Johnny Cash and the Soul-Feeding Park Bench

Once upon a time, I lived in a place where the hills dipped themselves to valleys that cocooned Targets, supermarkets and movie theaters right alongside walls built by slaves during the Confederacy.  This place is middle Tennessee, and every now and again, I have flash memories of driving down a winding road through those hills.  In those moments, it's as almost as if I can feel the sunlight pouring through my car, hearing Ray Lamontagne's raspy voice serenade the journey.  Sometimes my life is quite busy here in the big city, and sometimes the schedule allows me time to reflect.  This holiday season has allowed me time to reflect.  A few weeks ago, I visited Nashville to see dear friends, and those winding hills were not left to my imagination.

 In early November, I had the windows down as bits of sunshine hit the dashboard through the tall trees that lined Franklin Road.  Johnny Cash was on XRT, and he told me that sooner or later, God was gonna cut me down.  With lyrics like that, you think I would be afraid.  But with Johnny's smoky voice that resonated with lessons learned the hard way, I didn't mind the seriousness.  It was like a grandpa singing about how important it was for me to take a good, long look at my life choices. You try not to take it too personally when grandpas do that, but  Johnny...that's exactly what I did, thank you very much. 

Along that beautiful stretch of Franklin Road, I was reminded that I take life too seriously.  I honestly have no idea how to not take it seriously, as I am driven by guilt and the idea that I must prove myself at every turn.  Prove to whom?  And why?  When did life become about proving and less about living each day simply to the fullest, with what is required of you that day?  When did it become less about loving and more about achieving?  I don't think achieving in and of itself is a terrible thing.  It's a valiant thing to drive yourself further into goals and achievements.  But when your spirit takes a hit in the wake of these efforts, it's time to step back and say...is this what it is about? 

I walked through Centennial Park in Nashville to gather sunshine.  I stripped my light sweater and raised my hands towards the sky in that vast park to fully appreciate the vitamin D coming my way.  There was an elderly gentleman sitting on a bench, staring.  I felt his loneliness.  I passed by him, acknowledged his presence with a smile and head nod, and he did the same.  Then he went back to staring.  I wondered what his journey was like.  What, in his life, led him to that bench?  Was it a deceased spouse and active duty in a war?  Was it a life of solitude and complacency where he was content to sit at a park bench while people watching?  I felt so sorry for this man who was alone.  I proceeded to walk around the lake, then made my rounds back to where I started, on the south side of the Parthenon.  This time, I saw that same gentleman throwing the pitches for the rowdy softball game taking place. The thirty-somethings were treating him like one of the players.  He threw pitches like he belonged to the team.  He was not alone.  He was playing the game.  He knew when to sit and enjoy the sunshine, and he knew when to get up and join the rest of them.  I wanna be that guy. 

Achieving has its place and time.  But fully taking in what we have, in the moment that we have it, is what feeds our soul.  May I always be content to sit at a park bench, not concerned with achievements and accolades, allowing my soul to be fed a bit.  Then, when it's time...get off the bench and walk towards the game. 

The Power of Noisemakers and The Smell of Manure

I once had manure thrown at me.  I was a mere teenager, and some thugs who wanted to prove their point threw manure at me.  That is the short of it.

This is the long of it…

My uncle ran for Congress when I was a teenager.  It was an exciting endeavor from my perspective, as I was just starting to form opinions about the outside world. My family was heavily involved in getting the word out for his campaign, as it was a true grassroots effort.  In the grand scheme, he had little money for such an undertaking, plus he refused PAC money.  So, in those early stages, it was up to us and a few amazing strategists to convince an entire voting district that my uncle, a man I respected and identified as my mom’s baby brother, was up to the task of holding his own with Heads of State and casting votes on crucial issues.  I loved traveling with my family, and it proved to be an amazing education, far exceeding some things I learned outside of the classroom. We traveled all over the district to canvass neighborhoods, visit cafes, shake hands with complete strangers, and perhaps my favorite nostalgic memory of all…the parades.  Yes, we would participate in mom and pop parades all over the district, passing out candy and pamphlets to a string of strangers lined up on Main Streets through a haze of sweat and American flags.  My memory is kind on this account, as we met many obliging strangers.

