Create your own moral for my Easter story.

I was pulling into the YMCA parking lot for my fix of Friday basketball when an Easter memory from my childhood popped into my head.

Decades earlier, my mother had taken me and my friend John to this very spot to participate in an Easter Egg hunt. Many of the details are fuzzy, but I remember it being a warm, spring day (with Easter so early this year, I expect the Bunny to freeze his tookas off. A low of six degrees here). My mom had some errands to run and she dropped John and I off an hour before the event was to begin.

Anyway — I do not remember the rationale, probably the "Opie factor" with my red hair, rosy cheeks, and freckles — but an adult organizing the egg hunt asked John and I to guard the woods from children trying to get an unfair advantage.

Um, sure. We can do that.

As the adult disappeared and with no one else in sight, I immediately crept into the little shack that held the prizes.

Paydirt!

I held a sheet of paper that held a list of colors and numbers. The criminal area of my brain hummed into action and I did the math. The colors must refer to the eggs. The numbers must be the point values of the eggs. Points = prizes!

As I looked around the shack, there was a bike, a model airplane, and  stuffed animal that was bigger than John and me put together. The ramifications of this discovery boggled the mind.

I left the shack and relayed my intel to John. The yellow eggs were worth 20 points, let’s get to work.

Free of any supervision and with hearts pounding, we scurried into the woods. I whispered to John that if we were caught, say we saw a kid and went in to flush him out. Agreed.

As we picked our way through the forest, the colors stood out. Pink. Blue. Orange. Yellow!

John lived only two doors down. Surely we could devise some agreement to share the bike.

We used our shirts like baskets to collect the yellow eggs. We dumped around twenty of them at the base of a tree and quickly covered them with a few sticks and leaves.

We made our way back to the little shack where the adults were back and other kids began congregating. Thankfully, no one was asking any questions.

We milled about anxiously, waiting to execute our plan.

The starting whistle blew. Adrenaline surged. John and I raced to unearth our treasure in the woods.

Dozens of other kids screamed among the pine trees, scattering in all directions. There were squeals of delight as the kids gathered eggs hidden in plain sight. The fools knew nothing about the scoring system. The ubiquitous blue eggs were worthless. If they only knew the truth they would not be so pleased with themselves.

John and I raced to our tree. I'd guard our spot and John would collect whatever eggs he could find — producing only yellow eggs would tip off the adults. We'd then bide our time until the contest ended before making our triumphant march to the winner's circle. Remember to look surprised.

We arrived at the tree. No eggs. Wait a minute.

This isn't the right tree.

Full of children high on Easter morning chocolate, the forest became a labyrinth. I realized I could not remember exactly where we had hidden the loot. I knew we were in the right area, but all the trees looked the same. There were kids all around us… we had to hurry now… there wasn't much ti….

"OH MY GAAAAAD!" the little boy in the Osh Kosh B'Gosh overalls said.

And just like that, the mother lode was lost. Twenty feet away, the little boy clapped his hands as he collected the gold in his basket. Our gold!

John and I looked at each other and then down to the ground. There was nothing to be said.

Minutes later we stood in silence as the little boy beamed in disbelief as he collected his new bike. I bet he couldn't even ride without training wheels — what a waste — but then I saw how happy his mom looked too, like she might cry.

And I felt the first pang of shame. *

When my mother picked us up, of course she noticed my subdued affect.

What's wrong? Nothing.

We drove home in silence.

And in the four years that remained in the friendship between John and me, we never again spoke about the Easter Egg hunt of 1977.

 

 

 

* Just typing this story, thirty years later I can still feel that pang of shame. This is the power of conditioning.

 

 

Turned on the tube this weekend and caught some of the Charlie Rose show on PBS.

Steve Martin was on.

I think he's a brilliant dude.

I always admire someone who can do a lot of things very well (comedian –> actor —> writer) and evolves with their interests.

I was particularly struck by one thing he said.

He was sharing his response to people who ask him how to break into show business/become successful.

His response:

"Be so good that they cannot ignore you."

Simple.

And true.

