Choices - With Cliffs Notes

Okay, in case you don't sit around reading Rilke's Book of Hours or The Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale, I thought I'd give a frame of reference for this poem. (I recommend both those books, though, if you like poetry).

It is the season of Lent on my liturgical calendar of faith, and I love this as a time of soul-searching and preparing my heart for the message of the Cross and Resurrection. Before new life, comes death. In Matthew 16:24-25, Jesus said, "If any want to become my follower, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it."

There seem to be two equations at play for the human condition: life-death-death, and life-death-life. It all swirls around in physical-metaphysical realities, but if we choose the kind of death Jesus mentions (and you can look up many more scriptures that express this), we get life. If we choose death by depression, fear, anger, poor habits, bad attitudes, or laziness, we get death.

Death by surrender, death by love...this is a spiritual principal, a paradox about real life. It's the Jesus story.

This poem has something to do with all of that, but if I detail it out much more, it won't be poetry!

Love to all of you. Spread the word about this blog! And please share your comments. I love hearing from you.

Have a creative day,
Kim


Choices

Death comes in many jaded forms,

     Sometimes in fury, sometimes reborn

But tyranny's grip, it's talons steel

     Rips through; the heart will be revealed

So choose your angel, dark or light

     To satiate our Maker's right

For death will come; death always wins

     I've died a thousand times again.

I am alive, my soul flies free

     I feed the rivers, bend the trees

I need the darkness veiled in fear

      The icy breath that hovers near

I  dance within the mystery

      That I chose life, and death chose me.

By Kim McLean

© 3/8/14

Deep Thought-y Gumbo - a sneak peek!

from my column for Power Source Magazine, UNCOMMON SENSE: God's Gift of Creativity, for publication in the April 2014 Issue.

I’ve been captivated with this thought lately: We become what we behold.

I know. It’s deep and thought-y, but I didn’t come up with it. It just keeps showing up in whatever I read, whatever I watch, and I cannot ignore it. It’s like the Holy Spirit comes at me with a can of spray paint and writes it in graffiti across my mind so I’ll have to consider it.

I heard it first from a mathematician.  Odd. Or was it even…? Then from a theologian. Then it came up in a movie I was watching, and then I heard it in a sermon. Okay God, I’m listening.

I remember another phrase of the same ilk that came to me in much the same way about twenty years ago, before I could understand how true it was:  That which you take, takes you.

Both concepts are made from the same roux. Deep thought-y gumbo.

Stop looking at me that way, and think about it. Let’s work backwards. That which you take, takes you.   Know much about addiction? Makes sense in that context. Take hold of a thing and it takes hold of you. Reminds me of June bugs. Ever picked one up? They fling themselves into the porch light, hurl themselves furiously away from the shock of the intense bright heat, and land disoriented on your shirt.  Grasp it off, and six creepy legs wrap around your finger.  That which you take, takes you.

So take God.

Better yet, behold God.  THAT, my dear Watson, is the great secret; the secret of creativity, the secret of love, the secret of life. Don’t be waiting around for Revelation to fire up and Sandy Patti to sing another Dottie Rambo song as you parade through the pearly gates.

Behold now.

The place of prayer is a beautiful way to begin to behold. The Bible beholds, too, if you behold it for what it is. Just read it. You know? Like, try to read it like it’s a book, a really great book. You can’t, of course, but this will help you shut up all the bad teaching in your head for a minute, and you’ll be amazed.

Behold the Word, and it will behold you, and you might be surprised by what a beautiful creation YOU are!

It’s Easter. Permission to behold granted. Behold the cross. Do you see you? Have you become the broken sufferer? Behold the grave. Have you died to the desires and ambitions and to the pride with which you tried so many times to offer up Cain’s sacrifice? Remember that story? God wasn’t pleased with Cain. He did all the right stuff for all the wrong reasons.

You’ve got to behold the Lamb, before you can rise again in His likeness.

Ever met those very cool couples who have been married forever and they look like each other? They sound alike, use the same mannerisms, laugh at the same awkward moments? You become what you behold.  Pinocchio should take a lesson! He beheld a bunch of donkeys, and…well, after that his hats never fit right again.

What’s this got to do with God’s gift of creativity? I’m wondering if we might say: We create what we behold?

Every song you write is already written. You just have to find it. You find it by beholding. Some call it staring into space. I call it staring into Heaven. Staring into the space that is here and eternal, the place where dimensions meet and time travels. The place where children imagine and days dream.

