Greenlights

by Matthew McConaughey

I never wrote things down to remember; I always wrote things down so I could forget.

I believe the truth is only offensive when we’re lying.

The problems we face today eventually turn into blessings in the rearview mirror of life. In time, yesterday’s red light leads us to a greenlight. All destruction eventually leads to construction, all death eventually leads to birth, all pain eventually leads to pleasure. In this life or the next, what goes down will come up. It’s a matter of how we see the challenge in front of us and how we engage with it. Persist, pivot, or concede. It’s up to us, our choice every time.

Nobody forgives themselves quicker than she does and therefore she carries zero stress. I once asked her if she ever went to bed with any regrets. She quickly told me, “Every night, son. I just forget em by the time I wake up.” She always told us, “Don’t walk into a place like you wanna buy it, walk in like you own it.”

“I’d rather lose money havin fun than make money being bored,”

Dad had worked his way up from a Texaco gas station manager, to pipe hauler, to pipe salesman in a local company called Gensco. He was a damn good pipe salesman. He got Mike a job selling pipe at Gensco as well. My brother became a great pipe salesman, and quickly. In less than a year, at twenty-two years of age, Mike was the top salesman in the company. The boss put him on their biggest account: a buyer named Don Knowles. Dad was truly proud of Mike, but Mike was still his son. We had an old wooden barn in the back of our house by the dirt alleyway where Dad kept an unloaded eighteen-wheeler from his pipe-hauling days. It was a Saturday night. “Let’s drink some beer and throw knives in the barn tonight, son,” Dad told Mike. “Sure, Pop, see you there around sundown.” Around ten o’clock, and after quite a few beers, Dad finally bellied up, “Let’s go roll some pipe like we used to, son, it’s been a while.” “Rollin pipe” is when you take an unloaded eighteen-wheeler to someone else’s pipe yard, load their pipe on it, drive away, and steal it. Dad and Mike used to do it on certain Saturday nights back when Dad was hauling. “Whose pipe you wanna roll, Pop?” Dad squared off at Mike and said, “Don Knowles.” Oh shit. “Nah, Dad, I’m not doin that. I just got Don Knowles’s account, you know that.”

“I do know that. I got you that job at Gensco, boy; you wouldn’t have that account if it wasn’t for me. Where’s your loyalty lie, son? With your old man or Don fuckin Knowles?!” “Now, Dad, you know that ain’t fair.” “What ain’t fair, boy?! You too good now to roll pipe with your old man like we used to? Huh? You too big-time now, boy?!” Oh shit. “Now, Dad, easy…” Dad took off his shirt. “No, let’s see how big-time you are now, boy. You think you’re man enough not to listen to your old man? You gonna have to whup him to prove it.” “Now, Dad, I don’t wanna—” Whop! Dad walloped an open-palmed right hand across Mike’s face. Mike stumbled a step back, then straightened up and started rolling up his sleeves. “So this is how it’s gonna be?” Mike said. “Yep, this is how it’s gonna be, c’mon, boy.” Dad was six four, 265 pounds. Mike was five ten, 180. Oh shit. Dad, now crouched, stepped in with a right hook across Mike’s jaw. Mike went down. Dad stalked toward him. On the ground, gathering himself, Mike saw a five-foot 2 x 4 lying on the ground next to him. Just as Dad came in for another blow, Mike grabbed that 2 x 4 and baseball-bat swung it across the right side of Dad’s head. Dad stumbled back, sincerely dazed but still on his feet. “Now stop it, Dad! I don’t wanna fight you and I ain’t stealin Don Knowles’s pipe tonight!” Dad, bleeding from his ears, turned and leveled Mike with another right hook. “Like hell you’re not, boy,” he said as he prowled in on his son on the ground....

“Where are you, boy? Where’s my son who won’t roll Don Knowles’s pipe with his old man?” Mike picked up the five-foot 2 x 4 and held it at the ready. “Dad, I’m tellin ya, it’s over. If you come at me again, I’m gonna knock you out with this 2 x 4.” Dad heard him clearly, steadied himself, then said, “Give it your best shot, boy,” as he blitzed Mike. Whh-ooo-pp! The 2 x 4 went across Dad’s head. Out cold, Dad lay in a heap on the ground. “Damnit, Dad?!” Mike said in shock, wondering if he’d killed him. Mike, crying now, knelt down over Dad and yelled, “Damnit, Dad! I told you not to come at me again!” Dad lay there, unmoving. For four and a half minutes Mike knelt over his fallen pop, weeping. “I didn’t wanna do it, Dad, but you made me.” Dad then came to and slowly got to his feet. “I’m sorry, Dad!” Mike shouted, “I’m sorry!” My dad stood straight and wiped the gravel from his eyes. Mike, crying tears of shock and fear, readied himself for the risk of another round. Dad, eyes now clear, focused in on the young man who had just knocked him out cold, his first son. The fight was over. Tears ran down my dad’s face as well. But these were tears of pride and joy. Dad stepped toward M...

