"Suffering is optional." - Maya, The Mistress of Illusion

Yeah, but only when we master the art of balance. Which means crawling from the end of the seesaw to the center, where you can observe each end flying up and bouncing down without taking the ride. This is how I imagine zen children play in their zen playground.

Now, for some of us, it's the ride that keeps us alive and creative -- all those feelings serve a purpose, they're the oils with which we paint, the images we record on film, the dialogue we ascribe to a character. We are not creating something from nothing. We are drawing from our vast external and internal experiences to present a story from which others may derive some education, emotion, entertainment.

Right here, I will interject that my year of Paxil was the calmest and most unproductive of my life. On the other hand, extreme emotional turbulence is like drinking a Slurpee too fast: brain freeze.

I don't want to suffer, 'though I do seem to choose it on occasion. I want only these things: to love/be loved, to understand/be understood, to be fearless -- not reckless -- in my approach to it, to play in it, to laugh in the face of it, to cry only long enough to cleanse and not drown in it. I want to enjoy my successes and learn from my failures.

There is great risk in asking for what you want; the possibility of unmet expectations looms like a cinematic shadow, faceless and foreboding, its source unseen. Ironically, we are the source of the threatening shadow that darkens our dreams. Is there a way to use this self-induced energy as a creative medium without being destroyed by it? Perhaps it's simply a question of being in the flow without clinging to the destination. Change is inevitable; we can participate in it with grace, or be ravaged by its craggy edges.

My body wears a few physical scars, part of my collection of life's souvenirs: the one in the center of my forehead is from a car accident when I was 4 years old, on my way to see Santa Claus; the one on my right breast is from a frightening biopsy with a happy ending; the one on my right index finger is from a Star Wars laser fight I had with my former lover in the La Cienega Toys 'R Us. There are many more invisible scars on my heart. I am learning to wear them with the same kind of respect and honor one attributes to any wound of war.

We hold ultimate responsibility for our part in how it all goes down and plays out. We can make it an adventure or a disaster. If our needs are not met by someone else, we must learn that our care was not in their hands. We are afraid to claim such power, because it could blow up in our faces. Then again, maybe it won't. You never know.

Balance is available to us, even if we're challenged by gravity. It's just about choice.