A friend of mine recently slipped a surprise into my suitcase: a letter I had written to him two years ago. In it, I had told him that, while I realized he was already a great success in his career, I sensed his dream for himself involved something greater -- a new venture that he himself could own, a business he could nurture and grow to full fruition. Today, that dream has been realized -- to the extent that my friend feels he is engaged with his destined life's path for the first time. Given that I see his robust fulfillment frequently, it's strange to look back to a time when his entrepreneurship was a mere hunch I expressed in writing -- a recognition of his true potential -- a belief.
Steve Jobs, founder of Apple, used to speak often about "bending the universe" to his will. He had a conviction that he could create the impossible with the right friends and sufficient belief.
And when the impossible has happened for me? When the Oscar-winning producers have signed onto my current project? When the agents have lined up to offer their support? These events have always begun with belief, creativity and generous support from my friends.
I always like to pay forward such good fortune -- to bring my friends along with me on my outsized adventures, and to support them with dreams of their own. It's a mysterious alchemy that allows our secret hopes to take shape in the real world. There's a deep well of fulfillment in realizing our own dreams -- and there's an overflowing sense of joy in tangibly supporting our friends' hopes, too.
The universe truly can be "bent" to our will, it turns out. When we understand this as the truth, all dreams become nearer to us, all ambitions live within our reach.
The German philosopher, Goethe, wrote, "Whatever you can do -- or dream you can -- begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it."
It's a delight to discover how right he was.
Tuesday, May 1, 2018
Sunday, April 22, 2018
The Laughter List: Adventure, Mischief, Good Friends
A few things inspire laughter in me -- a gentle, joyful waterfall of laughter I'm not conscious of creating until I hear it. And it strikes me that our days should contain much more of this "living large," in which vibrant surprise, awakened senses, and pure delight rule over everything else. So, what makes me laugh?
I've been contemplating my list: cantering on horseback, skiing fast in fresh powder, sailing with a 45 degree heel, dancing a dramatic tango in which smiling is forbidden, feeding a hummingbird nectar from the palm of my hand, hearing a little girl ask me if I'm a real princess while she adjusts her rhinestone tiara, being photographed by strangers while trying on evening gowns in a boutique -- because they're certain I'm "somebody," seeing a little boy stick his tongue out at me from a sense of sheer mischief, hearing Debussy's Clair de Lune the way my mother used to play it, swimming in the ocean at night, dancing to the best of rock and roll, entering a party of artists, writers and filmmakers -- where the joking is non-stop, giving or receiving a standing ovation, running into friends unexpectedly and abandoning my plans for the afternoon in order to share coffee with them, catching the very instant of sunset over the ocean, when the flame of the day surrenders.
There's more. Much more. Because laughter arises when the cup of one's life is so filled with adventure, it overflows its brim -- abundant, surprising, bold, artistic, true. Each day when I awake, the cup fills itself again.
I've been contemplating my list: cantering on horseback, skiing fast in fresh powder, sailing with a 45 degree heel, dancing a dramatic tango in which smiling is forbidden, feeding a hummingbird nectar from the palm of my hand, hearing a little girl ask me if I'm a real princess while she adjusts her rhinestone tiara, being photographed by strangers while trying on evening gowns in a boutique -- because they're certain I'm "somebody," seeing a little boy stick his tongue out at me from a sense of sheer mischief, hearing Debussy's Clair de Lune the way my mother used to play it, swimming in the ocean at night, dancing to the best of rock and roll, entering a party of artists, writers and filmmakers -- where the joking is non-stop, giving or receiving a standing ovation, running into friends unexpectedly and abandoning my plans for the afternoon in order to share coffee with them, catching the very instant of sunset over the ocean, when the flame of the day surrenders.
There's more. Much more. Because laughter arises when the cup of one's life is so filled with adventure, it overflows its brim -- abundant, surprising, bold, artistic, true. Each day when I awake, the cup fills itself again.
