1. You’ll have to work. Hard. Harder than you thought. Because you’re no longer just working for your rent and upkeep. You have a dream to support, to feed, to grow, and the world won’t offer you free room and board in the interim. You’ll be working twice as hard, and in the eyes of the world, it’ll seem like a Quixotic windmill charge. Work anyway. 2. You’ll need the courage of your conviction. Because you’ll be lucky if anyone understands your dream. There will be those who do not understand the nature of dreams, who will encourage you towards the practical, the predicable, the ‘check-the-box’ sort of life. Their ideas will seem terribly sensible, safe, alluring, and stifling, yet they are easy compared to the dreamers who think they know better than you. These will be the friends, neighbors, and colleagues who will shower you with advice and commentary, critiquing and correcting, filling you with so much information that there’ll be days when you wonder where your inspiration ends and their’s begins. Confide in a trusted few, politely put-off the rest, and keep going. 3. You won’t feel ready. Hardly anyone does. You can write or practice or whittle for hours and hours on end without ever feeling like you’ve got it perfect. There’s always another way to play a scene, to dance a step, to write the lyric, and you’re not always going to receive a cosmic answer about which way to write, act, dance, or paint it. So you’re going to choose one option, print it, and pray that it’s the right one. 4. It’ll be frightening. The book is written, edited, and published. The movie has been shot, edited, scored, and stamped on a DVD. The last stroke is dry on the canvas, the photo has been shopped, cropped, color-graded, and framed. The curtain is ready to rise on the nod of the director and in that moment, just before you push play, or you take your step on to that stage, you’ll be thinking of all the rehearsing you didn’t do, the scene that could have been re-written, the shot that you think you should pull from the display. You’re going to think, “They’ll see me now. There’s nothing between me and them and the dream – it’ll be viewed and judged. What then?” This is the plunge, the moment of no return, when all your hard work will be seen for the first time. You will worry. You will panic. You might even feel sick. But you’ll plunge anyway. Because… 5. It’ll be worth it. Whatever the dream is, whatever the goal is, as long as you focus on the art itself - the carving, the book, the movie, the dance, the song, the meal -, you will make it. In the end, dreaming was never about the acclaim (which is fickle), the applause (which is never assured), or the money (which may or may not come). It’s about giving your best, being challenged to the next level, and ultimately, living a life worth having. Living a dream is tough: it requires courage, risk, creativity, and tenacity. But in the end, it’s the only real way to live. A friend of mine was upset. She'd been relying on someone for help and it never arrived. "I don't know why I bother being a good person sometimes," she told me, her voice heavy with hurt. "Paying it forward doesn't seem to work." It's a familiar refrain. Before my current job (author, among other occupations), I worked in a large Parish that hosted a food pantry and always among the truly needy were those who pulled up in fancy cars, stepped up in new boots, and played with the latest in cell phones while waiting their turn in line for a bag of groceries. The food pantry workers were all volunteers, people who'd seen their own families grow in relative health and prosperity and saw this as a way of giving back. But the imbalance would get to them, too. "I don't know what good it is giving food to someone who's spending their welfare money on phones and boots," one said to me, after a long, frustrating day. "It's just seems silly." My sister volunteers at a soup kitchen. She's not even 18 yet and already she was frustrated by what she sees. "The same people return all the time!" she told me, after working there a year. "It's not that I don't want to help. It's that I don't think I am." Justice, it seems, clashes with acts of mercy. It's hard to work in charity, giving only to see it seemingly thrown away on the ungrateful. I've helped out in charitable endeavors, and know what it's like to give, only to find that not only did the person not need it, but is spreading the news of your generosity to all their other friends in the area. It's easy to give up. It's tempting to say, 'That's it, that's all there is. This well is dry.' To wash my hands of the matter and go on my way. But as I finished the conversation with my friend, a song came on the radio. What is Christmas? it asked. It's all about a savior, wrapped in a manger. And there was the answer: What would Jesus do? Or rather, what did He do? He gave first. Before we were worthy. Before we even knew we needed it. Before we were willing to accept it. He gave first. He gave and He still gives. And then He said that we were to do the same. It's a tough lesson. I much prefer to give when I get that nice response - the grateful smile, the satisfaction of a need assuaged, that Superwoman feeling I, and only I, could have rescued this person in their hour of need. It's a good, comfortable feeling, but it's not supposed to be why I give. I should do it anyway. My