What is Your Legacy? What Is Your Verse?

Walt Whitman wrote in "O Me, O Life," the words "That the powerful play (life) goes on and you may contribute a verse." In the movie "Dead Poet's Society," Robin Williams asks his students "What will your verse be?"

Today, I had the privilege of watching "Bohemian Rhapsody" again. Just a few hours later, I watched the latest episode of "Songland," the new NBC show where each week aspiring songwriters present their original songs to established artists. One week, unknown writers presented to the Jonas Brothers. Another week, a group presented to Aloe Blacc. The premise exposes raw talent to established talent to mentor and gift an original song to the artist to record.

In watching this movie and this show, it reminded me of the raw vulnerability required of true and authentic art. It also showcased the genius that is exposed when people drop limits and guards and allow what's within them to move to the front of their conscience and speak. Freddy Mercury took risks with music in the face of criticism and voices that tried to silence his. But by staying true to what existed within him, he created something timeless that spoke to multiple generations through its truth.

Just one month ago, I experienced Wildfire, our summer camp at LCBC for middle schoolers. We played a reverse charades game--the lyric edition--where a few students stood on stage while the hundreds of students in the gathering space gave them clues to whatever was on the screen. When the song title "We Will Rock You" popped on the screen, hundreds of 10-13 year olds began doing the iconic stomp-stomp-clap, stomp-stomp-clap, and the student on stage immediately yelled "We Will Rock You." A song written in 1977. 42 years ago.

That's art. That's timeless. And we each possess a piece of this. We each hold a truth or wisdom or idea to pass along and contribute in our own way. Whether through words, song, portrait, photograph or action. We each own a piece of humanity that needs to be shared.

I'm certain that the songs presented on "Songland" this series won't be iconic and certainly won't be known by middle schoolers four decades after they're recorded. But tonight reminded me of the importance of sharing what's within us. And how that connects us through an ability to capture our mutual experience. Or create an experience for us that we didn't know we desperately needed.

As we navigate daily life and its demands, joys and moments, may we not be myopic. Not consume the gift of beauty, experience and vulnerability given to us by those brave enough to expose themselves to the world through their art--despite their sacrifice of judgment, criticism and condemnation in their hopes to inspire, create connection or simply change one mind or one life. And may we not deprive ourselves of the freedom of finding that within and letting it breathe life by sharing it with the world. And letting that truth be our legacy.

Surrender brings Freedom

Bethel music produced a song, "No Longer Slaves," with the powerful bridge, "You split the sea so I could walk right through it." This alludes to Moses, in the Old Testament, leading the Hebrew people away from being slaves in Egypt to the Promised Land. In Exodus 14, which is part of the Jewish Torah, the Christian Bible and the Quran, the story of Moses and the Red Sea portrays how Moses led the Hebrew slaves across the Red Sea by holding up his staff and parting the waters so they could pass safely as they escaped hundreds of years of slavery in Egypt.

The chorus of Bethel's song sings, "I'm no longer a slave to fear." Followed by the bridge, "You split the sea..."

This isn't just about rescue or freedom. It isn't about outright deliverance from difficulty, pain or drowning. It's about a path through the difficulty, pain and situations that engulf us in wave after wave of seemingly endless turmoil. When each day, each moment aches with an endless purgatory with no respite. No hope. Those moments when just as we reach the surface and grasp for air, another wave slams overhead and pushes us back beneath the surface.

In those moments, there is a power, a force that splits the sea. We can't escape the sea because we're in the middle of it, surrounded by the difficulty, pain, disease, hurt. There's no easy exit. But there is a way through it. A way to walk on dry land while the waves crest above us, hovering--threatening to crash down and consume us. We--like Moses--simply need to stretch out our hands and surrender to the power that will split the sea.

The Power of Light

As children, we feared the dark. Our parents said goodnight and closed the door, shutting out the light and allowing our rooms to fill with darkness. A darkness that scared us because of what we couldn't see. A darkness that forced our minds to fill in the gaps with fears that were shoved aside in the light of day. Some imaginary, some real. I was afraid to step off my bed or let my feet dangle because the monster lurking would snatch them and pull me under. 

As adults, these same fears exist. We might not worry about imaginary monsters under our beds but we have palpable worry about the real monsters in our lives. Some of them we fear but are confident that we can overcome. Others seem larger than life and impossible to conquer. Most of these are personal and we battle them in silence. Sometimes daily. Sometimes hourly. Sometimes every minute. And we either win or lose each day.

In life, we're often confronted with the monsters of others. Monsters created by hatred, ignorance, misinformation, upbringing or simply fear. Monsters that crawl out of the darkness and become real. That wield weapons, spew hateful rhetoric and feed off of anger. 

In the movie, "Hacksaw Ridge," the father, a World War I vet, abuses his wife and children. When one of the sons asks, "Why does he hate us so much?" The mother responds, " He doesn't hate us. He hates himself." Anger and hatred projected toward others is actually just a deflection of anger and hatred of oneself. When you truly love yourself and who you were created to be, it's impossible to hate someone else. You might disagree with their beliefs, actions and words but you don't have a vitriol hatred for their existence. Because to love yourself requires the greatest grace, patience and understanding. I'm not talking about narcissistic, self-absorbed aggrandisement. I'm talking about a humble, forgiving love of self. Once you've achieved that, you lose your ability to judge anyone else because you've let go of the deepest, most personal judgment.

