One of the tougher vices I try to resist—now that I’m in the golden land of Hollywood—is the insidious act of schmoozing. It’s been hard not to schmooze ever since I started getting access to B (and occasionally A)-list composers, but now that I have the ability to communicate with various celebrities (both garden variety and the film-score-nerd brand) via email, phone, and in-person, the temptation is all the more alluring.

By schmoozing, I mean glad-handing, sweet-talking, or sycophantically approaching someone who I think can elevate me in some way. It can include asking for favors or privileged access, or simply the act of talking to someone. Schmoozing can be for the purpose of advancing my career, worming through the right channels to get access to the top dog, or maybe just for bragging rights. These are all temptations, some more seemingly “legitimate” than others.

I struggle knowing where the line is between appropriate networking and schmoozing. It’s a simple fact that “who you know” often plays a huge role in getting the jobs and opportunities you want. There’s nothing inherently greasy about making beneficial connections. To avoid being a schmoozer, I do my best to put myself in the celebrity’s shoes, to avoid coming across like a used car salesman, and erring on the side of not being pushy enough. I actively keep my distance at times, or wait a little longer to call back, or discard that drafted email.

But beyond the pitfalls of the more accepted act of networking, too often I crave the sweet fruit of posture and position that I think comes with chatting up so-and-so or displaying the personal note so-and-so sent me. I hanker to just call X person up and see if they can do lunch…and I question my motives. Ideally I want to be friends with these amazing people, but am I approaching them as I would a true friend…or as a film music god with enough clout to make my follow-up tweet glisten in the sun? Am I arranging for a meet-up out of pure curiosity or enjoyment, or am I doing it just to fill my ego bladder to bursting?

Not only is schmoozing a reprehensible characteristic (and reputation) to have, but it can do serious long-term damage to the relationships I’m trying so hard to cultivate. Must…resist…the schmooze.

I launched this blog on July 12, 2010—exactly one year ago today. This blog, this wildly confused experiment, this “sandbox” of my narcissistic introspection. I’ve spent many hours and words on subjects both random and esoteric. I’ve gotten a little buzzed off of the few essays that generated longer strings of comments, and on the shocking (to me) traffic statistics that are robotically calculated. (Someone in Sweden actually reads this thing?) I’m not sure how accurate those statistics are, and I’ve been conflicted over whether to pursue more traffic and try generating something bigger than a public journal.

But even without AdSense revenue and comment quantities that shrink the scroll bar, this experiment has been one of great and varied personal value. For the last year (with the exception of a few slothful interruptions), the blog has been my tri-weekly finger scales, my public excuse for sitting down and coaxing thoughts and syntax out of my gelatinous brain. Year one of The Greiving Process coincided (and perhaps fueled) my increasing determination to pursue a proper career as a writer. I used the content of this blog to apply to the creative writing graduate program at Notre Dame, and while it failed me in that endeavor, it did see me receive entry to a journalism program at USC (take that, creative writing!).

Say what you will about the content itself, the amount of work and energy represented by a full year’s worth of essays cannot but have helped my craft. I learned a great deal of discipline with my self-imposed quota of output, and my writing and rewriting skills have undoubtedly benefited from so much activity. In addition to all this, I’ve had interesting rapport with different readers in the comments, and been encouraged by the number and diversity of those who honor my quixotic ramblings with their precious time. I am grateful to the soundboards and lurkers alike, and the drive to keep writing would certainly have run dry without the presence of an audience.

I intend to continue hosing the internet with my evolving thoughts on religion, my monomaniacal obsession with film music, and the disturbing relics discovered as I plumb my own mind and history—whether the internet likes it or not. I will be extremely busy this next year, beginning in August when my master’s program sets sail, and I won’t have the excuse of vacuous hours at a temp job to pump out the same volume of content. But this last year of writing has been too valuable, the feedback too rewarding, for me to give it up completely.

At any rate, thanks for reading.

Read the introduction in Part I.

The Tree of Life begins with a tragedy, before we really care about the characters to whom the tragedy happens. Then, after watching a married couple grapple with their fresh grief—crying out to God for answers—we are jettisoned back into time to the beginning of the universe, where God’s enigmatic response begins to take shape. We witness the birth of all life, God speaking something from nothing…and then we return to the small Texas family, where we watch the birth and growth of the individuals whom the story is concerned with.