Thanks to all who participated in the previous vote. It was VERY helpful to get that feedback and really helped me clarify some things — especially people who were critical in a positive way.

On Sunday, I think it came to me as to what the title needs to be and how to best present my work. My agent felt the same. So for now, I am going to sit on the title, but indeed it has to do with defining cool in terms of freedom, ease, and connection.

For the record, the suggestion: Creating a Very Cool Life: Adventures in Crafting a Life of Freedom, Ease and Connection took over 20% of the vote! Well done and thanks so much for the suggestion…

In the meantime, as I continue to explore the concept of cool, I hope you will take a moment to engage the new poll to the right –

Who's the coolest of the people I list?

And equally as important, I hope you'll take a moment to tell WHY you feel that way in the comments!

Thanks!

drew

 

I suppose there's a reason why YouTube sold for 1.65 billion dollars, right? I mean, it's just plain cool to be able to call up visual information with the stroke of a keyboard. Classic sports clips, inspiring speeches, and my favorite — music videos of artists that I like.

Today I searched for an old favorite of mine — Chris Whitley. Chances are good you've never heard of him, but I've felt a deep connection to him since meeting him after one of his performances in the mid 90's. (I wrote about the back story here. Worth a look).

To my great pleasure, I found several gems of Chris performing and even an interview.

In the interview he expressed his opinion that there are two kinds of music — there are entertainers — someone who doesn't write their own music, tries to tap into the popular culture, and is as much about the marketing as the sound. And then there are artists. (Chris did not elaborate about artists, but I will express my thoughts on the distinction here).

The focus of the artist is the personal connection to the work and expressing this feeling out to the world. Artists create what's true. Artist are quite "selfish" in this way. They are not performing for the people, they are not trying to write songs that will be hits, they create for themselves because this is where they find connection.

Simplified, the artist's reference point skews toward the internal and asks the question: Is what I am creating true?

The entertainer's reference point is more heavily weighted on the external and asks the question: Will what I put out there be liked by other people?

The greater truth is that asking if you are a entertainer or an artist is probably a false dichotomy. At the deepest level, the purpose of creation is not only to express, but also to connect. Remember the old riddle, "If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?"

The answer is no.

By definition, sounds needs a receiver. An ear. Some device to record that sound. Likewise, no artistic creation, no matter how pure and true exists by itself. It needs a receiver. It requires someone to see it, read it, feel it, taste it, or listen to it.

So perhaps the space between being an entertainer and and artist is not a mutually exclusive divide. Like yin and yang, they are part of the same whole of creation, a constantly changing balance.

In the interview, Chris Whitley said he saw himself more as an artist. Chris is dead now. He never made millions. He never played at half-time of the Super Bowl. Again, you've probably never even heard his name. His music may not resonate with you. But I can tell you that his music never fails to stir something powerful in me, very often moving me to tears at the beauty I find there. He's gone, but the energy of his spirit transcends his exit from this world and is as alive as it ever was. I hope that to some degree, the same can be said for me after I die.

Many entertainers reap huge financial rewards and fame. Currently much of America (and the world) is fixated on celebrity. People who create little are famous for being famous. When we are bombarded with these messages repeatedly, it's not hard to be seduced by wanting same things in our lives, and perhaps making decisions without checking in with what's really true for us.

When the emphasis of our desires moves too far away from the connection, well, you can read about those lost people on the tabloid covers as well.

Connect first. Then radiate.

 

 PS — here's a video … Chris was the best guitar player I've ever seen and I've seen lots of good ones.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday morning here. Too lazy to drive to town to get the Times this beautiful morning (they do not deliver out here in the sticks.)

Went online to read what's what. Drawn to this profile of Rick Rubin.

Rick discusses going by feel, magic, and oh yes, Paul Potts whom many of you are now familiar with.

I found the article informative and inspiring. You can read it here (though you may have to register). Give yourself 15 minutes.

Oh, and what the hell…

Why not post Paul Potts again?

If this doesn't choke you up, you ARE made of stone…

And remember… dreams come true. But only when you have them.