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When
Harry discovered he had colon cancer, he was the administrator
of a large insurance company. The first in a family of
farmers to attend college, he had excelled academically almost
from the start. He was known in the industry as a driving,
politically sophisticated, and ambitious man whose career was
his whole life. His cancer had been caught early, and his
prognosis was excellent. Everyone had expected him to be
back in his office as soon as his scars had healed. But
two days after he returned to work, Harry resigned. It had
taken everyone by surprise.
His
company had suspected that he had received a better offer, but
this was not the case. Harry did not work for about a
year. Then he bought a vineyard and moved his family to
it. He has been growing grapes and making wine for the
past five years.
"From
the moment that I awoke from that surgery, Rachel," he told
me, "I knew beyond a doubt that I was living someone else's
life. There had been so much pressure to succeed from my
family; they were so proud that I had escaped from the hard life
that we had led for generations. I got caught up in the
challenge of it all at first, wondering if I could do it, and
then I just kept pushing it. Somewhere in the process, I
stopped listening to myself. My father was a farmer and my
grandfather and my great-grandfather. My father had
hated this work, but I am a different sort of man; I understand
the land and it matters to me. I know this work as I know
myself. I belong here in a way that I never belonged
anywhere else."
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We sat on
the deck of his home, looking over a vast green sea of
grapevines gently moving in the wind. Pink roses grew
along his fence lines. Double indemnity and corporate life
were another world. As if reading my thoughts, he turned
to me with a rueful smile: "My favorite saying used
to be 'My way or the highway.' I was so proud to be living
personally and professionally on my own terms. It was hard
to see that I had sold myself out so completely that I had not
even noticed."
Integrity
is an ongoing process, a dynamic happening over time that
requires our ongoing attention. A medical colleague
describing his own experience of staying true to himself told me
that he thinks of his life as an orchestra. Reclaiming his
integrity reminds him of that moment before the concert when the
concertmaster asks the oboist to sound an A. "At
first there is chaos and noise as all the parts of the orchestra
try to align themselves with that note. But as each
instrument moves closer and closer to it, the noise diminishes
and when they all finally sound it together, there is a moment
of rest, of homecoming.
"This
is how it feels to me," he told me. "I am always
tuning my orchestra. Somewhere deep inside there is a
sound that is mine alone, and I struggle daily to hear it and
tune my life to it. Sometimes there are people and
situations that help me to hear my note more clearly; other
times, people and situations make it harder for me to
hear. A lot depends on my commitment to listening and my
intention to stay coherent with this note. It is only when
my life is tuned to my note that I can play life's mysterious
and holy music without tainting it with my own discordance, my
own bitterness, resentment, agendas, and fears."
Deep
inside, our integrity sings to us whether we are listening or
not. It is a note that only we can hear. Eventually,
when life makes us ready to listen, it will help us to find our
way home.
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