The Terrible Gift
I played Romeo in college, under the tender, uncompromising direction of a woman who saw something in me I didn’t yet know how to see in myself. Around the same time, in a fluorescent-lit classroom, I sat across from a music theory professor who cracked my head open and let the world pour in—Kandinsky, Vaughan Williams, Von Bingen—sounds and visions so alive they burned.
These were formative moments. Not because of the setting—a conservative Christian school that fit me like a too-tight jacket even then—but because they marked the first time I felt creativity pressing against the edges of my understanding of the world. It whispered that there was something larger out there. Something expansive, unruly, and terrifyingly beautiful.
Mike Linton, my music theory professor (and talented composer), gifted me with many things during my time under his tutelage, but a book he gave me cracked open my understanding of creativity, Madeleine L’Engle’s Walking on Water. I read it with the urgency of someone grasping for meaning, as if the text were speaking directly to a restless young artist in search of permission to create. Over three decades later, the passages I underlined as an earnest, young college student still resonate, though the lens through which I read them has matured. What hasn’t changed is the book’s quiet insistence on the necessity—and burden—of art.
(photo) the actual book I was gifted in 1992
Creativity weaves through our lives, stitching together influences, moments and our relationships. It reveals what we gravitate toward—sounds, images, words that echo within us. It introduces us to mentors, to artists long gone but ever-present in their work, and to questions we carry into adulthood: What is beauty? What is art? What is truth? And how do we honor them in a world that often forgets?
I’ve carried Madeleine’s book with me for decades, through different cities, jobs and stages of life. It has stayed tucked on my shelves through my evolving faith, through my changing understanding of art and self. This year, on New Year’s Day, as my family made their way to a bowling alley in Midtown for a bit of fun, I pulled it again from my bookshelf almost on a whim. Later, as I sat on the subway rereading the first few chapters, it felt as though no time had passed since 1992, as though I was still that 19-year-old, wide-eyed and scribbling in the margins. But this time, her words resonated quite differently. I know now that in L’Engle’s fiction, a tesseract collapses time and space, making the distant or unreachable suddenly accessible. Sitting there, with the subway rattling around me, I experienced my own tesseract—a direct line to my younger self… his hopes and questions braided tightly with my own today. The years folded together, and for a brief moment on the A train, the creative aspirations I had nurtured then and the realities I grapple with now felt inseparably intertwined. I live for these moments.
“To serve a work of art, great or small, is to die, to die to self”
I underlined this sentence all those years ago, thinking I understood what she meant. I used to see creativity as an act of submission to God, a way to erase the ego and let the divine flow through. But now, I know that the death she speaks of is a quieter one—a relinquishing of control, a willingness to let the work reshape you. It’s not about losing yourself but finding yourself in the process of creating—or in my case—supporting creation. And in that discovery, there’s room to embrace the fullness of others too. True creativity invites diverse voices, equitable practices, and an inclusive spirit, recognizing that art is not solitary. It’s communal, an act of belonging that widens the circle for all to enter and thrive (something that my evangelical upbringing didn’t exactly make room for).
The creative life, I’ve had to relearn over and over again, is not linear. It is circuitous and unpredictable, filled with detours and return trips, moments of clarity followed by long stretches of fog and uncertainty. This is true not only for the generative artist—the playwright, the composer, the painter—but for those of us whose creativity finds other outlets. I don’t identify as a generative artist (that’s a label too sacred), but my life has been defined by creativity: curating spaces for artists to thrive, producing works that would otherwise remain ideas, shaping organizations to support the messy, vital work of artmaking.
But this life, as fulfilling as it is, comes with its own terrible gift. I’ve been “gifted” with a spirit that desires a kind of life that doesn’t easily align with material success. I remember, just after we moved to Los Angeles for his job and I was unemployed, my husband asked me, “What do you want to do professionally? Don’t you have a plan?” I didn’t, of course. How dare he ask me that question! As a creative, my plan could include many tributaries, any one of which could lead to something unexpected and fabulous. I can bob and weave, create in many directions, and see where the current might take me. Yet this openness, while invigorating, also comes at a cost. My husband, I’m sure, feels the weight of this divergence—the absence of a purchased home, a substantial retirement account, or the safety of a nest egg. These are the usual markers of a life well-lived, and yet they remain elusive to me (an upcoming essay on regenerative economics will expand on this).
And yet, I don’t feel empty. On the contrary, my life is full—of connections, of purpose, of experiences that could never be quantified in a ledger. Perhaps this fullness is because I’ve come to see creativity and art as my faith practice, my religion, my church. Though I’ve quite purposefully fled the traditional faith of my youth, there is something profoundly spiritual in the act of creating, of bringing forth something that didn’t exist before. But there is a terribleness, nonetheless. The creative life demands a different kind of courage, one that embraces uncertainty and rejects the familiar comforts of stability. It asks for trust in something unseen, something deeply felt but often intangible—a leap of faith in the work itself and in the mysterious process that guides it.
