Sunday, October 28, 2012

Steak in the heart...


"All you need is love. But a little chocolate
cake now and then doesn’t hurt."
-       Charles M. Schulz

It was Chicago...it had been a long and productive day…it was a small steak – probably less than 6 ounces once it was cooked – AND it was excellent!  Yes sir, there is little I like better than a good steak.  It turns out, however, a good steak doesn’t like me very much.

For most of my life I have been an unrestricted calorie-consuming machine.  Aside from a shellfish allergy acquired unexpectedly in the middle of my third decade, little has been off limits.  While I do like the stuff…like most people, some better than others…food has been pretty much fuel to me.

As I have aged, the amount of fuel has had to be reduced to keeping my schoolgirl figure…the kind of food fairly unrestricted, until that small “…probably less than 6…” ounce steak.  As I tucked in for the night, my tummy was slightly churning, and it kept on churning most of the night…I was sleepless in Chicago!

It didn’t happen all at once…
This needs to be backed up just a little.  In recent years we moved to Southern California.  It’s a nice place…a comfortable lifestyle…a warm climate.  Historically, I have been the active person in our two-member nuclear family…dragging myself out of bed to the gym, or jogging around the block(s).  It’s not that Molly wasn’t active, but she was…well, not so active. 

In the latter years of Missouri and when we moved to Detroit, things began to change.  She did some water aerobics, began a little yoga and from time to time strength training.  Looking for some activity we could do together, she introduced me to that ‘girly exercise’ yoga.  “Girly exercise…,” yep that’s what I thought.  Reminded of the lyric from A Chorus Line, “What I did for love…” I agreed to do this pansy activity.  Of course, I said none of this, but simply replied, “Sure, let’s do it.”

Yoga, as it turns out, is anything but an easy exercise activity.  Like anything else, one should start off slowly, and our instructor was mercifully gentle, but Yoga?  Well, I found out quickly one should not judge a book – or exercise – by its appearance.  Fortunately, one is greatly encouraged to concentrate on one’s breath, and not try to do too much.  That was not a problem in the early going, and while somewhat strenuous, increasing the capacity of my envelope has been gradual, and frankly pretty enjoyable!

It used to be me…
In Southern California, the tables have turned in our little family.  Molly has found religion, er…I mean the exercise virus.  She joined a ‘women’s only’ gym near our home and finds herself there most days.  In addition to yoga there is boot camp (an eclectic exercise style that does a little of everything – strength, endurance, flexibility and balance), Zumba and something called TRX – yeah, I don’t get it either.  In addition to this, most mornings we take a brisk hour-long 4-mile (6.4km) walk…she keeps me up to date about politics and sports during these regular events.

I have been a self-motivated loner from an exercise standpoint most of my life, and because I am a Medicare ‘Silver Sneaker’ I have found a nice health club where I can do a little personal yoga, strength training and swimming – I haven’t had the courage yet for their Zumba classes.  I keep waiting until I am in “…better shape…”

What about the fuel?
The other thing, however, has been a dietary change.  We have gone to a Mediterranean style gluten free diet.  Well, I should say, Molly has gone to a Mediterranean style gluten free diet.  In addition, we have migrated away from eating red meat…not really a conscious decision...it has just worked out that way.  The ‘…we…,’ of course, means when I am at home.  On the road, I am not so discriminate, or have not been so deliberate in what I eat. 

Traveling, ah yes, that was the point here wasn’t it.  It was Chicago with that really tasty 6-ounce steak and sleepless night!  Well, I thought this was simply an aberration…maybe the cut of meat…maybe the lateness of the hour…possibly the time change.  Fast-forward to Austin, Texas a couple of weeks ago.  It was the second small 6-ounce or so steak I had had since Chicago – didn’t give it a second thought, it was excellent, but once again it was a tough night – sleepless, this time, in Austin!

I am not the sharpest chisel in the toolbox, but those two remarkably similar nights helped me appreciate that I might not be able to continue to be an indiscriminate calorie consumer…that I might just need to be a little more careful about the petrol I put in the tank these days…that I might just be getting a little older and that, paraphrasing Professor Henry Higgins, “…I’ve grown accustomed to her, ah…fuel,” and that my body has accommodated to a leaner fare.  In fact, it seems to have become another sign as find myself entering the ‘…last quarter of the game…’  Richer food may just be coming ‘off the table,’ as it were.

