The Scarcity Spiral

Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakens. 
-Carl Jung

It’s been a big week.  Understatement of the century.  It’s been a historically and politically raucous year that just climaxed with the most wildly controversial election of our time.  How are you doing?

Cocktails

I’m relieved.  No, not because these two candidates got an A+++ in their favorite class, Scandal and Mud-slinging 101, their gold stars deserve gold stars,  and the American people can get back to “normal” life as we know it. (What is normal anyway?) I’ve purposefully shied away from personal political rants on social media and even ignored those of others if at all possible; it’s a stiff time suck shaken and stirred with a twist of boring and a heavy dash of depressing.  My relief is rooted in the hopeful shift that perhaps we might start to step out of this vicious spin cycle of scarcity.

Wield

Don’t worry, this is not a political post, so stay with me.  This is a post inspired by the phenomenal power we as humans have to wield moments, conversations, attitudes, days, lives, relationships, finances, careers, health, performances, paradigms, politics, culture, and most of all, hearts.  I sincerely believe we can all learn something vital from both Mr. Trump and Mrs. Clinton.  Despite the media’s stellar job at eliciting constant knee-jerk reactions from our two, at times, less than inspiring candidates, I’ve observed the thing that will undoubtedly keep us down is a scarcity mindset: that ever ready spiral of never enough.  Winners, quite simply, focus on winning.   These two candidates have done just that in the scowling face of great odds; whatever your politics, I think it’s is pretty remarkable.

The West Wing

My all-time favorite tv series to date is The West Wing, a political drama created and largely written by the masterfully clever Aaron Sorkin.  I think I’ve seen all seven seasons about four times.  It’s brilliant.  Martin Sheen plays the fair, compassionate, and good-humored President Jed Bartlett; he and Hollywood NAILED it.

Thorns

He’s not without flaw, mind you.  Sorkin made this abundantly clear as his character battles multiple sclerosis and a nagging flair for the dramatic.  These are those proverbial thorns in his side that keep him humble, nimble I suppose.   Thankfully, his whip-smart, feisty aids consistently keep him tethered by their steady accountability and merciless hole-poking.

Other People Win

In one episode,  Pres. Bartlett complains to Press Secretary C.J. Cregg, (played by Allison Janney), about his former rival winning a school board election back in their home state of New Hampshire.  Like a victimized and petulant child, Bartlett goes on and on, recounting all of the terrible things his opponent had said and done along the way to climb the ethically wobbly ladder to his new found seat of victory.  CJ looks at him, and with her razor sharp no-nonsense wit replies, “Then, that’s the way it is.  In a democracy, often times other people win.”  She exits the room.

Death and Taxes

Yes, other people win and disappointments in this life are as certain as death and taxes.  We all experience pain and discomfort, however the broad spectrum of circumstance tends to be gracious over time allowing for joy and excitement to balance this process out.  Suffering is the story we make up about our pain and it ensues as we cultivate ongoing, frenetic relationships with those stories.  At the heart and hub of this suffering wheel we inevitably find scarcity: not enough. 

Grey

Carl Jung talks about a certain unnecessary plight occurring in this world because we reject “legitimate suffering” that goes along with the territory of simply being human.  This is in step with what I’ve learned about the etymology of the word “human”.  As opposed to a god-like, perfect and divine nature, the word human originates in an earth-dwelling, mistake-prone form.  This legitimate suffering, as Jung describes, should not be a shock or surprise. In fact, neurotic behavior results when we reject it and treat it as such!

Here’s the deal:  there is a thin grey line between the often bruised skin of our human condition and a pessimistic anticipation that bad things will happen and we should all go live in a cave. 

Excuses

I believe our attachment to unnecessary suffering stays intact and well-fed via the steady drip of scarcity mindset.  I have become so aware of my own scarcity narrative as of late.  It’s insidious and feels almost responsible at times.  I suppose that’s why I put up with it.  It sounds something like this:  “Oh, I don’t have time for that” and “I didn’t get enough sleep last night” or “What I have to say has already been said a thousand times; who really cares?”  Sound familiar?

Pollyanna

On the flip side, there is also this fear of living in denial; of the detached, “Pollyanna” glazed-over stare that lacks reality and substance.  After all, isn’t the opposite of scarcity total abundance?  I would heartily disagree. Brené Brown says, “For me, the opposite of scarcity is not abundance.  It’s enough.  I’m enough.”  She disagrees as well; I’m in good company.  Discomfort signals opportunity which makes the pinch of failure wholeheartedly acceptable in my book.  As we embrace the possibility of enough, we reject a scarcity mindset.  

