So…

Was it something I said?

Legends Write Their Own Stories

There’s this story, stop me if you’ve heard this one…

There’s this story of a man… born out of violent tragedy, but given the gift of a second family by his biological mother. His upbringing has its ups and downs, but the majority of it is positive. Sure, there’s some self doubt and confusion, but that’s normal for teenagers, especially boys who are too smart for their own good. Through it all, he’s surrounded by the idea, the feeling, almost a certainty, that he was meant for something bigger. Not making money bigger, not fame and renown bigger, but still… bigger. Greater.

He leaves home, goes away to college and starts to act upon a lot of that promise and potential. He’s no superstar at school, but does reasonably well. Learns about himself, about friendship and a lot about how the wrong choices can lead to the right wisdom.

Post-college, he has some adventures, some physical, some emotional. He wanders and is content to do so for a while. In the back of his mind, he fights to remember that feeling of something bigger. Greater. Meaningful.
Then disaster strikes. First nationally and financially. Then personally. He loses one of the pillars of his life.

But when life takes away one thing, it leads you to another… a few years later, after fighting to get back to his feet, the young man finds Love. And things are wonderful. For a time.

Yet, as in all good stories, the Hero is only as good as the challenges he faces. So Love and Faith are shaken and broken. Comfort is removed and he’s set into the wild. He has to make sacrifices and changes he doesn’t expect and wonders if he’ll regret them. He has many allies who help him in ways known and unknown, but still… he feels the urge to not only rise back up on his own two feet, but the call of something bigger. Greater. Meaningful. Extraordinary.
So, he makes a plan. Not A Plan, because that leaves no room for the unexpected. But a plan lets you have choices. A plan that will bring him to a place where after a little more than a year will allow him to either chase a lifelong dream, chart a course across part of the world working and teaching or even something he has not foreseen.

No matter the choice, it is the next step to something Bigger. Greater. Meaningful. Extraordinary. Legendary.

Epics aren’t written about people who live ordinary lives. No ballads are sung about those who keep their hearts locked away, they are sung about those who love without fear, past the point of all reason. Legends are for those who alter the course of one life forever. Their own.

I will write my own Legend.

Echoes in the Rain

I love to work in the rain. It settles the dust in the air. A good solid rain, with its own rhythm as it hits the ground, the window, the street outside. Tires throwing up a spray as cars pass and the distant rumble of thunder serve as percussion and strings. I’ve missed having a good storm cover the area for a day or two. Not that I like the gloom per se, but a good storm helps the mind move, providing a cloak for fragile or forgotten thoughts to move under. You know you’re surrounded by a good storm when the sound of thunder doesn’t jolt you, but sends goosebumps all along your body.

I was spoiled with storms, growing up in Florida. We’d have rain year round, snow being only a distant memory from my first years in New York. Cool rain, warm rain, gentle winds and ranging storms. And the lightning. I miss the lightning most of all. The Bay Area where I grew up is the lightning capital of the world and Mother Nature loved to show off her fireworks. Lightning storms that would appear from nowhere, sometimes no bolt would touch the earth, yet you’d be in awe of the naked power and beauty as bolts of blue, white, purple, red and orange would lance through the sky. One of my favorite memories is of a storm from when I was in high school. I was playing basketball with several friends at dusk, red and purple blending at the horizon together like crumpled sheets on a bed. As a gentle warm rain began to fall, the sky began to flash. Slowly at first, the blue-green bolts came, but soon they increased in speed, moving like laughing children bounding across the bed. For some reason, none of us were afraid.

The game stopped as the storm continued, not because anyone called time, but because all of us were transfixed by the majesty of the moment. We’d left one of my friend’s car door open so that we could listen to music. The local rock station was on and as the storm began, Pearl Jam ended and Led Zepplin’s The Battle of Evermoor came over the radio. 10 teenaged boys simply stopped what they were doing and sat down on the court, the heat stored in the concrete of the court and the sweat from our own bodies quickly giving way to the soft breeze and cool summer rain that fell around us. No one spoke, no one wanted to break the spell. Even then, my storyteller nature got the better of me and I stole glances at my friends to see their reactions. I was the only one whose eyes left the sky, if briefly. The rest gave themselves over to the power of the storm, letting it carry them along. I can’t say I have any clue where it took them, but I know that if it was anything like what I felt watching the lighting roar across the Florida twilight, it was a majestic place.

When it rains and the only thoughts that came to me are sneak-thief moments of worry, jealousy and concern and fear – like today – I send myself back to that night on the basketball court outside my high school. A night where the simple act of watching nature in her furious glory cast a spell on a group of boys nearing the beginning of manhood. I don’t know what that meant to the others afterwards. None of us really spoke about it. But I know what it meant to me.

It showed me that storms are chaos and fury, beautiful in their destructive power. Storms bring change – sometimes in the distance, sometimes all around you. Slowly by replenishing the ground or swiftly with wind and thunder and fire. Storms are the necessary agents of change.

So as the rain takes a pause outside my window, my mind still races, letting the emerald-eyed children of my confusion play their tricks. But like the storm, they will pass. Until they do, I’ll sit inside, warm and contemplative, letting the thoughts flow like the water rushing along the gentle hill outside. I don’t know how long it may last, but I know I have no choice but to weather it. And marvel at the majesty and the upheaval.