Let's talk about abortion

July 12, 2014
          Day 73

Yeah, I know.  This isn't exactly a fun topic, and there's a good chance I could make you uncomfortable.  That's why I promise you in advance I will consciously try not to.  And as with all topics in this year-long journey o' mine, I hope you'll see these next two reflections as explorations into my mind as an almost 40-year-old.  Perhaps with more perspective years from now, I'll feel differently.

My desire here is just to express my thoughts on the topic very briefly, and refrain from doing so with any shade of judgment or finger wagging.

People expect either one thing or another from me.  They think my spiritual side will mean I'm pro-life/anti-abortion.  Others don't see me this way.  They see me as a liberal gay activist, someone who will champion a woman's right to free choice.  The thing is, I'm both of these at the same time.  I'm someone who will gladly fight for a woman's free choice over her own body, but I'm also someone who thinks abortion might be--I repeat, might be--immoral.  I honestly have no idea, so I have trouble taking sides.

And at the end of the day, I kinda wish more people would join me in this middle ground.  The truth is, no one's pro-abortion.  No one with a sane mind is walking up to pregnant women and encouraging them to just end their pregnancy.  When you believe in free choice, the right to choose, that doesn't mean you are anti-baby, or anti-fetus.  The argument for free choice is only that: a philosophical belief in a woman's right to choose what does and does not happen to and inside her own body.  Likewise, a belief in the right to life is only that: a belief in a right, a moral defense of a could-be child.  There's a middle ground here I wish more people would consider discussing logically, and, if at all possible, calmly.

So that's what I think.  I personally "believe" that a fetus, especially a later-term child in a womb, is already a life worth protecting.  I believe there are lots of people willing to help babies find homes if their mothers are unwilling or unable to care for said child.  But I also believe a woman has every right to make the decision herself, without outside influence or jurisdiction.  Is there an absolute grey area?  Yes.  There's a matter of time.  When is a baby a baby?  But I'm not offering that discussion here and now.

I am a mix of beliefs, and I offer my ignorance with pride.  "I don't know" are three very wise words, and I hope (and even pray) more people would adopt such an I-don't-know attitude.  It's far superior, I believe, to an attitude that makes a person our enemy because of their strongly held opinion or moral belief.

Ima faint

July 11, 2014
          Day 72

Today's entry will officially be my shortest one yet, but it's because the lesson here is quite simple.

Some contractions make sense.  We substitute "wasn't" for "was not".  We substitute "don't" for "do not".  In both cases, only one letter and one space is sacrificed on the altar of grammar.

Please do not, however, under any circumstance, say "Ima" in place of "I am going to".  Not only is it dangerous to create words without first mastering the English language, but you also have no right substituting four separate words with only one.  It's 10 letters long with three separate spaces!  Turning this entire phrase into the single-word "Ima" sounds really, really dumb.  More to the point though, it just is really, really dumb! 

So don't do it.  Ever.  A'ight?

Beginning to crumble

July 7, 2014
        Day 68

I may have said this already, but it bears repeating: at 39, my age is beginning to catch up to me. 

My best guess is, if I've been getting away with looking and feeling 5 to 8 years younger for the last decade or so, the gap is about to close.  Within the next three months, I may only appear 4 years younger.  By January of next year, I'll only look two years younger.  By March, just one year younger.  And on May 1st of 2015, my 40th birthday, I will look approximately seventy-five years old. 

These are just my best guesses for now, and it's not like I'm expecting to be right, but I gotta tell you, waking up at 38 years old a year or so ago?  I felt fine!  Life was good, and things all still felt the same.  But this year, 2014?  There are tiny little issues that are just beginning to show up. 

I'm not complaining!  (Seriously, I'm not!)  I'm just taking note of the tiny differences I've noticed in the past few months.  My eyesight requires I sit just an inch closer to the computer screen.  My legs require a two-second slower leap to my feet when I arise from my chair after a long while.  My heartburn, my ear hairs, my hairline, my muscles, my sleep cycle: pick one, and I can give you an essay on what's slightly changed in the past year. 

So here's my warning to the younger people who will read this: it all begins at 39.  Life is still great, and I have no right to complain, but be forewarned, this seems to be the year when the subtle changes begin to creep up.  Don't be frightened, and don't even pre-worry your non-gray hairs about it yet, younger people.  Just remember my promise to you here and now.  The 39 to 40 leg of your journey is about transition as much as it is about perspective!

To those older than me, and to my older self looking back, yes, I probably sound insane.  Nuts even.  But I wanted to document the journey as best I could, to remember later on that these tiny little issues began to show up in a few tiny little ways in my 40th year of life on Earth.  I'm not complaining!  I'm just...  just... just documenting!

The Direct Connection

July 6, 2014
        Day 67

There are a few things I'd like to say right now, but first and foremost, let me be clear: I do have a direct connection to God.  I don't talk about it often, but yeah, it's true.  God and me are tight.

That said, I don't have a phone I can pick up and call God on, and neither can I receive calls from God on my cell phone or on any mobile device.  Perhaps the technology will be there in a post-Planet In Between world, but we aren't there yet unfortunately.

We actually all do, however, have a direct connection within us.  It isn't a phone line or an e-mail address.  It's not even a Morse code or a smoke signal we can send.  But we do have the technology to talk to God and Heaven at any time, day or night.  Their hotline is open 24/7...even on Christmas!  (Though there may be a short delay during some World Cup matches, so please stay on the line for the next available operator.)

