Fear, cont.

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Universal Truths about Fear

—–

I hadn’t expected the reaction to last week’s commentary on fear and sloth. The podcast version was forwarded more than most and the social media got a lots of attention and forwards, too. Most of those commenting were like me – sloth is not such a problem. Fear is the problem.

A friend pointed me to a book that, he says, changed his life. It’s called Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway by Susan Jeffers and was first published in 1987. It’s sold millions and has been translated into 35 different languages. Fear is a big seller because it’s a common problem. I downloaded it to my Audible account and there it sat before I decided to finally listen. Frankly, I was skeptical. I find most of these types of books thin on content, and I should know because I’ve written a few. But if it changed my friend’s life then maybe some relic of this dated message will resonate with me.

So this morning, sitting with a coffee in my hotel room well before dawn with the curtain open to watch the sunrise, I hit play to listen to the book. I’m only on Chapter 3 and can honestly say I have taken a whole new and different approach to this persistent nemesis of mine called fear. So far, book is working.

There are many highlights already, but this stood out: Jeffers says there are five universal truths about fear, and we should repeat them ten times a day for a month or more. That’s a bit much, but I will print them and pin the to the wall near my desk.

• First, fear will never go away as long as we continue to grow. Fear’s a consequence of growth and growth does not happen without fear accompanying it.
• Second, the only way to get rid of the fear of doing something is simply go out and do it.
• Third, the only way to feel better about myself is to go out and do that which I fear.
• Fourth, not only am I going to experience fear whenever I’m on unfamiliar territory, but so is everyone else. You and I are not alone, but you’d never know because we all wear such a brave face, don’t we? However, we’re all feeling much the same.
• And fifth, my favorite one, pushing through fear is less frightening than living with the underlying fear that comes from a feeling of helplessness.

Jeffers goes on to say she’s has never met someone who does not struggle with fear. Maybe they’re out there, she says, but probably not. Some call it nerves. Some call it anxiety. Some call it worry. But it’s all the same thing: it’s fear.

It’s helpful stuff to know, but results come from taking action. So, with these five universal truths about fear in mind, I’m going to tackle some things I’ve been avoiding, using thin excuses but, in truth, I’ve been afraid of.  Join me, and let’s see what happens.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.

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Sloth & Fear

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Every day. Every single day.

—–

A friend told me that every day waiting for us at the foot of our bed is sloth and fear. Our eyes open, our brain turns on, and sloth and fear are right there. On the bed. Waiting. Our first challenge every day is to get past them. And she’s not wrong.

Sloth and fear work together. They’re different mental states but they support each other. I’m afraid of what might happen today or sometime in the future so I won’t move, I’ll stay right here in bed. It’s predictable here, we say. And the longer I stay here, the more afraid I become of what may happen. Sloth and fear. We try to leave them behind but they’ve never far.

Sloth is not as much my problem as is fear. For twenty plus years I’ve been a small business owner and when I began my work many many years ago I assumed that at some point the business will become automatic and at some point it will run on momentum and at some point I won’t have to worry about where the next client, the next bit of revenue, will come from. Well, it’s been twenty plus years, and I worry about it every single day, even on weekends. I didn’t know it at the time, but it’s what I signed up for. And the temptation to call it quits and find a job is always there. Give it to someone else worry about where the customers will come from. Let someone else worry about revenue and pay estimated taxes and make payroll and all that. The idea has a strong appeal. However, I know deep down inside that I’d be miserable. I’d want to make my own decisions, chart my own course, take the calculated risks I deem appropriate to grow the company. I don’t do well working for others and I have a number of former employers who would nod enthusiastically in agreement. A vendor? A contractor? A consultant? Yes. I’m very good in those roles. An employee? Not good at all.

But I sure wish I could get the fear to go away. It’s the worry over uncertainty. My wife always reminds me that every year I have the same concerns and every year everything’s worked out. My response is always the same – Yeah, but that was last year. Just because good things have happened in the past doesn’t mean they’ll happen again now or in the future. So, I worry. It’s worse some days than others.

A quick Google search says there are 365 instances in the Bible where the message is to not be afraid. I guess God knew it would need repeating. But saying that I shouldn’t be afraid or worry and not being afraid or worried are very different. Even the Buddha says that the path to enlightenment will leave all fear behind. Sure sounds nice. Maybe it’s all something I should look into.

