Limitations force creativity

“Limiting your options can be a very inspiring thing.”

-Trent Reznor

In a world of infinite possibilities, set limitations on yourself. Create boundaries or guide rails for yourself. You will find that, by intentionally limiting your options, you will be forced to be more creative. 

I remember hearing Anthony Bourdain explain that anyone can cook a perfect piece of filet mignon well, but it takes real skill to cook the cheap, tough meats that no one wants. 

Seth Godin has written a blog post a day for many years, but he doesn’t use pictures, hashtags, keywords, or any of the other features of his blog platform. He says that he has twenty six letters and one page to work with and that’s all. 

In Fugazi, on all of their albums and at every one of their live shows, Ian MacKaye played a Gibson SG through a Marshall amp with no effects pedals, ever. 

John Danaher, the best jiu-jitsu coach in the world, teaches six main submission systems based off of the highest percentage techniques in the sport. 

Having too many options gives us an excuse to not be creative. Options are a distraction. Limitations force creativity. 

Next time you are creating something, instead of getting overwhelmed by the possibilities, set limitations for yourself. Try painting with only three colors. Write a blog post in only seven lines. Make a meal with five ingredients. Whatever you are doing, start by intentionally limiting your options and see what comes out of you. You may find it frustrating or confusing at first, but over time, without as many decisions to make, you will find that it actually frees you up to do better work, and to enjoy the process more. 

Your hope may be the only hope someone else has

I know that, in spite of her cheerful and enthusiastic demeanor, my daughter suffers from time to time. She has told me that she gets lonely. As an only child, I fear that we have made it difficult for her to relate to other children.

It doesn’t help that she is different. She is different because she is half-Asian and doesn’t look like the other kids. She is different because her mother and I are older than most of the parents of her peers. She is different because she was raised in a multi-generational household with grandparents to guide and teach her, so she has always been ahead of her grade level. She is different because she is creative, she’s a leader, and she is so damn smart, and I’m not just saying that as a doting father. The truth is that she is smarter than both her mother and myself.

I just don’t want to see her lose heart. I don’t want to see her become cynical. We joke about being weird. I can joke about it now because I have found solace in my weirdness, but it wasn’t always funny. It has also been lonely, painful, and confusing. To her, it is just lonely, painful, and confusing.

She doesn’t understand why the other kids don’t want to play with her. She is frustrated and hurt by the fact that some of the kids who are friends with her one-on-one choose to ignore her play on the playground while playing with other kids who exclude her from their games. She calls these kids “half-friends.” At least she knows that, but that knowledge hurts.

This pains and saddens me. I can feel it in my marrow. I have been there. I have been her. It made no sense to me then and it makes no sense to me now. She is full of life, full of joy and enthusiasm, and as sincere and loyal as they come. Why can’t the other kids see that? Why don’t they see how kind, smart, and generous she is? Why is she excluded? It makes no sense. No child should feel alone and unaccepted amongst their peers.

I know life is not fair, but I refuse to accept the unfairness of this. So we talk about it. I try to make it make sense. I try to give her hope. I tell her she is loved and appreciated, and that she will find her place in the world someday.

It may take a while and it may not be easy, but this is all temporary. And sometimes she cries. And sometimes I cry, but I try to stay strong for her because I know, even if she can’t see it now, there is meaning in all of this.

There are lessons in all of this. It makes no sense now. It feels wrong and it feels unfair. But these struggles will become her story someday and her story will help others through their pain, their loneliness, and their confusion. It is so important not to lose hope because your hope may be the only hope someone else has.

This is the life I would rather be living

I don’t ever want my daughter to feel as though her existence is getting in the way of a life I would rather be living. I want her to feel wanted, appreciated, and cared for. I want her to feel seen, heard, and understood. 

I want her to know that she is important, that she is more important than my personal goals and aspirations, more important than my desires or regrets, and more important than my hobbies and my occupation. 

