Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow

A week ago this evening my wife and I braved the cold to drive to Riverwalk Theatre in Lansing.  I tried out for the part of Macbeth - one of the great roles in classical theater.  I had studied the script, let my pretty much all-gray hair grow out, pumped up a bit to add some musculature to my lanky frame, and practiced standing and moving without my patented slouch.  I read well and did my best to generate at least a little spark of sexual tension with the sometimes much younger women reading for Lady Macbeth.  (My favorite tryout moment came when a stone-gorgeous young woman in her mid-20's approached me before we read and asked, sotto voce, "Is it all right if I touch you?"  I mumbled out some mature response, but inside I was thinking, "Is this a trick question?")  I found out later in the week that I got the part.  Yippee!

Holy crap!

All I need to do between now and March 26 is learn a butt-load of lines, attend rehearsals five nights a week, learn the choreography for then practice five stage fights (at least I get to kill four others before the worrrrthy Macduff takes my head for a trophy), continue to pump up, and, maybe, get the old dye job on the noggin.  I also have to overcome my fear of "going up" (forgetting lines) on stage, something I never used to worry about when I was younger and the lines stuck easier.

So why do I do it?  Because I love it.  There are certainly times in my life when I question whether what I'm doing is in integrity with my personal mission, whether I am putting positive energy into the universe or just getting by, whether I am living life with bliss or waiting to do so at a later, more convenient or less scary,  time.  But when I am preparing for and acting in a production, especially one like "Macbeth" in which I will get to push myself to the limits of my talent in order to forge a visceral connection with the audience, I don't question any of this.  I know this undertaking is right and I am delighted to do it.

Back in 1992, when I was 38 years old, I returned to acting after several years away from it.  With the then recent death of my mother, the break up of my first marriage, financial and career reversals, and back-to-back physical relocations sending me reeling, it was a delicious treat to rediscover this pastime that had been lost.  It was a great balm to sooth all the loss I had experienced.  At the time I thought it provided me with something else as well - a chance to let my young daughters see me doing something that made me happy, and by seeing that know that it was okay for them to do the same.  In some respects I'm sure it did.  But looking back at it now I understand that the chance to see me happy and present with myself didn't mean as much to them as I thought it would.  They would rather I had spent more time with, and been happier and more present with, them.  I understand this now, even if I misjudged their needs then.

But regardless of the uneven steps that brought me here to this "bank and shoal of time," I now get to immerse myself in a crazy, passionate, challenging undertaking "tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow" until April 5.  It will be an experience, as Mr. Shakespeare says, "full of sound and fury," but not, as he also says, one "signifying nothing."  At least not for me.

Masks and Creativity

In the last few years of his life my dad wrote what he called his "non-poems."  He called them that because he was not a poet, he was a structural steel draftsman.  It wasn't his place to write poetry, so he wrote "non-poetry."  From time to time he would recite one or a few lines from one to me.  It was only after his death in late 2006 that I found his whole "non-poetry" oeuvre.  Some of them were sprinkled with his unique brand of humor, "Grandpa Humor" my daughters called it.  Consider this short one: "Some people say I'm indecisive, but I don't know if I am or not."  But others showed a sadness behind the humor, as did "The Mask" which I reproduce below in his own hand:

Although my dad had friends and family, he spent much of his time in solitude.  In many ways he enjoyed this solitude, but "The Mask" showed that he was fiercely lonely, too, and in many ways afraid to show what he felt to those of us who loved him so much.  If you were to have asked me about him I would have told you my dad was introspective, aloof in many ways, and an only child who turned into an old fart who liked his privacy and space.  Shows you what I knew.  

My dad's "non-poems" also showed that behind another mask he wore - that of skilled, old-school draftsman (no CAD for him) - there lived a strong urge to be creative.  Not just to experience creativity of others, but to create something of his own.  In his wonderful book, "Creativity: Where the Divine and the Human Meet,"  theologian and spiritual rabble-rouser Matthew Fox writes: "To speak of creativity is to speak of profound intimacy.  It is also to speak of our connection to the Divine in us and of bringing the Divine back to community."