If I could just muster the courage to get out of bed.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.

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Warriors

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Warriors need to be praised.

—–

Young men have always been warriors. They’d go fight the battles while the elders sat around the campfire. The elders decided if fighting was the right thing and when and how to do it. The warriors executed the plan. When they returned, they were glorified for their success, or they were coddled in their loss. Either way, they were praised for their efforts.

Most old men don’t seek glory like young men do. Something happens after about forty years old, where glory no longer drives behavior. Old men prefer instruction and guidance. Not glory. Learning from mistakes is more important than celebrating victories. And old men want to help others learn, too.

In today’s parlance, the young warriors seek celebration for kicking tail and taking names. It’s been this way forever. The old ones seek correction, guidance, and offer feedback. “What did I do wrong,” they ask, “and how can I get better?” It’s mankind. It’s human. It existed before any of us and will continue well beyond us.

Which brings me to football.

My favorite youngest son watched the entire game from the sidelines a few weeks ago. He followed his coach up and down the field, never more than a few feet distant, like a puppy hoping for a treat. He wanted in. But the game was against our school’s biggest rival and it was close. And my son, a sophomore, wasn’t yet ready for that stage in a tight game.

I found my son after the game. I hugged him and told him I loved watching him out there. I told him his time in practice had helped ready his team for a well-deserved, hard-earned close victory. I told him I was proud of him. He flashed a tiny smile. He shook his head. He said he had wanted to play. “I know. I was watching. Keep working hard,” I said. “Your time will come.”

I did this and said this because I did it the wrong way a couple years ago. I made a mistake. My favorite oldest son had walked off the football field after several great catches and a couple touchdowns. He was beaming. That young warrior had conquered and had conquered well. And I…I immediately pointed out a block that he had missed. I had offered him the feedback that I, an old man, might have wanted. Not what a young warrior aches to hear. My son’s face changed. I immediately realized what I had said, and what I had done, and how I had made him feel and my guts hurt to this day. Catches. Touchdowns. Yards after catch. A great team win. And I start with his mistakes. Ugh.

I tell this story often. It’s my penance.

Warriors need to be praised. Warriors need to be praised. Remember that. Warriors are not always right. Warriors are not above discipline. Warriors aren’t infallible. Warriors are not above correction. But, whenever possible, warriors need to be praised. It’s ancient. If you, too, are an old man like me, you’ll learn from my mistake.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.

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Gettin’ Through it Together

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It’s been a tough few weeks. This commentary offers no specifics, but I’ve learned some things.

—–

Many years ago, my neighbor in Charlotte, North Carolina knocked on my door one weekday afternoon. His wife had just told him she’s leaving. She climbed her car and drove away. He was dumbstruck and he needed to talk. My wife and I had just moved in. I hardly knew him. I didn’t know what to say or what to do. I froze. To my everlasting shame, I rushed our conversation so he’d stop making ME feel uncomfortable. I realized years later he was crying out for help and I failed him. I know this now. And I’ll never do it again. To this day I regret my behavior that afternoon.

When I was a much younger man, I chose to remain ignorant other people’s problems. Mainly because of the way their problems made ME feel. But I now realize that when someone shares their problems, when they confess a deep vulnerability, they’re taking on risk by sharing it. They’re vulnerable and are hoping I won’t fail them like I did my neighbor many years ago. In fact, to be thought as one who might can help is, in fact, a privilege and should be treated that way. I’ve learned. Today I do my best to help; I try to do what I can. I’ve changed.

Folks, there are no awards for bearing deep emotional pain alone. There is no Hall of Fame for keeping your horrific and debilitating suffering to yourself. We say we don’t want to burden someone else with our problems. But how many times have you and I wished, regarding our own friends, that we would have known about something so that we could have tried to help.

Asking for help is not a weakness. Asking for help is the first step to elevating a problem and finding someone who can help you solve it. There’s no shame in it.

To my wife, my friends and my family: I commit to working on a solution when I fall into these vulnerable states. And I do fall into them. I may sound sanctimonious right now, but I’m vulnerable. Deeply so. Maybe we all are. And I commit to not suffering quietly out of pride or shame or embarrassment. To my wife, my friends, to my family; to those who listen to these commentaries – I need you to commit to taking care of yourself, too. I need you. I need to know not only that you’re out there, but that you’ll be there.

