Mentors
I recently spoke of a “mentor” of mine and the responses surprised me. People seemed to be very resistant to the idea that I have a person in my life I turn to for advice when asking myself the tough questions.
If I am reading the responses right, people seemed to think that by honoring my teachers or mentors I was diminishing myself. The objections inspired me to take a deeper look at my own thoughts on these relationships.
I find it strange how uncomfortable we are in North America with words like “guru”, “mentor” and “teacher.” In most parts of the world the relationship between teacher and apprentice is an obvious part of life. You find these relationships in areas of skill. For instance, even in North America, if you want to become a welder you apprentice a tradesman. You work “under” someone who is more “masterful” at this practice and you build your skill alongside them. Is it really that odd to have someone you look up to when learning about compassion and relationships? Really?
I am shaped and molded by the wise mentors of my life. They have made a permanent impression on me. I am imprinted by my experience and everything I am now is affected by them.
I look at something as simple and superficial as the clothes in my closet and I see so many past influences: my first acting teachers in the wooden, silver and gold bangles I keep hanging on my dresser; I see Diane Keaton in the over-sized trousers I store next to my collection of men’s dress shirts and vests; I see three of my best friends in the silk, Indian scarves that drape over porcelain hooks coming out of my wall.
I am a cornucopia of those I have been inspired by, an amalgamation of their expressions and mine. Because I have known them I allow myself to be more flamboyant, more creative, and more, well. . . me. I choose bits of wisdom they offer in all ways and I benefit from that.
I am committed to openly admitting there is always more to learn and scouring the world for all types of “gurus.” This is, I believe, a practice of gratitude, respect, and enlightenment. I kind of think it is the point of existence. And in recognizing these teachers I am more defined in myself.
John Glover and Greg Beeman are two great mentors of mine in acting and directing.
Keith Raniere is a man who epitomizes mindfulness and compassion for me. Esther Chiappone is a fiercely truthful woman I know. They are both my mentors in being a true humanitarian.
My dear friend and editor Rob Gray is my mentor in communication and the beauty of a lyrical life.
My boyfriend is my mentor in unconditional love and finding balance through depthy play.
My best girl friends are my mentors in forgiveness, patience, and laughter. And good wine and chocolate.
My mom is my mentor in family. My nephew, my mentor in the simplicity of joy.
These people are all my mentors, people I consider teachers of great expertise, some teach through accomplishment, others through just being. In my opinion, to see greatness in others is to live a life of curiosity and humility.
I search for those who understand what I don’t and when I find someone who has qualities I long for, qualities I don’t yet understand, I pay attention.
I listen, I observe, and I grow.
But teachers are all around us: the Travelocity operator I decided to lose my patience with who challenged me to learn greater empathy and patience; the woman I drank a glass of wine with at The Henry Public House who told stories of her web romance and taught me that, internet or not, we are all just seeking some sense of love and belonging; the boisterous kid on a swing set who at the top of his lungs inspired the entire playground to join in singing an acapella remix of “I like to move it, move it” and reminded me of the inherent joy in free and unapologetic expression; all these wise mentors are disguised as everyday people, each offering valuable life lessons.
These moments that often go unrecognized are like the healthy meals that never get the appreciation they deserve. They propel us forward humbly and with quiet potency.
I want to thank each of you for continuing to teach me about the corners of humanity I could never see without you. I am eternally enriched because of your presence and participation. Know that I am grateful, enthusiastic, and open to hearing, reading, and watching your authentic and personal stories, thoughts and ideas. I am a better woman for it.
Face to Face
OK, so I am going to be candid for a minute. I was shocked by the responses I received on my last post. Not sure if many of you have been reading some of the things people were writing, hopefully you missed the bulk of negativity as I have had someone working consistently to take down the negative and hateful comments as quickly as possible. I was so disappointed and discouraged. I feel so naive.
See, I have this idea. An idea that involved the creation of a place that fosters the development and discovery of interactions that inspire thought, the building of wisdom, and the advancement of love.
After the responses from last week I realized building this type of community may take more thoughtfulness and work than I imagined. I didn’t really know how to do it but I figured a good place to start would be by looking into those who have tried this before me. I am not so arrogant as to think this is a new idea. So I decided to investigate and turned to the godparents of philisophy. Have toga will travel.
