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DO NOT MISS THIS ARTICLE

One of my dearest friends wrote this beautiful blog post. Read it if you can and check out her blog, follow her on twitter and all that great social network stuff. She is phenomenal and this post is stunning.
 

A Lesson in Humanity
 
THIS POST WAS WRITTEN ON SEPTEMBER 17, 2012
 

R.I.P Ambassador Chris Stevens, Sean Smith & Glen Doherty
 

R.I.P Tyrone Woods
 

I started this week with the theme of Beauty. For me it was a natural transition from ‘Wisdom and Age’ that would bring us to “Awe,” corresponding with the “10 Days of Awe” between the Jewish holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. My themes are generally organic; they represent what is relevant for me in my life, while at the same time trying to keep in synch with current events. No matter what, they are always an expression of my values and perspective.
 
This week current events inspired me to take leave of my chosen theme of ‘Beauty’ – or perhaps helped me continue with it in a different way than I had expected…
 

On Wednesday morning I woke up and began my usual routine. My husband and I were talking over tea when he received a phone call from Libya. The US Ambassador had been killed in Benghazi. This was heart wrenching news. We didn’t know how or by who, all we could do was hold on, wait for more information and offer to help in any way we could. It was frightening and saddening. What I had heard went against everything I know and have experienced in Libya. I was worried for my family there and my heart was with all our friends who have worked so hard for the liberty and progression of their country.
 
Then a beautiful thing began to happen. I started receiving text messages and phone calls from people. They were concerned for us, for our friends and for our country. Over the next few days people from all over the world, as close as my family and as distant as business colleagues and professionals – from Europe, South America, the US and Asia – were sending their condolences.
 
Before I met my husband I didn’t think much about Libya – it just wasn’t on my radar. Since I have known him, Libyans have become a part of my family. For many of my friends it was the same way. Many of them were concerned about my getting involved with a Libyan, a Muslim, especially my American friends and, understandably, my Jewish family. They hadn’t met any Libyans, many of them had never met a Muslim. For my husband & his Libyan family & friends, it was the same.. Americans, and in my family’s case Jewish Americans, were unknown to them. Through the friendship, dedication & care brought by people like Chris Stevens, and in a different way, through the union of our marriage, we have built a subtle bridge that has impacted all of our lives. Consciously or unconsciously we have all carried the prejudices perpetuated by our medias, histories, folklore and hearsay.. and with no human, person to person experience; we lacked a reason to re-evaluate our beliefs.
 

In the last year, Libya has gained new friends. There are new people all over the world who are watching her, routing for her and caring about the well being of her people. A link in the human family has been re-established through friendship: For the people in my life Libya is no longer a place of “them,” it is a place of “us.” This is beautiful.
 
This is one of the many triumphs bore of last week’s tragedy. We cannot undo the past and bring back the lives we have lost. What we can do is mourn, recognize the significance of this loss and perhaps, in the spirit of these Jewish High Holy Days, repent.
 
We do not know exactly who killed Ambassador Stevens and his colleagues, but they alone are not responsible. Each of us, when we allow fear and prejudice to prevail over love and humanity, are responsible for their deaths in some way: Fear and prejudice are the root of such violence.
 

So, let us all; Muslims, Jews, Christians et al honor the lives lost in Libya last week – and all those lost around the world this last year. As intended in the Days of Awe, let us solemnly look inside ourselves – not to punish or feel guilt, but to find internal peace and resolution. Let us seek to heal wounds we have caused, and make amends with people we have treated with violence – no matter how small the act. Let us vow to overcome the fears that keep us from recognizing our perceived foe as friends. Let each of us re-establish at least one link in the broken chain of humanity.
Le’shana tova.
 

Here are a few of my favourite tweets from the past week:
 

“No one is born hating another person..” – Read it here – Love this quote from Mandela & so poignant re situation in #Libya & around the world..
 

