The Importance of Following Directions

August 20, 2014
Day 112

I was in 4th Grade when I learned this lesson, and it was a class I'll never forget.  Mrs. Marks handed out the assignment, and told us to begin whenever we were ready.  We all got to work right away. 

The assignment was unique, something I'd never seen before, but I liked it a lot.  Write your name in a certain part of the page.  Draw a box around it.  Circle "1."  Underline this, cross out that, keep going and doing everything as the assignment explained.  (The one pictured here isn't the version she gave us).

We were all working quickly, but one of my classmates, my friend Lex, was always extra fast.  He apparently sped through the thing like it was on fire...but that isn't how we knew he was done first. 

From the front of the classroom, Mrs. Marks was in hysterics looking at Lex, as he was now quickly erasing most of his work.  What the heck?  We didn't understand, and though we laughed along with the teacher (and Lex too, as he kept erasing), we didn't know what was so funny.  Well as I recall, Mrs. Marks told us all to stop, and then read the first and last instructions to understand.

On our sheet, the first instruction said, "Read everything before doing anything."  This first instruction was one that every single one of us failed to do, because if we had read the instructions clearly before beginning, we would have realized the last instruction on the page advised us to only do a small part of the whole assignment.  "Now go back and only do number 1," was what my assignment ended with.  Of the 25 or so of us in that room, not one of us had read everything before beginning.  Mrs. Marks (and I imagine, teachers everywhere) are counting on this when they hand out this kind of assignment.  Sometimes students should fail in order to learn.

It was a lesson I'll never forget, because I never laughed so hard in a classroom as I did that day, and probably very rarely so much since.  Seeing my teacher laughing at the furious speed of Lex and his eraser was just such a fun experience, especially once we realized what the reason was.

So what did I learn from this?  Well as it turns out, lots of things. 

I learned creative teaching techniques are often more effective than the norm.  I learned a teacher with a sense of humor will do much better in the classroom than one without.  I learned that sometimes failure is an option, and once we experience it, in whatever form it takes, we can learn from our mistakes.  And most importantly, I learned the importance of following directions.  From the day I received this test in 4th grade onward, I have always read the directions of any form very, very carefully.  And when all else fails, it's also always a good idea to keep an eraser close at hand!

Everyone Loves Aunt Jane

Aunt Jane fishing up in Vermont last summer with my sister Marilyn.
Aunt Jane had just turned 81 at this point.

August 19, 2014
Day 111

Today is my Aunt Jane's 82nd birthday, so who else to feature than this wonderful woman I've been so blessed to have in my life.

Aunt Jane is my mom's older sister, and since she never married, she's always been a second mom to all of us.  At one point I used to say, "like a second mother", but the distinction is important, and I'm happy to have learned to leave that "like" out now!  She is our second mother!

At her great-great niece Emma's birthday in 2013. 80 years young.

There are a million things I could tell you about Aunt Jane: how she's always been firm but filled with love, always a teacher but always willing to be taught too, and of course how beautiful she is--of that, I must be clear!  But more than any of this, she's just been a very, very good human being.

Aunt Jane's got a list of charities she gives to all the time.  She's smart enough to say no to the ones who pester her incessantly, but gives generously as often as she can.  But money alone is not what makes this woman generous, because Aunt Jane has always been beyond generous with her time and attention.  When you sit down to speak with her, she listens carefully to what you have to say, and she shows a genuine interest in your story.  The rest of the world stops when you're in a moment like this with Aunt Jane, and nothing else matters but the experience you're sharing with her.  These are just some of the many reasons why we all see her as our second mother.

Her unconditional love has never, ever wavered, and her dedication to each and every one of her many, many family members is proof of this.  With all of the medical struggles she's faced in recent years, especially in relation to her Parkinson's, Aunt Jane still always knows all of us very well.  Every child, every name, every story.  She hates that her age and illness slow her down, but she handles it all with so much grace and dignity, and is a true inspiration to us all.

So today, please send a happy birthday wish to Aunt Jane, either in a response to this sharing online, or as a prayer of thanks to God.  There are lots of people we incorrectly (though generously) call saints in this world, but I gotta tell you, this woman right here?  She is hands-down the saintliest woman I know, and if you have ever had the pleasure of meeting her, you'd absolutely agree!

Happy Birthday, Aunt Jane, and...Happy Birthday, Other Mom!  I love you SO MUCH!!!

My Billy Elliot Obsession

August 18, 2014
Day 110

I can't really explain it.  That's where to begin this reflection...with a line from the show.  When in doubt, quote Billy himself.  The scene it comes from arrives late in the stage musical, when Billy is asked what it feels like when he's dancing.  His love of dance is indescribable, no matter how many words he's able to piece together to explain himself.  And at some point, he can't even keep describing it.  He has to just burst forth in dance to show his questioners what he means!

Well, rest assured, I am not attaching a video of me dancing!  It just isn't my preferred art form, and it's definitely not a skill I possess.

But when you ask me why I've seen this show so many times, I will find myself circling through phrases just as Billy does, rattling off anything I can think of to help you understand.  And for me, those phrases would include: teaches you to just be yourself, to believe in yourself, to not listen to the establishment, to scream out against injustice and discrimination...helps you see things differently and appreciate the differences in people, helps you smile more at the silliness of life, and cry more at the awful goodbyes we all go through...guides you to live more, laugh more, and chase your dreams however you must in order to achieve them. 

I've seen the movie dozens of times, and I've experienced the stage musical 56 times worldwide (London, Broadway, and many cities up and down the east coast on tour).  The musical has so much to offer so many people, but for me, the story is also familiar. 

