I begin this post with a story that's not necessarily relevant in and of itself, but it's kind of fun, and it sets up everything else. Back in 2010, my wife and I got suckered into watching the season premiere of The Bachelorette, Season 6. Now, while I like certain reality TV shows (Survivor and The Amazing Race continue to be compelling), I've never been a big fan of the Bachelor/Bachelorette series. There's something almost tawdry about this idea of a bunch of men competing for the affections of one woman, as is the case in The Bachelorette (the opposite scenario is staged for The Bachelor). It creates a zero sum world where said woman is characterized as such an amazing catch that all the other options are removed from the equation, and a bunch of nice but often vapid young men are obliged to fight for her affections rather than exploring their many alternatives.
I mean, dig it: When I met my wife, I had to compete with a couple of other men, and I welcomed it ... but if there had been 30 other guys in the mix, I might have thrown up my hands and said, "Who needs the exercise?" As such, this series often deteriorates into a sideshow of sorts, with some competitors resorting to freakish behavior to win (at least that was the case when ESPN analyst Jesse Palmer was The Bachelor).
Still, I settled in for The Bachelorette, Season 6, and damned if I wasn't hooked on the geek show from the get-go. The first episode was kind of fun anyway. The bachelorette in question, Ali Fedotowsky, is sequestered in an isolated villa near Los Angeles like one of the peasant victims in Pasolini's Saló. She is joined by 30 or so men, a number she whittles down to about 15 or 20 in the first hour. The way some of these clowns postured for Ali was hilarious, but there were a few jewels in the crowd, intelligent gentlemen who made real connections with Ali.
Well, I watched the whole season, if you didn't watch it yourselve you can read all about it on Wikipedia. Like most reality TV, I soon forgot about The Bachelorette despite its rather interesting carnival acts (like Justin the wannabe pro wrestler and Casey the sensitive pseudo-poet who got a rose tattoo on his wrist). Reality TV is like McDonald's, you realize. It's kind of tasty and fills you up, but it doesn't linger on your palate. Other forms of entertainment are like an exceptional meal at a Paris café, but not The Bachelorette. Apologies to all involved.
Flashforward two years to the summer of 2012, and I'm up in Burbank for an afternoon, participating in The Great American Pitchfest. The Pitchfest is an arena where screenwriters can pitch their ideas to representatives from various production companies and other industry professionals. I've been to a few of these before, gotten bites on some of my work, and made some outstanding friends, so I've always found the process to be well worth the entry fee. So there I was, walking about the premises, considering which of the 150 or so companies I wanted to pitch to next ... and there in the crowd is one of the four finalists from The Bachelorette, Season 6--Frank Neuschaefer (pictured above).
I recognized Frank at once, which says something given how forgettable the show is. Frank was one of the stand-out personalities of Season 6, a smart, sensitive guy who seemed to be Ali's soulmate until what appeared to be a late-season crisis of conscience that compelled him to quit the show. He was unfairly painted as a villain by reality TV blogs everywhere, which is why he's kind of hard to forget, plus he's got really cool glasses.
Naturally, I went up to introduce myself, thinking I'd grab a quick photo to email to my wife and stepdaughter (and I got that photo, by the way, but I won't post it here; I'm frowning in the photo for some reason, making my jowls seem saggy, and when standing next to a handsome guy like Frank I come off looking like Ernest Borgnine). Afterward, we started talking. Frank, of course, was at the Pitchfest for the very same reason I was; he's an aspiring writer with solid ideas to pitch. The more we talked, the more I realized how much we have in common. We both share a passion for writing, almost maddeningly so, and when Frank told me that the thought of doing anything other than writing was depressing to him, I nodded in agreement.
Later, we got to talking philosophy, about matters of the intellect and spirit, and that's when Frank shared something that has stayed with me these months since. He had apparently been reading about some great philosopher who had aspired to live a world without want, without any attachment to earthly possessions. It was exciting watching Frank's eyes light up as he shared this, and it reminded me of the many moments I've had teaching when a younger student grasps the work of a one of my favorite authors. "It was fascinating," Frank explained. "This man actually aspired to be in such a state that if his city was burning, he could stand up and walk out of the fire needing only his robe and his walking staff."
What Frank was describing was someone who had become what I call a God-fool. I take this term from the book God's Fool by George N. Patterson. Patterson actually lived in such away, as a God-fool, by giving away all of his money and earthly goods save a couple of changes of clothes and then trusting solely on God to provide and lead him. It's a powerful book, and although Patterson's prose can get a bit condescending, its still worth the read.