In one respect I guess that my own creativity is more apparent than my dad's.  I speak and write and act on stage and share all of this with my family, friends, and community, if not the world at large.  Tonight, for instance, I will try out for the role of Macbeth in the upcoming production of Shakespeare's classic at Riverwalk Theatre in Lansing, Michigan.  If I get the part, the product of my creativity will be evident for many to see and not tucked away in a notebook (like my dad's "non-poems").  But here's the thing.  The act of creation is a very private and as Fox says, "intimate" thing.  From a cosmic perspective, my dad's using the energy of the universe to create his "non-poems" is no different from my using that energy to create a character on stage.  In each case, the act of creation is, it seems to me, a form of prayer, an act of great reverence for the eternal and the transcendent, a small nod of thanks to the entity, the force, the ever present energy (it's okay, you can call it God) that has for whatever purpose, grand or random, loaned this spark of energy to us.  Now, I also think it's true that by sharing our creativity with others we have a great opportunity to spread and magnify the energy inherent in our creation.  But that is a subject for another day and another post.  No need to get too bogged down in philosophical reflections when I need to be preparing for auditions.  As my dad said in another of his "non-poems":

"Life isn't all that complicated, as long as you don't let something jump up and bite you in the ass."

Well, there you go.

Hold on Loose

Back 34 years or so ago, my college economics professor hypnotized my soon-to-be wife.  Professor Kenneth Asquith, blessed with a calm, even voice, was a skilled amateur hypnotist.  He was interested in hypnotism primarily as a means of determining whether or not each of us has lived multiple past lives.  So after Kim looked at the candle, listened to the Professor's cooing voice, and nodded out, Professor Asquith took her back through time.  He had her remember winning the Miss Rockford pageant and participating in the Miss Illinois pageant that followed.  He took her back to the age of three - "How old are you now?" he asked.  "Free," she responded, mispronouncing the word as she had in 1956.  He tried to take her back to her mother's womb and beyond, but stopped when she became uncomfortable in her memories.

Through it all I sat mesmerized.  "Take me, take me," I thought, "I'll do it!  I'll go all the way back!"  But when it was my time to go under, I couldn't.  I wanted so badly to be hypnotized that I was unable to drop into a hypnotic state.  Kim, on the other hand, who had been more or less indifferent to the whole process, had dropped right off.  (Admittedly, she was otherwise one of those people who could sleep soundly whatever was going on in her life, and I was not.)

I've thought of that incident often through the years.  It has served as "Exhibit A" in the past experiences I turn to when I get frustrated that something I love so much is lost or that something I want so much seems out of my reach.  Through the years I have clung to people only to lose (or damage) our relationships.  I have clung to "stuff" only to have it break or get lost or lose its allure.  I have clung to the idea of elusive ways of life (working in "the right job," living in "the right climate and culture," finding "the right path to enlightenment," and so on), blindly plodding through life with these ideals dangling in front of my nose like a carrot in front of a plow horse.

There are many things I want to do with the time I have left in my life.  In order to do them, I need goals, objectives, action plans, and so on.  I need to take action and measure results.  I need to expend effort.  A play doesn't write itself.  A speech doesn't magically appear in my computer's documents folder.  I don't go on stage to perform a great role without spending hours learning lines and rehearsing (although trying to do so is just what happens in one of my recurring nightmares).  I don't make the world a better place by just wishing it were so, even if "positive thinking" helps.