Regardless of where you are, you can "fake it until you make it." No matter how much darkness surrounds you or swells within you, you can choose to be a light. 

Think about the darkest cave. The darkest room. The darkest night. The kind of darkness where you literally can't see your hand in front of your face. If, in that darkness, you simply light a match, turn on a flashlight or switch on the smallest lamp, the light overcomes the darkness. Light eradicates dark. It's so much more powerful.

Our country is in a dark place. The political and social climate in the last several months has cloaked us with a darkness we haven't experienced in over a half-century. As you walk through these next few weeks and months, you can choose to let the darkness weigh you down. Dishearten you. Feed your own internal monster. Or you can choose to embrace the power of light by being a light. By choosing kindness over anger. By choosing grace and belief in our inherent goodness over judgment. By choosing random acts of generosity and forgiveness over self-interest. 

But to be a light--to give kindness, grace, belief, generosity and forgiveness to others--you must first give it to yourself. Be a light in your own heart. Once you do this, you'll be unable to contain the light within you. If we each take steps to do this, we can chase out the monsters fed by the darkness. We can be a light to ourselves and to this world. 

The Fight to Excavate Joy

There's a difference between joy and happiness. Happiness tends to be a fleeting emotion triggered by something external: a promotion, a surprise gift, an Auburn victory, all green lights when you're late to work. Joy, however, is a state of being that exists even in the presence of worry, stress and conflict. It's a condition of your heart that allows you to find peace and gratitude in the hardest of times.

In my life, I've experienced so many happy times. Moments of elation that bubble to the surface because of what's happening around me. When I got my driver's license, when I graduated from Emory, when I met my husband, at my daughter's first birthday party, when my puppy greets me when I walk in the door. Happiness feels like little bursts of laughter in your heart. It's wonderful but fleeting in the next moment.

Joy is what sustains us. Yet, it's the most difficult to cultivate and hold on to. Joy requires being in an abyss and finding the flicker of light. It requires closing your eyes not to shut out the world and what's happening but to instead force you to look inward for strength.

How do you cultivate joy? It's not easy because you can only cultivate joy by understanding pain. It's like love and hate. Two extremes that require you to experience one to have the other. It's riding the waves of life that push you down under the engulfing tide, requiring you to hold your breath and fight for the surface, so that when you reach it the breath of air that fills your lungs is the finest breath you've ever taken.

Unfortunately, joy can get buried sometimes. It exists deep within us having been built over time from our experiences. But sometimes life is relentless and throws brick after brick, situation after situation, moment after moment to the point that we throw up our arms for protection. Pull into ourselves in an attempt to deflect the bullets. And our joy gets covered in the rubble of our circumstances. There but covered in so much pain, guilt, shame, anger and hopelessness that it's quieted.

But if we close our eyes, take a deep breath, and look inward. Focus on the flickers of light that brought us to the surface before, we can push ourselves out of the rubble and back into that place where we can breathe. That's joy.

How Do You Exhale?

Last night, someone asked me if I've been writing. It's been months since I've tapped  into that part of myself. The creative who can put fingers to a keyboard and effortlessly put thoughts down on paper. Often subconscious musings that I didn't realize were brewing inside my mind until I saw them written down. I replied, "No, I'm not writing." And I realized in that moment that I've neglected a part of myself that is essential to who I am. I see the world differently when I'm writing because, ironically, I look outward instead of inward. Writing is vital to me. Like breathing.

When I look back, I remember writing poetry as a high school student after my brother, Derek's, tragic car accident. Poems about pain, faith and grasps at figuring out what the future could possibly look like. I didn't write prose until law school when my poems morphed into free-flowing expressions of existentialism, fueled by my reading Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir and Nietzsche.

When I left the intellectual cocoon of Emory and started working six-hour days as a young attorney in Miami, I continued to read books by Milan Kundera, Kahlil Gibran and Daniel Quinn. But I didn't write down the thoughts inspired by them. Over time, I stopped expressing myself through words and simply absorbed those of others. I didn't know why at the time, but I now realize that writing is a catharsis for me and not simply a form of expression.

I didn't write anything of substance again until we lost our daughter, Abby. Her death sparked a need to capture her short life and I achingly did so by writing a memoir. In that memoir, I renewed my intensely vulnerable and personal expression of poetry by peppering it into the book before each chapter. In looking at it now, 10 years later, I see the chapters as filled with memories and emotions. But the poetry reveals the raw pain that simply telling the story couldn't express.

After Abby, I lost my little brother to an overdose and my mom to her battle with dementia. My novels In Search of Solomon's Wisdom and The Beauty of Grace allowed me to process and come to peace with those loses. Exhaling the pain through my fingertips.

