Today I think I'll conclude my series on freedom. I'll by no means wrap up the personal sovereignty thread that will undoubtedly weave through this blog in the future, but life is settling down for us now and it's time to stop philosophizing and put rubber to road. But while our heads are still in the stars...
Last week I talked about a couple of near-death experiences I had in the music industry. There were many adventures on the road in tight clothing chasing dangling carrots. In a nutshell, there was one simple question that I asked myself which kept me from signing my name to legal documents:
"What can these people do for me that I can't do for myself?"
The answer? Not much. They can buy you a hell of a dinner, to be sure. But after the smoke clears, what you want is a good looking and sounding record and a team to promote that record. None of these things are out of the reach of the average creative person with, I'll relent, copious amounts of elbow greese. I walked away from my musical career having learned many things, but as concerns freedom, I learned that the more you depend on others for something you can do yourself, the less free you are.
And you guessed right, I did become a bit of a control freak. In fact, I learned some more hard lessons in my subsequent career recovering from this over-correction. I was a worship pastor of a large suburban church, coaching between 20-60 volunteer leaders for various projects. It was only when I again began to trust people to share my work that my dapartment became fruitful and my family enjoyed more of my presence at home. But as I assigned more and more tasks to the people around me, I understood that I was not giving in to the dependence that I was almost victim to in the music industry. Though I had to ultimately answer for mistakes made by my subordinates, I could at any time rescind the authority I'd abdicated. And here lies the lesson I learned:
The difference between dependence and delegation is in where the authority lies.
And I really don't have much more than that to end with. No stories of my childhood, no poetic imagery to dress up what I've been talking about. The important things to remember about freedom are quite simple, and it's important in all situations to be aware of who has the authority. This awareness will only come when we are unemotional, and perhaps a bit well-informed. Guilt and ignorance are easy traveling companions on the road to slavery.
Okay, you got me, one story. My wife was working with some children a couple years ago and she asked them where spaghetti comes from. They grew quiet, obviously thinking hard. One boy spoke up and cautiously said, "Krogers".
And that's really why I do this. I had once bought into the American dream where debt is expected of you and spaghetti comes from Kroger. When I lost that ministry job, I was very grateful that I had paid off our debt and was growing our own food in the back yard. Had I still been dependent on credit cards and Kroger I'm not sure what we would have done...but I'm not the only one around here who's realizing the dangers of dependence and hopefully some of you can learn some stuff here. Plus, have you had home-made spaghetti with a salad from your back yard? Freedom tastes good.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Monday, January 4, 2010
1More Series - Freedom Pt 3
In one of my many former lives I was a professional musician. I toured 14 cities east of the Mississippi playing homespun songs in dirty clubs filled with the most interesting people I'd ever met. And I had the time of my life. At some point, I decided I wanted to be a rock star. I spent a year and a half traveling to Nashville, working with a manager and flirting with A&R, lawyers, producers and other people who drive Jags and Lexuses. Truth be told, I barely made it out alive. My manager turned into a mentor and lifelong friend, but the rest of the experience left a lot of scars.
One particular WWJD moment comes to mind.
I was getting ready for a showcase in Nashville and all the bands were in the bathroom squeezing into spandex Diezels and carefully torn t-shirts. So help me God, I was straightening my hair. This was back when I HAD hair but, truly, there was so much dye and product in it NO WONDER God repossessed it. At any rate, my pure intentions for a career of creative expression that would bring hope to millions had turned into a clumsy, flacid thrust toward the arms of affirmation. So I quit. Good thing, too. My band was actually doing well and had we signed a recording contract I probably would have ended up $300,000 in debt with a needle in my arm and a shelved product. One of the finest phrases my lips have ever crafted is, "If Atlantic wants me then they'll have to deal with an artist that doesn't tour. My family needs me." If I had signed a contract, I wouldn't have had the sack (or legal right) to say such a thing. But the point of my story actually blooms in the middle of this blessed debacle, so let's rewind a little.
Before Atlantic, before the spandex, around the time of the manager.