Ten years ago I attended a retreat called "Warrior Monk."  The retreat was designed, in part, to help participants be clear about their missions in life, to learn how to create goals and objectives in support of theirs missions, and (the hard part for me) to learn how to lessen their attachment to certain processes and results.  I thought, "What?  I'm supposed to spend all this time coming up with a mission, goals, and objectives, and not get attached to how I pursue them or what happens?"  The paradox was almost too much for me.  But then I got it.  I have always had a tendency to "hold on tight" in order to get what I want or to not lose what I have.  A better way might be to "hold on loose."  Do the planning, do the work, then let it go.  Repeat as necessary.

In his wonderful translation of the "Tao te Ching," Stephen Mitchell says it well in this excerpt from Chapter 10:

Giving birth and nourishing,

having without possessing,

acting with no expectations,

leading and not trying to control:

this is the supreme virtue.

The Year of Living Authentically

Two mornings ago I woke up with these words on my mind: Transformation is not about becoming something else, but about becoming more completely what you are in the moment. (Kierkegaard and Kant would not feel threatened by the profundity of that waking thought, but I liked it anyway.)  For so many years I have felt uncomfortable in my own skin; in response, I have tried to change my skin. Always the urge has been to reach out, to grasp at, to quest for, something different, something better, something more meaningful. I've wiled away years of my life in this way, and I have to admit that this very fact is the source of much of the melancholy that is my frequent companion.

Over the last decade I've engaged in counseling, "men's work" (through the ManKind Project and otherwise), and inner work, and have joined a very satisfying spiritual community, the Unitarian Universalist Church of Greater Lansing. I've developed a personal mission and learned to measure my actions in terms of whether or not they support this mission or keep me from living it. As an alternative to looking for new "skin" out there, hoping that I might be more comfortable in it, I have been drilling down into the very deepest part of myself and attempting to live my life more authentically.  From time to time now I actually do.

What does it mean to "live authentically"?  Perhaps it's one of those concepts that is easier to spot by its absence than by its essence.  2008 was chock full of examples of inauthentic living.  Take a look at headlines for any day of the year and you'll spot more than one example of dirty politicking, financial shenanigans and outright fraud, corporate profligacy at the expense of the environment, greed run amuck, celebrities (with and without underwear) acting poorly, religious zealotry resulting in hatred and death, murder (even in a Santa costume), mayhem (literal "door-busters" and death on Black Friday), and on and on.  But examples of authentic living are there, too - they just take a little more digging to find and make a little less of a splash when you do.

In a by no means exhaustive list, I believe people live authentically when they:

• treat both themselves and others with respect and compassion;
• are less anchored in the past and less worried about the future, but live in the moment;
• eat and drink healthy food and beverages mindfully, ethically, and sustainably;
• take care of their bodies, minds, and souls by exercising each;
• don't eat, drink, use drugs, shop, have sex, or engage in other addictive behavior in order to try to heal psychic wounds or holes in their souls;
• heal psychic wounds by doing necessary tough inner work, by grieving what needs to be grieved, and by forgiving themselves and others;
• don't use narrow understandings of ineffable matters (God, for instance) to harm, marginalize, hate, or judge others;
• engage in work with a purpose of higher good, a purpose that is not solely amassing as much wealth as possible;
• are grateful for the abundance in their lives and are willing to share it;
• remain curious and open to learning and new experiences; and
• love easily, frequently, and cosmically. 

And so this New Year's Eve I choose not to make "resolutions" that relate to behaviors, even good ones, that are without context.  (Will the world really be a better place if I lose 10 pounds in 2009?)  Rather I resolve to (A) make 2009 the year of living authentically and (B) be gentle with myself when I slip up, mere (good-hearted, well-meaning) mortal that I am.

Learning From Old Drivers

The other day, as I approached a busy intersection, I was conscious of myself quickly checking things out - car in the left turn lane, car in the opposing left turn lane, car to my right turning right, no one in the crosswalk, light still green, no cars running red lights to my right or left.  In a very quick instant I realized that it was safe to proceed, and I did.

