A New Shore

I remember when my friend Matt walked in to the wilderness and never returned. I had just spoken with him a couple of days before his disappearance and his final words to me were, “if I could just figure out my medication.” Matt was generous, smart, passionate, and wickedly funny. I miss him terribly. If only I could go back.

I remember the first time I was in the hospital. I was seven and had a staph infection in my knee, which required two major reconstructive surgeries. The episode left me scarred both literally and figuratively. I still am terrified of needles and to this day, my knee pops and aches from years of scar tissue build up. If only I could go back.

I remember when I skipped a chance to see Pavarotti perform in Vienna so I could go out partying instead. I remember movies before they were just comic book sagas and endless sequels. I remember TV before reality TV, news before it was sensationalized and polarizing, and TV ads before they were mostly drug ads. I remember life before we were plugged in 24/7 and when the Internet was basically just an encyclopedia. If only I could go back.

I remember when I wanted to change my major but I never did - I didn’t study what I loved in college, I studied what I thought I should study. I remember the time I didn’t get into grad school and didn’t try again. I remember when I didn’t start that business, create that curriculum, or write that book. If only I could go back.

I remember the first time I had my heart broken. In junior high I had my first kiss with my first girlfriend and weeks later, she dumped me. I tore up a textbook on the school bus in frustration. Since then I’ve had partnerships fail, an ex-girlfriend die in a mass shooting, and I experienced a gut-wrenching divorce. I’ve learned that broken hearts heal, but you also can’t take back the wrongs. If only I could back.

I remember when I was 22 and Grandpa died. He was just learning what it really meant to love and then, it was over. I sat with my cousin in the hospital hallway and sobbed and sobbed. I yearned to know my real Grandfather. If only I could go back.

I remember the time I didn’t take the job in San Francisco or the one in New Orleans. The time I thought I had found the perfect career, but didn’t get the gig. The time the big promotion didn’t pan out, the time the start-up failed, and the time my favorite job morphed into corporate monotony. I remember last year when I was passed up for what seemed like the perfect position. If only I could go back.

I remember when I was perfectly fit. I remember not feeling my backache every morning. I remember dancing around that boxing ring feeling like I was the champ. If I could be frozen in time physically, I’d choose to live at age 33. If only I could go back.

I remember last year when Dad was sick. As I watched him in his final weeks I was angry that I would never get to see Mom and Dad be that cute and loving elderly couple in their 80’s an 90’s. I felt robbed of that time with Dad living out his golden years. If only I could go back.

I remember life before AIDS, the opioid epidemic, obesity, mass shootings, suicides of despair, political correctness, political gridlock, economic disparity, climate change and the COVID-19 Pandemic. If only I could go back…

There’s been a lot of talk recently about going back, returning to normal, and turning the economy back on. Going to work or school and having routine and structure are important aspects of daily life. But one thing I’ve learned over the years in both success and failure is that no matter how steadfastly we wish to go back or strive to recreate the past, we can never really go back.

Says author Francis Weller, “When we are in the grips of illness, a major focus in our mind is the hope of getting back to where we were before this sickness began. But we are not meant to go back...we must recognize that we have been uprooted by our cancer, our heart attack, or our depression and we have been set down on some new shore. Like any true ritual process, we are meant to come out of the experience deeply changed.”

The truth is we can’t go back and we aren’t meant to. Not when you face a life-altering illness. Not when you lose your first love, your best friend, or your Dad. Not when you lose your youth, your dream job ends, or when you experience transcendent art for the first time.

We will never get to experience childhood again, go back to the first day of college, or experience the choices we didn’t make. We can only shed our old skin and make new choices. It is only in the willingness to encounter sorrow that we can truly know love and it is only in losing part of ourselves that we allow ourselves the space to grow.

The western paradigm is a love affair with infinite growth, but culturally we are simultaneously terrified of death. Ironically, true transformational growth happens through loss when we face our shadows of guilt and grief. We can only be born again after losing ourselves first. When we aren’t willing to face the death of our ego ideals, we simply see repetition, stagnation, and gridlock. If these words sound familiar, maybe it’s because in many ways they are a descriptive of ‘normal’ life in modern society.

U2 was my favorite band growing up and they used to end every concert with their song “Forty” based on the 40th Psalm. As the show would end, the entire crowd would sing the chorus in unison “I will sing, sing a new song.” The chant would continue until the band left the stage and the lights came on.

When this sickness is over, we will have been set down on “a new shore” as Francis Weller says. This moment presents an opportunity – not to go back, return to normal, or make something great once again, but to be truly transformed and sing a new song.

Failure is an Option

I was recently asked in a job interview about my biggest failures in life and how I’ve dealt with them. I was caught a little off guard. “Aren’t you supposed to be asking me about all of my successes and snazzy resume virtues like revenue growth and educational accomplishments?” I thought to myself.