We cannot fully appreciate the light without the shadows. We have to be thrown off balance to find our footing. It’s better to jump than fall. And here I am.

This script was for Dazed and Confused. The line that sent me into flight was: “That’s what I love about these high school girls, man. I get older, they stay the same age.”

The sooner we become less impressed with our life, our accomplishments, our career, our relationships, the prospects in front of us—the sooner we become less impressed and more involved with these things—the sooner we get better at them. We must be more than just happy to be here.

“You gotta do what Randall ‘Pink’ Floyd wants to do, man, and lemme tell you this, the older you do get, the more rules they’re gonna try-yyyy to get you to follow, you just gotta just keep livin, man, l-i-v-i-n.”

Noise-to-signal ratio. We are more constantly bombarded by unnatural stimuli than ever before. We need to put ourselves in places of decreased sensory input so we can hear the background signals of our psychological processes. As the noise decreases, the signals become clearer, we can hear ourselves again, and we reunite. Time alone simplifies the heart. Memory catches up, opinions form. We meet truth again, and it teaches us, landing on stable feet between our reaching out and retreat, letting us know we are not lonely in our state, just alone. Because our unconscious mind now has room to reveal itself, we see it again. It dreams, perceives, and thinks in pictures, which we now can observe.

In this solitude, we then begin to think in pictures, and actualize what we see. Our souls become anonymous again, and we realize we are stuck with the one person we can never be rid of: ourselves. The Socratic dialogue can be ugly, painful, lonesome, hard, guilt-ridden, and a nightmare vicious enough to need a mouth guard not to gnaw our fangs into nubs while we sweat cold in feverish panic. We are forced to confront ourselves. And this is good. We more than deserve this suffrage, we’ve earned it. An honest man’s pillow is his peace of mind, and no matter who’s in our bed each night, we sleep with ourselves. We either forgive or get sick and tired of it. Herein lies the evolution. With nowhere to run, and forced to deal with ourselves, our ugly everyday suppressions break out of the zoo and monkey around, where we find our self in the ring with them, deciding, no more, or let it slide. Whatever the verdict, we grow. It’s us and us, our always and only company. We tend to ourselves, and get in good graces once again. Then we return to civilization, able to better tend to our tendencies. Why? Because we took a walkabout.

both are true I’m an optimist by nature, my eye is high, I have hope, and the man I want to be sleeps in the same bed with the man I am, in head, heart, spirit, and body. I don’t always enjoy my company because of that son of a bitch Jiminy Cricket, but I am rarely able to knock him off my shoulder either. And for good reason. Even when I’m out of tune, off frequency, having trouble feeling any traction or viscosity between my being and my actions, or, alternately, when I am so lost in the music that I am unaware, my best self is always there, and he will start the

Socratic dialogue sooner than I choose to hear him and long after I want to, because he’s insatiable. I, of course, eventually do hear him, then the challenge becomes, to listen. Once I do, and stop pitting fate against responsibility, truth against fiction, sins against who I wish I was, selfishness against selflessness, mortality against eternity, I learn, and then begin just being who I am, and doing what I do, for me—not for anyone else and for everyone else at the same time. For me and God, together. Then I realize I am responsible for fate, fiction is truthful, a sinner and saint I am, an egotistical utilitarian as well. I’ll be mortal forever. Now, each step at a time has the big picture in mind, and I am the man I want to be, Jiminy Cricket is a bluebird on my shoulder, and Socrates has one voice.

God, when I cross the truth, give me the awareness to receive it the consciousness to recognize it the presence to personalize it the patience to preserve it and the courage to live it First, we have to put ourselves in the place to receive the truth. This noisy world we live in, with its commitments, deadlines, fix thises, do thats, and expectations make it hard to get clarity and peace of mind, famous or not. So we have to consciously put ourselves in a place to receive that clarity. Whether that’s prayer, meditation, a walkabout, being in the right company, a road trip, whatever it is for each of us. Then, after we’ve put ourselves in this place to listen to the gospel and hear their music, we then have to be aware enough to receive it, and conscious enough to recognize it. It will arrive nameless because it is clear, omnipresent, unanimous, and infinite. It usually lands like a butterfly, quick and quiet. When we let it in, it needs no introduction. Then the relationship can begin, and we need the presence to personalize it. This is where the anonymous truth gets intimate, and becomes autonomous. We ask our self what it means, how it’s unique to us, and why it’s here now. Then comes a harder part, having the patience to preserve it— getting it from our intellect, into our bones, soul, and instinct. We must pay attention to it, concentrate on it, keep it lit, and not let it flutter away. This takes commitment, time, and ’tendance. If we make it this far, after we’ve put...

