Nothing Is Impossible (13 page)

Then all three hundred of us split into groups of fifteen to twenty, including our partners, and fanned out to a number of restaurants in the area for lunch. By this time we were all on a high, having affirmed the positive and banished the negative. The waiters were literally overwhelmed with respect. We ate our food slowly, taking time to savor every bite. We listened intently as the man who was one of the two leaders of the seminar described the mind-blowing spiritual experience of Harmonic Convergence, which, according to Mayan prophecies, marked the beginning of a new age of universal peace. Then he moved on to the next step for LRT
graduates who were serious about going further: rebirthing in a hot tub. I had no idea what that meant but I wondered where, when, and did my partner get to come?

Sadly, at that point they lost me. Rebirthing was conducted by two certified rebirthers working with one LRT graduate in someone’s home—presumably a rebirther who could afford a New York apartment with a hot tub. The theory was that when most of us were born it was a highly traumatic experience: we emerged from the dark comfort of the womb to be greeted by harsh lights, frightening creatures in masks, and a sudden, violent slap on the back. Apparently this first impression of the world is so overwhelming that we spend our lifetime crippled by fear and anger. The sheer effort of coping with those feelings or struggling to deny them prevents us from becoming the free, loving, and fulfilled people that we deserve to be. Rebirthing sessions in the hot tub are meant first to re-create our actual experience of being born in this lifetime. Then the student and the rebirthers work together to replace that horrific scenario with its exact opposite. Curled up in the fetal position in the moments before birth, we emerge to find ourselves immersed in soothing warm water and cradled by loving arms. The first sounds we hear are gentle music and soft voices welcoming us into the world.

Needless to say, the three rebirthings I had were extremely pleasant, almost to the point of sensory overload. The problem was that it seemed obvious what was expected of me. I tried my hardest to place myself once again inside my mother’s womb, but in spite of a long career as an actor with a vivid imagination, I couldn’t do it. The rebirthers gave me more love and support than any baby could ever hope for and were quite emotional about my “breakthrough.” I knew it would be downright cruel to tell them I was faking it. They urged me to be rebirthed at least twice a month (at $200 a pop) to reaffirm my innocence and to prevent negativity from working its way back into my life. I assured them I would give it serious thought, but after the third session in the hot tub I never contacted them again. I thought about staying in touch with my beautiful partner but decided against it because rebound relationships usually don’t work. For the best interests of the children, as well as myself, at that time I needed to be alone.

The reason I disengaged from LRT was much the same as the reason I disavowed Scientology: I don’t believe in instant fixes. I don’t believe we can write an affirmation to forgive our parents or others who have wronged us and consider it done. I don’t believe we can write a new script for our lives by simulating a pleasant birth.

I think that if we want to be true to ourselves, finding answers to the most important questions of life is a process. The time it takes to make genuine discoveries and find true beliefs varies with every individual. For most of my life faith was a very difficult concept. I understood it to mean the willingness to believe in the value of something that can’t be known in advance or even defined, but I couldn’t put it into practice. I was the customer who demands an extended warranty or a money-back guarantee. As an actor my job was to serve the story, and I truly enjoyed the process involved in doing that. Many actors get tired of playing one part for a long time; I always enjoyed long runs (such as
A Matter of Gravity, Fifth of July
, and
The Aspern Papers)
because every performance was an opportunity to learn more about the character and the intentions of the playwright, with a safety net of knowing the outcome in advance.

My first act of faith was not a religious one; it happened when Dana and I were married. I had always been afraid of marriage, perhaps because there had been a long history of failures for many generations in my family. But on a spring day in 1992, next to a picture window overlooking the Berkshire Mountains in Massachusetts, I repeated the vows because somehow I absolutely believed that they were true. I couldn’t
know or define our future ahead of time; I acted on faith. It was an enormous step forward.

Three years later I lost the use of almost my entire body. My identity and self-esteem had always been based in the physical world. I cherished health, athletics, travel, and adventure. At first I couldn’t imagine living without those things. In an instant, paralysis created an indescribable void. Family, friends, and well-wishers from around the world assured me that prayers and my faith in God would comfort me. I tried to pray but I didn’t feel any better, nor did I make any kind of connection with God. I wondered what was wrong with me: I had broken my neck and become paralyzed, possibly forever, but still hadn’t found God. A close friend about my age had lived through tremendous upheavals since childhood and finally found faith. His advice to me was “Fake it till you make it.” In other words, just pray and sooner or later it will have meaning. I tried and failed. Even in the sleepless predawn hours at Kessler, my mind wandered and my emotions overcame me.

Finally I decided to stop beating myself up. I wasn’t in school anymore and I didn’t have to get good grades in religious studies. When reporters continued to ask me about the importance of religion in my life I began to answer by saying that I’m not sure if there is a God, but I try to behave as if He is watching.