My memory is kind…up until a certain point.

At a certain point one summer, we were nearing the end of a parade trail, and the road led us to a group of thug Union members who disagreed with us.  Do I believe all Union members are thugs?  Absolutely not.  Do I believe these men were? Absolutely.  They strategically placed themselves at the end of the route, away from the vantage point of children in the town no doubt, and apparently picked manure from an obliging field.  They felt that throwing manure and words of hate would prove their point.  Among our group were many of my younger cousins.  They were willing to throw crap at children to prove their point.

They proved only one thing. It proved to me that there are bullies everywhere, who, when given the chance to make their opinions known, they will do it…at whatever cost possible, with whatever weaponry available.  That memory is burned in my mind. I remember their actions.  I remember their raised voices, but I cannot, for the life of me, remember what they actually said. I remember the manure rather than the matter. It was a select group, but sometimes, select groups unfortunately make the loudest noise.

My uncle went on to serve six terms in the House of Representatives in D.C..  He had many amazing people with him along the way, but of course there were those who disagreed with his choices.  Disagreements were bound to happen, but never in his twelve years of service do I remember disagreement looking as ugly as what those men were willing to do to him and to us that day of that particular parade.

THIS election is bound to get ugly, and social media has allowed us to become flippant and downright mean with our opinions and agendas.  Please…PLEASE…take all of that passion to the voting booth, and be kind to one another.  Say hello to the person waiting in line with you.  Even if you disagree with them, I think it’s rather exciting to wait in that line…waiting to cast a vote.  

Don’t throw crap. Be informed and vote.  Then go get ice cream after you vote.  

The choir geek and the cartwheel of death

When I was in middle school, there was a hallway I would have to enter before walking into the gymnasium.  I was never really great at sports, but like any average child within a public school system, I was subject to running excruciating miles or hiking myself up on a balance beam, risking the scrutiny of a long line of cheerleaders and bookworms behind me.  Walking down that hallway into the gym felt like a walk of shame, each step inched closer to something I hated doing.  It was a room with terrible overhead lighting and a high ceiling – high enough for my insecurities to dance and swirl around me in a 50 minute time frame of agony.

I never could do a cartwheel.  If I ever saw the gymnastic mats out and assembled as I rounded that corner into the gym, I knew I was in for a long, almost hour of a near death experience. One day in particular I saw the mats and balance beams standing in the gym, like statues ready to applaud my failures and assist in my personal abyss of insecurity. I reluctantly went into the locker room and changed into my gym uniform.  Like a prison uniform with a code number, it read my last name in magic marker on either the left or right hand side of the t-shirt.  We lined up near the mat of death and one by one, we all went hands first into performing the obligatory cartwheel.  The girl before went and I think I may have blacked out from fear.  I leaned over to the gym teacher and whispered something about how I think I was going to die.  Die from fear of doing a cartwheel.  

Then something happened that I choose to never forget.

The gym teacher leaned into me and said something where only I could hear it.  She said, “Some of these girls can’t sing a song like you can.  We all have our strengths, we all have what we are good at.  I don’t care if your cartwheel is good.  I just want you to try.”

And just like that, I realized that I had worth in that room full of the smell of sweat and terrible overhead lighting.  That teacher understood the value of not crushing a child’s soul just because she wasn’t like the other girls.  I will forever be indebted to that teacher, for applauding me once I got to the end of the mat.  The cartwheel was terrible, yet I got a thumbs up.

To this day, I am still the choir geek.  I am still the girl singing songs while other girls are able to do really great cartwheels.  Because that teacher took ten seconds out of her life to put things into perspective for a child that thought she might die, I am inspired to pay it forward.  

You have strength and value where others do not.  Your part to play may not look like what the person to your left or right has been given.  But play your part well.  Be confident in what gift you have been given. 

And always…be willing to try some cartwheels here and there…that sort of humiliation is sometimes just what we need to put it all into perspective.