You see Christ. I see a skeptic.
You see lights and sounds, a show. I see a small church with aged pews and mildewing seats.
You see a crowd of excited people, looking, longing. I see a man sitting alone. Pondering God from the perspective of a homeless wanderer.
My belief, in the midst of my disbelief, is very real.
You perform on a stage. I sit in the real. Tired of trying to fit in with a culture that raised, bruised and almost buried me.
You see a savior. I see a man sitting in your church. All too aware that my thoughts might scare some, surprise others, yet still wondering if there is ONE here who might really want to know…
…me.
We build walls.
We build them to protect ourselves from the elements, we build them to keep us safe from attacks from enemies, but we also build walls to hide.
I wonder sometimes if we shouldn’t be building more fences than walls.
I want to be safe just like everyone else does, but I’ve noticed that my walls can be so high that no one, no living creature can surmount them. Not even Superman.
Maybe if we spent more time building fences, we could use some of that effort used to build walls and build some fucking bridges!
“We, as people, very much like our walls.
It’s safe. But lonely.”
~ K. Holder
I’m not always safe. I’m never dangerous, but I may not always do things the “appropriate” way. I don’t want to be lonely. I want to thrive, and live, and surround myself with really incredible people!
Once you get inside the walls, you’re trusted. You’re one of my ‘people’. And that’s a place that not many will ever know or experience. But sometimes I just push those I am closest to outside and lock the gate. An extremely extroverted introvert, I want to hide behind those walls in the hardest times. When I’m licking my wounds or just in pain from a little boy being absent again.
I find myself sitting here alone, walls all intact.
But in a few short days someone comes in and refuses to go away. They knock at the gate. I hesitate, but realize what I’ve been waiting for may have just shown up.
And hope to knock down a few walls.
So, a serial killer with the penchant for killing other serial killers. Even if you have seen the TV show, you’re probably sitting there going “where the hell is he going with this?” But that’s what’s been on my mind over the last week or so. Not the desire to start hunting down really bad people and carve them up. I’ll leave that to the main character of the show. But the inner monologue that really is the heart of the development of the show. SPOILER ALERT – I may spill a few secrets about the show in this…
So, I have within me an inner dialogue. It’s the small conversations that I keep inside that guide me, frustrate me, give me creative ideas or just burst forth with song lyrics at the most inappropriate times. And it’s a part of me that has probably helped me tough out some very hard times. That voice has seen me at my best, my worst. It knows me. Maybe the only place I’ve ever been truly honest. Truly vulnerable. I don’t go around living in lies, but there are always walls. Castles I’ve built, had destroyed, built up again, that guard the most precious parts of me.
In the show, Dexter is his own narrator. His voice, his internal paranoia, and sometimes clarity are oftentimes as fascinating as the action that’s happening on the screen. And in a sick, twisted way you see him grow. His reality changes as he starts to grow in his relationships, but never fully able to tell those around him, those that he loves (if he’s capable of love) that he’s a FREAKIN’ SERIAL KILLER!!!!
Fear. Of course, his fear is that of jail, death, being known in the world he works in – the Miami Police department. Isn’t that funny? He hides in plain sight amongst the same people who would have him locked up forever if they knew him, really knew him. And more than that, he HELPS them to find killers. Whoever came up with the idea for this show is genius. Pure F**King Genius!
I hide. I am scared. I had the realization in my counseling session this week that even in that incredibly safe place, I don’t feel completely safe. My counselor was actually slightly saddened by this. Not shocked, but with everything we’ve walked through, years of pain, Lee, Jenelle, I think he hoped that I had found a refuge. And in many ways, I have. But I am still afraid. I know me. I’m damn incredible at times. I’m also a handful. But if I told you everything I’ve experienced, everything I know, I still fear that you’d run. Run far away. I’m not a sicko, but I don’t have a cookie-cutter, everything easily lines up in neat rows past. I have a dirty, ugly, “oh-my-god we’ll pray for him” (while secretly judging him) past.
And those same prayers, though meant to be a help, are often one of the biggest triggers to hide a little more. To submerge deeper into safety. I know there’s a God out there that loves me, and I even hide from him. Funny, but true. How do you hide from a God that’s everywhere, if you believe in that? Honestly, I don’t know anything other than to try to be the best person I can be, be myself, as long as you can handle a little disruption (I’ve been told I enjoy ‘stirring’ things).
And that’s what these blogs are often about. They are my inner monologue trying to find voice. They’re not everything I think, but they allow me to see my life. Look at where I’m at and try to work through the places that hurt, struggle, or even the good thoughts and feelings. It is a safe place. And if you’re reading this, I’m allowing you to see a little of me inside. Yes, there are many areas that I still hide, but I continue to grow, like my favorite serial killer.
