A Call to Sidestep Gossip

Author, businessman, and speaker Stephen Covey once said, "Defend those who aren't present." He understood that bonds forged through gossiping about others is tenuous at best. We're essentially saying, "I'll do the same to you."

Taking communal satisfaction by belittling others is a temporary way of numbing our own insecurities and fears. It's not the antidote and instead reveals rather the heals.

When we have the courage to sidestep negative banter we raise the bar in what we expect of others and ultimately ourselves. 

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Musings on Change

Sooner or later everything falls apart – without a nudge, a wink, a warning we gradually part ways with the familiar.

Our understanding of the world and our place in it changes, and if we’re lucky, we evolve.

Still, hearts grow heavy along with our gaits, our steps loose a bounce, and if we’re not careful our spirits too can abandon their once childlike buoyancy. 

Those people you once swore could leap tall buildings in a single bound, protect you from any peril all while screaming shamelessly at the top of their lungs at Saturday morning soccer games trade capes for canes and a quieter type of life.

The sense of being becomes more peaceful, more human, more poetic.

I wonder how much time I've spent trying to piece back together what could no longer be:

youth back to old, 

sickness back to health, 

dreams into being. 

How many times did I quietly convince myself life would be different? How often did I choose solitude over community? Abandon family to saunter the narrow streets, and crooked paths the world over?

What was it I hoped to find in all my unchartered strolls? Was it purpose? Validation? Love?

Wherever I seemed to go, whether beside the roily waters of the Hudson or the placid surface of Lake Merritt, I walked and walked in desperate hope that one or the other would take me by the hand and guide me home.

Yet to feel rudderless is not always as treacherous as it may sound. Yes, the choppy waters can be merciless at times. They may throw you against jagged rocks, or leave you stranded on a desolate bank. 

But if you can weather those tempests, which you must, you'll lift your gaze ever so slightly to get a clear view of the lighthouse just beyond; a place of hope, of possibility, of what lies ahead.

It will be filled with people - the kind waiting for you to extend your hand and call on them for the love they so desperately want to give.

And when you do, it won’t matter the city, or coast where you hang your hat because the light will stretch far beyond any boundary. It will take you back the next time you feel yourself drifting.

But in turn you must also reach out, extending your own open hand to those who now need you. 

Because that day will come. 

And when it does, you'll need to be ready.

You'll need to already be home.

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The Importance of Honoring Customs while Abroad

My journey back to Amman was rather uneventful which is not necessarily a bad thing. I listened to an audiobook, glanced over my Italian flashcards, and occasionally took in snippets of the conversation of the couple sitting across from me.

As I peeked out the window I couldn’t help but take in the barrenness of most of the Jordanian countryside. On the upside, it made me feel less guilty that I dosed off.

I thought back on my four journeys across the United States with my best friends en route to Syracuse when I was still in college. Driving for hours on end could sometimes be monotonous but at least we had each other.

Occasionally though we’d zip past signs for the “30-foot cow” and “5-legged horse,” which intrigued us but didn’t pique our interest enough to stop.

I wondered what it’d be like to take the same trip today; how the tone of our thoughts would be different and our feelings about what lie ahead hued with the life experience gained from the path already trekked.

Dog Days of Summer

I returned to a much “cooler” Amman. “Cooler” is relative in this case, but I was grateful for the relief. It was like bartering an Egyptian summer for the lazy months of D.C., or Philly. It may not sound like much but I was grateful for 95 degree heat over say, 105 degree heat.

I walked the streets the same way I had a week before trying to remind myself of my good fortune to be in such a place. It’s a greater challenge than one may think at first. The more you live the greater the likelihood to take things, even wonderful things, in passing.

The trick I’ve discovered is to stay in the pocket of hope, of possibility, of curiosity. Each day I tried to act as if I’d just arrived before nearly wondering out loud why I couldn’t do the same at home.

I walked past an art gallery I’d noticed when I first arrived but this time it was open. I strolled in and was greeted by a young and pretty Jordanian woman in her mid to late 20’s.

