The Alchemy of Thought

If you're like me, and Jeebus help you if you are, you've wondered what exactly Rodin's "The Thinker" is pondering so diligently. Several options come to mind. Perhaps something along the lines of, "Goddamn my ass hurts from sitting on this tree stump for 106 years!", or, "Sakes alive, my hot muscly thighs could shatter a marble!". But I'd like to think he's ruminating over more philosophical matters, like the ones that have been churning through the muck of my own brain lately: "What is thought? Are thoughts, by their very nature, innately powerful things that shape our lives? Or are thoughts no more than mental pictures, only as potent as the roles we assign them? Or maybe God, in her infinite wisdom, foresaw the upward trajectory of movie ticket prices and decided to give each of us our own built-in megaplex? Or are thoughts not really esoteric images at all, but predestined and clearly mapped-out tangibles that were written long ago, before we ever slid from the womb and pooped in our Pampers?".

Yup, these are the kinds of thoughts that have been plaguing me as of late. Especially that poop-in-the-Pampers business. I mean, how were we ever able to do a #2 and then just happily SIT IN IT till someone bothered to change us? These are the big questions that Plato, Kant, and Ayn Rand totally missed.

As interesting as the topic of doody is for me, that's not what this post is about. I'm more interested in exploring the nature of this pesky Thought Business. It's really been tripping me up the last few weeks, and I need to get to the bottom of it.

But -- ACK! -- that's much easier said than done. Since the beginning of time people have been trying to get to the bottom of the Thought Business. It's an eternally baffling subject. The world's greatest religions, philosophers, scientists, and artists have contemplated it for centuries, and I daresay we're no closer to figuring it out now than we were when the Buddha took a seat under The Bodhi Tree.

In Buddhism, dealing mindfully with the Thought Business is the crux of the entire religion. The Buddha taught that if we skillfully, with great awareness and compassion, sit with our thoughts, note them, watch them, and then let them go, we will begin to experience freedom from suffering. This theory is one that appeals to me greatly, and is one that I try to explore in my everyday life. It is hugely, often frustratingly, challenging, but the small tastes of liberation you pick up here and there are enough to keep you going back for more. Contrary to what many think about Buddhism in general, and meditation in particular, the goal is not detachment. The goal is NON-attachment, which is quite different. Detachment implies a total cutting-off, a great ignoring of reality. Non-attachment can be defined as, quite simply, not clinging. With non-attachment, we see our thoughts, we take note of them, and we let them go with ease...because we are not attached, or clinging desperately, to them. We've allowed them. We've acknowledged them. We've said "buh-bye" to them.

Is this cold? Not at all. You see, what you're doing in meditation is forcing yourself to live in the moment, with just the thoughts in your head and the action of the world around you occurring this very instant. Using the skill of non-attachment, we relish the good times that much more because we are wonderfully awake for every moment. Similarly, we are able to be equally present for the bad times, as we know full well that they, too, shall pass.

From this perspective, one can make all sorts of positive changes. When you exist in and accept fully the reality of the moment, then the freedom to be a vessel for change is limitless. Here's a whacked-out example: In moment A, I experience a bit of hilarity and glee when Miss USA falls on her ass during the Miss Universe pageant; in moment B (an instant later), I feel badly for her because she's perky, and -- while watching perky people fall down is always fun -- she's probably suffering, even though that big plastic smile is rubber-cemented to her face; in moment C (another instant later), I think how much embarrassment it would save if Miss Universe passed a law stating that contestants cannot wear floor-length gowns for their own safety; this leads, in the next instant, to moment D, in which I decide to start a petition supporting just such an idea. Fast-forward to moment Z, and in next year's pageant, all the ladies are wearing sensible though classy pantsuits -- all except for Miss Vatican City, who refuses to wear pants for religious reasons. Instead, she wears a papal smock. You see the point I'm making with this. It's a silly example, I know, but hopefully my moral is not lost in the mirth of Miss USA's sore tuchus.

What I've learned from Buddhism is this: you are not your thoughts. Your thoughts are thoughts and you are you. How you respond to your thoughts, what you do with them -- this is what defines who you are.

Though my faith in Buddhism has not wavered, it's lately become impossible for me to put all of this into practice. For no other reason than both my brain and body are exhausted, and sitting quietly in any one place for more than a few minutes results in a deep, coma-like state. So this unfortunate fact has propelled me into further investigation down some much different roads in the Thought Business.

