How much are you willing to feel?

Let’s start with a blanket over-generalization: Western approaches to mental health (and medicine in general) often focus on symptom-reduction. Rather than attending to the underlying causes of anxiety (for example), we take medication to simply avoid these feelings. And while I support the use of pharmaceuticals in many cases of mental health, I also see our tendency to go for the band-aid fix first, and many times singularly. A quick glance at the pharmaceutical industry will attest to the popularity of this approach. Pfizer alone made nearly 60 billion dollars in 2010. That’s $60,000,000,000.00! In contrast, traditional Eastern approaches to health and wellness encourage us to lean into our pain and fear, befriending them, feeling their intensity, and eventually transforming them. This is the approach I adopt as a therapist and songwriter. I create music principally because if I didn’t have this outlet of expression, I may spontaneously combust. After spending my days breathing in the struggles of others in my private practice, this is my chance to breathe out. I also suspect that I write songs the way I do because I have a deeper agenda: I want you, the listener, to feel something. I want you to feel those things that you typically spend a good portion of your existence defending against. I want you to lean into your own feelings of pain, struggle, loss, love, and joy because I know a secret: The painful places are where the most valuable gifts are hidden. The more we are willing to feel our pain, the more we are able to experience our joy. Shut one side down, the other side shrinks with it. But as we breathe into the intensity of the pain, we are rewarded equally. How much are you willing to feel?

Sheer Determination

You know that insatiable feeling when you want something so badly that you are willing to endure nearly anything to get it? I was reminded of that intensity last week as I taught my 6 year-old daughter to ride her bike. When you commit to learning a new skill like bike riding, you realize the learning process will be painful. You know you will crash, and you know it will hurt. And you can expect to routinely question whether or not it’s worth it. For my daughter, her sheer determination to succeed outweighed the fear of pain. She kept at it until she was able to ride - tears streaming, legs pumping and finally bike riding. It was a major moment for us both. This experience inspired me, as I saw in her a gritty toughness that I deeply admire. Please let me be so determined that I will carry on pursuing my dreams, even with skinned knees and wounded pride.

Something Else

For all its frustrations, having automated customer service options has added at least one benefit to life: Something Else.

Usually tucked at the end of an exhaustive string of prompts, the "Something Else" option provides hope of moving from frustrated to empowered.

This has led to a running joke with my friend, as we frequently attempt to select the Something Else option in our lives, instead of dealing with the current predicament. Of course the attempt at circumventing what is is futile, but it does provide momentary relief in the form of laughter. Perhaps this is the Something Else - Levity. Perspective. Respite. Something Else is my simple two word protest to the universe letting her know that I'm not fond of her at this moment. Got a phone call that a loved one is sick? Choose Something else. Got an overdraft fee from your beloved banking institution? Something else. Flat tire? You get the point.

At the end of the day, if I choose to continue to enjoy the freedoms of adulthood, I am also choosing the responsibilities that comes with those freedoms. Being a grown up is hard. But it's somehow a shade easier and more fun when I take a moment to acknowledge that I would occasionally like something else.

Fighting Over Feelings

My kindergartener came home from school the other day and said, "Daddy, I think I'm stupid." I quickly reacted to this absurdity by launching headlong into a counterattack of mythic proportions. "Stupid?! Are you kidding? You are the smartest, most amazing child in the world! Here, let me give you a few examples of your brilliance…"

Confident in my ability to craft a compelling argument, I was sure my little dumpling would soon see the error in her logic. I also knew that she would then experience a gigantic boost in self-esteem once she saw the light.

But instead of being swayed by the brilliance of my reasoning she simply redoubled her efforts to convince me otherwise. We were soon in a tug-o-war over her limited intelligence, and I wasn't going to win. I could feel the rope slipping.

Then I got smart, and set down the rope. I stopped trying to talk her out of her feelings. I took a breath, felt the sadness that comes with feeling stupid, and I joined her. "Oh honey, that's hard," I began. "What's going on that you're feeling that way?" And she told me. It was a cute story and I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling. I took another breath and stayed with her.

I left space. I let her feel sad. I felt sad with her. Soon something both ordinary and magical happened. As kids do with such ease and grace, she moved through the feelings, and was quickly on to something else.

Funny how I was still feeling sad long after she had moved on. Thankfully, there was plenty of time later for me to tell her what a genius I thought she was.

Committing To The Line

By my best estimates I have put thousands of hours into learning how to play the guitar. But when it comes to the crafting of lyrics, I have traditionally flown by the seat of my proverbial pants.

Then I met my record producer/therapist, Jamie Mefford. Through his approach to making records, he has taught me the art of listening to the song, of leaving space, and of diving into each and every word on the page.

