect

Last Thursday, March 26, was the 17th anniversary of my Mom's death. It was also the opening of "Macbeth" at Riverwalk Theatre featuring yours truly as the "fiend of Scotland" himself. All day long, and during the performance itself, the events felt related. So much of what I am, as a man, as a compassionate person, as an enthusiastic performer, and more, I can source to the influence of my parents. But when it comes to my need and desire to be perfect, the influence is mostly my Mom's. Dad was accepting of the middle way, the great compromise, in himself and in others. No such middle way for Mom. In fact, she used to call my Dad a "middle of the road bastard." Most of the time she even said it lovingly.

And so I grew up with the belief that the pursuit of excellence was a moral matter. If one had "God-given" talent or ability, one had a moral duty to live up to the potential of it. To leave something on the table, to fall short of perfection, was wrong. Not murder and mayhem kind of wrong, but wrong just the same. And this was the case even if what was accomplished was pretty darned good in its own right. So Mom viewed an A- in math with a raised eyebrow when she knew I was capable of getting an A. Being elected Vice President of the class wasn't much of an accomplishment, because she "knew" in her heart of hearts that I had more to offer my class than did the boy elected President (even though she was wrong in this assessment).

My Mom loved my sister and me fiercely. Her desire to have us excel stemmed from her belief that if we excelled we would succeed, and that if we succeeded we would insulate ourselves from the many hardships she endured in her life. It reminds me of a mother bird stuffing her hatchlings so that they will be strong enough to leave the nest. But I'm guessing a mother bird has the innate sense to not over-stuff her babies, realizing that to do so would make it impossible for them to fly and cause them, rather, to fall to the ground.

I act because I love to do it. I love the challenge of wrangling words and emotion into a real-time experience for myself and the audience. When I am doing it well I can feel an actual exchange of energy between myself and the audience, each of us enlivening the other. I act on stage in large part to forge that connection - the feeling I get from doing so is pure bliss, better than any drug. And so the other night, on the anniversary of Mom's death, I invoked her spirit to be with me, to give me strength and courage to pull these beautiful words of Shakespeare into something that would touch others. And she was with me.

In my heart I believe that my Mom, or her essence, now knows, as I know, that in using my talent and ability there is a moral imperative, but that imperative is not to be perfect. It is to be real. To be present. To connect. And so while one small part of me was shaking its head at itself the last couple of nights for switching a few words around or failing to pluck exactly the right phrase out of the memory bank at exactly the right time, the bigger part of me was enjoying the moment and the connection. For real. It turns out my Mom got what she wanted after all. At least for the time I am on stage, the hardships of the world cannot touch me.

Something Wicked

I was raised to be a good boy.  From my earliest days I was taught by my parents to tell the truth, be kind to others, "keep my nose clean," "keep my gun in my pocket," and more.  For the most part, it worked.  (Okay, by the time I was 13 my gun came out of my pocket a lot, but at least I had the good-boy decency to feel bad about it when, starting at 17, I started aiming it at others.)  In fact, it worked so well that I have struggled as an adult to do some of the things that any psychologically healthy adult should do: establish boundaries, act without undue regard for the approval or acceptance of others, disappoint others (with integrity) in order to be true to oneself, be assertive (not rude) with others so as not to be run over by them.  Time and again I have struggled with these healthy behaviors because the "good boy" in me is afraid I'm doing something wrong.  Over time, the "good man" in me has come to see that they are not only useful, but essential if I am to live authentically.

One problem with trying to be good all the time is that our "bad" stuff  must find expression one way or another.  In my case, the short-haired teenager who got straight A's and was an alter boy secretly smoked.  This was one way I could be "bad" without being too bad - my parents did it after all, so how bad could it be?  As an adult I carried this habit forward for many years and added over indulgence of spirits to the mix.  Through the years my good friends, Beer and Wine, and occasionally their nasty uncle, Scotch,  came to my aid in two ways: they helped me slow down my hyper-active mind and, more to the point, they loosened me up so my "devilish" side could come out to play.  I was not generally mean, but bolder, more flirtatious, raunchier, and so on.  Another way the "bad" stuff came out in me was through sulking around, fighting with, and criticizing those I loved the most (while generally being funny, bright and supportive to the greater world).

Robert Johnson, in his wonderful little book, "Owning Your Own Shadow," explains all this in terms of the Jungian concept of "shadow":

 The shadow is that which has not entered adequately into the consciousness.  It is the despised quarter of our being.  It often has an energy potential nearly as great as that of our ego.  If it accumulates more energy than our ego, it erupts as overpowering rage or some indiscretion that slips past us; or we have a depression or an accident that seems to have its own purpose.  The shadow gone autonomous is a terrible monster in our psychic house.

