“Maybe you are searching among the branches, for what only appears in the roots.” — Rumi
I spent the weekend of November 18th in Alabama on a mini vacation. I flew into Birmingham Friday night. I drove to Tuscaloosa to take in the Alabama football game on Saturday. And I went to Dothan to see friends and family on Sunday.
First of all, the game sucked. The Crimson Tide annihilated the Mercer Bears 56-0. The Bears were out-manned and I knew it’d be a bad game. And it didn’t help that the game was an 11am local time kickoff, and the stadium was maybe ¾ full.
If we forget where we’ve come from as Princes, we’ll never truly be able to wear the crown of King.
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Next year I want to go to a better game and I won’t be alone either. I did have fun, though. The Church of the Crimson Tide has deep roots inside my soul.
I did learn something about myself. As much walking and stair climbing as I did Saturday, I never got winded at all. My time spent with Beulah – my trusty stepmill at my gym – is time well spent.
Now the arthritis I’m starting to feel in my right knee might disagree. But I digress…
Speaking of Roots, my Tuscaloosa roots run deep. It’s my hometown and I love it. It’s changed a ton since I moved away in 2000, but it still has the same heart.
It’s where Prince Ryan was born and where King Ryan started to take shape.
There’s a mall maybe 5 minutes from where I grew up. For many years, that has been the staging area for game day shuttle bus rides to Bryant-Denny Stadium. It’s a terrific deal. For $10, you can make sure your car is safe and you can beat game day traffic. Or for $20 or more, you can park in someone’s yard where you might not know if your stereo or tires will still be there when you get back.
Right off Hargrove Road in Tuscaloosa, there’s a winding road leading to this mall which cuts through a small park. And even though I knew this was coming, the feelings and emotions were real. And they hit me like a flood.
I looked out to my right and saw Northington Elementary School.
Tears flooded my face. I just had to pull over.
Your roots are just that – roots. While your branches have the good stuff – the fruit and leaves – your roots are who you are.
And as I’m sitting there crying, the memories flooded in. Mostly good, some bad, but all bold and vivid.
Let’s flash back to the spring of 1987. I was all of ten years old.
Every day after lunch, our fourth-grade teacher Mrs. Hamiter read to us. But not just from any book. One of THOSE books.
Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing by Judy Blume became one of the most important and influential books of Prince Ryan’s life.
That book and Mrs. Hamiter reading that book to my class came along at a crucial time in my life. The seeds of my love affair with language, storytelling, and writing were just being planted. I hung on every word of Tales as well it’s follow up Superfudge. Blume’s imagery and characterization was so vivid, I imagined I was young Peter Hatcher as he deals with a pain in the ass younger brother they called Fudge, and eventually their younger sister Tootsie.
Later that summer, I had been visiting my grandfather near Dothan, Alabama. Granddaddy was the single finest campfire storyteller I ever knew. To say nothing of being an award-winning farmer.
One hot and muggy night that summer, he and I were checking on this irrigation rig that wasn’t working right. It was on a timer and it wasn’t going off.
As we sat there, we saw a ton of fireflies (or lightning bugs as we Southern folks call them) out that night.
Granddaddy had me convinced that those fireflies were a race of alien monkeys hell bent on sabotaging farmers’ irrigation equipment. And I was so fascinated by that, I had to turn it into something.
With a ton of help from my mom, I adapted that story into Monkeytown. That picture book became my first byline.
From Monkeytown to Written in The Stone and beyond, Ryan D. Hall the author was born in Mrs. Hamiter’s fourth grade classroom at Northington Elementary School.
After the game, and after I found my rental car (which was no small feat,) I took a ride to my old neighborhood. And I saw a sight that really took me aback.
Alabama’s spring break used to be early in March. It was almost always the week of my birthday – March 12th.
When I was ten (again with the 10-year-old Prince Ryan) I was into basketball for a hot second. And my parents got me a basketball goal for my 10th birthday.
My mom convinced me to stay down at Granddaddy’s near Dothan for an extra day after she left. I didn’t know what was going on, but Dad apparently needed more time to plant the post for that goal.
I grew up in this small white house at the end of a cul-de-sac off Hargrove Road. And as soon as I turned onto my street, I saw it.
While there was rust on the post, and the paint on the post and rim had faded, it was still there. Strong, powerful, and bold.
I remember asking my Dad one time if he thought it was still there.
“It isn’t going anywhere. It’s planted in two feet of concrete.”
These two sights got me present to just how far I’ve come in my life. The mere fact that I still have such a connection with my elementary school and to that basketball goal are both powerful examples of how deep my roots are.
Your roots are just that – roots. While your branches have the good stuff – the fruit and leaves – your roots are who you are.
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To say nothing of the 30 plus years of time that has elapsed, I have really come a long way.
If we forget where we’ve come from as Princes, we’ll never truly be able to wear the crown of King.
It’s powerful. It’s bold. And it’s Royal.
Big things are happening around Royal Hearts Coaching. Big announcements coming! I’d love to support you so you can get fitted for your crown. Let’s see how coaching can support you.
Email me at [email protected] and let me know what you’re up and how coaching can support you.
Watch this space over the next few weeks. We’re coming to the end of 2017, and I’m gearing up for a massive 2018!
I’m going to announce some ways that we can not only become Kings, but we can expand our Kingdoms we already have.
I say “we” because we’re all in process here.
Even me.
Photos by guiseppe milo and the author