The Way to Love (Part 2)

Moving right along, I'm a mere five pages into the book, and already I'm back at the chapter that gave me the most trouble. It starts with a quote from the book of Luke (14:26): "If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple."

In my ongoing search to not just be "good" but also to be "content," I've attempted putting this into practice by itself, and it's only led me to be bitter toward my family and my friends when they don't play by my rules. "Hate them, treat them disdainfully, and you'll be free" was the philosophy. But when it comes to seeking happiness, that really doesn't work. On re-reading, the point was sort of along the lines of a superhero movie: Those people and things you hold most dear are also the most dangerous to your personal well-being. I look at the recent death of my roommate's grandfather. She and her mom spent the better part of four months living with the grandparents and their cantankerous adopted son. It challenged some relationships and ruined others because of the obligation to help those who refused to be helped. The obligation, the commitment, was for family. Now, the family principle is one that I struggle with, because in so many of the religious "guidelines" I read, the central path to God, the Dharma, or what have you, is independent of family and other earthly "ties." So this is troubling.

"Hate" is a strong word that's thrown around loosely, and it doesn't work for me. I don't hate my parents. I don't hate my life. Is this why I'm not perpetually happy? As I read on, the terminology fit my tastes a little more. De Mello suggests not that we renounce our family, our friends, our ambitions, or our possessions all at once - he points out that violently ending a tie binds it to you forever - but rather to realize that they are attachments, that they are not eternal, and that, should they go away or turn against us, we should be ready. Perhaps "ready" is too pessimistic a term, but in all actuality, nothing lasts forever. Eventually, the whole human race will go extinct, for Pete's sake. But that's beside the point.

The book suggests making a list of all one's worldly desires and, having done so, addressing each of them with the following phrase: Deep down in my heart I know that even after I have got you I will not get happiness. So let's do that.  What all do I want that's making me miserable?

• A spouse/partner
• A group of reliable friends
• Approval from:
• My parents
• My extended family
• My friends
• My acquaintances
• My employer/coworkers
• Complete fucking strangers
• My inner voice/God
• Success/Influence
• As a writer
• As an actor? Performer?
• Financial (money for travel)
• Travel (happy without?)
• The garden
• The collections

This could be interpreted rather pessimistically, but the text doesn't say that having these things will make me miserable. Rather, it is pointing out that getting any one of these things will not magically make me happy. Happiness is not a goal. Making it a goal puts it in the intangible future, like a carrot at the end of a stick. Phrases like "the good old days" or "things will get better" are distractions that, no matter how you phrase them, force you into an unhappy present. This doesn't mean you have to go around all day repeating "I am happy. I am happy. I am happy." Lying doesn't help. However, letting yourself be happy, appreciating what you have and what you gain while being open to further gain or loss, is the sort of serenity that permits happiness, whatever that may actually be.

For the majority of today, I was sitting in a beautiful place, watching bunnies and butterflies and listening to birds and distant laughter, yet part of me was horrifically worried that someone would be trying to contact me via the cell phone I had intentionally turned off and locked in the trunk. Suddenly, there was a whole explosion of unintended worries: Who could be calling? Why? What could I be getting done? Who will hold me accountable for what I'm not getting done? Are all the people here wondering why I've been sitting here so long? Do they approve? That's six thoughts desperate for approval in the span of a squirrel's hop. Thought trains like this, or rather, Big Brain Bangs (BBBs) are more frequent than I wish I had to admit. They go something like this:

The Appearance BBB

• Find defect (zit, flab, unwanted hair)
• Sign of age, wasting away
• Unattractive
• Will not attract mate
• Will live and die alone
• UNHAPPY

The Intelligence BBB

• Make a mistake (at work or in writing)
• I was careless
• I don't care - why not?
• I'm lazy and have no sense of responsibility/concentration
• I never accomplish anything of consequence
• I will live and die alone
• UNHAPPY

The Friendship BBB

• Friend cannot hang out
• Friend doesn't like me
• Friends never hang out: none like me
• People in general don't like me
• I'm an unlikable person
• I will live and die alone
• UNHAPPY

If we cut out all the extra fluff, we can pare this down to "To live and die alone is an unhappy existence." While I could point out that no one with an active imagination can truly live alone, that might defeat the purpose.  To point out that nearly everyone dies alone, or rather, not in the company of those they love, helps a little more.  What has bugged me lately is the work, which I've considered a distraction to keep me from thinking about my perceived lack of love.  The question I've never, up until this point, asked myself is, "Is this the sort of work I'm meant to do?"

As mentioned before, I'm clinging to an idea of what I should be, when the fact is, I may not be so well suited to that idea after all.  The inability to let go of that idea has brought my focus to unhappiness, but letting go brings with it the fear of "What comes next?"  There is so much fear surrounding this, which comes out of the belief that I need approval... of EVERYONE.  So maybe, this is my first thing to address.  What things are there to do, which others might not approve of, but which are good for my soul?  This can't be something that will earn me praise or a cheap thrill from another source, even myself (Yay, Kyle!), but the point is, as today demonstrated ten years ago, any day could be your last.  Why go out wishing for what you want when what you need has been there all along?  There are a lot of things I could stand, not to eliminate from my life, but to loosen the hold.  This will probably solidify better as I read on.

The Way to Love (Part 1)

I'm re-reading The Way to Love by Anthony de Mello on account of a realization the other day. I'm smart, something my peers, professors, and parents have all admitted, even myself. However, pure intelligence comes at a high cost, that of the soul. By soul, I mean that energy that not only gets a person out of bed in the morning but also instills joy and a sense of purpose. Read it as you will.