Over the past couple of years as I've faced yet another crisis, I've neglected writing. I've blogged sporadically about other things but by not allowing myself to just sit, process and write about this crisis, I've bloated my heart with pain that keeps forcing its way to the surface. I realize that the reason I've felt lost and unrecognizable to myself is because I've been stuck. Frozen. Holding my breath.

It's time to exhale.

Last Sunday, I hiked the Turkey Hill Overlook Trail with my daughter, Peyton.

 

As we started the hike, the initial ascent didn't require much effort. We chatted and she pointed out things along the way. But as we climbed higher, the pitch of the trail grew steep forcing me to lunge up it. It also became littered with rocks and slick inclines that caused me to lean over and secure my hands on the ground so I wouldn't slip. The trail became narrow and these precarious areas edged along drop-offs.

I found myself focusing only on the very next step I had to take, negotiating my footing and exerting myself. At one point, I had to stop to catch my breath. When I did, I looked up and out and saw a beautiful view. The sun leaked through the trees and cast an incredible hue over the woods and the colorful foliage. I realized in that moment that I'd allowed the difficulty of the climb to shift my focus from the beauty of everything surrounding me to putting one foot in front of the other, pushing myself forward, and trying to literally catch my breath. Instead of navigating the trail at a pace that allowed me to not lose sight of the beauty of where I was and who I was with in that moment. I'd seen the trail as the means to an end (the Overlook), rather than a beautiful journey of its own.

Recently, life has felt like a series of footsteps. Days upon days of putting one foot in front of the other, trying to push forward, without pausing to look up and realize the beauty of my life. Problems and situations can quickly consume our energy, our conversations and our thoughts. We shift into an emotional survival mode that causes us to see each moment as something to merely survive. And sometimes, that's necessary. Sometimes, we live in days, weeks or even months where survival--mentally, emotionally, spiritually and even physically--is the singular goal we confront each day. But even as we're living in those times, we need to stop and catch our breath. Even in those times, we can pause--however briefly--to look up and remember the beauty of everything else in our lives. To remind ourselves that these steps are only a few on our journey and that, no matter hard they might be, we will keep moving forward. We will reach the Overlook. And that the journey along the way has beauty and breath if we're willing to look up from the struggle to see it.

Pokemon Go and Perspective

In the past two weeks, we've all seen them. If you're a gamer, you've seen Pokemon--lots of them--everywhere. On street corners, in grocery stores, at churches and even on people's shoulders. You've stopped whatever you're doing--some even driving, talking or working--to focus solely on trying to capture these imaginary and illusive characters. There are mere seconds to concentrate all your efforts  on grabbing them.  At work, I've seen grown men walking around holding their phones in the air. In my neighborhood, I've seen people walking around with their electronic devices and spinning in circles. Conversations that span generations discuss strategy.

I won't begin to dissect the magic that is Pokemon Go. It's genius. It's captivated so many, created its own language and imposed virtual and fantastical characters that interrupt our everyday lives.

Such is creativity. Those who write, paint, sing, sculpt or otherwise put pieces of themselves onto display for others to interpret, criticize or relate to can all appreciate the fleeting moment of inspiration. We listen to conversations and hear intentions. We see beauty and think of the layers of creation and change. We hear songs and become overwhelmed with the spectrum of language and chords. And in doing so, creativity is sparked. Whether it's simply a few words, a design or a note. We see life spinning around us, taunting us to capture tiny inspirations. So we move. Attempting to capture something that will be gone in seconds.

But in seizing our muse, we can't be blind to the other things happening around us or wish to fast forward through a moment to one in which we can focus on our inspiration. If we do, we miss moments we'll never experience again. Last night, I had a flash of inspiration and wanted to sit and start writing. My husband and son were on the couch debriefing his golf game and watching parts of the Open. My folks, who are visiting from Alabama, were wading through documents we'd discovered in my grandfather's old briefcase. I found myself irritated that I didn't have the quiet in that moment to sit and write.

Yet, as quickly as my irritation rose, it subsided because I realized that I sat in the middle of a rare moment. My boys sharing time together over something they love while my folks reminisced about my grandfather. How could I want that moment to pass?

In the past couple of weeks, people have run cars into trees and children have been hit in traffic while stepping out to catch a Pokemon. Being outside in July is no longer about enjoying the summer but, instead, about catching a virtual character. In life, as in Pokemon Go, we must be self-aware to what is happening around us rather than focusing on pursuing what we want. Passions feed us. They bring life to us. And they birth incredible advances in technology, systems, works of art, writing, music and even ministry. But becoming singularly focused and not creating balance in our lives can hurt those around us. Those we love most. And, quite possibly, cause us to metaphorically run our car into a tree.

Embrace your passion. Allow it to feed you and bring you life. But remember that those closest to you are sitting on the outside of your screen and need you to look up from it.