My wife has told me many times – there’s a big difference in listening to yourself versus talking to yourself. When you listen, you let the demons in. When you talk to yourself the right way you make yourself stronger. You keep the demons at bay.

Folks let’s agree to talk. To ourselves. To one another. Let’s agree to admit that we all have problems that we can’t solve them on our own.  And let’s agree to get through this – whatever it is – by relying on each other. Together.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.

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North

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My wife and I were headed to a cocktail reception where we knew no one. “This is an opportunity,” I said.

—–

My wife and I were driving to a short cocktail reception full of people we’d never met. Most of them knew one another. Us? Not a soul. This is an opportunity, I said. Let’s run with it.

I proposed that she and I create a story for ourselves. Pick a personality and a background and a job. We’ll create something bordering on sensational and come up with a few very specific details that will make whomever we talk to truly wonder. About us. About whether we’re telling the truth. They don’t know us. It’s a short event. Let’s see if we can pull this off. Nothing to lose. I used to do this on blind dates back in the day and I got pretty good at telling long haul truck driver stories.

A glance at my wife in the passenger seat and I saw what I’ve come to expect. A roll of her eyes. A shake of her head.

“I think I’ll go with having invented the direction North,” I said. Prior to my invention, no one knew where anything was. People were getting lost in round rooms. I gave them direction. Today I get small commission every time a new compass is printed. And this younger generation today – they use Waze and Google Maps and Apple Maps all the time and North is usually on every screen. I only get a fraction of a cent each time that happens but the money ads up. Each day I spend a lot of time promoting North as very popular direction and I feature it in a lot of my social media. Two other guys came up with East and West and we split commissions on directions when we collaborate. And I have a new direction being released soon but nondisclosure documents prevent me from talking too much about it right now.

Sideways glance. Silence from the passenger seat.

How about I was the original voice artist for the beeps trucks make when they back up. Today they’re electronic, but in the good ole days when they beeped, that’s me. Age has made it hard to recreate that sound any more but… beep beep beep. Can’t you hear it? The recording came down to me and this little pre-pubescent teenaged girl, but she suffered an awful blow to the throat by a masked man outside the studio after her audition. They called me back because I was the only candidate remaining. I’m not exactly famous, but you’ve probably heard me.

Nothing. Time to go for it.

How about we’re royalty from a small principality in Europe called Genovia. People won’t remember the Princess Diaries movies. They’ll have heard of Genovia and maybe think it’s a real place. We’ll tell them it’s similar Lichtenstein but smaller. And near the edge of Austria. Our citizens there are not known as Genovians, by the way. To us Genovian royalty, they’re actually known as our Genotail…

“STOP,” she said. “Just stop. Who we are is plenty. It’s actually more than enough.”

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.

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Burning Our Brains

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The heat’s cooked our brains. 

——

The heat’s taken its toll. It’s been unrelenting. Brutal. The greenery looks weary. The grass dries and turns brown within hours of any moisture. My car thermometer regularly reads around 110 and I saw online that it feels much hotter. We need a break. We need relief. My dog looks at me and says “No way I’m walking on that street. That street will burn my feet right off” and she’s right.

It’s affecting us mentally. We’re budding on crazy. It’s cooked our brains. Recent headlines are all you need to see. A lady in Birmingham faked her own abduction. She was missing for a few days before she showed up again. I don’t think anyone knows where she was. I’m betting she found some air conditioning and was just sitting in it. “Let people look for me, let the donations pile up,” she thought. “That’s fine. At least I’m cool.” Lady, I get it.

A brawl on the Montgomery riverfront didn’t cite heat as an instigator but it certainly had to be. Those fools on the pontoon boat had been cooking themselves in the sun all day. It melted their brains. They likely had a big cooler full of cold pops that had turned warm, too. All day in the searing sun, cold pops now hot and tempers can’t help but rise. It all triggered some bad decisions. Same with the folks on the riverboat. It had been a nice cruise but it’s time to find the comfort of AC at home and anyone preventing them from getting off that boat… Well… I’d grab a chair, too.