Playground

Like anything, scarcity is learned.  Want proof? Go hang out with a bunch of 5 year-olds on a playground.  I would bet you a coffee or lunch or a very small fortune they aren’t all standing around with their arms crossed reciting reasons the old swing set may collapse mid-air, or envisioning the party of germs camped out on the slide, or even ponderinghow pointless and unsanitary the sandbox is.  Doubtful at best.  Chances are, they are just happy to explore some new scenery and burn off the sugar buzz they got at snack time.

Payoff

What is your scarcity narrative convincing you of?  What’s the payoff involved in giving it a voice?  Perhaps it’s safe because it’s what you know.  You’ve worn it in and out like an old pair of sweatpants your significant other hides behind the washer and dryer in hopes that you’ll just forget about them and move on (not a chance).  Perhaps the payoff is to keep you in a safe and steady state of numb.  After all, success is often far more terrifying than failure.

Paul Simon

Something hard and heavy struck me the other day.  I went for a hike around Radnor Lake this past week and was absolutely transfixed by the beauty of fall. I’m pretty sure everyone else felt the same as they walked around in yoga pants with their iPhone cameras as heads.  It was perfect: the crisp leaves, the burn-your-eyes-out blue sky, the pristine dry air, and the speckles of warm light that looked like a vintage Instagram filterjust had her way with nature.  I was expecting a scarf and fedora clad Paul Simon to jump out of the woods and start strumming The Boxer while simultaneously handing me a pumpkin spice latte at any moment.  No dice there.

Death and all his friends

Hold on a minute?!  These leaves are really just dying.  Likewise, the air, light, and blue skies are in on it as well playing respective roles in this seasonal shedding quickly ushering in the cold, bleak, and short days of winter.  It happens every year, without mistake.  Why then, are we so transfixed by this lovely, yet predictable procession of nature’s hibernation?

Building a Mystery

What I came to understand is we’re all actually experts at reframing scarcity.

As humans, we’re wired not only for connection, but for beauty and mystery.  We are also resilient creatures who long to witness something magical in this given moment.  That is the inner child in each of us; oh, they’re in there alright.  This is the practice of presence, enough, possibility, or whatever you choose over scarcity.

Six

The choice is ours in every breath of every day.  It’s easy to fall into the scarcity trap surrounded by these loud, abrasive voices violently dueling it out for the office of Presidency in all kinds of below the belt ways.  I get it; it’s a crucial time.  However, we must not abandon the soul of our six year-old that desperately needs some fresh air and a proper playground tumble.  Let’s powerfully, intentionally wield our own hearts away from scarcity and towards that beautiful mystery.

Love,

katie

Matthew Perryman Jones: Finding My Voice

My song was my salvation.

-Matthew Perryman Jones

Backstory

I have been a massive MPJ ( Matthew Perryman Jones) fan ever since I heard his unforgettably haunting voice pair with simple guitar chords at a local church in downtown Nashville probably close to fifteen years ago.  I remember thinking to myself, “Now, THAT is how a hymn is supposed to sound.”  It was this stunning mix of clarity and brokenness; youthful, yet carrying the weighty wisdom of an old soul.  I didn’t know who he was, but I hoped I’d always have access to that voice somehow.  Thankfully, his burgeoning career as a singer/songwriter has opened up a whole new world of music and truth for fans and friends, alike.

Co-write

A couple years back, I reached out to Matthew to write. I knew him indirectly through the years thanks to mutual friends, and sensed a real depth and kindness.  Also, I had started a little musical side project and was concurrently binging on his Until the Dawn Appears record nonstop, so why not aim high, right?  He graciously accepted and we sat down to write a couple of times.  Well, truth be told, each time we got a few minutes into an idea, then derailed with unending chatter about the Enneagram, therapy, etc…  I’m pretty sure it was the death of that song.  However, better than a song, a friendship launched andI am beyond grateful to have him share a bit of his story with us today on the blog.  As you will read, he vulnerably bridges that often despairing gap between creativity and the emotional struggles involved along the artistic  journey, namely depression and anxiety.  Matthew is an artist’s artist: a true master of his craft and a transparent source of light and hope for so many, myself most definitely included.  You are in for a treat today, friends…

The Start

Music seems to have always been with me. As far back as I can remember I was drawn to music and performing for people. It is in my blood to some degree. My mom was a singer, mostly performing solos in church. She has a beautiful voice. She also played piano and accordion in our house early on. My father loved music but was more of a listener. He lived mostly on a diet of folk music-Joan Baez, The Kingston Trio and the like. As a kid I gravitated to my dad’s record collection and would spend hours laying on the floor listening to records reading the lyrics and looking at the pictures inside the covers. I was fascinated. 

