Culture

Dear Readers,

I have recently archived many entries from fall '05 through fall '06 which were orginally part of a journal I was keeping. They cover, among other things: my work on the following plays, Jason and The Golden Fleece, The Crucible and The Imaginary Invalid; reflections on the workshop I created called "Revival: Meetings for Theatre"; various pedagogical concerns related to teaching acting; the life of the "citizen actor"; my journey in recovery; thoughts about popular culture and various accounts of my Quaker and family experieinces.

I have expanded the categories to reflect these additions. These new posts can be accessed through the "older" tab in the "archives" section to the right.

I do not desire to prove anything. I do not wish to convince anyone of anything. This is only what I have come to believe. This is a choice I make.

As a Quaker, I listen. I listen to the sounds, and I listen to the quiet where I discern the rustle of God’s great robe. I am touched. I witness. I sense God everywhere: in the patterns of my life, in other people, in the music I listen to, in my students, in my family. But I must choose to be present, watch and listen, and I choose to give divine import to what I witness.

As an actor, I feel, move and speak. I reach across empty space towards other beating hearts. I move them and am moved by them. I serve the community I live in with my art. Each new role is the most important role I have ever played. Each new role is world premiere.

As a teacher, I walk the walk. I let my life speak, and I fill my students with hope and possibility, helping them find the necessary virtues in themselves to begin walking the beautiful and preposterous road of the American actor.

As a husband and a father, I am ever vigilant, never taking these three lives for granted, choosing again and again to be a loving presence in their lives, moving them always back to the center of everything.

As person in recovery, I am reminded that every day free from addiction is a gift and a miracle. I honor that miracle by taking care of that gift.

What I want is to change the world. When I am creative, I am closer to God, and when I am witnessed being closer to God, I am a minister, and when I am minister I am helping others get closer to God too. I have faith that when I am acting, teaching, worshiping and loving my family I am a minister and I am changing the world. I work on letting that be enough.

I cannot stop the war. But I can make people laugh. I can soften people’s hearts. I can bring people together where they can feel each other’s heat. I can give the young hope. I can raise strong and peaceful children. I can lift up an amazing woman. These are extraordinary powers. They are from God.

Here is a pattern I witness in my life: I am led by continuing revelation to explore new territories of Quaker worship. This leading is part of a larger whole, involving a love of youth, of the Society of Friends and of the divine mixture of actor and Quaker in my heart. I sense a chafing at our customs, and a need for new expressions. I am mindful of our traditions that lead us away from adherence to empty forms and rote rituals. I seek the courage to join others in choreographing Godly dances and composing new Spirit songs.

Another pattern: I sense a hunger in the artists I meet for a way to discover and embrace their own holiness away from conventional churches. And yet, I sense a slow growing closer together of my unconventional church – the Quakers – and our evangelical brethren.

And another: I begin in the middle and move to the outside looking in, yearning to be in the middle again. My life is an on-going movement from the center to the edge. Or maybe I am always at the edge, trying to pull the center towards me. In loving the eccentric, the anarchist, the prophet, the outcast, the maverick, I am loving this aspect of myself. It is an essential aspect, one I came in to the world with, and one that was groomed by the circumstances of my life: an only child of divorced parents, raised in a family that was never really mine. My transformation from defeated drunk to worker in the world was due in part to my decision not to be at war with this part of myself. I am no longer ashamed of who I am or where I’m from. This is huge.

My mother and father still continue to teach me: my mother about art, my father about family. I love and honor them. I witness them both in me in so many ways. I am glad I chose them.

And another: I mend the wounds of my real and imaginary exiles by burrowing into community and family. I am led to jump up and down like a silly cheerleader for both my communities – theatre and Quaker. I like to gently mingle those communities, it makes me happy. This is one of the things The Rooms taught me: let us love you until you can love yourself. I love you loving me, and I love me loving you back. I sense that my work is here where I live, and that in naming and celebrating that work – and the work of others here – I am breaking new ground.