My dad was an old-school, Irish-born lower-middle class guy with a very strong work ethic, a love of drinking and smoking, and a penchant for anger.  He also carried a heavy heart over the loss of his first wife when his kids were still very young.  Though I had a best friend named Michael growing up, it was always me who was the poof, so to speak, and it was very difficult for me to fit in with my peers.  My mom was my friend and my greatest supporter, and though I still speak to her often, I lost a great light in my life when she died.  I'm no dancer, but my hopes for a successful career as a writer are still propelling me forward all the time.  (You can support the arts by buying my books!)  There are plenty of differences between my life's story and Billy's, but the movie and subsequent stage production have enough similarities to make me feel very much at home. 

But why do I obsess so much about a story like this one?  Because beyond all the similarities, there's a killer script by Lee Hall.  I admire his language and storytelling so much, and I'm constantly amazed and inspired by his ability to make me laugh, then cry, then laugh, then cry, over and over again throughout the show (and the film).  That kind of emotional roller coaster effect is far from easy to produce, and it's certainly helped by the amazing actors who I've seen in the stage musical over the years.

And when it comes to amazing, this show has it all, not least of which because the boy who plays Billy has to convince us from the beginning that he has some basic skills, but no training at all, and by the end, he has to have shown us how much hidden talent he had inside him, ready to burst forth for all the world to see.

Billy Elliot The Musical is no longer on Broadway, and the Tours are done now too, although there are some incredible regional productions popping up here and there.  Most of you who read this won't be able to go see the show anytime soon, but some of you will (Londoners and Europeans all over have a lot to celebrate still!), so none of what I write here is to convince you to go see the show right away.  It's just to help you understand some of the many reasons I kept going back time and time again to witness its magic live. 

The musical is gone from the New York scene for a while now, but the movie is still available.  Check it out when you get a chance, or watch it again if it's been a while.  I think you'll see why so many people have seen it worldwide, and why the subsequent musical won as many Tony Awards and other prizes as it did.  It's an inspiring story about possibility, willpower, and promise, and it's guaranteed to have you flying with joy by the time it's over!

Stage Musical Commercial
Original Movie Trailer

The shell-stealing incident

August 17, 2014
Day 109

It wasn't a real crime; I should start with that.  No one was really hurt, and the value of the piece was hardly irreplaceable.  In fact, it was quite the opposite.  The theft was, however, very scarring to me at the time.  And because I've chosen to write about it here, it's obviously stayed with me my whole life.

I stole a shell.  Maybe two.  It or they were in my grandmother's neighbor's garden, creating a sort of design, so removing even just one was messing up the beauty of the look she'd artfully created.  It wasn't as if I thought this through of course, because it happened when I was just a child.  9?  10?  I'm not sure now.  I was young enough to not yet understand that what I had done was very wrong, but old enough where I ought to have known better.

My crime was quickly discovered in a series of events that would impress any great inspector throughout history.  Miss Marple, Columbo, Jessica Fletcher, Inspector Gadget--they'd all have admired the process that must have occurred leading up to my identification as the thief, and my subsequent punishment as the villain in question.  I don't know how the neighbor and my aunt (who lived with my grandmother) identified me so quickly, but they did.  Once I was found and I confessed for my sin, within mere minutes I was judged, sentenced, and fully guilted for my crime.

And it was this guilt, and the lesson overall, that mattered most.  I needed to be taught that what I did was morally wrong, so that as I grew up, I'd have a better understanding of how the world worked.  When something is not yours, leave it alone.  Respect other people's property.  And, oh yeah, don't even think about lying to get away with something!  Just come clean, and the truth will set you free...eventually.

The incident is a tiny one, as tiny as the shell or shells I snatched that day, but the beauty of the lesson was huge.  It has stayed with me so strongly over the years because I still feel very badly about it.  Guilt is powerful, but fully understanding morality in general is much more important than any temporary scolding can teach us.  And so I'm grateful to that neighbor, my grandmother, and my aunt for teaching me more than they know in one random moment one random day many years ago, when I was still just a boy.

Butter and Mayo

August 16, 2014
             Day 108

I have two lifelong friends who have sadly also been lifelong enemies.  I'll occasionally invite them to live with me for a while, but they always wreak havoc, and I'm always left regretting the decision to invite them in at all.

Right now, Butter is allowed in my house only on a count of his brother.  I'd been hanging out with Crock for years, but realized as sweet as he seemed, he was slowly causing me lots of emotional pain, and even weight gain.  So I told him recently to just leave and never come back, and then invited Butter to move back in.  Butter has a saltier sense of humor, and hasn't exactly been helping me in my weight loss efforts either, but he's easy to get along with, so I keep him around.  He sure knows how to butter me up though.  Manipulative bastard!

And my other on-again, off-again frienemy is Mayo.  Ugh!  Where do I start?  This guy is so much fun to hang out with, and every time I eat with him, he makes me feel so good.  But then after a little while, I feel terrible.  I feel bloated and upset, and I realize that once again, he's hurt me.  Mayo is one of those friends who's a total enabler.  (I think he might even be a feeder!)  He just sits there and tells me how good he'll be before I even start eating, but by the time I'm done, he still looks great but I feel awful.  What an idiot!  The last time he visited, I almost threw him out, yelling, "I hate you!  Just stop giving me so much hell, man!"

Mayo isn't allowed in my house, but when I do invite him in, he's gone in three or four days anyway.  Occasionally, I even hang out with both Butter and Mayo at the same time.  They get along well when I don't overdo it, but the results are always sickening. 

I've mostly given up Mayo now in my house, but Butter is still allowed to stay.  All things in moderation, I guess, and as long as I spread out my time with him, our friendship will be okay.  Last night, I told Butter a story that made him melt; it was so sweet watching how much it affected him.  But I have to admit, even when he's soft with me, I still keep the knife close by.

All the other beautiful days

August 15, 2014
             Day 107

Today's entry won't be too long, because I'm working on just three-and-a-half hours of sleep, but also because there's been a lot of sadness this week already, and I'd rather not overdo it at this point.