Heroes

In high school I started a band with a friend. We called the band “This Island Earth”. Bands like U2, R.E.M. and the Smiths informed our musical aspirations. This was the late 80’s and earnest, passionate (perhaps melodramatic at times) music was abundant in the more underground territory of rock-n-roll (U2 and R.E.M. were actually just emerging from the underground then). I looked up to these artists who were in their early to mid twenties as gods among us. They all seemed larger than life. They appealed to that expanding sense of grandiosity that was inside of me. I felt that anything was possible and I wanted to sing my way into transcendence…anything to take me out of the hardships of home life and the growing emotional complexities that seemed to mark my teenage years. 

Feel it all

I grew up being what might be labeled a “Highly Sensitive Person” (HSP). Since I can remember I have always felt things deeply, both personally and empathically. I have that classic story of not ever feeling that I was like the others, or one of the gang. I would observe other people having a kind of ease about their life that I simply never felt; like I didn’t get the memo (for all you psycho-diagnostic nerds, I fall in that low percentile personality type of the population—Myers Briggs: INFP/Enneagram: 4 with a 5 wing). 

Senses

I had friends and was easy to get along with but inwardly I never felt like I actually fit anywhere. I felt things intensely and was hyper-aware of everything around me. I had a kind of inordinate sense of life. Colors, smells, the feel of the air, the taste of food, were all on stun. For the most part I was intoxicated with these things. I had traces of what I would call depression now and again but I was mostly a highly energetic and incurably optimistic person. I always had a sense of possibility moving forward into my life. But there of course was a shadow cast with the light. The brighter the light, the darker the shadow. 

Panic

After a couple years of playing and developing as a band, we split due to the other guys graduating high school and heading off to college. However, right around this time is when my world turned upside down. For various reasons I won’t get into here, my life became more inward. I didn’t have that outflow of expression I found playing in a band. I began experiencing high anxiety. It would come out of nowhere, this gnawing sense that something bad was going to happen. It wasn’t tied to anything in particular which made it more concerning. Eventually these became full blown panic attacks. A panic attack for me was this disturbing sense in my gut and body met with my mind going out of control. The sense of doom brought about thoughts of death and mortality. My thoughts were irrational and out of control, but it seemed I could do nothing about it. I began spiraling into a very dark place. 

Torment

At this point I’m 17. Due to the unpredictable and regularly occurring panic attacks I dropped out of high school my senior year. I didn’t feel comfortable driving and eventually became housebound. My parents would take me to psychologists, psychiatrists and nutritionists. My psyche seemed to be erupting with all kinds of neurosis. I became paranoid and wouldn’t eat food thinking it was poisoned and eventually began having obsessive thoughts, mostly in the form of religious blasphemies looping in my head. Growing up in a Christian home, I thought I was possessed or something horrible. I was 125 lbs and would shake and slap my head to rid myself of these tormenting thoughts. And there seemed to be no help. Medications seemed to just make me a zombie but inwardly I was in hell. I can say without melodrama or exaggeration that I was a person in sheer mental torment. 

Prayer Songs

I would wade through these dark waters for the next 5 years. There were small seasons of mild reprieve where I could function to a certain level. I would go to church (the only social interaction I had) but never fully shared what all was going on. I felt crazy. People who sensed something was wrong with me would prescribe more prayer and bible reading. The fact was that I likely read the bible and prayed more than they did. I had a belief in God that became an absolute lifeline. However, God did not feel real or close at all. I felt abandoned both socially and spiritually. I clung desperately to whatever belief I had and walked through some very dark places on an internal and spiritual level. But in that dark and desolate cave I would sing. My song was my salvation. No one heard me. It was in that dark, quiet and lonely place that I would sing. 