Inside each human being, and quite possibly inside some of our pets too, we have a built-in transmitter that connects us directly to the creator of the universe.  We don't have to ever use it, as many agnostics and atheists choose not to (and that's okay!), but we do have the power.  It came with our operating system, and still works on all models.  The instructions, too, are easy.  All we need to do is talk, or even just think about what we want to say, and the message will be received.  That's it!  That's all you have to do!

Here's the only teeny, tiny catch though: you'll get no response.  God will hear you loud and clear, even if the connection seems muddled on your end, but God won't do anything about it.  I'm sorry, I really am, but it seems to be the way things work. 

Sure, some people will tell you that God does get involved and does save some lives here and there, but when they say this, they're actually painting a pretty damned cruel version of God.  If God helps save one life and ignores another, if God saves a bus filled with children on one day and not on another, or even if God saves three thousand people from disaster on one afternoon and lets another fifty thousand perish elsewhere on the next day, what kind of messed up reality would that be? 

If you believe your direct connection is better than another person's, you're not just full of yourself.  You're really, really full of yourself.

Is there a direct connection?  Yes.  Do we all have it?  Yes.  Do some of us have better connections than others that can make God answer our prayers and requests more than others?  No.  That would just be fucked up.  Sorry, but it's true.

Our direct connection to God is a one-way call while we're living on this planet, and that's okay with me.  I know this life we're living right now just is what it is, and I refuse to believe in a version of God who saves one baby from disaster but lets another suffer and die.  I don't believe in a cruel, picky kind of a deity.  If you'd like to believe in that kind of a malicious justice system, knock yourself out.  But I won't.

Despite all the beliefs I have heard from a whole lot of people, I have learned this much in my first 40 years: no one gets more of God's love based on how much they went to church or how often they cited scripture.  The only reason that formula makes so much sense to so many people is because it's how their own brains work.  They treat people better based on how they are treated (a very unChristlike philosophy by the way).  Instead, I believe the creator of all answers all calls from all people.  He listens, and She loves.  And everything that happens here on Earth?  It happens. 

But do keep calling!  Parents enjoy hearing from their children, after all.  They don't generally like hearing their children fight with each other though, so stop that!

My love affair with butter

July 5, 2014
        Day 66

Butter and I have been together now for well over 30 years.  It's been a mostly wonderful relationship, if you can call it that, although truth be told, we have had our rough spots.

He's basically what you'd call a feeder, you see.  He likes me plump.  And I in turn have let him do this to me.  I eat at him, and he in turn eats at me.  It's a very, very unhealthy relationship, I know, but we love each other, okay?!  It's real, damn it!

I don't expect you to understand, but butter just does something incredible to me.  He makes me feel so much better about everything.  I put him on toast or a bagel, and watch him just melt away slowly before I eat him up, and I just--  I just need him, you know? 

But there have also been bad times, and because he's not here right now (or even knows how to use a computer), I can tell you the truth.  He hurts me sometimes.  He's not good for my health.  He's even given me pimples.  He makes me fat.  The more I have of him, the more others are turned away, which is probably exactly what butter wants in the end.  He wants me all to himself.

My partner Andy knows about him, by the way.  It's been a constant issue in our relationship.  Andy will tell me to just cut back a bit, to only see butter now and then, not every day, or even every week.  And he's right, I know he's right.  But it's hard.  Butter is waiting for me at every supermarket, delicatessen, and restaurant.  He's got me craving him all the time.

I've broken it off now and then, spent more of my culinary time with Country Crock spread, but Crock doesn't give me the same delight as butter does.  Crock is nice and all, but she doesn't appeal to me as much as butter.  And don't even get me started on the other man in my life (Hellmann's). 

Ugh...I really don't know if I'll ever be able to break it off with butter.  He's just always there calling to me, asking me to just give him another chance...and I do.  Like a fool, I always do.  I always take him back.  But life with him is good too, you know?  Butter is just so, so good.  He makes me happy, and that's the most important thing, isn't it?  Being happy? 

I know he's not good for me, and I know our relationship is doomed to melt eventually, but if this is real love, I'm willing to take that chance.  For 30-something years now, butter's always been there to make my life taste better.  And if nothing else, that's worth the pimples and the extra gym time. 

Some love is forbidden, some love is true, but my love for butter is just a long-term hydrogenated mass of caloric daydreams...and I'm okay with that.

___________________________

Note: You better believe this is the G-rated version of the story I could have told here!

Give to Caesar

July 4, 2014
        Day 65

There are some people who get royally pissed off when I remind them that love of country should come second to love of God.  I don't mean atheists either.  I mean real God-loving people.

But why?  Why would you ever love a country, a geographical location marked by walls and boundaries, over your love of mankind?  I just don't get it, and I don't think I ever will, but no matter...because today, I'm going in the opposite direction.  (You're welcome!)  Today I'm reminding you that this poligilous, religical coin has another side to it.  Love of country does absolutely have its time and place, even in the soul of a devout believer of any faith.

The 4th of July in the United States is Independence Day, and as such, it's the high holy day for American pride.  We celebrate our independence as a country, our very birth as a country, but we also celebrate all the freedoms and liberties we enjoy as citizens of this great country.  Most of all, we celebrate that the United States of America is one kick-ass awesome place to live, and we are so, so happy to be here! 

