Letting Your Life Lead

Parker Palmer’s book reveals the path

The thing about authenticity that I love most is its messiness. Parker Palmer’s book Let Your Life Lead is not a book glorifying any particular part of his life. It is raw and honest, revelatory and real. It is written by a wisened older man, who has learned the hard way, the soulful way, as a companion to with longing and pain as much as joy and triumph. This is not a book review. But I thought ya’ll deserved to hear a little about it.

I’ve listened to the book four times on my Audible account. I love Audible so much I cannot express it. Every day, on my walks, my best friends (my books) go with me. We have conversations all along the way. The voice recording app on my phone is filled with responses I’ve had to these friends throughout the past three years.

I love “reading” books written by smart people…people who have tried it, done it wrong repeatedly, have struggled, and have somehow made some sense out of the struggle. So I read a lot of memoirs.

Because I’m there too, trying to make sense and meaning of the struggle. What I’ve learned from his book, this time around, is that we have parts of life handed to us, some of it good and some bad. We have all of the standard conditioning of our demographic, our geography, our ideologies, and our theologies. Along with that comes the “oughts” as he says. I call them “shoulds”.

For me, a lot of my “shoulds” had to do with my talent for playing musical instruments, singing…and church.

I first pushed against the “shoulds” when I refused to major in music education as a 17-year-old freshman in college. I knew, even at that age, that I didn’t want to teach music. I wanted to DO music. I had been teaching violin since I was 12. It was time for me to sing, travel, and be on stage. So far, it had been life-giving to me. Teaching music had not.

I got into music school, one of very few admitted into that conservatory in the fall of 1992. With so much training in violin and piano, singing well, with good tone and perfect pitch had always come easy to me. I was ready…or so I had thought.

But by the time I was 19 and a half, I was married, depressed, and not feeling any hope about my life. In fact, I didn’t have a life anymore. My life, for the next 25 years would be about HIM: his happiness, his fulfillment, his desires. I quit music school. And I became a private music teacher. It was the default.

The “shoulds” won for a very long time. In fact, they are still winning in my life, to some degree. I run a music school. But I only teach a little. And I like it like that. Facilitating great teaching and instruction is far more rewarding than being IN it all day, every day.

I “ought” to teach music. I “should” teach music. I did. And it saved my life, financially, for many, many years. But it isn’t life-giving. It isn’t what performing had been. Yes, I get to perform at weddings here and there. I get a little time playing with local orchestras. I have my moments. But I never had the chance to live that life fully.

Rest in Peace.

I’m almost 50 years old and my vocation awaits me. I’ve had glimpses into what lies ahead and it doesn’t feel like the “shoulds” will have any time or space.

Don’t get me wrong. I have to work. I have more debt than I could have ever imagined. #divorcedmiddleagedmomlife

However, taking into account my limitations due to said traumatic divorce, health issues, and neurodivergence, the vocation that has called to me is becoming more and more clear.

Our vocation is what our life has shown to be our passion…the thing that excites us and makes us feel alive.

When I was young, I never got to be young. I missed childhood altogether. Developmentally, I was forced into being a “mom” by age 6 or 7. I don’t remember the moment in time, but as the oldest girl in a family with nine children, even my mother recognizes (now) that I had no childhood.

Life was not bad for the most part. But it was chaotic and always moving. There was always work to do, children to feed and watch, diapers to change, food to prepare, spilled milk to clean up, and books to read…to them.

A couple of memories came to mind while listening to Parker’s voice last week:

One was an image of a clear-skied, warm, summer day. I had finished doing whatever chores I had to do and mom was home…so I could take a break. I ran to the treehouse with my book and sat in the corner…for hours.

A similar memory came to mind as well:

It was another summer day and a pile of mystery novels were staring at me. I just wanted to read. I ached to have the quiet space to read. I escaped the house and ran to the trampoline. That day, I realized that if I stayed low, from some angles no one could see me laying there, dodging more chores.

Then, a third came:

I never skipped a day of school in my whole life for fun. No, I stayed home to help mom with sick kids or babysit for a week while mom and dad went to the Bahamas for a work trip. I stayed home to help while she was pregnant and on bed rest. But NEVER for fun. I didn’t have a social life, so what would I do anyway?

But I skipped a day to write a paper…the paper. 12th grade, advanced placement English literature and composition and me. I loved writing. I loved how, while reading, my thoughts were constantly telling me stories, all relational. Dickens was the topic for this paper. It was to be a five-page paper. But I couldn’t stop.

I got permission from my teacher to write a longer paper, telling her that she didn’t even have to read the stuff past page five (of course). I spent the whole day, typing away on the little Brother word processor my family owned. I was in heaven. Dickens was deep-dish stuff and I was just spying the tip of the iceberg and I knew it.

I sat on the couch, with a little wooden table in front of me, next to the big bay window. I don’t remember being bothered all day, which couldn’t possibly be true. But it’s a nice memory, nonetheless.

What these images helped me to see was this: I love words. I’ve always loved words. Not just any words, though. I love reflection and introspection and the act of making sense of the world. I love people who can paint pictures with worlds that leave forever impressions on my heart and mind. I love the beauty of reading poetry and Shakespeare aloud. I love the way it feels in my mouth…appetizing…no, sensuous.

Words, well-tended, are sensuous and delicious.

At that moment, I learned why I had always fallen for men who “had all of the right words”. I also learned why I feel so naked when my partner fails to say the “right” words. But that’s a different blog altogether.

I loved his book. I’m sure it’s helped more people than little ‘ole me to see the path that life has been leading them toward. Maybe it would be a good read for you, too.

In the meantime, I’ll be reading and writing, doing homework, and working on a life that allows me to sink into that creative space that has always felt like home.