I want my daughter to know that she can talk to me, confide in me, and come to me for comfort and guidance. I want her to feel safe to tell me anything and to know that, even if I do not always like her choices, she is loved without judgement or conditions. 

I want her to know that there is nothing more important to me than her, that I would and will drop anything and everything if she needs me, and that there is nothing she can ask of me that is too big or too small for me to help her. 

I am not always perfect at this. I make mistakes. I make a lot of mistakes. I put other things before her. I don’t always give her the attention she wants or needs. I am sometimes preoccupied with other things and miss opportunities to see or hear her. But I am trying, and when I make a mistake, we talk about it. I am learning just like she is, and that is important for her to see. 

Children do not choose to come into this world. They have no say in the matter. We make that choice for them and they have to live with our decision. This is something I understood as a child. 

Knowing that I did not make the choice to be here, there were many times growing up where I wished I had never been born. There were many times when I felt like an inconvenience, like there was some other life my parents would rather be living, but they had me instead. Real or imagined, this is what I felt and I don’t ever want my daughter to feel the way that I did. 

This is the life I would rather be living and my daughter is who I want to spend my time with, not because it is an obligation, but because that is the decision that I made when I helped to bring her into this world. 

Creativity is difficult

Creativity is difficult. This is not a complaint. It’s merely an observation.

Many years ago, I heard an interview with the great jazz trumpeter Miles Davis where he talked about musical improvisation. He explained to the interviewer that, while there was a basic structure to the songs he played, he never played the same solo twice. In this way, every night was a different experience of the music for both him and the audience. 

The interviewer remarked that it must be difficult to be that creative every night. Yes. Yes it is. 

Sometimes new ideas come easily. They just pour out and all you have to do is channel them. Other times, it feels like torture, like nothing you do can or will make the ideas come. You just fumble over sputters and sparks, but can’t seem to make anything come to life. 

This is all part of the process. Creativity is work. It’s meaningful, fulfilling work, but it is work nonetheless. 

If you want to call yourself an artist, prepare to struggle. Prepare to grapple with your work, and to feel incapable and defeated from time to time because nothing you do feels right. 

Do your work anyway and just don’t quit. 

My first bicycle – I hate you

My little brother and I being the first grandkids in our family, everyone usually gathered at our house for Christmas. One year, as we all sat in our basement around the fireplace opening presents with our family, I saw two large boxes covered in wrapping paper. One had my name on it and the other had my brother’s. They were from my grandparents, my dad’s parents, two of the sweetest, most genuine and generous people I have ever known.

My grandparents didn’t have much, but what they did have, they gave to others. These two boxes were the last gifts to be opened. Everyone watched in anticipation as we tore into the paper. When we finally got to the boxes, we could see there were pictures of bicycles on them. But there was a problem. The boxes were empty.

My brother and I were extremely confused. Then, everyone started laughing. Being a few years older, I vaguely understood that there was more to the story than two empty boxes. My brother, on the other hand, didn’t get the joke. He must have thought everyone was laughing at him, as opposed to at the punchline, and he lost his temper, yelling, “I hate you!” at our grandparents and everyone who laughed.

I could feel the mood in the room shift. I can still feel it to this day, the awkward tension his outburst created and the hurt I could sense in my grandparents upon hearing those words.

This was partly my fault. Being the older brother and not knowing any better, I had played a lot of tricks on my little brother over the years. I created games where we would wrap toys in paper and trade back and forth. He would give me my favorite toy of his and I would give him his favorite toy of mine, or at least that’s what I told him would happen. When I opened the gift he gave to me, what was inside was exactly what I had hoped for, most likely some G.I. Joe figure or accessory, or a Transformer or Go-Bot. When he opened the gift I gave to him, however, where he was promised a toy, what he would usually find was a book, and I would laugh. I don’t know how many times we played this game, but it was enough.

So when he opened that empty bicycle box and everyone began laughing, what they didn’t know was that he had been through this before and he didn’t like it at all. He was hurt and angry, just like when I had tricked him so many times prior. Shocked at his reaction, everyone responded differently. My grandparents remained quiet, my parents were embarrassed, my uncle was upset by the seeming ingratitude, and I felt all of it all at once.