One road led me to an unexpected place, back to a book I read last year. Though I found the ideas in it no more helpful now than I did then, I was nonetheless reminded of them when examining the nature of thought. The book is called "The Secret". Most of you have probably heard of it. It's sold millions of copies and inspired everything from movies to more books to "exciting" new ways to start a business. The secret of "The Secret" is pretty simple and is the polar opposite of Buddhism. It teaches us to not just monitor our thoughts, but to control, manipulate, and shape them to create our own reality. OK, you're thinking, that doesn't sound too far-fetched. Ah, but let me continue. The entire lesson plan of "The Secret" was given to us by some chick whose name I forget -- and, quite frankly, I don't want to look it up because this chick-whose-name-I-can't-recall already has far too much money from these teachings and doesn't merit further publicity. Anyhow, she did not develop "The Secret" herself: they were channeled through her by some ancient sage named Abraham. Not the Abraham from the Bible, not Abraham Lincoln, and not Oscar-winning actor F. Murray Abraham. This Abraham was a prophet of some kind that lived centuries ago, and for whatever reason, he chose chick-whose-name-I-can't-recall to be the vessel for his teachings.

And these teachings, which the masses have flocked to and gobbled up, are so elementary that they border on the ridiculous. "The Secret" says that in order to get something we want, all we have to do is think about it. Meditate on it, imagine it, put it in a time-frame, and never stop clinging to that thought. And voilà! You will get whatever it is you want. In the same vein, you are instructed not to allow any bad thoughts in, not even the tiniest shred of doubt, because, according to "The Secret", these thoughts, intentions, and ideas have just as much power as the good ones. If you suppress your natural skeptical instinct and pretend it's not there, you will surely attain what you've always desired.

So I tried this last summer. I figured I had nothing to lose. I followed Abraham's directions and meditated on something I really wanted. I imagined $10,000 in my checking account by the first of the following month; I put so much power and energy into this thought that by the end of my daily meditations, I was salivating and giddy with anticipation. Well, I don't need to tell you that the $10K never showed up in my checking account. Despite my month-long meditation practice, despite my desperate desire to believe in "The Secret", and, for all intents and purposes, despite my better judgment (but, in keeping with the rules, I did not allow this last thought to enter my thinking). So if you see $10,000 laying around, please send it to me. It's mine. Abraham said I could have it.

Remembering this experience took me down another road in the Thought Business. I read last week that Randy Pausch, the computer science professor made famous for his speech (and subsequent book) "The Last Lecture", died from cancer. Dr. Pausch knew he was dying when he gave his final lecture, called "Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams", which is a big part of the reason so many millions have been inspired by it. He was a great speaker/speechwriter, and in "The Last Lecture", he avoids the morbid and sentimental, has a warm sense of humor, and just seems like an all-around good egg. I watched the entire speech on YouTube (see link above), and while I was touched, I was not necessarily inspired.

I don't really want to say a lot about this, out of respect for Dr. Pausch's legacy and the hoards of people he has inspired. Far be it for me to judge what someone else finds inspirational and utilizes to motivate major positive change. But I will say this. In his lecture, Dr. Pausch expounds on the idea that all of our childhood thoughts and dreams are attainable. Some may need tweaking or modifying, but all in all, they can be easily reached with diligence and hard work. This is a really comforting theory, if not overly simplistic. I mean, of course it's relatively easy for someone who had an idyllic childhood, a perfect family, a genius IQ, opportunities offered him at every step, early tenure in his professorial career, and loads of money and esteem. Of course it's easy for someone like that to achieve his childhood dreams.

Talk to the African-American single mother of four kids (who herself was raised by an African-American single mother), who works three jobs, none of which pay the bills, who lives in a studio apartment in the roughest section of town because it's the only place she can afford, but who makes too much money from those three minimum-wage jobs to qualify for food stamps or public assistance, who would love to go to college but when the hell is she going to find the time?, and who prays every day that her children make it home from school without being shot. Yeah, ask her how easy it is for her to attain her childhood dreams.

I'm not trying to sound bitchy here. I just have to acknowledge the fact that Dr. Pausch's words and experience, while nice and motivational and quotable, are not indicative of what life is like for many of us. Thoughts that drive us when we are young are not always feasible once we grow old. When I was a kid, my thoughts revolved around being Joan Collins, becoming an actor and winning an Oscar before the age of 30. Well, I'm now 31, and, while my Alexis Carrington phase is thankfully over, why do I still not have my acting career or my Oscar? Because I need to eat.