Any time I go overseas or even up to Canada, I miss my country.  I miss my language, yeah, but even more than that, I miss my people.  And because I'm a New Yorker, "my people" doesn't mean skin color or ethnicity, religion or sexual orientation.  For me, "my people" are those who have similar accents and styles unique to our geographical location.  We speak to each other with an understanding, and though we appreciate the many differences in our culture, we all live our lives as proud citizens of our one country.

We know there's an awful lot wrong with our country, and it's wrongs brought on by well-meaning people from the left and the right.  But today isn't about what's wrong.  Today isn't about who our favorite political party is or which politician we hate the most.  Today is about all we've gotten right.  It's about all we love about our beautiful country, and its many beautiful types of people.

So God, please bless America this day and every day?  Please keep us safe from harm, and please watch over our Armed Forces here and abroad.  Please help our police officers and firefighters to make wise, safe decisions as well. 

And God, can I add just one more request?  I pray we may all never stop being grateful for this incredible, majestic, beautiful land we love!

Embracing the darkness

July 3, 2014
        Day 64

Among the fears I've often battled in life--spiders, heights, public speaking--my fear of darkness is right up there with the rest of them.  It's a basic fear of the unknown, I think, the often crippling belief that I'm not alone, that some creature with better night vision is watching me!

And yet the darkness is often where I feel the most peace, too, the place I feel more relaxed and mellow.

When I'm out in the sun, my eyes hurt a little more.  My skin needs protection from burning.  My whole body heats up, and I begin to feel depleted.  But when I'm in the darkness, I'm cooler and more relaxed.  My eyes feel better, and my brain does too.  Nighttime, or darkness in general, is when I feel so naturally relaxed that my mind and body want to rest. 

So what's the problem?  Why do we fear the darkness?  Maybe there's a simpler fear beyond this, another issue lurking in the dark.  When the lights are out and there's nothing else to see around us, we're suddenly alone with--gasp--our thoughts!  When the only thing we see is the night, we turn inward a lot more easily.  We dream while we sleep more than we daydream while we're awake. 

We muse on the mysteries of life more at night than we brood on the miseries of life in the light.

But when we really learn to embrace the darkness, we embrace the mystery and the silence too.  We embrace that quiet time and space of reflection we cannot run from, the time when the lights are turned off, and the darkness is turned on.

That's the thing about darkness: it'll never, ever blind you, and it'll always force you to find your own way through the night.

The friendships we never make

July 2, 2014
Day 63

We all have friends in our lives who we can't remember meeting.  We might be able to give you a general time period, or a person who introduced us, but beyond that, the details are fuzzy.  We just know that at some point, we became friends with them.

But what about all the people we never clicked with, or even those whom we did click with, but not enough to keep us connected?  These are the friendships that just never happened. 

They could have, they might have, but for whatever reason, they just didn't.  Maybe we exchanged phone numbers or e-mail addresses.  Maybe we even "became friends" on a social network.  Yet none of this means we really took the next step.  We didn't make the friendship really happen.

It's kind of a depressing thought if you let it be, but it's also just a fact of life.  Things happen.  People come, people go, and some people?  They never come by at all!

At what point can we do any more about it?  We can certainly try to make a friendship happen, but if the other person doesn't want it to, it just won't ever be.  And that's...okay.  In many cases, people will wander through our personal space, shake our hands or hug us, and then they'll be gone.  They'll decide they don't want more.  And that's also...okay.

But what about the ones we want to keep?  What about the friends we wish didn't get away from us?  Where are they now, and what might we have done differently to emotionally attract them to ourselves?  Well, the truth is, in most cases, you probably did whatever you could have. 

Maybe you're like me, and you often reach too far in an attempt to make a new friend.  Or maybe you're like many others I know who don't try much beyond a simple, polite hello.  Or maybe you're somewhere in the middle.  It doesn't matter, because life just happens as it does. 

If you put yourself out there though, if you really, really show your interest in a person in a friendly, non-creepy way, anything's possible.  In all things, just be kind, be respectful, and be open.  We all crave our three feet of emotional space as much as our three feet of actual space.  Respect that.  Honor that space, and that person's right to that space.  And maybe, just maybe, the friendship will happen.  But if it doesn't, move on!

We can't spend days or even hours sitting in a swamp of regret.  The friendship that might have been...often just isn't.  All we can do is live and react...and proact...as we will in the moments as they come.  Maybe those prospective friends will join our posse, or maybe they won't.  Maybe they'll see us as a potential new friend, or maybe they won't.  And whether we like it or not, that's...okay.

Barbie showed me the way

In her amazing book, Kinky, writer Denise Duhamel shares poem after poem imagining how Barbie would express herself were she in any number of strange professions or situations.  It's an incredible book filled with laughs as well as deep thoughts (a perfect combination!), and I'd highly recommend it to every human everywhere!

I first read the book, and met Denise, while taking a poetry course at Manhattan College.  She was married at the time to my professor, the brilliant poet Nick Carbo, so her book became part of our fun syllabus that semester.

And within this unique collection of poems is one called, "Sister Barbie", which tells a funny tale of Barbie as a nun. 

In my senior year of college, my last semester before graduating, and just a few months before I left the religious life, a classmate asked if he could borrow Denise's book.  He left his copy at home or something, I forget, but I happily loaned him my copy, and he was to give it back to me later that day.

But something very odd happened as he was reading the book.  While he had the page opened to this poem of all poems, "Sister Barbie", a bird flew right over his head, and promptly excreted its waste onto the page!  He returned the book to me later that day, explained what had happened, and then politely suggested with a smile that Someone might be trying to tell me something! 