She asked if she could help me find anything to which I told her I was just looking. I inquired if any of the photographs or acrylic works were hers.

“No,” she said. “I’m a law student.”

Much better idea, I nearly said to her.

No Eating on the Street

I slowly moseyed on back to my hotel before stopping off at one of the few restaurants open. I’d been trying my best to eat healthy during my stay, but found it a challenge.

I figured the fresh squeezed carrot juice and lack of eating in general left me at about even. I ordered two sandwiches and made my way back to the Bonita Inn.

When I got to within 100 yards of my hotel I was stopped by two police officers.

“Do you speak Arabic?” they asked.

That’s a first, I thought.

“No,” I said.

They then asked for my ID making some grumblings about my New York City address.

“You can’t eat on the street. It is Ramadan,” one told me.

The other then proceeded to get out of the car and stand beside me. He made a point to brush my shoulder, which gave way to a small shove.

“Hide it in your bag,” he said before letting me go.

I waived him off conveying I understood. I could now add Jordan to the list of countries where I’d piqued the interest of the authorities along with Italy, Israel, and New Zealand.

Perhaps I just thought they could have handled the situation with a bit more grace though I’m not sure how exactly.

Learning and Honoring Customs Abroad

On the way back to my hotel I reminded myself of the importance of respecting the customs and culture of every country I visit and how that reverence should extend to every foreign place, whether it be a mosque, a colleague’s home, or new job.

I was, whether I liked it or not, a sort of ambassador — a representative of my country. It was my responsibility to act with a heightened sense of respect and, equally important, a desire to know how to properly honor the time honored ways of a part of the world I was less versed in.

Another Life

The following day, I hopped in a cab at 6:00 am. Mahmoud was the name of the gentlemen who drove me. He was probably about 70 years old and was kind when he insisted I sit in the front.

We didn’t say much during the 25-minute drive but I felt comfortable in his presence. The impeccably clean Toyota Camry with leather seats and remnants of cigarette smoke took me back to sitting in the back of my uncle’s car during summer visits to Korea.

Mahmoud too might have been an uncle from another life.

We passed security after I was asked where I was from.

“New York,” I said.

“Oh!” he beamed. And waved me through.

I’d knew I’d miss that proclamation when I returned to my native California. Something told me it wouldn’t inspire the same reverence, or open as many doors for that matter.

Moments later, Mahmoud dropped me off and wished me good luck on my journey.

I waved goodbye and made my way hoping I was somehow a better, if not, slightly wiser man for my time in this country.

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Lessons Learned from a Tel Aviv Wedding

One morning during a stay in Israel, I woke up to the ear-splitting sounds of chainsaws and leaf blowers a flight below.

Instead of beginning my day at Pinsker Street like I had the first we days, I rose from a plush sofa on Rut Street; a cozy little avenue nestled behind a plaza that reminded of Thompson Park back in New York.

Not only did the early morning antics provide a startling wake-up call but also the realization that one of my closest friends was now a married man.

The night before marked one of most memorable festivities I’d ever had the good fortune of attending.

I arrived at Rony’s apartment at 2:00 pm sharp, bag in tow, and sweat fiercely dripping down my back. He asked if I could stay at his apartment while he and Ella stayed at the Rothschild Hotel.

Considering his apartment was impeccable it didn’t exactly require twisting my arm to hang my hat there for a night. The cold showers at Pinsker could wait.

On his big day, I walked in his apartment to find an entourage of sorts. Rony, as expected was frantically pacing the room, accumulating many miles but not really getting closer to anything.

Ella looked beautiful as she sat patiently, while stylists worked on her long black hair and photographers snapped away.

I did what I could and offered my services in whatever capacity was needed. In the end, I half-ironed a shirt, helped Rony with a bow tie, and carried his luggage to a car parked near his building.

Eventually, we found ourselves on Rothschild Blvd taking photos and poking fun in our all-too brief time together.

“You’re the equivalent of the best man in a Jewish wedding.” Rony commented.