friend does: naturally, effortlessly, without even thinking about it - she's already helping out one of those that had let her down. The good people at the food pantry do: long hours in a basement, sorting stock and filling out government reports. My sister does: cooking, cleaning, serving all with a smile and an invitation to seconds. They may talk their frustrations out on me, but when the conversation ends and that call of need come, they don't hesitate. They don't qualify. They don't wince. They don't look for the accolades. They just answer. (If you worry that the world has no more heroes, I would suggest that you check out your local food pantry, soup kitchen, or that helpful neighbor right down the hall. Chances are very good that you'll find them there.) Being Christian is not about paying it forward and hoping for an earthly return. It's about giving as we have received - freely and generously. That's the true Christmas spirit. It’s a gorgeous morning when I pull into the Maudsley Park parking lot. I’m here for a photo shoot, one of a string of artistic endeavors called ‘Shades of the Past, headed by photographers Monica Bushor and Matt Lavigne. This is my second ‘Shades’ experience. In the first, I got to play His Girl Friday. This time, I’m not a model – I’m a lighting tech or, as I preferred to call myself, the Bringer of Light and Shadow. When I arrive, there is already a hub of activity surrounding the picnic tables. Models yawn, stretch, and pull costumes over their yoga wear. Make-up artists unpack brushes, powders, and lipsticks, while the prop crew fusses about with mirrors and plastic skulls and staffs. The photographers are directing traffic while juggling expensive equipment. It’s a merry mess of setting up and I’m struck by how similar it is to the film projects I am often involved in. The theme for this ‘Shades’ project is Creeptastic Beauty. It’s the brainchild of Monica Bushor, a mother and homemaker besides artist, and she’s enthusiastic about the idea. “It’s about the beauty of death,” she tells me. “Not a Halloween horror shoot.” That’s obvious in the subjects she’s chosen: the Fates, Spirit Dancers, La Mala Hora, the Banshee, Bean Nighe, La Llorna, Will o’ the Wisp, and the Storm Hag number among the many characters she’s has planned for the ambitious one-day project. The self-appointed project assistant has a clipboard loaded with inspiration photos and notes. “So much for a simple little shoot,” someone remarks. “Actually, compared to the others, this is a little shoot,” Monica says. Eventually, we are ready to begin. A small group of techies, myself included, load up with equipment and head off down the path towards the first location. We’re going to spend all morning in the park, crisscrossing all over one end of it. It’s a good location for a spooky shoot. Remnants of the old mansion are everywhere, from the lush gardens to the abandoned bunker to the remains of the pool house. But this morning doesn't lend itself easily to a chill and thrills. Sunlight pours through clear skies to drench the park in warmth. There are luxurious lawns, well-maintained gardens, giant, welcoming trees, and charming nooks to read in. I can imagine filming a scene from a Jane Austen novel, but not a Bram Stoker. Still, I’m game. We reach our first destination, a tree-lined lane, and we set up the lights and fuss about positioning them until the models arrive. The Fates are first, in the form of a dancer, the costumer, and a woman I do not know. Velvet robes cover their rolled up jeans. One carries an over-sized set of shears. They slip out of their sneakers, laughing and joking, and tip-toe up to stand in between the lights. We stand back, behind the photographers, and watch as the women shift positions, and stare down at the camera. But while we’re trying to create a remote atmosphere, the real fates seem determined to cross us. Maudsley is busy today. Joggers, dog-walkers, and mothers pushing carriages stream around us, craning their necks curiously as they chat about work and family projects. They are respectful, but they remind us that this is not a medieval forest – this is present-day Massachusetts When the Fates are through, the Spirit Dances take their place. Wrapped in white and black gauze, they are graceful and the little lane resounds with laughter and suggestions. We move from set to set, and I get to see a good deal of the park. I learn a bit about lighting, and watch as the models come and go. They come dressed in fanciful clothing from a variety of places, from thrift shops to mall stores. Standing on the sidelines as I was, I can see the chipped gilt on Blood Mary’s mirror, the Savers tag on the Ghostly Girl's shirt. My Ebay-bargain wedding veil is used for a shroud for one of the ghosts. As heavily made-up dancers perform a Danse Macabre, one of the directors and choreographer takes advantage of the echoing set to sing Phantom of the Opera. While preparing for their shoots, the models compare their vocal imitations of Ursula, the villain from The Little Mermaid. I am lulled by the ordinariness of the experience. We are, after all, only people, in a beautiful setting. But there is nothing magical or dark or other-worldly about the experience. Or so I think. Point of view is everything. I am constantly being reminded of this. Every life-improvement expert teaches some form of