Maybe things really are simpler…
My friend Marc Cicero says growing older is a natural part of life and that it should be embraced…that in movement through different stages of this journey, one should embrace the acquisition and demonstrated cultivation of their gifts and skills.…mixing them with wisdom and virtue. 

My other friend Marc Aurelius continues the thought by saying aging simplifies our lives…if we embrace it and try not to hang on to a youth slipping away like a lizard shedding its skin, it can be richly rewarding.

In fact, I do agree with the stoic philosophy of self-reliance and self-accountability.  I embrace the philosophic position that one should face the changing stages of life with the experience of the past informing the optimism of yet another day.  I accept the fact that when I look in the mirror, the strange looking fellow is really me and NOT my father.  I feel I am aging with a daily-enhanced excitement for what might lie around the next, yet unknown, corner.

I get all that philosophic stuff…I just want to say this…

Man, I’m going to miss that steak!!!


- ted 

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Lights, camera, action...


“God, I hope I get it.
I hope I get it…
…I really need this job.
Please God, I need this job.
I've got to get this job.”
- A Chorus Line, the musical

“I’m writing a script for a pilot at the moment…producing some small projects and doing freelance video work for ESPN.”  

I was impressed!  Jim was sitting on the bench to my right.  He had come from Portland to Los Angeles.  “Once you have done a couple of Lottery commercials, you’re typecast," he said,  "I needed to move on.” 

I was about to ask him a little more when the girl to his right said, “Hey check this out,” poking her iPhone in his face.  It had a photo of a pink colored food wagon, with people standing in line to buy their lunches.  “That’s nothing.” Jim said, pulling out his iPhone and showing her a picture of a pink bus.

That was the end of my conversation with Jim.  It was clear a twenty-something potential ‘bride to be’ trumped a mid-sixties fellow ‘glistening’ in the humidity in his best dark suit.

Acting!!
I was in Los Angles on a bit of a whim and found myself in a non-union casting call for a commercial that needed a “…very handsome young man and attractive young woman…” for a wedding scene selling an unknown product.  The spec sheet also called for a priest…hence the dark and warm suit.

I have a friend that does casting for commercials in Los Angeles.  She is brilliant at what she does in a cutthroat and high-energy business.  Having said that, she is one of the more gentle and thoughtful people I know…a deep, rich heart and soul – a paradox you might say.

She had sent an email suggesting I might be interested in trying out…uh…I mean auditioning for the part of a priest in a commercial.  This led me to a room with about 50 people hoping to get one of the three parts.  Forty or so were youngsters.  The boys dressed in white shirts, dark suits and a variety of ties and vests – the girls in an array of colored dresses and wedding gowns.  The other ten were fellows looking for the role of the priest…older guys eyeing one another…enough vestiges of testosterone to let the others know the competition was on!  A different kind of paradox.

Waiting, such sweet sorrow…
As they sat on the benches outside studio 6, they pretty much stayed to themselves.  Well, at least the girls didn’t talk to one another nor did the men.  Jim and ‘iPhone Sally’ had struck up a pleasant conversation…clearly another agenda in the air.

On my left was Casey.  He too was writing a pilot script and doing a little producing.  He said most of these casting calls asked for ‘hip’ characters.  “Geeze,” he said, “we’re all hip!  I mean, who isn’t ‘hip’ in Los Angeles?” He was from Princeton, New Jersey…had attended Vassar College and tried unsuccessfully to ‘make it’ in New York; so came to Lost Angeles.  It seemed to me this was a “…frying pan to fire…” situation, but I said nothing.

His goal?  Get any work possible.  How many of these ‘open calls’ did he do?  “As many as possible,” he said.  When he realized I was completely naive, he smiled and commented, “Everyone in this room is writing a pilot and doing some producing.  Maybe they are – maybe they aren’t, but if they were successful at it,” he continued, “they wouldn’t be here.” 

I asked what I thought was the obvious question. “What do you do to eat?”  Apparently, people don’t talk about this much because it takes the focus away from writing and producing. 

“I wait tables and work as production assistant for a small company,” he quietly said.  When I asked him what a production assistant did, he listed a number of things…translated – a gofer.  I knew the drill because I spent a lot of my early years as a ‘gofer’ too…different setting, but a gofer is a gofer is a gofer…

I am a consumer of the arts and entertainment, not a talent driven to find a way for my voice to emerge from the forest of other creatures to find that brief shining moment – so I was taken by the drive these folks had to be here…I mean, it is only a brief moment isn’t it?