I'd been suffering with clinical depression, and was thinking very seriously about possibly leaving the order, but was still very much trying to make it work, so the sign from above was not lost on me!  I wound up leaving the order some twelve weeks later.  On the day I left the monastery, though many of my belongings would stay behind, I knew my copy of Kinky was definitely leaving with me!

Coming Out To My Parents

June 23, 2014
          Day 54/365

I can't recall the exact date I told my mom, but I'll never forget exactly when I told my dad. 

It'd already been seven or eight months since I first said the words "I'm gay" out loud to another human being.  And I'd since told my psychologist, my religious superiors, and a few close friends too.  So it was time to finally tell my mom. 

I was 22 years old, recently moved back home since leaving the religious life, and just starting to really think about what my new life would entail.  I had a brief three-month job as a clerk at GNC, and a freelance job helping a local businessman organize his files.  My first proofreading job in Manhattan was starting soon too at that point, and everything was slowly coming together.  My mother and I had always been very close, and she was as much my friend as she was my mom.  Keeping this secret from her just felt wrong.  Though I feared her reaction, I didn't doubt her ultimate acceptance.

So there we were, alone in the kitchen, my mom sitting at the table by the phone in her usual spot, and me pacing back and forth near the refrigerator.  Though I can't remember exactly what I said that day, I know it went something like this:

"There's something I need to tell you, and I hope you'll understand, and love me no matter what."

(Moms of GLBT kids today will tell you they always knew before their child told them, but I really don't think my mom suspected.  I'd been living as a monk for the past four years, had always been very "straight acting" as we say, and this was 1997, not 2014.  Yes, history watchers, things really have changed that much in the past 17 years.)

My mom sat up attentively, if not a little rigidly, waiting to hear what I might tell her, and noting how teary I had already become.  I was no longer ashamed of my sexuality at that time, but I was still very scared to reveal my secret each time I had to do so.

"I'm gay."

The silence that followed lasted for minutes, punctuated sharply by tears and even sobs.  I was crying, my mother was crying, and I imagine even the furniture around us started crying too.  The room was just crying, okay?  For crying out loud, the tears were frickin' everywhere!

When she finally spoke, she asked me if I was sure, and wanted to make sure my crushes weren't just that, attractions to other boys my age that would go away.  Though she didn't use the word "phase", it's what she was basically getting at.  But she wasn't asking me out of a desire to change me, only to help me be sure.  And then, once I assured her this is who I was, and that I was okay with it all, if not still scared, she stood up, walked over, and hugged me.  She planted a big kiss on my cheek and assured me she loved me no matter what. 

And then, a few moments later, she added, "I don't know if you should tell your father though."

Her words were different, I'm sure, but this was the general idea:  "I love you no matter what, it's okay, I'm here for you, but don't tell Dad." 

That was in the late summer or early fall of 1997.  A year or so later, my father was diagnosed with lung cancer, and we all knew early on that it was incurable.  He would suffer with this disease for another six months to a year maybe, and then it would kill him.

On August 26, 1999, my father died.  I had never told him.  I knew, especially in those last few weeks, that this was my last chance, but I chose not to take it. 

In the funeral parlor on the morning of his funeral and burial, we all lined up to say our farewells at the casket.  I knew this was my last chance to at least say it to his face.  When it was my turn, I leaned in close and whispered as softly as I could, "I'm gay".  I said my goodbyes as well, but I made sure to throw that statement in there too. 

Coming out to my mom was a day marked by many, many tears.  Coming out to my dad was likewise a day marked by many, many tears.  The experiences were very different, not least of all because in one case I was getting a hug and a kiss from my mom, and in the other, I was speaking to an inanimate corpse.  Different experiences, different settings, but both of them private, quiet, and real.  The tears that flowed on both occasions were tears of sadness.  Not tears of shame or of sorrow, just tears that honored the communication gap between a son and his parent.  They were tears shed for time forever lost, lies forever gone, and a relationship forever changed.

The problem of family

A very small portion of my family posing for a portrait this past year.

June 22, 2014
          Day 53/365

There's a quote about family I've often thought of through the years: "Familiarity breeds contempt."

Awful, right?  But here's why it's true, and why it's also wonderful...

When we're born into a family, whether a small one like many are, or a super humungous one like mine, it's like being cracked open into a frying pan.  We're all destined to go through the same turmoil and pain before we get onto the breakfast plate of the world. 

No.  That's horrible, never mind that...

Being born into a family is like being born into a crock pot of crocks, and...

No.  I can do better.  Hang on.  I've almost got it now. 

Ah yes...

Being born into a family is like being stuck for hours in an elevator with strangers.  The more you all go through together, and the more time passes you by, the more you grow to know each other, and care about each other's lives.  You've all shared this unique experience through this same small bubble of time and space, and no one else outside the elevator truly understands the bonds you all now have.

And that's great, it really is.  But here's the problem with family: expectations are silly.

We cannot be expected to be best friends with every single member of our family, especially in a large one like mine is.  It's just not feasible.  You take any large group of human beings and put them in the same house for a span of time, and some will get along really well, while others will just want to kill each other.  There are many words to describe this phenomenon that any psychologist or sociologist can tell you, but perhaps the simplest is just "normal".

It's completely normal for us as human beings to gravitate toward some people and not others, whether or not we're blood related.  We forge connections throughout our lives that make lasting, meaningful relationships blossom and grow more than we could have ever predicted.  Sometimes these relationships are with family members, and sometimes they're with strangers who we make our friends.  No matter where we meet them though, in the cradle or at the restaurant table, the elevator analogy still stands.  Common experiences can forge bonds or they can push us away. 