Monday, April 9, 2018
Bright Lights
To bring a great play to the stage requires the best of courage and creativity combined. On Saturday night, I had the privilege of celebrating the remarkable work of Carey Perloff, the longtime Artistic Director of the American Conservatory Theater. Tom Stoppard traveled from London to lend his appreciation for the remarkable acts of faith and perseverance that Carey has undertaken in the name of great art over the years. We joined together with scores of bright creative lights at The Four Seasons in San Francisco to share champagne, dinner and dancing. A fantastic night -- with laughter, gratitude, artistic passion, camaraderie, renewed ambitions -- and courage abounding. My kind of celebration.
If you haven't already seen it, try to catch Carey's theatrical adaptation of Khaled Hosseini's novel A Thousand Splendid Suns, which is currently touring around the country -- and will return to the Bay Area for two weeks in July. I had the privilege of witnessing this work in various stages of development -- and what I can tell you is that it was thrilling to see Carey bring together musical, literary, visual and performing talents in one room to facilitate the creation of this extraordinary production. The resulting play is evocative, resonant, moving, transformative, inspired.
https://www.broadwayworld.com/san-francisco/article/A-THOUSAND-SPLENDID-SUNS-Returns-to-ACT-for-Limited-Two-Week-Engagement-20180216
If you haven't already seen it, try to catch Carey's theatrical adaptation of Khaled Hosseini's novel A Thousand Splendid Suns, which is currently touring around the country -- and will return to the Bay Area for two weeks in July. I had the privilege of witnessing this work in various stages of development -- and what I can tell you is that it was thrilling to see Carey bring together musical, literary, visual and performing talents in one room to facilitate the creation of this extraordinary production. The resulting play is evocative, resonant, moving, transformative, inspired.
https://www.broadwayworld.com/san-francisco/article/A-THOUSAND-SPLENDID-SUNS-Returns-to-ACT-for-Limited-Two-Week-Engagement-20180216
Saturday, March 31, 2018
The Hypnotist
It's fascinating to me to perceive the extent to which an artist's relationship to the work conveys itself to the audience. When imagining my characters' lives, I try intuitively to feel them, see them, witness them up close. As with all lives, their experience reaches me in eminently subjective ways. And great art, I would argue, thrives with a measure of uncontained subjectivity.
Van Gogh didn't paint a vase of sunflowers so much as he painted a vase containing the beauty that informed, enriched and redeemed his life -- a sort of euphoric view of those outsized blossoms, splashing the canvas in pieces of amber and gold and the hope the carried him forward in 1888.
How do I imagine the lives of my characters fully? With my current novel, I listen to music that parallels the narrative -- I read literature that lays bare the elements of transformation -- and when I'm working in my library, I burn candles scented like honeysuckle and the sea. The process feels a bit like meditation or even self-hypnosis. If I manage to open a door to the fictional world, I can slip through it into a fully-realized universe of my characters' days. Then, I'm just writing down what unfolds, rather miraculously, in front of me. It's similar to what athletes refer to as "flow," an effortless engagement with the art, a day of creation that feels as fluid and seamless as breathing.
Later, when I meet with my professional writers' group to hear their impressions, I'm immensely pleased when they feel the same magic I felt while I was writing the words.
"How are you doing this?" they ask, as if I were levitating in front of them. "Tell us your secrets."
But there's a mystery at the heart of beauty. I don't like to question it too much. When I'm fortunate enough to bring my characters to full and resplendent life, I would rather accept the inexplicable gift -- day after exquisite day -- until the story is told.
Van Gogh didn't paint a vase of sunflowers so much as he painted a vase containing the beauty that informed, enriched and redeemed his life -- a sort of euphoric view of those outsized blossoms, splashing the canvas in pieces of amber and gold and the hope the carried him forward in 1888.
How do I imagine the lives of my characters fully? With my current novel, I listen to music that parallels the narrative -- I read literature that lays bare the elements of transformation -- and when I'm working in my library, I burn candles scented like honeysuckle and the sea. The process feels a bit like meditation or even self-hypnosis. If I manage to open a door to the fictional world, I can slip through it into a fully-realized universe of my characters' days. Then, I'm just writing down what unfolds, rather miraculously, in front of me. It's similar to what athletes refer to as "flow," an effortless engagement with the art, a day of creation that feels as fluid and seamless as breathing.
Later, when I meet with my professional writers' group to hear their impressions, I'm immensely pleased when they feel the same magic I felt while I was writing the words.
