Love and Ego

Last week I had a short but wonderful respite from the routine that has become my life. I went up to northern Michigan to rest and reflect, eat and meditate and recuperate from five months of physical hell. And rest I did! I had momentarily forgotten that strings of unplanned hours might lead to self-examination and scrutiny. In the late evening hours, when my sister and brother-in-law had gone to bed, I took to reading and journaling, since I stay up a couple of hours later than they do. A lot of what I wrote was just about the experiences of each day, but, at times, I began to ask myself some hard questions based on areas of disillusionment in my life and history. Some interesting things began to surface.

 

I have always considered and viewed myself as a modest and workmanlike person. The way I saw myself, I was pretty much ego-less and not desiring praise, love, acknowledgment, accolades, envy or admiration. Right? My intent was pure and motivated only by art and the perfection thereof. Right? I was good being the guy in the middle who wanted to help everybody else. I guess I also believed that pigs fly and Santa Claus does indeed fly a sleigh drawn by reindeer.

 

Oh, sure—publicly, I was all of those things. Privately, below my awareness level, I was something less. Attached to everything I did, there was the desire to be admired, loved and approved of. At some deep level, I have been addicted to it. Everything in my life has been motivated by the reward of a pat on the back or some random accolade. Ego gratification, in other words. I have always been trying to prove myself worthy in one way or another—as a musician, a writer, a songwriter, a friend, a parent, a lover and as a husband, father, son and son-in-law. And what was I really after? Love, pure and simple.

 

I wanted others to love me, admire my work and approve of me as a person. I wanted the giant rubber stamp of bona fide approval. I only wanted to be okay in the eyes of those I loved. That desire motivated everything in my life for years, but, when I looked it in the eye, it made me wonder if I chose my path wisely or out of desperation. Everything felt weighted down by my own insatiable ego. That house of cards was now starting to crumble, just when I thought that I was past all those juvenile shenanigans.

 

Without being too hard on myself, I think that everybody is subject to the same needs and stresses to some degree. I started thinking about everybody I know. Everyone I could think of was as hungry and appreciative of being loved as I am. It is a natural desire. At one point, I saw all the beings in the world hoping to come together, with love being a force as powerful as magnetism—drawing people out of isolation and into a common bond. Then, I felt less guilty about my need. I started to see my role in life differently. Aren’t we all here, to some degree, to light up the lives and experiences of others? And, vice versa—aren’t we here to receive the gifts from others, so that they might illuminate our life experiences in earthly life? Isn’t it okay, as George Bush Sr. once alluded to, to become a “point of light” in the world? Isn’t that kind of the point of why we are here in the first place? Of course.

 

So, I began to wonder, what purpose did ego really serve in this grand cosmic dance? Was it the fuel that drove people to take on gargantuan tasks in order to share and receive love? Well, yeah. So it’s not a bad thing, right? Or is it? Or does it depend on what we are aware of?

 

I came to the conclusion that ego has the most power in youth. It fuels dreams and makes people hungry to achieve at the highest levels. Its breeding ground is ignorance and innocence. Everybody starts there except for saints, I suppose. The thing is, it is sort of like training wheels on a bike. Eventually, you want to ride without them. Ego is something that should be outgrown and discarded as a human being reaches maturity. When the wheels come off, a person should finally realize that creating love in the world ensures receiving love of equal or greater magnitude. Or, as Paul McCartney sang in “The End”:

 

And in the end

The love you take

 Is equal to the love

You make

 

Seeing art and life from that viewpoint alters the picture a bit. The emphasis shifts from “being loved” to “sharing love” and from self to others. It doesn’t mean that one shouldn’t celebrate and get joy from seeing others made happy. That is a good thing. The real difference comes when one is outside the realm of sharing and contact. Then, the important thing is to find happiness and contentment in the vacuum when there is no outside validation. If I can’t find real happiness on my own, without outside validation, then I have a big problem. Some would say that peace is found between a man and his maker, and no other way. I’d probably agree. I have bought into many foolish notions, thinking that certain successes would deliver me from my pain and my sorrows. That deliverance never materialized.

 

When babies leave the nest, they should figure out how to be self-sufficient and how to carry on without the cushion of constant parental doting. The less they are able to do so, the more ego comes to the temporary rescue. In the end, it’s about what you do because you love to do it. That trumps doing something to BE loved by a mile.  The former is independent and the latter is needy. Yet, in a physical world of dichotomy, loving is always stronger than needing love.

 

I am learning that, slowly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Health Update

After five months of pain, I am pleased to say that I am definitely getting better. The back, while not 100%, is much better than it was and I am expecting a full recovery—even if it takes a few more months. The pain is greatly reduced. I think some regular treatments on the inversion table and taking care not to over-exert myself will get me put together again.

The terrible side effects of the steroids seem to be diminishing as well. The temporary steroid induced diabetes is almost gone. My heart rate is coming back to normal too. The depression is vanishing as well. I have tests tomorrow to see if I still have anemia. I’m keeping my fingers crossed, hoping that my hemoglobin numbers have surged back up to close to normal. If so, then I am on my way.