Imagine if we put as much effort into restoring ‘internal damage’ as we did external.. @TheAtlantic – Read it here
 

“Dwell on the beauty of life. Watch the stars, and see yourself running with them.” ? Marcus Aurelius #Quotes #Beauty
 
?RT @INLIFO ’Peace Be Upon You’ @saletan writes for @Slate – Read it here

An Article About the Short I Just Posted…

My dear friend Rob wrote a commentary about the short I just posted. Check it out. I love what he says and couldn’t agree more.
Click HERE, read and enjoy, I did.

So moving

An Article Written By My Incredibly Wise Friend Rosie

To Be a Girl:
My Thoreauvian Experiment

I grew up with boys, knowing that I was not one of them. Everyday my brothers and I would be together, outside in the mud, inside in the living room. Although I recognized that I liked to play with Barbie, have my hair braided, and dress up for Sunday church, and they didn’t, I never thought that that was what made us different. In the winter, we’d be bundled up for the snow, our body’s covered from head to foot, and we undoubtedly looked the same. So it was never the fact that we looked differently; there was always something deeper that made them boys, and I a girl.
Thoreau wrote, “beware of all enterprises that require new clothes, and not rather a new wearer of clothes.” I understand this to mean, be careful of those undertakings that ask you to modify how you portray yourself, and not how you perceive yourself. It’s been my experience that being a girl who is becoming a woman requires new clothing. Clothing not only in the sense of physical fabrics, but also as a symbol of our outward appearance. I say; why should you have to change yourself externally, if what your peers, teachers, employers, and everyone else important in your life are supposedly looking for is inside you? If we are what is within us, if we are more than what is easily seen, then why do we put so much significance on our external image?
I remember when my body started to change, of its own accord, into that of a woman’s. It didn’t seem at all like a problem to me until people began to treat me differently. I was in seventh grade and suddenly I couldn’t wear tank tops to school anymore, or play tag with the boys at recess for their fear of accidentally brushing my chest with their hand. In my eighth grade play my teacher said I couldn’t act the lead girl because I looked “too mature.” Over time, I learned to adapt to this new phenomenon that was my body. There was no specific moment when I adopted the idea of looking a certain way, mostly pretty, going hand in hand with femininity. People have always hackneyed the phrase, “what really counts is on the inside,” but I was fully aware, as I believe most girls are, that even if that was true people still pay more attention to what’s on the outside. Therefore, my appearance, or my “clothes,” have always “really counted.”
In my experiment, I used Thoreau’s words as inspiration in my attempt to sever the two concepts of importance of appearance, and of femininity. My idea was to test the societal boundaries of what it truly means to be girl, and see if it indeed means more than looking a certain way. I sought to discover for myself what significance my appearance really held, and if I could still be the girl that I was without it. This project of mine was in no way intended as a defiant outburst toward society. In doing this, I hoped genuinely to discover something about myself, not criticize the views of others.
And so I made a commitment to myself: for the purpose of my experiment, I would cut off my hair, in an unfeminine short way, and wear masculine clothing for the next week. At my salon appointment the next day, I met a nice woman who happily and professionally cut my hair to a boyish-butch look. I don’t think I would have been able to sit through the whole ordeal so calmly if I hadn’t cried so much the day before. I was honestly scared to cut my hair. The thing I find amusing is that so many girls were, (and still are), incredibly empathetic with my initial terror, when in reality, it’s just hair! I have no doubt that it will grow back like it always has. I do admit that it was nerve-racking when the hairdresser took my long brown hair into a ponytail and chopped it right off with her scissors. After that I knew there was no going back, and I smiled.
The first thing I noticed was that my newly shorn hair felt dramatically different in the physical sense. I felt the lining of my jacket with a part of my neck that hadn’t been exposed in years. It made me jump! I couldn’t stop running my hands through it and smiling, I felt like the whole world was on to me and my experiment, though none of the unfamiliar faces in town looked twice. Back at school was quite a different story. It was raining when I returned so I had the luxury of walking into Main Building with my hood on. The first few people I showed had known what my trip to town was for and exclaimed joyously that they loved it when I removed my hood. The rest of the school, my roommate and best friends included, whom I had not forewarned, were a bit more shocked. That night I braved the dining hall, where people literally craned their necks to look at me, and my friends couldn’t stop asking “Why??” My original idea was to respond to this frequently asked question as if it had no correlation to my Thoreauvian Experiment. Only after I discovered that my experiment was just as effective whether or not everyone knew of it did I answer people honestly. I had a new look and suddenly everyone knew my name. I loved all of the attention.