perspective-reframing, whether it’s detachment or acceptance. It’s easy to accept this intellectually. It’s harder to put into practice, and it’s can be absolutely startling when you see it acted out in real life. While I see a woman wrapped in a gauzy sheet, Monica’s camera captures a lonely statue, reaching for comfort. The lawyer who chats with me about her new house becomes a menacing Bloody Mary, terrifying a woman in a lonely wood. Through the narrow, focused gaze of Matt’s lens, the lovely wooded lane becomes a frightening gauntlet for the dancer in white to traverse while disembodied hands hover around her. All I saw was the ordinary. The artists saw the extraordinary. Through the eyes of Monica and Matt, using the talents of those around them, an ordinary state park, flooded with families and joggers on a gorgeous Saturday morning, becomes a remote and otherworldly place, a place of hidden magic and menace, and ghostly beauty. All it took was a little bit of magic.
I was going to write a brilliant blog post today. It was full of pathos, and humanity, and a contained thoughtful message on the world as it is today. I really ought to write it, but I ran out of time. I was too busy discovering that there are at least ten ways to avoid writing a blog post. And since I like to share my findings, I’ve written a list of my ten favorite ways to avoid writing a blog post: 1. Sleep in late: Because you’re tired. And you’ve been working late. And it’s cozy in your bed. Another five minutes won’t kill you. And so on... 2. Checking your Facebook page: Because finding out how many ‘likes’ your new selfie album got is absolutely essential to your well-being. 3. Call a friend: It doesn’t matter that you’re going to see them tomorrow night, that you saw them yesterday, that you’ve got nothing new to talk about since you chatted online this morning. Friends come first. 4. Sort your socks: Because you need to find them in a hurry in the morning, especially after you’ve slept in late. (See #1) 5. Stare into space: You’re a writer, which means you’re probably also an introvert. This is how we think. No, it is not wasting time. No, it is not daydreaming. Or if it is, it is absolutely necessary for the creative process. Absolutely. Ask anyone. 6. Re-arrange your book-shelves: Have fun and experiment. Put them in order of author, by color, publication date, by length, by height, by font styles… 7. Surf Youtube: You know those cat videos everyone talks about about? They actually are as funny as they say! 8. Scroll through other people’s Facebook page: Because nothing is more motivating (i. e. depressing) than seeing how much cooler everyone’s life is than yours. Which leads us to: 9. Clean out your freezer: by which I mean, eat all the ice cream in it. Having ice cream in your freezer will lead you into temptation, so cut temptation off at the pass. 10. Look up random things on the internet: Because you’re learning new things and that’s good for you. For instance, did you know that there are 1000 different varieties of bananas? That they are considered herbs, not fruits? That 5 billion tons of bananas are eaten in Britain each year? That if you hold a banana on its side, it looks like a sun-shiny smile? Now you do. That’s the power of a Google search. You’re welcome. A large chunk of ice sits under the broiling Caribbean sun. Two crewmen just left it, hefting it off the dolly and onto a tarp in the middle of the pool deck. Curious cruisers, myself included, gather around the inert object, watching it to see how quickly it’ll melt. After all, it is nearly noon, and a sheen of sweat shows on everyone’s face, even those hale and hearty members from such hot places as Texas and the western desert states. But if the ice is melting, we can’t see it. The assistant cruise director tells us it’s been super-cooled and will last a while. This enables it to be both a center piece and creates a better carving experience for the ice artist, who will be coming along shortly to make a demonstration. As we wait, I snap pictures, clean the humidity off my lens, and wonder what the ice-artist sees when he looks at the block of ice. Like other sculptors, artists, architects, and creative people, he must see potential where I only see ice-cubes and freezer burn. It’s as though he sees through a different lens than I do. The artist comes out to general applause, and inspects his tools before working. Once assured that the tools are all present, and the ice is ready for carving, he starts the show with a flourish. Shards of ice fly off of the block, snowing on those sitting nearby, causing a chorus of shrieks, but he is not disturbed. Round and around he dances around the ice, chipping and shaping, his movements fast and sure. “Can anyone guess what he is making?” the assistant cruise director asks. “Anyone?” Suggestions are shouted. Everything from the Eiffel Tower to a seal is suggested; but as the carving continues, the suggestions dwindle, and we begin to run out of ideas. The Eiffel Tower is out, since the top of the sculpture is rounded. The seal is unlikely. Some suggested that he was carving the cruise liner that we were on, but it was much too tall for that. The artist chips away, unconcerned by the attention. We watch and we grow a little impatient. We want to know, for certain, what he is creating. We want to offer advice, suggestion, to be in on