Relinquishing Pursuit

As is often the case, this morning I wound up in an etymological rabbit hole while journaling. Anytime I catch myself repeating a word with notable frequency, I look up its etymology to see if I can garner any insights into the emotional or energetic root of its recurrence in my language. This morning I discovered that when I think about what work I am and am not interested in these days, I keep using the word, “pursue.” More specifically, I noticed when I think about how my relationship to acting has changed as interviewing, teaching, writing, and art-making has taken my focus, I noticed I always seem to think about it in terms of no longer wanting to “pursue” it.

According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, the Proto-Indo-European root of “pursue” or “pursuit” is, “Chase with hostile intent.” It’s not a surprisingly root, but the violence inherent in the word “hostile” stood out to me. And it resonated: the lies of paucity and competition we are told when we go into this particular field can make it feel like we are constantly engaged in hostile acts (toward others and toward ourselves) as we attempt to secure employment, over and over again.

I am more than happy to let go of that violence in regards to my performance life, but the investigation raised a tougher question for the things I do hope to continue to do professionally: how do I stop seeing the seeking of gainful employment as a “pursuit”? How may I cease to use the destructive energy embedded in this word? I do want to teach more, I do want to host more television and interview more people. I do want to be compensated for my artwork and writing. How does one approach that forward-thinking desire, without engaging in the hostility of pursuit?

The image I landed on was that of preparing soil and planting seeds. Instead of seeing the TV or article pitches I write, or the applications I offer for jobs, grants, and residencies as “pursuing” opportunities, I can instead see them as seeds I am planting in soil – soil which I tend with a mind toward its general health and fecundity for all aspects of my life. I can spray seeds out in various directions - unattached to outcome as best I can - and whatever takes hold may germinate. Who knows, the odd acting job may find its way to that loam, blown in from life past, but I can let go of planting anything I don't want to plant. Just keep the ground of my Self healthy and see what happens.

In 2020, deep in the terror of COVID, but quieted into its solitude, I got back into birding. One particularly mournful day, I happened on a bird I had only seen once before in childhood - the brilliant vermillion of a male Scarlet Tanager. When I saw it as a child I remember it feeling so special - to have seen what I now know to be a not rare but still less frequent migrant in the Massachusetts area. For all the years to come after I doubted myself, doubted my memory. I told myself it was just a cardinal with a shadow over its middle, I don’t know why I sought to deny myself this bird. But despite the lack of belief in my self, I always remembered the event and the name of this special species in my past.

On that mournful 2020 day, while walking in Green-Wood Cemetery, I took a path I don't usually take and suddenly found myself face-to-face again with the gorgeous red and black. As I walked toward the bird, surprisingly, instead of flying away from me it flew to me, landing on a branch just above my head. I burst into tears, and I said out loud, “I don't know what you mean, but you mean so much to me.” The presence of this beautiful creature - which in the murky memory of my childhood had come to stand for both specialness and self-doubt - felt deeply resonant and possibly spiritual.

A few days later, my therapist suggested I meditate on the image of the bird and ask it if it had anything to say to me. It did. With the quietest voice that lives inside of me, the bird whispered: 

“There are Seeds in Noticing, and Flowers in Patience”

Four years later, as the ground in front of me continues to shift and change, I am not surprised that in eschewing violence and hostility, I am returning to seeds and soil; birds and seeds are, after all, intimately symbiotic.

Care for the dirt you are in. 

Notice. Till. Wait.

Harvest. 

Mourn. 

Repeat.