iMindShift with Steve Chandler

You are not my God

One of my daughters gave me a gift at Christmas of two CDs (I'm old school tech) of death wish songs. . .songs about addiction, suicide and recovery. This would, under most trees in winter, be a dark, demented gift.

  But for me it was a Godsend. My project (Death Wish) is a new book and series of audios that dive deep into the forest of addiction and suicide and help addicts and families and friends of addicts (in other words, the whole human race) see the path through the woods, to a glorious life.

There are 35 of these songs (and if you have a favorite song or movie relating to this subject, let me know) on my two gift CDs, and I am loving the power of this music.

Keith Urban sings You're Not My God and there is a fierce joyful anger in it that rocks me when I listen:

From the cradle to the grave
Temptations all around
But no matter how good the fix
It's gonna take you down

Now some call it a weakness
Some call it a sin
But it's all the same behind each game
I see your evil grin

But you're not my god
And you're not my friend
You're not the one that I will walk with in the end
You're not the truth
You're a temporary shot
You ruin people's lives and you don't give a second thought

 

  I remember when drugs and alcohol were my only real friends. When they were my gods. When my fear of losing them overrode everything and ruined and wasted my life. I remember that.

  Keith Urban checked himself into a residential rehab center four months after marrying Nicole Kidman, after she and some friends staged an intervention on him. His drinking and drug use was ruining his life and career.

Give a listen:
Keith Urban - You're Not My God

 

Football and grandmother

 

WHO ARE YOU TO WRITE A BOOK ABOUT WOMEN?

The woman sounded angry when she asked me that. Or maybe I should say seemed angry, since it was in an email, in response to a blog I wrote that mentioned I was working on a book called Why Women Rule: The Rise of the Female Warrior.

I had to think about that question. Who was I to write a book about women? My first answer I typed to her, would not be the right answer because it contained an accidental obscenity, so I didn't send it. I used the backspace button to delete it. Besides, everybody says that obscene stuff these days in response to the slightest provocation, and I don't want to be like everybody else just to look trendy.

Who am I to write about women? Well! I had a mother. Is that good enough? Well, maybe not. Everyone has had a mother. So I'm not exactly an outlier there.

I have two sisters. I have three daughters. I have a wife. I have women clients. My favorite philosopher/spiritual advisor is Byron Katie, a woman. And I cheer for Jennifer Lawrence every time she picks up her bow and arrow in The Hunger Games.

Besides, I have always rejected the excessively tribal claims that only women can write about women, only blacks can write about blacks, only dwarves can write about dwarves, and on and on. If we have too much more of that tribal isolation no one will be bonding with anyone else ever again. It will just be islands of isolation and tribal rage.

Oh, I forgot one of my best qualifications: my grandmother was a woman. She was a hero of mine, and a role model. She never hated anyone. When she didn't like someone she would always say they were "insignificant." Sometimes she would say, "He's the most insignificant man I know of!"

My grandmother was not tribal, either. If the boys (her sons and grandson) were in her living room watching a football game, she would poke her head out from the kitchen and ask, "Who's the underdog?" We would shout back who the underdog was in the game, and she would say, "That's who I want to win."

She was always for the underdog. But it made no sense to her tribal boys.

"Who's the underdog?" she would say, as we watched our Arizona Wildcats play New Mexico.

"New Mexico!" we would shout.

"Then I hope New Mexico wins," she would say.

"Why?" We couldn't understand it. "They're playing Arizona!"

"They're the underdog, that's why."

"But Grandma! You live in Arizona, your children and grandchildren went to the University of Arizona."

"That doesn't matter. I hope New Mexico wins."

Her loyalty was always to the underdog. Ours was to our own exclusive tribe. Her heart was bigger. Her ego was smaller. Her anger (the ultimate result of tribal loyalty) was almost non-existent.

She was my hero. But who am I to write about women?

My real answer? I don't care who I am. I am insignificant.