You stuck a pin in my pile of sin
And this is a note for a road sign
Cuttin’ the breeze in this tennesee sundown
Came the sounds of the voices I know
I’ve been pondering trees
On the steeliest come down
But now a moment I’m home

I was sitting innocently in my easy chair looking deep into the big liquid brown eyes of my best friend Taffy who has been really sick the last few days with congestive heart failure, as she stared at me with pure love as only a canine can do, I couldn’t help but wonder…

Does God love me as much as Taffy?

Taffy is warm and cuddly.

Is God?

Taffy’s love is unconditional.

Is God’s?

Taffy cuddles me when I’m sick.

Does God?

Taffy greets me every day at the door with tail wagging furiously.

Does God?

I can see and touch Taffy.

I’ve never actually seen or touched God.

Or have I?

Did I see God last night?

Or was it Taffy?

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This powerful statement was made by the Polish poet Karol Wojtyla (who later was elected Pope John Paul II) in his seminal Letter To Artists.

This torment to become a better artist has haunted me every day of my life.

Unfortunately, the times are rare (compared to a lifetime of searching) that I step away from the canvas or stage feeling as though I have managed to express even an infinitesimal aspect of the ineffable. This gift (is it a curse?) of artistry seems at times a delicious agony.

So, I have penned these letters for at least two reasons…

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First, I feel called to mentor artists. Based on the context of the previous words, one way to describe a qualified mentor would be, “an influential supporter who has searched for the hidden meaning of things for a longer time than you, and has succeeded in expressing the world of the ineffable in tangible ways.”

A young artist recently traveled quite a distance for a mentoring session at my favorite hometown coffee shop. As we settled in, he exclaimed, “I’m so honored and excited to be able to sit at the feet of the “grand ‘ole man.” At first, I was somewhat offended, but as the morning progressed, I realized he wasn’t calling me old (which I’m not!), he was just saying, in what he felt a complementary manner, that I was older than him and therefore qualified as mentor.

I am fairly confident that my age (and time of searching) is more extended than most of you who read these letters. It is one of the few unexpected gifts of an older age to be called “grand.”

Second, I feel compelled to encourage artists. Most creatives tend to be the “lone ranger” type. We are also our own harshest critics. These two combined traits lead to much higher than normal occurrences of discouragement and depression.

These letters come from deep places of depression but also, thankfully, from a place of resilience. Resilience is the ability to cope with life’s torments without falling apart. Encouragement forms a protective layer—an emotional resilience—to safeguard an artist from becoming overwhelmed and disabled by the difficulties of daily life. When a person is encouraged, the heart itself toughens up, so that it develops what Steven Pressfield in his brilliant book, War of Art, calls “resistance” from the devastation of depression.

As you peer into my soul by means of these letters, my hope is that you will have a transcendent experience of creative mentoring and encouragement.

May your art “succeed in expressing the world of the ineffable” helping to affirm beauty which has the power to open the human soul to a sense of mystery and transcendence.

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Traffic laws and numerous highway signs state clearly that slower traffic should drive in the RIGHT lane. Can these people not see miles of traffic crunched up behind them? Can they not see the “friendly” hand signals from the drivers around them? Can they not feel the driver’s hot breath and hear the flaming words of wrath and condemnation emanating from the cars behind them?

Are these people—could they even be called human beings—oblivious to their surroundings?

As I have grown older and shall we say more mature, these “lifelong left-laners” have become a fascinating case study for me.

What could possibly be their reasoning? Could the workplace and life also have “lifelong left-laners?” Are they some sort of morbid sub-culture?

These people who drive slow in the left lane always somehow find three or four semi-trucks in the right lane with drivers who have a Napoleon complex and together they joyfully snarl Interstate traffic for miles at blazing speeds of 45 to 50 mph.

I have seen irate drivers risk their lives and careen pass them out of control on the left grass median of the Interstate.

Why do they drive slow in the left lane?

1) The driver is blind and deaf? Uh, probably not.

2) The driver is suffering from a large case of entitlement? That could be. There are definitely certain ethnic groups and states such as Illinois, Ohio and Florida that seem to comprise the majority of these “left-laners.”

3) The driver does not give a #%@& about anyone else? Uh, yep!