My research led me to Aristotle who was generating these types of scenarios way back in the day. He built something called the Lyceum where he would lead meandering discussions and inquiries. He had students he called “peripatetics” that he would question and engage in philosophical thoughts and explorations.
The intention of the peripatetic student was to evolve their way of thinking; proactive intellectual evolution. Ooo. . . Just the sound of that gets me excited, yes, it’s true, I am a total philosophy geek. Throughout these discussions each of the students were asked questions intended to shine light on their beliefs, prejudices, and confusions and, as a result, each philosopher would walk away from their time at this “Lyceum-brain-gym” having a stronger, more ethical, and more holistic understanding of the concepts discussed.
This is beautiful to me. The idea of intellectual exercise is so intriguing. I want it. I want to be the Ultimate Thinking Champion!! I did not have a formal education. While many of my friends were in university I was fighting aliens and overcoming kryptonite poisoning. I spent most of my twenties seeking learning elsewhere, everywhere, in life and with people.
I don’t believe educational institutions have a monopoly on learning. It is possible to create such an experience anywhere: in line at the grocery store, at a coffee shop, a dinner party, a yoga class or at the gas pump. I also believe the internet is an incredibly accessible forum for this type of community to blossom. The simple fact that anyone with a computer from anywhere in the world can log-in to a “room” with the sole purpose of reading and sharing offers the perfect formula for learning. A modern Lyceum, using new tools to create new class rooms.
This is what I want to create with my site. I want allisonmack.com to be a place all people feel not only welcomed, but encouraged to come and share their voices, their perceptions and their beliefs. At the same time I would hope this site is a place that encourages curiosity and openness. A chance to truly hear others and adopt new ideas instead of blindly holding on to what is most familiar, to what we have always known.
I also believe that in order to have a space like this we need to agree on a few things. I see this as an opportunity to proactively generate the type of environment needed for modern peripatetics to run wild! Sounds like a bunch of frenetic dinosaurs.
So I came up with a few ideas. Agreements for engagement.
To open the conversation here are a few things I have been thinking:
1. Please be kind. Simple as that, just be kind. If you do not like the topics or the way I express myself, don’t come back. I have a writing style that is very personal and honest and I like that; if you don’t then maybe this isn’t the site for you. In my mind, kindness and creativity go hand in hand, so let’s make this a space to nurture and build.
2. Please express honestly, but respectfully. No haters please, and, if you don’t agree with what someone writes, absolutely share your perspective with respect. However, if you feel you cannot speak without berating or attacking the other person, be responsible enough to write about it in your own journal, not here please.
3. Please refrain from any slanderous commenting on any person’s character or history. This is a space for free expression, but name calling and negativity is simply not something I am interested in supporting. It is too easy and cowardly to objectify a person when you are not standing face to face with them.
What I ask on this site is that you take the same care and attention with your fellow writers that you would with someone you are staring at directly. Please remember, there are people on the other side of the words you read.
4. I want to make it clear that I live my life in search of wisdom and education. The most important thing for me is learning. I want to share this learning with those who care. We are all learning, stumbling and striving to figure this crazy “life-thing” out. It is hard enough out there without someone deliberately looking to beat you down. Let’s be sweet with each other and be sweet with ourselves in the process.
And I would also love to hear from you. What do you think is important when one is building such a forum? What types of things would you include in this list? Please, feel free to share your ideas and let me know.
Thanks for reading and I am excited to read about your thoughts and ideas, failures and successes, dreams and disappointments. . . it’s the stuff art is made of, it is what makes us human, and ultimately, it is the whole point and purpose of existence. . . in my opinion, of course. 
What Now?
I have recently taken a few steps back from acting. 2011 was really about concluding a huge chapter of my life, a chapter filled with rainy days in Vancouver, strange aliens from another galaxy, more make-up than I would ever wear on a normal day, and consistently responding to a name that was not my own.
The final day of filming on Smallville felt so strange. Strange, in that it was no different than any other day. There was no special send off, no signs, no fireworks, just a box of pictures, a few cards, and a closed trailer door. The end of ten years was so simple, unassuming. But after packing my bags, turning over the keys to my loft, and boarding a plane for NYC I accepted the finality of it all. It was truly done. What now?