One Word, Two Letters Can Change a Relationship

A couple of weeks ago, my honey and I went to talk to a friend of ours about something personal. Because of the time of day, it happened to interrupt a critical 15 minutes of her work day. When I asked if she was sure she had time, she answered in a reassuring way that it was fine. As soon as she spoke, I asked myself what she'd said. Because one word changed the tone of our interruption and her involvement.
She spoke quickly so I wasn't sure if she said, "There's nothing going on over there that's as important right now." Or if she said, "There's nothing going on over there that's very important right now." One word interchangeable, "as" or "very." I paused in that moment not to dissect the intent behind her words because I know her heart. It's big and giving and open. Instead, my dorky, literary self sat in the magnitude of what one single word in the same sentence can do to change not only its meaning but how it's received by those who hear it.
Our friend's use of the word "as" tells us that whatever we need to share with her is more important than anything she is doing at that moment. To use the word "very" implies that whatever she is doing isn't important and she can spare a moment.
In a sentence of simply eleven words, a single word can change its meaning. Whether someone you care about hears that you have a minute because you simply do or you have a minute because they matter most.
Words are incredibly powerful. We tend to use them superfluously and not appreciate how they can affect another person. Alter their sense of reality, understanding or belonging. I live with and love a lot of "verbal processors." People who need to dissect situations by talking through them. But in doing so, they often create situations or exacerbate emotions in their need to understand. But for those of us who don't process this way and believe each word carries a reverency of truth and vulnerability, we ingest each word instead of hearing it as a single link in a process.
Words carry weight and emotion and revolution. We must always keep this in mind. To some, you can be hyperbolic but with others you need to be literal. Remember the power your words carry. Speak with love. With grace. With life.

Whispers

Our lives are filled with whispers. Some are quiet and some are loud echoes in our souls. Like a whimper in a canyon that reverberates and multiplies beyond its original source. While some are spoken and hidden in a cocoon that never allows them to go beyond the tight walls that encase them. Others have no walls and echo infinitely.
Everyday, we encounter things we perceive as truths by those around us and by those closest to us. We take steps each day toward being a better person, toward making the space around us better, toward helping someone else be more. And in that mess, we encounter pockets of insecurity, ineptitude and sheer inability. But we keep reaching and trying because we are all in this together. Trying to make one another better.
The whispers might tell us that we aren't enough. They might tell us that we don't matter. They might point out our inadequacies. Or they tell us that what we're doing matters. Like faint reminders that echo beyond today and into the future that our lives matter. Because isn't that what we all want? To know that our lives affected someone? Made a difference? Potentially set in motion something that changed the world?
A whisper that echoed...

The Truth in "Paper Towns" about our perceptions of people

Today, I finished reading "Paper Towns" by John Green ("The Fault in Our Stars" author). Admittedly, I started it yesterday. That's the thing about John Green novels, once you begin them, you're compelled to finish them not only because of the story they tell but the kernel of truth revealed through that story.

"Paper Towns" is a Young Adult novel about a group of high school Seniors, one of whom, Margo Roth Spiegelman, is a legend and embodies the idea of a Paper Town. Her classmates hear her stories of adventure and freedom. Road-tripping to Mississippi to hang out with an old musician and learn guitar or getting backstage access at a concert by convincing security she was a girlfriend of a band member. Her next-door neighbor, Quentin, loves this idea of her to the point of obsession.

Then, one month before graduation, she disappears. Following clues left for him, Quention embarks on a journey to find her. In doing so, he realizes that she isn't what he'd imagined. She is, in fact, someone completely different.

When he finds her, she explains how we're all "paper people," two-dimensional to one another when we look from a distance. Isn't it true? We look at those we encounter everyday through the lens of our own imperfections. Whether it's the seemingly flawless relationship of another couple, the economic stability of another, the social charisma or emotional intelligence of that person who always knows what to say and melts seamlessly into any situation. The family who posts amazing vacation pictures where everyone is smiling and happy, never grumpy or whining. The mom with the pictures of her child's birthday party that are Pinterest-worthy with their creativity. The mirror-selfie of your friend whose body has transformed because of Les Mills, Crossfit, Nutra-system or marathon training.

We see these and measure ourselves against these snapshots that are actually highlights of a much longer stream of film. The best of a multitude of moments. And when we look in from afar, we can feel happiness for them simultaneously with inadequacies in ourselves.

But those images--snapshots--are the Paper version. It isn't until you allow yourself to be vulnerable and embrace others while sharing yourself that these paper versions fall away. Like cardboard-cutout Avenger superheros. It's the broken, cracked parts of ourselves that let us see inside one another's hearts. See our humanness. Our imperfect perfection.

This freedom allows us to be truly accepting of others by allowing them to be themselves in their imperfect brokenness. It also allows us to breathe in the knowledge that we can be loved and accepted for who we are and not who we're expected or envisioned to be. The paper becomes clay. And in that, we can stop focusing on the image projected and, instead, focus on the person being molded daily by all that challenges us and limits us in our own humanity.

From "Paper Towns":
"Each of us starts out as a watertight vessel. And these things happen--these people leave us, or don't love us, or don't get us, or we don't get them, and we lose and fail and hurt one another. And the vessel starts to crack open in places...Once the vessel cracks open, the end becomes inevitable...But there is all this time between when the cracks start to open up and when we finally fall apart. And it's only in that time that we can see one another, because we see out of ourselves through our cracks and into others through theirs...Once the vessel cracks, the light can get in. The light can get out."