My conversation with reality star Frank Neuschaefer was a mere three months ago, almost to the date. It's almost surreal in hindsight: consider Matt Krause, a silver-haired leaping gnome, having a deep metaphysical conversation with a dreamy reality star about the bliss of aspiring to be God-fools. A lot has happened since then. I've written Frank a couple of times, and he promptly writes back, and although we both have that common bond in our love of the written word, I haven't had the time to sustain a real correspondence with him.
Still, I was reminded of my conversation with Frank a couple of days ago while visiting the hospital where my Dad still resides in questionable health. This reminder was so powerful in its serendipity that I have to share another tale.
My father is not well; I've made that abundantly clear. At this writing, when I visit him he jolts and jerks in and out of consciousness in his hospital bed, in a state of delirium from his rapid-fire rollercoaster ride between reality and dream. He is disoriented, frustrated, and often gruff. Two days ago, when I visited him by myself, was no exception. It was tragic to see, depressing, and as I fought back the urge to cry, I went looking for a quiet place to meditate alone. First I went to the tiny chapel on the 5th floor, but there were people in there. I considered the public bathroom next my father's room, but it is a single unisex that usually has a line of two or three people waiting for it.
So I wandered about the hospital, taking the elevator from floor to floor, just moving, moving, moving, as if running from my grief and stress. Finally, on the 2nd floor in the wing that connects the main building to the parking garage, I found a bathroom that no one was using. I went inside. It had a stall and a urinal, so I went into the stall, locked it, and prayed. Very strange, praying alone on a toilet I wasn't actually using ... but hear me out.
I'm not sure what I was asking of my Higher Power. All I know is I was afraid and confused. I needed guidance. I needed help. And just then, the door to the bathroom opened, and a man's rich voice filled the air:
"Some enchanted evening," he sang in perfect pitch. "You may see a stranger." He stepped up to the urinal, and I heard him unzip his pants. "You may see a stranger ... across a crowded room."
It was one of the most uncomfortable moments I've had in awhile, and yet there was so much joy in his voice, singing this classic showtune as he urinated, that I got caught up in the moment. My mouth opened without me thinking about it, and suddenly I was singing too: "And somehow you know, you know even then ..."
I heard the man laughing. "I love that song!"
I came out to wash my hands just as he too was arriving at the adjascent sink, and after finishing the first stanza of "Some Enchanged Evening" together we introduced ourselves. His name was Terry, a retired obstetrician who now serves as a volunteer counselor at the hospital, and we spent the next five minutes talking about music and showtunes. Minutes later, when I stepped out into the hall with him, he looked at me and said, "So ... what's your story? Why are you here?"
I told him about my father. He nodded. He shared with me that he had lost his wife to cancer, and it had been painful to come to the hospital every day and watch her slowly die. "It sounds like your father is not there yet," he said. "Even now, there is hope, no?"
I agreed there was hope.
"Let me tell you about St. Ignatius of Antioch," he said. "Every day, before I go to work, I go to the chapel and read one of his meditations, and then I meditate on them myself."
That seemed pretty cool, and I asked him to tell me more.
"St. Ignatius believed we are on this earth to honor God, with words, with thoughts, with actions," said Terry. "All the things of the earth are here for our use. But we cannot keep them. Someday, we will all die and must leave them behind, which is why true happiness is found in indifference to them."
That word jumped out at me. Indifference. Indifference was what Frank Neuschaefer was describing in his story of the philosopher, an indifference to possessions so profound that when his city burned, the great thinker could walk out with nothing more than a robe and a walking staff. Indifference. What a powerful albeit unsettling concept.
"We are to live without preference," said Terry. "We are not to prefer health over sickness, wealth over poverty, companionship over aloneness. We honor God by the way we live and treat others. To the things of this earth left for our use, we are to remain indifferent. "
That was a brick in the head. No preference to health over sickness? That kind of sucked in light of what my father was going through. And yet, it made sense. If any or all of us were to use our lives in the service of others, what would things like health or wealth matter? The crazy thing is, I know this to be true, no matter how hard I have wanted to resist it. Indifference is indeed bliss, for I have experienced moments of meditation where I had actually achieved such a state ... and when I did, it seemed that everything I had previously desired came to me in spades.