I was stuck on that question. “What now?” It haunted me. And it seemed to be the first line of all pleasantries. I would see an old friend: “Hey you! So. . .what now?” Give an interview: “So, Allison. . .Smallville is in the can. . .what now?” Even my big brother, in his ever so loving and protective way, put his arm around me and said, encouragingly, “What now? I mean, where do you go from here?” Face to face with old friends, random journalists, and one loving big brother, I had no answer. I’m talking serious crickets.
I expressed this concern, this incredible feeling of loss and lack of direction to a dear friend and mentor of mine, Keith Raniere. He asked if I had ever thought about taking a little time away from acting to see what I would find. He inquired about times in my life when I did not work, times when I didn’t attach myself to the title “Allison Mack, Actress” and was just plain, simple, me. On top of being a powerful, actualized character called Chloe Sullivan for the better part of my twenties, I spent fifteen years prior to Smallville being different daughters, best friends, girlfriends, and troubled teens. I have gone from one wardrobe office to another director’s chair my whole life.
As wonderful as all these characters were, and are, they are not actually me. None of them have the unique habit of swearing like a sailor (the f-bomb is my favorite word, especially when coupled with “dude”), peeing in front of friends (that’s how you know you have been accepted into my close circle), and laughing like a drunken opera singer being goosed. There is a definitive woman behind the mask of all the others, but she has been so ignored, so undervalued for most of my life that if I am not playing someone else’s story I feel incredibly shallow in my own. I have almost no memory of myself without the identity of “actress.” How strange.
So I decided to take Keith’s advice and give myself some time to build the character of me. The actual me. I had no idea what this would entail, but I wanted to give it a shot. A sense of self sounded like a good thing. I could definitely use some of that.
I have always wanted to change things in the world. Wanted to be a woman that helps to redefine how all women think and feel about themselves. I have wanted to be a superhero in my own right, “Be the change I want to see in the world” (thanks Gandhi) and help others do the same. Interestingly enough this desire can only be actualized from the inside out. No amount of make-up, hair, lights, or script lines can get me the inner strength and fortitude necessary for achieving such goals. I have to build it in myself. There is no faking this.
So, cut to me, three months later. I’m on a panel at a conference and someone from the audience asks me “What now?”. . . crickets. . . bastards. . .still no answer. And now. . . without Chloe, no alter ego, no pre-written snarky lines to answer those daunting questions for me.
What do I have to offer now? I am not providing any sort of service, not fulfilling any job title. So then what am I doing? And, still, with that same damn question present, “what now”?
Terrifying.
It turns out Keith asked me to look at the one area of my life I felt most insecure. I felt as though I had ripped the very foundation out from under myself and I felt paralyzed. Where was I supposed to go from here? Years of transforming the nods of approval that used to come from behind the camera into nods of love and affirmation. I grew up like an Olympic gymnast looking for her score cards. “And it’s a 10!!! The crowd goes wild!!!! She has permission to continue to exist!!” Which is exactly why I now want to prove to myself that I am alive without the applause. I am worthy without the curtain call. I want to trust I am still here without an audience.
Coming up to my second spring in NYC, it has been almost one full year without score cards, without nods of approval, without a perfect wardrobe and flawless make-up. I am learning to approve of myself in a different format, for a different reason. Instead of filling my time with kryptonite and super human abilities, I am now writing for my blog, potential books, and magazine articles, and singing, lots and lots of singing. And I have found a passion project, something I believe will change and nurture the world while changing and nurturing me in the process: I am working with an incredible new women’s organization, Jness. And through that work I am discovering things about myself I had no idea existed before. All these things were living in the shadow of who I thought I was, who I thought I should be. Now wouldn’t it have been great if the woman behind the curtain was more together, more elegant and consistent than before. But instead I get all this newness. A baby giraffe standing for the first time. On ice. What do I do with this?
And I suppose that is the question of the hour. Instead of focusing on “what now?” maybe I need to shift my focus. Instead of focusing so much on accomplishment I could instead explore.
Maybe my life isn’t intended to consist of job, applause, rinse, repeat, job, applause, rinse, repeat. Maybe this momentary pause in the pattern is about wonder, the unknown, and expansive curiosity.
And maybe, just maybe, those crickets are serenading in perfect harmony. And if I just listen I will learn to sing along.
