Dragons

Where are your dragons? You know, those beasts that loom large even when cloistered in caves. Skulking in the dark, they cause fear and trepidation even in the bravest, and we avoid them at all cost. The problem is, though, each dragon rests upon a mound of gold. There’s no getting to the gold without facing the dragon.

Dragons have many names (embarrassment, failure, ordinary, weak, less-than) and roar in countless languages (“You’re not good enough” “How dare you let your family down” “You should have done more with your life by now” “What do you mean, you can’t afford to have . . .”) , but the fact is dragons are the pains we spend our lives avoiding. No wonder we stuff them in caves where we don’t have to see them, cover our ears so we do not have to hear them. Who cares if they sit on gold? The pain is simply not worth it.

Or is it?

I have explored this imagine and the ways I’ve avoided my dragons. I’ve designed spacious caves big enough to house my countless pains. I’ve designed circuitous routes to avoid such caves, ways to travel without having to feel pain or smell the fear used to remind me of their existence. When those caves and routes didn’t work, I used other forms of protection, but pain is patient. Fear hangs in the air for ages. Together, they can sing a life-long song. They will wait for the perfect moment to make themselves known, leaving us running for cover once again.

What if we faced our dragons? What if we stopped letting fear paralyze us and made our way toward the caves? What if we faced the pain, knowing the gold is, in fact, worth more than our comfort? What if we picked up the phone and called that estranged friend? What if you spoke honestly to our spouse . . . parent . . . bank . . . employer? What if we followed our hearts even if doing so meant major changes?

I wonder if our arrival would cause the dragons to slither away? Yes, they may rise, throw forth a blaze of fire, but such fire and smoke do not last. If we remain, I believe the dragons will wither from their stance and climb off the mound of gold like a cowed dog. I am not sure, but I’m convinced a life full of caves is no life, one lived in fear of dragons is partial, so maybe we should all use our fears to locate our pains, then head straight towards them and slay every one.

Let's go find a sword!

Ball Marks

I was born into a family whose daily refrain was to make a difference in the world, to leave a mark, so this brushstroke could read as if I’ve changed the song. I haven’t, but something on my dresser reminded me that an important way to leave a mark is to not leave a mark.

At first glance, it’s simply a golf tool. Given to each player in hopes that he or she will use it to repair ball marks on the greens left from approach shots, the device helps lift indentations so the greens have a chance to remain smooth for others. Beside the brand name was the marking “X 2” which suggests players should repair not only their own mark, but one left by another as well.

“Therein lies the sermon,” I thought.

What a different world it would be if we all repaired our ball marks, let alone a mark of another! Think about how wonderful our travels through life would be if people replaced or poured grass seed in their divots. As a benefactor of the city of Winston-Salem passes along, we need to leave sand traps better than we found them.

The ways of saying it go far beyond golf images, but the truth they have in common is worthy of our reflection no matter the language. Where are our ball marks? . . . in the hallways at work . . . at the committee tables at which we sit . . . within the self-esteem of our children . . . in the conversations we have with loved ones?

No matter how softly we hit the ball, there are always ball marks. The question is whether we have the humility to use the tools we’ve been given to repair such marks, and, while we’re at it, repair a mark or two left by others.

Spoons and Piano Strings.

I was fortunate to grow up in a home with a piano. It was a source of great entertainment and joy throughout my childhood. It was also a wonderful instrument to try play when no one was around to hear. One day, I wandered over and played the few songs I knew and was surprised by the strange sound when a certain note was played. Whenever I played middle C, there was a sound that was not a middle C. I tried it again with the same result. I couldn’t figure out was wrong until I lifted the lid of the piano and saw a spoon resting on top of the strings. I now know it was put there in an unsuccessful game of find-the-spoon, but the spoon, resting on the strings, made an awful sound where there used to be a pleasant one. 

The moment came to mind the other day as I learned about the ways in which our stories play a part in our lives. We all have stories of people, places and things that have made up the melodies of our lives. Such stories can ground, comfort, and inspire us, but the truth is we also have stories that are not based on reality. These are stories we tell about our stories, and they play a completely different melody from our true one. Like a spoon resting on piano strings, these stories distort and change our true melodies.

There’s the girl whose father, determined to provide for his family, worked two jobs and was rarely home. That was the reality, but she began to sing another song, that her father was uncaring and didn't love her, and it changed the melody of her life.

There’s the child given the expensive opportunity to go to a prestigious boarding school. After dropping him off, his parents cried all the way home because they could not bear the thought of living apart from their son, but their happiness and financial woes were second to giving their son the best education possible. That was the reality, but the son believed he was “sent away” and not a priority in his parent’s lives. It forever changed the melody of his life.

There’s the child, surrounded by the praise and adoration of her parents, who always heard there was nothing she could not do and that she should reach for the stars.  Instead of living an inspired life, she lived as if she was not good enough. Her parents wanted to instill a sense of value and optimism, but what she heard was the expectation to achieve great things. It was an overwhelming burden her parents never intended.

Like the spoon in the piano, we have things that lie on the strings of our lives and change the songs we hear. Knowing this is the first step toward reclaiming the the true melodies. Yes, we need to lift the lid and find the various "spoons" resting on the strings. It’s challenging and uncomfortable work, but, in the end, distracting, misleading, and hurtful songs can disappear, and, we can hear the true melodies of our lives once again.