“I’m feel honored,” I assured him.

Spending time together reminded me of just how good this man was. Despite his world spinning an extra rotation or two he still asked repeatedly if I was enjoying myself.

When your capacity to look out for another human being surpasses the pressing demands of your own life I gather that’s about how truly genuine a person can be.

We arrived early at the venue. The building exterior may not have graced the cover of Architectural Digest but its Tribeca loft like interior certainly did the trick. The entire room was beautifully laid out as a hurried wait staff punched time clocks amid photos, dance rehearsals, and family members slowly filing in.

The ceremony itself was something else. Of course, I didn’t understand a word but it didn’t take being versed in Hebrew to know the prose and tone symbolized the love two young people had for one another.

I stole glances at the two between holding one of the four posts of a makeshift Chuppah.

“You just had a major part in a Jewish wedding my friend,” I heard Rony’s older brother say. “People still come up to me and tell me, I held one of the pillars of the Chuppah at your parents’ wedding!”

I just smiled.

I felt as if I was taking part in something truly significant. As lights flashed, footage on a Canon 5D rolled, and people nudged and clamored for better real estate I felt like a specter who’d floated in to witness a historical event.

We danced for hours to an eclectic mix of traditional Jewish, Hebrew, and Israeli music and eventually the less time-honored vocals of Bruno Mars and Adele.

I marveled at the enormous kindness of everyone. For a moment all was right with the world.

“I’ve heard about you,” I heard a close relative say. Others asked over raucous tunes if this was my first Jewish wedding.

“I’ve been to many Jewish weddings back home,” I said. “But the most I’ve seen in terms of tradition is the groom stepping on a glass and yelling Mazel tov! This is the real thing!” I cried.

Another asked where I was going after Israel. “Probably Egypt,” I said.

“Wow. It takes a lot of courage to do what you’re doing — traveling and soul-searching. Really great.”

In the end, I’d decided to go to Egypt instead of Romania by literally the flip of a coin. Definitely a first world problem, I thought.

As the evening came to a close I saw Rony making certain each party was accounted for. He wanted to know if people had a good time, if they had transportation home, but mostly if everyone was happy.

What a good guy, I thought.

He’ll make a good husband.

How Not Being Yourself Can Come at a Great Cost

During a recent interview at the World Government Summit in Dubai, Tesla and SpaceX Founder Elon Musk was asked what advice he would give to anyone with aspirations of being just like him.  

Musk glanced at the floor as if the answer would reflect itself back in the polished ivory stage he was standing on.

"I think probably people shouldn't want to be me," he said. "I think it sounds better than it is. It's not as much fun being me as you'd think. I'm not sure I want to be me," he concluded.

His candor was repaid. Supportive applause for his vulnerability filled the room. He offered a rare solace and proof that a snapshot of one's life does not constitute as an accurate window into his, or anyone's life. 

I was reminded how a few years before I'd been invited to interview a business leader whose brand was as synonymous with my hometown as pita and hummus. The city was practically cloaked in her company's logo and you'd have been hard pressed to find someone in town unfamiliar with her company.

But when we met for the first time I instantly took note of the heaviness of her gait and the visage of defeat in her eyes. She looked exhausted both physically and spiritually.

When I congratulated her on the success of the company she casually told me she'd shut it all down if she could. 

"I've just got too much invested so I can't," she told me. 

Her life couldn't have been less in harmony with the one I was convinced she was living. 

The truth is, no one really knows what goes on once the curtain drops and stage isn't lit. Yet, we're conditioned to believe one's life is indistinguishable from their latest vacation pics or Facebook post.

But how can we begin to fully appreciate the complexities, contradictions, and nuances of our existence when we focus solely on the display window? We've become more drawn to the marketing of life rather than the herculean sacrifices, failures, and anguish behind those achievements. We seek the accolades and proof of our significance in this world, however fleeting. 

As a result, we often long for someone else's life. We waste far too much time wishing we were someone else. 

