Freeing My Mind

This is my second attempt at this particular blog. I wrote the first one on a plane from Charlotte to San Francisco via my iPhone. The app crapped out and I lost the whole thing. Never-the-less, it’s actually quite poetic when you consider my thoughts for today.

I never realized how much I would miss writing and more specifically, writing my blog. For the past couple of weeks my time for writing has been scarce at best. Between traveling, speaking and other requests for my time, my once steady routine has morphed into a mere memory. When it comes to what has been the core of my life for a number of years now, speaking at conferences and ministering to local churches, the times where I felt truly satisfied were few and far between. (That story for another day.) Although, for the past month or so that I’ve focused so much time in putting my thought process in word form, I’ve experienced an incredible amount of satisfaction. The actual process of writing can at times cause something akin to a brain freeze  after gulping down a slurpee too fast, but having the finished product produces a feeling akin to finishing an hour long cardio session. It’s not easy, but your so glad you did it.

I’ve always wanted to be an artist. The idea of being able to expression my ideas through a creative process has been a desire of mine since I was a child. My imagination has always been pretty active. As an 8 year old, that imagination was played out through my backyard. My brother and I turned what once was a simple cluster of adjoining backyards into a warzone in which we were tasked as the sole good guys amongst a horde of rotten bad guys. My brother constantly pushed my imagination beyond its brink by always being one step ahead of me when it came to deciding what weapon of mass destruction the stick in his hand represented. The process of making a rock into a hand grenade was very satisfying to me.

During elementary school, or “grade school” for my northern friends, the highlight of each year was inevitably the annual Book Fair. The Book Fair was actually nothing more than an elaborate marketing ploy at the hands of the Scholastic Books publishing house under the guise of reading education. The educational material actually purchased through the financial contribution of our parents was more along the lines of plush toys attached to a 5 page brochure advertising Mr. Happy, training manuals for properly creating trendy friendship bracelets, posters portraying the stars of Saved By the Bell and the most popular item, drawing books. Among my particular friends the most celebrated of these drawing books contained sports cars. They actually did try to teach you how to draw, but inevitably everyone reverted to simply tracing the pictures through the thin sheets of 8.5×11 writing paper. I was never really into buying these sorts of books, but I was always interested in drawing. I attempted drawing the cars by sneaking glances of my friend’s book , but I never could understand how to express a 3D plane on a 2D background. It was difficult for me to even draw a box, much less a Lamborghini. I would always simply cross out the picture I was trying to draw and rather put a sun in the corner of the paper along with a house consisting of two windows and a door in the foreground. Sometimes I would even add a stick figure and a sidewalk. Most of the time the chimney was the largest part of the house, but at least the curly-q of smoke rising from it was pretty.

When I entered the sixth grade I was “encouraged” to join the band. At the time I wasn’t really thinking about being an artist, but I did consider that it might be an opportunity to learn a trade that might help me become a rock star later in life. In middle-school and high-school band, they make it a point to either let you know how amazing you are or just how much you suck. This is accomplished through the chairs you sit in. The musical genius sitting in the “first chair” was considered nothing less than a prodigy at his or her particular instrument. The individual which was both placed in and labeled as the “last chair” was nothing more than a nuisance to the band director. This person was usually the one who was encouraged to receive some “private tutoring” during the time when the rest of the band was playing “I Got You” for the 123rd day in a row. This was to keep the band director from experiencing the aforementioned brain freeze phenomena. Considering that I was given a shot at three different instruments before retiring, I’ll let you you guess which chair position I was. My quest to be a musical artist didn’t last long.

While I have been called an above average dancer, I wouldn’t say my dancing skills portray any kind of creative expression other than the fact that I was mentored in the art by large groups of african-american females. I did go through a period of time in which I became fascinated with the dance skills of the late, Michael Jackson. My moonwalk is manageable, but needs work.

I even found myself attempting to find my creative voice as a poet. Of course, “Roses are red, violets are blue…” can only be concluded in so many ways.

Needless to say, as a youngster, I didn’t find my artistic avenue. It has always been a desire, but it hasn’t been until recently that I’ve finally found my expression. For the past few years, I’ve been writing off and on. Previously though, my writing took on a very formal tone. I didn’t write creatively, but rather with the purpose and prose that I assumed I was supposed to have. In that type of writing, I never really found any sort of creative satisfaction. I was satisfied, sure, but more in the fact that it was done. Through this blog and other writing projects that I currently have in the works, I’ve finally thrown away how I am supposed to write and embraced how I do write. In that, I have finally found my creative expression.

