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.