the action – but this is his work alone. We can only wait and watch. A lot of life is like that. While some aspects of our world are under our direct control (I can choose what I wear, where I live, what I’ll eat), others are not. We cannot see the future, nor know how certain events will ultimately unfold. While we may contribute our voices, our enthusiasm, as we did for the ice sculptor, a lot of life is learning to wait, to watch, while the Master Artist does His work. After twenty minutes of work, the Ice Sculptor dances around the ice one more time. His keen eyes examine his handiwork, and with a swift, sure motion, he leans in to cut away one more chunk of ice. It sheers away and a graceful swan sits on the open deck, its head tucked modestly under its wing. With another flourish, the artist throws down his tools, and bows to the applause. He has revealed what the ice had hidden, and released the swan from its cold prison. His work is done. When I first meet Peggy the pup, she’s curled up on her owner’s shoulder. “She so sweet!” I gush. “She’s half asleep,” her owner replies sagaciously. We negotiate and I agree to go over during the day to let Peggy out and play with her while her owners are at work. I’ve never had my own dog, but I love them and Peggy is a cute with huge eyes and black and white coloring. I am firmly convinced that we are going to be best friends. After all, that’s what happens in all the Disney movies I’ve ever seen. So I go over and take her out of her pen and she licks me in gratitude. Good start, I think, and show her a sock. “Want to play tug of war?” Peggy cocks her head at me, her large dark eyes glistening. She’s only a few weeks old and her teeth are brand new. She’s dying to try them out on everything. She nips at my fingers, but I pull them out of the way in time. “No, Peggy. We don't bite Arney. We bite the sock.” She looks at the sock, she looks at my fingers, and then she looks at me. I wave the sock and she jumps for it. We play tug of war for a few moments, but it quickly turns into a battle of wits. She tugs on the sock, let’s go, grabs again, and repeats. As she’s lulling me into a sense of security, she jumps higher until she is within an inch of my finger. I’m not accustomed to puppy mind games. It’s not until she actually bites at my hand that I realize what she’s doing. “Hey!” I shout. “No biting!” As I chastise her, she runs in a circle and barks. When we play tug of war with a rawhide, she employs the same trick and grabs for my fingers again. I decide that a little cold shoulder is needed, so I stand and walk a few steps away. I am gratified when she comes running and starts sniffing at my sandals. I am less gratified when she starts biting my toes. “Peggy!” I wail and jump back. We spend an hour like this, Peggy chewing, me protesting, Peggy trying to bite me in reply. When I open my laptop, she tries to eat the keyboard. As I type, she chews on the wristwatch I’m wearing. I put her off and she goes for the belt loop on my shorts instead. When I put her on the floor, she starts chewing on her owner’s slipper. I pull it away and she starts chewing on my sandal again. When I try to pet her, she rolls around and tries to catch me with her powerful little jaws. Eventually, I have to go home, so I pick her up and swiftly put her in her pen. She tries to grab a finger, but her aim is so far off the mark that I laugh. “Hah! Thought you had me there, didn’t you?” I grab her dish and head upstairs to fill it with water. It’s been a long hour and I’m tired. I want to sit in a place where the occupants aren’t trying to eat me. As I go, thought, I hear a funny sound – a hiccupping, sad little puppy bark. When I come back with the water, Peggy is standing on her hind legs, looking at me mournfully. She rubs against my arm as I lower the dish into her pen. “You’re leaving?” she seems to say. I hasten to reassure her. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Peggy.” I’m a sucker for puppy eyes, so I stroke her and croon, “Poor little thing.” She looks up at me adoringly – and almost gets my thumb this time. It’s Monday night karate class and I’m struggling. We’re doing katas, a pre-arranged set of moves designed to foster good practice habits and demonstrate an understanding not only of the moves themselves, but also of their application. There are eight in Uechi Ryu, the Okinawan style I study, and I’ve been doing this particular kata for at least ten years now. But tonight, it’s a struggle. My kicks are weak, my blocks even more so. My technique feels sloppy and to make matters worse, I keep mixing this kata up with another. All katas share at least some of the same moves, so this is a common mistake, but knowing this doesn’t lessen my frustration. The instructor stands at the front of the room, watching everyone, calling out the occasional direction or correction. He waits until we are finished the exercise, then walks over to me. In an undertone, he says, “Having trouble tonight?” I nod, embarrassed, and wipe my forehead. “I don’t know what it is.” He nods. “Relax and get into a good sanchin stance. Everything in Uechi Ryu flows from a good stance.” Sanchin stance is the second thing you learn as a student at the Dojo, the first being the bow. Both set the tone for the practice to follow – the bow shows the mutual respect between the student and the teacher