Who’s to tell us how we are supposed to create anyway? In school we’re taught the correct way to write, paint and even draw Ferraris. Then, when we begin to explore people who actually do those things, we realize that the great ones, the ones who really speak to people, throw all of the normal tropes out the window. Painters flush painting theory down the toilet and simply paint what they feel. One of the most interesting painters that I have studied is Jackson Pollock. Pollock splattered paint over and over onto a blank canvas and his originals sell for millions of dollars. Dancers quickly cease to have the right form and instead just let krumping do the talking. Writers use incomplete sentences, forgo the use of quotations, and begin sentences with “but”. But, for some reason we still feel the need to have our art fit into a previously created package.

Being created in the image of God, the Great Creator, I believe that the ability to create something from nothing is in our nature. The problem is that most people see themselves as lacking the ability to create art. Without getting into a high brow philosophical discussion about what art is, I’ll simply put it this way. Being an artist means embracing your God given ability to depict what is inside of you in order to affect and inspire others. I don’t believe that some of us are anointed to be artist and others aren’t It’s simply that we have to free our minds of what we consider artistic. We all have the ability to create. It’s one part of humanity that separates us from the rest of creation. The key is not simply learning an art form, bur rather making what you do an art form.  The process isn’t easy, but the finished product is sublime. I am an artist. Finally.

inspiration… commence

Once again, if you only read my blog through facebook… try checking out http://awake.org/freeingmymind every now and then… that way you won’t miss my lovely inspiration of the day

For those that refuse

I’m eating my Cuban sandwich for the day. Once again, magnificant. Anyway, this has been a week of various milestones in and around me:  1)I started a blog. 2) Our closest friends in the world gave birth to their first-born. It was quite an experience. 3) The re-imagining and re-launch of our podcast, the AwakeCast (stay tuned for more after the break)  4) Finally got my entire prophetic school in audio form and placed it in our web store. 5)Lastly, our dog Cash, a goldendoodle, stayed home by himself outside of his kennel.

You might not understand why that last one is a milestone, but you don’t know Cash. He’s not your ordinary dog. Sure, like kids, most people say that about their dog. Although, Cash is a different story. He’s like my own personal Peter. In one moment he’s the greatest friend anyone could ask for. The next moment he’s a ravenous wolf attempting to eat children and destroy entire cities. Case in point 1: He eats underwear (women’s underwear to be specific. my wife’s underwear to be more specific.) He doesn’t chew underwear, he actually consumes it… whole. He usually throws it up within a day or so in the yard. Sometimes he doesn’t quite make it that far. One situation had two of my former interns, while wearing kitchen gloves, pulling a pair out of his back-side that couldn’t quite make it through. (No, I didn’t ask them to do it. They were housesitting.) Case in point 2: A couple of months ago Lori and I decided to sit down for a nice quiet evening and watch “Marley and Me“. The movie is about a golden retriever, who despite his destructive tendancies, becomes an objective of love and affection for the characters played by Owen Wilson(one of my favorite actors) and Jennifer Aniston (one of my least favorite actresses). During one of the more dramatic scenes of destruction by the dog, Marley, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Lori and I turned to look at the same time. There was our little “Marley” staring at us, a large bar of soap in his mouth and suds dripping out and onto the carpet. Maybe it seems funny to you.

Back to the milestone. We learned early-on in Cash’s life that he shouldn’t be left alone. Paint pens, clothing, documents and various other objects of importance would simply find their way into his grasp.  Well, I decided that along with the new me, that I should give Cash a chance to enter into a new stage of life. Lori was out of town and between my insane office hours as of late and time spent with the newborn in our “family” I wasn’t finding myself at home too much.  So, at 9:00am I walked out the door, leaving cash standing at the window simply staring. I don’t quite know the emotions that were sure to have been going through his head, but as I backed out of my driveway and onto Price Rd. all I could think about was the first time I stayed home from elementary school by myself. I believe a broken lamp and a “fort” made from every chair, sheet and blanket in the house were only midway up the totem pole of my destruction.

The day went by slower than normal. I didn’t even know if I should tell Lori what I was attempting. I didn’t know if my speech on it being a week of  ”overcoming mountains and reaching milestones” would really play out a thousand miles from the situation. After a day at the office and a few hours spent at Shane and Jess’ (the new parents), I decided to go home and face whatever was waiting for me. As I drove the 5 minutes to my house, I felt like a craps player watching the dice roll across the felt in slow motion waiting to see if this roll would be the same as his 20 previous or if this just might be the one.

As my headlights rolled up the drive and onto the full glass door of my cabin, there he was. Seemingly standing in the exact same spot as I left him. Had he even moved? I hoped not. I could feel orchestral music playing through my head as I grabbed my bag and walked up the steps to our deck. The tympani and symbols building to a crescendo as my fingers grasped the door handle. I opened the door just as the conductor brought the symphony down to a lull. And…….nothing. Well not nothing, but… nothing. Nothing was touched. Nothing was chewed, destroye

d or burned. Everything was as it should be. I walked through the house with my once 80 pound weapon of warfare walking at my side. It was as if he was guiding me through the house, showing me his accomplishment.