But then I wondered this:  would I be able to take the same quick read on the intersection stimuli were I 74 or 84 instead of 54 (indeed, was I better able to do so at 44 or 34)?  I'm sure I'm not the only one who can "feel" the right speed of a road while driving.  For instance, one country road near my old home town twists and turns, has no shoulders, has hidden drives galore, trees near the road, and so on.  It sports a speed limit of 50 - too fast by at least 10 miles an hour (or at least that's how it feels).  A five lane commercial trunk line runs near my current home.  It has wide lanes, few trees, set back buildings, no hidden drives and, at least for a stretch, a speed limit of 35 - too slow by at least 10 miles an hour.

I'm sure the driving speed that feels right to me has slowed down some over the years.  How else can I explain the increasing number of drivers who speed around me, blow through yellow lights next to me while I am stopping, or (especially in the case of 20-something young women talking on cell phones) tailgate me?  How else can I explain that the number of pokey old drivers that I speed around has decreased?  There is a reason, I suppose, why my insurance rates at at all-time lows; I'm driving slower and safer than a lot of younger people and quicker and more alertly than a lot of older people.

In this world where technology has made instant communication of words, documents, and media so prevalent, where finding an answer to most routine questions is never more than a Google away (from a computer, a cell phone, or the latest must-have hybrid of the two), and where the "fast lane" no longer refers primarily to the left lane on a highway, but, rather, to the preferred lifestyle for working, playing and getting more stuff, there is little room for living life slowly, or at least slower.  But many people are unhappy with this state of affairs and are "slowly" (sorry) pushing back.  In preparing a talk on this subject a while back, I read a book called In Praise of Slowness: Challenging the Cult of Speed by Carl Honoré, a Canadian journalist.  In the book, Honoré uses “slow” and “fast” not in any absolute sense, but in the sense of being balanced versus unbalanced, in control of your life versus out of control.  He writes:  

"What the world needs, and what the Slow movement offers, is a middle path, a recipe for marrying la dolce vita with the dynamism of the information age.  The secret is balance: instead of doing everything faster, do everything at the right speed.  Sometimes fast.  Sometimes slow.  Sometimes somewhere in between.  Being Slow means never rushing, never striving to save time just for the sake of it.  It means remaining calm and unflustered even when circumstances force us to speed up..."

So the question I find myself asking myself, over and over again, is this:  should I do this or that faster just because I can?  More and more the answer seems to be no.  And more and more, as I find a speed for living that feels right, I am enjoying the drive a little more.  Now when I notice people blowing by me, on the road or in life, I am less inclined to be angry and more inclined to smile.  Their journey, after all, is theirs.  I just want mine to be mine.  

In the Morning Hours

For years my daily morning routine consisted of popping out of bed, showering, dressing, getting in the car, stopping for a bagel and coffee on the fly, and plopping my butt behind my desk at 7:00 or 7:15.  One hour, plus or minus a few minutes, from eyes open to eyes reading or writing legal documents.  Admittedly, one of the reasons I got to work early was so that I didn't have to stay late - nights were chock full of personal and family activities that were far more interesting.  It wasn't that I was ever a total workaholic.  But still, anxious as I was each day to get work started so I could get it over, I never learned the art of beginning a day with grace.

For the last year or two I have embraced a very different routine.  I set my inner clock to wake around 6:00 (not hard since my inner kidneys are pretty active causing my inner bladder to cry for relief often during the night).  I get up, throw on chef's pants, wool socks and a sweatshirt, greet the cats outside our bedroom door (Bentley pauses for a quick head rub on the stairs but Mufasa runs as fast as his fat belly allows to wait by the food bowl), make tea while the cats whine (as a simple exercise to remind myself that is okay to take care of myself as well as others), feed the cats, and sit in my favorite reading spot.  I start with a Sudoku puzzle, then spend time with three or four books that I have by my seat.  One relates to spirituality, one relates to psychology or science, one relates to history or current events, and one is poetry (novels I save for night time reading).  I make more tea as needed.  Around 8:00 I wander upstairs to get ready for work (if it is a workday) or to wake Cary up (if it is not).  I am very pleased to have spent this time with myself and very grumpy when I have to cut it short to get the car in for an early appointment or leave for an early business meeting.