When the adults finally got my brother to calm down, they took us into the garage where the bicycles were, fully assembled and ready to ride. What I unconsciously suspected all along was true. My grandparents were not the kind of people to play a cruel joke like giving children, their only grandchildren, empty bicycle boxes for Christmas just to laugh at their expense.

Of course the bicycles were in the garage. It was so obvious in hindsight. I’m sure my brother apologized for his reaction, even if he was made to, but I’m also sure he was as embarrassed after the fact as he was upset prior to seeing his brand new bicycle. I’m also sure that my grandparents forgave him as they would forgive both of us many times over in their lives.

As I said, they were two of the kindest, most gracious and generous people I have ever known. They were hard-working faithful family-oriented folks. Whether they know it or not, I learned a lot from watching them over the years, even if I was unable to show them during their lives. They saw my brother and I make a lot of mistakes, but they always treated us with love.

Oh, and those bicycles were amazing! We got a lot of miles out of them and, I don’t know about my brother, but my bicycle gave me my first real taste of freedom. I’m guessing he had a similar experience because he was usually with me when I would ride miles away from home around lake for fun, or to the tennis courts to play street hockey with the kids from school. We rode together to many places for many years and had many amazing experiences.

Parallel parking and the Wai Kru Ram Muay

Through an unexpected turn of events, my daughter and I ended up at a Muay Thai Wai Kru seminar today. Muay Thai is a form of pugilistic fighting originating in Thailand wherein participants use punches, kicks, knees, elbows, and trips from the clinch position to defeat one another. Wai Kru, more officially Wai Kru Ram Muay or ‘war dance saluting the teacher,’ is a ritual performed by Muay Thai fighters before a fight. This ritual is a way for the fighter to pay respect to the art, their teacher, and their opponent, and is intended to prepare the fighter for the fight. 

My day started with me attending a jiu-jitsu class with my daughter who played with her cousins while I trained. After my class was over, we were supposed to go somewhere, but before we left, I found out that plans had changed and our presence was no longer required. My wife was sightseeing in Washington DC with her family who is visiting from Washington state, so my daughter and my schedule suddenly opened up. 

As we were leaving the academy, some Muay Thai folks came in and I remembered that there was a seminar today intended to raise money for the girl who was teaching it to fight overseas. My daughter’s cousins were all attending the seminar since they all do Muay Thai and my brother was hosting the event, so I asked my daugher if she wanted to participate also and she said yes. 

The seminar went well and the kids all learned how to do the Wai Kru. At the end, they asked for volunteers to demonstrate what they had all learned, which was a complex series of movements that takes several minutes to perform. My daughter immediately raised her hand. 

A space was made in the middle of the room and my daughter was called out. With a little bit of help, she demonstrated the Wai Kru as everyone watched. They gave her a round of applause and then every kid, one by one, demonstrated to the group what they had learned. After the seminar ended, everyone sparred for a while and then went to get ice cream. 

When we got home, my wife was excited to tell me how proud of herself she was for successfully parallel parking in DC and making it all the way to Eden Center, a giant Vietnamese shopping center in Northern Virginia, and back without getting lost. When my wife finished telling me about her day, my daughter said, “Mommy, I did something brave today too. When the coaches asked for volunteers to demonstrate the Wai Kru in front of the class, even though I was nervous, I raised my hand and I went first. When I was done, my cousin told me that I inspired her and that’s why she went second.” 

I simply smiled. It was a good day and a good reminder that courage manifests in many different forms. For one person, courage is parallel parking in the city or driving to a new place. For another person, courage is raising their hand and stepping up in front of a crowd. We are all scared of something. It is our ability to take action in spite of that fear that makes us brave. Also, bravery is contagious. 

Community sandals

There are many aspects of Cambodian culture that took me a while to get accustomed to. In fact, there are many aspects of Cambodian culture that I’m still not used to, even after being with my Cambodian-American wife for nearly seventeen years. For example, the idea of community sandals still baffles and sometimes irks me.