Full Stop
8:00am. I am forty five minutes late already! I still need to shower — do I have any clean underwear? Oh no! I didn’t shave my legs, so no skirt today. Wait?! Is it Friday? It’s Friday and I haven’t written my blog entry. So I need to wash my underwear, write my blog entry, shave my legs before I leave in . . . 10 minutes . . . hmm . . . Okay, I can do this — oh shoot my mom is calling, that’s right I told her I would have time to talk at 8:00 this morning, should I answer the phone? Yes. She is your mother and you love her, answer the phone . . . but then I won’t have time to shave my legs. Okay, went to voice mail . . . I’ll call her back in the cab–I’ll take a cab! If I take a cab instead of the train that will give me an extra thirty minutes and I can make phone calls and think about the blog post on the way into the city. Perfect . . . okay — Shit, look how fat my legs are, seriously? Come on Allison, did you need that extra glass of wine? Underwear — you need to clean some underwear — okay — no. I’ll just buy some while I am out. I am wearing pants anyway. Now just focus on getting out the door — oh crap! I forgot to call my agent back. Another phone call for the cab. Dammit, she’ll think I am the biggest flake ever. OK, agent first, then Mom, then underwear . . . what am I forgetting?
STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Stop. Just stop. See the beauty in the intensity of being here now. Stop.
The searching and the seeking just avoids living. Living is here, now. Understand and appreciate all I am, all I have been given . . . so stop. Just stop.
If I just sit here . . . now . . . . uncensored thoughts and feelings . . . unencumbered intensity oozing out of every pore. Maple syrup dripping over a stack of pancakes. Too much richness to soak it all in.
I am blessed with such “excess.” I begin to salivate and within minutes my mouth is filled with some delicious nourishment. I start to feel a chill and before my teeth chatter I am wrapped in a cashmere blanket. I never want for comfort. I am abundant in this. It is my soul that aches. My insides that feel pain. Not the tangible blood and guts, but the ‘me’ beyond anything tactile or movable. The me that is impenetrable and infinite. The self. The true self.
This exists everywhere. In every moment of a simple afternoon. I walk up to the apex of my Brooklyn Bridge, between the two archways where you can see straight up the east side of the city and out past Ellis Island. I weave in and out of the tourists sporting different accents taking pictures of my favourite sunset, the one that hides right behind the Statue of Liberty.
And I see it on the way back. I purchase a coffee from the sweet woman with a ring through her nose and I ask her how she is doing. I look behind the eyes I stare into; I pay attention. I see there is something more. Something beyond my senses.
“A little sad today,” she says.
“Yeah? Me too.” I reply.
“I think I just need a good cry,” she concludes.
An honest statement in a robotic world. I pay attention.
If I stop with the chattering distractions of “stuff,” cease the to-do list, the have to’s, relationships and deadlines . . . all things of great importance . . . I get this moment, this person, this honesty, this chance to connect with myself and her. Awkward and human. The human in the human. The perfectly flawed self.
I could have these moments with my mother, my agent, my to-do list, my underwear even. All of this is important, but why each is important is where I get confused. I am not enslaved to my life like I tell myself I am. I forget that these are opportunities, chances for me to experience myself.
And when I fall in love with the depth of myself, maybe I won’t be a scratch looking for an itch. All the illogical blame and hatred could fall away and I might see that we are all striving to be present for the most curious and chaotic experiences possible.
Nerve endings firing, heart breaking, soul searching self. The infinite possibility of possibilities. Accept it. And then you can fully accept all.
My new favourite video…
J.K. Rowling Speaks at Harvard Commencement
J.K. Rowling, author of the best-selling Harry Potter book series, delivers her Commencement Address, “The Fringe Benefits of Failure, and the Importance of Imagination,” at the Annual Meeting of the Harvard Alumni Association. (via http://harvardmagazine.com)
A podcast. Check it out!
My dear friend shared this podcast with me. I found it so honest and inspiring. I want to do things like this, have an impact like this. I want to know I created this potential and possibility in the world.
I hope you enjoy this the way I do.
Anne Frank says something awesome!
“How lovely to think that no one need wait a moment, we can start now, start slowly changing the world! How lovely that everyone, great and small, can make their contribution toward introducing justice straightaway… And you can always, always give something, even if it is only kindness!”