Having the courage to live it. To actually walk away from that place where it found us, take that truth with us into the screaming arena of our daily lives, practice it, and make it an active part of who we are. If we can do that, then we are on our way to Heaven on Earth. Where what we want is what we need. Where what we need is what we want.

Maybe it was the eighteen-month hedonism tour I’d been on at the Chateau—the booze, the women, the gluttony. Maybe it was an aggressive recoil to distance myself from the bubbly mendacities of my recent rom-com emasculation. Maybe it was both and then some. Either way, I felt like it was time to earn my Saturdays again. I needed some yellow lights. I’d been questioning my own existence, and searching for meaning in my own life for as long as I could remember, but now, for the first time, I was also questioning the existence of God. An existential crisis? I’d call it an existential challenge, and one I was up for. I didn’t as much cease believing in God as much as I doubled down on self-reliance and the responsibility of my free will. I was done with the excuses that fate

allows, I was ready to be the boss of me, the one to blame and acquit, I needed to own that it was my hands on the steering wheel. Tired of letting myself off the hook on easy street, I was done with unearned forgiveness, feigned compassion, the protocol of manners and graces, and self-indulgent sentiment. Livin for tomorrow when we might just all be racing to the red light seemed like a fool’s errand. Brave enough to say it’s on me and me only in my prayers, but still scared enough to keep praying, I gave credit to the notion that it might all be for nothing, and I quit doing it for something. “If you are there, God,” I prayed, “I hope you appreciate a man who won’t retreat from the sweat it takes to gain self-determination. I hope you will reward a man who has decided to quit hiding behind the fatal blind belief that it’s all in your hands.”

The MIRROR We’ve all encountered those people, who, when we look them in the eye, when they’re right in front of us, in broad daylight, appear astoundingly attractive, even God- or Goddess-like. The way they move, the way the light hits them, invokes reverence and awe. The DEFINITION. And then the closer we look. Wow. We take flight. Good from close, better close-up. Some people get more attractive, have a greater impression on us the more we see them, the closer we look, in that light, at that time, in the way we see them, when our hopes are highest and our wish fulfillment is fully leaded. They will always look better the more clearly we see them. The definition. The CLOSE-UP. Some relationships are better in a close-up. More impressive with more definition. Like the woman whose photograph doesn’t turn you on, but in real life she does. Like our children. Like our spouse. Like a best friend.

Like God. Like ourselves when we’re authentic and true. They’re better up close, with more frequency, with more intimacy. Sometimes we need to be near. It’s love, it’s literal. Closeness is the quiet moments together, the pain shared, the beauty seen, the honesty. It’s authentic. It’s reality. A constant relationship because we can see it, we’re sure about it, we know it. It’s making love. It’s attachment. It’s togetherness. It’s private. It costs us. It hurts. We own it. And we like it that way, because sometimes it’s better with the lights on.

About an hour and a half after the birth, a nurse came in and handed me a formal document to fill out. It read: On July 7, 2008, at 6:22 pm, (name) was born. 6:22. My favorite Bible verse: If thine eye be single, Thy whole body will be full of light. —Matthew 6:22 The mandorla. The paradox instead of the contradiction. The union instead of the friction. The place where all the colors live. The white light. The third eye. A verse that has given me spiritual guidance for decades, 6:22 was even carved into Camila’s and my bedroom door by two Dogon tribesmen I commissioned in Mali back in 2000.

The apostle “Matthew” was also known as “Levi” in other parts of the world. Same man. Different name. From Leviticus, the third book in the bible of law and ritual. Levitical. Levitated. Levi. Matthew 6:22. So, on July 7, 2008, at 6:22 p.m., Levi Alves McConaughey was born. His middle name, Alves, is Camila’s maiden name.

In the fact of fate that death and birth bring we recognize we are both human and God. We find the belief that our choices matter, that it’s not all for nothing, it’s all for everything

I believe trying to maintain a honeymoon glow in a relationship is a fool’s errand fantasy. Worse yet, it’s unfair to the two lovers trying to maintain it. It’s a 120-watt bulb that burns too hot to last. No one can live up to the pedestal we put them on if we always put them on one. As well, when we only see our lover as a superhuman, our reflection in their eyes makes us one to them in theirs. Then we’re both for rent, because we’re both unobtainable. The honeymoon, like Hollywood, is an animated movie. It’s larger than life, not a reality we should expect to see once we exit the theater. Where we live. Where our humanity lives. Where our secrets, scars, fears, hopes, and failures reside. This is what comes after the credits roll. Where real love cares, hurts, understands, falls down, and gets back up. Where it’s not easy, but we get to honestly try. The twenty-watt bulb isn’t enough light to show the way if I expect you to be Wonder Woman and you only see me as Mr. Incredible. The hundred-watt honeymoon bulb is superhuman. By design. It’s the beginning, the first time, the birth. That’s why it’s called a honeymoon, not a marriage. It’s not obtainable, or sustainable.