What a tragedy when we don't respect and celebrate our oneness. As Irish poet, John O'Donohue notes, when we force ourselves into someone else's mold we betray our individuality. 

Instead, we praise the distinctiveness of people like Steve Jobs, Nelson Mandela, and Marlon Brando, quietly envying their courage for owning who they were meant to be -- the same capacity we ALL have to be ourselves. 

The irony is the most original thing anyone can do is to be themselves. Fiercely. Wholly. Unapologetically. When we do we invite others to do the same.

In time, we become more adept architects of life. We cultivate a heightened sense of self-awareness, conviction, and a confidence that what we do and who we are matters profoundly.

With practice we become less discouraged when our victories are not as widely celebrated as the newest smartphone or rocket launch. We take pride in painting our own canvas. Our contributions to the world, however grand, matter to someone somewhere and that's enough. 

We can still be inspired by the examples and remarkable achievements of the Benjamin Franklin's and Oprah Winfrey's of the world. In fact, we should be. But we can use their influence to illuminate our own sense of self rather then just theirs. The world doesn't need any more archetypes of others but originals of YOU.

In my own quest to claim my sense of identity I often weaved, looped, and zigzagged on paths I thought would take me to self-revelation. But the longer I trekked the further away it all seemed to be. 

Kicking off life in Hong Kong to a mother from Korea and an Italian American father from Brooklyn before moving to Oakland just about assured my take on the world would be a little entangled, whether I liked it or not. 

When my brother and I would stroll down side streets in my mom's native Seoul during summer visits we were ogled as curiosities, a kind of science experiment. 

Back in the States some were equally confused at how I of all people could have a vowel at the end of my last name or Italian blood coursing through my veins. 

And when I embarked on a path towards the least meritocratic and most intolerant industry in the world, I was often met with equal bewilderment. Once, during an audition I decided a character I was playing had a New York accent. The casting director nearly stopped me to say, "When I hear you do the scene it sounds great. But when I look up and see you doing it something doesn't match."

I refrained from sharing the thickest Brooklyn accent I'd ever heard in my life was from a Chinese American actor I knew from Benson Hurst. 

But what all of these experiences taught me was the isolation I often felt was self-imposed. I jumped ship and paddled to that faraway island on my own volition. Perhaps, I liked the solitude and quiet it offered. 

Still, the truth was the remoteness I experienced was just a failure to embrace my own singularity. My ONENESS. I could swim back any time I wanted.

Perhaps, now more than ever we need the dormant and remarkably powerful selves within us to rise up. But it requires conviction and a desire to sidestep the temptation to dress, speak, act, or BE like anyone else however difficult or unglamorous. 

The stakes are high but the rewards unmatched. 

When we awake to the integrity of our OWN imaginations, sensibilities, and strengths we engage and honor life by living it on our own terms rather than the ones expected of us.    

What a Romanian Tour Guide Taught me About Enthusiasm

Last summer while visiting a friend in Bucharest I decided to take Romania’s 2 Most Popular Transylvania Castles in 1 Day Tour.

Quite the hashtag, I thought.

I hopped on the bus at the Romanian Athenaeum, which was thankfully just two blocks from where I was staying.

A Tour Guide Like No Other

My father had always believed tours were a smart way to get acquainted with a new city. I agreed, but there was also something about being confined to a group of wanderers like myself without being able to hit the “eject” button if the urge to amble solo should arise.

The gentlemen who led the tour was named Serban, a 37-year old native of Bucharest. To say he was born to be a tour guide would have been the understatement of understatements.

Serban had a wicked sense of humor and I don’t just mean the parlance lost in translation, which there was a lot of.

He was smart as a whip, kind, and energetic. I half wondered if underneath his shirt there was an IV feeding him Red Bull. He didn’t seem to have an “off” switch, which I suppose served his line of work well.

A Difficult Past

As we made our way through the city center he pointed out interesting historical facts about Bucharest and its people. This led to stories about Nicolae Ceausescu, the former dictator of Romania, and not a nice guy in case you were wondering.