-Anne Frank
The Cynical Romantic
I spent the last week rehearsing “This Old Love” by Lior to sing at a wedding for two of my closest friends. This morning I got the news that two more of my nearest and dearest are getting married. Last summer, I went to four weddings and it looks as though next year will be filled with a similar schedule. “I do. I do.” Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
People warned me I would be flooded with weddings when I entered my late 20s, but I had no idea it would be like this. Marriage, commitment and relationships are on the brain and I feel jaded. I feel skeptical. Critical. Righteous.
Every man I have met over the last three years I have described as “I really like him, but….”. I feel like a Seinfeld episode, searching for flaws in every experience to justify my decision to run in the other direction. Telling myself and every person who brings up the topic of romance that “I am much too busy and focused to take on a relationship right now.” I strive to make myself sound as important and independent as possible, convincing you while convincing me that there is nothing but ambition and vision at the root of my choice to remain single.
But there I am, sitting on the floor of my friends’ living room, blubbering away while they hold hands and exchange vows. The tears completely expose the truth: my hard approach to love is a total act. I can’t hide the fact that I love love.
And in this moment, surrounded by a community of friends and family who have gathered to celebrate these two people and their love, I am swept away by my honest opinion. The strength of their love hits me like a wave and drags me off my beach of cynicism and leaves me without a bathing suit coughing up saltwater. I have been schooled. Love can be like that.
Their love is splattered in technicolor on every corner of the room. Every sight, sound, and smell is an effect of how they are together. Lilies, gerber daisies, birds of paradise and eucalyptus branches fill the room with their home countries, South Africa and Australia. Chocolates in the shape of Buddha’s and gluten-free dishes cover every single table and Roberta Flack’s voice carries their feet down the stairs as they seemingly float, barefooted, to the front of the room. She is an elegant, natural woman with a sweetness so organic she can’t help but radiate. He is a graceful and soulful leader so full of depth and wisdom just his presence reminds me of what I aspire to be. Together they act as a team of elevation, love, promise, and strength.
I sit in the front row listening to my friends exchange their vows and I start to think about what it means that they are doing this. My friends are making life-long commitments to something that has no guarantees. There is no product they can walk away with, nothing to pick up to prove its existence. Love. A completely intangible, ephemeral experience. An experience based in trust and truly just “taking someone’s word for it.”
I have had two major loves in my life, and both I assumed I would marry at one point or another. I went so far as to tattoo one’s name on my chest, and start a family of animals with the other. I was so caught up in the romance of this “feeling” that I gave myself a permanent brand and two new dependants.
When my last relationship ended so did much of my belief in eternal love. I had a very naive perspective. I believed love should be easy. I believed commitment should never feel like a challenge and love should always feel good. I felt entitled to this fantasy and got angry at myself and my partner for being so complicated. Couldn’t he just match the picture in my head? What was so difficult about being my boyfriend marionette?
But I have given up the belief that love is like a water slide.
Love and commitment are no longer simple concepts I copy from a Disney movie. I can’t fool myself into believing the John Hughes story line where all the girl’s hopes and dreams come true when she opens the door to a new car and her latest crush. I am learning to know better.
I am beginning to understand the reality of what it takes to uphold that commitment. To have the courage to unlock your box of fears and let Pandora have her way. Abandon your ego, and invite the muddy, unclear, soft mushy parts of your soul just hang out there. It is so messy, unpredictable. It feels so unsafe, so unknown, yet so, so passionately alive.
I hear my name called and I am snapped back to the wedding. Oh yeah, my friends are getting married. I walk to the front of the room with my band mates, it is time to sing our song. And with a snot-filled Kleenex clutched in front of me, mascara running down my cheeks and eyes leaking like the kitchen faucet in my first apartment. I sing a song of appreciation to my friends. My friends who are committing to early morning kisses with unmasked kitten breath, heart breaking misunderstandings, unclear or unmet expectations, and vowing to let their guts hang out so they can unabashedly and honestly swan dive head first into this exposing, cumbersome, tender, gorgeous, vertiginous life long dance. What an honor.