And The Truth Shall Set You Free

The statement, "The truth shall set you free" is universally known. It's used in movie scripts, satirical skits and everyday conversation. We hang on these six words as the bridge that opens relationships. Allows for emotional and spiritual cleansing. A justification to "get things off our chests." Actually, the statement is from scripture (John 8:32) and the "truth" spoken about isn't a human one but a spiritual one.

One of the basic values we're taught from childhood is honesty. To be true to ourselves and those around us. Because deceit and subjugating our feelings are synonymous and hurt us and our relationships. We're encouraged to be truthful with the caveat of "little white lies" for those we aren't close to. Socially accepted deceit to be socially correct.

Certainly there is value in honesty with those closest to us, but that needs to be peppered with compassion and empathy. Because what we perceive as truth, particularly in relationships, isn't truth but perspective clouded by variables like past experiences, current struggles and fears about the future. We can't truly call it "truth." What we individually see, experience and believe as "truth" is, in fact, our view of a situation through a kaleidoscope.

Our kids have no idea what a kaleidoscope is but we remember them as children. You stick your eye up to the tiny hole and see a plethora of colors. Then, with a slight twist of the end, everything shifts. The colors and prisms change.

This is the truth we live in within our relationships. What we think at a particular moment is black and white is actually the undulating change in perspective that happens with each moment we share with someone we love.

So as we navigate this thing called life with people that we choose to do life with, let us remember that our "truth" isn't actually truth but perspective shaped by variables that twist the end of the kaleidoscope. When we choose to share our "truth," let's be mindful of that.

Are you a mountain or a beach?

I love the beach. Always have. Growing up in Alabama, our family had limited resources so a trip to the Panhandle was a treat. Some of my favorite memories involve innertubes and waves pushing us across Panama City Beach. My Daddy would gently guide us to shore when we bobbed too far.

Today, whenever I sit on a beach, I close my eyes and hear the power of the waves crashing against rock and shore. I open them and see its vastness as it reaches beyond the horizon to places I can't see. Depths and worlds beyond my imagination. Yet, there's also a stillness and lull when the tide is low and the ocean seems to fall asleep. Leaving behind seashells, seaweed and other remnants of the day. 

This weekend, while in Monterey, California, we visited the Seaquarium. On its walls hung several quotes including these: "If there is magic on this planet, it is contained in water." Loren Eiseley "It tunnels into solid rocks and bores...keeps alive the sense of continuing creation and of the relentless drive of life." Rachel Carson. This is the essence of the ocean.

My husband, who grew up in South Florida only miles from the beach, loves the mountains. The one time of year his eyes twinkle and his shoulders relax is the first day on the slopes in Colorado. Driving into Beaver Creek each year, his demeanor visibly changes. He's home on the mountain. Whatever stresses weigh him down in life, he leaves at its base. He's lighter. As evinced by the way he traverses the mountain. Quickly, smoothly, flawlessly. 

In our forties, we've begun dreaming of the perfect place to retire. He talks of the mountains of North Carolina. I speak of the shores of California or someplace tropical. Complete opposites. For years, I've looked at this through the lens of past experience. I thought: "He loves the mountains because he grew up in South Florida and the mountains are exotic. I grew up in Alabama and the beach was the Summer mecca." But recently, I've come to understand our preferences in a different way.

They're, in fact, reflections of much more.

Mountains are solid. Unchanging. The hazards known. Should you choose to climb one, you can plot your route for decades with only minor changes. After five or ten years, you can return to the same point and follow a similar route with only small adjustments. 

Oceans are uncertain. Each day, the place the tide registers in the morning is markedly different than where it moves in the evening. You can find rocks or landmarks with which to give reference to where you begin, but within moments where you stand changes. Should you return a year later, it isn't the same.

My husband is concrete in every way. His belief, his friendships, his goals. His focus remains steadfast. As long as I've known him, his friends have never changed. The same people who were in our wedding almost sixteen years ago are people he speaks to regularly. His best friend is the one he had when he was five years old. They're the ones he relies on for support.

My friendships are fluid. The women who were my bridesmaids, the one who saw the birth of my daughter, I speak to rarely. My closest confidant is a woman I've known for just over a year. I used to see this as some kind of flaw, but now I understand it's who I am. My relationships come and go like a tide. They're symbiotic. Relationships that don't have expectations. A few remain as jagged rocks off the shore. Constant but distant. Those whom I can speak to after a year of silence and it's as if time never passed. Others last for a season. Full of love and joy but shifting.

Our beliefs also show our proclivity for mountains versus oceans. My husband's beliefs are solid. Unchanging. Just as a mountain embraces tides, winds, and the harsh realities of time, its essence remains the same. Its immovable nature both defines and anchors it. Yet, this results in indecision because of the belief in the permanency of those decisions.

My beliefs mirror the fluidity of the ocean. Of course, a few things are concrete because there must be a beach. A grounding. But many things I ponder allow for pliability. I'm always open to new perspectives and change. I love to absorb the ideas of others and allow it to shape my consideration. This can be seen as "wishy-washy" or noncommittal  It also causes a quick decisiveness because of my belief that decisions can be revisited.