As I write this I am overwhelmed with emotion remembering it. Song was how I spoke to God and felt any shred of connection. I cannot adequately describe how alone in the world I felt; how separated from God and people I felt. I was alone and terrified. But I would sing. 

Light through the cracks

I believe it was during this time that I found my voice. Through the aid of therapy and eventually the right medication the dark fog that surrounded me gradually began to clear. I would slowly notice the birds singing and the crisp blue sky begin to open. I was coming back to life. I felt a profound gratitude for life. I got a job at a grocery store and would stock the shelves…and sing. There was always a song on my lips. But it came from a completely different place than it did when I was 16. I had come through the dark forest and had something to say. 

Healer

For a couple years I just lived, healed and assimilated myself back into “normal” life. Eventually, I went through the hoops to get myself into college. One thing I did during those 5 years of exile was read like crazy. It’s all I ever did (I was far from a reader prior to that). So I was ready to go to school and start finding my path. I thought that what I would do was study to become a therapist. I knew at this point in my life that I wanted to be an agent of healing in some form or fashion. Becoming a therapist was the only thing that made sense at that point. But I was living in a new trajectory and I was open for wherever the path would go. 

Confessions and spotlight

To make a long story just a little bit longer, while I was in college I met a guy who invited me to play in his folk band. I will have to skip over some details here, but the short of it is that I started playing music again. I was writing and singing and eventually performing live. As a performer I was painfully shy. I was not interested in the spotlight or having the attention on me. I found it wildly uncomfortable. But after shows people would come up to me and express, sometimes with tears, how much the music connected with them emotionally and how I said things that they thought and experienced but didn’t know how say it. Some people would confess things to me that they had never told their spouse—hidden depression and dark thoughts. I was hearing all kinds of things. But I was learning that a connection was happening and the music seemed to be opening doors in people they had long locked tight. 

Nashville

Music and therapy seemed to be a good couple. So I went in that direction. I started pursuing a life as a therapist disguised as a performing songwriter. Again, I could write a book about how I ended up in Nashville and began my descent into the music business, but I will stick to the heart of things here. I was playing music for people, specifically hurting people. I directed my voice to the lonely, the confused, the abandoned, the heart-broken. I wasn’t looking for a record deal or fame. I wanted my music to find connection in the neglected and forgotten places. I based my songwriting approach from something I read from Henri Nouwen, “Rarely do happy endings truly make us happy. But often one’s careful and honest articulation of the pains and ambiguities in life brings us new hope”. I wasn’t going to write pop songs. I was going to write people songs. 

Save me

Since that time my career has gone through all kinds of seasons. I have found varying degrees of what might be called success. My songs have found their way into TV shows, films, movie trailers and even a few radio stations. I have been wooed and whipped by the music business enterprise. But to this day I still receive emails from people telling me how my music saved their life. I’ve heard stories of how my voice has accompanied someone through the darkest times of their life. Again, this is where tears of immense gratitude come up. It moves me so deeply to think that something I put out in the world could offer some company to a soul that feels alone or broken by life. 

Staying True

Hearing these stories is why I continue to make music because it’s why I started in the first place. I think about throwing in the towel quarterly. I don’t like the enterprise of the music business. But I tell you, almost with precise timing, the moments I have been on the cusp of quitting I will get an email or have someone at a show tell me another story and end that story saying, “please keep making music, it matters”. 

Mystery

Over the last 17 years of pursuing a life in music and storytelling, I have come back into seasons of depression and hardship. It’s an ongoing process. Always. I have found great help with therapists and spiritual directors and friends. Life ebbs and flows. My belief and unbelief in a God, Source, Ground of Being, etc. has gone through many formations. I’m learning to lean into the Mystery a bit more and be ok with it, even enjoy it.  And I will continue to write about it all along the way trusting that it will find its way to other souls who need a little company as they stumble through their own experience. 

Not Alone

If I have something I am hoping to convey in my music it is this: you are not alone. I believe this is the primary value of music within the world. Music lets people know they are not alone in the world; that there is a thread within the collective human experience. We are not alone. I believe the more personal the writing, the more universal. We’re all cut out of the same hunk of cheese.

As a writer, my job is simply to stay true to what is inside me to say, whether it’s sexy or not; whether it will sell records or not. I have to stay true to that voice that emerged many years ago out of a dark place. No one will ever really know what it took to find that voice but me and I will guard it. I hope you reading this will do the same (wherever your voice finds expression). 