and the stance promotes good posture, from which proper movements can be made. As a new student, you re-learn how to step, turn, jump, slide, and move, keeping everything carefully balanced and centered. You practice this over and over until it becomes second nature, and even then, we frequently return to the stance, practicing the simple, yet sturdy movements. It is meditative and strong, a balance of harmony and progress. My instructor moves back to the front of the class and calls out the next kata. This time, as I practice, I pay attention to my feet. The next kata flows much better, and as I relax and move, I wonder what other aspects of my life would benefit from this advice. The foundation determines the strength of the building. Disciplined eating habits make a strong body. Good reading and study practices form a strong mind. A good grasp of grammar prepares a writer. A constant prayer life yields a solid Christian. A good stance makes for better karate practice. I finish the kata. This one felt good. The stance was right and the moves flowed smoothly. I feel much better. The instructor was right. Everything flows from a good stance. He’s the first person I see as I go into the bookstore: An author, hopeful and brave, sitting behind a table filled with copies of his first novel. He is alone. The store hums with library-like activity, but no one pays attention to him. This is New England, and we don’t take to kindly to salesmen, even the friendly non-intrusive kind. He smiles at me and I smile back as I rush by. I come here to hide from the rest of the planet, not to talk to more people. But as I wander up and down the aisles, I can’t help thinking: “I’d want someone to stop.” So I go back. “Hello!” I say when he looks up. “What’s your book about?” He’s happy to tell me. His book is a sci-fi novel, the first in a series, with a message about the cost of revenge. His eyes light up when he talks of alien intrigue and the social messages in his book, and he briefly outlines what the next book is about. Then we start to talk. I learn that he’s an anthropologist and a historian - a PhD, no less, who has traveled all over the world. He studied in Ireland for two years, the best of those being in Galway. He describes the night life, the cozy feeling of acceptance, the rain, and I can tell that he misses it. We talk about Ireland and the Irish, about traveling and living in New Hampshire, about sci-fi fans and Doctor Who (his favorite is Tom Baker, while my heart belongs to Christopher Eccleston), and debate whether true Englishmen actually have a stiff upper lip. We discuss writing techniques and styles, and how to get people to stop at your signing tables. We have quite a bit in common, as it turns out - which should come as no surprise, seeing as we both love sci-fi and writing. But it does surprise me. Then he picks up a camera. “Would you mind taking my picture?” he asks. I oblige, and when I hand the camera back, he winks at me. “When you do publish your book,” he says, “that’s a good trick to get people to stop by. Ask them to take a picture of you.” He gives me a card with his web address on it and I take a book from his table, then we shake hands and I go back to my shelf for more browsing. A little later, I walk by his table as he’s packing up. The bookstore is still busy, with people going through the shelves, nibbling at café eats, flipping through magazines. I think how much I learned in just a short space of time with him, and I think of all the times I quickly passed by someone because I didn’t want to be bothered. And I wonder what I’ve missed. I love to swim, but I’ve never been the type to just jump in the water. Even as a kid, when everyone else was racing to the end of the dock to see who could hit the water first, I was the one lagging behind, going down the ladder step-by-step, allowing my body to adjust to the temperature of the water. Once in, you couldn’t pull me out, but getting me in – it was a process. I handled life the same way. Never moving too fast, always studying the situation, weighing all the options, taking all the polls, waiting until I understood exactly what the temperature was before I committed. Even simple things like trips would take weeks of analyzing before I could come to a decision. Then things changed. This year, we lost the ladder for the pool. We have an above ground pool, with two methods of entry: the removable ladder and the jumping platform, which sees the most use. There aren’t any steps to the platform – you have to pull yourself up Tarzan-style. There I was in my bathing suit, dying for a swim and no ladder and a choice. Jump or go home. And I really, really wanted to swim. So I jumped. The water was an icy rush of adrenaline that left me gasping and laughing and feeling invigorated. I liked the feeling. I liked the abrupt shift of temperature and the shock of entry. It was just a jump into a pool (and a shallow one at that), but it was something of a revelation. Then jumping became a habit. I took a trip and left the map behind. I took a chance and changed my style. I said yes to invitations I formerly would have turned down. I tried my hand at a new art form. I quit my job to follow a dream. And along the way I learned that the only way to really live is to be willing to jump every once in a while. |
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