"Clear the attic."
"I beg your pardon?"
"And be aware of the timidity. Just know that."
I was dumbfounded. In two sentences, I had been assessed by a clairvoyant with alarming alacrity, and it shook me.
I have always had a mind impervious to rest. It races through myriad thoughts, at times with such speed that I'll lose a really profound idea mere moments after it happens because my mind will move towards another, seemingly disparate tangent. I find myself constantly assessing and weighing scenarios, judging them by their merits and detractions. It can be a wonderful tool, in that it allows me to appraise many factors before making a decision. Then again, it can become a paradox of choice, where the abundance of different options leads me to freeze, overwhelmed by the variety.
Furthermore, I am, by my own assessment, a rather shy individual. I am good at being the boisterous one at the party, and I do love ripping into a fast and hopefully witty repartee. I'll do anything for a laugh even if it's embarrassing. That said, my idea of a good time has always been a quiet one-on-one with someone I care about, reconnecting and enjoying the time together. I'm wary of the loud, drunken bar, or the party with people I don't really know. I let my self be boisterous to combat the wariness. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I don't.
So the fact that this woman honed in on both of them astounded me, because she had picked up on the two aspects of myself that have caused me the greatest hindrance in communicating and expressing myself and my needs: the former, because it constantly analyzes and judges what I say and the other's possible reactions, leaving me ill at ease; the latter because it expounds my anxiety in speaking up, too timid to voice what is essential for my own happiness. It denies me being anything but pleasant, when I can be a myriad of different feelings and emotions and states of being, all of them valid.
This has been brewing for a time, and came to a head recently. I realize now that it must stop, if only for the mere fact that I have not been taking care of myself, mentally, physically, and circumstantially. It is insipid and insidious, and the realization that I have been sacrificing my voice to amend and appease others, to defer my opinion in order to make everyone else happy, is actually fraudulent and dishonest. As I seek true emotional and mental honesty, and honest concern and care from my loved ones, this is my greatest struggle.
Someone recently said to me, "We are so obsessed with loving each other that we aren't being real with each other." She hadn't directed it to me specifically, but it struck me, leaving me pondering the meaning for the rest of the day. We cannot love if we are not completely honest, either with ourselves or with others. We miss so much real intimacy by offering what we think is the right answer, the politically correct opinion, the safe response. We try to sugar coat things, molding ourselves into being the perfect "someone" others may wish us to be, while never letting ourselves shine through, letting them know the real us. We do them and ourselves a disservice.
So here is my cry, impassioned and forthright. I will no longer allow myself to bullshit. To not voice myself. I will not provide the safe response. I will not be timid. I will be honest and concise, but not cruel and judgmental. I will not hide myself for others' sake. I will laugh when I want, hold your hand when I would like to, joke when I feel it, and love as I will. I will dare to be out there, to be idiosyncratic, to not conform, and to create what I can. Do not patronize me, do not condescend, do not exalt me, or put me on a pedestal. Enjoy me as I am, warts and all. I promise you I will do the same. I will seek out the truth in you, the beauty that you possess. I will not try to fit you into a box, or force you to be anything other than who and what you are. I will enjoy you as you come, revel in your imperfections, and love you as you are meant to be loved. I am not perfect, and I can never be. You and I are merely God's creations, and that is perfection enough.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Taking a chance on love
What does it mean to love, or to fall in love? Why do we feel the need to fall INTO love? Like falling into a wide chasm that we cannot come out of. Edward Albee once wrote about "growing into love." What an incredible sentiment, huh? Growing into love. Working through the hurts and baggage of the past in tandem. Or, at least, working through to loving oneself and one's past, good and bad. Taking a chance on loving oneself to be able to love one's partner. How do we do it?