Working in Nashville, I had been sculpting myself into what I thought the labels wanted. I had been doing everything I was supposed to be doing. I was on the phone, in the gym, or on the stage constantly. Things were really going somewhere...and I was miserable. I ended up having a falling out with the manager I had been working with. I had no clue who I was anymore, but I was growing uncomfortable with the direction of the development and my manager couldn't shop a nervous and unfinished round peg into the square holes of a 'zero development' record industry. So I stopped going to Nashville. I was dropped by my manager and my booking agent. All I had to show for it was an EP of a voice I didn't recognize and a rolodex full of people waiting for me to get my shit together.
So I regrouped.
I was determined to make this thing work, but I wanted to do it on my own terms. Unfortunately, my own terms meant that I had about 60 bucks to work with. The band I had formed while working in Nashville stayed with me. Turns out they actually believed in me. And they helped me get my voice back. We became a real team, got a proper band name, and took the path of the indie rocker. The drummer invested in a cheap laptop and scored us some cracked recording software (which we later purchased, so stop the finger wagging). With an SM57 and some dear friends we began recording in basements and bathrooms. We spent several months staying up nights experimenting with guitar tones and getting the snare head detuned just so. One of my favorite moments was recording guitars in a condemned cathedral. I had to track in pitch dark because the cops would come if they saw lights through the stained glass in the abandoned room. But the SOUND. Wow. I'll never forget it. And after it was all over, we had a record. We had the record we wanted. We had the record I'd been trying to make all along.
Yeah, we went on the road with it and got ourselves on radio and TV and in magazines. And then came the spandex and hair gel in the Nashville bathroom that sounded code blue for my career. But it was the earlier experience of breaking free and doing things MY way that gave me the strength to say 'no' again. Because I'd refused to compromise once before and been okay, I knew I would be okay again...and I was.
So what's all this have to do with freedom? Well, ring up some famous people who are $300k in debt with a needle in their arm and a shelved record and ask them if they would have done anything differently. Ask them if signing their name on a piece of paper at some point in the journey changed anything for them. Ask them if they'd do it again. Ask them if that one moment where they granted permission made each moment thereafter less and less free. Ask them if they still straighten their and wear spandex to please their masters. Ask them if they have a choice.
One particular WWJD moment comes to mind.
I was getting ready for a showcase in Nashville and all the bands were in the bathroom squeezing into spandex Diezels and carefully torn t-shirts. So help me God, I was straightening my hair. This was back when I HAD hair but, truly, there was so much dye and product in it NO WONDER God repossessed it. At any rate, my pure intentions for a career of creative expression that would bring hope to millions had turned into a clumsy, flacid thrust toward the arms of affirmation. So I quit. Good thing, too. My band was actually doing well and had we signed a recording contract I probably would have ended up $300,000 in debt with a needle in my arm and a shelved product. One of the finest phrases my lips have ever crafted is, "If Atlantic wants me then they'll have to deal with an artist that doesn't tour. My family needs me." If I had signed a contract, I wouldn't have had the sack (or legal right) to say such a thing. But the point of my story actually blooms in the middle of this blessed debacle, so let's rewind a little.
Before Atlantic, before the spandex, around the time of the manager.
Working in Nashville, I had been sculpting myself into what I thought the labels wanted. I had been doing everything I was supposed to be doing. I was on the phone, in the gym, or on the stage constantly. Things were really going somewhere...and I was miserable. I ended up having a falling out with the manager I had been working with. I had no clue who I was anymore, but I was growing uncomfortable with the direction of the development and my manager couldn't shop a nervous and unfinished round peg into the square holes of a 'zero development' record industry. So I stopped going to Nashville. I was dropped by my manager and my booking agent. All I had to show for it was an EP of a voice I didn't recognize and a rolodex full of people waiting for me to get my shit together.
So I regrouped.
I was determined to make this thing work, but I wanted to do it on my own terms. Unfortunately, my own terms meant that I had about 60 bucks to work with. The band I had formed while working in Nashville stayed with me. Turns out they actually believed in me. And they helped me get my voice back. We became a real team, got a proper band name, and took the path of the indie rocker. The drummer invested in a cheap laptop and scored us some cracked recording software (which we later purchased, so stop the finger wagging). With an SM57 and some dear friends we began recording in basements and bathrooms. We spent several months staying up nights experimenting with guitar tones and getting the snare head detuned just so. One of my favorite moments was recording guitars in a condemned cathedral. I had to track in pitch dark because the cops would come if they saw lights through the stained glass in the abandoned room. But the SOUND. Wow. I'll never forget it. And after it was all over, we had a record. We had the record we wanted. We had the record I'd been trying to make all along.
