Nudity as a coping mechanism
As a child, I had severe anxiety. I was lucky enough to have a handful of compassionate souls become my most treasured companions. This kept me sane. However, when I reached adulthood, anxiety attacked my consciousness as a great tension suddenly released: like a taut spring, a rubber band gun, or the Big Bang.
Since arriving in college and becoming a student of music, I have measured all accounts of my life--from the diligence of my willpower to the act of making love--to music. So, when I began my journey as a performance major I was forced, against my will by the sheer force of innate brain activity, to equate musical performance with the eptitude of my soul. I found it impossible in my first three years of intensive instruction to separate the act of performing from the perception that within that act, I was displaying my naked, honest soul to complete strangers.
That thought worried me. I have led a life of underachieving with the intrinsic philosophy that if I do not expend every ounce of my energy to one task, I cannot discover that everything I can give is not enough. Basically, to avoid at all costs the knowledge that I am inadequate.
With the belief that music is the manifestation of one's whole being, and with the belief that my music is a representation of my soul, I was so afraid of discovering who I really was that I never had the courage to look. I was convinced of the feebleness of my own nature and tried at all costs to hide my true nature from myself and, with utmost intensity, from others. This, in short, is why I could not continue the performance tract.
Then, I learned how to be naked. The realization did not happen all at once. I took a great deal of time, and an even greater deal of caution exploring the limits of my own self-awareness. It began when I committed myself to a company of 150 some odd youths who each relied on me, personally, to realize their dreams. And I relied on 150 individuals to actualize my own aspirations. If one failed, we all failed, and that reality made me ashamed. I failed. I failed horribly, and was replaced by another, less worthy, but more qualified individual. This failure haunted me for years; but, I realized slowly that there is no room for self-doubt in a world of love, a world of dedication, a world of absolute trust in one's companion, and the complete--almost desperate--resolve to push oneself to perfection. We all failed. And this is the key:
We all fail. We fail miserably. Painfully. With grandeur and with disgrace. We all fail.
Failure is a celebration. Failure, imperfection, and inadequacy are beautiful. It seems wrong. We all want to be perfect, to make something of ourselves, to be recognized and respected. To impact human life in such a way, we shall never be forgotten. Yet, to understand that to be forgotten completely is the greatest honor humanity can bestow, that to be utterly imperfect is a mark of beauty, is to understand yourself.
So, I say: if you can stand naked before your companions, your mentors, jurors and strangers alike, then you are free. If I can be completely unashamed of my physical self; mark, realize, and celebrate every inch of my body publicly and without fear of what others will see--of what I will see--then how should I be afraid of my soul?
Get naked. Anxiety is a construct. Strip it away, bare yourself to the world and see what you are. Then you can no longer be afraid, only aware.
Since arriving in college and becoming a student of music, I have measured all accounts of my life--from the diligence of my willpower to the act of making love--to music. So, when I began my journey as a performance major I was forced, against my will by the sheer force of innate brain activity, to equate musical performance with the eptitude of my soul. I found it impossible in my first three years of intensive instruction to separate the act of performing from the perception that within that act, I was displaying my naked, honest soul to complete strangers.
That thought worried me. I have led a life of underachieving with the intrinsic philosophy that if I do not expend every ounce of my energy to one task, I cannot discover that everything I can give is not enough. Basically, to avoid at all costs the knowledge that I am inadequate.
With the belief that music is the manifestation of one's whole being, and with the belief that my music is a representation of my soul, I was so afraid of discovering who I really was that I never had the courage to look. I was convinced of the feebleness of my own nature and tried at all costs to hide my true nature from myself and, with utmost intensity, from others. This, in short, is why I could not continue the performance tract.
Then, I learned how to be naked. The realization did not happen all at once. I took a great deal of time, and an even greater deal of caution exploring the limits of my own self-awareness. It began when I committed myself to a company of 150 some odd youths who each relied on me, personally, to realize their dreams. And I relied on 150 individuals to actualize my own aspirations. If one failed, we all failed, and that reality made me ashamed. I failed. I failed horribly, and was replaced by another, less worthy, but more qualified individual. This failure haunted me for years; but, I realized slowly that there is no room for self-doubt in a world of love, a world of dedication, a world of absolute trust in one's companion, and the complete--almost desperate--resolve to push oneself to perfection. We all failed. And this is the key:
We all fail. We fail miserably. Painfully. With grandeur and with disgrace. We all fail.
Failure is a celebration. Failure, imperfection, and inadequacy are beautiful. It seems wrong. We all want to be perfect, to make something of ourselves, to be recognized and respected. To impact human life in such a way, we shall never be forgotten. Yet, to understand that to be forgotten completely is the greatest honor humanity can bestow, that to be utterly imperfect is a mark of beauty, is to understand yourself.
So, I say: if you can stand naked before your companions, your mentors, jurors and strangers alike, then you are free. If I can be completely unashamed of my physical self; mark, realize, and celebrate every inch of my body publicly and without fear of what others will see--of what I will see--then how should I be afraid of my soul?
Get naked. Anxiety is a construct. Strip it away, bare yourself to the world and see what you are. Then you can no longer be afraid, only aware.