You have a voice. Guard the voice that is yours, listen to it, know it and let it be known. It matters.

MPJ

A Date with Procrastination

The more important the activity is to our soul’s evolution, the more resistance you will feel.

-Steven Pressfield

I’d like to introduce you to my new friend, Procrastination.  Well, he’s not really new, quite old come to think of it.  We go way back.  I suppose we’ve rekindled something as of late, something good, different.

Stuck places, friendly faces

Our rendezvous happened this past Tuesday morning as I was about to sit down and write this week’s blog post.  I typically have some foggy idea as to what I’ll write about from week to week which is always nice.  Like many bloggers, my ideas come from a storehouse of life experience, connections made in random and serendipitous ways, books I am reading, and most of all, the resilience stories of heroes I observe around me; friends and peers alike.  Lovely, right?  Well, this past Tuesday it wasn’t working out so well for me.

Wildlife

Earlier that morning, I decided to take a walk in order to clear my head, breathe some crisp fall air, and behold the magical leaves shamelessly showing off in the sun drenched blue sky.  It seems we have been cheering on the fulfillment of fall in Nashville the past several weeks and my, she certainly knows how to make a grand, fashionably late entrance.  Despite my morning jaunt out into her glorious embrace, I still had nothing.  Nada. Zip. Zilch.  I saw a few wild turkeys though.

Clean

When I have a deadline, be it taxes, writing, learning a new song, homework of any kind, (did I say taxes?), I don’t just procrastinate, I clean.  This is hilarious because I hate to clean.  I am not a cleaner.  Don’t get me wrong; I’m not a slob, I just tend to wait until I literally can’t see the bottom of my closet, throw my hands up in the air, and have a full on closet detox, as my brilliant friend Lindsley calls them.  Intentional, “unnecessary” cleaning always happens as a familiar step beforeI actually procrastinate.

Just one more cup

I sat down at my (clean) kitchen table only to decide I needed to make another pot of coffee.  That’s it!  Perhaps have another slice of gluten-free pumpkin bread, too. (Trader Joe’s makes the best mix.  I’m not even gluten sensitive, I suppose I just feel better about eating half the loaf.)  There we were, me, my coffee, my second breakfast, and my devilishly charming friend Procrastination.  “Dear God, I feel like a hobbit,” I thought to myself.  What now?  Pinterest, then a few quick emails, yoga anyone? I had forgotten how entertaining my old friend was.

Steven Pressfield

My absolute favorite book on the topic of the creative pursuit and process is Steven Pressfield’s The War of Art.  I’m a dreadfully slow reader and finished this little number in one afternoon on a park bench somewhere in the West Village while visiting NYC several years ago. No doubt, this was the most inspiring city to read those words in what with the beautifully diverse collection of roughly 1.5 million people tirelessly pushing their dreams forward to the rhythm of steely tenacity, very little sleep, and a whole lot of espresso .  From that day forward, I’ve been an evangelist of this book, giving away countless copies to friends and clients, alike.  He pretty much rocked my world with his jolting if not merciless approach to procrastination.

Here’s what he says:

“The most pernicious aspect of procrastination is that it can become a habit. We don’t just put off our lives today; we put them off till our deathbed.  Never forget: This very moment, we can change our lives. There never was a moment, and never will be, when we are without the power to alter our destiny. This second we can turn the tables on Resistance. This second, we can sit down and do our work.”

Can I get a witness?

Amen, yes?! If you read this post and all you take away is that one quote and a kick in the pants to hop on Amazon immediately and order The War of Art, I have succeeded.  Pressfield introduced me to this curious idea of Resistance, as was mentioned in the quote.  We all know what resistance is: that tight feeling we have in our chest and muscles, the thoughts of unworthiness that pop up like clockwork saying, “I don’t deserve to carve out the next hour and write, I’ve got so much to do!”, the anxiety that seeps in perpetrating those once calm and contented cells in our body.  Pressfield explains, “The more important the activity is to our soul’s evolution, the more resistance you will feel to it-the more fear you will feel.”