Yeah, we went on the road with it and got ourselves on radio and TV and in magazines. And then came the spandex and hair gel in the Nashville bathroom that sounded code blue for my career. But it was the earlier experience of breaking free and doing things MY way that gave me the strength to say 'no' again. Because I'd refused to compromise once before and been okay, I knew I would be okay again...and I was.
So what's all this have to do with freedom? Well, ring up some famous people who are $300k in debt with a needle in their arm and a shelved record and ask them if they would have done anything differently. Ask them if signing their name on a piece of paper at some point in the journey changed anything for them. Ask them if they'd do it again. Ask them if that one moment where they granted permission made each moment thereafter less and less free. Ask them if they still straighten their and wear spandex to please their masters. Ask them if they have a choice.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
1More Thought - On Christmas
There's something about this time of year.
According to several scholars, Jesus was born in October...around the time of harvest. So, if the season many celebrate as his birthday wasn't really his birthday, why is there still some sort of magic that permeates the air? Why do I hear twinkling music in my head when I see the first flakes of December? Why am I just a little bit nicer to strangers? Why do I feel like a child again?
There's something about this time of year.
Maybe it's that we, as humans, are powerful. When we call upon something, it comes to be. So whether you're Constantine at the Council of Nicea or a beggar on the street, when you call upon love...it shows up. Humans MADE this time of year in the name of love. And so love dwells in it. Wow. Did we do that?
There's something about this time of year.
So next time you're fighting over a parking space, remember how powerful you are. You can choose what you bring to this season, and thereby choose what this season is all about. Judge a little less. Give a little more. Hug a child. Be kinder to yourself. Play in the snow.
There's something about this time of year.
Matthew 25 (helps local community)
World Vision (helps global community)
Salvation Army (helps)
According to several scholars, Jesus was born in October...around the time of harvest. So, if the season many celebrate as his birthday wasn't really his birthday, why is there still some sort of magic that permeates the air? Why do I hear twinkling music in my head when I see the first flakes of December? Why am I just a little bit nicer to strangers? Why do I feel like a child again?
There's something about this time of year.
Maybe it's that we, as humans, are powerful. When we call upon something, it comes to be. So whether you're Constantine at the Council of Nicea or a beggar on the street, when you call upon love...it shows up. Humans MADE this time of year in the name of love. And so love dwells in it. Wow. Did we do that?
There's something about this time of year.
So next time you're fighting over a parking space, remember how powerful you are. You can choose what you bring to this season, and thereby choose what this season is all about. Judge a little less. Give a little more. Hug a child. Be kinder to yourself. Play in the snow.
There's something about this time of year.
Matthew 25 (helps local community)
World Vision (helps global community)
Salvation Army (helps)
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Freedom Pt 2
When I was a boy my neighborhood would have yard sales every weekend during the summer. Once in a while my mom would let me put my very own table out near the sidewalk and watch over it all by myself. I would haggle with the neighborhood kids over scratched up GI Joes and headless He-Men. I was a collector, too, and so could be found the odd pile of baseball cards, comic books, and even rocks. One time I set out some old postage stamps that I'd been getting bored with. I didn't even put a price on them, but I imagined they couldn't be worth more than a couple of Boba Fetts.
Rob was one of the shadier kids in the neighborhood, and often made my life hell. So I was really excited when he offered me a whole dollar for the stamps. He took the stamps without so much as a casual fat joke or other half-hearted insult. As he walked away I was feeling pretty good and I thought of the four packs of Garbage Pail Kids I could now buy.
About a half hour later Rob came back down the sidewalk with his older buddy, Mark, another shady kid who wasn't as mean as Rob. He was quiet, though, and I think I was more scared of Mark BECAUSE he was quiet. The two boys approached my table with wild faces, obviously very excited to tell me something. Rob was holding the stamps and he blurted out, "My dad looked these stamps up in a book and he said they're worth a lot of money!"