4) The driver has a meaningless existence and has finally found one of the few places where he or she can exert control? Hmmmm.

5) The driver does not have a life and has nowhere to go? Could be.

6)

Can you fill in #6?

Does this have an uncanny similarity to people you work with?

Why does life have so many people who love to throw a wrench in the smooth working of life and career?

And God forbid, I hope YOU are not a left-laner!!

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With few exceptions, you can gauge the measure of a man in the eyes of his wife.

Knowing this truth during the interview process of my career could have spared me great heartache. As a young man, I was taught it was vital to look into the eyes of the prospective leader.  But after a thirty year career and working under five highly charismatic men, I now realize the successful leader’s eyes provide only one aspect of the onerous tale of ascent to lofty places.

The eyes of the wife speak more truth than a thousand wooing words a man can utter. In the interview process, always have dinner with your prospective boss and his wife. Take time to see the untold story that lies behind her eyes. Look carefully and deeply, for your future could be at stake.

I realize that I’m completely neglecting the possibility the boss could be a woman. I understand that. But the point of this story (and my life experience) is that of a male leader. I would greatly value someone’s experience of the opposite scenario.

Here are six types of wives eyes that have mostly haunted and rarely encouraged my career.

1.) Neglected Eyes — These eyes can be found in the leader’s wife who realizes the adoration and attention of fawning followers will never be directed her way. Her job is to be invisible. She does not receive acknowledgment by the followers in awe of her celebrity leader, nor is she acknowledged or included by her husband. His need for affirmation and worship is too insatiable to be shared—with anyone. She is a wallflower who knows her place. Most people have difficulty remembering her name and she is rarely, if ever, introduced as an equal by her husband.

2.) Hungry Eyes — Be very careful grasshopper. These eyes could wreck your career forever. They are a lose-lose glimpse into a gray vortex of destruction. Yes, it’s flattering. Yes, it’s titillating. Yes, its tempting. But the husband leader who has left her empty and wanting, once betrayed, will usually redirect the hatred of himself to everyone within reach. And a thousand woes be to the one who dares replace him by succoring his hungry wife.

3.) Spurned Eyes — The eyes of this wife tell the tale of a husband’s passionate, all-consuming illicit lover. His job. William Congreve in a play called The Mourning Bride writes this infamous line, “Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned / Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.” The hatred of the spurned woman for both husband and lover seethe underneath her eyes like a smoldering inferno. She may attempt to kill her husband’s lover by slowly and subtly undermining and destroying it. Beware.

4.) Entitled Eyes — These eyes could be the most dangerous. She controls her husband and his job. The church or corporation is her fiefdom. Sure, to the public, it seems as if the charismatic male is the leader, but make no mistake, this woman has no equal. Cross her—and you are mysteriously and suddenly gone. Somehow, she has found a way to control or blackmail the man leader and lock him in a vise-grip of control. No matter how wonderful he seems, if you see the eyes of entitlement in the wife—run away as fast as you can.

5.) Puppy Eyes — These are the fawning eyes of a humble servant. A woman who knows her “biblical” place. Look deeply into these eyes and all you find is empty slavery. If you are brave enough to look deeper—you will find utter despair. No opinion. No disagreement. Her job is to do her husband’s bidding. Challenge him. God forbid. The leader/man who encourages this behavior is a weak person indeed. He is half the man he could be.

6.) Fulfilled Eyes —Ah, yes. A rare and beautiful sight. These are the eyes of an equal. A woman who is “comfortable in her own skin” and “in touch with her soul.” She is valued by her husband as a person of inestimable worth. And she handles it with aplomb. A teammate in every sense of the word. No matter if that entails motherhood, business advice, sexual intimacy, leadership or candid conversation, she thrills to the challenge. The husband/leader acknowledges her invaluable contribution to his success in a healthy manner.  She comes first, then family, followed by the job. There is an obvious mutual respect. Candid discourse and challenge is meted out and encouraged by both male and female. No neglect, hunger, scorn, entitlement, or fawning in these eyes. Just confidence and freedom to be who she was created to be.

Have you ever looked into one of these eyes?

Have I missed one?

I value your candid thoughts.

