Scape Goat

The power of story to get out who we are. To release. Letting out. Allowing energy to flow. Out there. Into the world. Being vulnerable. Out of our control. Public. Not holding on to this character we play. Allowing the character to play on stage. Pulling back the curtains. Stepping out of the green room. And the fear that rushes in. What will people think of me? Of this character standing there. Naked. Will they judge? Evaluate. Make comments. Throw things. And what do we do with those tomatoes? Catch them. Gently. Like a juggler bringing in a new object. Mixing it into his routine. We can cushion those flying vegetables and weave them in with the kitchen knives and bowling pins. And listen. Listen to the thrower, as it is not me they are judging. Listen to their own story, their own complaints, and really get it. Really hear them. So their story is heard in the world. Out there. And they are invited up onto the stage. To be naked. Standing there. Juggling their own collection of apples and flaming sticks. Open to what happens when we put ourselves out there. And holding that space. Standing grounded. Firm. And allowing people to be drawn in. To connect. To feel their own weakness. To remember the time they were cut from a team, lost their first love, left the job that was everything to them. And then, there is an opening. A space to connect. To feel. To be in each others' shoes. To not be alone.

CFRU 93.3 Pioneer Radio Mark Conrad
Interview with Mike Craig Monday Feb. 4th, 2013

Partner

What is the job of our partner? Our wife, husband, girlfriend, boyfriend. Partner. What is their role? To love? Support. Explore. Nurture. And to Challenge. To keep us accountable. Not to some moral standard. Not to blame. But to keep us accountable to our own goals. Our own life path. To poke and prod that part of ourselves that sabotages, and blocks. Partner. We are part of a team. On the same team. In the same boat. And that means we support each other in all the ways we can. Part of supporting is to nudge us in a particular direction. To call us on our stuff. To re-spark. Help us re-light our own fire. Partner. Together. Moving in a shared direction. Alligned. And in that sparking, we keep our own fire lit.

Mast & Flag

What is it about a job that gives us that feeling of security? Money. Survival. Self-worth. Sense of self tied to approval. I am dependent on looking good. On being ok. Stamp of approval. Because I have been hired. By someone else. This is the distinction. I can create my own work. My own projects that make income. But when it's all dependent on looking good, what other people think, getting approval, then it waivers, like a flag in the wind. Why do we do the work? Why do we write? For comments? For likes. For someone to say, "You're awesome." I approve of you. You have made it. You are competent. But what if it isn't liked. What if someone disapproves. Dislikes. Is it not the same thing? And if all our work is dependent on what other people think, we are forever at the whims of circumstance, of people's opinions. Waiting for yes or no. What if we created our work, art, writing, presentations, interactions, projects, as an expression of us, as a vehicle for our own brilliance to flow out? And then acknowledged both the compliments and criticisms as the effect of that art. As expressions in their own right, of other artists, everyone standing in who they are, grounded, rooted, being the mast, not the flag.

Failure to Thrive

Failure to Thrive. Stamped on River's medical form. Failure to Grow really. Stuck. On Pause. Active. Happy. Thriving really. In every other way. Except up and out. The same height and size as one year ago. Stopped in time. We take biology for granted. Our hair grows. Our food is digested. Our liver filters. And when something doesn't do it's function, it's role, what do we do? How do we respond? Out of our control. Beyond what we know. We get up in the morning, and our heart is still beating. Our lungs still exchanging air. Really, we should thank our organs every morning for keeping it going, doing their thing. Thank you heart for pumping my blood around, feeding my cells, allowing this body to carry this mind around, allowing me to be. To exist. And yet, what if biology fails, if the pituitary doesn't produce growth hormone. Not pulling its weight. Pituitary slacker. One little part, not doing it's thing, and the rest doesn't grow. All the other parts can't change, can't become what they are. The block to everything else changing, growing, thriving, the block to being. And I think of that part of ourselves that blocks. Our own Failure to Thrive. At this age. At this stage of life. The part that slacks, keeps us stuck. On pause. Not growing into who we can become. Following our dreams. Our passions. What we truly love. And what is the answer? The solution? The prescription that will fix it, cure it, solve it. Tidy it up. Neatly. And what if there isn't one? What if Not Knowing is an opportunity. An opening to meet new people, be vulnerable, ask for help, a gift really. A chance to learn, to overcome, to create a miracle.

Reach Throw

Reach.
Throw.
Row.
Go.
Tow.

The order of rescue from childhood swimming lessons. Reach. Are we the ones in the water? Or on shore? Are we the victim or rescuer? Or are we both? And can we choose? Can we step out of victim, and be grounded in who we are? Throw. Be the one who supports, who offers help, who tosses ropes to connect, to nurture relationships, to build community. Row. Without diving in. Without putting ourselves in danger of the thrashing drowning victim. Go. And when the victim is us, keeping out of our own thrashing, so we aren't pulled down. Used as a ladder for part of ourselves to stay above water, that part that keeps us under, not breathing, stuck, stopped, tangled in flailing arms, and panic. Tow. Can we stay anchored in our own boat, in our own power to make change, to create, to generate how we want to live. How we want to be alive. 