Really though, I was thrilled that the meeting lead with the topic of failure because as someone swimming in the season of midlife, I consider myself something of a failure expert. While I have much to be grateful for and have suffered far less trauma than many, I’ve also had my fair share of failures from divorce to being laid-off. 

I’ve been a part of two failed start-ups. I’ve been rejected for more acting auditions and article submissions than I could possibly count. I once applied to several top acting Masters programs and didn’t get in to any of them. I’ve outlined career choices I thought were the right next step only to be rejected and/or profoundly disappointed. I’ve made poor financial decisions. I’ve hurt others and walked away from close friendships. I’ve experienced significant injuries, major surgeries, and the vast uncertainty of having your health compromised. Like almost everyone, I’ve experienced the sting of defeat, the utter frustration of a significant misstep, and the total loss of losing a loved one.

Of course, I gave my interviewer the cliff-notes version of my failures and weaved just a couple of them in to my narrative on failure forging character. The interviewer nodded in agreement, and we quietly moved on to my successes. 

While society lauds a winner, we merely give lip service to the losers. Most of that sentiment is about dusting ourselves off to succeed again. But navigating failure is deeper than learning to succeed in the wake of it. Facing failure is about seeing our shadow, confronting our sorrow, and stepping once again into the arena to oppose the dragon. In the Hollywood version, the loser gets knocked down, but always gets back up and slays the dragon. 

But I’m not a screenwriter and the purpose of this piece is not to romanticize failure. Make no mistake, failure is brutal. Failure can break your heart, hit you in the gut and pull the carpet from under your feet. Failure sucks - It literally hurts everywhere.

Especially in a success-driven culture, failure is a hard pill to swallow. But failure is also our best medicine, because failure forces humility. This state allows for the greatest of all human experiences to flourish - love. As grief guru and writer Francis Weller says, “Loss is the other side of the coin of love. The greater the love, the greater the loss.” Vulnerability creates the fertile soil where friendship, empathy, and love blossoms.

True love is only available to those who are willing to have their hearts broken. If you study the world’s religions, you will see a common theme among them - brokenness allows for spiritual growth. Christ doesn’t talk about the proud and successful being blessed, but of the meek, the poor in spirit, and broken hearted finding true peace and happiness. 

The reason for this is simple - When the ego is in the driver’s seat, we cannot hear the voice of authenticity. It’s hard to listen for divine direction when we’re patting ourselves on the back, counting our money, and shining our trophies. It’s when we’re broken that we’re open. Of course, as I can attest, it’s when we’re broken that we’re also depressed, addicted, and numb.

As one who has failed plenty, it’s not easy to hear the ‘you’ll get them next time’ mantra. No one likes to hear about ‘silver linings’ in the midst of trauma, setback, or devastation. Players don’t want to hear “better luck next year” after a gut-wrenching loss; they want to know when the next win is coming. But life doesn’t guarantee wins, life only guarantees losses, and it’s those losses that create character and help us define our true callings. Irish poet John O’Donahue once said, “Life is a growth in the art of loss.”

The truth of failure isn’t that once you’ve learned from defeat, you’ll get them next time or it won’t happen again. Learning from failure doesn’t even necessarily mean that you’ll ultimately be stronger. The truth is simply that if we’re willing to face our most profound disappointments, our hearts will ultimately open. This meekness allows for us to do our most meaningful work and demonstrate our greatest capacity to love.

As the interview wound down having touched on both my successes and failures, the interviewer asked me another pointed question. “When’s the last time you felt really alive?” he inquired. It didn’t take me long to respond. “In delivering the eulogy for my Dad at his memorial,” I said as tears welled up in my eyes. I vividly recalled how powerful it was to celebrate and remember Dad with hundreds of people that he had touched. Ironically, in remembering a loved one who had just passed, I’ve never felt so alive. As Francis Weller says, “We are most alive at the threshold between loss and revelation; every loss ultimately opens the way for a new encounter.” The interviewer was stunned. “That...was a great answer.” He said.

As a society, we’re so caught up with success that paradoxically, we’ve forgotten how to fail. We only post our best pictures and portray our most perfect selves, unwilling to see the failure that lurks beneath the surface. We celebrate the celebrities, stars, and small minority of haves while the have-nots wallow in a sea of numbness, distraction, and despair.

We are all called to mourn and to open our hearts. We have much grief work to do in facing our collective losses, missed opportunities, economic disparity, and our ailing planet. Each day as I work through the sadness of missing my Dad, I also try and work through the anguish caused by regret, massive disappointment, and lost opportunity. Bringing dignity to my grief is a process.

It’s right to plan, strive, and hope for success, but life has also taught me that failure is definitely an option. As I learn to let go of the desires of the ego and sit with loss and suffering, I also learn to listen more intently and love more fiercely. Facing our grief and failure teaches us how to love (ourselves, a job, person, or calling) again.

Oh and speaking of failure, I didn’t get the job.