Unconditional Passion

Impulses, wants, desires, loves, passions. These words are often used interchangeably and have been described, defined and acted out from the first stories ever told. We want to understand how they motivate people. Actors are often told to ask themselves-- What does my character want?-- to give their acting a focus and a framework from which they make decisions about how to move, how to articulate, how to express. Asking the question-- What do I want?--  is the same as asking, What do I desire? 

But desire is only the first ingredient when it comes to discovering creative and spiritual passion.

Hear the fine actor, Kevin Spacey, speak to this:

"To want, and to be ambitious, and to want to be successful is not enough. That's just desire. To know what you want, to understand why you're doing it. To dedicate every breath in your body, to achieve... if you feel you have something to give, if you feel that your particular talent is worth developing, is worth caring for, then there's nothing you can't achieve."

                        -- Inside the Actor's Studio

Desire is stronger than an impulse, or a short-lived sensation. Emotions last a little longer and are changeable. Love displays a willingness to suffer and the courage to do it; love provides evidence and the reasons for it can be seen. 

But then there is the more problematic and confusing vein that is Passion. Meaning "suffering" in Latin, Passion shows up not just willing to suffer, but already suffering. It causes pain when held in, and causes pain when released. It is a powerful energy in search of a love that will hold it, shape it, chisel it, fashion it, and create a form for it.

 Walter Crane The Blue Lantern early 1900s

Passion is the bogeyman in our lives. It reminds us of its existence when we hear others talk about our same passion, or their devotion to theirs. Passion haunts us. It makes us feel alive when it is present, and hollowed out when it has left. When we feel the sting of it, we might turn to substances or exercise, meditation or writing, in hopes that we can numb it, move faster than it, refocus our attention as insistently as it comes up, or minimize it with jargon and analysis. There is a world of expression for passion, and an equally balancing world of suppression. Peace and repose are available and healthy, but passion isn't questing for peace, it is sharply seeking a harmonious existence with love.

Love helps to heal the wounds created by passion's leading. Love makes sense of pain, and cares tenderly. Passion isn't as interested in tender care and healing when it comes to our energies. Yet paradoxically, we can be passionate about providing love, care and tenderness. Passion and love don't outrank each other. They are kissing cousins that breathe into us as inspiration as we receive them, and breathe out of us as we give. When they are together, something new transpires. We find its highest expression when we come to love our passion, and our spirit enters a conspiracy that recognizes this harmony as divine.

One of the biggest reasons that we give up on our passion is that we put conditions on it, as we do love, based on how it appears to us. We have firm ideas about what they should look like, and what form they should come to us in. We might think that if love isn't expressed a certain way, then it wasn't true. If passion isn't fulfilled in a certain way, then it must not have been real. We are suspicious of passion and are counseled against it. We may judge it as a kind of madness, and decide to be done with all of that nonsense. 

Passion feels dangerous, and it can be, if not respected as a powerful force that requires consideration of its expression. No doubt, it can be perverted into something avaricious and harmful, or squandered into mindlessness and repetition. This is where it gets thorny and addictions hover. It can be quite confusing for all involved. What is "divine madness" and what is just plain crazy?

Quite a while ago, I heard a story about a man who had a passion for making small realistic sculptures of animals out of clay or wood. His mental capacity for understanding the world around him was limited, but something inside of him found joy in turning out one creature after another. Of course, this just looks like "crazy". His devotion to his craft may be judged excessive and in need of balance. But if ever I saw a portrait of passion, it was this simple man who smiled while he worked, pleased in the doing. He loved his passion.

However, his simplicity and devotion to his passion did not protect him from life's difficulties. For reasons I can't recall, he was forced into a locked room in a psychiatric ward for a short while. He took his passion with him though, and eventually found a way to express it. Because he was afraid, he hid under his bed. While there, he collected adhesive and grime that had accumulated along the baseboard of the room, and with this crude material he continued to shape minuscule animals.

Again, that just looks crazy, but that is how he spent his time, even while confined. He put no conditions on his passion. He didn't demand a certain setting, clean materials, or encouragement from others. When the mistake was corrected and he was released back to his family, he hadn't lost time, but had remained true to his passion, and true to himself-- a self that is hardly considered to be a valid self by the charts and numbers and functional scores society requires.

Nevertheless, he passed the test of what the great Picasso could only believe to be true about himself:

"If they take away my paints, I'd use pastels. If they take away my pastels, I'd use crayons. If they took away my crayons, I'd use pencils. If they stripped me naked and threw me in prison, I'd spit on my finger and paint on the wall."

Go to Part 2 for another example of an imprisoned man preserving his passion.