Hoeing Your Own Row
I grew up in a small town in northeast Oklahoma and still keep in touch with many of my high school classmates. Unfortunately, much of the news is sad at this juncture in life. 
A number have passed away, though most, at least in reading their capsulized obituaries, seemed to have completed a life well lived and often in service to others. Small towns are not the cauldron of hate that urbanites often think of.
Thumbing through the class newsletter, I was struck by a late classmate, Mike, whom I knew but not well. Since high school, Mike owned several businesses in the area, including a stainless fabrication operation. “He lived a full life,” wrote his old friend, Jason. He had two ex-wives and a daughter, but at some point, things took a bad turn and he died without many resources save for his faith in God.
But Mike had a deep passion that centered his life, probably since an early age – racing cars. As an amateur at a local speedway, the Hallet Motor Racing Circuit, he loved to race stock cars in the rolling hills 35 miles west of Tulsa. This is not NASCAR, but racing is racing. According to Jason, Mike won many races there, driving modified sports cars. He loved the place so much that he asked that his ashes be scattered at the start and finish line of the track.
I kept thinking, what a fortunate man. How many people, disabled and non-disabled, can say they have that kind of love and devotion to any endeavor? I didn’t know Mike well, nor his triumphs or failures, but he clearly dedicated himself to a vocation that seemingly brought him great joy. Sometimes you have to root around and find that passion. In many of us, it is not always apparent. “Look, I’m six and love playing the piano!” It often boils down to a creative, self-defining task – find and follow your bliss, as the bumper sticker reads; hoe your own row.
I didn’t know what to do when I became paralyzed many years ago. Lying in a hospital bed, my laptop on my lap, I started writing notes about my condition. I have been a professional TV writer since 1980. I had my share of creative moments, but too much of the work was throw-away commercial filler. Now I just wrote what came to mind and then it hit me – I really liked doing this. It put me in a zone. By writing about my current state, I could, at least momentarily, escape the mental distress that plagued me. It had the effect of disarming it. And I still feel that way today.
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To me, the way out of the emotional morass that trauma invites is to turn your attention elsewhere and attempt to master, or at least improve upon, a vocation or skill you love. I am around disabled actors brimming with enthusiasm and energy for their work. Many eventually burn out, beaten down by the ridiculous odds of making it, but a sizeable number throw themselves into homemade videos and small parts in TV shows and films and every other opportunity to act. It may not make them a grand living, but it gives them purpose, meaning, and acceptance in a like-minded community.
The writer Kurt Vonnegut hit upon something when he once said, “The secret to success in any human endeavor is total concentration.” That concentration needs to be nurtured and directed toward anything you decide is worthy and fulfilling, including acting, racing cars, or committing to a cause greater than yourself. Contrary to the social mantra of this culture, it is not to make money or become famous. In Vonnegut’s words, you do it “to make your soul grow.”
I think racing made Mike’s soul grow and greatly enriched his life. Would that we all could be so lucky.