It started off beautiful. The sun was shining and the temperature was unseasonably warm for December. It was Tuesday, which meant Scott and I would try to get together for coffee, like we have been doing for probably 11 years. We talk about our favorite TV shows, sporting teams, music, and recent travels. It kind of feels like we're those old guys that sit around the coffee shop and talk about not much. It's comforting and stable, in the midst of these very disposable days. As we talked, the clouds starting gathering about, and increasing their darkness.
I ventured a thought-provoking question in Scott's direction, one of my most favorite things to do over coffee. "So what do you hope happens in 2009? What are you wishing for?" Before he even answered, I was both hoping he'd ask me, and then just as quickly, realized I actually didn't want him to ask me. So I listened. It all seemed pretty reasonable. Meaning, quite doable.
Then he asked me. "So, what about you?"
I sat silent for a second. I started to feel a little sick in my stomach. All these things I'm wishing and hoping and praying for flashed through my mind like it was 1993, 1994, and every year since. I said a couple things out loud, a couple of things that seemed reasonable. But I was stunned by the frustration I started to feel. I've been wishing for the same things for so long. Other people have been waiting and hoping for me, as well. I can only imagine they're getting worn out, like me, wishing for my success, frustrated by the lack of something breakthrough-ish happening in my professional life.
It started to rain on my drive home. And I felt the clouds in my spirit turning very dark. "Am I so crazy that I can't give up on my dreams? Am I that guy? Or am I setting the world record for persistence! Am I committed and loyal, and fiercely driven by my calling? Or am I just hitting my head against the same worn out wall, hoping that it will stop hurting?" The questions make me want to eat ice cream.
Anyone who knows me would probably say they admire my talents, but probably moreso, my determination. They smile and helplessly cheer me on, hoping I'm steering my boat in the right direction. "Boy, that guy sure can paddle!" they say under their breath. And the whole time I'm just wishing they'd give me a clue where to steer the dang thing, cause most of the time I feel like I'm trying to travel upstream to catch a fish that doesn't really exist.
There was a break in my inner storm for a brief time tonight. I got to hear one of my favorite bands play. It was my first time hearing them live, and I couldn't believe how great they sounded in a crappy room, with the rain pounding down on the roof outside. I haven't loved hearing music this much in a long time. I guess the music part of my heart was a bit dry.
I got to talk to their awesome singer, Marc, afterwards. They made one of my most favorite albums of the year. Really quite a stunning, prolific, musical project. Still, the kind of big-time commercial success they deserve seems to elude them. I wanted to find out how they dealt with that. Where they see God fitting into the mix between significance and success. He scratched his head, and admitted to me that he struggles with that very question continually.
A cool breeze swept through the room. Ahhh...I'm not alone! It's not about recording a CD, it's not about touring, or getting a song on the radio. Those achievement haven't taken away his frustration. So I have to stop thinking those things would take away my own frustration.
I took a breath. "Maybe the answer is found in realizing that someone, take me for example, thinks what you do is awesome, and extremely significant," I offered. "And that our crazy thinking takes over when we think it needs to be a whole bunch more people, rather than the people whose lives we are given the opportunity to be impacting."
He nodded in agreement. I couldn't stop talking. "You know what you're doing is significant." Yes, he agreed. "And I know what I do is significant. Maybe that's all we're supposed to be able to see."
Me and Marc shared a great moment, that for me, was more significant than I could've hoped to had experienced. Yes, cool to hear them play live, and to talk afterward. But even better to get a break from hitting my head on the wall.
By the end of the day, it was pouring. And I was very cold and wet. But somehow I felt less crazy than I did at the beginning of my day.
December 9, 2008
December 7, 2008
What Makes Christmas Great?
Christmas is a crazy, beautiful time of year. I love listening to carols, especially the old classics. I also love looking at lights and elaborate decorations. I also love time together with family and friends. But looking back over the multitudes of Christmases, the best part has always been the hope of what presents I might get.
I loved making wish lists as a kid. Going through the big Sears toy catalog and picking out what looked the most awesome. I didn't always get what I wanted, even though I admit I was completely spoiled. I got more than I really needed, certainly.
I would spend most of December trying to find hidden boxes throughout the house...hidden in closets, or under beds. And then when gifts would be set out under the tree, I would shake and rattle the wrapped boxes, trying to determine the contents.
When I try to put profound, grown-up words on what makes Christmas great, I come up with this: Christmas is great knowing that someone who loves you, is planning something special, specifically with your joy in mind. They are preparing something for you - to bring you happiness. This to me, is HOPE. The hope that someone who loves me is preparing something special for me - specifically with my joy in mind.
Still I have to admit that as I get older, I pretend it doesn't matter so much that I didn't get anything good for Christmas. "Oh socks! I love them! This sweater is beautiful - it's so soft!" But I can't escape the ache - the feeling that there should be something more. Something more in line with my heart's deepest longings. It's not greed...it's HOPE!!
THERE'S GOT TO BE SOMETHING MORE
I don't know about you, but I feel this same way in life - there's got to be something more! I feel the pain in life...the uncertainty...the fear...the confusion...the loneliness...and everything in me desires for it to be different. There is something in me that says this all could be different...and it probably should be. The difference between the way things are...and the way I desire them to be...creates a crazy dissonance within me. Dissonance...or tension. Dissonance is a musical term used when two or more notes that clash with each other are played simultaneously. Tension...between the way things are, and the way you feel they could be.
The dissonance or tension between the way things are and the way I would like things to be...drives me crazy! Because I HOPE! I HOPE for things to be better. For things to make sense. For things to have some purpose. Maybe you feel this way as well.
WE ARE ALL PART OF A GRAND STORY
I believe that in life, we are all part of a grand story. Good stories all have a main character who experiences some kind of conflict, then a hero comes in and brings resolution - and there's redemption, a rescue, a being saved. A resolution that reveals value to the whole story! You can't have a good movie or book with just the rescue...you have to see the need for the main character to be rescued...or saved, if you will.
Life is a story of dissonance - a story of conflict. But I also believe it is a story of rescue. You are in the middle of a grand story. And there is a hero who is longing to rescue you, not take you out of it, but to bring beauty to it, purpose, and meaning.
GOD IS THAT SOMEONE
What makes Christmas great is when someone who loves you plans something special, specifically with your joy in mind. God is that someone, and He is doing just that for you! That's what He's been about for all of time - showing you HIS love and HIS desire to invade your personal story - a story that you've been thinking was all up to you, or at least, simply a product of chance. God is writing your story.
If you want to acknowledge and receive all that GOD is preparing for you, there's one gift you have to receive first. And it's the most controversial name in society today...JESUS. God thought to himself: How can I give them a gift they will receive...a BABY!! Jesus is God's gift to you. That's why we as Christians celebrate Christmas.
God is preparing something great for each of you, and the way to those gifts today, is through the big gift - through the baby - Jesus! As you begin to see Jesus as God's gift to you, then all the other things GOD has for you will be given.
But, you need to know that seeing Jesus as your hero isn't going to get you out of prison. It isn't going to heal all your broken relationships. It isn't going to make everything shiny and new, like some TV preachers seem to announce. But seeing Jesus as God's gift to you opens you up to all kinds of new possibilities - new ways of viewing yourself, viewing other people, and the circumstances of life you find yourself caught in the middle of. Things will start to blossom with meaning and purpose. I promise.
If this is something that seems to be stirring in your heart, I encourage you to read the Bible...to pray...to talk with other people about what they know about God...listen to teachers and preachers you feel you can trust. And never let go of the hope that God, who loves you deeply, is working to make something incredibly special out of your life...specifically with your joy, and His glory, in mind.
I was honored to have the opportunity to deliver this message to a group of inmates at Charles Bass Correctional Complex in Nashville, Tenn. on my birthday (Dec. 5th). Please pray for them.
I loved making wish lists as a kid. Going through the big Sears toy catalog and picking out what looked the most awesome. I didn't always get what I wanted, even though I admit I was completely spoiled. I got more than I really needed, certainly.
I would spend most of December trying to find hidden boxes throughout the house...hidden in closets, or under beds. And then when gifts would be set out under the tree, I would shake and rattle the wrapped boxes, trying to determine the contents.
When I try to put profound, grown-up words on what makes Christmas great, I come up with this: Christmas is great knowing that someone who loves you, is planning something special, specifically with your joy in mind. They are preparing something for you - to bring you happiness. This to me, is HOPE. The hope that someone who loves me is preparing something special for me - specifically with my joy in mind.
Still I have to admit that as I get older, I pretend it doesn't matter so much that I didn't get anything good for Christmas. "Oh socks! I love them! This sweater is beautiful - it's so soft!" But I can't escape the ache - the feeling that there should be something more. Something more in line with my heart's deepest longings. It's not greed...it's HOPE!!
THERE'S GOT TO BE SOMETHING MORE
I don't know about you, but I feel this same way in life - there's got to be something more! I feel the pain in life...the uncertainty...the fear...the confusion...the loneliness...and everything in me desires for it to be different. There is something in me that says this all could be different...and it probably should be. The difference between the way things are...and the way I desire them to be...creates a crazy dissonance within me. Dissonance...or tension. Dissonance is a musical term used when two or more notes that clash with each other are played simultaneously. Tension...between the way things are, and the way you feel they could be.
The dissonance or tension between the way things are and the way I would like things to be...drives me crazy! Because I HOPE! I HOPE for things to be better. For things to make sense. For things to have some purpose. Maybe you feel this way as well.
WE ARE ALL PART OF A GRAND STORY
I believe that in life, we are all part of a grand story. Good stories all have a main character who experiences some kind of conflict, then a hero comes in and brings resolution - and there's redemption, a rescue, a being saved. A resolution that reveals value to the whole story! You can't have a good movie or book with just the rescue...you have to see the need for the main character to be rescued...or saved, if you will.
Life is a story of dissonance - a story of conflict. But I also believe it is a story of rescue. You are in the middle of a grand story. And there is a hero who is longing to rescue you, not take you out of it, but to bring beauty to it, purpose, and meaning.
