The Direction of Intention

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It is 1993 and I alone in my studio. It is night in Los Angeles. I am exhausted and tired of being afraid. My life is fueled by anger and fear and I can see no alternatives. I have made a mess of it all. I am convinced that my paintings are worthless – which means that I am convinced that I am worthless.

My studio has a 20-foot ceiling and great exposed beams that support a mini-loft area. I find an orange extension cord and throw it over the beam, securing one end and loop a noose in the other. I place my rickety old wooden chair beneath the noose, climb up and put the noose around my neck. And then, I play with the balance of the chair, slowly rocking the chair back onto two legs. Only then do I realize what I am doing. I am blessed with good balance and I hover on that edge, my life teetering on the back two legs of a rickety old wooden chair, uncertain which way I want to go. It is on this edge that I recognize, perhaps for the first moment in my life, that I have choice; that I am always making choices. Always. This revelation blows a hole through the center of my victim story and it collapses. I am disoriented and see that I am depending upon others to tell me that I am worthy. I wonder why I have given the measure of my worth into the opinions of others. I wonder why I am choosing so much pain.

I hear in my head the voice of my friend Roger. A few years before he told me that he’d never really understood why people commit suicide. He asked, “Why wouldn’t you just do something else? Why wouldn’t you just do anything else?”

“Yes.” I say to myself, “Do anything else.”

I make my choice and softly let the chair down onto all four legs. I take off the noose, I take off the victim story, and as I pull the orange cord off the beam I suddenly I see my life as precious, sacred, and wonder how I could have lived so long and not known it. I wonder what I was running away from. The revelation stuns me and I sit on the chair and laugh. I know the answer the moment I ask the question: the victim story dulls us; it is a murky lens that leeches the vitality of life and feeds on itself. It is an addiction. I was running from myself so afraid of making and owning my choices, terrified of being seen, of saying, “look, this is who I am.” For the rest of the night I sit in the chair letting my eyes grow accustom to brilliant colors of life without the lens.

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