A Few Thoughts About Imposter Syndrome..

In order to begin to accept the havoc that imposter syndrome was wreaking upon my life, I had to learn to grapple with it, to understand it, to accept my role in the entire mess. I no longer wanted to get stuck in cycles of shame that were punctuated by so many senseless moments of fear and self-destruction. But in order to begin that work, I had to be willing to go toe-to-toe with the bully in my head.

It took a long time and rather Herculean (and continuing) effort to begin to change my mind set regarding imposter syndrome. For a long time, I felt very much like a fraud because my writing wasn't as sharp or polished or practiced as others; either because I didn't read as widely as I should or because I subscribed to some rather ugly old views about my own worth and talents that I have since, through diligent work, spiritual practice and therapy, recanted. 

It's never too late to change an opinion of yourself or the world, to learn and embrace better ideas, to learn a new skill or dream a new dream. I've learned that we are not frauds for taking the time we needed to get to where we are today, and to get to wherever it is we may be going. One of the precious gifts of passing time and age and growth is that we can begin to discover incredible, buried skills later in life: to become writers and dancers and comedians and creators when we previously couldn't envision these things for ourselves. It's a beautiful moment when we can truly begin to detonate those limiting beliefs and become who we are truly meant to be. 

The imposter syndrome mindset says that we're imposters if we lack the formal training or "sweat equity" that some others have poured into their art. But, the truth is, we are always growing and evolving - all of us. We will always be in the process of finding our way forward. And just because you haven't been writing or dancing or woodworking as long as some other people, that doesn't mean you haven't been living your life, learning and observing and growing and reading and being. And guess what? All of those things contribute to our eventual creative acts. 

This realization has been a radical life change for me because I wouldn't have been able to say these things to you in previous years and be telling the truth about it with firm conviction. I was unsure, insecure and mostly felt like a fraud whenever someone offered the beauty of praise, which feels so good and lifts my soul, but even more so when I can accept it and believe them. Sometimes, I still battle that feelings of fraudulence. Luckily, it's a rarity these days. But goodness, if you feel inspired, try your best mot to let that inner critic be the loudest voice in the room. Be inspired. It fucking feels good. If you want to write, write. If you feel like dancing, dance with your whole body and soul. Cook, run, sew, sing. Do it with dedication and love. Whatever sets your being on fire - jump in and do it! And guess what? You'll get where you need to be eventually. It might not be an easy road, but you'll get there.

Shame tells us we are imposters for rejection, or for social media disengagement, or for a myriad of other reasons that have very little to do with what we have actually created. Besides, to be creative is to be rejected at times. To exist with integrity on social media means the algorithm will usually work against us. And as much as rejection or diminished engagement can suck, it is simply not indicative of our worth, creative or otherwise. Please believe this and remind yourself of this, especially when the path feels like a lonely road.

If we are actively investing in our craft, "knowing better so we can do better," if we are accepting practice as a virtue, connecting with others not for what they can do for us but because we genuinely want to know them and share space with them, we will grow into our skillsets as a natural byproduct of living in such a manner. We will become more familiar with our chosen mediums. We will, if we can learn to silence the inner shame soundtrack and believe in that spark of beauty and passion that got us rolling in the first place, begin to trust our gifts more and more. And it seems to me, that when we truly get into this sacred space, the imposter syndrome begins to rear its head less and less. It simply doesn't have the fat to chew on without us playing a role in our own degradation. 

And just to remind you one more time, my friend: You are not an Imposter for not being perfect. We're all in the process of being formed. And we'll never completely get there. There's no clear finish line. Just keep doing what sets your heart ablaze. Just "serve the work." The world needs your voice. As the Poet Laureate of Skid Row, Mr. Charles Bukowski himself once wrote: "You are marvelous. The gods wait to delight in you."

I wait to delight in your gifts and talents, too. 

Hey There, Slugger.

It would be over soon. That terrifying, hissing sound that the big snake made when it started to come to a stop, just before peeking it's eyes out of the platform tunnel. That was the worst part. The noise gets in your ears and rattles around and you have to go to "no, no, no!: to it to make it stop, like all the bad things. It's easier if your crush your teeth together. Covering your ears doesn't help much, but Andy used to try that sometimes, too. 

It was 3:19. Andy knew Ian probably wouldn't be on this train. Final bell was only 14 minutes ago, but he got here early just in case. Sporting that trademark Andy wall-to-wall smile, he nodded his head and said "good afternoon" and "it's such a nice day" to people exiting the train and moving up onto the higher platform or out onto the street. Sometimes, a nice old lady would smile back at Andy. Andy liked it when people were nice. He didn't see the kid who borrowed his walkman, but he hoped he would bring it back soon because it had his favorite Billy Joel tape inside. Billy told Andy about all the good things and the good people in his songs, but also that love was hard sometimes. But probably not for his brother Ian. Things were easy for him because Ian was the best brother in the world. 