GOD IS THAT SOMEONE
What makes Christmas great is when someone who loves you plans something special, specifically with your joy in mind. God is that someone, and He is doing just that for you! That's what He's been about for all of time - showing you HIS love and HIS desire to invade your personal story - a story that you've been thinking was all up to you, or at least, simply a product of chance. God is writing your story.
If you want to acknowledge and receive all that GOD is preparing for you, there's one gift you have to receive first. And it's the most controversial name in society today...JESUS. God thought to himself: How can I give them a gift they will receive...a BABY!! Jesus is God's gift to you. That's why we as Christians celebrate Christmas.
God is preparing something great for each of you, and the way to those gifts today, is through the big gift - through the baby - Jesus! As you begin to see Jesus as God's gift to you, then all the other things GOD has for you will be given.
But, you need to know that seeing Jesus as your hero isn't going to get you out of prison. It isn't going to heal all your broken relationships. It isn't going to make everything shiny and new, like some TV preachers seem to announce. But seeing Jesus as God's gift to you opens you up to all kinds of new possibilities - new ways of viewing yourself, viewing other people, and the circumstances of life you find yourself caught in the middle of. Things will start to blossom with meaning and purpose. I promise.
If this is something that seems to be stirring in your heart, I encourage you to read the Bible...to pray...to talk with other people about what they know about God...listen to teachers and preachers you feel you can trust. And never let go of the hope that God, who loves you deeply, is working to make something incredibly special out of your life...specifically with your joy, and His glory, in mind.
I was honored to have the opportunity to deliver this message to a group of inmates at Charles Bass Correctional Complex in Nashville, Tenn. on my birthday (Dec. 5th). Please pray for them.
November 15, 2008
Living The Dream
"Chasing the dream?" he mildly snickered.
"Living the dream," I announced.
He didn't know how to respond, blurting out some kind of inquisitive affirmation like, "Whoa!? Really?!
"Yep, sure am." My mind flashed back through all the years of desperate longing, waiting to be living my actual dream."
I saw moments that looked exactly like my dream -- me doing the amazing things I always wanted to do. And, in the same brilliant flash, I also saw the many times I felt so angry at God for giving up on me and my dreams. The camera pulls back to show the whole scenery. I'm revealed to myself at least. I've been living on a strange roller-coaster of unrequited desire and exuberant fulfillment. And wondering why the middle ground feels so empty.
How many people do you know who are actually "living the dream"? The phrase "chasing the dream" makes me think about the greyhounds on the racetrack, chasing after the fake bunny on a stick that always runs faster than the dogs can. Is my dream running faster than am I? Is it something to catch, to capture and devour, as those dogs might be thinking they'd do if ever they caught the dang thing?
I believe I moved to Nashville propelled by a dream -- something out there, something beyond where I was living. It was a desire to make something out of my life. I didn't want to just settle for being, for just living. I wanted to strive and reach for what I was optimistically certain was out there. And honestly, it boils down to this: I desired to have a life of influence. And to have that, I thought I needed to have some sort of platform, some kind of audience who would allow themselves to be influenced by my remarkableness. My amazingness. My influencity (that sounds too much like influenza!).
Fortunately, in retrospect, I can see that I had missed the mark. I thought: PLATFORM=INFLUENCE=SIGNIFICANCE. That isn't completely wrong. It's just that I thought PLATFORM would look like a big stage somewhere with a lot of people paying to come see me sing -- that's when I'd truly be significant. So I kept trying, and waiting, and hoping, and praying, and crying, and screaming, and wondering when I'd ever get that dang platform I thought I needed in order to live the life I was supposed to be living.
Then I woke up. And realized I had a platform.
It's called My Life.
It was like I had been sleeping for a crazy long time and finally woke up. Rip Van Smebywinkle. More accurately, I had been so distracted by my longing for my platform to look like someone else's...you know, someone superfamous...that I couldn't see how my platform was actually supposed to be my own -- incredibly unique, designed specifically for me and my gifts and abilities -- and I had been standing in the middle of it for quite a while. I woke up and found myself on the platform of my dreams.
I'm a little embarrassed writing all this, because I think I sound so stupid and immature. But it's been such a profound awakening for me, I can't help but think talking about this might help some other distracted, sleeping person wake up and see the incredible place they are in right now.
I am living the dream. I have been for quite a while. And I almost slept right through it.
October 9, 2008
My First Music Video - "Precious Memories"
The first thing we did after they made me up to look like an actual person who would do a music video, was shoot the clips of me singing while leaning against the big outside wall frame, wearing the black jacket. It was super hot—I was sweating big time. We used a tiny boombox to play my song so I had something to sing-along with. There was a smattering of people standing around watching, probably less then ten people, but more than five. Enough to make me feel nervous. Nervous? Not nervous...more dorky. I felt a bit dorky. No, I was actually afraid of looking dorky. I've never done this before, so I didn't know exactly how to be the cool guy in the video. So I just sang. The best part for me was when I finished singing the first pass, the song ended, and the director yelled "Cut!", and then all the people started cheering! It was just what I needed. To me, their cheers said, "We don't think you're dorky!!" I was probably overly paranoid.
I'm grateful my friend Marc Acton was there to be my objective eyes. He told me not to make the "poopy face" when I was singing. That would definitely be dorky. He also encouraged me, and stood by me when everyone else seemed so busy making their music video. It can feel very strange singing into a camera, trying to express something very personal, while there's so many people standing around working, or others who are just watching you try to do it, wondering if they're supposed to know who you are.
So after all the thousands of music videos that have influenced my life through the years, from artists like Michael Jackson to Ray Boltz...here's mine. My very first music video. I'm so thrilled with how it turned out. I'm grateful to Jefferson (the mean guy at the beginning) who wrote, directed and starred in this movie. He was the guy who liked my song enough to use it in his film. And then for him to invest in (and put up with me through all the edits) doing this video is priceless to me. It was so great to hang out with the rest of the crew and the actors from the cast who came to help out as well, especially the lovely Miss Christina. Thank you to all of them! And to you, please tell all your friends about "Clancy" — Let's make it a huge hit when it is released!
September 13, 2008
Video of Me Singing "Hero" At Ken Parker Tribute
Here's a clip from an amazing experience I had up in Minneapolis back in April. It was a tribute event to my former music pastor, the amazing Ken Parker. He wrote this song for a Christmas musical "Child of Love" back in the early 90s, and entrusted me with it to sing it on the record we made, and during a few live performances we did of the whole musical.
I decided to rearrange the 1st verse and chorus, probably because of what I saw the kids do to songs on American Idol. I loved how the ballad-ness allowed me to really honor the lyrics he wrote and bring new life to the song. I was scared to death while I was singing, yet I was having a blast. I was so thrilled to be there and was on the verge of tears most of the time. Ken Parker really believed in me, which gave me permission then, to believe in myself and begin dreaming bigger than what I thought was possible. Thanks Ken!!
I decided to rearrange the 1st verse and chorus, probably because of what I saw the kids do to songs on American Idol. I loved how the ballad-ness allowed me to really honor the lyrics he wrote and bring new life to the song. I was scared to death while I was singing, yet I was having a blast. I was so thrilled to be there and was on the verge of tears most of the time. Ken Parker really believed in me, which gave me permission then, to believe in myself and begin dreaming bigger than what I thought was possible. Thanks Ken!!
September 2, 2008
Hearing My Song On the Big Screen
I don't want to sound like I'm whining—I'm simply attempting to express the weirdness of the roller-coaster life I've chosen to ride. I remember coming home after my first run on a tour bus with Semi-Big Nashville Artist. I had just had an intense four days trying to sleep in a jostling, coffin-like bunk, waking up in different places in different states that each looked exactly the same. I met a ton of people and liked only some of them. I was treated like I was something special, and I was also treated like I wasn't anything special at all. People back home were excited for the opportunity they knew I was getting, but had no idea, like me, what I was actually getting into. It turned into something that was more challenging than I had expected, and more rewarding than I could've dreamed.
But going back to my Disneyworld example, people just want to know you had a good time. It takes a very special person to care about the nuances of your trip, whether it's to Orlando, Paris, or Peoria. More about life on the road later.
Last Saturday I drove toward Louisville and stopped at Ft. Knox to meet my good friend Marc who's doing some work there as a pilot of Apache helicopters. I know, serious stuff. I'm so thankful he was able to accompany through the 24 hours that would follow. Kelly's Filmworks held a little reception for the "Clancy" cast and crew just prior to the screening, serving little desserty things and soft drinks. After that, we were seated in a special reserved area in the middle rows of the packed theater. I got to sit next to Marc, Stephanie Vickers (a Nashville actress playing Clancy's mother) and her real-life mother.
I was excited to see the film, but more excited to see what it would feel like to hear me and my song come through the speakers in a dark theater filled with people. I knew the song would appear in a scene in a hospital, so when I saw the story moving in that direction I started to get a bit nervous. I sank a little lower in my seat and clasped my hands together. I probably looked like I was praying. I just wanted to cover my face in case something weird started happening with it. Would I cry? Would I smile? Laugh? Drool? I didn't know—I had never been there before. When the swirling synth pad of my song's intro started, I sank a couple inches lower yet. I suddenly felt my pulse start intensifying, as if someone was ringing out my spine like a wet washcloth. My head was pulsating.
Now I'm listening to my song. I'm singing. This is so crazy. Other people are listening as well. But they're not thinking about me, they're thinking about the emotions of the lyrics and the feeling in the melody. I can't believe how the lyrics fit the storyline so perfectly. I sound like a real singer. The song sounds like it's supposed to be there. I can't believe it. Stop thinking so much. What a trip.
The song ends after about 80 seconds, and the dialogue starts up again. I can breathe again. Marc elbows me and says something like, "That was awesome!" I try to breathe. Stephanie leans over her mom and touches my arm, mumbling something encouraging. I mumble something back, mostly paralyzed still. The movie keeps rolling. I feel like standing up and cheering. I better not. I imagine people sitting behind me pointing their finger at my back, saying, "He's the singer. That's him! Right there!"
I heard the song might be used again, so as the ending approaches, I start to get nervous/excited again. Here's the final shot. The crane slowly lifts the camera away from the scene, zooming out to reveal the landscape just as the second verse of my song starts up. It's obviously the end of the film. People are sniffling. I'm singing. The first lines of credits start rolling and the crowd starts clapping. I can't hear my song. More clapping. They keep clapping. That's great. I tell myself, It's okay. They'll hear it on the DVD. It's okay. More clapping.
