Over a year ago I found myself sitting in the O magazine offices of the Hearst Bldg on the West side of Manhattan telling the story of Daddy's Love Notes to an asst book editor. They would ultimately ask me for a writing submission. While I was over the moon with the request, I soon realized it was never going to see the light of day between the O magazine covers. And that is alright. But it doesn't mean the words need not be shared. So I'm sharing today...
By definition the word catalyst best resembles someone or something that precipitates an event; be it an action or circumstance that affects change or creates synergy. It is reflected in singular moments where we are transformed by a stimulus; our response ranging from the mundane to remarkably life-altering. As such, we must be mindful of the infinitely precious and inspiring instance when we possess cognitive recognition of the space where “life-altering” is happening before us.
For some, these moments in our lives will brush past us like a stranger on the sidewalk, unrecognizable and without an ounce of consideration. Our opportunity missed, we can only hope for the hands on the clock to conspire and afford us a next time. And when face-to-face with this coveted fate, as the gears click symmetrically into place, we may be forever changed. I know, because this was the beginning of the rest of my life.
Entrenched
Long driven by a picture of what my life was to be, dictated by desires of physical gain; I spent years attempting to paint my portrait fueled not from passion and love, but rather status gained. I never relished my worth as a human being, or considered it a factor in my own equation of success. This absence of self-love bore a regenerative cancer of devaluation and poor decision-making. These descisions, these choices, have consequences; and in the end I had to own them wholly. The portraits’ framed void now held darkness - the end of a marriage, the end of an intact family; alcohol, gambling, and loneliness would accompany this new bland arrangement of imagery surrounding me.
There were moments of deep despair; crying out to a God I am not sure I believed to be praying to in earnest or with a faith I could truly claim to hold as my own. I was losing sense of myself; I had lost connection.
It had been borne in me through strict Baptist church upbringing that God’s word and love would never cease to leave my side. Here now is when I needed it most, but questioned the ability to receive it in earnest. A father of two girls, a son to supportive parents, it would take my love for each and a yearning to be present in their lives to bring me through the valley I had placed myself within. This was my space to exist.
Recognition
Moved by time and driven by impulse I began to write. I wrote to my children. I told them the WHY of my life. I told them what I needed them to know. I told them of love and loss. I told them of wrong turns made and victories gained. I told them of the joy in pursuit of life fulfilled. In openly sharing these words with friends and family I found myself moving toward a line - not a finish line, but a starting line. I was writing for my life. The more truth I would pen, the faster my pace became. Ultimately arriving at a point where I was made to stand still for just a moment and listen.
Walking amidst the formal, spacious conference center as colleagues conversed and cajoled around me, I was suddenly stopped from my progress by a familiar face from the past. Firmly taking hold of my arm she looked me in the eyes offering a steady, “Thank you.” A quizzical glance upon my face, she repeated her overture. As my eyes turned to the ground, uneasy with the complimentary nature of her statement she continued, adjusting her grip to drive her point home. “It’s no longer about you,” she said. “The letters are no longer about you; you don’t know who you are helping with them.”
Processing the realization of this interaction opened my eyes to the potential breadth of her words. My aperture now widened, I saw how the gears came together in my life at my darkest moments to open up a door, reconnecting me with a person I had lost so long ago. And, in finding my true self, I allowed self-love to begin. For within this discovery life presented me a larger canvas, one not bound in frame; its vivid colors newly strewn with the richness of sharing my life to help someone else. A Basquiat, a Monet, a Matisse by any other name – it is a beautifully abundant and enriching, evolving catalyst of life. Its repeating pulse perfectly altered and re-arranged in frequency and pitch, with power to encourage and inspire.