We talked about the sacrament of marriage and getting beyond my fears. He talked to me about the mystery of marriage, and how when two people who are meant to be together unite, the adventure of livin side by side does not steal the individual’s sense of self, rather it enlightens and informs it. How, when two people come together to marry, they each arrive as one whole being, and in marriage we don’t lose half of

ourselves, we become more of ourselves. Through this covenant with God and our spouse we actually triple our existence and become three times what we were. Three entities: wife, husband, and God, in unification, unanimous. 1 x 1 = 3. A mystical multiplication. “It takes courage and sacrifice,” he said. Then he challenged me. “What’s the bigger risk for you, Matthew? Going on this adventure or continuing the one you’re on?” The dare. It got me thinking. I spent the next few weeks talking to my pastor, my brother, and successfully married men about it. Soon, for the first time in my life, I got the courage to look at marriage not as a final destination, rather as a new expedition, an affirmative and heartfelt choice to become more, together, with the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, and the only mother I wanted to be rocking with on my eighty-eighth birthday. For the first time, I began seeing marriage as more than only a biblical and legislative sanction that I was supposed to feel responsible for enacting. Marrying Camila became something I needed to do. I bent my knee and proposed to her on Jesus’s birthday, 2011. She said yes.

Why pray? A time to take inventory. To take a look from high and wide at our self, our loved ones, our mortality. A time to smile upon our blessings, to humble our selfish yearnings, to embrace those we know are in need with our compassion, and see them in our mind’s eye as their most true selves, a snapshot, down memory lane, of those we know and care for, when they were most themselves. Not happiest or proudest, not saddest or most reflective, but that image of them when we see, without advertisement or desire, their light shine within, and finally see ourselves the same, before we say amen. When we are who we are, and no one else.

When I was putting the finishing touches on this book earlier this year, my life, like yours, was intercepted by a red-light drama called COVID-19. Its disruption in our lives became inevitable. We had to stay at home, social distance, and wear masks for protection. We couldn’t go to work, we lost jobs and loved ones, and we never truly knew when it would end. We were scared, we were angry. Each of us had to make sacrifices, pivot, persist, and deal—we had to get relative. The tumultuous start to 2020 continued when another red-light drama introduced itself, in the name of the George Floyd murder. Its disruption in our lives soon became inevitable as well. There were protests, looting, riots, fear, and outrage. The unjust murder sparked a social justice revolution in America and around the world, and as racism reared its ugly head into the spotlight once again, we were reminded that All Lives couldn’t matter until Black Lives matter more. Each of us had to make sacrifices, pivot, persist, and deal—we had to get relative. Both of these red lights forced us inward, literally quarantined us to search our souls for a better way forward. In doing so, we took inventory of our lives and who we are in them—what we care about, what our priorities are, what matters. We got to know our children, families, and ourselves better. We read, we wrote, we prayed, we cried, we listened, we screamed, we spoke out, we marched, we helped others in need. But how much did we change for good—its s...

With reverence for the values my parents preached and a lifetime of traveling the world, I value culture and a culture of values. I also believe in the value of doing something well. Convinced that the best road for ourselves and society lives on the path that leads to having more values and competence, I assumed the position of Minister of Culture/M.O.C. last year, working to preserve and promote a culture of competence and shared values across cities, institutions, universities, academics, and athletics. Bipartisan and nondenominational, values are not only guiding principles we can all agree on, they are the fundamental ethics that bring people together. When we are competent at our values and place more value on competence, we create a more valuable society—and that means more return on our investment, us.

Which brings me back to the other reason I wrote this book. I hope it can be useful and lend a hand if you need it, that it might teach you something, inspire you, make you laugh, remind you, help you forget, and arm you with some life tools to better march forward as more of yourself. Me? I haven’t made all A’s in the art of livin, but I give a damn, and I’ll take an experienced C over an ignorant A any day. I’ve always believed that the science of satisfaction is about learning when, and how, to get a handle on the challenges we face in life. When you can design your own weather, blow in the breeze. When you’re stuck in the storm, pray for luck and make the best of it. We all have scars, we’ll get more. So rather than struggle against time and waste it, let’s dance with time and redeem it, because we don’t live longer when we try not to die, we live longer when we’re too busy livin. As I’ve navigated the weather in my own life, getting relative with the inevitable has been a key to my success. Relatively, we are livin. Life is our résumé. It is our story to tell, and the choices we make write t...

Act, don’t react — and yes, the conflicts will come, as God’s reminder of our mortality, so go away from what you know, to find out what you know, and let necessity bear your luxuries, b/c necessity is a luxury.