The Gift

If resistance resulting in procrastination is actually a sign of our soul’s deepest expression and evolution as Pressfield waxes so poetically, then I am convinced we are in dire need of a sit down “come to Jesus” reckoning with it! My avoidant and dreaded coffee date with Procrastination was in fact, profoundly necessary.  It was my heart’s battle cry against that nasty gremlin, perfectionism.  It was an invitation to show up and reclaim the very act that keeps my soul alive and grounded.  Someone out there may hopefully read the words I write through email or a Facebook feed or something and that is truly an honor. There is a much higher purpose though. The invaluable gift of resistance is the power that flows from our choice to lean in, show up, and give sacred space to our voice when the easy way out is to organize our sock drawer three times instead.  We align with our destiny when we lean into resistance.  This feels really good.

In Repair

As a lifelong perfectionist in a constant, sobering state of recovery, I am learning to become my own sponsor.  This is the credo that keeps me showing up and sitting down with pen and paper in hand: Anything worth doing is worth doing poorly.

Anne Lamott spins it this way in her brilliant Bird by Bird (another must read): “Almost all good writing begins with terrible first efforts. You need to start somewhere. Start by getting something—anything—down on paper. What I’ve learned to do when I sit down to work on a shitty first draft is to quiet the voices in my head.” 

I would extend that to say almost all creative endeavors begin with terrible first efforts!

Say Yes

Procrastination has gotten a bad wrap over time.  I want to help clean up the confusion.  After all, procrastination is merely saying no to something and yes to another, more attractive option, yes?  I say we wise up, stay very present to that knowing, if not uncomfortable nudge called resistance, and have our way with those illusive little pixies, perfectionism and projection.  They have stolen us away from our dreams, one bad, distracting idea at a time, for long enough. Today, let’s begin again.

Love,

katie

xoxo

Legacy & A Broken Hallelujah

Please think about your legacy, because you’re writing it every day.

-Gary Vaynerchuck

I have a confession to make.

Despite years of deep south steeping growing up in Mobile, AL,  I have never been a huge fan of country music.  In fact, I always felt like the odd man out during those fragile years of middle school when the cool kids where discovering the likes of Alan Jackson, The Judds, John Michael Montgomery, and most curiously to me, Billy Ray Cyrus.  I was totally stumped, yet went along with it as my awkward stage lasted painfully longer than everyone else’s and I had just switched to a preppy new school.  The part of me that wanted to be liked was much bigger than the part that couldn’t be bothered.

So I succumbed to country music peer pressure and owned all the cds to prove it.  Looking back, I stand by the fact that it didn’t make sense to me then and it still doesn’t now, not even “Old Country.”  There, I said it. Hilariously, I now live in the country music mecca of Nashville,  and am married to a man who works in that industry.  God truly has an impeccable sense of humor.

Storytellers

What I am a fan of are the rich stories those often simple songs have told over time and the legends who did the telling.  You know the stories: about family, hard work, love, tradition, heartache, and a good time.  From what I’ve learned, the largest radio format in the world is that of country music and has been for quite some time.  My uneducated guess as to why is that these songs and stories are more widely accessible for most people.  They tell normal, relatable  stories and in that normalcy, provide a familiar  and welcoming place to visit.  I’m clearly no expert, it’s just a hunch.

A league of their own

My appreciation of this genre hiked up a few notches on Sunday night as I got to tag along with Daniel for an induction ceremony at the Country Music Hall of Fame. Three icons were to be honored: the legendary songwriter, producer, and founder of Monument Records, Fred Foster (think Dolly Parton and Roy Orbison), Charlie Daniels, and Randy Travis.  I felt completely honored to be there and stepped into a totally next level cool kids club upon arrival…way out of my league.   Dolly sang, and in my estimation, definitely still has it.  She could give Adele a run for her money at age 70!  The tiny but mighty Brenda Lee presented as did the likes of Garth Brooks and Vince Gill, (personal crush since forever and the one exception to my apathy for country music).

I mention all of this for one reason: the three icons inducted into the Hall of Fame on Sunday night were honored because of their unique gift and contribution to their fans and the world at large through music.  These three great men were honored for their Legacy.  Merriam-Webster defines legacy this way:

Full Definition of legacy

plural legacies

1:  a gift by will especially of money or other personal property :  bequest

2:  something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor or from the past <the legacy of the ancient philosophers>

Shrink

I define legacy with a vivid memory.  I was sitting in a psychiatrists office around age twenty-four and in the throes of some pretty rocking anxiety and depression to the point where I hated to be alone and had tons of trouble sleeping.  Four hours a night was success.  This psychiatrist was unlike most who focus mainly on medication prescription and maintenance (which greatly helped me at the time).  The touchy feel-y talk stuff typically didn’t show up in these types of offices all that often.  My doctor, however, would always spend the extra time asking insightful open-ended questions and practicing the kind of active listening that would make Oprah squirm.