Sometimes the lessons can only be learned in the aftermath of trauma, for there is where great learning often lies. My friend Lee, one of the sweetest and sagest people I know, spoke of loving the "break up." From there she always discovered new things about herself. I understand that cognitively, but living through it can be another story. We often find ourselves dwelling and ruminating, constantly rationalizing while still running in circles. We stay in place, thinking of What-Ifs and Shoulda-Beens. It can be vicious stasis. By the same token, we often confront long held beliefs that may no longer work, and solidify what has worked and what is particularly essential for our own emotional health.
Other times, the lessons are learned in the midst of being alone. Removed from the heartache and soul searching of a break up, these lessons can be both like lightning and like mist. On one end of the spectrum, they can strike with fury, a sudden jolt that can alter your consciousness in profound and noticeably distinct ways. They change the way we do things and how we see the world. On the other end, they can pervade and meander without any real notice, until one day you're sitting in a soft, beautiful spot, enjoying the day and you realize that something you may have believed is no longer the case. Evolution in an instant, but not really.
And then there are the lessons to be learned in the middle of the relationship. These are at times the most enlightening and the most mundane of any that one might learn. The establishment of the physical space and relationship, the communication and acceptance of different viewpoints and ways of doing things into something uniquely shared, and the formation of your own idiosyncratic language of love are all huge lessons learned in the context of any relationship, as well as who takes up more room in the bed and how each person likes their coffee. In between that figurative pole and antipode, there are a million other lessons that, at the end provide the spine for the pages of this relationship that you have both embarked on.
I recently embarked on such a journey, and I'm learning every day. Learning to be in the same space and to grow with this man in my life. Finding that my heart and my life have room to spare for this new person, these new beliefs, and this new way of seeing how the world is and how it can be. There are difficulties to be sure, but there are also beautiful moments of wonder and undeniable love and care. All of it is part and parcel with the journey.
That journey, while frightening, is pushing me towards growth I may not have wanted, but nonetheless greatly needed. To that end, I like to think that the growth is a form of self love, a way for me to know myself in ways I never expected. As Thanksgiving gives way to Christmas in the following weeks, all I can say is that I count myself immensely and truly blessed. I give thanks for this new journey and wherever it may lead, and the gift that is growing within myself. I'm taking a chance on love.
Sometimes the lessons can only be learned in the aftermath of trauma, for there is where great learning often lies. My friend Lee, one of the sweetest and sagest people I know, spoke of loving the "break up." From there she always discovered new things about herself. I understand that cognitively, but living through it can be another story. We often find ourselves dwelling and ruminating, constantly rationalizing while still running in circles. We stay in place, thinking of What-Ifs and Shoulda-Beens. It can be vicious stasis. By the same token, we often confront long held beliefs that may no longer work, and solidify what has worked and what is particularly essential for our own emotional health.
Other times, the lessons are learned in the midst of being alone. Removed from the heartache and soul searching of a break up, these lessons can be both like lightning and like mist. On one end of the spectrum, they can strike with fury, a sudden jolt that can alter your consciousness in profound and noticeably distinct ways. They change the way we do things and how we see the world. On the other end, they can pervade and meander without any real notice, until one day you're sitting in a soft, beautiful spot, enjoying the day and you realize that something you may have believed is no longer the case. Evolution in an instant, but not really.
And then there are the lessons to be learned in the middle of the relationship. These are at times the most enlightening and the most mundane of any that one might learn. The establishment of the physical space and relationship, the communication and acceptance of different viewpoints and ways of doing things into something uniquely shared, and the formation of your own idiosyncratic language of love are all huge lessons learned in the context of any relationship, as well as who takes up more room in the bed and how each person likes their coffee. In between that figurative pole and antipode, there are a million other lessons that, at the end provide the spine for the pages of this relationship that you have both embarked on.
I recently embarked on such a journey, and I'm learning every day. Learning to be in the same space and to grow with this man in my life. Finding that my heart and my life have room to spare for this new person, these new beliefs, and this new way of seeing how the world is and how it can be. There are difficulties to be sure, but there are also beautiful moments of wonder and undeniable love and care. All of it is part and parcel with the journey.