You’re up…
The actual audition was very short.  A group of ‘bride and groom’ couples along with a ‘priest’ were brought into a small studio.  The director sat behind a couple of computer screens and had a high-end video camera.  He had us stand in a line…all the boys…all the girls (three each) and me.  I was reminded of morning formation in the military – without the girls!

“Okay folks, let’s keep the chatter down.  We have a lot of talent to get through today,” he said in a pleasantly routine voice.  “I’m going to take a picture of you, and then ask you your name.”  With that, he pointed the camera at me and snapped a shot.  Since I was the first, and because it was my first experience, I didn’t know just saying my name wasn’t enough.  “Hi,” she said with a brilliant smile, “I’m Sally C.”  “Hey there, Jim H.” he said with a wave and a wink at the camera.  Yeah, it seemed there was more to this “…brief shining moment…” thing than I knew.

When my group was finished there were no “…good-byes…” or “…see you later…” Everyone dispersed like droplets of water from a wave crashing to shore…each slipping back into the ocean of sameness as they prepared for the next audition. 
The few moments in front of the camera complete, I headed to the car for the three-hour drive back to San Diego.  My temporary comrades?  They headed for the next audition, or back to their scripts, or back to the restaurant for the other ‘…acting job…’ that paid the rent.  Next step?  For a small few, a ‘call back’ to whittle a smaller group down to the final three.

Curious creatures we are…
As consumers, we have a world of entertainment available at our fingertips…music, film, theater, animation all coming to us through a vast array of media – television, radio, theaters, computer, MP3 players, and the list goes on.  We look for the next new thing to catch and transport our minds away for a few minutes or a few hours.  Once we have heard/seen enough of a particular talent…we move on.

Looking around the casting room, even my totally unpracticed eye knew some of these young people did not have the ‘look’ of a fresh young bride or handsome groom…certainly one would question my appearance as a priest.  Yet, these youngsters would return again and again and again and yet again, for the opportunity to be seen…to have counted…to be appreciated…to have meant something – even if it were only for the briefest of moments in the sun and even if it were only in their minds. 

I can honestly say, I will never look at a television commercial the same way…the fellow driving the new car; the housewife cleaning her kitchen floor, the children playing on their swings…I will always see a casting room filled with dozens of people hoping to get their shot…the possibility they will be the “…droplet from the crashing wave…” that breaks through to find themselves in my living room.

Epilogue…
Isn’t this a metaphor for our lives?  Don’t we seek ways for ‘our voices’ to emerge…to be seen…to have counted…to be appreciated…to have meant something?  Life is short, and in the context of the universe and time, even shorter than those brief moments in front of the camera. 

“Okay folks, let’s keep the chatter down.  We have a lot of talent to get through today,” He said.  “I’m going to take a picture of you, and then ask you your name.”

...the audition complete, we’re done – then again maybe not…

- ted

Sunday, October 14, 2012

Two stories make one...


 “So long as the memory of certain beloved friends
lives in  my heart, I shall say that life is good.”
- Helen Keller


It was usually at the end of the day.  Dinner over…homework done…the small routines complete…bed and a good night’s sleep on everyone’s mind. 

On those special nights, the sounds began to gently fill the house.   It started with some sort of chord progression…poking around…looking for the right key – then it would begin.

He couldn’t read a note of music, but he had a gift.  He could reach somewhere deep inside…the place where few ever see the landscape of the soul.  Hunting, pecking the notes, looking for the ‘sweet spot,’  and then…and then, something magical would come. 

Longing…tender…thoughtful…familiar – words fail, for who can describe the beauty that comes from the richly developed hand of the artist when he or she simply gets out of the way and lets the another spirit take control.

Ministry – a guarded profession…
My father was a passionate man.  In his chosen profession it needed to be a controlled passion. Sunday mornings, from the pulpit there was little doubt the things he said were more than just words. 

The struggle of preparation…attention to detail…the uncertainty one feels week after week when they take central stage for those needing to be fed.  The torrents of his spirit would come spilling out like the break in an under built dam desperately trying, yet failing, to contain the water pressure behind it.  There were few who heard him preach who would not remember those soaring moments of freedom, so much more feeding for him than the congregants in those Sunday morning pews.  The people would melt from before his eyes as he was transformed and transported to a different place known only to him and his God.  This, in fact, is what he lived for.

