Influence

My life has been filled with strong women, and I've spent much of my life dealing with the implications of their respective emotional states.  The people pleaser in me has often made it difficult to view this experience objectively and act in healthy, mutually beneficial ways. I had experiences yesterday with two very powerful women in my life that clearly illustrated this lack of perspective. Although I kept my cool outwardly,  inwardly I was devastated.

I think it's time to gain a better way of seeing and dealing with these relationships.

Anyone Have an Aspirin?

There are times my head hurts from trying to contain all the perspectives that flood my consciousness. Perceptiveness and intuition are gifts that come with a price. Often, I envy those who can be single-minded in their view of life and course of action, who don't over-think every move they make.

There are many who dull their sensitivities with illicit drugs, sex, or forms of fantasy...or all three. While I understand it and sometimes indulge in avoidance myself, I think it's more courageous to learn to live with all the voices, becoming a better navigator with the practice. Now what can I do about the headaches?

Ranting in a Safe Place

Regardless of whether or not you have authority over me, if you want me to jump on board with your little plan, you're going to have to take the time to make me think it's my idea or that I've had some say in laying out the course. Clumsy and inept as I am at using my agency, I guard it fiercely and immediately dig in my heels when I perceive that it has been disregarded or disrespected. I've always been that way, I always will be that way, and I won't apologize for it or change it. Deal with it.

Cleaning My Mental House

It took a surprising amount of mental effort this morning to make myself do the dishes before I turned on my computer and logged onto Facebook. It gives credence to all those who say the internet in general and sites like Facebook in particular are changing our brains, addicting us with their dopamine triggers. That's one enslavement I'd like to cast off, but do I want to swear off of social media entirely? At this time, the answer is no, though it may change in the future.

For now, I’m thinking of imposing on myself a housework-for-Facebook rule. If it works, I’ll have a really clean house and at least the illusion of self-control. If not, I will have to take more drastic action.

In the Quiet Heart

In spite of how much I talk and how chatty I often am, there are many things I don't say. Plans and hopes for the future, feelings about myself and other people, reflections and realizations are usually what stick in my throat. Many times, these things are the most important things I could say, but I don't. I'm like those soap opera characters I get frustrated with who never can bring themselves to say the one thing that will fix the problem, solve the crime, or avert disaster. I can't seem to help myself, but I think I have a clue as to why.

When I was four years old, my maternal grandparents were flood-irrigating their lawn and I was splashing around in the shallow water. I splashed too close to the ditch and fell in. Although it wasn't deep by adult standards, I was totally immersed in water and, panicking, proceeded to drown. My grandfather's hand pulled me out. From that moment on, I had a fear of water.

Realizing they needed to do something to help me overcome my fear so I could survive in water, my parents put me in swimming lessons the next summer at the Blackfoot Municipal Swimming Pool. I was extremely apprehensive and grew to dread the experience with each new session. The brilliant team of teachers there that summer adhered to the philosophy that "sink or swim" was the best way to cure anyone of their hydrophobia. What do you do with a kid scared spitless of drowning? You throw him in the pool. When that doesn't work, what then? Well, you force him to climb the high dive and jump off, repeatedly. Of course, there is someone below the diving board to catch the kid if he's about to drown, but if at first you don't succeed, try, try again. I can still see the brown haired mullet man with the mustache and blue eyes treading water in the pool below the dive, waiting for me to gather my frazzled wits and plunge into his arms. He was pretty cute, by the way. You'd think I could have found some courage to impress him, right? Sadly, that's not really my nature and it didn't work.

Two weeks agonized by. Waking up in the morning was torture because I knew I had to go to the pool and endure the shame and terror all over again. The drive to that pool is etched with churning stomach acid in my mind, and to this day, the blue Blackfoot water tower reminds me of my humiliation. (If I remember correctly, I did develop stomach/digestion problems during that period. I can hear my parents talking about it.)

Finally, it was the second Friday, my last session. We were to be tested on all the skills covered, which for me meant just being able to jump in and tread water for a bit. Dad asked if I wanted him to be there. Filled with the determination to make my dad proud and determinedly believing that somehow a miracle would occur, I told him yes. We got in the car and drove to the pool, my anxiety pounding at me while I kept telling myself I could do it, convincing myself that force of will would make it work.