That journey, while frightening, is pushing me towards growth I may not have wanted, but nonetheless greatly needed. To that end, I like to think that the growth is a form of self love, a way for me to know myself in ways I never expected. As Thanksgiving gives way to Christmas in the following weeks, all I can say is that I count myself immensely and truly blessed. I give thanks for this new journey and wherever it may lead, and the gift that is growing within myself. I'm taking a chance on love.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
La la la la la la Miss Saigon....
A long, butt-numbing bus ride, a very late lunch of salmon salad, and another van ride down a country highway brought me to my home for the subsequent seven weeks doing a show: Miss Saigon. As the billboard said, "The heat is on.....in Ogunquit."
The amazing thing about going on a gig is the incredible ability one has to isolate, to utilize time as you see fit, without much in the way of obligation (other than the show), or the necessity to fill time. Just the time to focus on the work at hand, and your own process. Living in the city often makes you feel a bit lost if you aren't thoroughly and constantly on the move. So many things to do; so much that needs to be taken in and explored. In the end, we almost become spoiled with the wealth, the overabundance of activities and events. Here was the chance to be alone with myself and listen, as I was attempting to really look at my process anew, hoping that I would learn more about myself along the way.
Now I have a confession to make. I had never seen the show prior to being cast in it. I had no preconceived notions of what the show was supposed to be, where it lived, or how it could possibly affect an audience. I've only heard the score once, and when I stated this to most of my friends, they looked at me as if I had grown warts all over my face. I suppose being Asian and in musical theater, I should've seen those looks coming. But there was incredible beauty in approaching the show with no familiarity. I hadn't made any decisions or choices, and I didn't have my strength in mimicry to fall back on. I approached my first rehearsal with enormous trepidation.
You see, like so many of my colleagues, I did a bit of facebook stalking (you know you do it, too) before going up and discovered, both to my excitement and apprehension, that I was going to be in the company of some stupidly talented people. People I had read about and listened to, admiring their work from afar in sunny, film-centric Los Angeles. People I was now going to share the stage with. What was I getting myself into? I didn't know, but I was about to find out.
We walked into the rehearsal space and started being put into our paces, and my fears were more than confirmed. These people were killing it. Even in the first rehearsal. My timidity began to set in. I was as nervous as a cat. My mind raced a mile a minute, and for a while I thought that there must have been some huge mistake. Ashton Kutcher must've been waiting somewhere to tell me I was being Punk'd.
Then, as rehearsals progressed throughout the week, my body began to click in. I was picking things up and making choices on the fly. I was trusting my instincts again. I was living in the moment, that elusive, transcendent state of being that every actor craves. The show demanded enormous commitment and bravery in going to emotionally and mentally dark places, and even through previews and the weeks of performances, that need to invest fully never let up. We couldn't relax. It was all consuming, and gave me a focus I have not encountered in work in a very long time. I felt this profound need to serve this piece its due, and to let go of my insecurities, my apprehensions, in order to trust my fellow cast mates to go to the "scary" place with me. Luckily, they were right there, and I with them. We held each other, bolstered each other.
I couldn't pinpoint the moment, like some myoclonic twitch, when we all began to work with each other and coalesce like a family. It was more like coming home, a slow and steady realization. I've tried for several weeks to find the words to describe how it happened, to articulate succinctly but fully. It still is so close to me that I have little benefit of hindsight. So instead I'll describe an evening early in rehearsals.
Some of our cast lived for the first few weeks in a little place called the Hideaway, a two story turn-of-the-century house that had been turned into an inn. Cozy and very quaint, the place had an enormous living room with a long, oval dining table. At any given time, you would find some ten to twelve people gathered around it, on their computers, eating, or chatting about the day.