As I stood in the driveway that night throwing small branches for Cash to fetch and even as I sat on the couch attempting to w

atch a movie with the big guy barking at me 6 inches from my face, I couldn’t help feeling a sense of pride, both for him and myself. I had given him a chance and he took it. A few weeks ago, God gave me a chance to change my life and I took it. Even with this blog, to most people it might seem like a small accomplishment, but to me it’s a slain dragon. You see, being in the public eye, especially in ministry, people look at you in a certain way. They hold you to standard that not many people can live up to. So, what most people do is attempt to keep the every day and normal “them” out of the public eye. I’ve now committed to putting details of my life, my thoughts and feelings, onto the interwebs for all to see. Should it be a big deal? I guess not. Is it? To me, yes. I think I’m finally learning how to practice what I preach. Change the way things are by attempting to do something different. Color outside the lines. So here I am. Craig. A son, husband, brother, friend. A wanderer and a reformer. Someone who makes mistakes. A lot. But, someone who is also willing to acknowledge those mistakes and change. My hope is that what I’ve been saying is right: Those are the kind of people who change the world.

Oh yeah, my brother, Chris, wrote a blog recently about milestones as well. Check it out.

Your comments are appreciated. And now, my inspiration for today. Time to say goodbye and much love.

inspiration

Let me begin by recognizing the, at times down right poor, writing contained within my first blog. Get used to commas. They’re like a comfort food to me. Too much of a good thing I guess. Let me also say that while I hope to do a better job on the fly, I’m not going to pursue perfect writing etiquette in this blog. Sure, I hope I can use it as a tool to help me become a better writer, but it just takes too much effort to comb through every memory I have of 8th grade creative writing.

As much I was would like to go ahead and begin bloviating about the pursuit of life, liberty and freedom from religion… I’m going to restrain myself. My biggest fear in doing this blog is that it would simply become a daily soapbox for me to expound upon my view of the world, as well as the Church’s, spiritual state. Not to say I won’t do that. I will. But, if I begin to process those issues too early in the day too often, it has the ability to somewhat taint the rest of my day. Not that I get depressed or anything, it just opens up what I call righteous frustration. A feeling that seems to, at times, hinder some of my creative thought process. All that to say, I’m not going to do that, at least today.

So, there’s a building across the street from our office. A small building, but large enough to hold a small retail shop. (You know you’ve spent too much time in other cultures when you almost spell ”shop”, “shoppe”.) Nothing wrong with the place on the outside, but something’s wrong with it. I’m sure you’ve encountered these places before. No matter what type of business settles into this building, which by way is on Main Street of our small town, it can’t seem to make it. Just last year friends of mine opened a coffee and “light fare” shop. Great coffee, good food. Incredible decor. Perfect for the area. Busy street, even a lot of foot traffic. (Which is rare anywhere in the South) The place closed down just a few months after it opened. I haven’t lived in the area for too long, but I have yet to see a business keep it’s doors open in this building for more than a few months.

About three weeks ago I noticed that, once again, the building had been purchased. After seeing the less-than-stellar performance of the past entrepreneurs, I figured that someone had finally decided to just open a real estate office or something. A week later my hopes were crushed. A sign was placed on the door. “Coming Soon: Havana Dreams” “Oh no. A cigar shop in Wilkesboro! I think they need to do a little more market research.” You see while there are some interesting cultures and “trendy” places in North Carolina, I wouldn’t describe Wilkesboro as such a place. Small town. Small town vibe. Small town mindset. It’s amazing our new Super Walmart was even built. I think there was actually a petition against it.  Anyway, imagine my suprise when the shop actually opened its doors last week. It’s not a cigar shop at all. It’s a cuban restaurant.

As I stared out the window of my office, watching the middle-aged Cuban man place his sandwich board onto the sidewalk with every bit of pride he could muster, I couldn’t help but feel inspired. (Along, with a sense of looming dread.) In Wilkesboro, an ethnic restaurant is more of a death wish than a cigar shop. The establishment directly across the street from Havana Dreams, the 50′s Snack Bar, serves hundreds of people for breakfast and lunch. But, the 50′s snack bar serves burgers. Fries. Onion rings. Hot dogs. BLT’s. Cottage cheese. Wilkesonians understand this food. Jamon Pierna and Carne Empanadas, not so much.

Back to my inspiration. Here is this man and his wife. Right in the middle of virtually zero ethnic diversity and they open a restaurant spouting a menu which, even in the midst of my traveling lifestyle, even I have not come across. In the midst of a recession at that. That takes… guts. So, I’ve decided to champion their cause. I had my first Cuban sandwich about an hour ago. It was amazing. Pretty much a pennini. Ham, swiss cheese, pork, pickles and mustard on “Cuban” bread, then grilled. Seriously, it was good. I think I’ll go there everyday for a while. I really hope and pray that they make it. Maybe little Havana could break the curse.