"How are you doing this?" they ask, as if I were levitating in front of them. "Tell us your secrets."
But there's a mystery at the heart of beauty. I don't like to question it too much. When I'm fortunate enough to bring my characters to full and resplendent life, I would rather accept the inexplicable gift -- day after exquisite day -- until the story is told.
Sunday, March 18, 2018
The Thoroughbreds
I rode thoroughbreds throughout my childhood. Each one represented an impossible love affair of the sweetest apples offered in an open palm -- sun-drenched, bareback afternoons of free grazing in overgrown meadows -- intricate braiding of wild manes, both mine and theirs -- and mesmeric, cantering turns around the show ring.
My friends and I acknowledged that we were "horse crazy," passionately in love with the power of the bond with the animal, obsessed by the obsession of riding, unable to carry on with the normal ebb and flow of life without the presence of one's beloved equine partner.
I've commenced riding again recently, and I'm intrigued to discover that all the former passions come flooding back. To ride well is to merge with the horse in some metaphysical way -- to harness their power as one's own and to re-emerge into the world as a more potent self, unconstrained by convention or expectation. One's spirit unveils itself -- electrified, fast, fearless.
The thoroughbreds I have loved have taught me further lessons as well -- how to heighten my senses to life, so that I feel every shiver in the grass, every dimple in the wind -- how to connect to someone so closely that the sound of their voice and the grounding of their touch become as necessary and encompassing as the air -- how to open myself to gestures of kindness and guidance, mastery and flow -- because the dance of horse and rider is always choreographed magically for two. The thoroughbred turns toward deep connection like a necessity of the soul.
But thoroughbreds have also taught me that miraculous ability to bolt suddenly, if not met by a person who is genuine and substantive and respectful. I instinctively flee from fakery and pretense, and always from cruelty. It's not really a choice so much as a physical mandate, a compulsion to stand with those who are protective and sustaining and true.
Thoroughbreds represent a mysterious alchemy of power and instinct, senses and spirit, grace and emotion -- and those who ride them can't help but reveal the same mysteries within themselves. And the electric force that flows through animal and rider alike? It's the force of life itself -- charged and overflowing, transformative and indomitable. It's both a dream and the dream's awakening to reclaim this force as my own.
My friends and I acknowledged that we were "horse crazy," passionately in love with the power of the bond with the animal, obsessed by the obsession of riding, unable to carry on with the normal ebb and flow of life without the presence of one's beloved equine partner.
I've commenced riding again recently, and I'm intrigued to discover that all the former passions come flooding back. To ride well is to merge with the horse in some metaphysical way -- to harness their power as one's own and to re-emerge into the world as a more potent self, unconstrained by convention or expectation. One's spirit unveils itself -- electrified, fast, fearless.
The thoroughbreds I have loved have taught me further lessons as well -- how to heighten my senses to life, so that I feel every shiver in the grass, every dimple in the wind -- how to connect to someone so closely that the sound of their voice and the grounding of their touch become as necessary and encompassing as the air -- how to open myself to gestures of kindness and guidance, mastery and flow -- because the dance of horse and rider is always choreographed magically for two. The thoroughbred turns toward deep connection like a necessity of the soul.
But thoroughbreds have also taught me that miraculous ability to bolt suddenly, if not met by a person who is genuine and substantive and respectful. I instinctively flee from fakery and pretense, and always from cruelty. It's not really a choice so much as a physical mandate, a compulsion to stand with those who are protective and sustaining and true.
Thoroughbreds represent a mysterious alchemy of power and instinct, senses and spirit, grace and emotion -- and those who ride them can't help but reveal the same mysteries within themselves. And the electric force that flows through animal and rider alike? It's the force of life itself -- charged and overflowing, transformative and indomitable. It's both a dream and the dream's awakening to reclaim this force as my own.
Monday, March 5, 2018
The First Hero
"I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul." -- William Ernest Henley
Once, many years ago, my father wrote a love letter to my mother, even though he knew she was engaged to marry someone else. In it, he said he knew they couldn't spend their lives together in the way he had hoped, but he wanted her to know he loved her anyway, unconditionally, irrevocably. And if she ever needed his support, she could call on him -- at any time throughout her life -- just call on him and he would help her without question -- like a mysterious benefactor in a Charles Dickens novel -- like a mythical figure who appears in a Greek drama at the critical hour -- like a lover turning to his beloved.