And yet I have a strained relationship with institutions. I’m working on this, trying move from the edge a little bit back to the center, trying to ease my wounded suspicions.

Nowhere do I burrow more deeply than with my little family. In making them so very important to me, in choosing them over other things I might have done, I have missed some opportunities and compromised my professional possibilities. I now see this as an intentional choice, and when one of my children leaves their place at the table just so they can thrown themselves at me and hug me, saying I love you so much Daddy, I am certain of that choice. And when I am able step back from the chatter and the frustrations, and witness what my wife and I are doing in the world together, when we come together in embraces too deep for words, when I feel myself humbled by who she is and that she chose me, and that she keeps choosing me, I am certain of my choice. But I have to remind myself to pay attention. This is the only way to work through the doubts. When I pay attention, even in the darkest place, I can crawl back to gratitude. Then I can stand again.

Speaking of gratitude:

Three shows performed: eight total roles.

Forty or so meetings for worship. Ten to twelve meetings for theatre.

Two workshops created and offered: one on Quaker/actor creativity, one on teaching acting.

One book, one article, one pamphlet and two blogs published.

Four classes taught: one high school, two college, one adult.

Three workshops taken: Long Form Improv, Commedia, Psychodrama.

Two children raised: Griffen and Ella.

One wife loved: Susan.

And the water rises . . .

One car lost: Ellex (the Accord).

One car purchased: Little Blue (the Civic).

Song of the year: Speed of Sound, Coldplay. (Runners up: Clarity, John Mayer; Give up and let it go, Francis Dunnnery, Fix You, Coldplay)

One bridge mended.

And the water flows.

One father aided.

No toilets trained.

Birthdays celebrated.

Anniversaries squeezed in.

Important moments overlooked.

Mistakes made, apologies offered.

Moments of transcendent meaning seized and released.

Bitchy vendettas enacted.

Movements begun and left dangling.

I am the faucet . . .

Awesome circles of community created.

Whispers of quiet affirmation passed along.

Sleepless nights of anxiety passed through.

Doubt and despair wrestled with.

Doubt and despair vanquished quizzically.

Poems written and tears shed.

Gales of laughter.

Farts and awkwardness.

Faith considered and pursued.

God under all, through everything,

and I am the faucet

turn me on turn me on

be with me, be through me,

up from mother earth, Your water,

I am the faucet, you are the Source,

be through me, flowing,

running down streams,

filling ponds to drink from

and the heartbreak of emptiness everywhere,

filling us all to overflow,

so our waters mingle and roll

in great warm rivers,

one water

out -

out into the unfathomable sea.

The other Disney movie Ella is obsessed with – even more than Lion King – is Beauty and The Beast. This was not on my mind when I wrote the Spring integration, but the Spring integration was on mind the other day when I found myself alone with Ella for a few hours, and we played “Beauty and The Beast.”

I screwed up face and jutted my lower teeth out. I dropped my voice in to a raspy growl. I lumbered around like a giant ape, and all the while Ella played Belle. I tried to engineer the scenes so that, for some reason, Beast had to take a lot of naps. Ella liked this, because it allowed her to play out the “going to sleep” scenario with her on the powerful end, as the one putting some else to bed.

“Go to sleep now Beast. No crying.” she would tell me, before planting the world’s most tender little kiss on my lips. Within a minute she would wake me up. Some nap. I would pretend to cry.

“I’m hideous.”

“No, no Beast. You not hideous.” And she would kiss me some more. She pronounced “hideous” remarkably well for a three year old.

At least I’m not so hideous I can’t be on the radio. I had an interview about The Actor’s Way last Wednesday. It was for a local public radio show called “Radio Times”, which Susan and I listen to a lot. So when I showed up at the studio and was greeted by the host Marty Moss-Coane, I felt as though I was going to hang out with my cool aunt Marty in the radio station where she works and chat about some stuff we were both interested in.