My new routine was born in part out my early morning insomnia (and a desire to let my poor wife sleep in peace without my tossing and turning), in part by time freed up as a result of a conscious decision to work fewer hours, and in part by my growing fascination with the "integral vision" and the "integral life practice" being continually developed by Ken Wilber and his friends at the Integral Institute.  With age I have come to see fewer absolutes and have developed a heightened appreciation for the interconnectedness of beings, things, thoughts, and phenomena.  The Integral Vision provides a fascinating and stimulating framework within which to explore this interconnectedness, with direct application to the way we relate to ourselves, our cultural and personal relationships, our political and social structures, the world and, indeed, the universe.  Were I Supreme Benevolent Dictator of the Universe, I would make "Integral Life Practice" a required course for all the myopic politicians, religious zealots, corporate profiteers, and despots in this stressed out world.

That I am drawn to integral studies shouldn't surprise me.  Beginning when I was about ten I devoured "Doc Savage" adventures and longed, deep in my heart, to be just like him.  Doc Savage was a normal man who had, from his  childhood days, extensively trained his mind and his body so that he was very strong and agile and outrageously good at almost everything.  Like Superman, Doc could have used his extraordinary powers for personal gain, but chose to devote himself to righting wrongs.   I wonder if Ken Wilber read Doc Savage adventures, too, when he was a kid - Doc was, truth be told, the original integral life practitioner. So even as I drill down into the depths of this exciting new way to learn and grow, I have to smile when I think of little buzz-cut Brad wanting to save the world and believing (at some level, at least) that he could if only he were as disciplined as Doc.  These days, sipping tea in the early morning with a fat, temporarily sated cat stretched out by my side, I am content to understand the world a little better and to make things better in the modest ways I can.

The Grinch, the Elf, and Me

Three years ago my dad (on the left, circa 1966, in the photo), newly diagnosed with lung cancer, went into the hospital with pneumonia and nearly died.  Christmas of 2005 was dominated by his illness, yet perspective about what is important in the season, and in life, was made all the clearer when my daughters, son-in-law, wife and I huddled around his bed as he ate the Christmas food we brought him.  Ten months later he was gone for good.  And this Christmas will mark the third one without him.

I miss my parents and my grandparents all the time, but most intensely at Christmas.  In my formative years Christmas served as a sort of emotional "cease fire" in our family.  My mom and dad took a break from their normal bickering to gleefully work together on holiday planning and to overspend on presents (especially for my sister and me).  My dad, too anxious to let my sister and me sleep in on Christmas morning, would play the mischievous elf and shake sleigh bells to wake us up.  My grandparents (dad's parents) came over later in the day, laden with presents, and shared the immense meal my mom made (with the exception of the cranberry-walnut-jello-cream cheese salad my grandma always brought).  My normally sullen grandpa (on the right in the photo), who worked a dirty job in a foundry most of his life and seemed somehow numbed by the direction his life had taken, was full of smiles and laughs and stories, a sort of post-epiphany Grinch.  My sister and I were the princess and prince in all of this, and could not have felt more loved.

After I married and had daughters of my own the dynamic shifted, but it was still fun.  They were the new royalty, and I loved being tucked in the middle of it all.  Then things got crazy - the divorce of my parents in the mid-80's, my mother's untimely death followed by my divorce in 1992, and so on.  Through all these latter changes, while my girls grew up, I had the steady presence of my dad.  He didn't always go the extra mile to stay involved in my life, he didn't like to attend my or the girls' various events, his visits were always too short, and he rarely called me (even though he loved to chat).  But he was there and he loved me unconditionally.  I miss him acutely - he was the last of my ancestors to die and, more than that, he was a hell of a good guy.