"Really?" I said. "I guess I have had them for a long time. I don't even remember where I got them."
"Yeah, they're old. My dad said they're worth about a hundred dollars!" My heart sank. I was no longer thinking about the Garbage Pail Kids I was going to get. I was thinking about the GI Joe aircraft carrier that I COULD'VE got with that hundred bucks. Mark must've seen my expression change, and he seized an opportunity.
"Hey, Rob. I bet he would trade you all the rest of the stuff on his table if you gave him back the stamps." Rob slowly turned to look at him as if Mark had just said he'd found his dad's dirty magazines.
"I never thought of that. I guess if he really wants them back." He turned to look at me and shrugged, waiting for me to make a move. I did want them back. I wanted them back so much it burned. I couldn't stand that I'd let one of the biggest bullies in the neighborhood get away with MY stamps for a lousy BUCK. YES, I wanted them back! There's no way all the stuff on my table was worth a hundred bucks and he was giving me a chance to get my stamps back out of his filthy clutches. I wanted to yell, 'Aha, now I've got you! I'm gonna get back what's mine and for once you won't have the power over me!' But I didn't say a word. I just tensed my lips together, held out my hand, and nodded. Rob laid the stamps in my hand and then he and Mark loaded up their arms with action figures, squirt guns, and even a clock radio.
As they walked away I watched them exchange curious expressions of satisfaction and after they were out of earshot I saw them banter excitedly. I looked down at the tiny pieces of paper in my hand and I knew it. I knew in my heart that these stamps weren't really worth a hundred bucks. I knew I'd been duped. What happened that day was never talked about again, but every time I saw Mark and Rob they had a twinkle in their eye and just the start of a malevolent grin.
Some of you might be wondering what this story has to do with freedom. We often think of freedom as something that is taken from us, something that we are forced to give up by an oppressive government, or even an oppressive or abusive relationship. Rarely do we think of freedom as something that we would ever willingly give away, later to realize that we've been duped. These bullies could have easily beaten me up and taken everything I had. But by manipulating me, they took so much more. How much more satisfying it must have been for them when I GAVE them what they wanted. Not only did they have my stuff, but they had CONTROL over me. Leaving me with the stamps was not just a tactical leverage for their scheme, but also a rather poetic way to remind me that I had received precisely what I'd asked for.
The key word here is permission. Yes, there are times when freedom is taken from us. But those situations are historically preceded by countless incidents, sometimes generations' worth, where freedom is given away willingly. Pay close attention whenever you're in a position to grant permission. The next time you're asked to sign something, read the fine print again. Don't worry about being polite, the person standing in front of you WILL wait. The next time you're about to say, 'yes', think long and hard before you open your mouth. It's okay to have an uncomfortable silence; there are far too few of them, anyway. And especially remember this: the next time you have a chance to speak up for yourself, speak up. Ask a question. Say what you're feeling. Be very careful of just silently nodding, your hand held out to accept your reward.
Rob was one of the shadier kids in the neighborhood, and often made my life hell. So I was really excited when he offered me a whole dollar for the stamps. He took the stamps without so much as a casual fat joke or other half-hearted insult. As he walked away I was feeling pretty good and I thought of the four packs of Garbage Pail Kids I could now buy.
About a half hour later Rob came back down the sidewalk with his older buddy, Mark, another shady kid who wasn't as mean as Rob. He was quiet, though, and I think I was more scared of Mark BECAUSE he was quiet. The two boys approached my table with wild faces, obviously very excited to tell me something. Rob was holding the stamps and he blurted out, "My dad looked these stamps up in a book and he said they're worth a lot of money!"
"Really?" I said. "I guess I have had them for a long time. I don't even remember where I got them."
"Yeah, they're old. My dad said they're worth about a hundred dollars!" My heart sank. I was no longer thinking about the Garbage Pail Kids I was going to get. I was thinking about the GI Joe aircraft carrier that I COULD'VE got with that hundred bucks. Mark must've seen my expression change, and he seized an opportunity.
"Hey, Rob. I bet he would trade you all the rest of the stuff on his table if you gave him back the stamps." Rob slowly turned to look at him as if Mark had just said he'd found his dad's dirty magazines.