To make a long story short, I made myself jump three times. Each time, I failed to do anymore than rise to the top of the water. In shame, I had to cling instead to the sexy teacher's chest as he helped me back to the side of the pool. The disappointment and dashed hopes got heavier with each failure, diminishing my chances of success.

On the drive home, Dad's frustration got the better of him. "Why did you ask me to come?" he asked, his voice tinged with the bitter edge of disappointment. I think I tried to answer with something that made sense, trying to communicate why I thought this time I could do it. I don't remember the words I said, but I remember nothing I said made it better and I lapsed into silence, the shame eating its way into my five-year-old soul.

That and other early experiences gave me a compulsive aversion to failure.  Even when I have reason to think I can succeed, I don't like to tell people what I'm planning or hoping for fear that I'll fail and disappoint us both. This holds true in every relationship I have. Even now, there are important things I should be telling someone and I just can't do it. What if it doesn't really happen? What if I'm fooling myself? I've already let this person down before, so how can I raise their hopes only to dash them again? At this point, I don't know if their hopes would rise even if I told them. So I stay silent. As Simon & Garfunkel sang, "Silence like a cancer grows." The tumor is getting bigger.

Why don't you see me? Why can't you read what's in my heart? Why haven't you taken all the things you know about me and deduced what's really going on? I've shared more about myself with you than almost anyone else in my life. I'm right here in front of you. Why don't you see me? These are all fair questions to ask, right? (For those of you who can't hear the sarcasm of that last sentence, it's there.)

So, the point of this blog? Aside from the oblique comment on my nascent sexuality, it's partly a cry to be heard, partly a memoir fragment, and partly a warning to anyone who will listen that the sorrows the eye can't see often won't reveal themselves in words. They come to light in action or the lack thereof. Take time to read the behavior, then ask if what you're observing means what you think it does. Cancer kills. Don't let it win. (Don't worry. I see the three fingers pointing back at me under the finger I'm pointing at you.)

Shall I Tell You What I Think of You?

Last month, I participated in ISU's summer musical production of The King & I. It was directed by Diana Livingston Friedley, with musical direction by Geoff Friedley, sets by Jason Woodland, and costumes by Tiffany Ulrich Johnson. The show was well received by the public and I'm still being stopped on the street or in the market by people who recognize me and tell me they enjoyed the show.

Rather arrogantly, I expected that this would be just another gig, just another show, taken on at the behest of a friend. I was gravely mistaken. Before my memory completely fails me, I am going to set down some things I learned, things which relate directly or indirectly to this blog.

Most relevant to All One Peace, it was brought home to me in a very powerful way that in addition to teaching, the stage is where I am alive. It is where my soul lives, is energized, thrives. Performing in a show quickens my blood and my spirit in a way that nothing else does. It is an essential part of my being, and I hadn't fully realized until last month just how essential it is. Bridget Close, a dear friend and brilliant performer, once told me that I need to be on stage. At the time, I inwardly dismissed her words, thinking that although she was sincere, she said it because she needed people to be in a show she was doing. Now I know she was trying to get me to see that to truly be living, I need to be performing. Bridget, I get it now, and I'm sorry I ever doubted your motives.

During the run of the show, I also learned how to overcome the hang-up I had about being aware of people I know in the audience. I have Jessica Rahill, who totally inhabited the role of Anna and made it her own, to thank. What it boils down to is a question of ego. The first two performances went well enough, though on Saturday, I didn't feel as good because I was having trouble not performing for those I knew in the audience. The following Monday, I became aware of how intensely Jessica was trying to engage my eyes while we were on stage. It struck me like lightning that I had been performing at the audience instead of engaging in the scene with her. I was being a very selfish scene partner, acting like an egotistical amateur. I started focusing my energy on her, engaging with her eyes at every opportunity, drawing my inflection and movement more from the King's reaction to Anna than from any awareness of the audience or my perception of their reaction to me. It was a sobering lesson but a joyful one, for from that moment on, I was no longer worried about who was in the audience watching me. I didn't care what they thought of me. All that mattered was Anna and being in the moment with her or any of the other characters with whom I interacted. Of course, I gauged audience laughter and applause so they wouldn't miss any part of the story, but now it was about the story telling and not their reaction. Jessica, I'm sorry it took me so long to get over myself, but thank you so much for helping me do it. And thank you for the way you did it. (Shall I tell you what I think of you, indeed!) Your quiet, steady, determined example of how an actor should be taught me far more than any words of yours could have and is something I will learn from for the rest of my life.