First things first, a fact: Today is the 6th anniversary of the day suicide took the life of my friend Sal.  I purposely phrase it that way because I've come to see over time how his mental unclarity obviously got the better of him.  He didn't end his life after careful planning and months of agonizing over his choices.  The illness, in whatever form it affected him personally, just took over his brain enough to convince him of a lie.  It told him he had no other choice, though he always did.

I never judged Sal for his action that day, because to me that'd be like judging someone for crying.  When pain reaches certain levels, certain responses just happen.  Tears just happen, emotional pain just happens, and yes, even depression in all its scary, acute forms, just happens.  None of us are in any place to judge, or even casually pretend to understand what goes on inside a person who becomes a victim of suicide.  We don't share the same headspace of those who get to this point, so we have no right pronouncing our wisdom on the situation. 

Depression sucks.  Suicide sucks.  And people who pass judgment should seriously just shut the fuck up, and remind themselves how difficult this life we're living can be at times.  Suicide is a choice, but it's a choice that manifests from cloudy thinking, not clear thoughtfulness. 

When someone you love is taken this way, you're left feeling like hope itself has died, as if all possibility for a happy ending in life is forever marred by the fact that depression claimed the life of a dear soul.  My friend Sal was a very, very dear soul.  Like most 26-year-olds, he loved to party and have fun, but he was also a fierce friend, especially to those he respected and loved.  On one day six years ago, he lost an internal battle we didn't realize he was fighting.  And that just sucks.  Suicide just fucking sucks.  But sometimes it isn't enough to want to have joy.  You've got to believe in the joy you cannot see through all the cloudy thinking. 

When suicide claims a life, it's important to remember all the joy the person left behind, and not the last few moments of sadness.  For all the trauma Sal's loved ones went through in the months following his passing, the actions of his last day were just a few moments in the bigger picture of his abundantly beautiful life.  And it's that abundantly beautiful life that I know he would want to be remembered for.  Whether it's cancer or murder or any other disease or horrible ending, what one of us would want our last day to be remembered above all the other beautiful days we've lived? 

So we remember Sal, and we remember all of our loved ones who have passed this way, for all the other days.  So many cherished memories.  So much life.  So many beautiful days. 

My clinical depression

August 14, 2014
             Day 106

In 1996, I was a mess.  One person even described me as being completely crazy.  I was sad, I was confused, and I was lost.

And then it got worse.

And then, it got worse than that.

In 6th grade, when I was just 11 years old, I began feeling attracted to boys instead of just girls.  The feeling grew until 9th grade, when I was in an all-boys Catholic high school, and felt very much attracted to my classmates.  By the time I joined the monastic life and became "Brother Sean", I felt by taking the vow of chastity, I was vowing to give up women, which wasn't all that difficult to do!  Since I was 18 then, and never did anything about my other leanings, I felt they would just stay dormant in me, asleep, and not cause me any problems.  Throughout college though, even though I was a vowed Catholic monk, I found myself still thinking about my classmates at Manhattan College, and the feelings were just getting too difficult for me to contain.

On January 1st of 1997, just a few minutes after midnight, I came out to another person in my religious order.  It was the first time I'd ever said the words out loud to anyone, let alone myself.  And though the moment was extremely painful for me, the equivalent of passing a stone I'd guess (an emotional stone for sure!), the day that followed was one of the happiest I have ever experienced in my almost 40 years of life on this Earth.  It was just such an amazing feeling knowing someone else now knew my biggest secret, and I felt like everything would now be better.

It wasn't. 

The depression got even worse now, as I realized not only could I accept being gay, and think that maybe even God wasn't judging me, but now I was reminded of my situation.  I was a Roman Catholic monk in a very conservative religious order, and escape was not an option.  I literally felt completely helpless, completely powerless over my life.  I'd told God I'd be his servant, and I wasn't going back on that promise, no matter what feelings I was having.

I don't know what kind of "crazy" I must have given off in those days, but my religious superiors noticed it, and decided to get me help.  I was brought up to Dunwoodie Seminary in Yonkers (Saint Joseph's Seminary), and introduced to a psychologist named Paul Moglia.  The day I met him, Paul was giving a standard psychological test to a group of men studying for the Deaconate.  I learned he was the official psychologist of the Archdiocese of New York, so I knew I was in good hands.

He gave me a series of tests, asked me to answer a whole bunch of questions and even draw a few items, and then later told me I was suffering with clinical depression.  I can't tell you exactly how I felt when I heard this, but I must confess there was definitely something good about it.  Paul helped me see right away that there was something chemical going on in my brain, and the severity of my emotional lows were not the result of something bad I'd done, or any truth I happened to believe.  He also knew right from the start that I was gay.  I didn't have to tell him, because my religious superiors had informed him in advance.  (They'd gotten it out of me in what was its own extremely difficult conversation days earlier!)

Six months followed all this, and I went to see Dr. Moglia once a week for the entirety of this time.  I was told not to tell my fellow Brothers where I was going.  "If anyone asks, say you're going to visit the other community," is what they told me.  My depression and my struggle in general was my new biggest secret.  Not only was I a closeted homosexual, but I was a closeted clinically depressed homosexual too.  And throughout this time, I was also in my final semester at Manhattan College, pursuing not one but two degrees as a double major. 

At some point right near the end of my battle with clinical depression (and it was absolutely a battle), my doctor finally said he'd done everything he could for me, and would be happy to keep seeing me, but said I absolutely needed medicine for my condition.  He spoke to my religious superiors directly, and I did as well.  They said no.

They didn't just say no, actually.  They told me the Holy Spirit would help me, and not medicine.