My counselor knows me. And I’m going to keep opening up there. My “village” knows me better than just about anyone. My best friend seems to sense things without words. He kills me with his quirky ability to time things when they are really needed. It’s almost eerie.
And I hope to one day have the one person who will allow me to speak. Without judgement. Without fear. With sincerity, and a lot of sass!
In the end, I don’t want to be sitting in a room, alone. Even if it is the way my serial killer hero ended it. (MAJOR SPOILER)
“Like a true nature's child
We were born, born to be wild
We can climb so high
I never wanna die”
~ Steppenwolf
What happens when a child of the streets, grown from the mires of Cedartown, raised partially in Glenn’s bar, wild and full of hell and all it’s fury, grows up?
Even before taking a breath there was the environment. The cause and effect of liquid highs and the sentimentalities and loyalties of the street. She had no other course. Be what was known. Be bigger, tougher, Wilder…
‘Climb so high’ without thinking about death, abuse, jail, living in the toxic. Living on those same streets that her parents helped tear up years before. I don’t know her story well enough to give you the specifics. But I do know her now. I’ve pieced together a pretty solid picture of what really matters. How a street-smart kid from Cedartown has become a passionate force. Not just an advocate, but a storm of fury towards the life she once lived, a battering ram to knock down the walls built of the stigma of the poor and the addicted life she knew so well.
A heart that is so tender, shielded behind the windshield of a Teal & Chrome Harley.
The Wild didn’t die. It did go through struggles and hardships that I have gleamed, heard of, been trusted with. And those parts of all of us make us stronger if we let them. For her, walking through the elements to get to a job on third shift to feed her family. Going to school. Fighting to not be one of the Polk County casualties. Working as a Case Manager, Peer Leader, Therapist in that same community that she once terrorized.
I admit, and I’ll get crap from her later for saying this, I want to be more like her. Alive. Passionate. Focused on trying to fix a system that shutters when she comes through the door. The State of Georgia was so scared that they hired her!
But she is also my friend. Someone I deeply care about. I’ve listened as she cried when her son was caught up in the same world that she fought so hard to move beyond. I know that she has helped me more than I thought possible to take my own hurts and use them. Not dwell in them. Maybe if we took a moment and tried to be as passionate, we would find places in our own lives to grow from instead of wallow.
So I’m saying thanks. Wrayanne, you truly rock!
Born to be Wild.
It was loud. Rather nasty sounding, ranging from a malfunctioning heartbeat to a cacophony of untrained beats. And it was one of the most rewarding experiences in my teaching career.
It all started with a school visit to the charter school I taught at in Atlanta from the Atlanta School for the Deaf. They were coming to see how another school functioned, a ‘hearing’ school. And as they toured the hallways I found that they were scheduled to come upstairs to see the computer lab, but not music. Something in me, the rebel I guess, just couldn’t handle that. I did what is in my nature. I hijacked them from the computer lab and had a large group of deaf students come in and take a seat behind the drums. You see, at this school I taught hand drumming. Primal, roots based, rhythmic music. I just had to see if they could even relate and follow. Find a rhythm. It was a small room and I was often accused of shaking the entire back wing of the school. So why couldn’t they ‘feel’ they rhythms? Make music.
You know what? They did.
And from that day an idea was concocted. The liaison for the deaf school, a hippy named Richie and I put together a plan, with the help of a wealthy benefactor, to start a club. But not just any club. We were going to somehow try to teach hand drumming to totally deaf students, without a net, without any formal music training. Just me, a hippy and 20 high school students.
Day one was when I guess my arrogance, but also my genuine passion for people showed up. At the onset, I had Richie translate and introduce me to the students. They immediately called me “C-music”, but within about 5 minutes of the back and forth of translation, I was frustrated, the kids were frustrated, and this experiment was sinking fast. I stopped Richie (one of the first signs I learned). Got up on stage and proceeded to take my shoes off. I pointed to the students and urged them to do the same. Richie tried to stop everything and translate, and I yelled at him, “NO, we have to do this together. They have to learn my language, and I’ll damn well learn theirs.” There was a short blur of shoes being thrown, stinky feet and my translator literally scratching his head. I learned “stop”, “look” and “focus” that day. They watched my hands, as I demonstrated every move. How to strike the drum. How to sit, how to follow. They watched, and I struggled to bridge the gap.