Because my mother had a quality about her -- a passion for life, a purity of spirit, an ethereal beauty, a charisma -- that my father knew he would never again find in anyone else. He might go on looking for my mother in other women, he admitted -- but he knew he would never again encounter her. So, his life would be a pale imitation of what it would have been otherwise -- a shadow play of its potential -- a diligent exercise in going through the motions.
But fate, like all great narrative, is filled with reversals. Love given freely is sometimes greatly rewarded. I owe my life to the unexpectedly generous letter of a broken-hearted graduate student who was trying to figure out how to piece together his second-best destiny. My parents were reunited a year after his letter was sent.
My father was an adventurer of the first order. He rode camels past the pyramids in Egypt, he dove miles under the ocean in a one-man submersible; he spear-fished; he scuba dove; he raced sailboats; he rode horseback. At 6'4", he swam the butterfly every day in the open ocean in a way that inspired open-hearted awe in those who saw it -- myself among them. He explored every continent and all seven seas by the time he was 40. But he never showed more courage than he did in writing a simple letter, declaring an unconditional love for a woman beyond his reach -- a thousand miles and a permanent heartbreak away.
It's a remarkable risk to extend such a love. And it's an astonishing grace to inspire it. My parents did both, proving that sometimes the best love stories begin after their seeming end.
Thanks for being the first hero I ever met, Dad -- intrepid, brilliant, adventuresome, stoic, loyal, wise -- the strongest captain in any storm -- the first man to extend to me a love beyond all bounds.
*** Please note: I am away on work-related adventures for the next several weeks, so please be patient when trying to reach me. I will respond to emails, etc. as soon as I can during travel. Thanks for your understanding, everyone.
Once, many years ago, my father wrote a love letter to my mother, even though he knew she was engaged to marry someone else. In it, he said he knew they couldn't spend their lives together in the way he had hoped, but he wanted her to know he loved her anyway, unconditionally, irrevocably. And if she ever needed his support, she could call on him -- at any time throughout her life -- just call on him and he would help her without question -- like a mysterious benefactor in a Charles Dickens novel -- like a mythical figure who appears in a Greek drama at the critical hour -- like a lover turning to his beloved.
Because my mother had a quality about her -- a passion for life, a purity of spirit, an ethereal beauty, a charisma -- that my father knew he would never again find in anyone else. He might go on looking for my mother in other women, he admitted -- but he knew he would never again encounter her. So, his life would be a pale imitation of what it would have been otherwise -- a shadow play of its potential -- a diligent exercise in going through the motions.
But fate, like all great narrative, is filled with reversals. Love given freely is sometimes greatly rewarded. I owe my life to the unexpectedly generous letter of a broken-hearted graduate student who was trying to figure out how to piece together his second-best destiny. My parents were reunited a year after his letter was sent.
My father was an adventurer of the first order. He rode camels past the pyramids in Egypt, he dove miles under the ocean in a one-man submersible; he spear-fished; he scuba dove; he raced sailboats; he rode horseback. At 6'4", he swam the butterfly every day in the open ocean in a way that inspired open-hearted awe in those who saw it -- myself among them. He explored every continent and all seven seas by the time he was 40. But he never showed more courage than he did in writing a simple letter, declaring an unconditional love for a woman beyond his reach -- a thousand miles and a permanent heartbreak away.
It's a remarkable risk to extend such a love. And it's an astonishing grace to inspire it. My parents did both, proving that sometimes the best love stories begin after their seeming end.
Thanks for being the first hero I ever met, Dad -- intrepid, brilliant, adventuresome, stoic, loyal, wise -- the strongest captain in any storm -- the first man to extend to me a love beyond all bounds.
*** Please note: I am away on work-related adventures for the next several weeks, so please be patient when trying to reach me. I will respond to emails, etc. as soon as I can during travel. Thanks for your understanding, everyone.
Sunday, March 4, 2018
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