My doctor, who you'll recall was the official psychologist of the Archdiocese of New York, was livid.  He contained his emotions, but he was very upset that these people were denying me basic healthcare.  He suggested we take the next step, and secretly talk to my parents.  They didn't know what was going on really, but they knew I had lost an awful lot of weight, and wasn't very happy.

And then, before any of this secret medical help even happened, I was summoned to meet with my religious superiors out of the blue one day.  "You're not happy here, we think you should leave the religious life, and we think you should leave right now."  The words aren't exact, but trust me, they are pretty much exactly how it went down.  (I'd failed out of their high school as a freshman, so this was now the second time in my life I'd been told to leave the premises.)  An hour after the meeting, I was dropped off at my parents' door, just a handshake and a wish of good luck to end it.  Four years of my life had just disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Now I can't tell you how to heal clinical depression, or how to treat whatever version of it you might be suffering through, but I can tell you that seeing my psychologist was more helpful than I can even put into words.  Seeing any doctor, especially if you have a great rapport with the person, is one of the best things you can do to help heal your hurting head space.  And for me, getting out of the religious order was enormously helpful too!

Though the day itself was one of the worst I've ever had, the days afterward slowly got better, and I had a new sense of hope and optimism about my life.  I had no money to my name, no bank account, and very little possessions, as I'd given most away when I joined the religious order, and only took a few boxes back out with me when I left, but for some reason, just getting away from some of those people really was the best thing for me at that time.

No, I can't tell you how clinical depression works, or how exactly to fight it, but I have learned it's a cruel fate for anyone to go through.  You feel lost and alone, depressed beyond measure, and nothing can help you feel better.  You need professional help, and nothing short of it.  And even before getting the help, you need to admit you need the help.  You need to surrender to the help others can and will be happy to give you. 

If there's a person, a group of people, or a situation that's making you feel this way, you need to get away from them, even if just for a little while.  And if you're a friend or spouse or family member of someone who's going through what seems to be depression, you need to help them do this.  Don't guilt them for needing to run away for a little while, even if just metaphorically.  Encourage it.  Obviously, don't let them be alone any more than they need to be, but if some kind of escape from responsibility or schedule will help ease their brains, please consider helping them through that.  And most importantly, find a professional psychologist to help too! 

If you had a broken arm, you'd want to get treated immediately.  The same is true for depression.  It needs to be treated through tender care and careful counseling.  It helps soooooo much, trust me! 

I'm no doctor.  I can't help you with all your pains.  But look one up in your area if you need to.  Most work with health insurance companies too, so you may only have to pay a copay.  And if you don't have insurance or money, please talk to me or someone else close to you for help.  No guilt!  If you're in need of medical help, your loved ones will help you however they can.

My particular story may sound unique, but depression itself is unfortunately far from rare.  Too many live through it without telling anyone, and so many others battle it with drugs and alcohol (or many other programs, communities, and tactics) instead of dealing with it the right way, with qualified professionals who know how to help you. 

As Professor Albus Dumbledore put it, "Help will always be given...to those who ask for it."

The thin line between sorrow and joy

August 13, 2014
             Day 105

I had another reflection planned for today, but too much is going on right now for me to be as light as I was hoping to be.

Last night, I was filled with joy standing on line to see Newsies on Broadway, when a few feet away from me, I spotted someone who had just lost a very dear friend to suicide.  The someone was Harvey Fierstein, and the friend, of course, was Robin Williams.  Harvey looked very sad and out of it, not the joy-filled version of himself I've come to know on video, and when I've seen him around New York before, and my heart immediately ached for his own aching heart.  All the joy I'd been feeling seemed to evaporate immediately.

By the time we got into the theatre, the excitement of the evening returned, and we had an absolutely wonderful time at the show.  My friend Michael was with me, and we had some fun stage-door adventures after the show too, including my opportunity to introduce Michael to one of the cast of Newsies, Giuseppe Bausilio.  Overall, it was a really nice evening in New York, and as I closed my eyes last night in bed, I felt very happy.

This morning, things changed again.  First, we realized the weather had wreaked havoc all over the island, causing Andy's train to get canceled and requiring me to bring him to another station.  The roads all over Suffolk County are apparently under water, and people have lost their cars in what will certainly be permanent flooding damage.  And then the really bad news came in: Andy's uncle (his mom's brother) is in the hospital in what may be his final hours.  He apparently got terribly sick this past weekend, and was admitted in serious condition.  Emergency surgery revealed some horrible, probably fatal truths about his condition.

How do we do this?  How do we all pivot so often on the joys and sorrows of life, and still manage to stay sane?  Obviously, so many of us do not.  We get depressed or angry, or both, and life's many truths often feel like an insufferable, never-ending tragedy.

I'm not writing this reflection in order to explain how to deal with awful things, or even to convince you to choose joy.  I'm simply recognizing the precarious, delicate line we all walk on every day.  We are faced with joy and sadness constantly, and we never know if they'll hit us at the same time, or in rapid, alternating succession.  We just have to go with the flow, and remember to appreciate every joyful moment while we have it, because all too often, the sad moments are waiting for us right around the corner.  The thin line between joy and sorrow requires us to walk with one foot in either emotion at all times, out of profound respect...for both.

Polarizing Figures

August 12, 2014
             Day 104

You're a polarizing figure when you constantly divide people into "us" and "them".  People who do this seem to think if someone believes one thing differently, they're automatically part of another group they don't want to be associated with. 

Star Wars taught me a great line a few years ago that's stayed with me.  Anakin Skywalker (the future Darth Vader) yells to Obi-Wan Kenobi, "If you're not with me, then you're my enemy!"  Obi-Wan frowns, and then scolds back at him, "Only a Sith deals in absolutes!"

We're all such vastly different people, and what seems to surprise us in this new age of technology and social media is that we're already close to the people we'd have otherwise "thrown away" as our enemies.