 Johnson asserts that there can be no light within our psyches without dark to balance it.  So if we try to be good in our lives, live in accordance with our highest selves, is it necessary that we must act out the dark stuff in a harmful way just to maintain this balance?  No, says Johnson, for the following reason:

It is possible to live one's ideals, do one's best, be courteous, do well at work, and live a decent civilized life if we ritually acknowledge this other dimension of reality.  The unconscious cannot tell the difference between a "real" act and a symbolic one.  This means that we can aspire to beauty and goodness - and pay out that darkness in a symbolic way.

I am well into rehearsals for Macbeth - in fact we open four weeks from today.  I have to say that I am greatly enjoying playing the "hellhound" Macbeth.  That dark side of me that needs a way out finds full symbolic expression when I stare at my sword onstage and growl, "The castle of Macduff I will surprise;/ Seize upon Fife; give to the edge o' the sword/ His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls that trace him in his line."  Oh, yeah.  It feels good to act bad.  But does it make me a better person the rest of the time?  I don't know for sure.  But it feels good enough that I might just have to find some other bloody, symbolic, act to embrace once the play is over and I am once again just a mild mannered attorney.  "Something wicked this way comes..." - at least in my ritual life.  And the good man smiles.

Las Vegas Illusions

There is a great line in Alanis Morissette's song, "21 things i want in a lover": "do you see everything as an illusion but enjoy it even though you are not of it?"  (As an aside, by actual count I have 18.5 of the 21 things she wants in a lover.  I'm still waiting for her call.  Sorry, Cary, I love you but, well, you know.  On the other hand I'll understand if you answer Prince's call when it comes.)

Many spiritual traditions hold that much, if not all, of the world is an illusion, an illusion that deceives us through our desires and our fears, keeps us trapped in the past and worried about the future, and prevents us from awakening to the eternal truth of the moment and being one with the universe.  If this point of view is correct, we might actually view Las Vegas as a kind of spiritual boot camp.

I first had this thought five or six years ago when I went on a solo trip to the strip.  At the time I was romantically unattached, struggling with a job I really disliked, feeling alienated from my young-adult daughters (whom I loved more than anything), rehashing the past, trying to figure out how to redeem what was left of my future, and not seeing, let alone, enjoying the sweetness of life.  So what did I do?  Well in addition to playing some blackjack, taking a flight over the Hoover Dam and Grand Canyon, going to see Cirque du Soleil's, "Mystere," and drinking lots of wine, I walked the strip.  And what did I see?  Over there fake New York City.  Over there, fake Paris.  Over there, fake Venice.  How about a fake Arthurian castle?  A fake Great Pyramid?  Fake Roman Forum?  There they are!  Fake pirates and a fake volcano - wow!  Real white tigers posed with a couple of scary German types with fake faces and hair.  Small Mexican-Americans snapping and handing out cards with air-brushed women with fake boobs.  And running through it all - like condensed, dark-side blood - greed, desire, fear, lust, laughter, tears, longing, and more.  I walked and walked, listening to my iPod, and soaked it all in.  It's easy to see how life is an illusion when you're in a place that is specifically designed to sell the illusion to you.  It's easy if you take the time to look.

Last weekend I was in Las Vegas with some friends of mine to see the sun for a few days, enjoy some male bonding, and to lose some money on football's "big game."  I knew it was an illusion, but I enjoyed it.  I had my friend, Dave, take a picture of me near the fake canals of the Venetian hotel.

Back in April of 2007 I was in the "real" Venice with my daughter, Taylor, to celebrate her college graduation.  She snapped a picture of me by the "real" canals of Venice.

When I think about my two experiences there is, in one sense, no comparison.  I mean, come on!  Venice?  The food, the wine, the architecture, the gondolas, the unique (not always pleasant) smells, the shops.  But, wait a minute - there were loud tourists, tacky souvenirs, chain stores, small hotel rooms and, yes, even Italian bedbugs.  It wasn't always a perfect experience but, at its best, and when my daughter and I were most enjoying ourselves over good food and wine, or seeing some particularly beautiful site, it was a very real experience in a very real moment.  And so was Las Vegas, in its own way and for its own reasons.  My connection with Dave, Tony and Rick, the good humor, the good food, the good entertainment, none of that was less real - or less significant - just because we were in a place so obviously "fake."  The moment - moment by moment - was exactly what it was supposed to be.  All that was required by me was to be there (really be there) to witness.

Alanis, honey, do you agree?