It is customary in Cambodian culture, as in many Asian cultures, to leave your shoes at the door prior to entering a home. Because of this, outside of any Cambodian home, you will typically find a pile of shoes that will include everything from dress shoes to sneakers, sandals, and flip flops, lots and lots of sandals and flip flops.

Being born and raised in an American where a person’s shoes are only that person’s shoes, my assumption has always been that a person wears only the shoes that belong to him or her. If I wear a pair of shoes to someone’s home and I take them off at their door, I expect that I will find them where I left them when it is time for me to put them back on. However, in my experience, this is not always true with Cambodians, especially when it comes to sandals or flip flops.

I have been at many Cambodian cookouts where I have left my flip flops outside, gone in the house to get something, to use the bathroom, or simply to get out of the heat, only to find that my flip flops were missing when I got back. At first, this thoroughly confused me. I had no idea where they went and I thought I had misplaced them, or that I was losing my mind.

The first time this happened, as I walked around looking for my missing footwear, I saw an older Cambodian woman walking around with giant black flip flops that looked like mine on her tiny Asian feet. I asked my then girlfriend, now wife, if the woman was wearing my flip flops. Confused by my question, she looked at the woman’s feet, then looked at me, and said, “Yeah?”

“They are my flip flops,” I replied, “Doesn’t she have her own shoes?”

“Probably,” she said, “Just grab another pair,” and then she walked away.

My black-and-white mind could not understand what was going on. It did not compute. These were my flip flops. That woman had her own shoes. Why was she wearing mine? Furthermore, why would I want to wear someone else’s shoes? Why would she want to wear my shoes, for that matter?

As I settled down a bit, I began looking for another pair of flip flops that I could wear. This created another problem. I have size thirteen feet and absolutely none of the people at this cookout, especially not the Cambodians, had feet, or shoes, that big. I grabbed the biggest pair of tiny flip flops I could find, squeezed my giant Dutch-American feet into them and shuffled around looking as weird as I felt. Eventually, I got my flip flops back and, the next time I took them off, I was sure to leave them out of the path of any Cambodians who might innocently slip their feet into the most conveniently located pair of shoes.

Over the years, I have come to understand that, while everyone comes to and leaves a Cambodian home with their own shoes, as long as those shoes are not currently being worn, they are community shoes. That is, if a member or guest of that household needs a pair of shoes to complete some task, they are going to grab whichever shoes are most convenient on their way out the door. When they are done, the shoes will be returned, maybe not to the same spot, but they will be returned. There is nothing malicious or inconsiderate about this custom. I suppose many Cambodians just see shoes as a tool, not an extension of personal identity or even property.

I assume it was grace

Thirty days before my nineteenth birthday, I entered rehab. Looking back, I still don’t know how I found the courage to go. At first, I was willing because I had nowhere else to turn. I had no home to speak of. I was barely getting by, working at McDonald’s, making enough money to eat and get high. 

I had been sleeping on friends’ floors and couches for a while, and occasionally in my car that had expired tags to match my suspended license. My mom had let me back in her home for a short period because I was too sick to take care of myself, but I had worn out my welcome once again, especially as far as her husband was concerned. I was running out of options. 

One night, at a Pizza Hut, my parents got together for the first time since their divorce, sat me down, and told me I needed help. My dad’s insurance would cover me going to rehab and they were giving me one last chance to turn my life around. Of course, I was angry and belligerent. This perceived betrayal was more fuel for the fire of resentment and self pity that burned me from the inside out. I said I needed time to think about it and I left. 

I knew I was in trouble. If I rejected their ultimatum, I would have nowhere else to turn. With the exception of one or two people, I had burned all of the bridges that I had crossed. I called one of my last friends up, a girl I met through drugs and drinking, and with whom I lived for a while when I dropped out of school and ran away from home. She had just recently gotten out of rehab and, as soon as she was out, we were drinking and getting high together. 