Usually during a production, the rest of my life goes in the crapper. Because of the energy I'm putting into rehearsals, etc., I let other things in my life go, putting them on hold until the show is over regardless of the consequences. This is a big reason why I had stopped performing as much as possible. I've been trying to get my life together. As part of realizing how integral performing is to the health of my soul, I am also realizing that an important challenge in my life is to learn how to balance performing with everything else that needs to be done. I need to learn how to keep all the balls in the air while walking the tightrope or riding the unicycle. Understanding that allows me to open up other options, and perhaps swallow my pride and accept help in ways I've been unwilling to in the past.

In addition to the other public apologies and expressions of gratitude, I'd like to add thanks to Diana Livingston Friedley for her strong encouragement to audition for the show. She is all about providing opportunities for people to perform, working tirelessly to overcome obstacles and make things happen. Without her, there would no longer be an ISU summer musical, which provides opportunities for people of all ages in the community to perform without asking that those participants pay for the privilege. She is an amazing woman and I am humbled, grateful, and continually awestruck at the blessing it is to call her my friend and that she has chosen this community as the place to dwell.

I am also thankful for Geoff Friedley and all the valuable help and advice he gives so freely. His music direction was quite simply expert and perfectly fit our unique circumstances. His presence here is equally a blessing.

There are so many other people who deserve individual thanks, but instead of making this post much longer than I had intended, I will thank them privately and allow it suffice here to say that I am grateful for everyone involved with the show. What an astounding experience it was to work with so many talented people who gave so unstintingly of themselves. I shall be forever grateful.

Once I Was a Man

This post was originally drafted on May 1, 2014, but not published. It started as a reflection on the nature of gender and ended up being different than I intended:

Tyler Glenn, lead singer of the band Neon Trees, was recently featured in an interview in Rolling Stone. American culture loves a good high-profile-Mormon-comes-out-of-the-closet story. Any chance to catch a glimpse at the dark side of such an erstwhile squeaky-clean edifice is titillating, or at the very least affirms for the insecure that Mormons are no better than anyone else.

As with many of these stories, I recognized similarities: knowing I was different at an early age, feeling much more strongly attracted to males than females as a teen, going on a mission to straighten myself out. Mr. Glenn was more overtly rebellious than I was, at least in matters of dress and music. In any case, I was yet again prompted to ruminate on same-sex attraction, being Mormon, and in general the choices people make on the feelings they have that shape their lives. Frankly, at this point, I find the whole thing exhausting, but I still feel compelled to continue verbalizing my thoughts and experiences because this subject affects so many people. Each person that chooses to talk about these things contributes to the discussion and, hopefully, will help ease the way for someone else until this is understood by us all.

Sexuality is fluid. The more I live, the more convinced I am of that. I am also convinced that allowing its expression within the limits of consent and protection from disease is far healthier than suppressing it. It is such a powerful thing, though, entwined with visceral responses and the potential for lasting emotional harm, that expression and exploration must be tempered with wisdom and consideration for the feelings of others.

As a child, I rarely felt masculine. Although I chased girls, had crushes on them, etc., I was more like them than unlike them, an important element in the male/female dynamic of attraction. They usually didn't see me in any romantic light, either, except for those few who felt they could be the dominant partner. Males around my age also rejected me, and my longing to belong with them and be like them morphed into crushes on them.

Surprisingly, after an extremely painful break-up five years ago, I found an aggressive physicality, felt more masculine than I ever had, and finally felt I could feel man enough to be in a straight relationship. Due to several factors, not least of which was my developing sexual ethics and the beginning of my current same-sex relationship, I didn't explore it.

At this point, I feel the complete obedience I was counseled to observe would have left me blindly wandering...and still wondering, endangering any straight relationship I committed to. In daring to live the question, perhaps I am walking by faith in Christ more than I have been given, or have given myself credit, for.

Its Own Ease

I'm working on Barber's Hermit Songs, hoping to learn the entire set. As Maria von Trapp in The Sound of Music suggests, I've started at the very beginning with "St. Patrick's Purgatory", and it has provided me with food for thought.