Yet another road in my thought investigation came in the form of "The Alchemist" by Paulo Coelho. After reading the life-changing "Veronika Decides to Die", I figured "The Alchemist" -- Coelho's seminal work -- should be next on my list. Though I enjoyed the book, it didn't come close to doing what "Veronika" did for me. This is due in large part to the fact that Veronika's story was an intimate and personal exploration of the hidden mores of society, while "The Alchemist" was a great big readable fable, grand in scope and large in ideas.

What "The Alchemist" teaches is that all of our thoughts, all of our dreams, all of our lives, have already been written. It is translated into the word Maktub, or "It is written". We are told that when we possess certain thoughts and ideas about who we are and what we want in life, the energy of the entire world is already constantly working with us to make those thoughts and ideas a reality. We may not realize it, but it's happening nonetheless. This implies there is some Grand Plan here, a blueprint for our lives that existed long before we did, and the only thing we have to do is tune into our thoughts and dreams. But this, too, is overly simplistic. It's kind and comforting, yes, but is it realistic? I mean, when I cross the street at a pedestrian intersection, with the "WALK" light illuminated, and still nearly get flattened by some douchebag in a suit driving his SUV while talking on a cell phone, I have a really hard time believing this world is working in collusion with me to make my fondest thoughts and dreams come true. I know I'm a pessimist, but I just can't give the world that much credit. This place in which we all live can be pretty ugly. And if what "The Alchemist" teaches is true, do I really even want what a world such as ours is going to spit up at me?

The most satisfying answer I have received on my quest for the true essence of the Thought Business came from an unlikely source. I recently read a collection of essays entitled, appropriately enough, "Magical Thinking", written by Augusten Burroughs. Now I adore Augusten Burroughs. I want to have his babies. Not his actual babies, of course; he has a longtime partner who seems to be a very, very nice guy. But I want to have Augusten's theoretical babies. You see, in the title essay from "Magical Thinking", Burroughs has given me the most understandable insight into the nature of thought.

Burroughs proclaims that in order to work with your thoughts and reach your goals, you don't sit and watch your thoughts, you don't manipulate them, you don't give them more credence and realism than they deserve, and you don't view them as unalterable. Instead, you control the WORLD with your thoughts. This is all tongue-in-cheek, of course, but there is undeniable sense to it. He writes,

"I believe in the baby Jesus. And I believe he is handsome and lives in the sky with his pet cow. I believe that it is essential the cow like you. And if you pet the cow with your mind, it will lick your hand and give you cash. But if you make the cow angry, it will turn away from you, forget you exist, and your life will fall into shambles. I believe that as long as the cow likes you, you can get what you want."

Later, Burroughs advises a friend who is down on his luck:

"Either you've made the baby Jesus mad or his pet cow hates you....You need to conjure images of a cow in a field of green, munching grass. Then you need to reach out and scratch between his ears."

In this hilarious vision, what Burroughs is saying is that the cow allows us favors if we're nice to him. And these favors consist of the cow letting us use our own thoughts to control the world. In another example, he tells of an absolute bitch-on-wheels of a boss he once had, whom he wished would get run over by a bus. A short time later, after he'd left that job, she died of an aneurism. "That's even better than a bus," Burroughs muses.

So maybe I'm going about this all wrong. Maybe the key to the Thought Business is actually less of a looking-inward and more of a peering-out. Maybe it's all about focusing on the world -- this dark, icky place -- and molding it to my thoughts. If Augusten Burroughs can kill some raging hag with only his thoughts, then surely I can get a book published that makes me millions of dollars....

There. I just put that out there. Now I will control this awful world to fit that thought.

And maybe Rodin's "The Thinker" isn't reflecting on the nature of thought at all. Maybe he's just wondering about the location of the nearest cow pasture.

They're Coming to Take Me Away!: A Review of "Veronika Decides to Die" by Paulo Coelho

As my friend Patricia says, "Don't get your knickers in a bunch."

This is not a review or recommendation like the great majority of others I've written on this blog: for once, I am not critiquing a "depressing" book (the type -- don't think I haven't noticed -- that has become my choice reading material for the last several months). In fact, the only thing truly depressing about Paulo Coelho's 1998 novel "Veronika Decides to Die" is the title itself. The story it encompasses is actually one of the most -- if not the most -- positive, inspiring, insightful, and life-affirming books I've ever read. So, please, before you're put off by the novel's rather bleak title, hear me out. This book just might change your life.