I told my friend what was going on and she came to get me, or at least I assume she did because all I remember is the two of us sitting on top of Federal Hill, smoking weed, and talking about rehab, and I know I didn’t drive there. I told her my sob story, we commiserated for a while, and then she said, “It might be good for you to take a break for a little while. Go to rehab. It’s like a vacation. I’ll be here when you get out. But, if you don’t want to go, you can stay with me at my mom’s house.” 

Her mom lived in the city. We used to go there to get high with her and she would buy us alcohol, but she was into some things even I wouldn’t touch. She had a drawer full of pills and smoked crack from time to time. That stuff always scared me. Although, with the way I was headed, who knows how many of my “nevers” were really just “not yets.” 

My friend’s offer was tempting. It was a way out. If I accepted, it meant I had a roof over my head for a while longer. It meant I could keep running. But I was worn out. I was tired and beaten. I told her I’d think about it and she took me home. 

What happened next still baffles me. The next day, I called my father and told him I would go to rehab like he said. I guess I was done, but I don’t know how or why. I don’t know what it was that gave me the power to make that decision when I had another option. The only explanation I have is that it was grace. 

My father contacted his insurance company, they set everything up with the facility, and gave me an intake date. I didn’t fight it. Thirty days before my nineteenth birthday, I was driven to rehab and I was given a chance that many do not get. I was given the opportunity to start my life over and, even thought I’m convinced that it was some kind of divine intervention, I took it. 

Far from innocence

When my wife and I were dating, we would talk on the phone for hours every night about everything and nothing. She would whisper from beneath the blankets in her makeshift room in the basement of her cousin’s home, trying to be quiet so that she didn’t wake up her niece and aunt with whom she shared the space. I would whisper back because, the house I lived in was so old and the insulation so non-existent, the neighbor upstairs and I could hear every word the other one said. 

We would often talk for so long that one or both of us would fall asleep on the phone. Not wanting the conversation to end, neither of us wanted to be the first to say goodbye. Having to hang up felt excruciating. It felt like we were being pulled apart, never to speak again. She was the last thing I thought about as I went to sleep and the first thing I thought about when I woke up the next morning. 

Even though I was thirty years old and she was twenty five, this experience made me feel so young and alive, like I was a teenager again discovering love for the first time. There was something truly magical about this time and, even thinking about it now brings a smile to my face. It was innocent and beautiful. We laughed a lot. 

She being from Cambodia and me from the United States, we sometimes had difficulty understanding one another. Her English was not bad by any means, but she didn’t always have the right word or the correct pronunciation for what she wanted to say and my Khmer was way worse than her English. So we would often have to spell words to each other in order to understand what the other was saying. We tried so hard to understand each other. There was so much patience, graciousness, and kindness in those conversations. 

I miss that time, those experiences, and the people we were back then. Writing this, I am reminded of how far we have come together, but also how far away from that innocence we have gotten. It’s bittersweet. It makes me want to do better, to be better for her, for myself, and for us.

I am terrified of my creative voice

I am terrified of my creative voice. It frightens me because it sounds a lot like my pain. 

I am hesitant to enter that place inside of me because I am afraid of what I will find, I am afraid of what will come out, and I am afraid that I will not be able to leave once I enter. 

I dance around this fear and I do good work, but it isn’t my work, not in the truest sense because it is impersonal. What is personal is the pain, the grief, the anger, and the shame, but I am afraid to go there. 

I want my art to be uplifting, I want to make a positive impact, and I want to make people happy, but I also need to dig deeper. I need to dive into the pain. I need to unearth the lessons it wants to give me. I need to not be afraid of what I will find because all I will find is the truth. 

I am still searching for my creative voice because it exists on the other side of fear and I have not yet gone there. I have not yet become truly vulnerable, and there is no art without vulnerability. 

Even this is merely writing around the truth, not diving into it headfirst without hesitation. Even this is a form of hiding. This is me avoiding the real work. 

This is not my creative voice. This is something else.