One evening, after dinner, two of my cast mates performed an impromptu set of songs that they had written, and our collective jaws dropped. Sexy, sultry, and eclectic, it was a wonderful sign of the enormous talents of our company. Soon others joined in with a harmony here, a riff there, an added piano accompaniment, and by the end we all found ourselves singing in a large scale jam session. At one point I stopped, took stock of the situation and the people around me, and thought, "I am the luckiest man alive, and I think I'm falling in love with these people."
I did indeed fall in love with those people, that place, and that process. I found a family, and I came home.
The amazing thing about going on a gig is the incredible ability one has to isolate, to utilize time as you see fit, without much in the way of obligation (other than the show), or the necessity to fill time. Just the time to focus on the work at hand, and your own process. Living in the city often makes you feel a bit lost if you aren't thoroughly and constantly on the move. So many things to do; so much that needs to be taken in and explored. In the end, we almost become spoiled with the wealth, the overabundance of activities and events. Here was the chance to be alone with myself and listen, as I was attempting to really look at my process anew, hoping that I would learn more about myself along the way.
Now I have a confession to make. I had never seen the show prior to being cast in it. I had no preconceived notions of what the show was supposed to be, where it lived, or how it could possibly affect an audience. I've only heard the score once, and when I stated this to most of my friends, they looked at me as if I had grown warts all over my face. I suppose being Asian and in musical theater, I should've seen those looks coming. But there was incredible beauty in approaching the show with no familiarity. I hadn't made any decisions or choices, and I didn't have my strength in mimicry to fall back on. I approached my first rehearsal with enormous trepidation.
You see, like so many of my colleagues, I did a bit of facebook stalking (you know you do it, too) before going up and discovered, both to my excitement and apprehension, that I was going to be in the company of some stupidly talented people. People I had read about and listened to, admiring their work from afar in sunny, film-centric Los Angeles. People I was now going to share the stage with. What was I getting myself into? I didn't know, but I was about to find out.
We walked into the rehearsal space and started being put into our paces, and my fears were more than confirmed. These people were killing it. Even in the first rehearsal. My timidity began to set in. I was as nervous as a cat. My mind raced a mile a minute, and for a while I thought that there must have been some huge mistake. Ashton Kutcher must've been waiting somewhere to tell me I was being Punk'd.
Then, as rehearsals progressed throughout the week, my body began to click in. I was picking things up and making choices on the fly. I was trusting my instincts again. I was living in the moment, that elusive, transcendent state of being that every actor craves. The show demanded enormous commitment and bravery in going to emotionally and mentally dark places, and even through previews and the weeks of performances, that need to invest fully never let up. We couldn't relax. It was all consuming, and gave me a focus I have not encountered in work in a very long time. I felt this profound need to serve this piece its due, and to let go of my insecurities, my apprehensions, in order to trust my fellow cast mates to go to the "scary" place with me. Luckily, they were right there, and I with them. We held each other, bolstered each other.
I couldn't pinpoint the moment, like some myoclonic twitch, when we all began to work with each other and coalesce like a family. It was more like coming home, a slow and steady realization. I've tried for several weeks to find the words to describe how it happened, to articulate succinctly but fully. It still is so close to me that I have little benefit of hindsight. So instead I'll describe an evening early in rehearsals.
Some of our cast lived for the first few weeks in a little place called the Hideaway, a two story turn-of-the-century house that had been turned into an inn. Cozy and very quaint, the place had an enormous living room with a long, oval dining table. At any given time, you would find some ten to twelve people gathered around it, on their computers, eating, or chatting about the day.
One evening, after dinner, two of my cast mates performed an impromptu set of songs that they had written, and our collective jaws dropped. Sexy, sultry, and eclectic, it was a wonderful sign of the enormous talents of our company. Soon others joined in with a harmony here, a riff there, an added piano accompaniment, and by the end we all found ourselves singing in a large scale jam session. At one point I stopped, took stock of the situation and the people around me, and thought, "I am the luckiest man alive, and I think I'm falling in love with these people."
I did indeed fall in love with those people, that place, and that process. I found a family, and I came home.
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