After the screening, there's a nice Q&A with some of the cast and crew. The little girl who played Clancy gets a huge reception, like she's the new Anna Paquin or something. The screening concludes with a showing of the alternate ending, one that wouldn't have used my song again. I'm thankful for the actual ending and my encore.
The room is buzzing as people get up and make their way out of the theater. I got to have a couple cool conversations, one with the guy who scored the film, and another with an actor who reminded me of Nathan Lane. Me, Marc, Stephanie and her mom, Jolene, decide to hit the town and celebrate. After being hit so powerfully by the whole screening experience, it was nice to hit something back.
In my next blog, I'm going to write about the day that followed. The day we shot the music video for "Precious Memories" and how I felt like I was simply pretending to be the person I had always dreamed I'd be.
August 26, 2008
Video Shoot In Louisville
August 11, 2008
Will Anyone Ever Pick Me?
It has become very important for me to identify what the Evil Voices In My Head are telling me. If I don’t, I just feel overwhelmed by fear and stupidity.
For instance, as a writer I hate walking into a bookstore. Part of me wants to find something interesting to connect with, some new writer that will affect my life like Anne Lamott or Eugene Peterson. All the covers plead for me to judge their contents by their prettiness. Truth is, sometimes you can judge a book by its cover. But instead of discovering beautiful new literary connections, I get bowled over by the silence. Like leafing through page after page of a dating service notebook filled with women last named A-G. So much muted potential, prettied-up with a fancy exterior. But mostly, it’s the overwhelming silence of all those unsold books that is so deafening to me. And I really want to be one more of the unsold authors stacked on those disorganized shelves? What could possibly be wrong with me?
All those words on all those pages. All those hours spent by someone somewhere, hoping their efforts would have some value. All those months waiting for a publisher to pick up their manuscript. All those hours wondering if that publisher will ever do anything to promote their dang book, or if it will just get lost in the shuffle of their better-selling, celebrity-driven, ghost-written titles.
It’s very similar to going into a record store and seeing all those unsold CDs just sitting there, patiently waiting for someone to give them a chance. So much unnoticed music. At the same time, there are so many artists that sell a ton of records. So many authors who sell a ton of books. And still, so many artists and authors who have personally affected me. I’m grateful they chose to throw their heart down the chute of creativity so that I could have my life changed by their expressions.
This, I believe, is truly what is compelling me to create—to write, to sing, to communicate. Because I still have a glimmer of hope that it’s possible to affect another person with what I create. People usually throw out the flippant cliché de significance: “Even if just one person was affected by what I created, it will have been worth it.” Bleck. I agree in theory. But if one person was affected, couldn’t there possibly be one million more people who could be affected as well. Wouldn’t that be better for everyone? And by everyone, I mean my bank account.
There’s significant symbolism in desiring to have my voice heard. So much in society tells me I’m just like everyone else, that there really is nothing special about me. I can’t escape the feeling inside of me, though, telling me I am actually a very unique and special individual. Heck, that even you are a very unique and special individual! That indeed there is a very special story being written with my life, and that by telling that story, other people can be inspired and encouraged to live out their own story with more clarity and significance. That by my sharing how I’ve been awakened to the power I have to love and serve others, and the incredible consequences of living life that way, that just maybe you might want to join me on this journey as well. And that just maybe, the heavy load you have been asked to carry around will somehow get a little lighter. That somehow one or two layers of onion-skin-like filters will be peeled off of your eyes so you’ll be able to see more clearly the beauty of this life. For that reason, I keep creating. To say thank you to those who have gone before me and changed my life, and trusting that something beautiful happens when I shed my fear and (alleged) stupidity, and simply step up to the challenge of telling my beautiful story.
I learned a great lesson from my dog Kirby on the very first day I met her. I had just bought my first house and knew I needed to add a dog to the picture. So I visited the local animal shelter to take a look at the most needy, abandoned dogs.
They know. The dogs know when a potential master walks through the door to all their pens. They can smell it, I believe. So they do what I would do if I was in that same predicament. The door creaks open, and they start barking at the top of their lungs. “Me! Me!! Over here!!! Way in the back!! Don’t forget me!! Pick me!! I’ll be awesome, I promise!” they yip and howl. I was just browsing, trying to hold my heart in check. I walked past one obnoxious dog after another. I didn’t want a housemate who would drive me crazy with her incessant noisemaking. Then I saw her. As soon as our eyes met, this most beautiful of yellow labs dropped her front legs straight in front of her, as if she was actually bowing toward me. She stretched for a brief second, and ended lying down flat, staring straight up at me with her huge brown eyes. Not a noise. Nothing but a gentle, noiseless plea to be chosen. Brilliant. The more the barking continued from all the other dogs, I knew I found the one for me.
There are many days I feel like I’m stuck in a cage, certain that if someone important would just pick me and my impressive creative projects, my life would be as it is intended to be. Full of joy and significance. The truth is that I truly am free. I am free to create and express my heart and explore this life, seeking ways to find understanding and truth through it all. I am free to live outside the cage of others’ expectations. And I am free to be a quiet participant on the bookshelf of life. There’s great value in my story and I trust it will find the exact audience that needs to read it, so there’s no need to worry about the days that pass when no one gives my cover a second glance.
But between you and me, it sure would be fun if someone would just pick me.
For instance, as a writer I hate walking into a bookstore. Part of me wants to find something interesting to connect with, some new writer that will affect my life like Anne Lamott or Eugene Peterson. All the covers plead for me to judge their contents by their prettiness. Truth is, sometimes you can judge a book by its cover. But instead of discovering beautiful new literary connections, I get bowled over by the silence. Like leafing through page after page of a dating service notebook filled with women last named A-G. So much muted potential, prettied-up with a fancy exterior. But mostly, it’s the overwhelming silence of all those unsold books that is so deafening to me. And I really want to be one more of the unsold authors stacked on those disorganized shelves? What could possibly be wrong with me?
All those words on all those pages. All those hours spent by someone somewhere, hoping their efforts would have some value. All those months waiting for a publisher to pick up their manuscript. All those hours wondering if that publisher will ever do anything to promote their dang book, or if it will just get lost in the shuffle of their better-selling, celebrity-driven, ghost-written titles.
It’s very similar to going into a record store and seeing all those unsold CDs just sitting there, patiently waiting for someone to give them a chance. So much unnoticed music. At the same time, there are so many artists that sell a ton of records. So many authors who sell a ton of books. And still, so many artists and authors who have personally affected me. I’m grateful they chose to throw their heart down the chute of creativity so that I could have my life changed by their expressions.
This, I believe, is truly what is compelling me to create—to write, to sing, to communicate. Because I still have a glimmer of hope that it’s possible to affect another person with what I create. People usually throw out the flippant cliché de significance: “Even if just one person was affected by what I created, it will have been worth it.” Bleck. I agree in theory. But if one person was affected, couldn’t there possibly be one million more people who could be affected as well. Wouldn’t that be better for everyone? And by everyone, I mean my bank account.
There’s significant symbolism in desiring to have my voice heard. So much in society tells me I’m just like everyone else, that there really is nothing special about me. I can’t escape the feeling inside of me, though, telling me I am actually a very unique and special individual. Heck, that even you are a very unique and special individual! That indeed there is a very special story being written with my life, and that by telling that story, other people can be inspired and encouraged to live out their own story with more clarity and significance. That by my sharing how I’ve been awakened to the power I have to love and serve others, and the incredible consequences of living life that way, that just maybe you might want to join me on this journey as well. And that just maybe, the heavy load you have been asked to carry around will somehow get a little lighter. That somehow one or two layers of onion-skin-like filters will be peeled off of your eyes so you’ll be able to see more clearly the beauty of this life. For that reason, I keep creating. To say thank you to those who have gone before me and changed my life, and trusting that something beautiful happens when I shed my fear and (alleged) stupidity, and simply step up to the challenge of telling my beautiful story.
I learned a great lesson from my dog Kirby on the very first day I met her. I had just bought my first house and knew I needed to add a dog to the picture. So I visited the local animal shelter to take a look at the most needy, abandoned dogs.
They know. The dogs know when a potential master walks through the door to all their pens. They can smell it, I believe. So they do what I would do if I was in that same predicament. The door creaks open, and they start barking at the top of their lungs. “Me! Me!! Over here!!! Way in the back!! Don’t forget me!! Pick me!! I’ll be awesome, I promise!” they yip and howl. I was just browsing, trying to hold my heart in check. I walked past one obnoxious dog after another. I didn’t want a housemate who would drive me crazy with her incessant noisemaking. Then I saw her. As soon as our eyes met, this most beautiful of yellow labs dropped her front legs straight in front of her, as if she was actually bowing toward me. She stretched for a brief second, and ended lying down flat, staring straight up at me with her huge brown eyes. Not a noise. Nothing but a gentle, noiseless plea to be chosen. Brilliant. The more the barking continued from all the other dogs, I knew I found the one for me.
There are many days I feel like I’m stuck in a cage, certain that if someone important would just pick me and my impressive creative projects, my life would be as it is intended to be. Full of joy and significance. The truth is that I truly am free. I am free to create and express my heart and explore this life, seeking ways to find understanding and truth through it all. I am free to live outside the cage of others’ expectations. And I am free to be a quiet participant on the bookshelf of life. There’s great value in my story and I trust it will find the exact audience that needs to read it, so there’s no need to worry about the days that pass when no one gives my cover a second glance.
But between you and me, it sure would be fun if someone would just pick me.
August 6, 2008
Nashville - A Gold Digger's Town
Nashville is such a city of promise. It reminds me a bit of the California Gold Rush of mid-1800. Some lucky random guy found gold in an old mill, and before long, 300,000 men, women, and children flocked to the Golden State from all over the country, and even as far away as Latin America, Europe, Australia and Asia. A handful of people recovered millions of dollars worth of gold, but most people went home none the richer. As you can imagine, the boom brought with it a considerable amount of economic good for California.