The Big Question

This particular day I was feeling pretty frail.  Upon my impasse of despair, he looked at me with eyes full of compassion as asked, “Katie, what kind of legacy do you want to leave behind?”  Mic drop.  Are you kidding me? I thought to myself.  I’m in tons of excruciating emotional pain and confusion over here and you are asking me to tell you what I want my grandkids to say about me when I’m gone?  That is just cruel and unusual punishment.

Ansel Adams

He didn’t flinch.  Dammit, I had to dig deep for this one.   As I sat there, something shifted inside.  It was like a massive wide-lens movie camera zoomed out and captured my life in an epic, Ansel Adams kind of way.  I saw vast nuances instead of harsh details and gentle peaks and valleys instead of the unflattering flatlined monotony of my current reality.  It was as if someone took a soft, forgiving filter and appropriated it to my life.  It was that good lighting on a first date kind of luck, you know?  There was a spike of hope that arose in my soul.  My heart perked up like the ears of a bored dog who just heard the garage door open.

Desire

I didn’t have a grand, clever answer for him.  I actually can’t even remember what I said.  I do, however remember the gravity of that perspective shift.  The truth was, all I could see and feel in that moment was the intense barrage of my current emotions.  I was landlocked in that sense, but I wanted so much more.

I wanted the freedom of an ocean so I could look back 10 years from then and see a gift I gave along the way to others who may have felt a similar sadness.  I wanted to give so much, do so much, be so much! I wanted to write songs, write books, have a family, love wildly, throw dinner parties, travel the world, run for public office (it was just a phase), own at least one pair of Jimmy Choo’s, you know…the important stuff!  In that moment, I got angry at my sadness.  That anger felt really good.

This highly annoying legacy question gave me the nudge I needed to start making future-based decisions that didn’t always reflect the way I felt in the moment.  

Serendipity

What I later discovered in our work together was that my psychiatrist went to med school at the University of South Alabama and did his cardiac rotation under the instruction of my Grandfather, a talented and respected heart surgeon in Mobile at the time.  All those years later in Nashville, I held in my needy hands the gift of hope and tangled proof of a beautiful legacy.  My own Grandfather paid it forward for me in that moment, unbeknownst to him.  If that isn’t serendipity, I don’t know what is.  I’m reminded of that story every time I want to give up.

I guarantee if Fred Foster, Charlie Daniels, and Randy Travis would have listened to the discouragement and naysayers along the way, caving into popular demands instead of following their heart as crazy as it seemed against the great odds of their humble beginnings,  there would not have been a big ceremony on Sunday night.  Well, I suppose there would, yet faces and stories belonging to a different cast of characters.

Amazing Grace

The night ended as it should, with a song.  Not just any song though: an imperfect and a capella Amazing Grace, led by Randy Travis. His words were barely understood due to a severely paralyzing stroke he suffered in 2013.  His velvety baritone still shone through the cracks though.  A tear soaked audience sang along, humbly, lovingly.  A man who had made his mark with that undeniably iconic voice stood at the helm of the night  inviting us to something greater.  He lost control of the masterful, tangible gift we know so well, however, legacy runs deeper than just a pretty voice and a knock out career.  His legacy is the gift of a life well-lived, full of peaks and valleys:  the character of oak and heart of gold that inspires us to keep showing up, one broken hallelujah at a time.  So, my friends, you knew I’d ask:

What will your legacy be?

Love,

katie

Dinner Parties & The Hospitality of Emotion

Hospitality means primarily the creation of free space where the stranger can enter and become a friend instead of an enemy. Hospitality is not to change people, but to offer them space where change can take place.

-Henri Nouwen

I love food: the planning, shopping, prepping, pairing, cooking, eating, hell, I don’t even mind the cleaning up so much.  My most domestic moments happen in the kitchen.  Laundry?  Not my gig, much to my husband’s chagrin.  Cooking has always been a creative outlet as well as a therapeutic one for me.   For a hot minute in my mid-twenties I toyed with the idea of culinary school yet found in my short-lived career as a sous chef at a local wine bar/cafe that cooking on someone else’s watch for people I couldn’t actually connect with was a deal breaker; it hijacked the joy of it.