For all you songwriters: Want me to stop preaching and give you a pro-songwriting tip?  When you write, start with a title. Almost daily, someone plays me a new song and when I ask the title the response is “I don’t know yet.” I know it will be a weak song; vibe-y and vague.  Sure, there are exceptions; so become an exceptional writer and then you can break all the rules.

Here. Write this:  Love Only Knows.

Free of charge. I gave you a hook. Now develop the concept and write it. 

Happy Easter. God Loves You!

The Eighth Day

Music. It's a gift we cherish, or appreciate, or take for granted. Or criticize.
God made it. Music is a creation of God, a miracle and a mystery the way the notes and noises come together in unity or functional discord, the way the math of it all is something discovered, something we didn't invent. And God said, "Let there be A-440, fundamentals, tonality, a universal language that resonates in the soul of humanity, creation, and the very cosmos,"and the evening and the morning were the eighth day, and it was good.

Eight. The eternal number. It just keeps looping around like an electron. If God rested on the seventh day, I'll bet He danced on the eighth.

I participate in the music. It's the gift I have, and the gift I give. I make music to give it away. Like a cake. You bake it to share it. The biggest difference is, everyone tends to eat the cake and say, "Yum, that was good." Or, "Thanks for making that cake." With music they want to give it a score, compete it with other musical genres, and worse still, instead of saying, "Yum, that was good," they say, "I want to do that; will you write a song with me?" Forget that it took years of training and a lifetime of practice, not to mention it is my talent, my coat of many colors (special gift from my Father). When it comes to writing songs, people tend to want their cake and eat it, too.

I practice. I work on my craft, both lyrically and musically. I agonize my way through the creative lifestyle and put up with the jokes presuming I am unorganized or "zoned-out." It's worth it to me, not to mention unavoidable, but if you want to write the songs, too, you'll have to pay your own price.

I can give the recipe. I do give the recipe. I teach. I mentor; but I cannot give the gift. The gift I have to give to the world is the gift of my own song. If I write you a song, I am giving you what I do best. I have climbed down into the deepest part of my being, and reached for the highest place in Heaven, searching for a melodious truth that will brighten your day or soothe your soul.

People come to me for song-smithing, but what they really want is to feel. That's what songs do best, they feel for you, they express the inexplicable. It takes a lot of courage to behold what is really in our souls. Writing a song unmasks you. It unveils the story shadowed by the lies people tell so they won't have to face the raw reality of heart-felt living.

I appreciate the appreciators of music. I want to create a feast of rhythms, rhymes, and harmonious insights. Will you come? Will you dance to my song?

And to you writers who want to give your own unique gift, I hope you discover your voice as a writer this coming year. Give it all you've got. Read books on the subject. Study music. Write, write, write, because practice makes perfect. Be brave! Set goals for your writing, and as you begin to collect songs, your unique gift will emerge.

Just Thinking

I was just thinking...it seems like things would go better if we lowered our expectations of people. That's where most of the complications begin. Families, strangers, lovers. We've somehow got the misguided notion that people should have our best interests at heart, and as our hearts sink with disappointment when they let us down, we are probably not too concerned about their interests.

So what happens if you lower your expectations of others, just go ahead and anticipate the pain, dismay, irritation, or stress they are predestined to cause you? I've tried it, and it didn't work. Well, maybe it worked, in a way, but it caused me to walk around with a sort of social malaise. Chronic disgruntlement. Hardly a heartache preventative. 

The truth is, I like believing in people. If I don't believe in you, I can't believe in me. We're created for more than settling. I love you just the way you are because you are amazing. Why can't that be okay, to love each other for the good, instead of "in spite of?" Realistically, though, love does happen "in spite of," not just when it is earned. That's partly the point of love, isn't it? Some call it grace. 

Perhaps then, it is not an issue of expectation, but of acceptance. Maybe things would go better if we all just walked around with an "I forgive you" button on our lapel, or at least an "I forgive you" smile on our faces. "I forgive you for letting me down." "I forgive you for having a better life than me," "I forgive you for singing better, for cooking better, for having a better career, for  knowing more scripture, for this, for that, for the other, for everything." "I forgive you for succeeding,""I forgive you for failing," "I forgive you for living," "I forgive you for dying." 

That's the way to deal with expectations. Forgiveness. 