Gradually I have come to believe that spirituality is found in the way we live our daily lives. It means spending time thinking about others. It’s not so hard to imagine that there is some kind of higher power. We don’t have to know what form it takes or exactly where it exists; just to honor it and try to live by it is enough. Because we are human we will often fail, but at least we know that we do not deserve to be punished. That knowledge makes us safe and willing to try again.

As these thoughts unfolded in the process of learning to live my new life, I had no idea that I was becoming a Unitarian. In my late forties faith and organized religion unexpectedly converged. Dana, Will, and I attend services regularly, bringing along whichever nurse happens to be on duty. Sue Citarella, a lifelong practicing Catholic, has come with us a number of times and finds the welcoming, nonjudgmental atmosphere to be very rewarding. In the words of our minister, “We see our church as a place where people can be truly religious because they can be true to themselves, where honest doubt is not taken for heresy, and where the beliefs of the past and the present become the inspiration for future growth and discovery.”

Dana and I were talking after church not too long ago, reflecting on the service and religion in general. I told her that what I liked about Unitarian Universalism
is that you are not presumed guilty when you walk in the door. You don’t have to confess your sins to a priest and be told that ten Hail Marys and five Our Fathers will make you square with God for at least another week. God isn’t a warrior or a terrifying father figure who will embrace you in his arms but take you out to the woodshed in an instant if you misbehave. This church doesn’t demand a percentage of your income in order to belong. This God understands that many of us don’t know where He lives or even how to spell His name. He knows that it isn’t easy for us to love ourselves, our families, or even our neighbors, let alone the rest of humanity. Instead He asks us just to do our best, trusting our innate ability to discern the truth. As Abraham Lincoln said, “When I do good I feel good. When I do bad I feel bad. And that’s my religion.”

In the 1960s, hippies painted their vans with the symbol for peace and the words “God Is Love.” Most of them were probably thinking about sex, but in the deepest sense of the word what they wrote was actually quite profound. I think they and Honest Abe were right.

A
nyone familiar with Superman knows that ever since he was created by Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster in 1938, his purpose has always been to symbolize and uphold the values of “Truth, Justice and the American way.” During the filming of the first
Superman
at Pinewood Studios in England, on the wall of his office director Richard Donner proudly displayed a model of Superman in flight. The superhero carries a banner with only one word: “Verisimilitude,” which the
American Heritage Dictionary
defines as “the quality of appearing to be true or real.” The challenge for the production team was to make the miniature, optical, mechanical, and flying effects absolutely convincing. Everyone involved in the film knew that the one-line tease on the advertising posters was going to be “You’ll believe a man can fly.” That was a very tall order given the state of film technology
in 1977. The challenge for me as an actor was to equal the achievements of the technical experts; if they could create verisimilitude, then I had to do the same. The first step was to examine the values embraced by the character and passed down for generations. Truth and justice seemed relatively easy to understand, but what about “the American way”? What does that mean? Is the American way different from the way of other countries that uphold democracy and human rights? Isn’t it dangerous or at least counterproductive to imply that the American way is somehow better than others?

I posed some of these questions to Dick Donner soon after I arrived in London to begin preproduction for the film. He seemed pleased by my enthusiasm and by this evidence that I was taking my job seriously, but told me to go figure it out. The first day of shooting was only three months away and he was up to his neck in technical problems. Every department seemed to need final decisions yesterday.

After considerable thought and discussion with friends, including a number of politicians who were fans of Superman, I decided that because the character is a hero for the entire world, nationalism was not an issue. When Lois Lane asks Superman, “Who are you?” he replies, “A friend.” That makes him, above all else, a symbol of hope. In the face of adversity, hope often comes in
the form of a friend who reaches out to us. I thought about other aspects of the American way and the basic rights of pluralistic societies: equal opportunity, equal rights, tolerance, free speech, and fair play. For centuries wars have been fought in defense of those rights. In countries where they never existed or were taken away, millions of people have risked their lives to escape. Most of them left with only a few possessions and the hope of not being turned away by a free society.

To say that I believed in Superman is quite an understatement. Of course I knew it was only a movie, but it seemed to me that the values embodied by Superman on the screen should be the values that prevail in the real world.

WHEN I SUDDENLY BECAME A QUADRIPLEGIC MY DEEPEST
, almost overwhelming reaction was simply “It’s not fair.” Intellectually, I knew that life isn’t fair and that bad things can happen to any of us at any time. Emotionally, I couldn’t control myself. I demanded an answer to the apparently unanswerable question: Why me? What did I do to deserve this? It’s not fair. With time my irrational anger about the injustice of my injury subsided. But the experience left a residual effect that still informs the way I look at the world today: I want to see fair play.
I don’t care if it’s proper officiating in baseball games, how coaches make up teams in Pee Wee hockey, ethical conduct in business, or how we choose our representatives in government.