I have often told the story of the years of solitude after a particularly painful break-up. I used to sit alone in my tiny apartment, praying, meditating, wishing I had a companion with whom I could share my life. I prayed and prayed, and that companion never came, and finally, I gave up. One Sunday afternoon, I reached a profound state of indifference and spoke aloud to my Higher Power: "If you want me to be alone for the rest of my life, I will be alone. It's your call, I accept it, and I'm good with it." And I was good. I was truly indifferent to my previous fears of living without a friend or dying without a witness.
The very next day after I said that prayer--the very next day--I met my the woman who is now my wife.
That afternoon two days ago in the hospital, I found the strength to face another day, to look upon my father's health with indifference. As harsh as that sounds, what it really means is that I have no power over my father's health. He will progress or deteriorate as he will, and the best I can do is honor this Higher Power of mine by being the best son to my father I can be. I am not indifferent to my father, but I can be indifferent to his condition. I can refuse to let his delirious state have any power of me. Like George N. Patterson, I can choose to be a God-fool. It sounds crazy, but it's actually kind of liberating. After all, "God's fool" is a title often attributed to another great Saint, perhaps the most well-known Saint in the world--St. Francis of Assisi.
That day at the Pitchfest, Frank Neuschaefer described a great thinker who was truly free. I'm sure it's no coincidence that the name Frank means free, as does the name Francis (as in St. Francis of Assisi, the original God-fool). Oh, and in case I didn't mention it, the name of the hospital where my father is staying is ... Via Christi St. Francis.
Time to write that church hymn set to the tune of The Twilight Zone theme.
I recognized Frank at once, which says something given how forgettable the show is. Frank was one of the stand-out personalities of Season 6, a smart, sensitive guy who seemed to be Ali's soulmate until what appeared to be a late-season crisis of conscience that compelled him to quit the show. He was unfairly painted as a villain by reality TV blogs everywhere, which is why he's kind of hard to forget, plus he's got really cool glasses.
Naturally, I went up to introduce myself, thinking I'd grab a quick photo to email to my wife and stepdaughter (and I got that photo, by the way, but I won't post it here; I'm frowning in the photo for some reason, making my jowls seem saggy, and when standing next to a handsome guy like Frank I come off looking like Ernest Borgnine). Afterward, we started talking. Frank, of course, was at the Pitchfest for the very same reason I was; he's an aspiring writer with solid ideas to pitch. The more we talked, the more I realized how much we have in common. We both share a passion for writing, almost maddeningly so, and when Frank told me that the thought of doing anything other than writing was depressing to him, I nodded in agreement.
Later, we got to talking philosophy, about matters of the intellect and spirit, and that's when Frank shared something that has stayed with me these months since. He had apparently been reading about some great philosopher who had aspired to live a world without want, without any attachment to earthly possessions. It was exciting watching Frank's eyes light up as he shared this, and it reminded me of the many moments I've had teaching when a younger student grasps the work of a one of my favorite authors. "It was fascinating," Frank explained. "This man actually aspired to be in such a state that if his city was burning, he could stand up and walk out of the fire needing only his robe and his walking staff."
What Frank was describing was someone who had become what I call a God-fool. I take this term from the book God's Fool by George N. Patterson. Patterson actually lived in such away, as a God-fool, by giving away all of his money and earthly goods save a couple of changes of clothes and then trusting solely on God to provide and lead him. It's a powerful book, and although Patterson's prose can get a bit condescending, its still worth the read.
My conversation with reality star Frank Neuschaefer was a mere three months ago, almost to the date. It's almost surreal in hindsight: consider Matt Krause, a silver-haired leaping gnome, having a deep metaphysical conversation with a dreamy reality star about the bliss of aspiring to be God-fools. A lot has happened since then. I've written Frank a couple of times, and he promptly writes back, and although we both have that common bond in our love of the written word, I haven't had the time to sustain a real correspondence with him.
Still, I was reminded of my conversation with Frank a couple of days ago while visiting the hospital where my Dad still resides in questionable health. This reminder was so powerful in its serendipity that I have to share another tale.
My father is not well; I've made that abundantly clear. At this writing, when I visit him he jolts and jerks in and out of consciousness in his hospital bed, in a state of delirium from his rapid-fire rollercoaster ride between reality and dream. He is disoriented, frustrated, and often gruff. Two days ago, when I visited him by myself, was no exception. It was tragic to see, depressing, and as I fought back the urge to cry, I went looking for a quiet place to meditate alone. First I went to the tiny chapel on the 5th floor, but there were people in there. I considered the public bathroom next my father's room, but it is a single unisex that usually has a line of two or three people waiting for it.
