In an episode of Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee, Jerry Seinfeld asks filmmaker, writer, and comedian Mel Brooks about the scene in Blazing Saddles in which a posse of cowboys on horses bursts through a wall and into an all gay, top hats and tails musical number. Seinfeld admires Brooks’ bold and seemingly risky choice and asks if he’d been sure it was going to work. Brooks says he hadn’t been – he only knew the idea “tickled” him. He said, “It’s got to please you; if you don’t laugh, they’re not going to laugh.”

The business of creating is easier when we stay focused on what pleases us. In the beginning, we can’t know exactly how something will come together, but that’s part of the process of discovery. We can see what’s in front of us, and the tail of what’s ahead. The unfolding is our job, and only requires our attention and allowance in the moment. We can discover only what we allow ourselves to explore, so permission must be granted to not know and go forward. And the navigational device best suited for these travels is what pleases us, whatever that may be.

Joseph Campbell’s advice was: Follow your bliss. But bliss seems like such a big ideal. It’s easy to forget it grows from small pleasures, appreciation, fun, and things that move us. Follow your bliss suggests using joy as a compass. In order to do that, we have to avoid too much scrutinization of what lights up for us and where it might lead. Leave the seed of joy alone and let it grow. If we do that often enough, confidence comes because confidence is a by-product of being willing to allow our own way to be the path forward.

The other morning, I was surprised to find myself overtaken by a strong flash of “What’s the point?” It seemed like a sudden existential plummet, but if I’d been paying attention, I would have seen it coming.  I’d gotten on a jag of thinking about unwanted things over which I had no influence – a sort of accidental meditation on powerlessness.  I was in the middle of exercising and decided to put on an episode of The Great British Bake Off (a baking competition show with great heart) while I finished my workout. My despondency gradually began to subside – seemingly a byproduct of simply observing people striving to create stuff.  Some cakes, pastries, and breads worked, some didn’t, but everyone was engaged, wanting to participate, and caring, both about what they were doing and each other.   

The old “What’s the point?” thing is misleading; it implies both that an answer can satisfy us while simultaneously demanding that there isn’t one. “What’s the point?” is an abdication of responsibility. It is only our engagement with life that can provide a sense of purpose. There are always satisfying experiences available when we’re not judging, scrutinizing, or taking stock. Our job is to be open to those experiences. 

My youngest son was diagnosed as autistic when he was six.  He often walked the line between atypical and typical; he was communicative in his way, relatable, bright and loving, though his interest in his internal world far outweighed his interest in the external world. Mainly he was striving to block out the external world.  Over time, I fell to trying to control conditions so life might be easier for him and for me.  I didn’t want those phone calls from his school; I didn’t want him to melt down or to hear about the “inappropriateness” of what he’d done or said again.  I yearned for the day he would be engaged enough that I could step back and be free from what felt like an overwhelming responsibility. But trying to control things is completely inharmonious with freedom. 

My internal narrative was powerful: I had to keep things from going off the rails.  And this story was more overwhelming than any reality I was actually living. I was compelled to try to control the small stuff, so it all became big.  And the bigger it seemed, the more I believed I had to manage it so everything would be okay. 

For a few years when I was little my family took summer trips to Martha’s Vineyard.  We rented a tiny cabin and walked to the beach every day.  I loved all of it, but was intimidated by the waves, which could get pretty big sometimes.  Going under them or turning to ride them required me to be in the middle of the action – which was not my habit.  And my reticence to participate positioned me perfectly for being knocked down.  Reckless or risky behavior is usually considered the cause of trouble, but in this case, caution caused my troubles. I was trying to avoid danger and often ended up underwater, overwhelmed, and out of control. 

We teach each other to be careful, to have forethought and to assess, but the application of that advice can become distorted and leave us perceiving more risk in life than is real.  The belief that we are at risk naturally creates resistance, and then we feel stuck and overwhelmed. But most of the time, there is no danger, nothing to lose, just fear of possibly feeling bad.  Focusing on potential loss logically makes us insecure. Measuring what we could lose rather than purposefully engaging in what we want to create generates more problems than it prevents.

One morning while taking a vitamin, I inhaled in a peculiar fashion, creating a sudden suction that pulled the capsule back and lodged it in my throat.  I tried swallowing and drinking to no avail, but only really understood the severity of the situation when I attempted to breathe more fully and heard airy whistling sounds, then attempted to talk and found I could not.  At that point I reflected upon my understanding of the self-Heimlich maneuver, which was scant.  Once I realized I could still breathe enough, I knew I needed to be passive, though I wanted to actively help myself.  I became still and aimed my attention on a state of mental passivity – a neutral place of no reaction and no judgment.  More than just the old “Don’t panic” directive, I wanted to intentionally rest in a state that was peaceful even though the situation was not.  Within the next few minutes, I had the impulse to manipulate my throat with my fingers (something I’d tried earlier) and the pill dislodged.  My full breath returned along with my voice. 

In two years, between the ages of six and eight, I changed schools four times – once because we moved, then because of an alcoholic teacher, then for a better program, then because that program ended.  In third grade I entered my fourth new school in two years mentally adrift, and life became surprisingly nightmarish.  I was so consistently frightened of school that I considered running away.  I imagined climbing out onto the very small overhang of my second floor bedroom window, jumping down to our backyard, and running off into the night.  The problem then (beyond possibly breaking bones) was I had no destination. 

A destination is defined as a place to which one journeys or “the purpose for which something is predetermined.”  It could also be thought of as an internal intentional goal, a mental/emotional place to go, to put our attention. Without one, running away (out in the world or in one’s mind) becomes a never-ending endeavor.