Fall Colors

Fall Colors

Fall is spectacular. I hadn't noticed, really, until this weekend when I was blissfully stuck at  a place in the almost mountains of Tennessee where none of my technology worked. No TV. no phone, no computer, no iPad, no radio, no stress. No doubt the world at the foot of those hills was going on just fine without me being plugged in to it, and when I descended from my sacred seclusion, I was no less informed for what I didn't know of the happenings below.

News. Such a broad word for such a small use of it. Health care, war, politics. News news news. Human beings missing the point of being human. We're made for love and connectedness, relationship with God, people, creation and ourselves. Most of the news, as far as I can tell, is about disconnectedness. At present our Country seems to be in a cold civil war. It's easier to hate a political party or a religion, though, than to have to face the angry sorrow of broken relationships within our homes, churches, or workplaces, or within out own hearts. Hence, the news.

My own heart. That's where the real news happens. I learned a long time ago that my problem was not low self-esteem, but low God esteem. Being rightly related to God covers a multitude of reasons to hate the world or myself. In my experience, God doesn't let me off the hook, but doesn't condemn me, either. It's like Fall. Things die, so things can be reborn.

So, I was cloistered this weekend with a bunch of real Christians. They're everywhere, real Christians. In fact, I suspect that many of the so-called fake Christians are being real as they know how to be. Who gets to make that call anyway? I just know that the people with whom I took communion on that mountain are the real deal and that I can count on them.

What is the distinction between a real Christian and a fake one? Is being real about telling all, the good the bad and the ugly? Is being real about living a Christian lifestyle perfectly? Which manual should I use for the guidelines of perfect Christianity? Baptist, Church of Christ, Nazarene, Lutheran, or Catholic? Technically, a genuine fake Christian would be someone who pretends to be a Christian in order to get something they want, right? They wear religion like a fake mustache.


Well, Groucho, who are you to judge? I get it. Hypocrites mess up church like moisture in the salt shaker.  Frankly, I'm sick of the word hypocrite being thrown around so loosely. I'm sure there are Jews, Muslim, Democrats, Republicans, and sports fans who are hypocrites, pretending to love the game so they can come to the parties, but it's like the world waits and watches for the Christians to stumble into a moment that taints the light.

The truth is, I don't prefer the company of the more judgmental Christians, the ones who wouldn't want a gay person in their church, or the ones who would leave because of the color of the new carpet. You know the type, the I'll-pray-for-you-so-I-don't-have-to-talk-to-you-opps-too-busy-to-pray Christians. I just don't get it, but I'm still glad they show up at somebody's church on Sunday. Church matters.  All in all, I'm glad for all Christians, fake or real, who gather to worship  God and lift up the name of Jesus Christ, His only Son, Our Lord. It's an eternal use of time and collective energy.

I was sitting by a gas fireplace wondering if the fire burns as hot across the fake logs. Those logs won't be consumed. There's no mess to clean up. No ashes. Just a gas-line and flames. Fake logs with a real flame. And so I thought, maybe that's how it is with Christians. The fire is the Spirit. It's the Spirit that reaches people. God's word is proclaimed in many ways, through many voices.

Well, anyway, I'm an organic log for the Lord. And I was with some real logs this week-end, and we can all laugh together for the "foolishness of God that is wiser than the wisdom of man." It was a good use of time and spirit. My life is richer for it. My pain is less. My heart is full. And somehow, Fall is more spectacular.

Flying Monkeys in the Land of Oz

You learn to write by writing and if anyone responds, even if it’s

only your Mom, no, especially if it’s only your Mom, then you’ve done

something worthy of the time it took to do it. My Mom was my first

barometer, because she took such delight in each new song, or cried if

it moved her, or quoted my lyrics to friends who needed

encouragement. She would give recordings of my songs to people,

clerks at checkout counters, the Charlie's Chips delivery man, or friends

at work, and tell them, “You need to hear this; it will help you.” She

did not get me a single career connection, did not enter me in beauty

pageants, and did not promote me to talent scouts. I’m sure she would

have, but she was too busy responding to my music from her soul, and

if it helped her, it would help others. Her honest heart-felt response

and the piano she bought for me were the best gifts she could have

ever given me, that and a glimpse of faith. I began my artistic

journey with the firm belief that my music mattered, that it was

powerful, and that people needed what I had to offer.