Gift Of Presence
So, it’s Christmas and I am walking through NYC with a bright pink nose, frozen fingertips (because I can never seem to find my elbow length vintage gloves), and four layers of cashmere and cotton under my overcoat. Every restaurant plays their favorite selection of holiday tunes, the lemonade and iced tea I drank all summer has been replaced by hot cocoa and cider. Brightly, colored lights adorn the street lamps and Little Italy is covered with Buon Natale garlands. Rockefeller Center is all aglow and the windows at Barney’s are outrageously filled with sparkles, sculptures and creativity. Every street corner holds a miniature forest of pine and fur trees imported from Vermont just waiting to be chosen, taken home, and dressed to the nines. Christmas in New York. There’s nothing like it.
Scouring the streets, shopping for presents, I try to decide the best things to give my friends and family. I am looking at a random stuffed elf in a box sitting on a counter filled with other random stuffed elves. There is a sign that claims this “Shelf Elf” is the “The New Holiday Tradition”. This elf makes me sad. It is bastardizing the word tradition. You can’t just decide to market something as “tradition;” that is not what tradition is. Tradition comes with time and commitment, it is a titled earned with loved ones, not a cheap holiday trinket and not something named by a PR firm which names anything special if they think it will sell. Anyone remember the pet rock?
I have been through every different, bizarre phase of gift giving possible. My relationship with wrapping paper and bows has gone from totally materialistic, like the mobs in the city running from store to store manically trying to gather enough stuff to feel as though they have served their holiday obligations, to non-existent, essentially boycotting the idea of giving and spending the holidays on my soapbox protesting over consumption. And on the reverse I have also found gift giving incredibly meaningful, spending hours looking to acquire the most awesome and impactful present I can find, the one that sums up all that the recipient means to me. Mixed CDs that outline my exact feelings for a friend, homemade scrapbooks illustrating memories and poems, letters, and cards with content that is poured from my heart.
A gift can be a perfect opportunity to encapsulate all I feel about somebody I love. A whirlwind of memories cascade through me until I come up with the perfect symbol of all the experiences I have shared. It is “me” imbued on an object and then shared. The closest thing to my love for a person in tangible form. Crazy.
Two days ago the temperature here dropped to the degree that demands the BIG scarves and jackets. I keep these things tucked away in a separate box because they take up too much room in my drawers. I get on all fours and peek under my bed. There amongst the dust bunnies and single socks is my winter clothes box. I open the lid and reveal…the most beautiful and perfect scarf I have ever seen in my entire life.
Every year it is as though I unwrap this present from my dearest friend for the first time. It is the best scarf that has ever existed. To start, it is HUGE! Somewhere between a blanket and a shawl, this hand-knit scarf covers every part of my neck and shoulders. It consists of about twelve colors, each one hand selected and individually knotted to the color that came before it. Several holes patched throughout the design represent scars that have come as a result of my somewhat mindless way of walking through the world and the middle of the scarf is soaked with the smell of gardenia and jasmine oils; I have become a part of the scarf now. My friend and I have blended our memories, our smells, our styles and our lives, all entwined in this scarf. It has become a metaphor of our friendship and the beautiful blend of souls adventuring through separate lives together.
Even before I was given the gift, it had been covered with the essence and personality of the woman who created it. Every stitch had been wrapped through her fingers as she knitted at the back of theatres, inside box offices, and on her couch in her beautifully tiny apartment on the prettiest street on the North East coast. She knows me better than any one. You can tell by the yarn she chose. She knew me well enough to know I could only really use something that is multi colored. This comes from years of changing my mind. You can tell by the size. She knows how hard I try to come off tough and independent and how most of the time I am dying for a hug, so she made one, a hug for me to wear all the time. She is my best friend for life and my first friend from childhood. I call her “concrete”. She grounds me in all that is true and real and reminds me of who I am and what is most important to me. This scarf is a representation of all that.
This scarf redefined gift giving for me for the rest of my life.
So I race through my city, across my bridge and into the madness of frenetic shopping and holiday jingles. I struggle to keep my focus on the goal in collecting these presents. But now, armed with five feet of wool wrapped around my neck I can keep my head on straight. I can remember the true purpose of holidays such as this. And I can keep myself focused on finding the most perfect symbol of affection for those I love most. The warmth of friendship draped over my shoulders, protecting my neck from the bitter cold and holding me true to what is most important.
Wishing you peace, good will and your own giant, multi colored, scarf hug of love this holiday season.