Articles on Success, Significance and the Evolving Role of Work

It was a crisp Saturday afternoon. I was playing in the backyard with my kids.

The lot beside our house had recently been graded in preparation for a new house. What had been a thicket of mixed pine and hardwood, bamboo and briar, was now a flat, dirt rectangle.

A leaf fell from one of the hardwoods at the back edge of the property and slowly glided into that lot.

It was the stark contrast of something so full of color falling into something so empty that made that moment stick in my brain. I remember thinking it was a sort of visual poem, with no words needed.

Of course, scenes like this play out everywhere everyday.

Leaves fall in the strangest places. Nature acts like…well…nature.

But it’s not art. It’s simply nature.

However, art can emerge from a simple moment like that when, through human engagement, it transcends the moment by connecting to the universal human experience.

When I saw that leaf land in that brown void, it connected me with who I am and what kind of world I live in. It reminded me that my time here is numbered and the world will go on without me. That nature is often bulldozed by human nature. And that a single leaf can call attention to emptiness, while simultaneously making it disappear.

All that from a random glance over my fence.

I’ve come to accept that I inhabit a world (and time) in which there’s so much to read that no one needs my writing. Yet I believe others benefit from me experiencing it in ways that helps them re-connect with themselves, others, the earth we inhabit and the great beyond.

Said another way, the world may not need more writing, but it sure needs more writers.

The world may not need more music, but it sure needs more musicians.

The world may not need more films, photographs, poems, paintings, sculptures or performances, but it sure needs more artists.

Why? Because artists offer transcendence in our transactional world.

And transcendence is always in short supply.

That, then, is my job and yours—to stay awake in a world that sleeps. And report what we see.

Or, maybe, in a world too busy to sleep, my job (and yours) is to dream.

From May 2012 to July 2013, I wrote a weekly series of intimate essays for writers and artists seeking a deeper connection with their identity and place as modern creatives. I called this series Root Notes. This was an essay in that series. It was originally published on February 17, 2013.

For many years, I have felt torn by this tension.

As a husband, father of four, healthcare professional, homeowner, etc. I have obligations. I have commitments and responsibilities that affect others’ lives.

At the same time, I am passionate about writing and earning publication. I would even goes as far to say I feel called to write.

Obligation is a sort of sad beauty.

I imagine the dutiful single mother sacrificing everything to ensure her kids get opportunities she believes she’ll never have. Or the Olympic athlete from a poverty-stricken country giving up their life for the chance of bringing hope to their country and family.

The ghost that haunts obligation is the ever-present wondering of “what if”.

Passion is a sort of joyful narcissism.

Nothing beats the opportunity to pour yourself into something that turns you on. It’s like the rush when beginning to date someone you’re crazy about.

The ghost that haunts passion is rootless wandering.

So, when it comes to our creative ambitions, should we sacrifice passion for obligation or obligation for passion? With limited time in the day, we can’t have more of both, right?

I’ve found that the younger we are, the more space we have for our passions, because we have fewer obligations. But as we age, this reverses as obligations such as family, income, community service, etc. enter our everyday lives.

Here’s what interests me.

What if we could enter an obligation and emerge with a passion?

Or what if we could enter a passion and emerge with an obligation?

In both cases, one serves as a root note, while the other serves as harmony.

If you are young and have time to follow your passion, then how can you root that passion with an obligation to others? And if you’re like me, older and chock-full of obligations, how can you make those obligations the source material for your passion?

That’s what creativity is, isn’t it—taking something and crafting it into something else?

So it only makes sense that that is what we should do in our everyday life, as well.

From May 2012 to July 2013, I wrote a weekly series of intimate essays for writers and artists seeking a deeper connection with their identity and place as modern creatives. I called this series Root Notes. This was an essay in that series. It was originally published on February 3, 2013.

Mountains always look larger in the distance.

I grew up under the shadow of Dug Gap Mountain in Dalton, Georgia. These days, the ever-present geological feature in my day-to-day life is Kennesaw Mountain in the northern burbs of Atlanta.