This thought train started rolling last week when my friend, who has asked me to write a short musical for him, asked a simple question: Would you like to work with a lyricist? Immediately, the thorns shot up, the mask was back, and I slunk back into the corner with my poisonous jaws at the ready, while inside my lair of instant defense, the worm that already lingered there began to gnaw at me again. With every nibble came the crippling doubts of why I had failed so spectacularly at this one task when I had promised to succeed. All of this took place in the span before I could even form a rational thought, and I sputtered a little, asked instead to work with a musician, and went home feeling miserable. Why? It wasn't that he had said anything with intent to offend or put me down; it was the fact that I had shat out inferior material and presented it as something to be proud of. It was a song, yes, but it was soulless.

To be a skilled craftsman, artist even, a person needs feeling and expression, a message, if you will. What I've noticed in my work as of late is that an idea will spring into my head, and I'll start writing it without thinking it through. I've never completed a full outline, and it shows when the piece falls apart at the end of Act 1, where I lose my patience. By then, I revert back to form: "Stick to the form, and you'll get through it. End your Act 1 at page 15, your midpoint at 60, and your end before 120. It does not matter what you lose in the process." Oftentimes, the idea may not have had an actual meaning behind it, but it seemed cool at the time and became a commitment, for which I held no love or interest, like my past attempts at dating. Without love, there was only commitment, and from that commitment came soulless things, things about which I still hang my head to this day, years after the fact. I commit because I crave success, but even more than I crave success, I crave approval.

The first chapter of the booklet addresses this directly. It asks the reader to compare the feeling of receiving praise with the feeling of taking in a gorgeous sunrise. One is fleeting and leaves a person wanting more, while another is simply satisfaction. Screenwriting, in which I have my degree, demands commitment for success in a business where soul is only as deep as a pocketbook. I have committed myself to writing because I gave up on veterinary medicine. I was afraid to have responsibility for an animal's life, and in the process of giving up that goal, I lost responsibility for my soul.

I entered writing as a relative newcomer. I did not have an all-consuming passion for movies and, honestly, I still don't. In fact, I don't have much passion for anything anymore. At age 23, having not yet produced something I am proud of or that has evoked any kind of meaningful response from anyone else, I have deemed myself a failure and resigned myself to the remainder of my life as a worker ant, occasionally churning out pages to satisfy the writer's group and hopefully one day get noticed and asked by rich men to write soullessly for money. I don't have my money or connections. I never made those real connections in college. I observed the other writers, either with jealousy or resentment, and never took the time to learn from them. Their perceived success on and off the page amounted to my failure, and that was it.

The fact of the matter is, the picture is enormous, and my eyes are glued to a scuff on the frame. It's like when I was in my single-digit years, rock climbing with my dad, and I suddenly let go of the rope and the rock to hang precariously by my dad's belay and examine a particularly fascinating species of lichen. I get called an asshole on occasion on the road for misjudgments of distance. My focus is on the minute. When I write a story, I will occasionally get stuck on a scientific question that will send me on a three-hour internet hunt, which, by the time I finish, I realize I didn't need to take anyway. I'm in a constant state of distraction from a goal I haven't even really made concrete yet.

In summation, my illusion is I need to have fulfilled two things already: to be a genius and to start a socially-condemned relationship and make it work 'til death do us part. It's quite simple, really. Just write something that's not only brilliant, but also that people will read/watch again and again and incorporate into their personal philosophies and cultures that have been shaped by countless other sources for thousands of years like J.K. Rowling. After all, according to Chris Ciccone, you only have to be a genius once. Next up, I have to find a man who genuinely loves and cherishes me tantamount to my own feelings and be at my beck and call yet understanding that I need lots of space. And it needs to happen three years ago!

After a while, you can only lie to yourself for so long. You can only crank out so many half-assed pages and force so many half-baked relationships before the pressure becomes absurd and the victim mentality takes hold. The recoil continues. The nightmares about insufficient sleep end with a clenched jaw, receding gums, and TMJ disorder, among others. And for what? Out of this whole flea-bitten circus, what good does it do anybody? I tell myself I have let go of fame-lust and love-lust, but it is always there, in waking and sleeping, always adding pressure, always reminding me that I'm not doing what I want to be doing, that I'm not where I should be. I should be successful, dammit! Why am I not?

My brother gave me this book for Christmas two years ago. I read it in two days, loved it, and then gradually perverted the message for the subsequent two years. I had to give up all hope of success, all hope of love, and turn instead to the invisible figure of God. After all, isn't that better than everything else? It was better to withdraw from people and shut myself up than to be a part of the clingy world. The thing was, the book never said anything like that. This first chapter, a heavy four pages long, points out that there are fleeting joys and substantial joys, but we are programmed to pursue the fleeting ones. I am at peace when I go for a drive and see the history of California. I tear my hair out writing pages that I don't even like, and I beat down on myself for not being good enough or accomplished enough to talk to someone I find attractive. There is this rancid bitterness that piles up from time to time, because, deep down, I know that what I am pursuing cannot, in and of itself, bring me contentment. I could write a renowned screenplay and then be pushed back into obscurity immediately after. I could start a great relationship and lose him to cancer shortly thereafter. The focus needs to be on something greater. If I'm going to write, it has to be for a reason other than fame. If I'm going to have a relationship, it has to be for something other than sex and sharing insecurities. There needs to be something bigger, and right now, I can't figure out what that bigger thing is. Maybe re-reading this book will help.