It's normal.

Sometimes at large family gatherings, I look around me and feel so, so happy to know all these people.  I'm in love with life, and feel so much love everywhere I look.  Other times, often at the same gatherings with the same people, I feel lost and alone.  There are so many people around me, and I just stand back and try to appreciate the joy I see, even if I don't feel it particularly myself.  I feel like I'm in an elevator with strangers. 

Expectations are silly.  We cannot judge ourselves for not wanting to spend more time or energy with one person or group.  We cannot expect one person or group to want to spend more time with us either.  The elevator gets un-stuck after a time, and though we see each other in the lobby, and to and from work now and then, maybe at the occasional company gathering, we lose touch with some people.  And that's...okay.

Family is wonderful.  We have each other's backs, we go through so much together, and we do genuinely love each other very much.  The problem with family comes when we expect perfection, 'cause it just ain't gonna happen.  The elevator's gonna get stuck, the tempers are gonna fly, and the alarms are gonna piss us off.  Even in a tight-knit group, there are gonna be all different personalities.  We can drive ourselves mad about this fact, or we can smile at the beauty of our differences, and appreciate the ride we're all on together.

My God Problem

June 20, 2014.
          Day 51/365

I've written about this before, but today I'd like to just reflect briefly on my conundrum, especially in light of the conundrum as I see it.

If I imagine these two mountains on either side of me, religion on the right and science on the left, I see myself in a valley between them.  I enjoy both science and spirituality immensely, and all the greatest thinkers I've followed closely in my life love both of them too.  Unfortunately, there are lots and lots of people who live on one mountain or the other, and just hate the other mountain.  It's worse than a sporting team versus sporting team kind of hatred, or even a political party against political party kind of animosity; this is a full-blown-epidemic kind of crazy, a mass refusal to acknowledge any redeeming qualities in the other mountain.

The attacks on the mountain of religion are everywhere, and the attacks on the mountain of science are just as prevalent, if not more baffling, because facts get thrown out the window when people attack science.  So I find myself stuck in the middle here between these two mountains. 

The stubborn religious people (and I'm talking about the really far-gone ones, not the everyday church-goers), well, they don't seem to have any common sense at all.  Some of these nut balls (and yes, I do feel quite comfortable calling someone a nut ball who thinks dinosaur bones were planted as decoys by Lucifer) are out to demonize science as innately evil.  Why?  All scientists are doing is examining cold, hard facts.  Calling them your enemy is like calling basic math the work of Hitler.

And the stubborn fools on the other mountain?  The scientific atheists?  They think anyone who's had any type of spiritual experience must be either crazy or stupid, or at the very least suffering from false hopes and sick delusions.  They refuse to listen to the accounts of so many people who have had so many absolutely real experiences.  They think we're all just psychotics or false dreamers. 

It's to these science-minded fools that I feel much more disappointment, because they're smarter than this.  I expect more from them.  I expect them to see the vast amount of unexplainable phenomena as worthy of lots and lots of further study.  Instead, they write people off, saying it must be explainable by science and science alone.  God, whatever God is, must be impossible.

So this is my God problem.  I'm seeing people on either mountain who just refuse to see things from the other mountain's point of view, and worst of all, refuse to even meet me in the valley.   

I cannot tell you with proof that my experience of the resurrected soul of my father was real.  I cannot point you to a place in my brain where you can find that recording, and watch it for yourself, understand it for yourself.  Yet I know without a shadow of a shadow of a doubt that it all happened exactly as I've told the story a hundred times. 

Religious People: Dismissing science as just a dangerous road heathens walk on is just ridiculous.  They may not have the same goals as you do, but they want to learn, to understand, to pursue Truth the same as you do, if just differently.

Science People: I understand why you need facts, but surely your love and appreciation for knowledge seeking would show you this is a vast mystery even to you.  Surely you see that the mysteries of so many spiritual phenomena are worth analyzing instead of just dismissing outright.

I find myself in this valley, and I know I sound like I'm just throwing stones at the mountains.  But if you don't mind, I'd like to make a choice between them now, between nut balls and stubborn fools, because quite honestly, I'd rather talk with the stubborn fools.  I'd rather keep pleading with the science- and logic-minded atheists to find the proof for God I know must be out there.  I'd much rather have meaningful conversations with them than throw stones with the crazies. 

So call me a fool then too.  I don't mind.  I'm a fool for believing--in science and spirituality.  I'm a fool for believing we can all try a little harder to learn from each other, try a little harder to talk to one another, and open our minds to all we still don't know. 

I may be a fool for trying, but trying is less foolish than staying put on just one mountain.

50 days straight

June 19, 2014.
          Day 50/365

No, the title of this piece is not some sort of challenge to my sexuality.  Sorry, ladies!

My daily writing journey has wound its way through 50 different reflections in the past 50 days now, and there are still hundreds of these left before I'm done. 

WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO?!

I tell my partner Andy how I'm doing from time to time, and on at least two occasions now he's suggested, "Why don't you just skip a day or two?" 

Whenever he says something like this, I usually look at him as if a giant rabbit has just crawled out of his ear.  I thinking about saying, "Get behind me, you Satan!" but usually I just opt for something lighter like, "No, I can't stop now!"  He rolls his eyes at me, and gives me the Marge Simpsonesque, "Okaaayyy".  You know the one.  Whenever Homer says he's gonna do something crazy, but Marge wants to be supportive anyway?  Yeah, that's Andy's completely understandable reaction to me in this situation!