The things we encounter creatively, especially in our formative years, do not simply fade as we age. They transform, becoming touchstones in our evolving narrative. What are yours? My early encounters with creativity on the windswept plains of rural Iowa, where I grew up, shaped my imagination. Riding beans on the farm (a dreaded annual responsibility… I did get a good tan, though), I dreamed of rescuing Princess Diana from Prince Charles, imagining myself as her partner in a life of joy and bounty. My creative life wasn’t limited to daydreams, though. I spent hours at the piano, practicing scales and banging out Rachmaninoff. I transformed spaces with my dear friend Rodney Pritchard, envisioning entirely new worlds within the walls of our church. And there was endless space—both literal and figurative—to dream.
(photo) The cornfields of Iowa where I grew up
I wonder sometimes about my daughter, growing up in the frenetic rhythms of Brooklyn. What space will she find to dream? In a place where the horizon is defined by crowds and concrete rather than open fields, will she carve out her own imaginative sanctuaries? I hope so. Because it’s in those spaces—be they windswept plains or bustling metropolises—that creativity takes root, shaping who we are and what we bring into the world.
At Sundance Institute, I had the privilege of creating Labs for other creatives in places like Lamu and Manda Island, Marrakech, the Wasatch Mountains, and Arles. These experiences reminded me that creativity is a shared human endeavor—a river with many wells, as Matthew Fox might describe it. It draws from diverse sources, yet it flows through us all, connecting past, present, and future. Along that river, I’ve been profoundly shaped by those who have crossed my path between my university days and today—individuals whose brilliance, generosity and humanity have left indelible marks on me. People like Philip Himberg, Ken Brecher, Patsy Miller, Liesl Tommy, Leigh Silverman, Kamilah Forbes, India Mahdavi, Roya Baghai, Kamal Sinclair, Carrie Mae Weems, Ali Chahrour, Eileen Fisher, Abdullah Al-Kafri, Maya Zbib, Peter Rothstein, Mark Johnson, Maija Garcia, Lynn Nottage, and hundreds of others (I fear even listing these may offend those I’ve omitted). Each of them, in their own way, has fed this creative current, reminding me of the beauty and necessity of collaboration, mentorship and shared vision.
Similarly, the mystical visions of Hildegard of Bingen resonate with this interconnectedness. She spoke of creativity as a divine spark, a force that weaves through humanity and nature alike. Her descriptions of illumination and inspiration feel kindred to L’Engle’s reflections, both insisting that art and imagination are sacred acts of co-creation. Through this lens, the farm of my upbringing, the pages of Walking on Water, and the mystical visions of Hildegard all feel like part of the same story—a story of how creativity shapes us and calls us to shape the world in return.
I used to want all the answers. Now I know creativity doesn’t provide them. Instead, it offers the terrible gift of seeing—the world, ourselves, others—with clarity and compassion. It asks us to surrender to the process, to trust that the work will lead us somewhere worth going. My career has been shaped by this trust, by a willingness to follow the threads wherever they lead.
While on that A train, I stumbled across a passage that struck me deeply:
“In art, either as creators or participators, we are helped to remember some of the glorious things we have forgotten, and some of the terrible things we are asked to endure.”
It still feels like validation, as though my tendency to feel everything so acutely wasn’t a flaw but a gateway into something profound. It gave purpose to the emotional chaos I often carried. Decades later, at 51, those same words resonate differently, reframing what I understand to be the artist’s calling—not just to reflect beauty, but to bear witness to pain. My life has demanded both. Growing up in rural Iowa, coming of age as a gay man, navigating fatherhood and a life in the arts—all of it has required this duality.
In Walking on Water, L'Engle referenced Jean Rhys’s metaphor of the lake:
“All writing is a huge lake. There are great rivers that feed the lake, like Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. And there are mere trickles, like Jean Rhys. All that matters is feeding the lake. I don’t matter. The lake matters. You must keep feeding the lake.”
This idea has lingered with me, shaping how I move through the world. Whether I was performing under the guidance of beloved mentors, mentoring others in turn, or balancing creative vision with operational realities, I’ve come to see my work as part of a larger whole. My contribution, whether a torrent or a trickle, is just one of many flowing into that shared reservoir. What matters is the lake—not the size of my impact, but the act of showing up, of contributing.
It’s about stepping into the unknown, letting go of outcomes, and allowing something larger to take shape. It’s a lesson I try to pass on to my daughter—not just in her creative pursuits, but in life itself. Courage lies in risk, in uncertainty, and in the understanding that every attempt, whether it soars or stumbles, contributes to something greater.
L’Engle’s insistence that “We all feed the lake. That is what is important. It is a corporate act” has become a quiet mantra. Creativity, at its core, is communal. No one creates in isolation, and no act of creation is ever truly solitary. This truth has grounded me in moments of doubt, reminding me that the work we do as artists, as dreamers, as humans, isn’t for ourselves alone. It’s for the lake—the collective reservoir of human expression, ever-changing, ever-deepening.
And, at the heart of it all is love.
“Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name
Behind the hand that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove.
We only live, only suspire,
Consumed by either fire or fire.”
This “shirt of flame” is the terrible gift we wear as artists. It consumes us, yet it also sustains us. To create is to accept the torment and the love intertwined, to offer up our vulnerability for the sake of something greater. It’s what L’Engle calls “approaching the light.” And this is the supplication I share with you…
The work matters.
Your work matters.
Feed the lake.
Keep feeding the lake.