I had spent the previous two weeks “rehearsing” this interview: playing out questions she might ask and answering them with glittering charm and intelligence, fielding awkward subjects (like alcoholism and tenure) with aplomb. But of course, Marty was way too sensitive to ask anything approaching an awkward question, and the questions she did ask were so germane to the book and my concerns, my effort was to pare down the 14 responses which lined up in front of me to the one or two which seemed most urgent. Marty asked questions about psychodrama and the wounded actor, about the criticism thread in the book and about what happens in acting classes. We got some call ins from all over. I left feeling kind of high from whole thing.

In the hallway afterwards, I had a comical talk with Marty’s producer, the red-haired Devora, about toilet training. It turns out she has kids about the age of mine, and had some good advice for Ella’s challenging relationship to her own poop.

“Have you tried just letting her sit in her shit for while?” she asked with charming bluntness. God I love strong women. I replied that Ella seemed to not mind that, or at least preferred it to sitting on the potty. “How about rewards?” she asked. “One piece of candy for just sitting, two for pee-pee, three for poop.”

Marty and Devora are a part of the community I serve. How I love my community.

The next day, The Crucible returned in the form of a horribly mishandled “evaluation” meeting at People’s Light. The issue at hand was my conduct in those difficult rehearsals of 2.2, in the jail, and my attachment to my initial vision of Hale the shattered man. Without getting into the whole thing, the meeting was based on second-hand information – essentially “he said, she said” stuff – and had the wounding quality of a reproach, although Abbey and Steve kept telling it wasn’t. I left feeling very hurt and confused, and resolved to go back to continue the conversation.

That night, Sooz left me and the ids to go to the Cape to be with her dad again. The end is near, I think, and death is like the haze of hot day in our lives, draping us in discomfort, blurring our vision slightly and making us want to just stay inside.

I took night off from child care top go see a festival of ten minute plays downtown, one of them by friend Michael and directed by my friend Joe, another featuring Jenny, one of our babysitters. It was a festival of the smaller companies in town, and it had the quality of a plate of hors d’oerves made by different kitchens. Some made you wanted another taste, others didn’t. One of my favorites was Heavy Metal Dance Fag, pt 2 – a riotous piece of physical theatre in which the title character did comical choreography to the likes of Guns ‘n Roses.

Then I went to a fundraiser for two local companies a The Khyber, a notorious local dive bar and music venue. There I got hang out with my “tribe”, seeing friends from the theater community who I had lost touch with, and just be a part of the merriment. To my shame, I smoked a few cigarettes that night, I strategy I frequently employ to make myself feel more “with it” when I go to bars, but, of course, don’t drink.

While there, I had my first fantasy-author moment. I was talking to a friend when a young girl, moving through the crowd at the bar, suddenly turned and stared at me.

“You’re Ben Lloyd aren’t you?” she asked. I said I was. “OhmiGod! You wrote The Actor’s Way! I’m only half way through and that book is changing my life!” I grabbed her hands and told her she had just made my whole night. She told me her name was Amanda, she was telling all her friends about the book and we talked about it for a while. You know that scene in The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, when the Grinch’s heart grows three sizes to big? Yeah. That was me. Now I have to make sure the same thing doesn’t happen to my head.

On the day of Sooz’s “day off”, Mom and I took the kids to see the Julie Taymore production of the musical The Lion King – a big Broadway tour in Philadelphia through September. We sat in the nose bleed seats in the Academy of Music, seats so high up in the air you can inspect the giant chandelier on it’s own level and experience vertigo if you lean forward too much. Still, we loved it, especially the actress playing the Baboon Rafiki, the choral dances and the African music. There was some astonishing mask work in it, and Taymore’s life-sized animal puppets are breath-taking. Griff kept turning to me and saying in a stage whisper, “This is awesome!” Ella sat on my lap a watched with great seriousness. She was, of course, used to the Disney DVD we play over and over at home, so she couldn’t quite reconcile what she was seeing a half a mile away down there on the stage with what she knew in her head. She got a bit restless in the second act, after getting jacked up on a box of Swedish Fish at intermission.

