The Taoism of Ensemble

  
I am a member of OutLook Theater Project. I got here on a winding road of increasing leadership that started as a production assistant. Like almost all things I'm involved in, I mold my self to the opportunity. Most of the time this means putting pieces of my self on shelves, charging ahead full steam, and taking on a "holder" role. I good in these positions.

However, the "holder" is not sustainable. It always inevitably leads to resentment, a mismatch of expectations and reality, and anxiety. Holding is tiring work, especially when what you are holding is as hard to grasp as water, as shifty as sand. I don't want that role, and I need to find a way so I don't play that part.

OutLook is in transition. We finished our first major work which took two and a half years to produce. A collective sigh was released at the end of This Many People, our original play about LGBTQ elders. There was a sense of accomplishment, pride, and celebration. We had done it!

And then there was, "What's next?" and our personal lives. The combination of reclaiming our own person as swell as uncertainty at our collective future meant we needed to plan, to actively work things out. The challenge was our personal lives were full, so we had to wait more than two months to come back together. This is not ideal when you have had success and want to keep momentum going.

In the space between our ending and our planning, an opportunity emerged with the Council of Churches of Santa Clara County. I had recently become unemployed, so I had some extra time to contribute to the project. I stepped up and decided to coordinate the event: a booth at San Jose Pride exploring the intersections of spirituality, sexuality, faith, and gender.

Coordination is a tricky thing. It enables the "holder" in me. My process of creation always involves listening to as many people as possible and finding connection between work, vision, passions, and art. I feel a tremendous amount of responsibility whenever I hear someone. I want to ensure they feel included in whatever emerges even if they don't want to be a part of it. Sometimes, it can be immobilizing. Always it produces anxiety.

After listening to a number of different people, I wrote up a plan for our booth. It was actually quite easy to compose because so many people had so many wonderful ideas. I shot it out to all involved and waited for feedback. I needed to know if what I proposed made sense, if it captured nuance, if it was as pluralistic as possible. Silence. For two weeks, silence. Our event date was swiftly approached. My anxiety grew: was this the right plan; did I offend someone; are people really committed to achieving this vision? I was fine coordinating, but I knew I couldn't do this alone. It wouldn't be pluralistic if I did.

As part of our OutLooks future planning process, we assigned ourselves homework during our two months of "down time". One of the assignments was to define ensemble as we are an ensemble theater company. I work best in groups. I like the accountability and inspiration of others. While ensemble is a newish word for me,  I much prefer collective, I know ensemble and collective are on the same die as coop, coalition, and collaboration.

I set to the task of defining the word in three distinct ways. First, the project with the Council of Churches was my experience in ensemble. I knew for my definition to hold meaning to me I had to feel it somewhere in my body. The second was to read, read, read. I opened The Second Book of the Tao. I reread sections of The Essential Gandhi. I continued reading Memories of the Future. I started reading The Collaborative Habit. I opened the dictionary and looked up definitions. I knew others would have better words than I. I just needed to find them. Third, I needed to mine my life. I needed to thoroughly dig into the recesses and find my history and memory of ensemble.

Combined, these three things transformed me. I am more my self now than when I started this journey.

The silence I received after sending out my proposal bothered me deeply. I felt like I was not part of an ensemble. My memory and body raced, and I was swept back to times when I "saved" programs by doing the job my employees failed to do rather then me holding them accountable. I was that sad little boy who stood on stage wanting to be part of the theater but was still harassed within the confines of what I hoped was a safe space. I was the "young one" at the conference planing table being silenced by elders because they "knew better". I was hurt, and in that hurt a black anxiety grew. It was only moments away form rearing its ugly head. Something had to be done.

A couple of days later, after hours of processing with my husband and best friend and growing uneasiness in my belly, I crafted an email drawing lines in sand and questioning whether or not we could achieve our goal of a booth at San Jose Pride. Immediately, there was response. People were shocked there was a question of commitment. This was definitely a go: money had been spent on the booth.

I still felt uneasy. I needed a solution that was realistic. With only a few weeks to San Jose Pride, my original proposal for a two day booth would not be successful. Nor was I willing to put more of my self forward if others weren't going to give in equal measure. I was reacting with a tit for tat. That, too, did not feel good or right. How could this be an ensemble if I was retreating to the stance of a frightened snake ready to bite? Only poison could come from this, or so I thought.

After a few brief phone calls and some internal readjustment on my end, a compromise was reached: we would only do a Sunday booth. This meant less resources and less time. It meant more focus. Once this solution was agreed upon, another email was sent confirming details. Again, I jumped to wanting feedback. I wanted to make sure what I captured was accurate and confirmed our agreements. Again silence. Again anxiety.

For two days, I dragged my books around with me pulling them out and reading and rereading passages. I was hoping the wisdom of others would change my perspective. I went and sat at Ocean Beach on a foggy cold morning bundled head to toe. Quotes started popping out at me, and I madly copied them in my notebook. Two in particular struck at me and caught me in the nape of the neck. The first is from Memories of the Future. "A correctly constructed talent is a constantly maintained balance between what one is given and what one gives back." The second is from The Second Book of the Tao. "The Master uses his skill to harmonize with both sides, and rests in the Tao, which makes all things equal." They swam through my blood stream and infected my heart. They planted themselves in my heels and sprouted out my finger tips. Then, I read, "You save the world when you save your self." (From The Second Book of the Tao.) Chills, and not the chills from the wind rushing off the ocean, rippled my body. Change was coming. I still didn't know what that change would be, but I knew it was almost here. It hit me on my journey home from the beach.

I sat on the bus anxiety coursing through me. There was something brewing in me, and I also knew I needed to take action to keep the booth on track. There was tension all over and within me. It manifest in palpitating heartbeats and shaking hands. I needed to let it all go. My body was telling me so. I reached into my pocket to grab my phone. I was going to send an email right now, so I could get a response. It worked the first time, and it would surely work again. As I ran my thumb over the keyboard, my heart changed, and I pulled out my hand leaving the phone in my pocket. My hand was still shaking.

I looked around the bus conscious of how packed it was. Then, I did something I have never done: I decided to meditate right there in my seat. I straightened my posture, inhaled deeply, and exhaled slowly. The hard plastic beneath my ass creaked its response, "You are in a public place." I acknowledged it by closing my eyes and quietly saying, "You will wake up at your stop refreshed."

Then, I listened. I listened to the shaking hand and fluttering heart. I heard the argument of the person next to me in full detail. I noticed the automated voice announcing stops. As I listened, a blackness enveloped me. It wrapped me in a warm calmness whose roots were in both anxiety and hope. I didn't need to deny my nerves and fears. I let them be what they were. Everything else took care of itself. This primacy transformed my view of self and ensemble. I opened my eyes. We were at my destination. I stood refreshed and exited the bus.

As I walked the block home, I realized what my response to the boot, to ensemble, to my anxiety was: silence. Simply, silence.

As mentioned earlier, I was asked to define ensemble. Based on my experience with the Council of Churches project, reading -- endlessly reading -- and mining my life, I have realized two things. One, It means listening to it all and letting silence be a response. Two, it means we have as much internal work to do as collective work to do. 

For we all have our anxieties, fears, nerves, and patterns and they are beautiful and make us whole. It is not all about inspiration and vision. It is about presence. For that I must be present in my self. Then, and only then, can I be part of an ensemble. 

As for the booth, it was a smashing success! Everyone contributed. Everyone. All held equal weight. I just needed to get out of the way so others could find their balance.

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