What I have decided though is, some entries can be shorter.  I don't need to go on as long as I usually do (even though I still think they're pretty short).  But for the sake of my brain, and to give myself just a little break, I choose to celebrate this 50th entry by keeping this one short, and stopping... right... here! :)

Super Soul Sunday

An advertisement for Super Soul Sunday on OWN.

June 15, 2014.
       Day 46/365

One of the happier facts of my life at 39 is watching how much the world is waking up to a higher consciousness.  There's a new energy pulsing on this planet like never before, and I have to believe it's because we're more connected to one another in the past 15-20 years than we ever were before.

Organized religion, though constantly successful, is often taking a side seat to ordinary spirituality in all its many extraordinary manifestations.  As a human race, we are exploring the soul within us through more and more methods, books, classes, and teachers than ever.  We're opening our eyes for the very first time to new truths which are really just old truths, perennial truths, that are sprouting all over the Earth in ways we've never seen before.

My favorite so-called "new age" teacher is Wayne Dyer, who you've no doubt seen on PBS as well as Oprah's shows many times.  He's even been on The Tonight Show and other entertainment shows many, many times, always smiling widely, always happy, always thoughtful and helpful.  Wayne was also one of the first guests on Oprah's show, Super Soul Sunday.

Super Soul Sunday is on at 11 AM Eastern Time every Sunday morning in the United States, on her widely popular OWN channel.  Each week, she has a new guest on, and she just chats with them one on one about all kinds of soul-related awesomeness.  Each person has a slightly different take on God, or spirit, or soul, and each shares his or her approach to spirituality.  And it's one of my favorite programs to watch every week! 

I love that the show is on late enough for me to sleep in and not miss it, but mostly I love how real it is.  Spirituality isn't the judgmental kind of Scripture-thumping you get at church or the synagogue, and it's not some namby-pamby version of the truth either!  Spirituality is just the path you choose to take to get in touch with Spirit.  It's an open ended, wall-less, roof-less wisdom we pursue with an open heart and an open mind.  It's free from dogma and law, and finds its feet instead in the humble pursuit of the Truth we all seek within and outside of religion.

If you haven't seen Oprah's Super Soul Sunday programs, I hope you'll consider tuning in.  They're available on demand and online too.  Do yourself a huge favor and tune in on Sunday mornings at 11 AM on OWN.  Find a comfy spot on the couch or in your bed, make yourself a cup of delicious coffee, and prepare to have your soul lifted up!  I promise you it will make your whole week that much better!

Coffee is divine

June 14, 2014.          Day 45/365

Someone at my day job this past week was writing copy for a French press.  He didn't know much about coffee as he's not a drinker himself, so he asked me for my thoughts.

Unfortunately, we quickly learned I'd be of little use to him, as I like my coffee quick and simple, not pressed and... French. 

I was, however, the first person he thought of when the topic of coffee came up, so my reputation as an appreciator of this divine drink very happily precedes me!

I got into coffee somewhere in my late high school years, and drank it mostly while shooting pool with my friend Lex.  We always enjoyed betting on our games of pool, and though 50 cents or a dollar was our average when we bet with money, more often than not we just bought the other one a free cup of coffee.  That was Lex's idea, and he beat me more often than not.  If you ever meet Lex, you'll see he's already had enough caffeine to keep him awake until the year 2346, with no small help from me!

In college, I'd often write down cool phrases I heard from teachers, fellow monks, and fellow students, and one phrase I always loved was, "Coffee is divine," spoken by my fellow Philosophy classmate at Manhattan College, Terence Houlihan.  Equating coffee with Heaven is just the perfect analogy, as it really does make you feel so good inside and out!  And if you don't believe coffee is a gift from Heaven, might I politely remind you, God did make the Earth and all its pretty coffee beans.  So uh, yeah.  I have my answer!

(I just reached out to Terence after writing most of this little reflection.  Haven't spoken to him since 1997, so I hope he remembers me.  Though I'd bet as a fellow coffee drinker, he will.  If I hear back from him, I'll update you in a later entry.) 

I'm enjoying my first cup of coffee right now on Saturday morning as I write this.  I actually tend to drink less coffee on the weekends, probably because with each sip at work, I'm melting away the stress of the job.  At home, each sip is accompanied by the chirping of birds out my window, a soft summer breeze, and the reminder that work is no where to be seen until Monday rolls 'round again.  So on the weekends, my coffee is less a needy measure, and more a greedy pleasure. 

Anyway, drink up, lads and lasses!  Have a cup of liquid Heaven, or whatever else you choose to call it.  Tea is fine, but coffee is divine!

Conquering self-ageism

Not so scary really when you think of it this way.

June 11, 2014.  Day 42/365

I often tell people I'm not worried about aging, but I think writing a blog every single day for a whole year leading up to my 40th birthday is proof that I'm lying to myself.  I do care, and here's why...

Turning 40 should be a milestone, because everything should be a milestone.  Graduating high school is a milestone.  Graduating college is a milestone.  Getting your first job is a milestone.  Meeting your spouse, marrying your spouse, and having your first child together: all of them are milestones. 