Life Line

There is that moment before a deadline when time seems to open up, the river starts flowing, creativity explodes under the gun. It has to be done, so it just happens. We create, we make it happen. But why not before that moment? What is it about that moment that lights our fire? Where we suddenly become efficient. And productive. That nothing can stop us. We are a force. A powerful creative force.

It is the deadline that forces this. And if there isn't a newspaper that needs to be printed, we can make up this moment. This arbitrary time in which all things will fall apart if the project is not completed. But the deadline only works if we place it in the world outside our own heads. If we commit to someone else. Making a promise to do something by a certain time on a particular day, and telling someone.

Otherwise, our little wiley monkey mind as a way of widdling its way out of it. Coming up with excuses. Reasons. Ways around it. Justifying why it can't be done. But if we have that other person, that group of people outside our own head, we have a tether to accountability. A rope to the world outside ourselves. A kind of life buoy. 

Brine soaked

What is it about the last minute that allows things to get done? Waiting. Waiting. For some kind of divine intervention. As if God will save us. Or someone else will prod us. Make us do it. Anyone but us. What stops us? Fear. Fear of not being good enough. Not making something that people will like. Not looking good. What if it's bad? What if it sucks? If I fail? And what will people think? Of me? There goes the guy that sucks. That fails. "I could do better than that," people will say. And so we don't put anything out. We don't produce. As nothing put out there means we don't fail. And we still look good. We preserve our reputation. Our place in the world of people's minds. As what though? Preserved. Like pickled eggs. How nice. We keep ourselves locked into stasis. Stuck in a jar. And people are able to look at us, how beautiful we are, glistening in the brine. Until we die. How convenient that we are already preserved. 

Olives & Ogres

Rowan: You and Khona have eyes the colour of olives.

Me: Ok. Green olives, I guess.

Rowan: And ogres like to eat olives.

Me: Ok.

Rowan: That's all.

Tattoo

You know those things you've always wanted to do, but never quite get to them. Those dreams that we talk about, ruminate over, explore like a kid in an apple orchard, jumping up, up, but not quite reaching the fruit. I had this idea of making a movie about tattoo stories. The stories behind the tattoo. Why it's there. Why did that person put that thing on themselves? Where did the idea come from. What's the meaning. The source. Tattoo like a window into someone's life, their stories, where they came from, who they were in that moment, who they are, who they've become. 

So I found myself in one of these conversations about tattoos after a yoga class. What's your story? And she told me, and it was so beautiful, and moving, and incredible. "I've always wanted to make a movie about tattoo stories." "Well, I'm in," she says. "Oh.... Ok. Well, let's do it. Let's book the interview, and I'll figure out what I'm doing in the meantime." So we booked a time in the yoga studio two Fridays from that day. And I really had no idea how I was going to pull off an interview. What camera I was going to use. Sound? 

The Wednesday before the interview, a volunteer arrived at our doorstep from Helpex named Ignacio. He was from Spain, wanted to help out and learn English, and he was a film-maker! "That's good," I said, "because we have an interview in two days!" He had an HD camera, and a microphone. Serendipity indeed. So over the last month, we navigated our way through the two languages and cultures, and spoke with five amazing people, who shared their stories, their hopes, fears, and dreams. And here it is ... Tattoo.

Growing Gift

To donate. What is it to donate? To give something. Up. To give away. Let go. A gift. For someone to receive. Really receive. Take in. An exchange. What if the gift has been asked for? How does that change the giving. The receiving. Several months ago, I donated a part of myself, and she is pregnant. Third time lucky. Past the first trimester now. She is pregnant. Not us. Not we. I am a donor. Giving up. Giving away. Something of me. And now it grows. Not part of me. Not part of us. There is no us. Us is here. Wife. Family. Home. To give something that grows. Changes. Lives. Breathes. Thinks. Feels. We aren't used to giving away something living, someone that evolves. SomeOne. A person. Giving away a person. Half a person. And what could be more beautiful. And complicated. Simple. And confusing. Joyous. And conflicting. And what am I then? In that unknown future? A donor. A gift-giver. Connected and Not. Not attached. There at times. Aware. A presence. Supportive. And not. And who am I then? Who am I to that person? In their mind? Complicated. And not. And who is Mary then? Wife of a donor. What role then? What sense of place for her? Truly giving, she is in fact the one donating. Giving up control. Letting go. Not her child. Not his child. And yet from him. Who are we to own each other? Mine. My precious. Not mine. And what is it to send yourself out into the world? Out of my control. My domain. My reach. My influence. And yet, he is a part of me. He is under my influence. My genetic reach. My biology. Or she is. And so I celebrate. And contemplate. Laugh and cry. I sit in contradiction. And not. I have given Life. Something so powerful. So beautiful. It seems impossible not to. Someone who will give so much joy and love. And stories. All that we are made of really. The fabric that holds us all together. Generosity of spirit. What more is there to give.