byChrisWhite – 2015

Well now, I reckon you may have noticed that my recent penmanship has been somewhat sporadic, lacking the fervor of a few months past. There is good reason for that. It ain’t that I’ve hung up my writer’s hat, quite the opposite. I’ve been scribbling away, only this time on a bigger canvas, and, like most grand works, it requires time, space, and the luxury of prolonged thought. It’s like working on a quilt, you don’t get to see it come together until all the pieces are sewn in place. But here’s the truth of it: my writing isn’t just a diversion; it’s my way of livin’ authentically. And maybe, just maybe, it’s time I talk a bit about what that means.

Now, “living authentically,” that’s one of those phrases that sounds a bit grandiose, a bit lofty, as if it came from some guru perched cross-legged atop a hill. But it’s simpler than that, really. It means being yourself, and being mighty proud of it, even if who you are happens to have a crooked nose or a penchant for bad puns. It means bridging the gap between your thoughts and your actions. Being authentic means being that same peculiar soul you see in the mirror every morning, regardless of which way the wind blows or what society says you ought to be.

And here’s the tricky part: writing, for me, has been the crowbar that pries open the chest of my soul. It’s a public confession that brings all those shaded corners into full light, thoughts that I’ve kept buried under layers of reticence now bubble up, spilling out like a fountain in need of repair. Writing lets me sift through the dust, polish off what’s worth keeping, and let the rest blow away with the wind. I dare say, it’s my therapy, even if nobody pays me for it.

Now, my sister Lisa, she’s taken the road to authenticity since she was knee-high to a grasshopper. Lisa’s an artist, not the kind you read about in gossip columns, but a real one, who paints with an honesty that would make a preacher nervous. Her art, why, it’s not just pigment on canvas; it’s a window into her heart. A mere glance at her brushwork reveals love, heartbreak, joy, and a hundred other emotions that we simple mortals can only dream of expressing. She’s been painting outside the lines her entire life, while I was busy coloring neatly within them. I’d call that a lesson.

I, on the other hand, was like two people wrapped in one skin, the public face and the private mind. You wouldn’t know much about what I truly thought unless you sat with me in some dim-lit kitchen at midnight, after a few cups of coffee had worn down my caution. Folks used to say I had the demeanor of a courthouse statue, all stern eyes and crossed arms. My wife even said I was “unapproachable,” though I suspect that might’ve been her kind way of saying I was a mite stubborn.

Take the time I was at Police Instructor School back in ’93. One of my classmates, a good friend of mine, got up to give his presentation, and before he even began, he said, “Look here, I can’t spell for nothin’, so bear with me.” I pulled him aside later and said, “You can’t be tellin’ people that, it’s like showing ‘em your cards before the game starts.” I laugh now, realizing how I was advising him to hide his flaws instead of just being himself. It’s funny how we learn, sometimes by being wrong.

Age has a way of unraveling pretenses, though. We stop pretending that everything is shiny and spotless, that life is one neat parade. We realize our strength isn’t in impressing others but in simply being, flaws and all. And that’s how I ended up here, writing these thoughts, letting them spill out without much polishing. It’s a far cry from the masked, guarded fellow I used to be.

I reckon living authentically has become somewhat fashionable these days, though there are some folks who’d still call it “oversharing” or shake their heads and mutter “TMI” under their breath. Back in the day, we didn’t see a lot of authenticity, at least, not on the screen. Men were all supposed to be like John Wayne, women like Cheryl Tiegs, and kids like the Beaver. Everyone fit a mold, and the folks who didn’t, well, they weren’t on television.

For me, it wasn’t some grand revelation that made me crave authenticity, more like a slow, simmering need. It’s like that pearl inside an oyster; it starts as an irritation, but over time it turns into something you’re proud to show off. And now I’m here, peeling back the layers, letting folks see that ‘unapproachable’ ain’t the same as unfeeling. I’ve got thoughts and emotions, just like everyone else, and this here writing’s how I express ‘em.

But let me tell you, being yourself doesn’t always mean winning people over. There’s something about getting older that makes you realize you don’t need everyone’s approval. You start caring more about others while caring less about their opinions of you. If your friends or family can’t understand that you’re not a statue, that you have flaws just like anyone else, well, maybe they never really knew you to begin with.

And that brings me to another point, sometimes, being authentic means letting your children see you for who you are, not the idealized version they may have carried in their heads. It can be uncomfortable, even painful, to drop the mask of unconditional praise, but children grow up, and part of their journey is learning that life isn’t always applause and sunshine. I’m not sayin’ you should be harsh, but that it’s important to be real, even if it means letting them know you’re not perfect.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to appreciate the value of simply being present. Wherever you go, there you are, and the sooner you get comfortable with that person, the better off you’ll be. I’ve learned to embrace my quirks, my flaws, and my odd sense of humor. And I’ve learned that there’s freedom in letting go of the past, not dwelling on it, but carrying its lessons with me like a well-worn map.

So, this writing’s a piece of that journey, an attempt to live honestly and openly, even if the truth is sometimes awkward or a little too raw. Because the only life worth living is one where you’re true to yourself. And if folks don’t like what they see, well, they can find themselves another statue to admire.