Social media is slowly teaching us that we're all connected to one another much more than we realize, and we're learning over time that we really are much more different than we thought.  We see friends and family members answer differently than we would have to random quizzes and surveys, we see them share things we'd never in a million years think is funny, and we see in a million ways all the time how many things we're all choosing to care differently about. 

It's helpful to remember though, that a polarizer is a good thing in camera work.  To quote Wikipedia, a polarizer "can convert a beam of light of undefined or mixed polarization into a beam with well-defined polarization".  The part of that line that jumps out to me right away is "well-defined".  When something or someone is polarizing, they are well defined.  We know who they are and what they believe.  Even if they are polarizing, pushing people into boxes, and making this world into an unnecessary game of us vs. them, they have at least shown us who they are.  They are standing firm in their beliefs, whether politically, socially, or fiscally.  When they do this, we can choose to avoid them or choose to gravitate toward them based on what they believe.

Either way, we are already surrounded by polarizing figures in our lives on social media, and it's forcing us to accept the many differences we all have.  More importantly, we should remember that for some, we ourselves are sometimes those polarizing figures we think we only see elsewhere!

The time I cut school

August 11, 2014
Day 103

Today's reflection is another "one for the album", where I gather my thoughts of significant life events before approaching age 40.  Some of these may not seem related to my journey, but for me, they all are.  If they're important enough for me to spend time talking about, then they're part of the baggage (and luggage!) I bring with me in the walk toward my birthday next year.  So here's how this little adventure went down. 

First, we needed a forged note.  We decided on a doctor's appointment note that we knew we could easily change the date on.  It wasn't the type of paper we could reuse too much, but it was enough to do the trick.  It would also be used at two different high schools for three different people.  Once again, I'll leave out the details of whom and how to protect the not-so innocent!

Once the day off was set up, we still had parents to fool.  Since my schedule was very known to my mom and dad, I had to stick to it.  That meant leaving the house after 7 in the morning and walking down to the bus stop.  A friend who drove would be waiting nearby with his car, so I just had to look for his car and get in before the school bus pulled up.  This was way before cell phones, so the plan had to work perfectly in order to succeed. 

Thankfully, my friend was waiting in his car (a 1977 Pontiac Bonneville, or "Bonney" as we called her), so I immediately felt a sense of relief and excitement that this was really happening.  I tapped on the window to get his attention (he was fast asleep, having apparently spent some of the night there waiting for me), and off we went.

Now anyone who's ever seen Ferris Bueller's Day Off will understand these things are a hell of a lot more complicated than you'd think.  You start with exact details of where you need to be in the morning, but you still have the afternoon to worry about too.  Everything must be kept on schedule.  We knew to the minute what time I would need to be home, and my other friends did too.

Strangely enough, I can't tell you what we did that day!  It's not like we did something illegal or morally ambiguous, although both are entirely possible.  I just can't remember how we chose to live out this day of freedom.  And I think that says a lot about the experience.  It didn't matter what we did.  It mattered more that we had pulled this off at all.  (We probably just drove around, maybe played some pool, grabbed some lunch out somewhere, I don't know.) 

We'd cut school, and gotten away with it.  It was an accomplishment in and of itself, three Catholic high school boys fooling the systems of our respective schools, and getting away with a day off on our own, while our classmates suffered through what I tell myself was the worst school day ever. 

I'm not the type of guy who likes breaking rules.  In fact, I've always been the complete opposite, even to the point of scolding others for every traffic rule bent even slightly (just ask Andy how annoying I can be).  So I guess I'm telling you this story in a way because some part of me wants to celebrate the occasional adventure I've had in life.  I'm a mostly good guy who has occasionally misbehaved in some funny/smallish ways in life, and I think that's okay.  I've never tried to be absolutely perfect, and sometimes it's fun to be imperfect anyway.  "All things in moderation" is a good mantra to go by, I guess.  But so too is "live a little", don't you think? 

So be safe.  Be good.  But when you can, have a little fun too.  Because really, life's too f***ing short!

A family picnic

August 10, 2014
            Day 102

So today as I begin this reflection, I'll soon be heading to a family picnic.  It isn't with all of my family, and not just because some of them are dead, but because my family has never, ever been just one family.  We're more like a huge conglomeration of families, many of whose members are closely wound up with one another, and some of whom are less so.  And as one person gently reminded me, this isn't a family reunion, it's just a family picnic.

None of this is dysfunctional, by the way.  It's actually quite normal.  The older I get, the more I see how true this is.  We're all vastly different people who just happen to be linked by blood and marriage with a whole bunch of other vastly different people.  And that's...okay.

But I digress.

Today is a family picnic.  The exact participants are less important to this reflection than the simple fact that it's a picnic, and some family members are gathering to go to it.  The fact that none of us would have otherwise gone to a park and eaten outdoors today is worth mentioning.  So too is the fact that had this not been planned, most of us would not have seen each other today.  I suppose a few of us would have, but not all of us, and certainly not the large number who are going. 

So there's something to be said for the fact that this event, if you want to call it that, is already a success just by the fact that it's happening at all.  Kids may fall and scrape their knees, ketchup may be accidentally squirted all over someone's shirt, and a couple of bees might decide today is an ideal day to attack a large number of us.  I really don't know what kinds of negatives might happen today, but no matter.  Today is already a success simply because it's happening.  Some of my family members are getting together to see some of my other family members, and that's not just a success, it's a celebration!

It's a celebration of all we've been through together as a family.  It's a celebration of all the familiar stories and people from our shared pasts we'll reminisce about.  And it's a celebration of the fact that we're all still close enough to each other to want to keep these relationships active and special.

In just a few hours, people who have grown up with one another will come together to celebrate.  We won't be celebrating perfection, because perfection was never the goal to begin with, but we will be happily celebrating the many, many years we've all been blessed to know each other. 