I thank everyone who has offered prayers, encouragement, humor and positive thoughts on my behalf. I am incredibly lucky to have so many loving and caring friends. I have wanted to deliver some positive news for some time, so this feels good to express my status.

The Nothing Book

The Nothing Book

At some dark, dank bookstore in 1975, I picked up a blank book meant for journaling called “The Nothing Book.” The sub-title was “Wanna Make Something of It?” Well, I did—even though what was written in it shows a young man in the throes of confusion and, alternately, working through his problems with the power of positive thinking. It is an incomplete chronicle of a musician/songwriter trying to make sense of making a living in a band and failing more than succeeding along the way. The book begins with this passage:

There is so much going on inside my head that I could never begin to express all of it. I think of what I am and what I want, what I need and what I don’t need. I look at what I can do and what I can’t do—I constantly try to sort myself out and become, somehow, a stronger person.

At the time, I was playing in a band, trying to eek out a living while, at the same time looking to take said band to music business success. I had definite goals. I wanted the band to make hit records and I wanted to play on those records. I also wanted to write some of those hits. The problem was that there was no map or precise series of steps to achieve and attain what I wanted. That left the only option: going forward in complete blindness. Of course, I followed that path, observing every detail.

Later, I wrote:

It is important for a person to know what his purpose is, and it is even more important to strive to achieve that purpose.

Yeah, man! I was locked on the nebulous target and I knew what I was aiming at. Problem was, I didn’t know a damn thing about business—especially the music business. I figured that the artists made the music and the record companies sold the music. Simple, right? Well, I didn’t really understand the business model that the record companies had fashioned. That is probably just as well, because they would have taken all my profits if I had succeeded in my purpose. I was a budding artist but a music business idiot.

I had plans to do a solo album, but got into a horrific car accident—crushing two of my fingers on my left hand. I didn’t know if I would ever play guitar again. Long story short—I stayed with the band, trying to make my dreams come true. The hand healed and I kept on making music with the band.

I talked a lot about doing a solo album, but I never did one. Thought I might play some solo gigs too—and I never did a single one. Truth was, I needed others. I was not comfortable being alone. At this point, I wrote in the “Nothing Book,”

I wonder what game I’m playing sometimes, but I know its good. My pain is gone today. I write songs, sing them and play guitar. I live through these abilities. I survive with love. I survive through right actions and naturally felt ones.
Sometimes I feel like I know everything and then I realize I know nothing. It’s not what you know, its what you are.

Maybe I wasn’t as dumb as I thought I was back then. Then again, I never stopped to consider that perhaps the band was not up to the level it needed to be to succeed. That idea would have driven me off the deep end, searching for a cure that I’m not sure I could find. When it came to the music, I was pure type “A”. When it came to the business side, I was AWOL. I’m not really sure if creative types even think of the mechanics of business.

When it comes down to the nitty gritty, one can only look away from oneself so far. Then, it is time to take responsibility for the big picture. While I was working hard on music and songs, I let the business side go to hell. I did not really see how the art and business went hand in hand. I do now.

There was much more in the nothing book that does not worth repetition. In a nutshell, I was looking around trying to figure out if the band’s lack of success was my fault or someone else’s affair. I never did unravel that little puzzle. The band broke up and I moved on to other things.

Inside the “Nothing Book”, I have a personal record of the turmoil and the forces that turned a willing group of musicians from being a band to breaking apart. I had such good intentions, but, as they say, the road to hell is paved with them.

Interestingly, the book ends with an entry about me leaving the next band I joined. I took a year off after that. Then, I came back to music, and I have been playing for a living ever since.

Getting Good

I didn’t know what I wanted. I just knew that I wanted to be more than I was. I was 11 years old and I was surrounded by people that were better looking, more accomplished in sports, less shy, stronger, smarter and more confident. Oh, I could get good grades, but they didn’t mean anything to me beyond the couple of miniscule minutes of praise I might get when the report card was revealed to the parental units. Grades didn’t fill me up or eliminate the nagging empty feeling. They just kept me from the horror of being grounded. I existed—sure. But what was I going to be?

At that time, I was just another kid filling up space in junior high classrooms—undefined, unremarkable and unfulfilled. While the bright and bubbly popular kids became the icons of the hallways, the political leaders of the school and the letter sweater-wearing heroes of the track and the gridiron, I was still part and parcel of the undefined masses—the ones that get lost in the blur of the background—not even remembered enough to be forgotten. I was just another meaningless statistic–a name called for roll at the beginning of each homeroom class.

The whole idea of learning music took a long time to germinate in my psyche. As a little kid, I was fascinated by the sound of records. It was a Through the Looking Glass kind of experience. There was something on the other side of the mirror—something that manifested in those records that could not be touched or held. Music was a vast magical mystery. If I had a friend who lived in a house with a piano, I was always drawn to the keys. I couldn’t play anything but pressing a key or two unleashed some power that I felt but did not understand. It seemed to whisper something to me and explain some secret. I didn’t know it was going to become a bridge that might save my life, but it was always calling me.