Unfortunately, the Gold Rush wasn’t without its negative affects, as Native Americans were attacked and pushed off their land, creating race and ethnic tensions. Not to mention environmental harm caused by prospectors literally overturning every stone, trying to get their piece of the pot.
When I first heard there was gold in them there hills of Nashville, it wasn’t long before I knew I needed to pack up my wagon and trek across the country from Minnesota to see what I might uncover.
Heck, I had as good of a chance as anybody, right? I remember thinking a well-intentioned, charismatic, halfway-decent singer like myself stood a pretty good shot at a record deal. I had bought records and seen concerts by artists who appeared to be a lot more mediocre than me. People say the record industry just puts out crap. I say, why can’t they just put out my crap?
I packed my wagon (a tiny Plymouth Horizon that used to belong to my Grandma Bob) to the gills with my CD collection and enough underwear to last a week. I was lovingly sent off by an extremely encouraging group of people who had probably never met a prospector. Sure, they’d seen them on TV or in the movies, but a real life dream-chasing gold-digger? Probably not one. I know I hadn’t. I had no role models.
It wasn’t long after I arrived in Nashville I learned that finding opportunities in the music biz is a bit like panning for gold. You can fill your pan up with all kinds of sand and rocks, sifting through it all with a fine-toothed comb, hoping that one little fleck of something shiny might emerge. After a long while of finding nothing of value, it’s easy to begin wondering if the problem is actually me and not simply that I’m looking for gold in an already scoured riverbed.
Did the empty-handed forty-niners who left California realize the randomness of finding the gold, or did they possibly think there was something inherently wrong with them? I’m not saying that's how I felt. But it was.
Without any prospects, I basically had to constantly sniff around, turning over all kinds of stones, looking for opportunities. Or friends. I found out early enough that you had to pick one or the other.
There was one guy I had met early on in my time here in Nashville who was a considerably successful songwriter and was part of a group that was doing pretty well on the charts. We hit it off as friends and started hanging out. I met his wife and kids—it was that level of hanging out.
One day as we were driving somewhere he told me, “Mark, I don’t think I can be friends with you. You don’t fit into the business side of my life, or the family side of my life.”
Sure, he was busy, and was probably just trying to create margin in his life. But I was floored. It wasn’t enough that we enjoyed each other’s company, and experienced a unique interpersonal connection. I just didn’t fit into his purpose-driven realm of relational possibilities. I’ve experienced rejection before, but never for such awkwardly verbalized, heart-blocked reasons.
Someone wise once told me, “Friendship in Nashville—don’t take it personally.”
I’ve held onto that gold nugget of wisdom for years.
Unfortunately, the Gold Rush wasn’t without its negative affects, as Native Americans were attacked and pushed off their land, creating race and ethnic tensions. Not to mention environmental harm caused by prospectors literally overturning every stone, trying to get their piece of the pot.
When I first heard there was gold in them there hills of Nashville, it wasn’t long before I knew I needed to pack up my wagon and trek across the country from Minnesota to see what I might uncover.
Heck, I had as good of a chance as anybody, right? I remember thinking a well-intentioned, charismatic, halfway-decent singer like myself stood a pretty good shot at a record deal. I had bought records and seen concerts by artists who appeared to be a lot more mediocre than me. People say the record industry just puts out crap. I say, why can’t they just put out my crap?
I packed my wagon (a tiny Plymouth Horizon that used to belong to my Grandma Bob) to the gills with my CD collection and enough underwear to last a week. I was lovingly sent off by an extremely encouraging group of people who had probably never met a prospector. Sure, they’d seen them on TV or in the movies, but a real life dream-chasing gold-digger? Probably not one. I know I hadn’t. I had no role models.
It wasn’t long after I arrived in Nashville I learned that finding opportunities in the music biz is a bit like panning for gold. You can fill your pan up with all kinds of sand and rocks, sifting through it all with a fine-toothed comb, hoping that one little fleck of something shiny might emerge. After a long while of finding nothing of value, it’s easy to begin wondering if the problem is actually me and not simply that I’m looking for gold in an already scoured riverbed.
Did the empty-handed forty-niners who left California realize the randomness of finding the gold, or did they possibly think there was something inherently wrong with them? I’m not saying that's how I felt. But it was.
Without any prospects, I basically had to constantly sniff around, turning over all kinds of stones, looking for opportunities. Or friends. I found out early enough that you had to pick one or the other.
There was one guy I had met early on in my time here in Nashville who was a considerably successful songwriter and was part of a group that was doing pretty well on the charts. We hit it off as friends and started hanging out. I met his wife and kids—it was that level of hanging out.
One day as we were driving somewhere he told me, “Mark, I don’t think I can be friends with you. You don’t fit into the business side of my life, or the family side of my life.”
Sure, he was busy, and was probably just trying to create margin in his life. But I was floored. It wasn’t enough that we enjoyed each other’s company, and experienced a unique interpersonal connection. I just didn’t fit into his purpose-driven realm of relational possibilities. I’ve experienced rejection before, but never for such awkwardly verbalized, heart-blocked reasons.
Someone wise once told me, “Friendship in Nashville—don’t take it personally.”
I’ve held onto that gold nugget of wisdom for years.
July 26, 2008
My Briefs - What A Week!
I'm feeling completely overwhelmed by joy. It's been a remarkable week. One of my most favorite things in the world is seeing Drum Corps competing live. MTSU hosts a big one every summer. I went last night. After my scheduled corps-compadre cancelled, I decided I could go alone. I got a bit lost trying to find the place, and arrived late at exactly the same time as John, a perfect stranger whose wife let him have the night off to go to his first Corps show in 20 years because it was his birthday, of all things. A self-professed band geek (like myself), and ahem...Trekkie (not that there's anything wrong with that), John became the perfect companion for this awesome night. I was reminded of the power that excellence and creativity have to bring 20,000 people to their feet. I sat in awe as I watched marching and heard playing that both seemed un-human, constantly picturing the hundreds of hours these sun-bronzed, disciplined kids have spent on blazing hot practice fields, working their skills to perfection. Made me feel old and a little lazy, but off-the-chart psyched up to keep aiming for excellence, and to find new, creative ways of expressing myself that will inspire others to come more fully alive. Happy Birthday, John! Your presence was a gift to me last night. You would've been a great Scout.
Sheryl Crow Thursday night at the Sommet Center was incredible as well. She's hot and confident, and about as prolific of a songwriter as they come. Quite a remarkable voice, too. Wednesday night with Eric, and Monday with Josh D. were killer. And Tuesday was a huge day for working the plow in the field of forgiveness. My heart is tender.
I'm also blown away by the great work my friend Christopher Davis did producing "Precious Memories" for me - the first song I've recorded that I've written both the music and lyrics. It's on my myspace page and will appear in the film "Clancy" being produced by Kelly's Filmworks out of Louisville. What an honor. "Superfamous" will also be appearing the film "Fraternity House," but that's a whole other kind of honor. One that smells more like beer.
Ah, the sweet dichotomy of my life.
Sheryl Crow Thursday night at the Sommet Center was incredible as well. She's hot and confident, and about as prolific of a songwriter as they come. Quite a remarkable voice, too. Wednesday night with Eric, and Monday with Josh D. were killer. And Tuesday was a huge day for working the plow in the field of forgiveness. My heart is tender.
I'm also blown away by the great work my friend Christopher Davis did producing "Precious Memories" for me - the first song I've recorded that I've written both the music and lyrics. It's on my myspace page and will appear in the film "Clancy" being produced by Kelly's Filmworks out of Louisville. What an honor. "Superfamous" will also be appearing the film "Fraternity House," but that's a whole other kind of honor. One that smells more like beer.
Ah, the sweet dichotomy of my life.
July 14, 2008
My Promised Land
I would never call myself a scholar per se, on anything, except maybe pop music in the 80s. But I do find it interesting in the Old Testament where Moses leads the stubborn, incredibly cynical Israelites through the desert for 40 years. Seriously? 40 years is a crazy long time to be on a journey toward something you can’t see.
Turns out they were promised a kind of freedom, a land where they could be free from the tyranny they had lived under in Israel, a land flowing with milk and honey. Show me a land flowing with steak and ice cream, and I might journey toward it myself, but if I'm gone a week with no sign of nothing meaty or creamy, I'm out of there.
These Israelites, as much as they complained, must have had incredible determination and persistence to stay on the course. Still, I would've become tired, distracted, resentful. I would have to be reminded over and over exactly why we were doing this whole "wandering through the desert" thing. Probably several times each day.
I imagine having thoughts like: "Hey Moses, you sure you know where you're taking us?" "Now, why exactly are we doing this?" or "This land here looks pretty good. I think I can smell honey."
Why did God feel like he needed these people to not reach their Promised Land for such a long period of time? Why did so many people have to die along the way, never seeing the end of their journey? Should they have stayed home if they would've known how things would end up for them?
To me, this is an incredible story about not giving up, even when all signs are pointing for you to find the nearest exit.
This is what my time in Nashville has been like. There have unquestionably been awesome times of joy and significance. Relationships I have made which are rooted in tremendous joy and love. But, as you can imagine, there are also times of incredible drought and solitude. Times of extremely hard work and painful emotional suffering. Times I wonder if this road I'm on is actually going anywhere.
The best answer I can give myself to the question of where is all this wandering taking me? Where I'm Supposed to Be. Many days I feel like I'm going nowhere. And the quietness of the present feels like emptiness, more than freedom. But when I'm in my right mind, and resting in the love surrounding and within me, I'm convinced that even today, no matter how I feel or how bleak things look, I'm where I'm supposed to be. And that the place I'm heading is also exactly where I'm supposed to be, and chances are, it won't look anything like I had thought it would.
One of my favorite people, Anne Lamott, suggested that God let the Israelites wander for so long so they would have a chance to redefine what they thought their Promised Land should look like. To me, it looks like they had to be stripped of all their expectations, they had to struggle, they had to watch their loved ones die, they had to be hungry and thirsty and tired, they had to be chased through the desert and the sea by ferocious enemies, they had to be blinded to their destination, all so they would better see how truly incapable they are of creating their own Promised Land, and how being able to receive the most beautiful gifts can only happen with completely empty hands.