I have since discovered a new method to the songwriting madness. When I devote time to the discovery process, I set up my home studio, slip on the headphones, grab my guitar, hit "record," and start playing. As I play through a particular song I try to free up my heart-mind to sing whatever words seek to come through. As I listen to the song and breathe into her, I aim to temporarily quiet my judgmental mind that wants to critique each aspect of the lyrical output.

This creative approach has unleashed something in me, and I am writing on a more prolific level than ever before. The other night, while working on a song about San Francisco, I wrote (sang) more 40 verses. I then listened back to the recording, and transcribed every word. Picking out my favorite lines, words, and concepts, I wove them into the finished product.

As a result, I have two new songs that are close to done. Really close, as in one line away. But that line…it's not there yet. I have written a number of options for this particular lyric, and even thought I had it. But each time I sing the line, I'm not totally buying it. I'm having trouble committing to it and believing in it. As I learn to listen to my visceral reaction to singing, I can tell when my body contracts, and I'll know that if I perform the song with the line I have now, I will regret it. I will sing that line but blur the words, mildly embarrassed by them because I know they could be better.

It set me to wondering, where else do I do this? Where else in my life am I not buying my own lines? Are there places where I feel incongruent with what I am saying and doing, but I disregard my own visceral integrity?

I now know the embodied sense of purpose that grows from singing/living the lines I believe in and I aim to embrace this in all aspects of my life. I am a musician. And also a psychotherapist. In that order.

Space In The Song

In the process of recording my new album (which is about 80% done), my producer Jamie Mefford has brought several things to my attention. One of them is my tendency - developed through years of playing and performing as a solo singer/songwriter - to take up lots of space with my guitar playing. My style has evolved into an often busy network of Dave Matthews / Neil Young-style hammer-ons and pull-offs that sound fancy. I like playing that way and it has now become a comfortable groove.

As a solo artist this style is strategically understandable. But as I play more and more with the new trio, and record this new album, I have become acutely aware of the need to leave space for others. This of course brings up interesting things to ponder for me as I examine anew my personality outside of music. How much space am I leaving for others? As a therapist, husband, father, friend, and son I am certain I could leave more.

Musically, I am remembering that when space is left in the song, the listener can enter into the conversation. As a listener myself, I find that my mind/heart/soul fills the void - I hear overtones, echoes, other instruments and voices in the space - and I can take a breath. Denver Children's Hospital Music Therapist Tony Edelblute has writing succinctly about the topics of musical space and silence.

I contrast this with the music of bluegrass jam band Trampled By Turtles for example, whom I saw at Telluride this year. Their gig seems to be this: play as frenetically as possible for as long as possible and let the people dance. And no doubt they have devoted followers. But I'm not one of them. Listening to their music, I literally had to fight to breathe. There was no space. So like Elvis, I quickly left the building.

As I continue to write, record, and perform, my goal is to listen as much as I play - if not more. I enjoy the richness of sitting back and breathing into the song as the song breathes into me. Imagine if our world leaders left more space in their songs. How much space to you leave?

Telluride

I attended the Telluride Bluegrass Festival this past weekend for the first time, and I will be disappointed if I ever miss it again. It was, quite simply, that good.

The music itself was so indescribably amazing that I will save my thoughts on the performances for a later diatribe. Add to that the scenic wonders that brought people to Telluride in the first place (ok, it was the pursuit of silver, but they stayed for the scenery), and we're only half way to explaining the magnitude of this blissful experience. The other half was comprised mostly of the people - happy, smiling, beautiful, diverse, interesting and (for the most part) conscientious people.

I have been to a number of music festivals in my life, and realized this time around that Planet Bluegrass knows how to throw a spectacular (and eco-friendly, carbon-neutral) festival, and this is the place where our inner children come out and play in full force. Adults and kids alike were hula hooping, playing bean-bag toss games, walking around on stilts, dressing up in costumes, dancing, smiling, skipping, laughing, and playing on a gigantic 4 foot tall Connect Four board. I'm surprised we didn't finger paint and play freeze tag.

Some disbelievers respond with ignorance and think this ecstatically happy adult/inner child experience was purely the result of everyone being drunk and high. Those more seasoned festevarians realize that while there were some among us who ingested their fair share of dopamine-enhancing substances, the overall vibe of happiness, joy, creativity and love was more than enough to produce the desired result.

During this amazing weekend my heart was opened repeatedly, I was moved to tears by the music more times than I could count, and I danced with a joyful abandon I had not known since childhood. All of this happened in the midst of ten thousand others who appeared to be having similar experiences.

I returned home exhausted and exhilarated, grateful to be alive, and thankful to Planet Bluegrass for making it happen.