A milestone of any kind is a chance to celebrate everything you've gone through to reach that moment.  When Andy and I celebrated 12 years together this past December, my mind wasn't on what would happen in the 13th year.  My mind was on how grateful I was for so many wonderful moments I'd shared with him up to that point.  I thought of mostly the good and even some of the bad, but above all I thanked God for the gift of this wonderful guy in my life.  Reaching the milestone isn't about the day after, but about all the days before.

But for all my happy moments, all my still-looking-good-for-39 gleeful days, I'm still a victim of ageism.  People judge me.  They laugh at me for my taste in music, or the way I dress, or my failure to see Hunger Games in the movie theater.  They may not say so, but I know they're out there just hating me for who I am!  Laughing at me!  Mocking me!  Getting together with their fellow younger people and just LOLing their full heads of hair off at how dumb and old I am!!!

Well, alright...maybe not.

I'm getting carried away, as we all do sometimes.  We see the world as us-versus-them whether or not we want to, whether or not it really is.  And we judge ourselves much harsher than others judge us.  It's just natural, and it's quite normal.  We are, all of us, self-ageists. 

We look at where we are, we celebrate our lives and our marriages, our kids and our grand-kids, our houses and our careers, but then right there in the midst of our happiest moments, we look off at others with envy and a sigh.  "I used to be that young," we think, and "I remember those days without a care in the world, just running around barefoot in the grass". 

It's not all that morbid though, this ageist thinking.  It's just once again an opportunity for perspective.  Life changes.  We change.  Our hair slowly changes color over time and recedes.  Our joints tighten up and crack more often.  Our desire to run around barefoot in the grass is replaced by our desire to sit back in a chair and watch others do it.  It's natural.

So as I once again pause to reflect on my age, and remind myself to stop being self-ageist, and stop worrying about others being ageist to me, I am also once again touched by a profound sense of gratitude.  I'm grateful to have reached 39.  My friend Sal didn't.  My mother's first husband didn't.  Matthew Shepard didn't.  10-year-olds with cancer didn't.  For every moment I complain about getting older, I'm reminded of the blessing of this age.  It's just 39.  And soon, it'll be just 40.  It's a somewhere-in-the-middle age.  A somewhere-past-youth age.  A somewhere age, like every other. 

Somewhere out there, people remember their loved ones who left us too soon.  Somewhere out there, people remember their own lives back when they were 39.  Somewhere out there, people think about what their lives will be like when they reach 39.  Somewhere, right here, I'm still thinking about it.  And I'm smiling.  And I'm happy.  And I think that life is really, really good.  And I should stop worrying so much, and start laughing a bit more.  And maybe sometime soon, I'll go running through the grass barefoot, and appreciate the sun still shining brightly overhead.

What is your personal mission statement?

June 7, 2014...Day 38/365

Companies do this all the time: they create a snappy mission statement designed to both inspire their employees and impress their customers.  Sometimes they succeed with flying stars.  Other times?  Not so much. 

I spent time searching for some gems to share with you, and by gems I mean crumpled pieces of aluminum foil you might at first mistake for gems.  There were so many horrible examples of bad mission statements that just, quite frankly, made my head hurt, so I decided to not make your head hurt too.   

So what does a good mission statement include?  Well, it includes a simple statement of mission. 

Sounds simple enough, but the worst examples around the mission-statement world are those that just completely fail at their one responsibility.  To craft a mission statement, first know your "business".  Second, imagine your greatest possible future accomplishment.  Third, tell us how you're going to do it. That's it.

Got it?  Good.  Take a few minutes and think of one right now.  Make up a mission statement for your life.  Be serious, be funny, be inspirational...just be real.  Don't demean yourself or your possibilities.  Allow yourself the desire to shoot for the stars.  Your mission statement isn't a summary of your life as it is right now, just a conclusion you hope to one day achieve.  

Below is what I came up with.  I know it's very lofty, but I choose that for myself. 

I will always try my best to see goodness in all people, and see my own soul reflected in the lights and struggles of others.  I aspire to teach the whole world about the truths I have learned, and be a receptacle and messenger for the highest truth.  I will do this by writing many books and articles, essays and poems that will be read by millions of people for generations to come.

Your personal mission statement can be as simple as "I want to be the best mother for my children I can be", or "I want to open a second location for my business", or "I want to be a Broadway star". 

Be as lofty or as simple as you wish to be for yourself!  We're not in a competition with each other here; we're simply challenging our notion of our own potential.  If we accept the couch as our destination in life, the couch will be our destination in life, but if we accept something greater than we presently have, we just might get there! 

I look forward to hearing what you come up with!  Post a comment here on the blog, or just reply on Facebook or Twitter.

Choose Your Speed

May 23, 2014.

Each afternoon during my lunch break, I like to drive over to the park near my job, and eat my salad right there in my car.  That way, it's easy to just jump out afterward and begin walking.

All around the park on the nicest days, people of all ages and speeds are out walking.

I walk quickly past an older couple in their 70s, and feel a pang of guilt, as if I'm showing off or something.  I often send out a telepathic message to them that says, "I'm on my lunch break, so I have to keep moving quickly!  Otherwise I'd walk slowly like you...not that you're walking slowly or anything!"

Very often I'll pass people who are right around the speed I prefer to go, so I have to speed up to get past them, then time it just right to start slowing back down to regular speed once I'm far enough in front.  It's like a game, or a science.  An art form really...the kind of art I hate.

The runners, though?  They make me feel like an old slowpoke as they whir past me.  "Oh, I used to walk," I imagine them telling me, "I used to just meander around like you, as slow as can be, but now I can do this."  How rude!  I admire them anyway though, and hope to some day join them!