As was often the case when I traveled, both my gratitude for all I had and respect for people’s resiliency were amplified. Romania reminded me that travel should be three-dimensional in its intent; an opportunity to see the world through another’s eyes and hopefully return home with a heightened sense of compassion towards oneself and others.

Curious People

Soon, we made our way beyond the city limits. The shopping malls, roundabouts, and communist era buildings gave way to beautiful, verdant, and nuanced landscape full of dramatic mountains and bright sunflowers.

After making a brief pit stop at a gas station we eventually arrived at Peles Castle; a Neo-Renaissance castle near Sinaia built between 1873 and 1914 by King Carol I as a summer residence.

Serban led our group, which consisted of 11 people. I mainly spoke with a man named Mike, a single 42-year old doctor from Tampa, Florida. He was very affable and equally earnest in his attempt to win over everyone on the bus.

He was the kind of guy you root for. Whatever it was he was looking for by having his passport stamped I hoped he’d find.

There was also a lovely-middle-aged couple from Portugal and a mother and daughter team who’d been in Romania the past week as part of an effort for Habitat for Humanity.

Aside from making a wise crack about the castle at our second stop, I didn’t really get a chance to converse with the other three girls from the States who clearly knew each other. I’ve noticed that even when we venture out there’s still a tendency for us to retreat within.

Traveling is both paradoxical and deeply personal that way.

Storming Two Castles

I have to say, Peles Castle was quite remarkable. The craftsmanship of the wood panels and doors, the lavish adornments, and even the weapon room, which housed over 800 ways to kill someone was something else.

To think this was only a summer home boggled my mind. It was also at this particular abode where Romania skillfully avoided participating in World War I by remaining neutral with the stroke of a pen.

After we bid Peles farewell we headed towards our second stop, Bran Castle, situated on the border of Transylvania and Wallachia and most famous for the inspiration of Bram Stoker’s, Dracula.

As I expected, Serban distilled the myths of the real life Dracula, explaining that yes, there was in fact a Dracula but he was neither a vampire nor had he ever likely stepped foot in the castle.

It was kind of like discovering Santa Claus didn’t exist; a fable dismissed in my own home when I asked my father one Christmas Eve if he thought Saint Nick would care for some milk and cookies.

“I think Santa would rather have a beer,” he said.”

That’s when everything fell into place.

The drive through the mountains and hillsides was beautiful but very windy. As I fought off both a spell of fatigue and nausea I listened as Serban rapped more about life in Romania between stories about his wife and newborn son.

“Romania is not cheap. But it is never expensive either.” It seemed more and more like Romania was the Goldilocks of Eastern Europe; a place full of contradictions but somehow just right.

After a pleasant lunch we exchanged travel tips and stories before making our way to the castle.

“Nobody knows precisely when it was built or by whom. Perhaps it was by peasants, or maybe Ottoman soldiers. My theory is that it is somewhere in the middle, “Serban said. “And most likely 600 years ago.”

This particular edifice was less impressive to me than the first, not that I’d suddenly become a castle aficionado, or worse, a snob. It just didn’t have the same character and backdrop as Peles but it was still quite impressive.

We reached the top after paying our dues through narrow and long corridors that must have been eerie to climb 500 years ago, Dracula or no Dracula.

A pleasant little breeze greeted us when I overheard Serban say, “Romania has the best wind.”

“What does that even mean?” I mumbled.

Postcard of a Town

Our day ended with a stop in Brasov, just twenty minutes from the Bran Castle. This was undoubtedly my favorite stop on the tour. We were each given an hour to wander around this magical city of 250,000 made up of medieval Saxon walls and a Gothic Style black church.

Each nook and cranny seemed to represent a real-life postcard. Serban said that if any of us were 5 minutes late the bus would be forced to leave without us.

I briefly considered taking him up on his offer.

I walked through cobblestoned streets while window-shopping and passing by tourists clinking large mugs of beer. As always, bookstores beckoned and the sirens of delicious sweets tempted but I returned to the bus unscathed.