Andy smiled and offered up a few more "hellos" and "how are you todays" to people passing by, before giving up and going back to sit on the bench. "The next one comes at 3:31," he announced out loud, trying to be helpful. "Don't worry, Ian is on there. And your brother might be on there, too!" 

The man on the bench sitting next to him got up and walked over to another bench. "Don't worry about it," his brother's voice told him in his head. People didn't like to talk sometimes. That's why Andy didn't go to the loud Starbucks but the smaller one where Jessica worked. Jessica would always talk about TV shows and Billy Joel with him and she was his friend because she's nice. Andy made it a point to stop in whenever he knew she was working. 

If Jessica were here, she would talk to him, Andy thought. "Her favorite song is Shameless. Garth Brooks sings it, too. He's a country singer. Billy's not a country singer but Jessica says Garth is pretty good, too. Just not as good as Billy."

The man on the other bench blurted out "Billy fucking sucks!" His voice was aggressive. He used the f word and everything. It scared Andy. He didn't like it when people said mean things, especially when their voice got louder. He wanted to tell the man that Billy didn't suck but he was afraid he might get madder and maybe try to hurt him and Ian wasn't here to make him stop. He got nervous and hoped the train would be here soon. He wished his friend would come back with his tape and his walkman. He wanted to hear "Uptown Girl." It always made him want to dance. Ian used to say that he didn't like to dance but Andy knew Ian would be a good dance if he wanted to because he's such a good runner and jumper and baseball player. 

One time, he took Andy to the batting cages and they let him swing like a real baseball player. Ian helped him stand like the guys on the Dodgers do and he hit it two times. "Home Run, Bud!" Ian would say, smiling. 

I wish the guy on the bench had a brother like Ian. He's probably mad because he never got to boom swing home runs. I would teach him how to do it but he's mean so I don't want him to get mad at me again. 

The loud, roaring hiss came again. It made Andy a little dizzy as he crushed his teeth together.

"It doesn't really help if you cover your ears," he said towards the man on the bench, but then he noticed he was gone. It's OK. Andy was used to that. At least he wasn't saying mean things about Billy Joel with the f word anymore. 

He scanned the cards, watching people step off the train one at a time. He met the eyes of several strangers and tried to smile at them, but most of the just looked away as they exited. "Don't worry, they're probably just busy and not being mean on purpose," Ian's voice reminded Andy in his head. Andy knew lots of people were always in a hurry. He got bumped into a lot on the street because they were always going so fast and Andy couldn't walk very fast. 

The numbers were dwindling as people stepped out onto the platform. He recognized some of the people from before, but most of the eyes and faces were unfamiliar strangers. Just before the doors closed, he saw Ian, with his backpack draped over his shoulder. 

The big kind of smile came over Andy's face as he hobbled over to his brother. "Well hey there, Slugger!" Ian said to him, smiling. 

"He calls me that because I can hit home runs. I already hit two last time," he told an older lady with tired eyes walking close to Ian. She nodded her head and quickly shuffled off. 

On the Beauty of Music, A Return to Childhood & A Glimpse of the Life that Liturgy Celebrates..

I have a pretty clear memory of the first time I went to the symphony. I was about seven years old and it was during the Christmas season. 

Even walking into the concert hall (I wish I remembered where and my grandmother is, of course, no longer alive for me to ask) gave me the overwhelming sense that I was there to witness, or experience, something new and profound. My young brain sensed that this event was important; like church, but on a much larger scale. Folks were gathered in their nicer clothes and the quiet murmur of voices contained a kind of adult excitement, a prelude to something mysterious and joyful - the stuff that one rarely glimpses as a child. 

After settling into our seats, the lights darkened and the curtains opened. The memory comes back clearly: the feeling of anticipation, a venture into the unknown about to unfold right before our ears and eyes. As the musicians began to play, I felt this sweep of rapture move across me. I started to cry. I couldn't help it. The tears were involuntary and felt almost holy. I felt a mixture of intense affection, wonder, longing, smallness, immensity and gratitude. I felt like the luckiest little kid in the world to be witness to the inner lives of these beautiful beings laid bare on the stage, these strange fellow creatures who loved to make objects sing for no apparent reason other than to commune with the hearts and ears of those who came to witness. 