"I never thought of that. I guess if he really wants them back." He turned to look at me and shrugged, waiting for me to make a move. I did want them back. I wanted them back so much it burned. I couldn't stand that I'd let one of the biggest bullies in the neighborhood get away with MY stamps for a lousy BUCK. YES, I wanted them back! There's no way all the stuff on my table was worth a hundred bucks and he was giving me a chance to get my stamps back out of his filthy clutches. I wanted to yell, 'Aha, now I've got you! I'm gonna get back what's mine and for once you won't have the power over me!' But I didn't say a word. I just tensed my lips together, held out my hand, and nodded. Rob laid the stamps in my hand and then he and Mark loaded up their arms with action figures, squirt guns, and even a clock radio.
As they walked away I watched them exchange curious expressions of satisfaction and after they were out of earshot I saw them banter excitedly. I looked down at the tiny pieces of paper in my hand and I knew it. I knew in my heart that these stamps weren't really worth a hundred bucks. I knew I'd been duped. What happened that day was never talked about again, but every time I saw Mark and Rob they had a twinkle in their eye and just the start of a malevolent grin.
Some of you might be wondering what this story has to do with freedom. We often think of freedom as something that is taken from us, something that we are forced to give up by an oppressive government, or even an oppressive or abusive relationship. Rarely do we think of freedom as something that we would ever willingly give away, later to realize that we've been duped. These bullies could have easily beaten me up and taken everything I had. But by manipulating me, they took so much more. How much more satisfying it must have been for them when I GAVE them what they wanted. Not only did they have my stuff, but they had CONTROL over me. Leaving me with the stamps was not just a tactical leverage for their scheme, but also a rather poetic way to remind me that I had received precisely what I'd asked for.
The key word here is permission. Yes, there are times when freedom is taken from us. But those situations are historically preceded by countless incidents, sometimes generations' worth, where freedom is given away willingly. Pay close attention whenever you're in a position to grant permission. The next time you're asked to sign something, read the fine print again. Don't worry about being polite, the person standing in front of you WILL wait. The next time you're about to say, 'yes', think long and hard before you open your mouth. It's okay to have an uncomfortable silence; there are far too few of them, anyway. And especially remember this: the next time you have a chance to speak up for yourself, speak up. Ask a question. Say what you're feeling. Be very careful of just silently nodding, your hand held out to accept your reward.
1MoreApology
For three months now, my family and I have been transitioning from city mice to country mice. While we want to keep you abreast of our homesteading adventures, we've had no internet access and very little time to drive the 50 miles to Starbucks for the AT&T wifi. So, my apologies for not keeping in touch better. Once we're settled in to our property and have a permanent internet solution, we'll provide more frequent updates. Until then you'll have to make due with my infrequent political musings, and you're always welcome to come on down in person and help pound some nails.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
1 More Series - Freedom Pt 1
So our Constitution celebrated another birthday recently and I've been thinking about where we are as a nation. By 'nation', I don't mean the political United States but rather the people. I did read through some parts of the Constitution again and it just floored me how far off track the country has got itself legislatively. But if you want to hear bitching about that there are a lot better places than here. While reading the 200+ year old document I admit I did pine for a governing system that looked more like what was intended, but my heart truly ached for the people of our country. Laws come and go, and some laws (most?) are not even legal, but the condition of the people are the true barometer of a country. Where are our hearts? Spirits? Minds? Where is our strength?
As I make sloppy, rushed attempts at blogging, tweeting and still sloppier attempts at being a husband and father I'm alarmed by how much of my life controls me. Shouldn't it be the other way around? I feel as though the things I've allowed to be set in motion socially, financially, vocationally, creatively and politically are now demanding more of me than I can give...and not even on my terms anymore. I've created a monster, and the monster is the story of my life. When I die, I'd to speak better of my life than, "Whew, I'm glad I kept up with that for as long as I did...but I'm glad it's over." Screw the Joneses, how many of us feel like we're trying to 'keep up' with our OWN lives?
