When you think you’re done, that’s when the work is just beginning.
Whether it be in relationships, in the rehearsal room, in world at large, or even with a certain class-run blog you thought you were done with.
Security is a dangerous thing.
I think this when I see family members or friends who’ve gone to one protest or spoken out about one issue and think they’ve filled their engagement quote for their lifetimes.
A sense of security is a privilege. It means you have allowed yourself to stop seeing that which is not good or useful. When Facebook Silhouette #1 tells the world they’re not worried about this presidency, I see a person who has shut their eyes to suffering and hardship and strife. And why not? Isn’t that easier?
But it’s also dangerous.
It’s one less voice yelling out into the void, one less set of hands with one less sign, one less phone call that may or may not go through to a senator’s full mailbox. One less parent teaching their children to think outside of themselves. One less person who’s been taught to see the world as it is and work to make it as it should be.
I’ve noticed this week how my sense of security has been affecting my art. In a shocking and very welcome turn of events, the crushing constant doubt has been slowly replaced with a sense of ease and security. But lest I get too hasty and think that, actually, things were going pretty smoothly, the universe dropped in my lap a less-than-gentle reminder that security is where good art goes to die. It is in the chaos that the good stuff lives. The uneasiness is where passion churns and the fire grows.
And isn’t this true everywhere? When we feel safe we get complacent. We stop questioning and looking for a better answer. We stop wanting to help each other because it’s nicer just to stay where we feel secure. That’s how we ended up with a tangerine man for president. We felt too damn secure it wouldn’t happen.
This week, I commit to less security and more…. I don’t know.
More of the not knowing.
That’s where the light lives.