So, I’m just a little bit stubborn. And at the end of that first day I knew we had only barely survived. As I sat down with Richie and another teacher I realized that I did need some translation, but I also needed to hear. I needed to hear the hearts and minds of these students. And the first way I could do that, beyond letting them play on really cool drums, was to gain their respect. I’m not deaf, well I am in one ear because of loud music over the years, but I had to join their world. Learn how to speak. Learn how to listen. Day two was even more frustrating, because I continued to push off the translator and asked the kids to read my lips and teach me to sign. “Feel”. “Count”. And you know what, they responded. They would watch, eager, excited, sometimes scared. And every time we played I was the same. Eager, Excited. Scared.
After about 6 month we scheduled our first concert. A simple performance for the school. We did it to show that a bunch of deaf kids and a non-signing teacher could somehow get together and make a lot of noise, music. It was one of the proudest moments in my life. I still remember some of the signs ten years later. I wish I was proficient, but I’m so thankful that I had those two years with these students.
So, we need to hear. We need to relish the opportunity to communicate with others. Sometimes it takes pulling off your shoes and socks, letting your feet feel the rhythms on an old wooden stage. Sometimes it’s just sitting down and looking someone in the eye and embracing their life, their struggles. But we all need to hear. To be Heard. The music that communication makes is priceless.
Traveling home from a long adventure, work trip, relative’s passing or wedding. You arrive home, a place that hopefully is good to get back to. Here’s the question… Who would be there when you arrived? Who’s there waiting for you?
This isn’t a “post your response below” thing. But who would be there? Who matters to you, and more importantly, knows that their face, presence, hand would make all the travel stress, anxiety, fear, tired melt away. In a smile, a touch, a word. We all have someone or want someone to be there in those times. Even those hermits (Adam) who seem to be so removed from society have a deep desire for someone who cares.
I want that.
But it still has eluded me, at least to the depth that I know, I believe is possible. It’s something that makes coming home better. People. Relationships. Friends. Those who make a difference in your life. Just by being who they are.
So, if you have that person, or group of people in your life, hold onto them. Tell them they matter. And if you don’t, be patient. Wait. But don’t overlook the ones who do invest in you regularly. Those who are right there beside you.
And if you’re arriving off the plane. Walk through the terminal. You might just find someone waiting… Right there.
I personally believe that inside us we all have the capacity and the inner desire to do good. I know there are exceptions, times when we lack compassion, but those are muffled by my heart’s calling to reach out and to help others. The same calling that we hope will be returned when we are down or in trouble. But even when there is no echoing of help from places we expect it, we still have the ability to love, to help, to not turn a blind eye to those suffering beside us. To DO GOOD.
I am ashamed that I have not been better at this. Often times using the excuses of my past to shield me from being human. Just being a human being. Focusing on a bigger picture than what my eyes see. Because sometimes my eyes are blinded by my own insecurities and hurt. I don’t walk among you better or lesser than anyone else. I am here like most of us, trying to find my place, but maybe I should be spending more time knowing my place. That I need to serve others while on the journey. Not taking a sabbatical just to get to the place that I’m ‘good enough’ to serve others or ‘willing’ to serve others or ‘humbled’ enough to serve others.
Oh, I’m still rather broken. But instead of cowering in the corner, I’m hoping to make a little bit of a difference. Fucked up as I am, I want my kids to thrive, my friends to prosper, those that I work with to be successful, and the stranger to be less of a stranger, maybe a friend I just haven’t met yet.
With the recent changes in my life, I find myself again without a partner, without the person that I thought was going to be with me forever. And I desperately want that. But at this moment I need to make sure that I am aware, sensing what the world around me has to offer and not just tasting the delicacies, but partaking in the hard work of lending a hand or being available for those who might need it. And there are many examples around me of how to better be a servant. Some people will think that seems stupid. I don’t want to be subservient to anyone, but I do want to help make life better. And maybe store up a little of those treasures in heaven, if you believe in those.
As I was sitting in a parking lot earlier, having a phone conversation, I noticed a woman with shoes that were falling apart, tattered clothing and very dirty, disheveled hair. Something inside me urged me to walk over to her. But another voice inside kept my doors locked, my windows up and my head turned forward, not daring to fully look her way.
I failed.
I chose to sit in comfort in my truck and not do anything. And as I write this, I am ashamed. What kind of man, person am I if I sit and watch another suffering without at least trying to get their story. We all have a story to tell. And maybe she would have scoffed at me and resisted any help. But what if she just needed to talk. To share a little of herself with someone and to see compassion without judgement. I have felt that – the judgements when you really just need to be heard. I don’t know, but I chose to cower in safety instead of learning a little bit about someone else on this planet. Possibly helping, definitely taking a chance. I am truly ashamed of this.
So tomorrow I will get up and do it again, this journey of life. I hope I’ll have the chance to redeem my choice from today, but no matter, I am more aware that I want to be better. To truly, hopefully DO GOOD.