Farewells

The ride home was quiet for much of the time. Everyone seemed exhausted and delightfully dazed. As the doors of the bus opened back on Franklin Street in Bucharest where our adventure began nearly 12 hours before we said our goodbyes knowing it’d be our first and last.

Coming together in this foreign place to share deeply memorable and even personal experiences with complete strangers only to abruptly part ways seemed a bit odd the more I thought about it.

Still, moving on was unavoidable and I settled for handshakes and well wishes. After all, there was nothing to lament about. It was a good day.

I told Serban how much I admired his enthusiasm and asked him for any parting advice he might have to offer.

“Be very much adaptable,” he said. “This is not a country with rules. And take a chance to use a toilet whenever you have one.”

Strange but sound advice.

Capacity for Growth

Your capacity for growth is in direct proportion to your desire for growth. I love what Irish poet, John O'Donohue says about the importance of devotedly interacting with each of our days.

"When you are faithful to the risk and ambivalence of growth, you are engaging with life."

He goes on to say the soul loves risk. 

The only way we grow is by first understanding the need to. To strive towards our vision of the world rather then merely keep it tucked away in the chambers of our soul where it never rises above theory.

Why We Need Storytellers Now More than Ever

We need storytellers today more than ever. It seems tolerance has been abandoned out of fear, spirited debate muddied into inflexible waters, and the unfamiliar interpreted as inadequate.

Telling truthful stories demands a rare and delicate vulnerability that encourages questions, introspection, and compassion.

We’ve lost patience with one another, swapped community for touchscreens, starved real connection, and misinterpreted hearing with true listening.

To listen to someone, TRULY listen, is to show a reverence for their soul. We’re saying you MATTER to me.

We tell stories because they inform us about the people who came before — how they thought, felt, and loved.

We tell stories to inform us of who we were and more importantly who we can still become.

We tell stories to ease our loneliness. To remind ourselves that we belong. That no matter what we’re going through someone somewhere understands.

The Importance of Knowing Your Values

Do you know what your values are? How you adopted them? Who influenced them? Why they're important to you?

I've discovered whenever a choice doesn't sit well with me it means it's not in harmony with my core values. In other words, the possible outcome is not congruent with the way I want to live my life.

So instead of making a choice blindly it helps to know what my values are beforehand so I can act in accordance with the person I ultimately want to become.

Why it's Okay to Be Multi-Passionate

When I was 9 years old all I wanted to be was a professional baseball player. I wore my batting gloves in the house, could mimic the batting stances of all my favorite players, and went to watch my hometown team play almost religiously.

Then about a year or so later I heard myself tell a classmate I wanted to be a photojournalist. I'm quite sure I didn't know a thing about what being one entailed but remember being captivated by a photograph taken by the same person who wrote the article about it. That's what I want to do, I thought.

But the most prevailing theme throughout my life, at least professionally, has been the desire to become a professional storyteller - an actor. I wanted more than anything to be on the big screen and make audience members feel the same way my favorite stars had made me feel; full of hope and possibility.

So you can imagine my dismay when just a few years out of drama school I started reaching for the biographies of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Bobby Kennedy rather than Marlon Brando and James Dean as I ambled through the aisles of the last remaining book stores.

I was equally excited as I was disheartened by the sudden shift in what I loved most. I struggled to find the value in standing on a stage, while pouring out my soul unsure if the words I spoke resonated with the audience or if they even cared to find out.

Long gone were the days when I felt a monologue of mine could wake the world from its stupor of ambivalence and instead encourage them to descend the depths of their being to see how they could see, hear, contribute, and ultimately BE more.

At 34 years old I was likely the oldest intern in history. I took my marching orders from someone nearly half my age who probably took quiet solace she was neither approaching middle age or nearly as confused about her path as I was. 

I tried earnestly to make a difference, however small, to an Assembly Member I greatly admired.

But not long after the experience I felt my soul's heavy pendulum swing back to my love, or rather need, to tell stories. "You were meant to do this," I heard over and over. Crunching numbers and power lunches were as foreign to me as a Shakespeare sonnet was for others.