And all this hamster-wheeling in the most free country on earth. What for? It's as if we think of freedom like we think of money: have more, spend more; I've got so much that I CAN do with my life I'll go ahead and do it ALL. And in the melee of satisfying wants, living up to expectations, providing for needs, and simply participating in the culture...we've forgotten who we are. As a nation, as individuals...we've lost our identity. And as one of my favorite bands puts it, "You do it to yourself, and that's what really hurts."
So how do we lose our personal freedom in a country that prides itself on liberty? How does this loss of personal freedom lead to a loss of political freedom? [Spoiler Alert: We BEG for it.] These are some of the things I'll be discussing in the next few blog posts, along with a shot in the freakin' dark about how we can STOP the bleeding and get some of our freedom back. [Spoiler Alert: That's the whole reason I do 1MoreDay.]
For now, though, this.
As I make sloppy, rushed attempts at blogging, tweeting and still sloppier attempts at being a husband and father I'm alarmed by how much of my life controls me. Shouldn't it be the other way around? I feel as though the things I've allowed to be set in motion socially, financially, vocationally, creatively and politically are now demanding more of me than I can give...and not even on my terms anymore. I've created a monster, and the monster is the story of my life. When I die, I'd to speak better of my life than, "Whew, I'm glad I kept up with that for as long as I did...but I'm glad it's over." Screw the Joneses, how many of us feel like we're trying to 'keep up' with our OWN lives?
And all this hamster-wheeling in the most free country on earth. What for? It's as if we think of freedom like we think of money: have more, spend more; I've got so much that I CAN do with my life I'll go ahead and do it ALL. And in the melee of satisfying wants, living up to expectations, providing for needs, and simply participating in the culture...we've forgotten who we are. As a nation, as individuals...we've lost our identity. And as one of my favorite bands puts it, "You do it to yourself, and that's what really hurts."
So how do we lose our personal freedom in a country that prides itself on liberty? How does this loss of personal freedom lead to a loss of political freedom? [Spoiler Alert: We BEG for it.] These are some of the things I'll be discussing in the next few blog posts, along with a shot in the freakin' dark about how we can STOP the bleeding and get some of our freedom back. [Spoiler Alert: That's the whole reason I do 1MoreDay.]
For now, though, this.
Monday, September 21, 2009
1 More Backfill
Well, I hope 'I'm sorry' cuts it. I've been without reliable internet access for going on two months now, so the blog has suffered greatly. If you aren't the forgiving type, let me bribe you with a blog series. I'll be doing the next few entries on something that underlies the core philosophy of 1 More Day...Freedom. Yes, It's Constitution week and I'm going to go America all over your asses. We'll be staying mostly in the philosophical realm as I want you to just get thinking about the gravity of the issue, allowing you to draw your own practical conclusions and formulate action steps that are unique to your life. Until then, allow me to explain my absence.
My family and I decided to suddenly move 700 miles south. We moved from the Ohio Valley to the Low Country of South Carolina. As my wife puts it, 'I traded a mansion in the city for a trailer in the woods.' The biggest reason for our move was as a big step toward building our homestead. SO, we'll be keeping you up to date with our progress and hopefully you can learn a lot from our mistakes. For example...
Mistake number one: inadequate education as to the different wildlife present in our new location. They have what the locals call 'March Mosquitoes' down here. Just when you thought mosquitoes couldn't get any more annoying, they get bigger. Here's a normal mosquito that happened to meet its maker on my windshield right next to a giant marsh mosquito. There ain't enough DEET in Monsanto's tanks for these babies. Til next time...
My family and I decided to suddenly move 700 miles south. We moved from the Ohio Valley to the Low Country of South Carolina. As my wife puts it, 'I traded a mansion in the city for a trailer in the woods.' The biggest reason for our move was as a big step toward building our homestead. SO, we'll be keeping you up to date with our progress and hopefully you can learn a lot from our mistakes. For example...
Mistake number one: inadequate education as to the different wildlife present in our new location. They have what the locals call 'March Mosquitoes' down here. Just when you thought mosquitoes couldn't get any more annoying, they get bigger. Here's a normal mosquito that happened to meet its maker on my windshield right next to a giant marsh mosquito. There ain't enough DEET in Monsanto's tanks for these babies. Til next time...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