"What shall I do with a heart that seeks only its own ease?" is a line that keeps going through my head. I strongly identify with it. Most people seek the easiest path, the shortest way, but that isn't supposed to be the Christian way. Why else were all those ascetics mortifying the flesh by wearing hair shirts and beating themselves with a cat-o-nine-tails? The recent slogans asking "What would Jesus do?" and encouraging people to "Do hard things" sprang out of the desire of modern Christians to surmount their comfortable lives and be purified in the struggle.

I can't help wondering if my current spiritual path feels good because it seems easy. I've been letting go of so many spiritual roadblocks put up years ago when I didn't feel worthy to connect with God. I've also gotten closer to accepting the idea that God has always known me, known who I'd be, and loves me as I am. It feels increasingly right to me, which is why I'm still having a hard time being OK with all of it. I've been trained and have trained myself to be suspicious when things feel good, usually because I have a rather lazy nature and a gift for finding comfort.

"But not a tear can I squeeze from my eye, nor moisten an eye after so much sin...and I with a heart not softer than a stone." I think I'm really going to enjoy performing this song. I'm no saint, but it seems Patrick and I have some things in common.

Urgency vs. Anxiety

Until recently, I wasn't aware that urgency and anxiety were two different things. Although they often occur simultaneously, they are not mutually inclusive. You can experience one without the other. Having just realized the difference, I am taking my first baby steps to live with urgency instead of anxiety.

In the past, urgent situations would present themselves and I would respond to the accompanying anxiety by retreating, refusing to act. I numbed myself with television and music. I distracted myself with household tasks and minutiae.

Unfortunately, these situations don't disappear because they are being ignored. They compound, sooner or later representing themselves in their newly more urgent form.

Deadlines are often involved in these situations, and I think much of the accompanying anxiety comes not in the situation itself but in the requirement to find and execute a resolution in the specified time. I'm not sure how to deal with that yet. Identifying the problem is the first step, but where do I go from here? How do I solve it?

So, here begins my effort to deal differently with the anxiety that accompanies difficult situations in my life. I don't have many answers yet, but I think I am headed in a better direction.

Ringing in My Ears

A lady came into the library yesterday morning with her mother and two small children. The older of the two children was about three years old and could speak quite clearly. I know this because she quite clearly registered her distress that there were earrings in my ears. Her tiny voice projected her anxiety around the otherwise-tranquil second floor, eliciting some embarrassed "shoosh"-ing from her mother and grandmother, as well as some sharply mixed feelings from me.

In that moment, I wanted to comfort the child and let her know the sky wasn't falling. At the same time, I felt a stab of shame and a brief flood of resentment that this small child had already and obviously been taught that boys who wear ear jewelry are to be feared. Finally, I was amused by the mother's chagrin that her daughter had not yet been taught discretion to hide her prejudice.

At one time, I was much like this child. I would often tell people in the supermarket that they shouldn't have beer or cola in their shopping carts because Heavenly Father said those things were bad for us. One evening in the Idaho Falls K-Mart, I loudly registered my surprise when a smoker took pity on my whining and purchased a small toy for me from a vending machine when my parents wouldn't. "He's a nice man...and he smokes!" was my exclamation. My mortified folks thanked the man and later taught me that not all smokers were bad. I tell this story to show that I understand this little girl.

"Careful the things you say. Children will listen. Careful the things you do. Children will see...and learn." These words from Stephen Sondheim's masterwork Into the Woods regularly ring in my ears.

Parents often attempt to protect their children by teaching them things to watch out for in people. These things  frequently have to do with how a person looks. Will there ever come a time when children will be taught to evaluate others based on how those others treat the people around them? 1 Samuel 16:7 says in part: "...for the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart." How else is that heart measured if not by how it motivates us to treat others?

I hope when that little girl grows up, she gets a tattoo and dyes a blue streak in her hair. Then she'll see, as I often do, who people really are. It will ring in her ears, too.

(This blog was concurrently published in From Where I Stand.)

Why I Stay

After initially posting this to my other blog, I decided the words also belong here. Rather than copy and paste the post, I'll just provide the link:

http://allonepiecesoapbox.blogspot.com/2014/02/why-i-stay.html

Verity 2

Happiness is a choice.

Verity 1

Fear is the enemy.