Video Shoot In Louisville

Click on the picture to see more images from the "Clancy" premiere & "Precious Memories" video shoot (and then click on the right hand side of the photo to advance to the next one!)

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.

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.

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.

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.