These mountains, at the Southern point of the Appalachians, are mere molehills compared with the Rockies, Alps and other cloud-piercing ranges in the world. But they are ancient. And, for those of us who hike them, they are deceiving in their challenge.

Once I get to the base of a mountain in my neck of the woods, they don’t look big any more. They seem rather ordinary. Unintimidating.

People can be like these mountains—larger than life, at a distance. A bit of a let down, up close.

But the good stuff, to me, exists in neither the distant admiration nor the first encounter. The good stuff is the ongoing inside experience.

Once I enter a mountain trail, once the voices in my head silence, once my gait, breath and heart rate synch, I enter an experience that will hurt and frustrate me near my limits while simultaneously bringing me joy and awe beyond the ability of words to capture.

The same can be said of a marriage, parenting and creative work. My writing, like my wife and kids, challenges me. It reveals textures within me I didn’t even know existed. It serves as a connective agent. A change agent. A community agent. And a communion agent.

I have a strong desire to stay in the distance. That way I can appear large and mysterious. I think this is because, down deep, I fear I will disappoint those that get close. Like the Wizard behind the curtain in Oz.

But what I’ve come to realize, especially as a writer/backpacker, is that life is not a path. It’s an experience. And my job is not to loom in the distance. Or try to be something I’m not up close.

My job is to challenge the few who enter.

Am I writing words to be consumed by many? Or am I offering words that give a few people life?

Am I writing for the momentary admiration of strangers? Or am I writing something that has a chance of connecting with my great-grandchildren?

Am I chasing trophies? Or am I gardening fruit?

Time will tell, I suppose.

What about you? How are you vulnerable through your creative work?

From May 2012 to July 2013, I wrote a weekly series of intimate essays for writers and artists seeking a deeper connection with their identity and place as modern creatives. I called this series Root Notes. This was an essay in that series. It was originally published on January 27, 2013.

A beautiful, complex fabric is woven through our creative, spiritual, occupational and everyday lives.

We are born with certain personality traits, talents, interests and abilities. It makes us who we naturally are. And who we are certainly influences what we choose to do.

But, as life happens, we take on responsibilities, obligations and circumstances that aren’t necessarily aligned with who we naturally are and what we’re interested in. Yet, for a complex set of reasons, we do certain things. And these choices and behaviors shape who we are.

And this leads to an identity crisis of sorts.

Are the things we do a spillover from who we are? Or do the things we do mold us into who we are?

Take me. I am a creative writer. I primarily write poetry and narrative nonfiction. Plus, I write a few other pieces (like this newsletter). But I’m also a marketing professional in the healthcare industry, where I write thought leadership articles, book chapters, eBooks, etc. I’ve even served as editor of two industry publications “on the side,” in recent years.

Am I a healthcare professional or a creative writer? For years, I felt like I was supposed choose one—the role that best defines me. And put all my energy into that.

But narrowing myself to one focus felt limiting. Not to mention, it neutered my creativity. And choosing both felt like copping out. Was I being indecisive, I wondered?

Thank God for William Carlos Williams, who remains one of my favorite poets.

William Carlos Williams is considered one of the “fathers” of modern American poetry. He was also a practicing family physician for 40 years.

How do you do it? How can you carry on an active business … and at the same time find time to write? … But they do not grasp that one occupation complements the other, that they are two parts of a whole, that it is not two jobs at all, that one rests the man when the other fatigues him.

—Autobiography of William Carlos Williams

Williams is not describing what we refer to these days as “balance”—tending equally to separate pieces. He is referring to harmony.

From a musical perspective, harmony is the co-existence of two or more notes held together by a root note. It is beauty in tension. But it applies to the co-existence of people, projects, places and all the other pieces that make up our everyday lives.

We think of tension as a bad thing—a thing to eliminate. But isn’t it just a natural ingredient in life, like a note? A note isn’t right or wrong, good or bad without the context of a song, right?

I believe we have a core thread running through our body of creative work. And, at the same time, we have threads running through other aspects of our lives too. All these threads co-exist. They create a texture (and tension) unique to us.