Down here in Mobile we’ve had a fully adult Roman Catholic priest head off to Europe with an 18-year-old female high schooler just after her graduation. Reports say they’d been together for a while but I’m sure the heat accelerated things. Cooked their brains, especially his. Those priests wear those heavy vestments and garments and such – no way to stay cool under all that. And black clothes with those closed priest collars? He’s made a heat related mistake and the Archbishop has defrocked him – un-priested him. I’m guessing Mr. Romeo Priest may a bit upset now that’s he’s come to but he’s happy to get into some cooler clothes.

As I write this it’s the hottest day of the year so far here in Mobile. As I look online right now, it says it feels like 116 degrees outside. Meaning my car probably reads 125 or so. It’s brutal. It’s the seventh layer of Dante’s Inferno. When I get home, I’m going to watch on TV what crazy things the cooked brains in our city did today. Someone misbehaved. Someone surely snapped. Can’t wait to see who.

As for me, I’m going to stay right here lying down in my underwear on this cool tile floor, feeling the wash of cold air flow over me each time the refrigerator door opens above me. Wondering what the camera crew is doing here. And why the convenience store clerk keeps pointing at me.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.

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Crossing

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Last week I danced in front of a train to try to get it to move.

—–

Trains have always held great symbolic meaning. They represent the future, a new destination, an opportunity. In movies, the characters board trains in the hopes of greater things down the tracks. Lovers tearfully depart at train stations. Though tragic it’s what’s best for each of them. Bandits of the wild west knew there was a strong box on a train full of money. Convicts break out of jail and if they can make it to the train it will take them away from the misery of prison.

Songs, too. The Midnight Special. Midnight Train to Georgia. Folsom Prison Blues. People Get Ready. Downbound Train by Bruce Springsteen. Lots of train songs. Lots of them. Trains are a metaphor. They represent a passage. A transition. A breakthrough, though that breakthrough is often difficult.

A transition, a passage, and a breakthrough was anything but the case two Thursdays ago here in Mobile. Our GulfQuest Museum invited me to give a speech called The Stories Behind Keepin’ It Real. They wanted the stories behind my most popular commentaries. The stories behind the commentaries most difficult to write. And I offered to play the commentaries and tell the stories behind the ones that never were allowed to broadcast. The ones that were veto’d and blackballed.

Having never given this speech, I was nervous. What would I say? How would it go? I love writing and recording these things, but a formal presentation about them? I was nervous. Excited. Very excited. But also very nervous.

And rolling into the GulfQuest Museum early to get set up I was greeted with…a train. Blocking the tracks. And cars beginning to pile up at the train crossing waiting, like me, to get in. In the cars were my audience. They waited patiently, avoiding the brutal heat by sitting in their cars in the AC. I called the train company to ask them to move the train. “Ok,” the CSX dispatcher said. “Any minute now.” We all waited. I went to the federal transportation bureau website and submitted a form asking them to move the train. Nothing. I called back to CSX about their train. “Any minute now,” they said again. I danced in the tracks in front of the train to try to get the conductor’s attention. I called CSX a third time. Nothing.

I began walking to the waiting cars to assure them they wouldn’t be late to the speech and they wouldn’t miss the speaker because I was the speaker. I begged them to wait. Don’t give up hope. The train will move eventually. Because there is nothing worse than giving a speech to one or two people in a nearly empty auditorium. It’s humiliating. And nervous as I was, I knew an auditorium with some people was better than a nearly empty one.

About forty minutes later, the train slowly rolled away. The speech went well. You can find it on the GulfQuest YouTube page.

At one point I was excited about Amtrak returning to Mobile. Now I hope I never ever see another train.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.

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Caricature

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This week I take an imaginary walk through Jackson Square in New Orleans and ask a caricature artist to draw me something…different. 

—–

There are sections of our society that have become parodies of themselves. Once proud, they’re now laughable forms of their former self.

Imagine this: You’re walking through the New Orleans French Quarter. You stop at one of the caricature artists on Jackson Square. You say, “Hey Mr Caricature artist. I don’t want a picture of me. I want you to draw a picture of, let’s say, today’s country music.” That caricature artist would draw country music exactly as it is today. Because country music has become a caricature of itself. It would be both a portrait of country music and a caricature at the same time.