There was an aptitude, an ease for living the lives of others I saw but failed to appreciate didn't come as naturally to others. I suppose it came from the years of hard work I put into getting better, but also from the unteachable qualities we all have in some form. For better or worse my delicate relationship with the world afforded me a heightened sensitivity and compassion for the world I spent much of my life afraid of. 

But I couldn't deny the fact it made being an actor much easier.

As the years went on I studied productivity experts and people I admired who reached great heights in their fields. Their advice was sound but often predictable. The words "passion" and "focus" would often ring in my ears as I found myself mouthing the words with them.

But it seemed none had wrestled with the same angst I had -- the restlessness that accompanies being passionate about multiple things. It was discussed as rarely as politics or religion at the dinner table and had nearly the same stigma.

It seemed strange to most people that one's heart could be equally set on exploring two or more pursuits.

The isolation I felt only amplified until I decided to do something about it around 2009. I began to look outside myself for the first time in a long time. I became so exhausted from the sound of my own voice and trying to figure out what I needed I thought it was about time I ask the same question of others.

The moment I decided to listen more than I spoke and express greater reverence for the presence of others I deepened my understanding of the hardships people all around me were experiencing. Slowly, I began to wake from my slumber.

Before I knew it my passport looked like a collage collecting colorful stamps from the likes of Haiti, Nepal, and South Africa. I spent time with children who would never know their parents. I helped build a home for a family and tried earnestly to teach kids computer literacy skills while they pretended not to know more than I ever would about coding. 

All these experiences did two things:

First, they made me a much better actor. My sense of self-awareness elevated but more importantly I began to operate my life from a place of humility at all I did not know and likely never would.

Second, I realized as much turmoil being multi-passionate seemed to stir within me it was ultimately a gift. It extended a flexibility in thinking a singular pursuit a straight path simply could not offer.

Each bend, every fork in the road, and all the unchartered strolls informed the previous ones and made me better not just at my craft but at life. 

My training as an actor improved my ability to listen, really listen, as a former gang member I was mentoring poured out his soul in the last row of a quiet church.

My time in City Hall gave me a first hand account of the complexities and nuances that are part of running a major city. I now had greater appreciation for the difficult job public officials who are often written off have each day.

My desire to travel and explore the world alone taught me the difference between loneliness and solitude. I learned how one is about isolation - a poignant sense of separation, while the other is an invitation to return home to yourself and find the courage to explore the parts that make you whole.

By not limiting myself or attempting to dupe my heart into some conventional path it knew better than to follow, I allowed myself to take a little bit from each experience and lean into the intricacies of my being. 

I am not defined by one thing. I am not defined by any thing. I follow where my heart and curiosity beg me to consider. I pursue each path as wholly as I can while not exhausting the possibility of doing the same for another.

And when that voice screams, "Pick one thing already!" I allow that sublime unrest to pass through before courageously following the next opportunity equally worth my attention. 

Unfamiliar Does Not Mean Inadequate

The unfamiliar does not mean inadequate. The deepest parts of ourselves may feel that way because we've yet to venture to the depths of what make us whole. 

It requires a curiosity, commitment, a rare type of introspection, and a faith that all we need for the journey ahead is somehow already within us.

What a Little City in Portugal Taught Me About Music and Changing the World

A few months back while visiting Coimbra, Portugal I ambled past a packed little concert hall one evening. Tourists were slowly filing into an auditorium nestled in the hills before a Fado performance.

The History of Fado Music

Fado music is a staple around these parts; a unique style of traditional Portuguese music originating from nighttime serenades from university students on the cobbled streets of one of Portugal’s most precious gems.

Nobody knows exactly where it came from. Some believe it was the students from Brazil who came to Portugal to attend university around the 1860s. Others credit their fellow countrymen, the ones who moseyed up north from Lisbon.

But like anything that defines a place it matters much less whose idea it was than its ability to unite a group of people.