Passionate people, if they find themselves in public professions, often need to be a bit careful.  They wear their feelings and emotions close to the surface.  While all of us admire them, they sometimes can be overwhelming.  For my father, the ministry had been the vehicle to ‘break’ the wild bucking horse that had lacked focus and direction.  My mother, of course, was the other force in his life.  Out his love for her and for Christ – neither of whom could he survive without – he had learned to channel his energy and talents. 

While to many he seemed to be a tower of strength, he was really no different than they.  His congregations would have been surprised to see him grunting and stamping his feet while watching the televised Friday night fights…his vicarious blood lust satisfied by two men beating one another mercilessly.  He seemed to know how to find outlets for the complex and churning waters of his soul.

But then there was the music…the music. During his earlier years, he had been on the radio playing a number of instruments and singing.  It was the piano, however, that was his seductress.  It was the piano that would bring him back again and again.  Somewhat of a showman – I suppose one cannot be a minister without that trait – he enjoyed playing for small church meetings and other gatherings. 

There was his time…
The late evenings, however, were something entirely different.  Here he was not playing for others.  He played for his God…he played for his Christ…he played for the life of his very soul.  Public playing for him was a monologue.  Not so here…his touch to the keyboard was a conversation, a duet with the unseen hand of his Creator. 

As I lay in bed reading waiting to be taken by the gods of sleep, the siren sounds of my father’s hand came reaching deeply into parts of me…freeing parts of me…holding court in parts of me.  Sometimes I would get up and quietly slip behind the door of the piano room just to listen – for this dance was personal, intimate…not to be disturbed.  The sounds, the rhythms, the freedom of shifting keys seemingly with no resolution in sight…only to hear the reflections of what he felt find an unpredicted chord resolution and a soft landing that could have been accomplished by no other hand.  When he finished playing, he would sit for sometime in quiet thought and gratitude for having danced with his Maker.

I had not thought of my father’s playing for many years. 

The turning page…
I have a relatively new friend in Brenham, Texas.  We ‘accidently’ found ourselves sitting on a flight from Houston, Texas to Orlando a little over a year ago.  It was one of those chance meetings that led to a little more…then a little more.  We found ourselves in Dallas earlier this year and spent a little more time.  We had been looking for an opportunity to visit again, and as fate would have it a circumstance arrived.  I was in Austin, Texas last week for a conference just a few miles from his home.  After a long week on the road, and after the meeting, Molly and I headed a few miles east to Brenham.  I was looking forward to seeing Bob, but I was tired.

We arrived in the morning, and as that wonderful Texas hospitality dictates, we were welcomed as members of the family.  After putting our bags away, we settled in for a chat and a great cup of coffee.  As we were about to leave for a sightseeing drive around Brenham, Molly slipped out of the room.  I had seen the piano when we entered the room, and asked who played.  He said he did and wondered if I would like to hear something.  “Yes, I would be delighted.”  Bob reads music and said, “I kind of like this arrangement, and thought I would share it with you.” 

With that, his practiced hand began to play “The Old Rugged Cross.”  The arrangement was not straightforward…the ebb and flow of the music not predictably clear, but when the piece resolved, it came to a soft landing only the arranger could have seen in his mind.  Bob, of course, could not have known the untold number of times I had heard my father play that piece…in those quiet and intimate moments when he thought he was alone in the music room of our home.

That moment, in the home of my new friend Bob, as his gentle fingers played a unique arrangement of an old gospel piece, I closed my eyes and was transported into the presence of my father…to the presence of our common Father and the spirit he found so deeply in his soul – and mine.

It’s nice to be reminded…
For those who do not appreciate the existence of a creative, living, moving and engaging intelligent spirit of the universe, I feel a bit of sadness.  This gentle soul in Brenham, Texas knew nothing of my life or background, but simply felt to share a bit of himself with a newly found friend.  He could have no idea the depth of my spirit this arrangement of an old Gospel Hymn could have touched.  He could have had no idea I had been transported to a time forty years earlier as my father’s gift and our Father’s spirit lifted us both.  He could have had no idea…

Life counts...
The Biblical scripture, dare I say, all spiritual writings teach us that in our weakness we find stability and strength.  They teach us that we only truly can know when we let go.  They teach us that in the quietness of listening we find the majesty of the universal sound and resonance in the spiritual fabric of our collective humanity.

The Old Rugged Cross??  Meaningful to my life??  Of this Bob knew nothing…nor did he need to.  He listened to ‘his heart’ and reached deeply into mine…

“Be still and know that I am God…”


- ted