I wish I could sit around a campfire one night with some of those Israelites. Especially some of the older ones, and hear what they might say to some of the younger ones, perhaps that had been born only after the journey started. I'd like to hear the stories, not of the Red Sea parting, or the fire cloud leading them, but of the silent times. The times when they wanted to give up. When they were convinced they were on a hopeless mission. And the times when they did give up, but a friend came alongside and kicked them in the butt to get them to keep walking. I want to hear what it was like to be told to follow Moses, and then be convinced he was crazy. I want to be told that while they know there's a land out there they've been promised, that the stuff of real life, like meaning and significance and love, happens here in the desert, sitting around the campfire, laughing and telling stories. And carrying each other when you just can't take another step.
Turns out they were promised a kind of freedom, a land where they could be free from the tyranny they had lived under in Israel, a land flowing with milk and honey. Show me a land flowing with steak and ice cream, and I might journey toward it myself, but if I'm gone a week with no sign of nothing meaty or creamy, I'm out of there.
These Israelites, as much as they complained, must have had incredible determination and persistence to stay on the course. Still, I would've become tired, distracted, resentful. I would have to be reminded over and over exactly why we were doing this whole "wandering through the desert" thing. Probably several times each day.
I imagine having thoughts like: "Hey Moses, you sure you know where you're taking us?" "Now, why exactly are we doing this?" or "This land here looks pretty good. I think I can smell honey."
Why did God feel like he needed these people to not reach their Promised Land for such a long period of time? Why did so many people have to die along the way, never seeing the end of their journey? Should they have stayed home if they would've known how things would end up for them?
To me, this is an incredible story about not giving up, even when all signs are pointing for you to find the nearest exit.
This is what my time in Nashville has been like. There have unquestionably been awesome times of joy and significance. Relationships I have made which are rooted in tremendous joy and love. But, as you can imagine, there are also times of incredible drought and solitude. Times of extremely hard work and painful emotional suffering. Times I wonder if this road I'm on is actually going anywhere.
The best answer I can give myself to the question of where is all this wandering taking me? Where I'm Supposed to Be. Many days I feel like I'm going nowhere. And the quietness of the present feels like emptiness, more than freedom. But when I'm in my right mind, and resting in the love surrounding and within me, I'm convinced that even today, no matter how I feel or how bleak things look, I'm where I'm supposed to be. And that the place I'm heading is also exactly where I'm supposed to be, and chances are, it won't look anything like I had thought it would.
One of my favorite people, Anne Lamott, suggested that God let the Israelites wander for so long so they would have a chance to redefine what they thought their Promised Land should look like. To me, it looks like they had to be stripped of all their expectations, they had to struggle, they had to watch their loved ones die, they had to be hungry and thirsty and tired, they had to be chased through the desert and the sea by ferocious enemies, they had to be blinded to their destination, all so they would better see how truly incapable they are of creating their own Promised Land, and how being able to receive the most beautiful gifts can only happen with completely empty hands.
I wish I could sit around a campfire one night with some of those Israelites. Especially some of the older ones, and hear what they might say to some of the younger ones, perhaps that had been born only after the journey started. I'd like to hear the stories, not of the Red Sea parting, or the fire cloud leading them, but of the silent times. The times when they wanted to give up. When they were convinced they were on a hopeless mission. And the times when they did give up, but a friend came alongside and kicked them in the butt to get them to keep walking. I want to hear what it was like to be told to follow Moses, and then be convinced he was crazy. I want to be told that while they know there's a land out there they've been promised, that the stuff of real life, like meaning and significance and love, happens here in the desert, sitting around the campfire, laughing and telling stories. And carrying each other when you just can't take another step.
July 12, 2008
Enjoy!
I always chuckle a little when someone drops off our plates of food at a restaurant. How as they walk off, with forced quasi-hospitality, they offer the one word of direction anyone needs while staring at a plate full of food with an empty stomach: "Enjoy!" Oh...OK! I will do that! I will enjoy this food! Thank you for the reminder. People never talk like this in real life. These people continually get away with it.
But the directive I received when leaving a restaurant last week topped that. As we left Saltgrass, the host holding the door said, "Hope you enjoy everything!" As if he's directing us to enjoy everything that happens from here on out. Once you leave the premises, please make every effort to enjoy what happens. Perhaps he meant to say "Hope you enjoyed everything..." but I like to believe this host holds the secret to life I've been longing to find. You know what, just enjoy everything. Don't analyze everything, or try figure out why you do what you do, or why someone you care about doesn't do what you think they should do, don't stress, don't worry, don't freak out about stuff that's completely out of your hands. Just enjoy everything.
Why yes, Mr. Saltgrass Host with a ponytail, I will. I will enjoy everything. Thanks for the tip.
But the directive I received when leaving a restaurant last week topped that. As we left Saltgrass, the host holding the door said, "Hope you enjoy everything!" As if he's directing us to enjoy everything that happens from here on out. Once you leave the premises, please make every effort to enjoy what happens. Perhaps he meant to say "Hope you enjoyed everything..." but I like to believe this host holds the secret to life I've been longing to find. You know what, just enjoy everything. Don't analyze everything, or try figure out why you do what you do, or why someone you care about doesn't do what you think they should do, don't stress, don't worry, don't freak out about stuff that's completely out of your hands. Just enjoy everything.
Why yes, Mr. Saltgrass Host with a ponytail, I will. I will enjoy everything. Thanks for the tip.
July 10, 2008
Wannabe - Book Excerpt
The first time I ever played any of my songs for a Nashville decision maker was at a big publisher’s office, shortly after moving to Nashville. Cindy was super nice, and I felt like she really wanted to be helpful. I played my most personal song for her, “Turn My Eyes Upon You.”
“This one’s too personal.” She said too matter of factly.
“Oh really?” I thought that was a good thing. Obviously I was ignorant to the ways of real songwriters. “That was my goal with that one. You know, to be personal. Don’t you think too many artists sing songs that don’t mean anything at all?”
“That doesn’t matter.” The clock was ticking.
She explained how as a publisher she was looking for songs she could pitch to other artists to record, and how they need to be able to make the songs sound like their own.
“Like you could change the line, If you see a smile on my face, it’s not that everything is going just fine to When I see the smile on your face, I know it’s not blah, blah, blah….” I couldn’t hear anything more. This was my incredible song that she was altering. People back home in Minnesota liked my song. Are they dumb? I didn’t think so.
I wish I could go back in time and have coffee with that Mark, just after that meeting.
“So, how did it go?” Mature Mark would ask.
“She hated me.” I’d respond.
“Oh really. What exactly made you feel like she hated you?”
“She said my songs were stupid. And too personal.” I think I’m starting to sound like a 13-year-old girl at this point.
“What had you hoped she would do for you?”
Silence. I had no frame of reference. I had no idea what to expect, except opens doors of opportunity and lots of pats on the back.
“I hoped she’d like me and want to help me.”
“And see your overwhelming potential drenched in brilliance?”
“Exactly.” I’d high-five myself.
“Well, I can see it.”
“Thanks, me.” I’d reply, awww-shucking.
“Let me give you a little secret.”
“I’m all ears.” I have nowhere to be, so what’s a little free advice from the future going to hurt me?
“Some of these people, these decision-makers, these gate-keepers, they don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“That’s exactly what I thought!”
“But…”
“Of course, there’s a but.”
“But, they are still the decision-makers. So it becomes your responsibility to make it as simple as possible for them to make the decisions you want them to make.”
I chuckle. “Right. How am I supposed to do that?”
“Don’t be offended by this. But you can do this best by being excellent.”
“Excellent?” I’m not getting anywhere with myself.
“How long have you been a songwriter?”
“Um. About a year.”
“So do you think that in a year you have developed to the level of excellence as a songwriter that you can walk into a publisher’s office in one of the largest music cities in the world, and expect them to roll out the red carpet?”
I took that one right in the kisser.
“You need to work on your songwriting. If you want to be a published songwriter you have to learn how to write songs that publishers are looking for. Today sounds like it was a great first lesson.”
“You’re right.” I’d say, swallowing hard.
“You can’t move to Italy and expect to speak Italian right away. It’s going to take time and a lot of work. Don’t waste your time fretting over how people don’t understand what you’re trying to say. Learn the dang language. Be patient with the dance. You thought you’d move here and find someone who would tell you you’re a great dancer. But in fact, you moved here to learn how to dance. In time, you’ll be dancing like no one else. And people will pay money to watch. And they’ll be trying to learn how to dance like you.”
“Okay, that’s just weird. Are you telling me I’m not a dancer?”
“Not yet. But don’t give up. No matter how ready you think you are to be on stage."
“This one’s too personal.” She said too matter of factly.
“Oh really?” I thought that was a good thing. Obviously I was ignorant to the ways of real songwriters. “That was my goal with that one. You know, to be personal. Don’t you think too many artists sing songs that don’t mean anything at all?”
“That doesn’t matter.” The clock was ticking.
She explained how as a publisher she was looking for songs she could pitch to other artists to record, and how they need to be able to make the songs sound like their own.
“Like you could change the line, If you see a smile on my face, it’s not that everything is going just fine to When I see the smile on your face, I know it’s not blah, blah, blah….” I couldn’t hear anything more. This was my incredible song that she was altering. People back home in Minnesota liked my song. Are they dumb? I didn’t think so.
I wish I could go back in time and have coffee with that Mark, just after that meeting.
“So, how did it go?” Mature Mark would ask.
“She hated me.” I’d respond.
“Oh really. What exactly made you feel like she hated you?”
“She said my songs were stupid. And too personal.” I think I’m starting to sound like a 13-year-old girl at this point.
“What had you hoped she would do for you?”
Silence. I had no frame of reference. I had no idea what to expect, except opens doors of opportunity and lots of pats on the back.
“I hoped she’d like me and want to help me.”
“And see your overwhelming potential drenched in brilliance?”
“Exactly.” I’d high-five myself.
“Well, I can see it.”
“Thanks, me.” I’d reply, awww-shucking.
“Let me give you a little secret.”
“I’m all ears.” I have nowhere to be, so what’s a little free advice from the future going to hurt me?
“Some of these people, these decision-makers, these gate-keepers, they don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“That’s exactly what I thought!”
“But…”
“Of course, there’s a but.”