Emerson Would Approve

Coimbra is a magical place full of young people with lofty dreams. There’s a buoyancy in their step among the fallen leaves and heavy bags replete with books. The university rests atop a hill overlooking houses, cafes, storefronts, and 11th century basilicas.

I took a stroll through the Cathedral of Coimbra which dates back to the Visigothic period. The cloister one story above offered some peace, mostly quiet, and a moment to daydream about those who walked the same path some 900 years earlier.

Not long after I found myself in the Botanic Garden of the University of Coimbra, created in 1772. It’s 13 hectares and collection of living plants that once helped teach medical sciences were good enough to land it a spot on the UNESCO World Heritage List.

I wondered how many college kids from the school a stone’s throw away discovered themselves in this place, while weaving in and around the carefully groomed dirt paths. Maybe they found themselves here after failing an exam, a breakup, or wrestling with an uncertain future.

How many found a fleeting moment of solace as Emerson might have near a pond or against a tree with nothing more than their thoughts and a notebook?

Of course, I reflected on my own college days and how much I’d changed, and of course, how much I hadn’t. Each analysis surprised me in unique ways.

Older Doesn’t Always Mean Wiser

Obviously I’m older now, more self-aware, and I like to think wiser. The only of those three that is guaranteed is the most former so I do take some pride in the work I’ve put into becoming a better human being.

What hasn’t changed though is my passion for being alive, the romantic relationship I still have with the world (for better or worse), my propensity towards introspection, which may have deepened to a fault, and finally, the same melancholy that follows me from continent to continent like a shadow long after the sun as set.

It’s a wistfulness I’ve been told can be seen in my eyes. It’s not something I deem a fault by any stretch.

In fact, I think melancholy is a wiser, more informed, and optimistic type of sadness that isn’t even all together sad. It just is. It can even lead to greater consciousness and a heightened sense of compassion for others and the world if you allow it to.

Where Did Those School Days Go?

The next day I navigated my way through streets with melodic names like Sa Da Bandeira and Rua de Tomar. If yesterday, I walked through the heart of the city today I walked into its soul.

For the first time in a long time I longed for my own school days as cafes brimmed with young people casually smoking cigarettes, while nursing espressos. Many animatedly moved their hands around over topics that looked and felt as serious as the Cuban Missile Crisis. I suppose one day they may or may not laugh at how trivial it all really was.

A Second Chance for Fado

After my trip down memory lane I made a promise to myself I’d check out the fado performance I pretended to not be interested in the evening before. At 5:34 pm I raced from my apartment to buy a ticket. I ran into the concert hall as if I’d been chased by a pack of crazed wolves.

“Are there still tickets available for tonight?” I asked like a school boy.

“Yes,” the young woman smiled, surprised by my earnestness.

I sat in the back row as four musicians rotated on stage. For the next hour they serenaded us with music dating back 160 years. College students would use their musical chops to court the young women they were in love with just below their living quarters. If she was moved by the music and hopefully the suitor, she’d flip her lights off and on 3 times.

I wondered briefly if such an act of earnest romance could be done today without a girl falling into a fit of laughter, or worse cynicism.

The performance itself was quite beautiful. It was a perfect end to my stay in Coimbra; a city whose name I realized I’ve been butchering for 3 days. (pronounced Queem-bra) The audience also seemed to approve as the constant photo-snapping and prohibited video recording provided testament.

A video played throughout the performance with black and white footage of college students singing in what must have been the 1960s. Giant crowds of people would gather on the steps of 800-year old basilicas and pack town squares to listen, undistracted, to the words of these beautiful crooners.

For a moment I felt envious and even longed for a past that wasn’t my own.

The Power of Expression

I also admired how the music was used as an effective tool for speaking out against the dictatorship of Antonio de Oliveira Salazar.

Music, like all art at its best, has the power to stir, shape, and lead movements. And though it didn’t start that way, it ultimately became why acting was so important to me. I believed in my heart of hearts I could change the world with a monologue, a great performance, and a lifelong commitment to my craft.

I suppose I still believe as much otherwise I wouldn’t be writing.