So bring on the scraped knees, the ketchup stains, and sure, even the bees.  Life isn't perfect, and neither is my family, but for reasons I've never understood, I actually really like it that way.

The Dream Dimension

August 9, 2014
Day 101

If I find myself in Heaven one day, needing to explain life to any souls who have not yet traveled to Earth as human beings, one of the highlights of my trip here will be my dream world.

"And then, each night as you go to sleep," I'd tell them, "Your conscious self disappears, and a whole different dream dimension begins revealing itself to you."

I'm guessing it'll be very hard to explain to them, but that's because it's just as hard for us to explain it to ourselves! 

The kinds of dreams I've had in my life so far have been all over the map as far as topic and ability.  In some dreams, I'm just experiencing repeat performances of old parts of my life, new takes on people and places I haven't seen in years.  In other dreams, I'm part of a world of possibility I've never come close to experiencing here on Earth, in ordinary reality.

In some of my most memorable dreams, I've met the pope, fought the devil, hung out with deceased relatives and friends, saved the baby Jesus from a burning church, met celebrities, and even once watched the pope get married in an underwater stadium.

There's no way for me to map out all of the many dreams I've had in my life, but I do write them down whenever I can.  And the most powerful dreams (some of which I've just mentioned) have all stayed with me in amazing clarity and understanding over the years.  And it's the powerful teaching dreams that have always been the most vivid when I wake up, and the ones I've never forgotten.

I wish I understood this dream dimension better than I do, but I think what strikes me as the most amazing fact of it is, we cannot go to this amazing place where incredible things happen to us unless we are first consciously putting our conscious self to sleep.  In other words, we cannot have our eyes opened until we shut them, and go into a place of peace.  We cannot discover new lands until we forget about the lands around us.  And we cannot truly see with dream-dimension eyes until we close these human eyes, and believe in the kind of seeing that never happens through our face.

Day 100

It never ends (yet).

August 8, 2014
Day 100

For a hundred days in a row now, I've shared a daily reflection with you on this blog.  And for a hundred days in a row now, part of me has not really enjoyed the self-made requirement very much at all.

Regardless, I've done it, and for that fact alone, I'm quite proud of myself.  For the record, it's taught me a few very valuable life lessons:

1) The more I write, the better I write.  I'm just teaching myself through this process how to be a better blog writer, a better article writer, and just a better writer overall.  The more I write, the more I learn how to manage my craft, my time, my desire, and my inspiration.  And I think I'm doing pretty well so far!

My internet and all of our servers were down there at work the other day,
so I mapped out what my blog entries will be about each day
between now and September 6th.

2) With just a few minutes of careful thought, you can come up with a whole slew of interesting topics for blogs or any other writing adventure.

3) Blogging makes you a more honest person.  Unlike social networks, where you feel forced to conform within a few lines of life-sharing, blogging asks much more of you.  Soul bearing is not just rewarding in this process, but quite required, too.

4) And finally, it's taught me that under no circumstances will I ever want to do this again.  It's going to be something I'll look back on and appreciate very, very much, but it's also something I will be absolutely thrilled to be done with once it's over!

So that's it.  Today is number 100, which is awesome!  I've come so far! 

And yet,  because this will take me until May 1st next year, I still have another 265 left!  Yikes!!!!!!! 

Thanks for reading along!  Your views, likes, and comments are all very much appreciated! : )

The five-year-old uncle

Me, circa Godonlyknows

August 7, 2014
             Day 99

I have a horrible memory when it comes to my early childhood.  I guess there are a few vague recollections about a few small life events here and there, but really not too many. 

So I think it says a lot that I can clearly remember that special day when my first niece was born. 

I was just 5 years old at the time, and I remember people telling me I was about to become an uncle.  Though I'm not sure I fully understood what that meant yet, it did make me feel an immediate sense of responsibility, like some part of me was meant to grow up faster than everyone else.

Though I was still only just 5 years old, my name was already changing--some of the time--from Sean to Uncle Sean.

My niece Shannon, my younger sister Marilyn, my nephew Brendan, and me.

Shannon Patrice was born on August 7, 1980, so she's now 34, and I'm now 39.  How time does fly!  Happy Birthday, Shannon!

I should add, though, growing up with nieces and nephews so close to my age became somewhat confusing. 

Not only was I often mistaken for an older brother instead of an uncle, but my title was used very rarely, too.  It didn't make sense for a peer around my own age to call me his or her uncle, so more often than not, I was just called Sean.  And that was fine with me!

It also made it even weirder and funnier when other younger nieces and nephews absolutely felt more comfortable calling me Uncle Sean, even in some cases when their own older siblings didn't!

But it's all good.  I love all my nieces and nephews (over a dozen of them) very, very much.  And I love my great niece Emma just as much too.  Emma is my niece Ellen's daughter, and she just turned 5 recently...but something tells me she won't be an aunt for quite a while still.  Just as well, because being 5 years old is enough work all on its own!

My shoplifting confession

August 6, 2014
Day 98

I've never written publicly about this before, and though it happened a long, long time ago when I was still a kid, I'd rather not divulge the exact details, but there was a time when I was young that I shoplifted a few small items.

I'm not proud of this fact, and the only reason I'm mentioning it here is because I'm in this year-long process of reflecting of my life leading up to my 40th birthday.

The items were small and easily grabbed: baseball card packs and small food items.  And I had an affiliation with the store, so it was very easy for me to take a couple of things without getting caught.  Knowing this, I suppose, was part of the thrill.  I would never dare do this as an adult, but I guess from my experience many years ago, I at least now understand why people shoplift (apart from those who are in desperate need). 

