Monday, July 2, 2012

Changing Spots (This Might Hurt a Little)

Boys, there will come a time in your lives, hopefully many of them, where you count the till.  That is to say, the till that is your life.  It rarely happens in youth, but seems to be an almost daily occurrence as the years pass and the calendar begins to work against you.  The till, in this case, is an assessment of where you came from (the influences and inspirations), where you are (as honest and brutal as necessary), and where you want to go (pipe dreams and all).   Sometimes the answers revolve around you as person, or you as a father, or you as a spouse.  Sometimes they may not include much of you at all, as you take account of those around you and those with whom you've chosen to associate.  Either way, I hope one thing for you; that you would be honest with yourself.  No matter the cost or the repercussions.  That honesty will serve as your true North and will hopefully clear your path of the distractions that keep us from who we're truly meant to be.  That said, I can only pray that my own decisions in this, and yours, will prevent or lessen the inevitable "what could've beens" that mortality tricks all of us into believing.

From my earliest years, that I can remember, I was always a musician.  Be it the piano, the trumpet, or singing, I was always involved in music.  The curse of it was that it came easy.  That's not meant to be boastful or braggadocios, but rather, it's meant to be telling.  That statement, being fact, points toward what held me back from counting my till for many years.  In school, other subjects didn't matter, I had music.  When the time came to choose a college, it didn't matter.  Wherever I went, I knew I'd make music, and would more than likely be successful at it.

But you see, something happened along the way.  I lost my true North.  While I gained great enlightenment and enjoyment from my musical career, I saw no future.  There was no path.  In fact, most of my years of performing had only brought seclusion and loneliness.  It wasn't necessarily the cat's meow to be a great baritone in small town South Mississippi.  And the competitive nature of the college environment only seemed to further separate me from having relationships with my peers.  It was dog eat dog, but I didn't have an appetite.  That's not to say that I wasn't competitive.  I was.  Voraciously so.  The problem was that winning never gave me what I wanted, and losing never hurt as bad as it should.  This was never more greatly emphasized then when I decided it would be a good idea to go out drinking tequila the night before the finals of a regional singing competition, where I felt I was favored, and ended up being so hungover when it was my turn to sing that I forgot the name of my piece and who composed it.  I sang well enough to win, but it was so obvious that I wasn't IN the competition, that I ended up finishing second.

This was the first sign.

If I'm going to be honest, the second sign was my general mental condition at the time.   I wasn't living for a future.  I was selfish.  Your mother seemed to be the only person in my corner, as she always has been.  Maybe to a fault.  Maybe she should've ditched the head case, or maybe I'd disguised just how deep my despair ran even to her.  Either way, she was on board, and we began to plan for the future.

Somewhere along the way, 9/11 happened.  The world seemed bigger, and scarier.  In truth, maybe the sensationalism of it all worked a little too well on an early 20's know-it-all.  Either way, I began to wonder a scary thought.  "Was music my only skill?"  Had I spent so many years taking the easy road of expectations, that I'd forgot that life was about the challenges we don't see, or the fears we've yet to dash?  Either way, I knew that it was time to make a move.  This was further reinforced by one of my professors who gently suggested that there was no way I would ever be a successful music teacher.  I think her heart was in the right place, but she had all the tact of a bulldozer.

It was clear.  My spots were destined to change.  The time had now come to be uncomfortable.  To be unsure.  Nothing makes you more unsure than boot camp.

That's right, I unceremoniously dropped out of college, with one semester to go, and enlisted in the Coast Guard.

It seemed like another crazy and half thought out move to most, but to me, it was just what I needed.  I needed to be in the pack.  To struggle.  To fight.  To fail.  I needed to see that I could prove myself wrong; that I could move the mountains of doubt in my mind, no matter how small the rewards.  What happened next is a story for another time.  But the winning wasn't in the result; it was in the trying.  That's what changing your spots is.  It's real, unadulterated trying.  Yearning.  And those who come with you?  Those are the ones that are worth it. 

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