After pondering why Jamie and I have such different ideas of paradise, I now understand. Loving the beach and loving the mountains is a reflection of who were are and how we believe. 

Are You a Life-Giver or Life-Taker?

Today we lost a beautiful voice. Maya Angelo died. Twenty years ago, I read her autobiography, "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings." Her story of abuse and survival invoked both pain and hope. While a child, she suffered abandonment by her parents, sexual abuse, verbal and physical abuse from racists, homelessness and becoming a mother. All before the age of 16.

One of her most famous poems is "Still I Rise." In it, she proclaims:

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise. 


I write this not only as a tribute to a beautiful soul, but in honor of someone who endured so much but embraced hope and strength. More importantly, she embraced empathy. I once heard her interviewed and she spoke of the importance of how you make people feel. She said, "People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."

I think of this everyday. Because of it, the first time I see my children in the morning, I hug and kiss them before saying a word. During the day, every time they leave my presence, I make sure that the last thing they hear is "I love you." To be kind, grateful and empathetic, they need to first know that they're loved.

I was introduced to Maya Angelo 20 years ago through a book and her words have grounded me over two decades. Her experiences and perspective despite them have molded me. I recently heard that every encounter with another (either in person or through knowing their story) either feeds you or takes from you.

In spite of an excruciating past, she touched generations in a way that will outlive her for decades. I can only hope that my interactions with people leave them feeling loved instead of drained, and inspire a small measure of peace.

Embracing Change is Embracing Life.

The TV show, "Criminal Minds" always opens and closes with a quote. Last night's episode closed with one by Joseph Campbell: "We must be willing to get rid of the life we've planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us."

I'm a planner by nature and necessity. I like order and organization. Systems and structure. And living with three people with ADHD requires this. Nurtures my OCD by giving it purpose.

When I was 19, my college advisor told me I had enough credits to graduate a year later. I knew I wanted to be an attorney, specifically a prosecutor. One of the best traits of teens and twenty-somethings is the optimism and ideology that allows for unbounded dreams. Belief in the knowledge that you can change the world. You've severed the bonds of childhood but not yet tethered to the reality of adulthood's responsibilities of family, mortgages, retirement and college planning, and all of the other things that abruptly slap us in the face.

At first, things went as planned. I went to law school. I graduated. But when I sent resumes to over 20 District Attorney's offices, nothing happened. So I waited tables while studying for the bar, confident that I would soon be putting bad guys in prison. Making the world a better place. For me, becoming an attorney wasn't about making money but about making a difference.

But then reality set in. I didn't get a job in a DA's office, and my over $100,000 in student loans became a monthly payment. The legal career I'd planned wasn't going to happen, so I had to adjust. I joined a civil litigation firm in Miami. My new plan: make partner by 30, become a judge by 35.

Yeah, that didn't happen. I hated the practice of law. After some soul-searching, at 30 I realized that the life I'd planned over a decade earlier was not the life I was meant to lead. And now, over another decade later, at 43, my life has taken yet another abrupt turn. Twenty years ago, I'd never have imagined that I would be a producer for a Student Ministry in a church. Yet, here I am. And I am loving it. Every aspect of what I've been doing excites me. It never feels like work. Instead it liberates me and gives me a purpose beyond myself.

The life I'd planned for myself is behind me. And I'm embracing the life that is waiting for me.

Seeing your path, walking your path, and knowing the difference.

Last night, my honey and I watched "The Matrix." Even though it's 15 years old, it remains a cinematic marvel. Especially when you consider how movies have evolved in that time. Most of the thrill that is "The Matrix" involves the special effects and plot mystery of what is real vs. what is simulated. Buried within the special effects and bullet-dodging of the movie lay snippets of truth.

Every Sunday when I watch "Downton Abbey," I want to pause it a dozen times to ponder the profound insight uttered from the characters' mouths. Such a smart show, it inspires numerous rabbit-trails of thought, especially when Maggie Smith's character speaks. You must pay close attention to each scene, each line of dialogue.

"The Matrix" doesn't command such attention and doesn't create pause. Most of the movie evokes thoughts of "cool special effects, especially for the 90's." The plot, the character development, and the dialogue all follow a foreseeable path. But then the character, Morpheus, says, "There is a difference between knowing the path and walking the path." And what was brain candy sparks an examination of how I traverse my life.

So often, we know the path we should take. Relationally, spiritually, practically, emotionally, philosophically. Our minds see a certain ideology or our hearts understand a certain core belief that guides our decisions and relationships. We strive to stay within the guardrails imposed by the constraints of the reality we embrace. We envision a life defined by what exists in that zone of understanding.

But in our daily lives, we find walking the path we've designed to be much harder than we'd ever imagined. The expectations we reasonably set for ourselves seem insurmountable in the reality of our daily lives. We realize the limitations of our humanness and resolve ourselves to the fact that we will never effortlessly traverse the path we'd envisioned. But that's okay. As long as we identify the path and do our best to seek it, we'll make steps toward bettering ourselves.

So let's seek to not only know the path, but follow it as far as possible and better ourselves on the journey.