On a skeletal level, the tale revolves around Veronika, a 24-year-old Slovenian woman, who decides to commit suicide. She is not particularly sad, or clinically depressed, or crazy; on the other hand, she is also not particularly happy, or content, or fulfilled. She's just...well, she's just pretty meh about her life. Everything that comprises her existence has left her feeling empty and inauthentic: her job as a librarian, her popularity with men, her circle of friends and family. She views it all with such an intense disinterest that she can only regard her present life as the result of a series of disastrous choices she's made in the past, and her future life as a plodding, painful, monotonous marching-on of the routines she has established: a long, slow, and not-very-graceful waltz to the grave. When debating the option between spending the rest of her considerable number of days waking in the morning, sitting in a windowless cube for eight hours, going home, having dinner, watching TV, and going to bed -- before doing it all over again and again, ad infinitum -- and the prospect of ending her own life, Veronika chooses death. Making this decision is her way of taking back control, of being heard, and it thus gives her a terrific sense of empowerment -- much to her own surprise: it's been ages since she's felt anything at all.

And so our eponymous heroine one evening takes handfuls of sleeping pills and prepares herself for death, with an excitement bordering on giddiness. This is the end of the entire awful routine, and she herself has chosen it. She closes her eyes and waits for the blessed finish.

When she opens her eyes, she briefly thinks she's entered an afterlife of some sort (an afterlife, incidentally, that she never really believed in). Until she sees the horrible fluorescent light bulb over her head: there is NO way heaven would have fluorescent lighting. That's when she learns the acrid truth of her situation. She has not died, she has just emerged from a coma, and she is "safe" within the walls of Villete, Slovenia's privately-funded, less-than-ethical mental hospital. The doctor then tells her that although she failed at ending her own life in one fell swoop, she has irreparably damaged her heart from the overdose, and there's no chance of recovery. She will be dead within days.

And this is where Veronika's journey begins. So, too, does ours.

Now. I say this is the plot on a "skeletal level" because "Veronika Decides to Die" is so much more than a linear, entertaining story. It is a great, majestic book of ideas: ideas that, if we allow them into our hearts, can not only be a terrific reading experience, but a transformative life experience as well.

As Veronika goes about life in the institution, she inadvertently affects the lives of several of the patients and staff members. In turn, we learn their stories as well, and how this peculiar young woman on the threshold of death has inexplicably inspired them to reevaluate their own lives. It's not the typical warm, fuzzy, feel-good Hollywoodized standard of Dying Lady Touches the Lives of All She Encounters. Not by any means. What Veronika inspires is beyond sentimental, even beyond the reminder that we all have the power to change our own lives. What she inspires is revolution.

Hers is a path of ever-increasing awareness, both of her self and the world. This, of course, leads to some big questions. How is one supposed to be an individual in a world full of people who are all doing the exact same thing day in and day out? Where, and how, does the life and mind of a nontraditional thinker, like an artist, musician, writer, or any other creative, fit into this societal mold of required conformity? Why is it that on one hand we receive continuous messages that we are unique and must embrace our individuality, and on the other that the only path to contentment and fulfillment is a 9-5 job, marriage, and a house in the suburbs? What does it mean to be "crazy"? Is it primarily a state of total biochemical mind-fuck, or is it more the condition of a bunch of people who just want to think for and be true to themselves, regardless of society's expectations and demands? And on the flip side of the coin, what exactly does it mean to be "sane"? Does it insinuate some better, more realistic and healthier hold on life, or is it just a term created for the accepted actions of the status quo? Who in this life is truly crazy? The ones locked in mental institutions the world over? Or the cube-dwellers and clockwatchers, the tract-housing owners and parents of 2.5 children, the SUV drivers and flocks of sheep masquerading as people? This is just a sampling of the inquiries put forth on Veronika's journey, and the riddles, complexities, and philosophies inherent in questions like these are what make her story so unique and powerful.

It's relatively safe to say, I think, without the men in white coming to take me away, that I identified on many levels with Veronika. Yet I also identified with the myriad other characters, or, at the very least, saw in them people from my own life. Though this book is sometimes unsettling in its provocativeness, it is this aspect of identification that makes it so comforting. Just maybe we aren't alone in all of this great nutty chaos called life. Despite the individuality that society simultaneously scorns and supports, we still share a lot of common threads. Perhaps, I thought with hope while reading "Veronika Decides to Die", perhaps I'm not the only one asking questions.

And if we all start to ask questions, the revolution is not far off.

This is the first book I've read by Paulo Coelho. I've come to learn that Coelho's books fall into the categories of either "really loved" or "really hated". Critics seem to really hate them, citing them as no more than touchy-feely, New Age prose from a not-very-skilled novelist. Audiences, however, love them. His trademark work, "The Alchemist", has sold more than 65 million copies and has been translated into 56 languages; in all, his entire canon of work has sold more than 100 million copies in 150 countries in 66 languages. I have already ordered my copy of "The Alchemist" and look forward to reading it; I can't imagine, however, that it could come close to doing for me what "Veronika" has done.