I never felt that in church. Church, at least for me, seemed mostly to obscure the raw force and glory of whatever that rapture is. Only in nature, in music, in love, and in the arms and care of other humans - only in the warm mysterious arithmetic of those radiant forms - did I sense the nearness of the divine. It seemed to me, that the only time I came close to glimpsing a similar feeling during church, it was in the elements that felt earthen and wild and weird; the fleeting flashes of playfulness and mirth. The all too human beauty that dances within the mystery. 

I did not come upon this DJ's NPR Tiny Desk Concert expecting to dissolve into near tears of awe, but that's what happened. This young man seemed like some strange and otherworldly version of a priest, and it is entirely possible hat he's never even opened a theology book in his entire life. This - this is eucharistic. This is a glimpse into the Life that liturgy celebrates. This is the all too human beauty beauty that dances within the mystery, And I feel like I'm seven years old again.

My grandmother is no longer here to share it with, so I am passing the beauty on to you. 

Happy Sunday. You are Loved more than you could possibly imagine. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4iQmPv_dTI0

In A Simple Passing Glance

Dear Friend,

We are not the glossy, carefully cultivated digital versions of ourselves that we present to the world. We are living, breathing beings of complexity who cannot exist without each other. And yet, our eyes so often see strangers when they meet the gaze of another. Perhaps, if we knew the immensity of beauty and humanity contained within a simple passing glance shared between two flawed humans, illuminating upon one another's face and form, we would buckle beneath the power of it, and finally recognize and remember each other.

We are not strangers. 

How We Begin Again

The time of darkness was upon us 

Long before most of us even recognized it, my son. 

 

Neighbors became strangers 

We were defined by fear, by border, 

By distance 

A prisoner of the stories we told ourselves 

Until we had no chance but to believe. 

 

Some held on for love 

The currency of endurance 

Longing hearts rejecting apathy, 

Refusing to surrender to numbness 

 

But the skies erupted into fire 

The night burned flashpoint red 

With flames of hatred 

Constructed by our own hearts and hands. 

 

Books, buildings, dreams 

Scattered to ash 

In the name of tribe 

Of power 

Of Nothing. 

Dividing lines and dividing souls 

Losing our most precious gift: 

Each other. 

 

The sickness sank into our bones 

Burned holes into our souls 

The filters could not cover the shape of the lie 

Or the stench of the decay. 

 

Cynicism replaced curiosity 

Love slipped out of fashion 

Cruelty was rebranded as a superpower 

Vulnerability was the old way 

And the old way was cursed, mocked, shamed 

And then it was forgotten 

 

Endless breath was wasted on rage 

Engulfing and suffocating 

The prayers of grandmothers 

The cries of babies 

The dreams of our fathers 

 

The village songs muted 

Fences built high 

With the wood from church pews and kitchen tables 

The feathers of hope, torn bit by bit 

We chewed them up, spit them out. 

 

But let this not be how it ends.  

 

So, my son 

I say to you now 

Under these darkened skies 

In these graveyard cities stained with blood 

 

If you are permitted the chance to start again 

If you are called to build a new Canaan 

Start with the simplest things. 

 

Tend to what is beneath your feet 

Place your faith in seeds 

Listen to the story of the cicadas 

Rest your hands in the dirt 

 

In the faint, stirring breeze, 

Hear the songs of children to come. 

Let the rivers and trees speak 

Ask nothing in return but to listen 

And to marvel. 

 

Touch one another’s faces 

Make the soft folds of flesh holy 

Let the songs you sing to one another 

In the crisp of air of morning 

Glorify The World You Tend to 

The world you hope to build 

And the world to come. 

 

Summon the hope and the empathy 

To imagine what our dead would ask of us 

And find the courage to give it. 

 

Learn the names of every pair of eyes you meet, my son 

Say them 

Sing them 

Remember them 

Tattoo them on your heart 

 

This is how we remember 

This is how we begin again.  

Stillwater Runs Deep..

Certain pieces of media, be it a film or an album or a favorite poem you’ve memorized, seem to seep into your soul and stain it forever, like coffee or blood on your favorite t-shirt. When I get into that strange place where the world stops making sense and starts to resemble a rambling, out of focus fever dream, I tend to reach back to those soul-staining classics that have long made my heart ache and my ass shake. I’m not usually a creature of habit, but sometimes you have to wrap up in the blanket and look to reaffirm that feeling of belonging that often gets lost in translation in this overanalyzed and under tenderized world. So, a few nights ago, feeling bewildered by a project that seems to be going off the rails with no end or solution in sight, I decided to traverse the technological tightrope for tacit truth and stumbled upon a familiar beauty: Cameron Crowe’s “Almost Famous,” his semi-autobiographical, Academy-Award winning ode to the rock scene of the early 1970’s. This is probably the 15th time I’ve seen it, and it has never been anything other than exactly what I needed it to be. 