Truth be told, Mom and I both felt the second act doesn’t hold up well compared to the first. But three things are worth noting. I thought, do we come to the theatre to find what’s working in a play, or to note what isn’t? And as when I saw Spamalot, I found myself worrying about how these actors would react to The Actor’s Way if they ever chose to read it. The actor playing Poombah, the farting Warthog, was someone I acted with in Philly in 1995. I think he would have a dim view of my book. But I also noted that many in the cast thanked God in their bios. And thirdly, Sooz had charged Griff to look for God as he went about his day that day. “So Griff, “ I said at the end as the house lights rose, “do you see God anywhere?”

“Dad I don’t want to do that now!” he said sharply. And I hugged him.

The next day in meeting for worship, a woman rose and praised the great Mother, who dwells within and whose name has been forgotten. Time passed and then I felt as deep tremor inside me. I rose to speak.

I spoke about a letter an elder in my meeting had hand-delivered to my children at my home the past week:

Dear Griffen and Ella,

God speaks in the meeting. July the second, two thousand and six, God spoke in the soul of your father.

Benjamin Lloyd spoke those words to us and they lifted us out of our confusion and doubt.

Griffen heard them, Ella was not there.

Our hope is that he will write them in this letter, that someday you will know that what God spoke was truth.

It was a blessed experience.

Barbara, a thankful witness

What I spoke about then was the difference between knowing and believing. I said that knowing can be proved but believing doesn’t need to. Believing is for the believer, because he feels it makes him better. But last Sunday I spoke about how Griffen has always felt God to be a She. This was unprompted, and Sooz and I heard it first when the three of us were walking around a beautiful lake in New Hampshire. “Hey Griff, you see God anywhere?” I asked.

“Yep. There She is.” And he pointed to an old mossy stump.

In my ministry I described Griffen’s refusal to look for God at The Lion King, and my recognition that it takes effort, and that sometimes life is just to be enjoyed. But that as Quakers, we are called to seek God everyday, in everyone. And last Sunday I asked God for help, because I was struggling with my shadow, and I wanted to be a light, like God, because if you think about it, a light shining has no shadow.

Later that day, after a not-so-miserable meeting for business, Friend X and I helped each other with a small chore. Friend X has been at the nexus of my bad feelings about my meeting. But in this small act of collaboration, I felt a bridge begin to be built. She asked about Sooz’s Dad. We chatted.

Looking for God in everyone is hardest with those we are estranged from. But in those searches God’s miracles are most profound, and Her movement is smallest, so our attention must be sharpest. She will meet us half-way, and pull us over. But we must reach. We must reach.

My mother has been here for the last five days. It was great to have her here. I took her to her first rock concert, a Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young reunion tour which kicked off in Philly. I had initially bought the tickets for me and Sooz as a mother’s day gift, but a day after receiving them, Sooz gave them back to me, saying she really didn’t want to go. I was hurt but I got over it. I guess I forgot I was married to an agoraphobic recluse. Instead I gave her a day off, during which time she could do anything she wanted by herself. I timed that day to overlap with my Mom’s visit.

I was amazed to discover that it was my Mom’s first rock concert,. My Mom is a sixties “elder”, who was on the cutting edge of the avant gard dance scene from ’65 on. She looked at the CD case of So Far I gave to her. “I know these people played music when I was younger but I just don’t recognize the names of these songs” she said. Mom has “senior moments” like these, which are actually sixties blackouts. There are entire years in there Mom just doesn’t remember very much about. And she wasn’t dropping a lot of acid either. They just didn’t stick, I guess. Then I played some of the CD. “Oh yes . . . “ she said when Our House came on. Slowly, each song seemed to lift her up a bit straighter, until finally she was holding the CD case in her hand and squinting at it.

The ride to the concert was a traffic nightmare. I realized glumly that Sooz had made the right call. She would have been beside herself coming to this concert. Instead of feeling relieved that things were playing out the way they should, I wanted to run someone over. Mom sat next to me sensing my simmer and fished for things to say. We talked about a lot of things. But as is usual with her, I didn’t feel unburdened from talking to her. I just felt more and more irritated.