It's interesting, and somewhat eerie, that certain books come into our lives precisely when we need to read them. I've had "Veronika Decides to Die" sitting on my shelf for about eight years. I bought it, thought it looked good, and promptly ignored it. But for some reason, last week I walked straight to the bookshelf and pulled out this book, as if driven by some unseen force. When I started to read it (and, unlike most critics, I found it extremely well-written: crisp, poetic, and deceptively simple), I could not stop. I wanted to eat it whole, devour it in one sitting, but something told me to savor it: that a story like this doesn't come along very often. So I heeded this voice (Was it instinct? Was it my cat? Was it God? Was it Meryl Streep?), and savored the novel in small portions, really taking the time to process and digest the ideas it put forth and finding how they fit into my own life.

This is a time when I really needed this book, and I can't explain how it found me after all these years. I've been through some intense personal obstacles lately (which I'm trying to find a way to blog about in a healthy, constructive way), and I needed to hear Veronika's tale. I needed to be reminded that it's OK -- I mean, really OK -- to say Fuck you and follow your heart. I needed to know that I don't have to sit in a cubicle and answer phones all day, or start a family, or happily agree with everyone I meet and suppress my own opinions and desires, to be a valid and vital member of society. I needed to be told that even though I have made some unconventional choices in my life -- some good, some bad -- and often opted for the alternate route, I am no less, and no more, a human being than anyone else.

And I needed to know that despite it all, I am not alone.

Communion (Or, Confessions of a Theater Queen)

"When you come into the theater, you have to be willing to say, 'We're all here to undergo a communion, to find out what the hell is going on in this world.' If you're not willing to say that, what you get is entertainment instead of art, and poor entertainment at that." -David Mamet


Damn Judi Dench!

This is all her fault.

Several days ago, I posted a YouTube clip of Dame Judi's phenomenal interpretation of "Send in the Clowns" from the musical "A Little Night Music". If you haven't watched this yet, do so now and I promise I won't hurt you. Watching this flawless performance will give you a better idea of the fever that has gripped me since posting the clip.

Most people know that I'm a bit of a theater queen. I own this title unabashedly, as live theater is a vital nutrient to my own happiness and sanity. I've always wanted to be an actor, for as long as I can remember. I went to acting school after high school, I "pounded the pavement" in L.A. for a few years thereafter, then I promptly abandoned those dreams for a more "sensible" life. Interpretation: I handed in my lifelong dreams of the stage in order to sell my oh-so-valuable "customer service skills" and how fast I type and how good I am at Excel. Old dreams do indeed die hard. And for me, they don't die at all.

They live somewhere just below the surface. Even now, writing is my passion, but I still regard myself as an actor who likes to write. I view my world through the lens of a performer, which, I think, is similar to that of a writer -- yet they are not the same animal. I am fortunate, I suppose, that I can digest the universe as both, but the actor in me often feels slightly more authentic than the writer. It's as if I could get up on a stage in the warm blinding arm of a spotlight and perform this blog entry for you in an infinitely more effective way than I can write it here. It's tricky. I love acting and I love writing. And the sad fact is, it's nearly impossible to make a living doing either.

After falling in love with Dench's "Clowns", I happened upon an old forgotten CD: the soundtrack to the musical version of "Sunset Blvd". I was lucky enough to see this show in its pre-Broadway days, with Glenn Close as Norma Desmond. It was one of those performances that defies words (once again, you can hear the actor in me trying to play the writer). Close was electrifying, in a way I've never seen before or since. How else can you explain the magnitude of a performer who gets a standing ovation before she even gets on stage? When you encounter a stage presence that majestic, it's an experience that sticks with you...and I, being so young at the time, was shaped by it. "Sunset Blvd" was a musical plagued with inner drama, lawsuits, and mixed reviews. But it will always be my favorite musical: for the memorable songs, the lush and sweeping orchestrations, the gothic, behemoth sets, the extraordinary performances...and for it's complete claim on my impressionable young heart.

So while I was sucked back into 1950 Hollywood and Norma Desmond's turbulent turban, it was not hard for me to remember the starry-eyed kid I was at the time I saw it. I was so full of youthful vigor, surprising balls, and theatrical dreams. At that time, I never thought it was a question of If. I thought it was a question of When.

