Musings on Friendship

“Don’t walk behind me; I may not lead. Don’t walk in front of me; I may not follow. Just walk beside me and be my friend.” — Albert Camus

Last weekend an old friend came to see me.

May be able to visit this weekend or next, read the text.

The two of us met in college when the world seemed a far stranger and more delicate place.

Together we stumbled through four central New York winters, unruly roommates, and wrestled with a youth that seemed full of opportunity yet viciously fleeting.

In sharing those ups, downs, but mostly in-betweens, I like to think we helped one another cultivate some character, and even a bit of grit.

So it confused me when my first reaction to his text was one of uneasiness.

But why? I wondered.

I’d finally invested in some furniture after 6 months of living like a hermit, so it wasn’t the lack of furnishings that troubled me.

I didn’t have anything pressing to do over the weekend so it wasn’t about negating some to-do list.

And not only had the two of us not seen each other in months, but we were always better off when we did.

What was my problem?

I finally figured out his company was a threat to my solitude. My “me time” would be shelved, my musings voiced, and my frailties have to be exposed.

In all my isolated strolls, meanderings through book stores, and sitting alone in empty movie houses, I failed to question whether too much seclusion was a bad thing.

Thankfully, my friend seemed hellbent on visiting. And so early Saturday morning he hopped on a plane and made his way north.

When I pulled up to the arrival curb I saw that familiar lanky frame I’d first crossed paths with in a Syracuse University dormitory. Some things had changed like a few inches on the belt line, and maybe a few grays peppered in his once black mane.

But some things hadn’t like the aloofness I saw in full form as he stared blankly into his touchscreen without noticing I’d pulled the car up to where he was standing.

He’d make a terrible criminal, I thought.

When I hopped out to greet him something familiar happened; a smile spread wide across my face.

I was happy to see my friend. In fact, the moment he jumped in the passenger seat I realized I needed to.

For the next several hours we walked what felt like the span of the Sudan. We took a long stroll around the lake before making our way to the redwoods. Strangely, neither our feet nor one another’s company grew stale.

We talked easily as we always had but this time instead of bemoaning some girl, an exam, or worrying about what life after college entailed we spoke of dreams, both broken and realized, the difficulties of sharing your life with someone, and aging parents.

There were also plenty of moments of quiet. We walked long stretches without uttering a word, taking solace in how silence could actually deepen one’s appreciation for one another rather than stifle it.

That evening, I played tourist in my hometown as I joined him at a restaurant that was both wildly popular and somehow a stone’s throw from my apartment; two things I didn’t know until he arrived.

“You down to see a movie?” I asked.

“Sure!” he beamed as if he’d been told he won a sweepstake. Maybe he had in some small way.

As much as he loved his wife and being a father, I could tell even a respite from the ones we love most needs to be put on the calendar from time to time.

We arrived at the theater early, catching the last few acts of a talent show before the film. When the movie finally started, I could tell it was the first time in a long time he’d finally allowed himself to relax.

True friendship I realized, is an invitation to be our most authentic selves without fear of ridicule or reprisal.

I thought back on all the times in my own life where the darkness seemed to loom as far as the eye could see. Invariably the light, however slight, was ushered in by a friend; someone who’d stuck by my side not despite my frailties, but in some perverse way, because of them.

I remember phoning a buddy incessantly after a romantic relationship of mine had failed. I called at all hours of the day even though I knew he had his own problems, that he was also trying to get his footing in the world, and that when I called he was usually tired after a long day of work.

Still, he picked up every single call.

He’d listen to me rehash the same thing over and over without judgment or haste. And when he finally spoke he knew just the right thing to say…

“I know you’re having a tough time right now but in order to know great joy in life we must also know great pain.”

Shortly after that I started to get back on my feet.

When it was finally time for my friend to head back home he thanked me for my hospitality. Strangely, I felt it was me who needed to thank him.

We both silently knew it’d be some time before our paths would cross, and when they did it would unlikely be as unfettered as the day we’d just spent. The busyness of life would once again take hold drowning out any semblance of quiet clarity.

Still, we had a day to be reminded that true friendship is another form of brotherhood, of sisterhood — of family.

That in its truest form, friendship is the most reliable and unwavering form of love.