A small but profound insight from the book, "Divergent"

Tonight I finished "Divergent," the first book in the newest Young Adult genre trilogy. Well-written, the book pulls you into a futuristic-dystopian Chicago in which society is divided into five "factions." The back story is that a war destroyed society, and when peace finally came the surviving population identified five traits that potentially caused them to fight one another: selfishness, dishonesty, cowardice, ignorance, and anger/dissension. To prevent another war, they divide the city into six sections, five of which adopt a manifesto while one is filled with those who've been kicked out of their "faction."

The faction that rejects selfishness is named "Abnegation." In their manifesto, they proclaim:
"I will war with others,
If I refuse to see them."

Profound. Simply profound. Think of the disagreements in your life. Whether they be within a friendship. Or a business relationship. Or even when evaluating politics. Our disagreements arise when we sit opposite someone who sees things through a different lens. Those who share our beliefs, preferences, politics, and opinions don't agitate us. We find a connection and sense of belonging when we discover common ground.

Does holding an opposite view require discord? No. Whether it be on the scale of my honey and I debating a social issue or two countries going to war, the reason for discord isn't disagreement. It's the failure to see the other person. It's circumscribing the other person, ideology, religion, or point of view through a backward lens.

We don't see without the filter of our own perspective, and that casts a shadow over so much of what we're trying to see. If, instead, we flip the lens to look at others without the constraints we believe people live within, we open ourselves to a deeper understanding of others. And a deeper understanding allows us to see them.

If we refuse to see them,
we will war with them.

Paper Beats Rock (Forrest Gump style)

Tonight, after dinner, we flipped through the channels looking for something besides the ridiculous number of reality shows to watch. We hit VH1 in the cycle and "Forrest Gump" was on. I've seen this movie dozens of times. It is truly one of the best movies ever made. At my wedding, when the videographer walked around to our guests and asked for wishes, my Daddy looked at the camera and said, "Don't forget how to get back to Greenbow." I'm from Alabama, like Forrest, so Daddy's statement made me belly laugh.

When we landed on "Forrest Gump" tonight, we didn't hesitate to join in at whatever point we'd caught the movie. As a family, we've seen it so many times we can quote it. My son loves the line, "I'm Forrest Gump. People call me Forrest Gump." But tonight one of the quotes hit me for the first time. That's the thing about watching great movies more than once. You know it so well that the next time you watch it, you notice some incredible, intelligent nuance and you appreciate its genius.

We happened on the scene in which Jenny and Forrest take a walk and end up at her childhood home. It's never stated, but implied, that Jenny was horribly abused by her father. When they stumble onto the house, Jenny's face morphs. What had been a joyful walk between lifetime friends abruptly ends. Jenny sees the dilapidated house and begins picking up stones. One by one she throws them at the house. Most of them barely have an impact. Then, one breaks a window. She falls to her knees, covered in the dirt of her Southern home, and sobs. Forrest says, "Some times, there just aren't enough rocks."

An intricate part of being human is pain. We experience it physically, relationally, sexually, psychologically, even spiritually. When we're hurting, we lash out. We use our words like Jenny's rocks. Honed to hit a crucial spot that we hope will create the most damage possible. We say things we don't mean. We dig up the smallest infractions from the past to justify our feelings. Oftentimes, we wait years to give voice to them. Holding them inside and clinging to them as justification for our choices. But at some point, they become uncontainable. With each toss, we release part of what hurts us the deepest. We pick up stones and hurl them hoping that we feel better by simultaneously hurting the one who hurt us.

But in the end, the effort isn't worth it. Just like Jenny's childhood home, most of the anger projected doesn't make an impact. We expend our energy, our heart, and pieces of ourselves to simply scream into a void. Just like Jenny, we're throwing stones at an old, dilapidated house that no one lives in or even cares about any more. Sometimes, there simply aren't enough rocks.

So instead of expending energy throwing rocks, why don't we focus on laying paper. Because paper beats rock. Layers of paper in the form of forgiveness, acceptance, tolerance, grace, and love. Instead of picking up the painful stones, let's shroud them in the best parts of ourselves. While acknowledging the rocks, let's choose to defeat them with layers that both cover them and allow a blank slate.

How the Preparation for an Event Adds to its Joy

Tonight, I've thought a lot about the similarities between Christmas Day and a wedding day. In preparing for Christmas each year, so much planning goes into the decorations, the baking, the meals, the presents, Christmas morning, and navigating commitments. For weeks, we focus on and work towards one day. That one day means a few hours filled with family. An hour at a Christmas service. Food eaten in moments. Gifts ripped open in seconds. Weeks of planning dissolve quickly. But they're moments of memories. Experiences tattooed on our minds that never leave us.

As a child, the weeks of December meant an overwhelming excitement as each day crept. As a grad student, going home for Christmas meant excising myself from all of the new and challenging and forward-focus to settling into the warmth of tradition and familiarity. As a young parent, it meant experiencing the wonder and magic of the holiday again. 

Of course, above all, Christmas is important because of its celebration of the birth of Jesus. Many complain of its commercialization, and, I agree, it's beyond crazy. But regardless of the creepy, blow-up, arm-waving Santas, most people know about the origin of the Christmas holiday. Understand that its roots are deeper than mistletoe and stockings. 