Enter the Tony Awards. Sunday night, a gay man's dream: the best and brightest of Broadway getting a rare television spotlight. For the first time ever, I watched the entire show (I never used to sit through all the musical numbers). I was transfixed. I was that kid again, albeit older, with less hair, dark circles under the eyes, and massive credit card debt. I was startled that that kid even still existed. I thought he was bludgeoned to death years ago by one too many office jobs or serving gigs. At best, I thought he was probably forever trapped in a four-sided cubicle, with an inbox full of emails outlining how he has violated company policy by asking questions of the wrong people.

Imagine my surprise. He's still alive. And he was fed -- there's no other word for it -- by the magic of the theater.

Patti LuPone, arguably the greatest musical theater actress of our time, and one of my favorites, sang a song from "Gypsy", in the role she eventually won a Tony for later in the evening (her second, after winning for "Evita" 29 years ago). The song, "Everything's Coming Up Roses", and "Gypsy" itself, are of course classics of the genre. But I've always viewed them as a bit tired, over-produced, and consistently revived (the show was revived just a couple of years ago with Bernadette Peters) despite a decades-old expiration date. Well, I should've known better. LuPone does nothing half-assed, and it is impossible for her not to pour her heart into everything she does. She TORE UP "Everything's Coming Up Roses" and brought the house down. The audience thundered to it's feet: the only full-house standing ovation of the evening. She breathed new life, a complex emotional terrain, and a fevered desperation to her impeccable performance. My heart swelled as I watched: this is the power of the theater. This is the power of a great performer. This is LIFE. This...this is what it's all about.

Now, if you may permit me, I have a personal connection with Patti LuPone. I've always been a big fan. Hell, when I was a kid, I played the cassette of her "Patti LuPone Live" so many times the tape wore away to smithereens. I saw her on Broadway about ten years ago in the play "Master Class", where she played the great opera diva Maria Callas. Her performance as Callas was of course amazing -- but "Master Class" is a play. Not a musical. She did not sing. Flash forward to 2005, just before I moved to Boston. Patti came to Minneapolis for a concert, her one-woman show for her album "Matters of the Heart". My mom and I went, and somehow we managed to get front row center seats. Patti was just steps away from me. I was mesmerized, in absolute awe the entire time. Remember that LuPone is first and foremost a musical theater actress. She's used to singing her songs to someone else on the stage. Being this was a solo show, just Patti, her piano accompanist, and a string quartet, there were no other performers onstage with which to connect. And so, she chose me. It was obvious. I was sitting right there in front of her, and she sang nearly every song to me. Our gazes locked, our passions united, I was lucky enough to become a part of Patti's performance. During her final number, she gave me roses. What's also interesting to note is that during her bows, when she came out to receive the roaring standing ovation we had given her, she was weeping with gratitude. I don't mean a little tear. I mean she was sobbing with thanks and appreciation. It was the most honest, authentic response I've ever seen a performer give to an audience's reaction. She felt it. She felt us. She winked at me. If an audience is a mirror for the person onstage, Patti certainly felt our respect and adoration...and returned it back to us tenfold. Patti LuPone's generosity as an entertainer is like nothing I've ever witnessed.

This is precisely the reason I cannot so easily abandon my own dreams of the stage. When everything falls into place, and the stars are aligned just so, the relationship between an actor and his/her audience can transcend all parties involved to a place that can only be called magical. It's not about where you're sitting, or what the set looks like, or even if you like what's being performed. It's about a connection: a group of people, varied and diverse and never again to be assembled together, sharing the same air and space in order to experience life at its fullest. It doesn't happen every time. But oh, when it does happen....

On Tuesday, John and I went with our friend Elizabeth to see the great Broadway singer Brian Stokes Mitchell in concert at Boston Symphony Hall. Mitchell is a true Broadway leading man (The New York Times christened him "Broadway's Last Leading Man"). Not only does he ooze class and grace, but he's got this big beautiful bass voice that shakes you to your very soul. It's a voice I just want to curl up in and go to sleep. Though we were perched in the third balcony cheap seats, I could not have had a better experience had I been sitting up there beside him. With all these theater dreams sprung anew, I embraced every minute of his performance. And then, near the end of the show, something totally unexpected happened. Mitchell did a song that I've since learned (thanks, Google!) is an old Bruce Hornsby song from the 80s. It's called "Hooray for Tom", and it's performed from the viewpoint of a little boy. I didn't see this coming...but I started crying during this song like I haven't cried in ages. In fact, I was still crying yesterday. Unfortunately, Mitchell's version of "Hooray for Tom" is not available online, but you can hear Bruce Hornsby's original version by going here. This song struck really deep within me, and I feel like something has forever changed. What it might be I haven't entirely figured out yet. All I know is that I can't go back to how I was before. I need to reevaluate my own life and my own dreams. I need to give further thought and respect to all those plans I had when I was a kid.

