And the spirit said, "Crash!"

Ties gag me. Always have. You'd think, at 24, I would have learned to buy the correct size dress shirt, so that when I button the top button and put on a necktie, I could avoid gradually slipping into a coma of claustrophobic asphyxiation. But since I only go clothes shopping about once a year, on December 25th, under the Christmas tree, (and my mom thinks I'm skinner than I actually am) I opt to avoid buttoning my top button as often as humanly possible. In fact, if I could wear sweatpants and a t-shirt every day of my life, I would be a most happy fella, thank you very much.

But there's something about this place that requires a necktie. I moved to New York City just a few months ago, with big dreams of bright lights and Broadway openings. I knew it was going to take a little time and patience to book my first acting gig, (two or three months, maybe), so I looked for a job to pay the rent in the meantime. After a series of rejected restaurant applications, I finally stumbled upon a rather unusual, and seemingly glamorous job as a personal assistant and chauffeur to both celebrities and corporate clients.

When I took the job, I didn't consider how much time I'd be spending with my top button buttoned. Between auditions and work, I spend at least 90% of my week trying to look fancier than I feel. And with such a limited supply of oxygen to my brain, I get easily confused and disoriented, and sometimes think this buttoned-up version of myself is the real me.

One Sunday morning several weeks ago, I slipped into a pew at Trinity Church down on Wall Street, wearing one of my favorite neck-tourniquets. I had been church-shopping for months, never quite finding a parish with the right blend of respect for ancient traditions and progressive thinking that I try to hold in balance in my own life. (I usually test the waters during the Lord's Prayer, praying, "Our Mother, who art in heaven..." and see how the people around me respond.)

At first glance, Trinity is a pretty buttoned-up place. Lots of neckties, patent leather, and frilly hats. I was glad I had dressed the part that day. When the service started, the organ crescendo-ed, the choir filed in, with incense swirling, and the music washed over me.

The choir was divine. No one bristled at my version of the Lord's Prayer. And the sermon was focused on social and economic justice. Huh.

But my necktie was choking me. I was trying so hard to look put-together and professional, like I belonged in a centuries-old church where presidents and Rockefellers had once attended. As the organ crested over top the climactic final hymn, I sang half-heartedly, wondering if I could ever find a niche for myself in this mass of polished parishioners.

As the organ got louder and my tie got tighter, a crash right behind me shattered my self-concerned daydream. Spinning around, I saw a man I hadn't noticed when I entered: He was probably in his later fifties, stout, bald, and grinning so widely his eyes pinched shut. The crash had been his imitation of a pair of cymbals. He held his arms high and wide over his head, letting their "sound" resonate throughout the church, as a bit of spittle fell from his lips. Every four bars or so, or whenever it was musically appropriate, he crashed his imaginary cymbals, wind rushing through his lips, unabashedly contributing in his own simple way to the beauty of the music.

His joy was infectious: I unbuttoned my top button, took my first full, deep breath in hours, and sang the alto line (my favorite in old hymnals) a little louder than I should have. For the first time, I thought, "Maybe there is a place here for a guy like me."

The next day, as I sat in a fancy car outside a fancy restaurant, waiting on a fancy client to finish his fancy champagne, I couldn't stop thinking about the cymbal guy. In the midst of all those poised and proper church-goers, this man was true to himself, unashamed, and uninhibited. His spirit said, "Crash!" and he crashed.

It is so rare to see someone be true to their spirit in public. So often we fixate on what the world expects of us, enslaving ourselves to the neckties, or bank account balances, or job titles that we think give us value. At what age do we suddenly become so self-aware, and begin trying to mutate into something "acceptable" to the culture at large?

We certainly aren't born thinking this way. When I'm not driving, I babysit two four-year-old boys, from two different families. The hours I spend with Silas and William are the few in which I don't try to look any fancier than I really am.

Silas and I live in a fantastical world. When we're together, he becomes Super Kitty, I become Cornelius the Dinosaur, and as a duo we fight off all kinds of terrible and frightening monsters---Wollypogs and Amarats, and the like. Strumming a ukulele, we improvise protective incantations, and then evaporate the most wretched creatures with Super Kitty's pungent "Booty Burps." Trust me, they're powerful.

William's fantasy world is full of trains, boats, and big machines. On our walks to the park, he becomes a "Bacela Train," often stopping right in the middle of a crosswalk to invite new passengers aboard. I'm his faithful conductor, "punching the tickets" of any travelers, be they imaginary, or kindly strangers willing to play along.

Silas, William, and the Cymbal Guy couldn't care less what the world expects of them. Their worlds aren't make-believe: Silas is his Truest Self when he is Super Kitty, William was born to be a train, and when the guy at church crashes his cymbals, it's as if his whole soul is leaping for joy.

Each of us has a truest self---an essence, if you will, that probably has nothing to do with what the world expects of us. Suffocating under the pressure of our neckties, we stumble along in jobs that don't satisfy us, in relationships that inhibit us, and in church pews that intimidate us, all in the name of becoming "acceptable" to the world.

Unlike my role-models, Silas, William, and the Cymbal Guy, I lost touch with my truest self a while ago---long before I moved to New York. I don't know exactly who he is anymore, but I'm pretty sure he doesn't want to spend his life catering to every whim of the rich and famous. And he certainly never wears a necktie.

I catch glimpses of him every now and then. Usually after I've had a beer or two. He dances on the subway platform when "White Boys" from HAIR comes on his iPod. He hugs strangers on the street who look like they need it. And once a week, he teaches a class for teens who love to sing and dance.

I'm finding him again, slowly but surely. And I know that I can only live my fullest life if I earnestly seek him.

After my first encounter with the Cymbal Guy at Trinity, I kept attending services there. This Easter, the church was filled to overflowing, with over a thousand people cramming the aisles. As the congregation stood to join the brass choir and timpani in Handel's Halleluiah chorus, a bald, smiling head poked out above the top row of the choir. He looked so out of place in his tweed, too-tight suitcoat, amongst all the robes and flowers. As his head bobbed in time with the music, he looked like a lost chick looking for his mother hen.

But he wasn't lost; he was counting. As we approached the final chorus, the conductor gave a grand gesture, and with a flash of light, two REAL cymbals flew up over his head, and came together in the most rapturous flourish I have ever heard.

He held the cymbals over the whole congregation, as triumphant as any image of the Risen Christ, beaming his beatic blessing on us all. The cymbals chrashed thrice more, in perfect synchronicity with the escalating joy of everyone present, culminating in a tearful ovation as the Cymbal Guy, as his truest self, took a solo bow.


- Posted on the go, from my iPod!