However, the next morning I wanted to cry. I felt ugly. I looked like a boy. I missed my long hair. I hated my outfit for day two of my experiment: dress pants, a button down, and a wool sweater. A combination of my own clothing that I had never before worn together. In fact, it was probably the most conservative thing I had worn to school all year. Not to say that my previous style of dress was inappropriate, but I had grown accustomed to skirts and pretty blouses. I find it ironic now, that while walking through school that day, I was more ashamed of myself than if I had been wearing, say, a very revealing dress. When thinking about why I felt the way I did, I saw that so much of the quality of my life as a girl had been based off of my appearance. It was only natural that I should feel like I was losing myself in the process of removing that which I had been dependent on. I didn’t know what to think of myself. For me, being a girl and looking like a girl had essentially melded into the same thing over the years. Could I lose one and still have the other? I would like to believe that true beauty is an effect of someone who embraces their femininity, but the enterprise of womanhood had required so many new clothes of me that I had begun to confuse them with my identity as a girl.
Considering that it was my choice from the very beginning to decide to look a certain way, girls could argue that it is still their choice, and only their choice, that keeps them in adhering to social norms of femininity. Many girls, friends of mine even, recognize that they would be the same person, in essence, without their external façade, but claim that being pretty is a preference for the sake of fun. The entertainment of wearing pearls and perfume, sunhats and stockings, floral prints, lace, high heels, and makeup is alluring to girls of any age it seems. It is therefore highly plausible that the majority of women in the world find themselves looking as they do simply because they wish to.
Yet if looking feminine is honestly a preference, and not a necessity, could they go without it? If the girls who interacted with me, before and after my outward change, sincerely felt that they were more than their appearance, I believe that they would not have been so stunned with my experiment. If they could stand solidly in their beliefs of what it means to be a girl, minus the prominence of their appearance, they would not have “admired my bravery” for letting go of things of such little weight as my hair and my daily dress. And so I ask, at what point in the enterprise of womanhood does a girl’s appearance become an element of her femininity and not a product of it?
In taking on this experiment, I’ve come to realize that I enjoy looking and dressing certain ways, and that regardless of how I may appear I wholly remain myself on the inside. Once I became comfortable with not having my appearance, I began to find myself being exactly how I wished to be. Once I stopped judging myself by my appearance, I let go of what others thought. In doing this, I felt more like a true girl than I ever had. No one was expecting me to look a certain way. No one was talking to me only because they could see down my shirt. My own brand of femininity came through because I was not seeking to be that way for anyone but myself. I noticed a soft and loving side of myself, a side I was not aware of as a constant part of me. I was able to embrace my identity as a girl when no one was seeing me as I thought girls should be seen. I am not a girl because I am pretty, nor vise versa. I am beautiful either in the eyes of myself, which I can’t prove, or in the eyes of everyone else, which don’t matter. I am a girl because, well, I am.
The brilliance of Thoreau’s metaphor is that it holds true in reality; our clothes will forever deteriorate and our appearances grow out of fashion. In the end we are left with ourselves, so why not value that which we can actually keep? It is my hope that as people read this, whether male or female, they consider their own identities, for we will always be the wearers of our clothes, whether they be old or new.

Things That Cause Strife

This is an idea I got from my friend Susan’s Blog. I’m telling you mine. Now you tell me yours.

1. Automatic voice operators
2. Packaging for electronics
3. Headphone chords
4. Watermelon Seeds
5. Scotch tape
6. Cow-licks
7. Zits
8. Armpit hair
9. Partner-less socks
10. Missed calls

This is the BEST video EVER!!

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.