Grabbing something in an area where you know no camera can see you, and finding a place for it in your coat or pants pocket, and then walking out of the store casually, as if you've done nothing wrong?  It gave me a rush, of sorts.  It made me feel powerful, and I guess more than just a little clever too, like I could pull one over on a large number of people.

Now I'm in no way saying any of this to brag or be proud of my actions.  Shoplifting is wrong, and it's just plain stupid, too.  You could go to prison for it easily, and from what I understand from HBO and Showtime, a hell of a lot worse could befall you in jail.  But even if there was no retribution or criminal case against you, you still shouldn't do it because it's wrong.  It's stealing.  It's not your possession to take.  And have I mentioned...it's wrong?

I'm deeply sorry for these sins of my past, and though sharing this reflection does make me feel a little better, I'll never stop carrying this guilty fact around with me through life. 

The ants in my kitchen

August 5, 2014
             Day 97

I really wish the title of this reflection was a euphemism for something funny or interesting.  Unfortunately, it's just a sad fact of my life.  There are ants in my kitchen, and I've yet to wipe out their entire population through mass antocide.

At first there were just a few.  Scavengers perhaps?  You know, the ones sent ahead to see what kind of food my kitchen might offer?  Perhaps these first few knew there was a good chance they wouldn't return from their mission, but they offered up their lives for the colony.  And while I can applaud that level of sacrifice, it has always been my opinion that ants inside my house should be slaughtered en masse, and smushed completely and immediately upon entry.

The part I don't get is, they keep coming in from all manner of cracks I don't know about (but later seal), and they keep getting killed...yet they keep coming back.  No matter how many of their fallen comrades they see crushed on the battlefield, or doused in a pool of Windex or household cleaner, they still keep invading.  It's as if there's an ant king or queen who sends these creatures into battle, knowing full well that most if not all of them will be killed, and then when they don't return, another hundred are sent right in afterwards.

Are they still not realizing I'm going to kill them?  Do they still not see how much certain torture and death awaits them once they run across my kitchen counter? Are they truly so starved for the tiniest remnant of human food that thousands of them are willing to kamikaze their way into my home?

No.  It doesn't seem like they care at all.  Instead, they see the dead bodies all over the place, and they see no natural force has caused this, but rather that some human with a demented world vision has slaughtered them all, and in the face of this, they keep searching for food in my kitchen anyway! 

There's a theory I've heard that if you provide an offering to the ant gods outside the house somewhere, they'll respect your space inside...but I don't buy it. 

For me, the only conclusion I see ahead of me is complete annihilation of the species.  I haven't been keeping track, of course, but I'd be willing to wager I've now murdered tens of thousands of these creatures.  And like any good mass murderer worth his title, I've long since turned off any emotional attachment.  These are not living creatures I'm killing.  They're things.  They're things in my kitchen that weren't invited.  And they must be destroyed.

So if in some future life I am held accountable for my antocide, I can only pray I am not judged too harshly.  For if I find myself in some spiritual courtroom one day, and an ant god is pointing at me in accusation, I'll just throw up my hands in disgust and scream out, "But they invaded my fucking house, you crazy fucking ant god!!!  DON'T YOU SEE I had no other choice?!?!" 

And then?  Well...  And then I'll probably just crush the ant god, too.  

My relationship with the pope

August 4, 2014
Day 96

My relationship with the pope has changed a lot over the years, mostly because the pope himself has been different, but certainly because I've changed over the years, too.  The papacy has gone from man to man several times in my lifetime, but I've had the job of Sean Patrick Brennan nonstop now since 1975. 

In the movie Sister Act, Whoopi Goldberg's character asks Sister Mary Lazarus, "You're someone in favor of hard work and discipline, right?" to which Sister Mary Lazarus responds, "Of course--I'm a nun.  Four popes now!"  Though I only have recollections of the recent three, I've been alive for a total of five popes already.

John Paul II was the pope when I went to Rome, and he was the pope I saw when he came to America too.  I've read some of his books and encyclicals, enjoyed documentaries about him and read his poetry, and just felt very much in tune with who he was.  Of course as I got older and away from the Roman Catholic Church, at least as an active participant, I also learned to see how much a part of the establishment he was.

Benedict XVI was the pope for just under eight years, but he made an indelible mark on the papacy, most of it not good in my estimation, but his resignation was a huge moment in the Church's 2000-year history.  For anything negative I could say, the single fact that he resigned (or retired if you prefer) is H U G E.  It tells me the Roman Catholic Church is well aware of its need for lots and lots of changes, and it's a lot more clever than most people think.

I wrote about Pope Benedict XVI's resignation in an article that author Anne Rice responded to and shared with her Facebook fans.  You can find it at this link.

And Pope Francis?  He's easily my favorite pope so far.  No, he's not perfect, nor of course is Roman Catholic teaching, but he's the closest soul to Christ I've seen so far in that job, and I pray God helps him come even further on the path of Truth.  I suspect he and his brethren in the church hierarchy know a lot more than they've told us, and his papacy is one they were planning for many years.  (And I suppose the Holy Spirit helped out a bit, too!)

I also spent a lot of time writing about a fictional pope (Pope Thomas) in my book, The Papal Visitor, so if you're even just a little interested in a fictional tale about what might go on at the Vatican, I hope you'll consider giving it a read.  And as always, I thank you very much for all your support!

Your holeyness,
Poop Sean

High School Reunion Part 2

Blurry camera phone picture, sorry.  Andy thinks this one's funny though,
because I'm posing with him as if we're classmates from back in the day.

August 3, 2014
Day 95

Andy survived his 20th high school reunion.  It's important that we start there.  He's still alive.

It was abundantly clear from the very beginning that we were in for an adventure.  Andy's memories of people and high school in general were very muddled, but I told him to just relax and not worry, that his classmates would help him connect the dots.