After Jamie proposed to me, I spent seven months planning our wedding. We decided on a venue, a photographer, a videographer, my dress, the menu, the goodie bags, the band for the reception...everything down to the flowers on each table. But those seven months weren't a burden. Every moment spent planning for a four-hour celebration only intensified the experience. If I'd passed the baton to someone else and said, "Plan my wedding. I'll simply show up," the night wouldn't have meant as much. To know that each thought put into making it special for not only Jamie and I, but every one we love, made those few, fleeting hours more special.

Christmas is the same. The few hours go quickly, but the weeks leading up to it create a mind-set and experience that transform us and create lasting memories. In December, we sit in anticipation  of the holidays. We hum and smile at strangers. We glean the joy and human connection that oftentimes lies dormant. 

 We find joy in both the journey and the destination. We savor the preparation as much as the few hours of the day. Both bring happiness and create memories that last a lifetime. But in feeling the exhale in the after, let's remember that it doesn't end with the experience. The events are simply a gateway to a life committed. A reminder to look outward instead of inward. To put others before ourselves.

Grace and Perspective

Addison Roads', "Grace," is a beautiful song about perspective and the catalyst grace serves to move you forward. The lyrics poetically portray the juxtaposition experienced when we see something from our past. In the song, it's the home the songwriter grew up in. For me, it's more auditory than visual. Over the past few weeks, I've heard "Merry Christmas, Darling" by the Carpenters on the radio. My mind always fractures. Part of me is back in 1978. It's Christmas morning. The house smells of ham and cookies and cinnamon. My mom is in the kitchen getting ready for our entire extended family while my brothers and I play with the goodies left by Santa.

The other part of me smarts at the pain of my Mom's death in August. When I was in my 20's and heard "Merry Christmas, Darling," it made me smile. Reminded me that I would soon be home with my family for the holidays. Now, it's a painful reminder of all the Christmases my Mom lost to her dementia and will never experience. Christmas mornings filled with children's laughter as they open their gifts. Stories and smiles over coffee. The lazy comfort of simply being together with no where to go and nothing to do.

In the past few months as I've worked through the conflicting  emotions of my Mom's death--sadness, relief that she's at peace, joy at knowing she's finally home--it feels as though things have moved so quickly. Like I'm on one of those moving sidewalks in the airport. She was sick for so long and now she's gone. The piece of me that desperately clung to her memory as she devolved into her disease let go. Because she won't get sicker. I won't wake up everyday waiting to hear if today was the day. Knowing she is at peace makes me at peace. But after fifteen years of losing a bit of her every day, the suddenness of her death feels like an abrupt ending. Like a novel you've been reading that just stops. The road you've been racing down just ends. It causes a kind of disorientation. When such a large part of your emotional every day is gone, the void feels like both a gift and an emptiness.

So there is Grace. Webster's has two definitions. The first defines it simply as a way of moving that is smooth. The second defines it as unmerited divine assistance given to people for their regeneration. To me, the two definitions aren't independent, but extensions of one another. Getting through tough times in a way that actually moves you forward and does so in a fluid way requires divine assistance. My family has experienced much pain. The loss of my Mom, the loss of my brother, the loss of my daughter. Oftentimes, crossing the bridge from today to tomorrow seems daunting. But I will do it. Because of Grace. I will merge my fractured mind and move forward embracing every memory and everyday.

There's Nothing Simple about Simplicity

"Simplicity is not the absence of clutter. It's refining and being able to define the very essence of something."  
John Ive, Senior V.P. of Design at Apple, Inc.

We use objects, systems and tools everyday that simplify our life and make things easy. Twenty years ago when I graduated from law school, I didn't have a cell phone, an email account, voicemail, social media or the internet. To type a paper, I had to use the Computer Lab at school because no one had a personal computer. The "world wide web" was in its infancy.

Today, I carry an iPhone that weighs ¼ of a pound but can access my email, my voicemail, my social networks, the internet, the prescriptions I need to refill at the drugstore, my Starbucks card that I no longer need to physically carry, my bank account, satellite GPS, traffic conditions, weather conditions, stock market conditions...and can talk to me when I ask it questions. Smartphones illustrate the essence of the complexity behind simplicity.

Can you read? You're reading this (thank you!). We read all day everyday. A simple skill essential to accessing and executing most everything that we do. From food shopping, banking, reading road signs and communicating. Twenty-six letters strung together in various combinations allow us to do all of these things. Twenty-six letters. And only ten numbers. With 26 letters and 10 numbers, we write books, craft national budgets, create algorithms, study science and disease. Worlds open. They improve. Through the simplicity of the tools honed to allow the most efficient connection and communication.

Things that appear seamless never are and certainly aren't an example of simplicity. Systems, tools, even relationships aren't simple because they lack clutter or complexity or problems. They're simple because time was invested to define the essence and purpose of something and then refine it. From the apple that you slice and enjoy to the Apple that you trust with every appointment, document, creative venture and photo, neither is "simple." Because there is no such thing as simplicity. Simplicity is simply the result of mastering complexity.