“But, they are still the decision-makers. So it becomes your responsibility to make it as simple as possible for them to make the decisions you want them to make.”
I chuckle. “Right. How am I supposed to do that?”
“Don’t be offended by this. But you can do this best by being excellent.”
“Excellent?” I’m not getting anywhere with myself.
“How long have you been a songwriter?”
“Um. About a year.”
“So do you think that in a year you have developed to the level of excellence as a songwriter that you can walk into a publisher’s office in one of the largest music cities in the world, and expect them to roll out the red carpet?”
I took that one right in the kisser.
“You need to work on your songwriting. If you want to be a published songwriter you have to learn how to write songs that publishers are looking for. Today sounds like it was a great first lesson.”
“You’re right.” I’d say, swallowing hard.
“You can’t move to Italy and expect to speak Italian right away. It’s going to take time and a lot of work. Don’t waste your time fretting over how people don’t understand what you’re trying to say. Learn the dang language. Be patient with the dance. You thought you’d move here and find someone who would tell you you’re a great dancer. But in fact, you moved here to learn how to dance. In time, you’ll be dancing like no one else. And people will pay money to watch. And they’ll be trying to learn how to dance like you.”
“Okay, that’s just weird. Are you telling me I’m not a dancer?”
“Not yet. But don’t give up. No matter how ready you think you are to be on stage."
July 4, 2008
My Declaration of Independence
I'm now officially free to let other people respond to me the way they want to, and it doesn't need to affect how I feel about myself. I'm free to let other people love me in their own way, in their own time, without me taking anything personally. I'm free to let myself make mistakes in the ways that I communicate my feelings, because I am free to be misunderstood. I am free to not be liked by everyone around me. I'm free to allow the love of God and those who know me well, actually be enough to get me through today. I'm free to not be entangled by the quest for acceptance from strangers, no matter how good looking they might be. I'm free to be optimistic about the future, even if my present circumstances appear stagnant, knowing that the only thing that's certain in life is change. Still, I'm free to not be ruled by the allure of "what might happen" in the future, because I am choosing to focus on the beauty of the present. I'm free to be surprised by what might come my way, because I'm entering into today without any expectations.
This is my declaration of independence.
This is my declaration of independence.
July 1, 2008
A Couple Thoughts...
Here are some things I've been thinking about.1) Baseball. What an unbelievable game. I love how one person from the offense goes up against the whole defense. It's a complex, individualistic team sport filled with guys who seem to just dig hanging out with their buddies while they travel the road for half a year. I wish the season had a quarter of the games they play so each game would count more. Currently, it's a bit like a marathon where teams have to pace themselves for a hopefully big finish six months down the road.
2) Ambition. Tricky proposition. I believe it's probably easier not having dreams and goals. Yet, it's hard to imagine walking around with your bow and arrow cocked but with nothing to shoot at.
3) Friendship. I can't imagine not having someone to reflect back to me who I truly am, my worth, my value, my mistakes, my weaknesses. On my own, I can paint a self-portrait that looks a lot more like what I'm attracted to, or what I'm repulsed by (depending on the day), than who I really am.
4) God. It appears that ultimately he's going to do whatever he wants. And usually that's better than what I could've scripted. More nuanced, more beautiful, more redemptive.
Friday Night at the Prison
I told them why I do this:
1) To make me look good.
2) To make them feel good.
3) To make God look good.
Here's an article I wrote about how I got into prison ministry in the first place: Part One & Part Two
June 30, 2008
My Briefs - Monday Night
Just had an amazing dinner. I was going to settle for a drive-thru somewhere. Something cheap. And then decided to actually go to one of my favorite restaurants, J. Alexanders, and have my favorite Salmon Caesar Salad. It was amazing. A baseball game was on in hi-def, my favorite brew was on tap, and the bartender was actually interesting. I even made pleasant conversation with the men on either side of me while I ate. It was a success, but simply because I chose to dive deeper into my heart and go after something I love, rather than just settling for something cheap and easy.
June 29, 2008
How’s My Sobriety Going?
I was just asked how it's going with my sobriety. I can't imagine what my face looked like because my mind started racing at 300 miles per hour, attempting to scan every conversation I've had with this guy to figure out exactly what he might be referring to. It's not like we're the closest of friends, you know, like someone I would tell my secrets to, who would then be given permission to ask me questions like this. I had just told him how meaningful, joyful, and story-filled are my times on the weekend during my bartending shifts at the hotel.
"I mean, it must be difficult being around the alcohol and people drinking all the time," he clarified.
My head was still spinning. I've lived my whole life doing what the best publicists do for all the celebrities—spin control. You know how they take their client's random acts of stupidity caught on tape and turn them into something career-building? That's what I do for my biggest client—me. Except it's a bit more subtle. If I can keep up the appearance that everything is the way it's "supposed to be" then there won't be anybody trying to get underneath, to see what's really brewing in my cauldron of gooey pleasantness. There's nothing intriguing about nice.
Being nice is a great way to keep people at a distance. And for an attention-hungry, insecure, emotionally-driven narcissist, I can get pretty hungry for attention. So I've learned subtle ways to manipulate people into giving me a taste of the sweet honey I crave.
When you show a chink in your nice, especially if it's a briefly revealed glimpse of pain on your face, it concerns people.
"What's wrong?" They ask because they think they care, they actually just want everyone around them to be nice. It makes things better.
I let out a big sigh. "Oh, nothing." Most people just walk away, but that's okay. They don't really care anyway, I guess. But when a person actually stops for a minute to dig deeper, that's when I feel like I hit the jackpot, even though I'm acting like I'm four-years-old.
I've driven through several remarkable blizzards. And ended up in several remarkably deep ditches as well. One time I was driving back to college in Blair, Nebraska, after spending the weekend at home, working at the radio station and going to church in Omaha. I'll never forget how so suddenly a switch in my brain literally flipped telling me to turn left. In the middle of the highway. Where there was no road. I can't explain it. But I made a perfect 90 degree turn straight off the edge of the road and into the snowy ditch. This was in the days before cell phones. So there's nothing to do, except wait for somebody with a truck, and the time to help, to drive by and hopefully find me. Like Gilligan in the snow. I think people prayed a lot more back then. Now we just pick up the phone to call for help.
On snowy nights, kind people with trucks will actually drive out into the bad weather looking for people to help. These people should get free cable TV for life or something like that. The problem for me is that people who stop and help tow people out of the ditch don't stick around. They've got other people to go help. So I'm left to keep driving. I was helped, but I'm still alone.
Some people continually look for ditches to drive into, so they can keep getting rescued. This helps them feel alive. I am prone to be this way, though I'm thankful I don't have to resort to this kind of desperate behavior very often. Though, I probably do more often than I realize. My self-help term for this kind of behavior is self-sabotage. To the extreme, self-sabotage inflicts great pain on yourself in order to hopefully bring about great rescue.
I don't need someone to rescue me, though there are days I feel like I'd love Calgon, or somebody similar in effect, to take me away. My life's mission has been to find someone who won't walk away. I don't mean that I need someone to continually ask how I am really doing. But someone who I can share life with, someone who will tell me the thoughts they think are stupid, and try to describe the feelings that don't seem to have any words that fit. A compadre. A teammate. Another me.
Until then, I get to live with what feels at times like relational bumper-cars. I'm sitting in my car driving mostly in circles, attempting to bump into anybody near me. We crash bumpers, our heads jolt back, we laugh. We do it again, and then we find someone else to bump into. We keep crashing into each other until the Guy shuts off the ride. I've been stuck so often in the corner, unable to back up my bumper car, so far away from all the action going on. The teenage kid usually has to come over and physically push my car out of the corner to get me back into the game.
So when this guy asked how it was going with my sobriety, he was in effect asking me if I ever needed to be pushed out of the corner. What an intriguing question. My answer is an unquestionably and exclamatory, "Yes!" But to put a label on exactly what puts me in the corner won't do it justice. It's not simply bartending, It's not simply drinking or any particular action. Sometimes I just get tired of all the crashing into other people and want to see if anyone is out there there who will push me out of the corner.
"I mean, it must be difficult being around the alcohol and people drinking all the time," he clarified.
My head was still spinning. I've lived my whole life doing what the best publicists do for all the celebrities—spin control. You know how they take their client's random acts of stupidity caught on tape and turn them into something career-building? That's what I do for my biggest client—me. Except it's a bit more subtle. If I can keep up the appearance that everything is the way it's "supposed to be" then there won't be anybody trying to get underneath, to see what's really brewing in my cauldron of gooey pleasantness. There's nothing intriguing about nice.
Being nice is a great way to keep people at a distance. And for an attention-hungry, insecure, emotionally-driven narcissist, I can get pretty hungry for attention. So I've learned subtle ways to manipulate people into giving me a taste of the sweet honey I crave.
When you show a chink in your nice, especially if it's a briefly revealed glimpse of pain on your face, it concerns people.
"What's wrong?" They ask because they think they care, they actually just want everyone around them to be nice. It makes things better.
I let out a big sigh. "Oh, nothing." Most people just walk away, but that's okay. They don't really care anyway, I guess. But when a person actually stops for a minute to dig deeper, that's when I feel like I hit the jackpot, even though I'm acting like I'm four-years-old.
I've driven through several remarkable blizzards. And ended up in several remarkably deep ditches as well. One time I was driving back to college in Blair, Nebraska, after spending the weekend at home, working at the radio station and going to church in Omaha. I'll never forget how so suddenly a switch in my brain literally flipped telling me to turn left. In the middle of the highway. Where there was no road. I can't explain it. But I made a perfect 90 degree turn straight off the edge of the road and into the snowy ditch. This was in the days before cell phones. So there's nothing to do, except wait for somebody with a truck, and the time to help, to drive by and hopefully find me. Like Gilligan in the snow. I think people prayed a lot more back then. Now we just pick up the phone to call for help.
On snowy nights, kind people with trucks will actually drive out into the bad weather looking for people to help. These people should get free cable TV for life or something like that. The problem for me is that people who stop and help tow people out of the ditch don't stick around. They've got other people to go help. So I'm left to keep driving. I was helped, but I'm still alone.