I got a trophy once for writing an essay. I won a few baseball games as a pitcher. I tried my hand at drawing and sculpture, but I was not that blessed in those media. Finally, after fooling around with a friend’s dad’s Martin guitar, I asked if I might be able to take some guitar lessons. Thus began my quest and my opportunity to be something that nobody else could claim to be (or so I thought in my naivety).

So I practice long and hard. Time passes. My being is stamped: I am a guitar player. I think I am pretty good, even though tapes from the 60’s reveal that there is room for growth—well, a lot of growth. Even so, I buy into this new identity. It is the one thing that makes me unique. It doesn’t matter if I am not the quarterback on the high school football team. I am an electric guitar player (with a band no less) and when that football game is over, my band and I are playing for the dance after the game.

Fast forward four and a half decades and that same identity doesn’t mean what it used to mean. I’ve learned that who you are is more important than what you do. Identity is the expression of the soul. What we do is just the vehicle by which the soul is expressed. Still, I needed to be something back then. I needed to hang my hat on some rack and call it my own.
Maybe I was freer before I sought an identity. When a person can’t be pigeonholed, there is a freedom in that kind of existence. Then again, it depends on the person. My shyness separated me from the world. Like I alluded to earlier, music was a bridge. For me, it was the connection to humanity—one that I probably couldn’t have found otherwise. Over the years, I had to stand up and play for countless people. In between, I was mingling with the crowd, meeting people, learning to relax and learning to share who I was.

I did get pretty good at playing the guitar, relatively speaking. There are those that are better and those that are worse. In the end, I’m the only one who will measure my progress. What it all really comes down to is what matters most to all of us—loving and being loved for who we are. And who we are is not some skill we mastered. It is not some great trick we learned to pull off. It is simply the bright light that shines from the depths of our true souls.

This is not to say that one should not find an identity. All I mean is that identity is random and can be changed. What we can be is not the same as who we are. Sometimes we move others with what we’ve become—like playing some great music—and other times we move others by who we are—like having a simple and honest conversation. I wish I had known that a long time ago.

Time

Maybe it is just me, but I doubt it.  I’m talking about my inability to grasp and make peace with the passing of time. It is an issue that follows me around compulsively. Of course, I know, it’s me creating the problem, but I don’t ever seem to gain ground in giving a licking to what keeps on ticking. I know I can’t stop time, but I’d be happy if I could at least slow it down a little! Everything moves too fast. I celebrate it all, yet it does mess with my mind.

It is like there is a big disconnect between the spiritual “me” that has been basically the same this whole lifetime, and the physical “me”. I’m doing fine with the spiritual “me”—it is trying to decode and decipher the experiences of the physical “me” that I have trouble with. Pierre Teilhard Chardin said: “We are not physical beings having a spiritual experience, we are spiritual beings having a physical experience.” Ah, yes. And in that statement lies the crux of the problem. I am being two things at once and there is an incongruity between the two. One remains constant and the other is constantly in a state of change.

On the constant side, I experience the “me” that goes back to my earliest memories. Strangely, that is a beingness that has never really changed. It was the same at five as it was at sixty. The physical “me”, on the other hand, does nothing but change. The body ages and I continually have to readjust to life as a slightly different physical person daily.

Love is what messes it all up, but love also is the only thing that allows everything to make sense. The Buddhist would call the problem “attachment”.  Yeah—that is just what love does—it attaches me to people and to things. I suppose there is a state of love without attachment, but I still have a long way to go see things from that point of view. Right now, I love my family and my friends. I still love the music I grew up with. I love the earth, the seasons and the entire process of how life is sustained and made beautiful in this physical existence.

I think the secret is about letting go of attachment, but not letting go of love. There is a certain sense of resigning oneself to the inevitability of change in this physical existence. We are going to get old. So are our friends, our parents and our children. Fighting against those physical truths is insane, but that is exactly what I have been doing. I lost my father less than two years ago, and I still have trouble resigning myself to the truth. I see my kids a third of the way through their life cycles and it seems impossible. At sixty, I have to confront the idea of my mortality. It sucks. I want what I love and I want to stay connected to all of it—especially my wonderful wife. Life wants to arrange things differently. Time continues to go by. What was important 40 years ago is less so now.

We can’t judge the whole by separate incidents. Regardless of what life has blessed us with, we need to look at our individual existences as the sum total of what we have experienced. That is key. A life purpose should span the whole life—not just a few moments. Otherwise, one would live in constant regret in the valleys when miracles were scarce.

In the end, time conquers and kills everything we love in the physical world. I think the only solution is to accept that fact and hinge all our hopes to our spiritual selves—knowing that they exist beyond the ravages and the brutality of time. I have to trust that all these people and things I love were guided into my life for specific purposes. It is up to me to learn from what I have been given. And to find the balance between my spiritual self and my physical existence. One contains the idea of time and the other does not.

The eternal self is the one that is outside of time. Err on the side of eternity.