A song is art. That is its spiritual power. That’s how it heals,

comforts, compels you to dance, or gets stuck in your head; because it

is art.

The music industry is the business that makes the art available to

people. This seems so basic, but it is so easily forgotten. My Mother

didn’t care if there was a music business and neither do any of the

other people who are moved by your music.

I had the privilege of writing with some of Nashville’s top writers

the first year I moved to town. One of them had a string of hits

happening. He was making great money and was in high demand. He

said to me, “Start right now giving your music the priority. You have to

take time to write. It’s the most important thing you do, but time to

write will be the first thing to go once you get into the business.” He

was right. Suddenly you’re at this meeting and that meeting, number

one parties and how-to panels, playing writer’s night after writer’s

night contributing to the vibe of the town and gradually writing less of

your best. The distractions will swoop and swirl around you like those

creepy flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz. The tyranny of the urgent

overtakes the important, and if its not the biz doing it to you, it will be

relationships, financial pressures, family, the dog, alcohol, or getting

the oil changed in your Corolla.

Once you sign your first publishing deal, the danger becomes

writing for the industry instead of for the people who need your songs.

On the streets of music row you hear much complaining about the

sad state of radio, the same songs being played over and over, the

same songs being played over and over (see what I mean?). This is

one of the few things that has never changed since I’ve been in the

business. It is because most writers and the publishers who sign them

quickly forget the rule my friend taught me. Don’t let anything get in

the way of the writing, not even flying monkeys.

MUSIC IS MUSIC

Published in article for Power Source Magazine. My column is called UnCommon Sense: God's Gift of Creativity.

Ever observed your musical week? Just pay attention to what you hear. Let’s see, this week I listened to some old time gospel, Turn Your Radio On kind of stuff, sang some classic hymns like When the Roll is Called Up Yonder, heard some current Country hits, listened to the Civil Wars, Adele, me, Chopin, and a rap song by…what was his name??? Oh yeah, Macklemore. In my head I had songs pop up like John Denver’s Annie’s Song, and at some point Build Me Up Buttercup and the William Tell Overture, (which is a mental phenomenon that happens to me any time I’m in a hurry). Finally, throw in a contemporary worship song or two and the theme songs to all the TV shows I’ve watched, and you’ve got a summary of my typical musical week.

Sounds diverse, doesn’t it? Not very unusual, either, but here’s the thing. Most people really only hear two categories in that list: commercial and classical. And don’t count the William Tell Overture because it crossed over as the theme to the Lone Ranger and possibly a Bugs Bunny episode or two. So that leaves us with Chopin versus all the other more popular music. 

And here’s the thing about THAT – in certain circles, a Chopin track is called a “composition” or “piece” while the rest are called “songs.”

I am intrigued by the distinction between songs and compositions because it sometimes becomes divisive, and musical wars really break my heart. Poor me. It’s never going to change, this aural tug of war that started so long ago when the first renegade writer added a note to the Gregorian Chant. I am perplexed though, as to why I IV V is considered more highfalutin than the 1 4 5 of song charts. Granted, you can’t very well chart a Chopin piece, but the scripting of music is only for the sake of communication. Music is the language of the soul, said Martin Luther, and the notes  on a page are empty without the passion to feel them.

My grandmother could play Chopin, What a Friend We Have in Jesus, and the Boogie Woogie on the piano, all with such joy that it desegregated the music.

The other day I asked a friend if he’d been writing new songs, and he smiled smugly and told me no, he’d switched to “composing.” That was, of course, what got me going about this. But it is not an attitude exclusive to classical versus commercial, oh no! So often, the Pop fans don’t like Country, the Contemporary fans don’t like Southern Gospel, and the Worship writers probably don’t care because they’re in it only for the love of God, which is also where some big money is these days, or so I’ve heard.

I say music is music, and I hope I never get so big for my whole notes that I miss the message in it all. Music is as diverse as humanity, and we would do well to seek to understand or at least appreciate this culture’s motley scores for what they are without criticism. Things could be worse. Just imagine if you could only use a five note pentatonic scale for every song/piece. Ironically, you wouldn’t even be able to play Chopsticks, which was composed in the 1800’s by a British pianist! And THAT, dear Watson, is how the West was really won!!

Music makes pictures and often tells stories, all of them magic, and all of them true. And all of the pictures and all of the stories, all of the magic – the music is you! – John Denver