That’s a brief, inadequate, back-of-the-DVD-box summary of the film. What cannot be so easily summarized is the way in which Tree of Life vibrated on the same frequency as the invisible organ inside of me, the one stamped with eternity. The film opens with a passage from The Book of Job, and the narration throughout is packed with echoes of scripture—particularly scriptures wherein man cries out to God in confusion, sorrow, and anger. “Where were you when I needed you?” “We ask God to send healing for our wounds, and instead he sends flies.” “I can’t do what I want to do, and I do what I hate.” A young father strives after the wind of fortune and success, and starts to lose his family in the bargain. A mother is drawn and quartered between devotion to her husband and the affection of her sons. A boy is suffocated under the weight of his father’s authoritative cruelty, and embarks down the path of sin—against his own desires—to escape.

In other words: life happens. Life in all its mess, confusion, heartbreak, and glory. We chase after that which promises us happiness, and trample the only things—the only people—that really matter. Sometimes we lose those people before we had the chance to beg forgiveness, to tell them that our life was empty without them. And yet there remains the chance for release, for redemption. To let go of the weights and scars we drag from the past, and cross the bridge to something more beautiful—back into eternity.

The Tree of Life so exquisitely captures the evasive lightning of what it feels like to be a child. To grow up, to meet baby brothers, to run in circles on the front lawn at sunset. To love parents, yet also fear them. To discover death for the first time, to discover hatred for the first time. To timidly cross the Rubicon of sin and selfishness, and feel hopelessly unable to return to innocence. To stare into the heavens, looking for God, and finding nothing but silence. And then to discover God hiding in the tiny feet of a baby, in the marvel of white clouds pluming out of an oceanic sky. To find God in the people you took for granted, in the simple pleasures of family, in the room next door.

Perhaps it’s because I’m one of three brothers, or because I was homeschooled (and thus spent most of my growing up years with my family)—but The Tree of Life felt like a portrait of my early memories. I recognized the toy trucks; I remember sticking a flashlight in my mouth to see my cheeks glow red in the darkness; I remember the accompanying shame of first giving in to my selfish appetites; I remember hurting my favorite people. The film’s style is like going back to birth and running through disparate and half-remembered memories—which, to me, makes it much more profound than a standard plot. However it did it, Tree of Life bypassed my “movie brain,” and went straight for my spiritual jugular. To the place of memories and dreams, of guilt and joy. It spoke to my very core, where eternity and the things I love deepest are buried and—too often—forgotten. It made me remember the best and most important pieces of my life—and it taught me never to forget them.

I typically don’t see or get swept up in the gales of polarizing art films. But few “art” films penetrate the bubble of pop culture quite like The Tree of Life. The top Cannes winner was foamingly anticipated before its release, and has been much pondered, discussed, and critiqued in the weeks since. Some found it overrated, some the second coming of cinema, and some a pretentious pile of camera droppings. I salivated over the film’s prospect simply because Terrence Malick’s previous film, The New World, is one of the most gorgeous, contemplative applications of sound and moving images I’ve ever seen. If Tree of Life was anything close in its offering—and with its broader, more cosmic story, it had the potential to transcend even higher—I knew I would love it.

For a film as unorthodox and open to interpretation as Tree of Life, subjectivity in response and opinion is inevitable. There is no conventional plot. Most dialogue is spoken (whispered) in poetic narration. And there are lengthy passages of (seemingly unrelated) visuals that require patience and an open mind. Still, after having heard sundry waves of feedback, I was surprised at how accessible the film was. Once you get beyond the more “galactic,” character-less moments, you have a fairly straightforward story about growing up—and all of the accompanying joy, suffering, confusion, temptation, and redemption therein. Only, that story is told in a more visual, organic style than the typical movie narrative.

I don’t know how to extract the essence of my feelings about The Tree of Life without gushing, without tripping over my words in breathless praise. I could easily laud Malick’s filmmaking genius, or the performances, or the superb use of music (unoriginal though it may be). But I think it would be better, and more honest, to talk about the film in terms of what it did inside of me. That’s where the subjective part comes in, and it’s why many people would strongly disagree with my opinion of the film. But this Tree put down roots deep into my spirit, and its impact on me—both in what it taught me and powerfully reminded me of—has been enormous. I wanted to love it, and I did. But I loved it for reasons I didn’t know to expect. Who knew that it would find its way past my head and my heart? Who knew a film had directions to my soul?

In Part Two, I’ll discuss in depth what The Tree of Life did to me.