So I wandered about the hospital, taking the elevator from floor to floor, just moving, moving, moving, as if running from my grief and stress. Finally, on the 2nd floor in the wing that connects the main building to the parking garage, I found a bathroom that no one was using. I went inside. It had a stall and a urinal, so I went into the stall, locked it, and prayed. Very strange, praying alone on a toilet I wasn't actually using ... but hear me out.
I'm not sure what I was asking of my Higher Power. All I know is I was afraid and confused. I needed guidance. I needed help. And just then, the door to the bathroom opened, and a man's rich voice filled the air:
"Some enchanted evening," he sang in perfect pitch. "You may see a stranger." He stepped up to the urinal, and I heard him unzip his pants. "You may see a stranger ... across a crowded room."
It was one of the most uncomfortable moments I've had in awhile, and yet there was so much joy in his voice, singing this classic showtune as he urinated, that I got caught up in the moment. My mouth opened without me thinking about it, and suddenly I was singing too: "And somehow you know, you know even then ..."
I heard the man laughing. "I love that song!"
I came out to wash my hands just as he too was arriving at the adjascent sink, and after finishing the first stanza of "Some Enchanged Evening" together we introduced ourselves. His name was Terry, a retired obstetrician who now serves as a volunteer counselor at the hospital, and we spent the next five minutes talking about music and showtunes. Minutes later, when I stepped out into the hall with him, he looked at me and said, "So ... what's your story? Why are you here?"
I told him about my father. He nodded. He shared with me that he had lost his wife to cancer, and it had been painful to come to the hospital every day and watch her slowly die. "It sounds like your father is not there yet," he said. "Even now, there is hope, no?"
I agreed there was hope.
"Let me tell you about St. Ignatius of Antioch," he said. "Every day, before I go to work, I go to the chapel and read one of his meditations, and then I meditate on them myself."
That seemed pretty cool, and I asked him to tell me more.
"St. Ignatius believed we are on this earth to honor God, with words, with thoughts, with actions," said Terry. "All the things of the earth are here for our use. But we cannot keep them. Someday, we will all die and must leave them behind, which is why true happiness is found in indifference to them."
That word jumped out at me. Indifference. Indifference was what Frank Neuschaefer was describing in his story of the philosopher, an indifference to possessions so profound that when his city burned, the great thinker could walk out with nothing more than a robe and a walking staff. Indifference. What a powerful albeit unsettling concept.
"We are to live without preference," said Terry. "We are not to prefer health over sickness, wealth over poverty, companionship over aloneness. We honor God by the way we live and treat others. To the things of this earth left for our use, we are to remain indifferent. "
That was a brick in the head. No preference to health over sickness? That kind of sucked in light of what my father was going through. And yet, it made sense. If any or all of us were to use our lives in the service of others, what would things like health or wealth matter? The crazy thing is, I know this to be true, no matter how hard I have wanted to resist it. Indifference is indeed bliss, for I have experienced moments of meditation where I had actually achieved such a state ... and when I did, it seemed that everything I had previously desired came to me in spades.
I have often told the story of the years of solitude after a particularly painful break-up. I used to sit alone in my tiny apartment, praying, meditating, wishing I had a companion with whom I could share my life. I prayed and prayed, and that companion never came, and finally, I gave up. One Sunday afternoon, I reached a profound state of indifference and spoke aloud to my Higher Power: "If you want me to be alone for the rest of my life, I will be alone. It's your call, I accept it, and I'm good with it." And I was good. I was truly indifferent to my previous fears of living without a friend or dying without a witness.
The very next day after I said that prayer--the very next day--I met my the woman who is now my wife.
That afternoon two days ago in the hospital, I found the strength to face another day, to look upon my father's health with indifference. As harsh as that sounds, what it really means is that I have no power over my father's health. He will progress or deteriorate as he will, and the best I can do is honor this Higher Power of mine by being the best son to my father I can be. I am not indifferent to my father, but I can be indifferent to his condition. I can refuse to let his delirious state have any power of me. Like George N. Patterson, I can choose to be a God-fool. It sounds crazy, but it's actually kind of liberating. After all, "God's fool" is a title often attributed to another great Saint, perhaps the most well-known Saint in the world--St. Francis of Assisi.
That day at the Pitchfest, Frank Neuschaefer described a great thinker who was truly free. I'm sure it's no coincidence that the name Frank means free, as does the name Francis (as in St. Francis of Assisi, the original God-fool). Oh, and in case I didn't mention it, the name of the hospital where my father is staying is ... Via Christi St. Francis.
Time to write that church hymn set to the tune of The Twilight Zone theme.
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