Slow down

I eventually discovered two real driving passions behind my love for all things culinary: the connection that happens around it and the creativity had in the process, ( oh, and there is that eating thing as well).  As a result, one of my favorite pastimes has become throwing dinner parties.  I get a buzz just thinking about it.  We live in a world on crack; a world jacked up and in a constant crazed state of busy, exhausted, immediacy, devices, and traffic, all set to repeat.  Hospitality has become a lost art.  It forces us to slow down and do things that can be automated and/or bypassed by hitting the nearest Chipotle and inhaling it in front of our current Netflix series of choice.  As a result, we lose out on a beautiful process that facilitates good old-fashioned real-time connection, intimacy, and laughter.

Friends who cook together

My dearest friend Anna Watson Carl, author of The Yellow Table cookbook and dinner party partner in crime since high school, has been in town from Brooklyn for the last couple of weeks.  As a result, we have gotten some sacred, much-needed girl time together hiking (read: getting lost) at Percy Warner park as well as sharing a few meals.  She inspires me to dream big; to dive in heart first, with little personal regard for certainty and all the “why nots”.  She leads her life openly, with curiosity.  As a result, incredible opportunities present.  Her childlike sense of wonder lands her in all kinds of juicy and fabulous predicaments.  I’ve had the distinct pleasure of tagging along for some of them.

This past Saturday Anna and I threw a dinner party.  It was delicious and lovely complete with clinking glasses, a stained table runner,  and hours of clean up the next morning.  Perhaps my favorite part of the evening was the interesting mix of friends who came.  Stories were shared and wild connections made, which blows my mind often in this small town of Nashville.  As I sat back contentedly and observed conversations happening around the table, glasses being filled, and fall flavors offering up their glory, something occurred to me; something big.

Set a new table

Why can’t we learn to practice hospitality internally, with our own full cast of emotions? What if, we welcomed them openly, leaning in to the complex story they are trying to tell instead of running from their  grey state of purgatory?  I’ve been intrigued by this idea ever since, playing around with it in my head and heart…and I like it.

The hidden gift

Emotions are a gift if you can believe it.  I sure didn’t for long stretches of my existence.  I always thought emotions had all the power, dictating the success of any given day from the moment my eyeballs popped open in the morning.  I used to feel totally powerless over my emotions, especially anxiety, she was a loud and clumsy beast.  What I have come to learn and embrace with open arms and a big fat sigh of relief is that my emotions are not who I am.  I am not my anxiety, sadness, hurt, anger, etc.

They are also not against me.  Of course, there are more enjoyable ones we feel such as glad and excited; we tend to coddle them like spoiled children.  Then there are negative ones such as guilt and anger we avoid at all costs like that annoying, messy roommate. However, the truth is, each unique emotion invites us to the greater wisdom of our needs and desires and ultimately propel us forward.  Our emotions are a gift nudging us towards colorful truth and authentic experience.

Conversation starter

Just as the generous practice of hospitality beckons deeper connection and understanding of our unique perspectives and experiences across a dinner table, our chatty interior friends long for a space to be heard.  How will we host these voices, facilitating a curious exchange, an open conversation?  Here are a couple of questions to ask them when they chime in, with their often abrasive tone.

• What am I feeling?  Sad, hurt, fear, anger, lonely, guilt, glad?  Naming it identifies and externalizes it.
• What is the story you are trying to tell me?  i.e “I am afraid I don’t have what it takes to succeed, i’m not enough”.  “I am guilty because I spoke harshly to my co-worker”.
• What is the need attached to the emotion? i.e. “I need some encouragement and affirmation”, or “I need to apologize for reacting at work, I was pretty fried and took it out on Sarah”
• How will I meet that need?  i.e. Reach out to a trusted friend or have a conversation to set the record straight, etc…

Emotional hospitality removes unnecessary shame from our internal experience by letting light and air into dingy, dusty corners of our beings.  It swings wide open the door of our heart and places a mix of fresh flowers to claim the space, welcoming deeper connection and cohesion.  It nourishes our beings to live with presence and generosity.  This week, I invite you to set this strange new interior table and play around with the role of host.   Get into it, wear it, engage it.  I’d love to hear all about your discoveries along the way…

Love,

katie

xoxo