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The Importance of Talking to Strangers

A year ago I found myself in Ljubljana, Slovenia of all places. As I approached a busy intersection, I asked a young woman on a white Vespa what I could expect to see if I kept walking. 

“Not much,” she said. “How long have you been here?” she asked. 

“A few hours,” I explained. 

“You’ve probably already seen everything,” she said, as I laughed. “I can show you around if you like.” 

Her name was Nina and she was a 26-year old teacher originally from a neighboring town. She had a beautiful abandonment of heart, a love of life that is a common hallmark of youth but hers was different. I sensed it would remain with her for the rest of her life. She reverberated with life almost as loud as her white scooter as we sped down narrow streets.

I told her how the last time I was on the back of a stranger’s scooter was while living in Shanghai as an English teacher. I was returning home from the bars on Maoming Lu one evening, watching the cab’s meter carefully, planning to be let off just before the fair exceeded the coins in my pocket. When I was finally dropped off I still had a mile and half to go at nearly 3:00 in the morning.

I noticed a man about to get on his motorcycle and somehow communicated I needed a ride. He rubbed his fingers together indicating money, I pointed to my fake Rolex watch, he gestured back to the bike and off we went. 

Never was so much said in so few words.

There I was, a 24-year old punk kid, riding on the back of a stranger’s motorcycle in one of the world’s greatest cities just a few hours before the sun would rise. And now, over a decade later I’d come nearly full circle.

We zipped past buildings and parks that Nina admittedly had very little knowledge of. “I can’t really tell you what these places are,” she shouted back to me. We made conversation, alternating which side to scream back to one another as we moved nimbly through traffic. 

Soon we found a spot just outside the Gallery of Modern Art. We sat across from each other and spoke spiritedly about Haruki Murakami, Maslow, travel, relationships, and what I could not miss before I left.

She also mentioned that Slovenians were not a patriotic people echoing exactly what Jurij had told me in the apartment just a few hours before. We don’t have that problem, I thought.

Soon it was time for Nina to run some errands. We agreed to meet up later in the evening. She wanted to introduce me to some of her friends and I suggested bringing Jurij along as well. We hugged as I thanked her for her kindness and generosity. 

“No problem,” she said as she put on her shiny white helmet. “You should always talk to strangers,” she said. 

I was sure glad I had.

A Few Quick Thoughts on Happiness for 2018

I once heard an actor I admired reveal in an interview how he thought happiness was overrated. I remember the journalist sitting across from him nearly collapse, as he sat awestruck by the proclamation. 
   
But in some perverse way I actually understood where the guy was coming from. 

From Socrates to Freud, the remarkably elusive emotional state of well-being has been poked, prodded, and dissected for literally thousands of years. What is happiness and how do we all get more of it?

The most poignant observation of happiness I've heard in recent memory came from author and TV host, Rabbi Shmuley who said, "Happiness is a byproduct of living a life of meaning." 

In other words, happiness is not something you can actively pursue but rather the result of doing work YOU believe to be worthwhile.

Whatever your theory on attaining more mental contentment can we call agree there are a few vital ingredients to happiness?

Lucky for us, the ancient Greek Philosopher Epicurus thought so. 

Epicurus was born on the Greek island of Samos, roughly 270 miles from Athens. Perhaps best known for giving us words like, wait for it, "Epicurean," which refers to a person devoted exclusively to pleasure, the philosopher was also known for establishing schools and contributing his prolific doctrines on hedonism, pleasure, and materialism. 

But what did his philosophy entail exactly and is it accurate, or even fair to link Epicurus with only sensuality and self-indulgence? 

Or was there more to it?   

Unlike Socrates, whose main pursuits lied in uncovering the sturdy tenets of logic and sound argument, Epicurus's feelings on happiness evolved into appreciating something many of us already have but tend to overlook.

As Alain de Botton points out in, Consolations of Philosophy Epicurus valued the following above all else:

1. Friendship

2. Freedom

3. Thought

"Wealth is of course unlikely to ever make anyone miserable. But the crux of Epicurus's argument is that if we have money without friends, freedom and an analyzed life, we will never be truly happy. And if we have them, but are missing the fortune, we will never be unhappy."