Some people continually look for ditches to drive into, so they can keep getting rescued. This helps them feel alive. I am prone to be this way, though I'm thankful I don't have to resort to this kind of desperate behavior very often. Though, I probably do more often than I realize. My self-help term for this kind of behavior is self-sabotage. To the extreme, self-sabotage inflicts great pain on yourself in order to hopefully bring about great rescue.
I don't need someone to rescue me, though there are days I feel like I'd love Calgon, or somebody similar in effect, to take me away. My life's mission has been to find someone who won't walk away. I don't mean that I need someone to continually ask how I am really doing. But someone who I can share life with, someone who will tell me the thoughts they think are stupid, and try to describe the feelings that don't seem to have any words that fit. A compadre. A teammate. Another me.
Until then, I get to live with what feels at times like relational bumper-cars. I'm sitting in my car driving mostly in circles, attempting to bump into anybody near me. We crash bumpers, our heads jolt back, we laugh. We do it again, and then we find someone else to bump into. We keep crashing into each other until the Guy shuts off the ride. I've been stuck so often in the corner, unable to back up my bumper car, so far away from all the action going on. The teenage kid usually has to come over and physically push my car out of the corner to get me back into the game.
So when this guy asked how it was going with my sobriety, he was in effect asking me if I ever needed to be pushed out of the corner. What an intriguing question. My answer is an unquestionably and exclamatory, "Yes!" But to put a label on exactly what puts me in the corner won't do it justice. It's not simply bartending, It's not simply drinking or any particular action. Sometimes I just get tired of all the crashing into other people and want to see if anyone is out there there who will push me out of the corner.
June 26, 2008
Fear
"Death is not the biggest fear we have; our biggest fear is taking the risk to be alive – the risk to be alive and express what we really are." —Don Miguel Ruiz
I like to look at my life like it's my own special kind of reality television show, probably because fear is such an incredibly powerful force in my life. Let me count the ways: I'm afraid of being run over by a semi while I drive next to one on the Interstate; I'm afraid of falling from someplace really high like a skyscraper or getting sucked out of plane without a parachute; I'm afraid of getting stuck in a tiny crevice I have to crawl through to escape from a cave and then water starts seeping in until I'm completely underwater; I'm afraid of someone sneaking up behind me while I write this in my hopefully empty house with all the doors locked; I'm afraid of tomatoes, mushrooms, onions and green peppers—though not as much as I used to be.
I'd heard so much about people running headlong into their fears and emerging victorious. They'd jump out of a plane, or spend the night in a haunted house, just to zap their psyche free of their paralyzing fear. I decided I would drive over to my local Sonic and order a BLT just to attempt my own headlong run into one of my fears. My history would tell me I was going to hate it, that I would probably want to vomit right there in my drive-in stall.
"Welcome to Sonic, can I help you?" the friendly voice asked, completely unaware of my predicament.
"Um, yes." My voice is shaking. "I'd like to…order…number…" My head is spinning. The check engine light is flashing on the dashboard of my brain.
"Do you have a BL…T?" Maybe they didn't have one. Maybe they are out of tomatoes. I hear the cicadas screaming just beyond my car.
"We sure do! Would you like the combo?" She couldn't be more cheerful.
"No thanks. Just a sweet tea, though please. Large." I never get sweet tea. I must be delirious.
She told me how much it was going to cost, but she had no idea how expensive this order really was. I thought about driving off, but they'd recognize my car and I'm not that kind of guy anyway.
Standing on the edge of my own Grand Canyon, I ate the dang thing and something really unexpected happened. I was completely blown away. The sweetness and juiciness of the tomato and crispness of the lettuce deliciously complimented the crunchy toast and crispy bacon. I was shocked at how much I enjoyed that sandwich. It's the perfect summer sandwich when it's super hot outside and you don't feel like eating a lot of food. And the sweet tea had just the right amount of sugar. That night I dove into a sandwich I had been afraid of my whole life and I emerged with one less fear.
I like to look at my life like it's my own special kind of reality television show, probably because fear is such an incredibly powerful force in my life. Let me count the ways: I'm afraid of being run over by a semi while I drive next to one on the Interstate; I'm afraid of falling from someplace really high like a skyscraper or getting sucked out of plane without a parachute; I'm afraid of getting stuck in a tiny crevice I have to crawl through to escape from a cave and then water starts seeping in until I'm completely underwater; I'm afraid of someone sneaking up behind me while I write this in my hopefully empty house with all the doors locked; I'm afraid of tomatoes, mushrooms, onions and green peppers—though not as much as I used to be.
I'd heard so much about people running headlong into their fears and emerging victorious. They'd jump out of a plane, or spend the night in a haunted house, just to zap their psyche free of their paralyzing fear. I decided I would drive over to my local Sonic and order a BLT just to attempt my own headlong run into one of my fears. My history would tell me I was going to hate it, that I would probably want to vomit right there in my drive-in stall.
"Welcome to Sonic, can I help you?" the friendly voice asked, completely unaware of my predicament.
"Um, yes." My voice is shaking. "I'd like to…order…number…" My head is spinning. The check engine light is flashing on the dashboard of my brain.
"Do you have a BL…T?" Maybe they didn't have one. Maybe they are out of tomatoes. I hear the cicadas screaming just beyond my car.
"We sure do! Would you like the combo?" She couldn't be more cheerful.
"No thanks. Just a sweet tea, though please. Large." I never get sweet tea. I must be delirious.
She told me how much it was going to cost, but she had no idea how expensive this order really was. I thought about driving off, but they'd recognize my car and I'm not that kind of guy anyway.
Standing on the edge of my own Grand Canyon, I ate the dang thing and something really unexpected happened. I was completely blown away. The sweetness and juiciness of the tomato and crispness of the lettuce deliciously complimented the crunchy toast and crispy bacon. I was shocked at how much I enjoyed that sandwich. It's the perfect summer sandwich when it's super hot outside and you don't feel like eating a lot of food. And the sweet tea had just the right amount of sugar. That night I dove into a sandwich I had been afraid of my whole life and I emerged with one less fear.
June 16, 2008
Friday is Trash Day
Drive through my neighborhood on Thursday night and you will see everyone's identical black trash container lined up like soldiers awaiting their, um, emptying? It's a weekly reminder that underneath it all, we are all basically the same: We all throw out a ton of crap. Continually. There isn't a week without garbage. But for me and my incredible neighbor Louise, it's more than just trash day. It's a contest. Mind you, Louise is in her 90s. You won't know it looking at her, or talking to her, she's simply amazing. She's got vim and vigor, as my Grandma used to say.
Answers.com defines vim & vigor as: Ebullient vitality and energy, as in He was full of vim and vigor after that swim. This redundant expression uses both vim and vigor in the sense of "energy" or "strength."
Perfect. They should have a picture of Louise next to their definition. She reminds me a lot of my great-grandma Adeliza Glaze. Addie. She bowled, drove and worked well into her 80s. She loved baseball, the sport of her son, Kenny. Addie also had more than a bit of spit-fire attitude in her, right up until the end. I don't see the spit-fire attitude in Louise, but I do sense a common desire to not let life stop her from living.
The contest between me and Louise is to see who can roll the other's garbage can back to their house before the other person does. She continually wins. And I can't help but smile, and love her a little bit more each week.
Lately, I've been leaving early on Friday morning to go visit guys in prison, so I'm not around when the garbage truck rolls by, but Louise usually is. When I pull back into my driveway, there sits my black container, sitting next to my house, like Kirby at the back door, anxious to come back inside after going potty.
I'm not sure exactly why she does this. I know my reason stems from wanting to help her out. You know, she's old, she could probably use a hand. It's simple enough for me. I think her desire might be the same, combined with a bit of that fiery determination to show me she's still more than able.
I just talked to Louise out in front of my house. She looked like a million bucks, like she was going to have lunch with the other ladies from the Country Club. I told her how beautiful she looked.
"I'm going for a check-up," she smiled.
"Well, I hope it's a good report." I tried to be optimistic, forgetting how impossible it is to one-up her chipperness.
"You know, It's not big deal."
It seems like all the things I worry about are such a big deal, but as I get older, the things that used to be so big, are in fact quite small, or even non-existent.
"You just have to live life," she continued. "You can't worry about tomorrow. Enjoy today. That's all you have to do." She keeps reminding me of this truth each time I see her. I believe her. Again, for the first time.
Thanks, Louise. I needed that. I'm glad you live next door to me, and I'm glad that we have trash day on Friday.
Answers.com defines vim & vigor as: Ebullient vitality and energy, as in He was full of vim and vigor after that swim. This redundant expression uses both vim and vigor in the sense of "energy" or "strength."
Perfect. They should have a picture of Louise next to their definition. She reminds me a lot of my great-grandma Adeliza Glaze. Addie. She bowled, drove and worked well into her 80s. She loved baseball, the sport of her son, Kenny. Addie also had more than a bit of spit-fire attitude in her, right up until the end. I don't see the spit-fire attitude in Louise, but I do sense a common desire to not let life stop her from living.
The contest between me and Louise is to see who can roll the other's garbage can back to their house before the other person does. She continually wins. And I can't help but smile, and love her a little bit more each week.
Lately, I've been leaving early on Friday morning to go visit guys in prison, so I'm not around when the garbage truck rolls by, but Louise usually is. When I pull back into my driveway, there sits my black container, sitting next to my house, like Kirby at the back door, anxious to come back inside after going potty.
I'm not sure exactly why she does this. I know my reason stems from wanting to help her out. You know, she's old, she could probably use a hand. It's simple enough for me. I think her desire might be the same, combined with a bit of that fiery determination to show me she's still more than able.
I just talked to Louise out in front of my house. She looked like a million bucks, like she was going to have lunch with the other ladies from the Country Club. I told her how beautiful she looked.
"I'm going for a check-up," she smiled.
"Well, I hope it's a good report." I tried to be optimistic, forgetting how impossible it is to one-up her chipperness.
"You know, It's not big deal."
It seems like all the things I worry about are such a big deal, but as I get older, the things that used to be so big, are in fact quite small, or even non-existent.
"You just have to live life," she continued. "You can't worry about tomorrow. Enjoy today. That's all you have to do." She keeps reminding me of this truth each time I see her. I believe her. Again, for the first time.