His fear, though, was that no one would remember him, either.  I don't know if he was imagining a large, silent room filled with people not talking to each other, but the truth is, the place was sooo loud!  Everywhere you looked, people caught up with each other, in many cases for the first time in two decades.  And so many of them knew Andy!  He did have to look at some names to jog his memory of the face he saw talking to him, but others were in the same boat too.

Most of all, it was abundantly clear that everyone was just relaxed and happy!  They were happy to be seeing faces they hadn't seen in years, they were happy to just talk to old classmates without all the insecurities and harsh judgments of high school, and they were happy to see in the faces staring back at them that yes, no one had really aged that much anyway!

The people I met yesterday are all, mostly, one year younger than I am, as I graduated in 1993, but one of the fun things I wasn't expecting was to see people look at me as if I might be a classmate they'd forgotten.  People locked eyes on me in a fun way that I totally could've gone with if I wanted to.  "I'm Patrick O'Conner, don't you dare say you don't remember me!" I imagine I'd say, and, "Can you believe how much Liz looks exactly the same!"  If I wasn't worried about the repercussions, I totally would have done it, if even just for a few minutes.

Last night for me was like a social experiment.  I had none of the worries Andy or anyone else had.  For me, it was just about good drinks and fun conversation, lots of which included stories about Andy I'd never heard before (in some cases stories Andy hadn't heard since 1994), and an opportunity to see adults see each other for the first time, not just in 20 years, but I mean really see each other for the first time as adults.  High school is a place we're in from age 14 to 18, which in the big scheme of things means we're all still children.  We have mood swings and ego issues, growth spurts and acne, low self-esteem and high sex drives.  Twenty years after the fact, classmates at a high school reunion are now literally seeing new versions of their old friends for the very first time.

People change after high school, and that's a very good thing.  Looking around the room last night, I saw no cliques or groups, no separate circles or judgmental faces (although I did hear speak of high school-like whispers in the ladies room).  No, last night was about people coming together, whether or not they were close friends in high school.  It was about reminiscing and catching up, yeah, but mostly, it was about joy.  Everyone was just joyful to be there, and they were having fun saying goodbye to long-forgotten judgments and saying hello to the new adult life they are now all living.

In the car ride on the way there, Andy joked to me, "I don't know why I signed up for this.  This is so weird."  But on the way home, he was very happy to have gone.  He was happy to have seen old friends and classmates, and just felt a glow at what he'd just experienced.  He had survived his 20th high school reunion intact.  Whew!

It seemed that, for the most part, everyone there last night was living their own personal happily ever after.  I think if you asked the kids graduating high school back in 1994 what they really wanted from their lives 20 years later, some part of their answer would probably include the word "happy".  So I have to say in closing, it was just really great to see so many truly happy people last night, one of whom I had the distinct privilege to come back home with!

High School Reunion Part 1

August 2, 2014
             Day 94

I didn't attend my 20th high school reunion last year, because the religious brothers who run my high school have decidedly cut me off, and made me feel very unwelcome.

But that's another story for another day!

Tonight, Andy and I are attending his 20th high school reunion, and I'm actually looking forward to it!  I don't know anyone there, so I'm not worried about how much I've changed since high school, and because I don't know anyone, I also don't have to worry about measuring up to anyone else there.  As a matter of fact, I already know I'll meet people who are more successful than I am, wealthier than I am, and so on, so it's not really something I care to worry about.

High school reunions are for people to catch up with their old friends and classmates, or maybe even complete strangers they don't even remember from high school, and just gasp for a few hours about how quickly time has flown by.  It's also a chance to really listen to what people say, and pay attention to what they think about their lives, and life in general.  Give anyone some alcohol and get them to reminisce, and you'll find we can all be both poets and philosophers when we choose to be. 

For me of course, tonight is about seeing how Andy is perceived.  Will they see him as mostly the same or as very different?  Will more people remember him than who he remembers?  He's told me in recent weeks that so much of high school feels like a blur to him, and though I think I remember more about my high school years than he seems to, I also think his memories will come back the more conversations he has tonight.

Perhaps weirdest of all is that this is the Class of '94's reunion we're going to, and for me, it's also the 94th day of my year-long blog.  My birthday just happens to line up perfectly with his high school reunion day, so it makes me wonder if some other synchronicities are in store for us this evening!

Time will tell.  And I will tell... tomorrow!

The Aging Prayer

August 1, 2014
             Day 93

Dear God, above all else, I thank you. 

I thank you for all the many parts of my body and my brain that are still working great.  I thank you for every bone in my body that is not broken right now, and I thank you for every part of my body that's in good health at the moment.

And for the parts of me that aren't doing as well as I'd like, I pray for patience and peace.  I know I cannot make myself healthy in an instant, try as I may!, but I can choose to focus my attention as best I can on all my health and happiness.  I choose to do all I can to think on my health and not my unhealth.  I pray my patience holds out, that the peace of mind and body I continually strive to achieve will be mine often and always.

I want to thank you, God, for all the nurses, doctors, and other healthcare professionals I've known in my life so far, and all of those who may come into my life in the future.  I pray you watch over and care for them as they have cared for me and so many others.  I pray they think of all the right things when they treat me, and I pray they recognize all the right signs anytime anything's uncertain.

Dear God, I do an awful lot of complaining.  You know this about me, don't you?  I complain about all my aches and pains, and all my ouches and eeks.  But I pray I might remember more often that things could be worse, and things could even be worse than that.  And even once the day arrives when my worser-than-thats are more frequent than my healthier stats, I pray I might still remember all of the health and good feelings I've had in this incredible life.

Yes God, it's true.  You haven't heard the last of me or my complaints.  I've still got many more to both holler and whisper your way again soon!  Even so, I pray I remember all my healthy parts and all my healthy days.  And above all else, God, I thank you.  And I thank you.  And I thank you.