"The Zen masters say that you cannot see your reflection in running water, only in still water." p. 171
Richard from Texas says, "you go set your lily-white ass down in that meditation cave very day for the next three months and I promise you this - you're gonna' start seeing some stuff that's so damn beautiful it'll make you wanna throw rocks at the Taj Mahal."
Reading this book has inspired me to seek out meditation, better meditation, actually, than what I've been doing while sitting at my desk. And, all the while, not feeling like my manhood has been threatened. The title to this blog seems less and less apropos the more and more I read. I feel like I need more. I need to go further. While they say, all you have to do is try, that the simple attempt at meditation is enough, I want to reach further. My fiancee may joke, afraid that I will become a spiritual weirdo, but I feel compelled to at least try.
It's my spiritual life after all. It's my spiritual devotion. No harm was ever done by exploring. I've always loved to explore: the woods behind the cabin, the places off the beaten path in new cities. Hell, I'll even try new and exotic food! So, it's in my nature to explore. Sometimes, I have to do it quietly and slowly, because I'm not the leap out of an airplane kind of guy. I'm not a swim down the Amazon, climb a mountain, fight with natives, wrestle a bear, walk across the South Pole unaided and find the Holy Grail kind of guy.
But, I have to throw my hat in the ring of my life, instead of being an innocent bystander or a victim of circumstances. Magical things are happening to Liz, sudden upheavals and transformations. But, that's only because she showed up for her life. She participated in it. I can show up in my own way. I don't have to leap to India, via Italy. But, I could take a small hop over to the Lower East Side where there will be a festival of meditation for a week in March (funny, how I just happened to notice a flyer stapled to a construction barrier while on my walk home). I can call, research it if that will make me feel better. Although I've never been really good, since getting sober, at knowingly duping myself.
I'm at this place in my life, perhaps catalyzed by a book. Everything happens for a reason. There are no mistakes. I've already recounted in previous entries how seemingly coincidental circumstances brought me to this point. All I can do is with a sense of adventure see this thing through. And, perhaps if I promise not to change my name to some Hindu recreation of it, like one of my fiancee's relatives did, perhaps my fiancee will lighten up on the jokes. My fiancee's nickname for me is "Potty" (the English "potty") and we joked that my new Hindu name would be "Onomatopoeia". I guess you had to be there.
Earlier in life, I used to wish I was dumb, naive or simple. I used to liken that simpleness to a farmer. However, I'm beginning to think that a farmer may already have the profound insight into the nature of things that I've been searching for. Perhaps the farmer is not as ignorant as I had once imagined. Perhaps the thing that I have wanderlust over is the thing he finds every day as he goes about in his purpose in life. All the while I'm still searching for mine. He feeds people and I race around wildly in my head looking for answers. I should stop looking. They're never there. That's why I'm starving.
So, the meditation festival it is. Perhaps, I will find the trail head to the path that leads to the still water and the quiet heart. I haven't figured out how to find it myself. It's time to stop and ask for directions. Like the few major actions I've taken in my life (Playing Iago, coming to NYC, deciding to be an actor) I have no idea what I'm getting myself into. But, like those other decisions, it's probably best not to know. Otherwise, I'll turn back.
Thanks for the catalyst, Liz. Regardless of where this thing goes (this writing, expanding my spirituality and creativity thing), at least there's promise in my life. And, hope. Three to four months ago, I certainly wouldn't have considered pursuing a career in writing. However, as time passed and I not only considered it, but gave it some serious thought and now some serious action, I felt bad for acting. I had put all this time and effort into that relationship. I've had a serious love/hate affair with it.
However, I've learned that these two art forms could help each other. And, I've wanted to write since elementary school. I just let that desire get squashed. But, it never died. Here I am, 30 years later and the desire hasn't left me. Clearly, it's not too late. Maybe God wanted it to stay dormant in me until I got sober and gathered some experience and clarity . . . and gratitude. Otherwise, I'd have gone the way of the insane alcoholic writer, taking more from the world than giving to it. Instead, I get the opportunity to be a Renaissance Man (cue the lutes for my heroic theme music)!
My fiancee's dad said that virtuosic people have to practice what they do for 10,000 hours before they become virtuosic. So, I'm logging my hours. If I write four hours a day, seven days a week, I won't be a virtuoso until I'm 45. Well? What am I waiting for? Start writing! One hour at a time.
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