Thanks, Louise. I needed that. I'm glad you live next door to me, and I'm glad that we have trash day on Friday.
June 4, 2008
A Blog For Which I Write
These days I'm contributing to The Sub Standard - a pretty cool pop culture blog. I'm kind of the music guy. Every once in a while I write about music stuff that's captured my interest.
I go by "It's Just Pop" in case you want to find other blentries I've written.
I go by "It's Just Pop" in case you want to find other blentries I've written.
February 26, 2008
I Am A Wannabe
I have lived under the curse of potential my entire life. I’ve been bombarded with comments from people all saying the same thing: I can’t wait to see what happens to you! Will you still remember me when you’re famous? Seriously, I’ve had it. When someone says that to me nowadays, I roll my eyes and say, Yeah, me too. My reaction usually elicits some sort of Awww, hang in there type of encouragement. Maybe what I desire more is empathy over actual success.
If my life was going to be a Broadway musical (please God please!) the curtain would open, the orchestra would begin playing, and one-by-one several signs would light up all over the stage looking a little like Times Square, but it’d actually be downtown Nashville. The music would build to a climax as our hero makes his arrival down the middle aisle, through the audience, and when he arrives front and center, with suitcases in hand, probably wearing a Newsboy cap and knickers and an overwhelmed Golly, I’m in the big city now expression, he turns to face the audience and starts singing:
I’m gonna make it.
I’m gonnna do it.
I’m gonna make my dreams come true
With lots of hard work, and determination
People will quickly discover me
I’m gonna fake it
Until I make it
My big smile will see me through
Nothing can stop me, I’m on my way
I‘m gonna make my dreams come true
People will look at me and say
How did it do it?
He made it through it!
He made his dreams come true
It will be a grand celebration on stage and in the audience. Kind of like how excited everybody was as they were boarding the Titanic.
After that first song is over the hero holds his final pose just a little too long. He’s filled with confidence, but as the applause dies out, fear begins to creep in. Thank God he has a plan. He rips open his coat and proudly reveals a shirt that says Pick Me with an arrow pointing to his face.
I’ve lived my whole life hoping that someone would pick me. It’s funny the things that desire will make a guy do.
I’m a wannabe. Officially. That’s even what my license plate says. The term has an unfairly negative connotation to it, one which I hope to redeem. If someone comes to Nashville with a dream, and they are perceived as being a bit delusional, as if it’s possible to have a dream that’s a little too big, they are labeled as a wannabe, and usually dismissed. In contrast, there are people who come to town who are incredible beautiful and talented, and it’s determined that they could be a source of income for a lot of people, they are called artists. So in effect, a wannabe is someone who no one thinks they can make any money off of. Valueless. Worthless. Funny enough, In spite of the occasional, needle-in-a-haystack success story, both wannabes and artists are usually hard-pressed for cash.
So why do I want to label myself as a wannabe? Because I am a person who is continually striving and reaching. I want to dream bigger than what other people think is reasonable. There are so many things I want to accomplish, but it goes beyond just doing. It’s about being. I don’t ever want to settle for the ways things are. I believe that it is possible for me to learn and grow into more and more of the person that God wants me to be. Fortunately, my faith tells me that God is all about that, as well. When people ask me, What is it that you wanna be (they usually chuckle), I can say, There are a lot of things I want to be and do. I want to be a great friend, a great son and brother, a great writer, musician, actor, creative-type person. I want to be a great listener. I want to be compassionate. I want to be loving. I could go on…
When I can clearly see what my target is, I have an easier time aiming my arrow in the right direction.
If my life was going to be a Broadway musical (please God please!) the curtain would open, the orchestra would begin playing, and one-by-one several signs would light up all over the stage looking a little like Times Square, but it’d actually be downtown Nashville. The music would build to a climax as our hero makes his arrival down the middle aisle, through the audience, and when he arrives front and center, with suitcases in hand, probably wearing a Newsboy cap and knickers and an overwhelmed Golly, I’m in the big city now expression, he turns to face the audience and starts singing:
I’m gonna make it.
I’m gonnna do it.
I’m gonna make my dreams come true
With lots of hard work, and determination
People will quickly discover me
I’m gonna fake it
Until I make it
My big smile will see me through
Nothing can stop me, I’m on my way
I‘m gonna make my dreams come true
People will look at me and say
How did it do it?
He made it through it!
He made his dreams come true
It will be a grand celebration on stage and in the audience. Kind of like how excited everybody was as they were boarding the Titanic.
After that first song is over the hero holds his final pose just a little too long. He’s filled with confidence, but as the applause dies out, fear begins to creep in. Thank God he has a plan. He rips open his coat and proudly reveals a shirt that says Pick Me with an arrow pointing to his face.
I’ve lived my whole life hoping that someone would pick me. It’s funny the things that desire will make a guy do.
I’m a wannabe. Officially. That’s even what my license plate says. The term has an unfairly negative connotation to it, one which I hope to redeem. If someone comes to Nashville with a dream, and they are perceived as being a bit delusional, as if it’s possible to have a dream that’s a little too big, they are labeled as a wannabe, and usually dismissed. In contrast, there are people who come to town who are incredible beautiful and talented, and it’s determined that they could be a source of income for a lot of people, they are called artists. So in effect, a wannabe is someone who no one thinks they can make any money off of. Valueless. Worthless. Funny enough, In spite of the occasional, needle-in-a-haystack success story, both wannabes and artists are usually hard-pressed for cash.
So why do I want to label myself as a wannabe? Because I am a person who is continually striving and reaching. I want to dream bigger than what other people think is reasonable. There are so many things I want to accomplish, but it goes beyond just doing. It’s about being. I don’t ever want to settle for the ways things are. I believe that it is possible for me to learn and grow into more and more of the person that God wants me to be. Fortunately, my faith tells me that God is all about that, as well. When people ask me, What is it that you wanna be (they usually chuckle), I can say, There are a lot of things I want to be and do. I want to be a great friend, a great son and brother, a great writer, musician, actor, creative-type person. I want to be a great listener. I want to be compassionate. I want to be loving. I could go on…
When I can clearly see what my target is, I have an easier time aiming my arrow in the right direction.
February 12, 2008
January 1, 2008
My Favorite Musical Things From 2007
FAVORITE SINGLES FROM 2007
ANYWAY Martina McBride
HOW YOU LIVE (TURN UP THE MUSIC) Point Of Grace
LONG TRIP ALONE Dierks Bentley
UNDO ME Rush Of Fools
I'M NOT WHO I WAS Brandon Heath
CHASING CARS Snow Patrol
HOME Daughtry
LOVE SONG Sara Bareilles
GRACE KELLY/LOVE TODAY Mika
UNDER THE INFLUENCE/WONDERFUL WORLD James Morrison
YOUNG FOLKS Peter Bjorn And John Featuring Victoria Bergsman
CLOSER Travis
CAN'T STOP THE BEAT Hairspray
WHAT TIME IS IT? High School Musical 2
SOULMATE Natasha Bedingfield
HOT STUFF Craig David
CLOSE CALLS
WAIT FOR YOU Elliott Yamin
IT ENDS TONIGHT The All-American Rejects
THNKS FR TH MMRS Fall Out Boy
BOSTON Augustana
YOU KNOW I'M NO GOOD/REHAB Amy Winehouse
APOLOGIZE Timbaland Featuring OneRepublic
BREATHE IN BREATHE OUT Mat Kearney
BEAUTIFUL DISASTER Jon McLaughlin
GIMME MORE Britney Spears
AIN'T NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT Robert Randolph & The Family Band
TIME WON'T LET ME GO The Bravery
TYPICAL Mutemath
LOST WITHOUT U Robin Thicke
FAVORITE CDS
UNDISCOVERED James Morrison
LIFE IN CARTOON MOTION Mika
SONGS OF MASS DESTRUCTION Annie Lennox
ELLIOTT YAMIN Elliott Yamin
HOW YOU LIVE Point of Grace
VERSION Mark Ronson
INDIANA Jon McLaughlin
LITTLE VOICE Sara Bareilles
NEW FAVS IN 2008
FALLING IN LOVE AT A COFFEE SHOP Landon Pigg
SAY John Mayer
FEEDBACK Janet Jackson
ANYWAY Martina McBride
HOW YOU LIVE (TURN UP THE MUSIC) Point Of Grace
LONG TRIP ALONE Dierks Bentley
UNDO ME Rush Of Fools
I'M NOT WHO I WAS Brandon Heath
CHASING CARS Snow Patrol
HOME Daughtry
LOVE SONG Sara Bareilles
GRACE KELLY/LOVE TODAY Mika
UNDER THE INFLUENCE/WONDERFUL WORLD James Morrison
YOUNG FOLKS Peter Bjorn And John Featuring Victoria Bergsman
CLOSER Travis
CAN'T STOP THE BEAT Hairspray
WHAT TIME IS IT? High School Musical 2
SOULMATE Natasha Bedingfield
HOT STUFF Craig David
CLOSE CALLS
WAIT FOR YOU Elliott Yamin
IT ENDS TONIGHT The All-American Rejects
THNKS FR TH MMRS Fall Out Boy
BOSTON Augustana
YOU KNOW I'M NO GOOD/REHAB Amy Winehouse
APOLOGIZE Timbaland Featuring OneRepublic
BREATHE IN BREATHE OUT Mat Kearney
BEAUTIFUL DISASTER Jon McLaughlin
GIMME MORE Britney Spears
AIN'T NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT Robert Randolph & The Family Band
TIME WON'T LET ME GO The Bravery
TYPICAL Mutemath
LOST WITHOUT U Robin Thicke
FAVORITE CDS
UNDISCOVERED James Morrison
LIFE IN CARTOON MOTION Mika
SONGS OF MASS DESTRUCTION Annie Lennox
ELLIOTT YAMIN Elliott Yamin
HOW YOU LIVE Point of Grace
VERSION Mark Ronson
INDIANA Jon McLaughlin
LITTLE VOICE Sara Bareilles
NEW FAVS IN 2008
FALLING IN LOVE AT A COFFEE SHOP Landon Pigg
SAY John Mayer
FEEDBACK Janet Jackson
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