And who knows? Maybe someday they'll say hooray for me.

Pink Morning

"The childhood shows the man, as morning shows the day." -John Milton


Today I came across a fascinating, heartbreaking article on the NPR website. It profiles two young boys dealing with gender identity issues and the brave, well-intentioned set of parents trying to make sense of it all. One of the boys is under the care of a psychologist, Dr. Ken Zucker, who views transgenderism as a disorder that needs simple "correcting". The other boy is treated by psychologist and gender expert Diane Ehrensaft, who looks at the issue as a non-issue: her client suffers from no disorder, thereby making any effort to change him a moot point. Her theory, which I wholeheartedly agree with, is to just let the kid be a kid. Give him freedom to experiment and explore and live and learn. Trying to brainwash and control his very feelings is dangerous and very, very wrong.

Sadly, this brainwash and control is something Dr. Zucker advocates. He advises his patient's parents to control everything, everything, the boy comes in contact with. His theory, so flawed and damaging I would call it abusive, is to surround the kid with only "boy things". The most heartbreaking part of the story for me was when the mother noted that her child has learned to lead "a double life....I'm still quite certain he is with the girls all the time at school, and so he knows to behave one way at school, and then when he comes home, there's a different set of expectations." The poor kid is also terrorized now by the color pink. Just glimpsing the color can set off his natural rage at having to stifle who he really is.

For all our attempts to define ourselves a "civilized people", it's cases like this that prove we're far from it. While Ehrensaft's patient has thrived, Zucker's has grown withdrawn and depressed. What the world is telling him, in a blatant, cold-hearted manner, is that it's not OK to be who you are. Conform, conform, conform. Bend yourself to the will, comfort levels, and expectations of those around you. You have a disorder. And it's all your fault.

Man, this child's parents should immediately start looking for second jobs and take a loan out against their house, because they're going to need the cashola for therapy bills. While the other kid grows up to be a happy, healthy, well-adjusted, self-assured human being (male, female, or whatever route he should choose to take), theirs will be so entrenched in keeping straight the personae of his double life that he won't have time to even THINK about happiness.

All this led me to examine my own childhood, and my own preferences in colors, toys, and clothes. It should come as no surprise that I was mesmerized by high heels, nail polish, and the glamorous divas of the ABC soaps. But I equally loved riding my Big Wheel, digging in the dirt, and having snowball fights. The pastimes I relished most, however, were truly genderless. The bulk of my childhood was spent playing with stuffed animals (yes, a lot of little boys do this), reading, writing stories, and coloring. Above all else, though, I loved acting. Falling into the most outlandish reaches of my imagination, I would play-act and pantomime all sorts of scenes and characters, and I loved every minute of it. I never liked pink or any Easter-y pastel colors; in fact, I never gave a lot of thought to any colors and was always hard-pressed to pick a favorite when asked. I never wanted to wear an evening gown and was just fine with my dungarees. If my parents handed me a baseball bat, I would've reacted with the same disinterest had they handed me a Barbie purse.

But I, of course, was not born with transgenderism. There was balance in the boy- and girl-stuff in which I was interested. My parents had the great good sense to let me explore and enjoy my childhood. Though I've no doubt they hoped for a butch little bruiser of a kid who was an ace baseball player and star of the football team, they didn't say much to divert me from the less gender-defined things to which I gravitated. Sure, they discouraged some of them at first (how many 7-year-olds know all the actors' names on "One Life to Live"?), but in the end, they just let it be. And that was a tremendous gift.

My only hope is that Dr. Zucker's patient receives this same gift. I hope his parents, after hearing their story on NPR, are inspired to objectively investigate what the so-called "treatment" is doing to their child. Would they rather have a depressed, suicidal kid than a vibrantly alive one -- just because he might happen to prefer diamonds to dirt-bikes? There is nothing wrong with their child. The only thing wrong or unnatural or immoral is a society that forces him -- or any of us -- to be something we are not.

The Audacity of Hope

Despite the title, this post is not a meditation on Barack Obama, or his campaign for the presidency. While I thank Mr. Obama for coining such a catchy title for his book, it is also an appropriate title for this entry. So, in the hopes that I have his blessing for my harmless "borrowing", I will now examine Hope (with a capital H), and all the audacity therein.