Unfortunately, marketing, television, and even the circles we choose to surround ourselves with don't help a great deal in promoting those simple treasures. 

Instead, we believe material possessions to be valid solutions to wants we don't fully comprehend. 

In other words, we fail to understand our complexity, our delicate subtleties and as result look outside rather than in. 

Start 2018 by looking closer to the friends, freedom, and capacity for resourceful thought already at your fingertips.

Make Time for Friends

"buds. bros. are either of you guys around on Tuesday around noon and interested in a brunch / lunch? I'm flying up for a quick trip to see my family."

It only been a few weeks since I'd seen my friend Alex but as the years went our paths crossed less and less. After high school he went to Boston as I headed to Syracuse. 

When we graduated from college he moved to New York and I stayed back in Northern California.

When I finally decided to make the leap and move back east for the second time in my relatively young life he moved back to California. For years, he zigged when I zagged. We crisscrossed the country and along the way developed a talent for missing one another.

Spending time together became such a rarity that any chance to meet up, even if briefly, became almost sacrosanct.

Yesterday, he and I decided to meet up with our other close friend, Billy. The three of us took a table by the window of a popular breakfast house nestled in a now trendy part of town. 

We talked about the past, future, and everything in-between. 

As I get older, I'm always reminded of two things when spending time with close friends:

1. How important it is
2. How much time I spend alone

The truth is, most of my endeavors have lent itself to a consummate sense of solitude. Whether as an actor, writer, or entrepreneur all paths are remarkably solo endeavors.

As a result, it's easy to fall into a rhythm, or worse a sense of comfort in such isolation. The greater danger is how the seemingly infinite ways to contact our friends and family can make it seem like we're actually connecting.

Making the extra effort to meet a friend for a meal, a walk, or a cup of coffee at least twice a week will do wonders for your morale, sense of gratitude and community, and even your productivity. 

Even better, you'll be less likely to look back on your life one day wishing you'd spent more time with the people that meant the most to you.   

Friendship

I listen to a podcast called, On Being with Krista Tippett. On a recent episode she replayed an interview with very interesting man named, John O'Donohue, an Irish poet, philosopher, and former priest. 

Tippett's interview with O'Donohue was one of the last he gave before his unexpected death in 2008.  

I found part of the interview particularly interesting as I'd been reflecting a great deal on the relationships in my own life. Specifically, how they evolve and grow over time. I perked up when I heard Tippet ask if our generation is less capable of love, commitment, and meaningful relationships to which O'Donohue responded by saying the following:

I don’t think we’re less capable at all. I think we’re more unpracticed at it and there for more desperate for it. I think it’s a matter of attention really. That if you really knew how vital to your whole spirit and being and character and mind and health friendship actually is you will take time for it.

The trouble is for so many of us that we have to be in trouble before we remember what’s essential... you hold desperately to things that make you miserable. And that sometimes you only realize what you have when you're almost about to lose it.

I think it’d be great to step back a little at one’s life and see around -- who are those who hold me dear? Who truly see me? And those that I need? And to be able to go to them in a different way.

What I Learned from Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons

I spent several years as a casting reader for Jersey Boys, the hit-musical about the formation, success, and highs and lows of the 1960s rock'n roll group, The Four Seasons. As a reader I had the chance to read with some of New York's most talented actors. I often sat in awe as they belted out tunes like December 1963 and Sherry. 

I'd been a reader for the production so long I got to the point where I often didn't even need to glance at the script while performing. Over time, I also began to appreciate the broader themes of the play on a deeper level. Topics like how jealousy corrupts, the importance of friendship, and how commercial success doesn't always equate to personal happiness began to really resonate with me.

One line in particular sticks with me to this day. It comes towards the end of the play when members of the Four Seasons look back on how the group first came together. Despite all the money they made and the notoriety they gained they still long for those simpler days when they didn't have a dime and everything was out in front.

"Just four guys under a street lamp. That was the best."

As I look back on my career as an actor the moments that stick out the most were performing in little black box theaters in the East Village in front of 10 people and rehearsing A Doll's House in a cramped corridor with my scene partner while at grad school. Those were my "street lamps."

Someday, you'll miss the very moments you're trying to speed through. Enjoy the process and try not to rush it. Trust me, it goes by fast enough on its own.