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1.) History — Forget all that crap you learned at Yale about the American Revolution. In Franklin, we know the most significant war ever fought was the one we reverently call Civil. Connecticut didn’t have a single, solitary civil war battle—so as far as Historic Franklin is concerned, you probably don’t even qualify for statehood. We don’t care that Connecticut was established in 1633 and was one of the original thirteen colonies, we all know true American history didn’t begin until 1864. As far as Franklin is concerned, time should be marked not as B.C. or A.D, but rather B.C.W. or A.C.W. Why, one of our own, Lee Greenwood, is working on a new national anthem called “God Bless The Civil War.”

2.) Language — Two words. Talk S-L-O-W. Be sure to properly pronounce our hallowed, I mean, historic city’s name. “Frah-ain-klin” In fact, pretty much every word down “he-y-ah” in the south has three syllables. Take your name for instance, it would be “I-yah-an.” You also need to know that a person is not really dead until they are “graveyard dead”, that utilizing “youse guys” instead of “ya’ll” and “you’uns” will give your origin away every time. And even though you think “grit” means “sand or other fine grainy particles eaten by fowl to aid in digestion,” it’s actually a food staple eaten by southern human beings every day. Slow food and slow talk will gain you fast acceptance in the south.

3.) Taxes — I’m sure you are jumping for joy because taxes in Franklin are almost too good to be true. Well, unfortunately, they are. Even though you might think property taxes are thousands of dollars less, there is a little thing called “shopping tax.” Never heard of it, oh, you will. In Franklin, we are such good and niave citizens, we agreed (well, at least our alderman agreed and we went thoughtlessly along with them) to pool together our resources to pay for a big ‘ole historic (costs of historic porportions, that is) government building to loom “gotham-like” over our fair little city. Wasn’t that “civil” of us?  And the “shopping tax” helps make sure we all do our fair share to pay for it. Unfortunately, Tennessee history never taught us about the likes of William M. Tweed, Peter “Brains” Sweeney or Thomas Joseph “T.J.” Pendergast. What was it that Hitler once said during that little skirmish in Germany? “What luck for rulers, that men do not (take time) to think.”

4.) Driving — I know you lived just a few miles from the Big Apple. But you better forget Manhattan driving rules real quick down “he-y-ah.” If you run a yellow light, if you don’t stop at a stop sign until the centrifugal force leans you completely back into your seat, if you go three miles over the 30 mph speed limit, if you violate any of the thousands of ticky-tacky traffic laws—then quickly refer back to #3. We here in Franklin lovingly call it our unified “shopping tax.” Also, you need not rush to beat the car in the merge lane—they will always let you in. Wonder who arrived first at the four-way stop? It doesn’t matter, the other three drivers will smilingly nod at you and let you go first. Need to pass someone, they will graciously move over so you can get on down the road. Have a flat tire—someone will always stop to help. Welcome to Franklin. Too good to be true? It’s not.

5.) Eating & Drinking — I have already mentioned one of our time-honored staple foods. But you also need to know that your tea will be sweet and probably have fruit in it—unless you request otherwise. That biscuits without gravy is blasphemy. Chicken should never be grilled—only fried. We also fry our green tomatoes, pickles, potatoes, okra and rabbits. Oh, yeah, you’re from the northeast. Just forget that we hunt animals down here. I know PETA would be upset. PETA is from Connecticut, right? Now that you live in Franklin, seriously consider revoking your gym membership and go ahead and join weight watchers. A little preventative maintenance never hurt anybody. Fried chicken with gravy and a side of creamed corn, anyone?

Welcome to the South. On a slightly more serious note, we are the home of Eudora Welty, William Faulkner, Flannery O’Connor, Tennessee Williams, Truman Capote, Harper Lee, Cormac McCarthy,  Thomas Wolfe, and Mark Twain—just to name a few writers who seem to have done okay. We are also home to the blues, jazz, alternative rock, country music and Elvis Presley. And there are more creatives in little ‘ole Franklin, Tennessee per capita than any place on earth.

Oh yeah, and leave those fancy martini glasses at home. Down he-y-ah, you’re in Jack Daniels country. Grab a coke (you better not call it “pop”) and add a little Tennessee joy to it—and you will never give Connecticut a second thought.

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