The day before the concert I had a session with Deb. During that session I uncovered my shadow for her. Like any good therapist she didn’t bat an eye. “What’s underneath?” she asked.

“Anger.” I replied.

“And what does that anger do for you, Ben?”

“It’s an engine” I said. “I don’t know what I’d do without it.”

“You’re a very powerful person” she said. “But I get the sense you keep so much of it in. It’s like you’re energy is this big, “ she held her arms wide, “but it can only come out an opening this big” and she made a small hole with her fingers. “I wonder what would happen if you just let it go.”

Give up and let it go. Give up and let your life flow, sings Francis Dunnery.

So in the car, in the hellish traffic, my Mom next to me behaving like a sweet Buddhist nun, my shadow was punishing me for telling on it as I had. Because my shadow dwells in a very private place, and it draws me to isolation. You’re only as sick as your secrets, as they say in the Rooms. But you learn who to share them with and who not to.

Finally we got to the lawn at the Tweeter Center. CSNY had started playing. They began with the new music, mostly from Neal Young’s latest album, a blistering attack on the Bush administration. As the night came on and the band played and they sang the songs I knew and loved, my shadow slipped away. Watching these guys in their sixties rocking out, getting us to sing along to lyrics like “Let’s impeach the President!”, sitting next to my sixty eight year old artist Mom, I wondered: where is the twentysomething Neal Young?

I fear our young people have lost the ability to revere their own big feelings. It takes big feelings to sing protest music. You set yourself up for a lot of ridicule (like the ridicule CSNY took at the hands of the idiot critic who reviewed the concert a couple of days later). It takes big feelings to work for social justice, to believe in a cause so much you’ll go door to door, or march on Washington, or write a song about it and then sing it in front of people. It takes big feelings to make it happen, as opposed to big ideas. Ideas can sit back and become passive. Feelings propel you to motion. The unity we seek is the detonation which occurs when ideas lead to big feelings and then the feelings spread. That’s called a movement. But in a culture in which big feelings are fundamentally unsafe, or are sources of embarrassment, movements are dead in the water.

Our youth are being trained to mock. So many young people prefer to sit in the back of the class and roll their eyes at someone else’s contribution. In our great virtual classroom, we are in danger of having everyone in the back of the class, and no one in the front raising their hands with something to say. Why would they, with such an enormous chorus of voices ready to shoot them down? Do you see, friends, how this plays into my concerns with criticism, which has become a forum for nasty sniping or pointless praise? How it is related to higher academia, in which ideas are favored and feelings are suspect? How it is connected to our political discourse, in which pundits and bloggers exist for no other reason than to find a way to bring someone else down? What brought down Howard Dean in 2004? I submit it was the reaction these media vultures had to his big feelings, which led to an unadorned howl on a cold night in Iowa, a great release of disappointment and cry to rally the troops. In years past, such a cry might have led the English at Agincourt, or rallied the striking miners in West Virginia, or sent students to seize a building. It might have been the stuff of legends. But today, soaked as we are in cynicism, it was a bulls-eye on his chest.

By the way, the song Let’s Impeach the President ends with the refrain “Thank God.”

My Mom was very taken with the whole thing, even though her trick knee began to ache and we left early to avoid the traffic on the way out. I think we were both a little high from the pot smoke swirling around us. “Actually, I think it was hash” said Mom, sounding like she might have been correcting me about a spice used in an old family recipe. We talked about teaching and feelings and protests on the way home. She was chirping. It was like she had just discovered this new thing, this rock and roll concert thing. The next day, she Googled CSNY and discovered a DVD documentary about them. Her interest was peaked. By the time we got to the video store though, she had forgotten the name of it. “It was a lyric from one of their songs . . . “ Uh-oh. The twentysometing behind the counter did a search for us which lasted a few minutes before I discovered he was looking for a documentary about Bing Crosby. “No, no. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young” I said. He made me spell it. He had never heard of them. We never found the documentary.