The musician’s goal is to find rhymes for the words beer, mud, tire, and truck many multiples of times in just under three minutes. Fishing a few weeks ago, I heard the song “it’s a bad bad day to be a cold cold beer” over and over again. It was a parody of country music. A caricature of itself. The ghost of Hank Williams has his ghost head in his ghost hands and he’s crying ghost tears.

Another one. Imagine saying “Hey Mr Jackson Square caricature artist. How about drawing me a picture of today’s Republican party.” They’d draw the Republican party exactly the way it is right now. The GOP has become a caricature of itself. It would be, again, both a portrait and a caricature at the same time. Once the party of integrity, honesty, and character, it now denies those qualities and, and in fact, spoofs them. It’s imaginable that a person could change their favorite color one day. But political party going from railing against liars and the mistreatment of women to saying today, “Ah, well. Maybe that stuffs not so bad.” A complete reversal. The Democratic party is still vaguely recognizable for of what it once was. The Republican party? A parody. A caricature. A spoof. They used to be amateur wrestling. Now they’re the WWE.

Another one: “Hey, Mr Jackson Square caricature artist. You smell of strange herbs and your eyes are barely open. Can you see well enough to draw me a caricature of college football.” Folks, I love college football. I can’t wait for it to start up again, but my narrow-eyed caricature artist friend would draw a portrait of college football as it is right now. It’s a caricature and a parody of what it used to be. A spoof. Transfer portals and NIL money have taken their toll. The only ones playing for love of school, sport, and a college degree are the ones who never see the field. The third and fourth stringers. It’s a shame. What purity and innocence it had, if it ever had any, is gone.

After reading this through – maybe one more. Hey Mr Caricature artist, draw me a caricature of a bitter, grumpy old man. One who doesn’t like change and lives too much in the past. And please be kind.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just Keepin’ it Real.

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Thirty Years

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After thirty years of the same family tradition – I give some thought to the future.

—–

For the thirtieth year in a row my SUV left my garage headed for the North Carolina Coast the second to last Saturday in July. If we weren’t in it, it would go by itself. It’s what we do. It’s what the car does. And it was packed tight with everything from fishing gear, to bed sheets, to food, to 150 oysters in the shell on ice, two cakes from Bake My Day, and a case of get-along juice, also known as wine. My in-laws have rented a house on Ocean Isle Beach in North Carolina every summer and we are all expected to be there – there were sixteen of us.

Question for you – Name one spouse you know or have ever even heard of that’s vacationed in the same place, in nearly the same house, with the same people, on the same days every summer for thirty consecutive years. Unless that person is me or my sister-in-law, that person doesn’t exist. I can’t speak for my sister-in-law, but it makes me… Well… I don’t know what it makes me. Honestly, it makes me afraid for my life to declare that having vacationed in the same place, in nearly the same house, with the same people on the same days for over half my life that I’m now ready to do something different. It wouldn’t go over well.

It’s this week at the beach every year plus a few weekends in the fall at my father’s camp in Clarke County, Alabama that I’m reminded of the great disparity in penalties for loud noise in the nighttime versus loud noises in the morning. This does require some explanation:

I go to bed early. After about nine PM, I’m useless and am eager to get to sleep and start again the next day. However, some of my family like to whoop it up at night and at 9pm they’re just warming up. They make lots of noise. They’re having a ball. But little consideration is given to those of us that retire early. There’s little penalty applied for keeping us from getting to sleep or waking us after we’ve fallen to sleep.

However, the reverse is not the true. I’m an early riser. And early risers must tip-toe through the house, careful to not make a sound or else face the wrath of the late sleepers. Their being inconveniently awakened by the early riser’s God-awful sounds of the unloading of the dishwasher or the brewing of the coffee are intolerable fouls against the family’s 30-year-old tradition. I’ve come to live with it. It’s a small price to pay. It’s not a big deal. But there’s some sort of economy that needs to be flushed out regarding penalties for preventing sleep versus penalties for awakening sleepers. Small penalties are applied for preventing sleep. Large penalties are applied  for awakening sleepers. Its’ not fair but we live with it.

How long will this yearly tradition last? I don’t know. My children have grown such that we now need two cars to make the 22 hour round trip. And if we decide stop one year, we’ll know when that week comes because the SUV will go anyway. It’s simply what it does.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.

 

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