Cameron Crowe has a history with me. His book “Fast Times At Ridgemont High,” where Crowe pulled a 21 Jump Street and infiltrated a Southern California High School, was developed into a film which, for better or worse, remains my favorite movie of all-time. The kids in it go through some serious stuff. Thhe subjects are not treated like children, with kid gloves, as difficult adult themes permeate the film. It’s not your typical 80’s teen faire – a horny boobs and bozo romp.  It cuts far deeper than most other teen movies of the era. And it also doesn't hurt that the soundtrack is phenomenal. 

A few years later, Crowe brought “Say Anything” and the tender neurotic beauty of Lloyd Dobler (played by John Cusack) into my life. I was hooked. But it might be his 1992 film “Singles” that was the clincher for me – a flick seat in Seattle during a time, an era, which I remember fondly and loved. It came out when I was 15 and it spoke to me. I’m half-embarrassed to say, more than three decades later, it remains a go-to movie when I want to feel like I felt during the days of movie-watching parties with friends, late night MTV and schlocky horror, wandering hands, aimless meanderings with friends and fucking "figuring it out, man."

Every last character in Almost Famous is on their own full-blown odyssey, fraught with Kalypsos, Medusas and angry gods galore. Furthermore, their journey is thinly disguised under a barely veiled cloak of various human frailties, all of which threaten to drag the individual and collective down into the anguished depths. 

Wild-eyed teenage rock scribe William Miller is pushing against his innocence, chipping away, as best he can, at his upbringing, at the lack of understanding from his peers, at the isolating reality of an upbringing in his mother’s strange and unconventional home – seeking growth, freedom and maybe an answer or two along the way through the only healing solace he’s ever found: rock n’ roll. In the end, one of the heaviest realizations has to do with those very chains of youth he endeavored to escape. He finds a kind of peace and beauty in the things he sought to run from, going home to mom and finding a respite from a cruel and chaotic world. The road, the music, the escape doesn’t equate to fewer problems, just different ones. Wherever you go in life, whatever far off corner you run to, you will always find yourself there.  

Penny Lane and her gloriously merry band of Band-Aids are battling for respect and love; fighting against perceptions about who they are during a time when women across the country were beginning to raise a collective middle finger to patriarchal convention.  

Russell Hammond, the brooding but immensely talented and surprisingly insightful guitarist of burgeoning superstar rock band Stillwater is navigating the heavy burden of being the most talented man in a band he has stylistically outgrown, all while trying to maintain a leadership role among the brothers he cares for despite knowing they limit his creative freedom.  

His frontman, Jeff Bebe, is battling imposter syndrome and having a difficult time keeping himself from falling apart over the ongoing war in his psyche.  

Anita, William’s older sister, is frantically trying to escape their mother’s protective clutches, while their Mom (brilliantly played by Frances McDormand) is doing everything she can think of to keep her kids safe in a rapidly changing world that has already claimed her husband and that she not-so-secretly fears will lure her kids away, too.  

It was everything I needed to upend my funk the other night. The film is funny where it needs to be (Philip Seymour Hoffman’s take on iconic rock journalist Lester Bangs is inspired -- “You’ll meet them again on their long journey to the middle”), serious when it is called for (“Most people are just waiting to talk, but you listen”) and always seems to lead with is heart (“The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you’re uncool.”) Crowe has always written characters and dialogue that deeply resonate with me, and, I would assume, with many of you.  

Being born in 1977, I missed out on this fantastic era of rock history, save for what I’ve been able to glean from books, documentaries and decades of crate digging, but the age’s siren song has always called out to me. So many of the bands I grew up loving all grew up worshipping Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin and the like. And so it goes, the rolling wheel of life, love and rock n’ roll, no? 

In this decaying age of Influencers putting forth fool’s gold on their virtual dopamine farm platforms, I still mine for the real deal. It certainly doesn’t feel like it’s in abundance anymore (though I may be curmudgeonly and about to yell at the kids to get off my lawn), but the odd nugget of beauty can still be excavated, provided your eyes are open, your mind remains sharp or your ears can still feel the real. "Almost Famous" celebrates the real as well as any cinematic love letter to rock n' roll that ever graced the big screen.

I wish I could direct you to dozens of similar films, but in truth, it has very few contemporaries. These moments are beautiful and scarce. The intoxicating beauty of rock n' roll is just hard to capture. But when the moment happens, even if it’s rare, it’s magic. It’s forever. It calls to you, again and again. It gets deep into your soul. All you can do is dance with it because It’s All Happening.