As for me, creative writing is my root note. It is the connective core for the other things in my life. And my work in healthcare feeds my creative work. It places me around the kinds of people, situations and stories I seek to collect and connect.

Like William Carlos Williams, if I didn’t do what I do in healthcare, my creative work would suffer. Because a key ingredient would be missing from the recipe. A note would be missing from the chord.

How can you take all the threads in your life and weave them into a unique and interesting whole?

How can you create beauty in tension?

It starts with choosing your root note.

From May 2012 to July 2013, I wrote a weekly series of intimate essays for writers and artists seeking a deeper connection with their identity and place as modern creatives. I called this series Root Notes. This was an essay in that series. It was originally published on January 20, 2013.

There is a Chinese legend about a red thread.

The legend says that the gods tie red strings around the ankles of those who are supposed to meet. Typically it involves lovers. However, the China adoption community has adapted this legend to refer to the fateful connection parents have with their adopted children.

As the father of two daughters from Southern China, I’ve been very familiar with this metaphor for years. And I find it quite beautiful.

I grew up in Dalton, a small town in the northwest corner of Georgia. It’s highly likely the carpet under your feet right now was made in my home town. To this day, the city touts itself (love it or hate it) as the Carpet Capital of the World.

As you might imagine, the story of Dalton (and carpet) is a story of threads. Dalton first came to “fame” through the peacock quilts women hand-made and hung along Highway 41. It was known as Peacock Alley to travelers and Florida-bound vacationers.

A common metaphor for life is a path. We talk about life as something we travel. We speak of journeys. We debate decisions as if they are forks in a road.

But are they? Or is this the best we have come up with so far given the limits of language?

Georgia-born author, Alice Walker, wrote one of the best short stories I’ve read in my life. It’s called Everyday Use.

It’s a story of generations, the stories we tell and our relationship with our heritage (psst…think roots or root notes), for better or worse. And it centers around two quilts that contain family garments that date back to the Civil War. Dee, the daughter, sees the quilts as historic treasures to be preserved and presented. Mama and Dee’s sister, Maggie, see the quilts as items for everyday use.

To me, my life looks a lot more like a patchwork quilt than a path. It’s made up of many paths, many places and people, many personas and roles, and many projects. All stitched together by the threads of memory that wear and tear with time.

Woven in each writer’s body of work is a thread—a theme the writer spends a significant amount of time exploring. It’s much like how each chord, no matter how complex, is held together by a root note.

A very popular author/blogger in the business and marketing world, named Seth Godin, has written a string of bestsellers. He has been responsible for coining many new phrases and frameworks used to this day. For years, his readers have marveled at how he keeps coming up with one “big idea” after another.

Yet a single thread is woven through all his books: the remarkable power of permission.

One of my favorite poets and essayists, Gary Snyder, has a thread woven throughout his body of work: the voice of nature in a human-dominated world.

A friend of mine, who has emerged in the past couple of years a successful author and blogger, has a single thread weaving together all his work: overcoming fear. The more I read his work and chat with him, the more I see how his story of overcoming fear fuels his passion to help others do the same.

Another friend of mine is just beginning his literary journey in the shadows of a successful career as a musician and songwriter. One of the most exciting things to me as I read his work (and chat with him) is watching for the thread. And eventually celebrating its emergence as he hones his craft.

I began writing creatively in 1991 and professionally in 1994. But, believe it or not, last year was the first time the thread connecting all my writing (from poetry to narrative nonfiction to marketing thought leadership) came to the surface for me.

I write about our search for identity.

What about you? What thread (or root note) connects everything you’re doing creatively and professionally?

I promise you it’s there. In your poems. In your songs. In your plots and characters. In your essays. In your conversations. In your thoughts.

It is even in the items you use in your everyday life. You acquired them because of the stories you tell yourself about who you are and how these things support who you are (or hope to be).

From May 2012 to July 2013, I wrote a weekly series of intimate essays for writers and artists seeking a deeper connection with their identity and place as modern creatives. I called this series Root Notes. This was an essay in that series. It was originally published on January 13, 2013.