No matter what speed we're all going though, fast or slow, we're all enjoying the trip.  We all chose to go to this park and move around a bit.  None of the people I see there live in the park, as far as I can tell, but whether it's from our homes or our jobs, we've all decided to take some time to be with nature.  We've all made the time to move around this beautiful park, smell the freshness of late spring, and bask in the sunlight bursting through the treetops.

The speed with which we all move is irrelevant, and the time it takes me to get around the large path is neither better nor worse than the time it takes others.  We're all just appreciating the park, and appreciating the blessings of time itself. 

Perspective

May 15, 2014.

Perspective is everything. 

When I reached my 18th birthday, I had already decided to dedicate my life to the service of others as a Roman Catholic monk.  I received a very clear calling from God to do this, and so I listened and happily obeyed.

When I reached my 21st birthday, I was feeling great about my school work and my grades, and I'd begun writing more and more in my private journals.  Living as a monk was difficult a lot of the time, but with each passing year, I felt like I was finally getting the hang of it all, and life was great.

When I reached my 22nd birthday, I was suffering with clinical depression.  My religious superiors wouldn't allow me to get the medicine my doctor told me I needed, and they wouldn't let me tell anyone what I was going through either.  Instead of letting others know I was seeing a psychologist every week for an often debilitating illness, I was instructed to instead just lie, and say I was going to speak with a priest in the other community.  I was sure now that I was gay, and felt more trapped and lonely than ever before.

When I reached my 25th birthday, I was already out of the religious order for almost three years, living with friends in a house share down by the beach.  My father had died the summer before, and my spirituality was just beginning to blossom in new ways.  Reaching my 25th birthday was like finally coming alive, even though I still hadn't really begun dating much.

When I reached my 30th birthday, I was already with my partner Andy for three and a half years.  My mother had just died the autumn before, and Andy and I had now moved out of our family homes, and gotten an apartment together. 

When I reached my 35th birthday, I was now a homeowner for almost a year, having purchased a house with my partner Andy.  I had a great job as a proofreader with Publishers Clearing House, and even got to surprise people with money a few times.  Though life had dealt me some very difficult times too, things were generally good, and I was happy.

By the time I reach my 40th birthday, I will have already been out of college and the monastic life for 18 years.  It will have already been 15 years since I lived with friends down by the beach.  It will be over 10 years since my mom died, and over 15 years since my dad died.  I'll have been with my partner Andy for over 13 years, we'll have been in our home for over six years, and I'll have been at my current wonderful job for four years.  I'll have also published my first three books by then, and already preparing the fourth for publication as well.

I can't say I would have seen any of the above happening just a year before each of them did.  But life does that.  It surprises you.  You can plan things out, and keep moving forward, but things just happen.  People just die.  Love finally arrives.  Jobs end and new ones begin.  Sadness and joy just show up, in unequal measures, at different times.  The list of things I can't tell you goes on forever.  The only thing I can tell you for certain is, perspective is everything. 

Fictional Truth

May 12, 2014.

I'm sure anyone who writes fiction would agree, we take our best ideas from real-life experiences.  We may twist them around a bit, reshape them, color them with different names and places, even reverse their logic completely, but so much of what we write is based in fact.  I once shook Michael Jordan's hand, so I'll find a way to add that to one of my future books.

When I start writing a new book, as I'm in the process of doing now for my third book, I don't think about some fictional philosophy or concept.  I think about what my readers could grab hold of, and really believe.  Obviously the creative process is about creating, so I do enjoy manifesting new realities, people, and places as I write, but I find I'm always doing this from a place I already know.  My human experience has already been filled with a million different scenarios and realities, and my writing only adds more on top of that.

There's a blessing in this, as well as a curse.  You want your reader to understand what you're laying out for them, to feel comfortable with the sentences they're reading, but you also want to lift them up, far away from reality.  You want to play with their sense of true and false, to tinker with their remembrance of their real life, to help them forget about their problems for a while.  A great author needs to bring her readers deep into the book, so once they're thoroughly involved in the fictional world, they've forgotten they even have a life of their own.

The premise can certainly vary if you're not writing pure fiction, or if you want your subjects and stories to pull from real events.  For instance, I could write a story about the great blackout of 2003, about two young people who met in a stuck subway car.  I could tell you how after being trapped for seven hours, they escaped into the subway tunnel, hiked through Central Park, and washed themselves off in Bethesda Fountain.  We'd learn how they walked all the way down to the Brooklyn Bridge, and over to Brooklyn just as the sun was coming up.  I'd weave their story forward this way and that through the blackout and beyond, but because it's based in a real historical event, you might keep thinking the people are real, and their story really happened.

Fictional Truth can work this way, or a hundred ways like it.  And it can layer an author's real world too, whether or not he knows it.  In my life since I've been writing books about angels and demons, I can't help but see the very real possibility of some of my fictional events actually happening.  Maybe not some involving angels and demons, but certainly others which talk about real historical figures and places. 

My life has been filled with some pretty amazing events and stories, and I hope I can continue to share them with you more and more.  Some are reflected in my second book, The Papal Visitor, and plenty were in my first book too.  My fiction writing is colored by this life I've led.  It can't help but be affected by it constantly.  And in the same way, my fictional writing is affecting my real life!  It's coloring who I am and how I think.  Fact and fiction are allowed to dance together a bit at times, as long as we always know what is fiction and what is fact, and not believe everything someone tells us.  I never shook Michael Jordan's hand, for instance.