I do think of Hope as an audacious thing. To be hopeful in our society is a bold, brazen act: a revolutionary response to a desperate, depressed world. There are inherent risks in Hope, the biggest one being that one may set one's Hopes so high, that any chance of meeting them is unrealistic. This can be a crushing letdown.

So it was with great trepidation that I hold in trembling hands a small glint of Hope. I admit, I am leery of it, doubtful even. The reason for my skepticism can best be explained by a scene in the Bette Midler movie "For the Boys". In it, Midler plays Dixie Leonard, a woman whose son is killed in Vietnam. Dixie is also a world-renowned entertainer, having triumphantly toured the world for 40 years with her show biz partner Eddie Sparks (James Caan). In a pivotal scene near the end of the film, Dixie and Eddie, now old and withered (thanks to some truly bad makeup), are reunited after a lengthy separation. Dixie explains to Eddie that she had a dream the previous night that she talked to God, and she was told before meeting the Big Kahuna that she could ask him only one question. So she asked him why he had to take her son. His response? That he had taken her son because it was the price: the price she had to pay for all her success, her career, her wealth, the good times.

I know this rationale is spiritually flawed, but I can't help but kinda believe it. Despite my best efforts, I do hold to this theory that bad things happen as a price for all the good things. A sort of cosmic balancing act, a great price-tagged leveling of all the positive and all the negative in the world. When something really terrific happens for me, I always have, in the back of my mind, the idea that at any moment, the cash register is going to cha-ching and demand payment. And they don't take American Express.

My Buddhist training has told me that this is a gift, this notion of impermanence, and I should appreciate the good that much more when it's happening. It will pass, enjoy it now. And then when the shoe drops, I should respect that as well, and once again take solace in the fact that this also will pass.

Now, my spiritual self gets this. My intellectual self does not. I could land a million-dollar book deal, be elated and dance a jig of glee, and still somewhere in the furthest climes of my brain believe that now something really, really bad is inevitable. Like I lose the rest of my hair, or "Golden Girls" reruns are yanked from the airwaves. I begrudgingly confess that I subscribe to the Dixie Leonard Theory.

This is why Hope makes me nervous. If I Hope for something wonderful, and it comes to be, what will I soon lose? Is it better to not Hope at all, in the name of self-protection and -preservation? It can safely be said that I am Hope-challenged.

Enter Edith. Edith is a longtime friend from back home, someone I love deeply and respect greatly. If I was the type to have a guru, she would be it. She is my friend, my mentor, and my teacher. Edith was visiting Massachusetts and stayed with John and I this weekend, before flying home on Monday. We met up with her at a Buddhist retreat center in central Mass, where we were all part of a beautiful dedication ceremony for the center's new library. It was great hearing some of my favorite and esteemed teachers give talks. There were also Buddhist monks in attendance who blessed the new construction and did some gorgeous, soul-shaking chanting. But the highlight was being with Edith, who, despite my adherence to the Dixie Leonard Theory, always brings along Hope in bucketfuls.

Edith suffered from a nearly-identical, equally-frustrating illness as the one in whose grip I currently find myself. Chronic exhaustion, fatigue, anxiety, depression, cloudiness, lack of energy, focus, and concentration. After seeing doctors and healers the world over, she finally found her cure at a clinic in Illinois. This clinic treats "the undiagnosable" by treating biochemical imbalances with nutrient therapy. Rigorous tests of all varieties are performed, a definitive diagnosis given, and a treatment plan is drawn up. The treatment involves massive amounts of vitamins, nutrients, and supplements, which seek to balance the imbalance. In a matter of days, Edith felt markedly better. Now, six months out, she is a new person, full of energy and vitality.

And this has given me Hope. Especially after my visit to the doctor last week, where I was told that if my current combo of medications doesn't help, I will be put on Ritalin. Ritalin will keep me awake and energized, and while being awake and energized is highly appealing, I'm just not willing to go on Ritalin. Ritalin fucks people up. I don't even think the people who need Ritalin should be on it. It's dangerous, and I refuse to take it.

So this option of nutrient therapy couldn't have come at a better time. Edith is a walking example of its success, and I desperately want to try it. I am hopeful...but.

But.

Can I hold fast to the promise of a cure, of feeling better? Can I believe in that? Can I look forward to it? Am I capable? Can it be that the whole "wherever you go there you are" idea is a bunch of caca? Can it be that just maybe I really have long ago put my "issues" to rest and this is something chemical, unreachable by antidepressants and all the free association in the world? Am I able to cradle this Hope in my quivering palms without worrying about The Price? Can I even remember and recognize what Hope has done in the past, for me, my loved ones, my world? Can I embrace this bird without crushing it?

Can I?