Most profound moment of the Week, October 20-24, 2014

Most profound moment of the week.


I was in a lengthy discussion with a student who had Asperger's Syndrome. He was deeply affected by my show, and at one point commented, "You say some very interesting things. The best way to describe your show is to say that you are intellectually emotional."

Funniest Moment of the Week, October 20-24, 2014

Funniest moment of the week.

I was at a conference in New York, where this woman approached me and said the following: "As a fellow light reader, I just need to tell you that your aura is a bright yellow light." Then she looked over to the stage, saw that the stage was lit in a yellowish hue, then looked back at me, smiled, and said, "Or maybe it was the lights. Anyway, you were good."

Thankfulness, Part Eight

Thankfulness -- Part Eight -- Along this Highway

Along this Highway

A couple of years ago, while driving back from Massachusetts, I stopped at a rest area for food and a break. As I was eating, I noticed a man sitting next to me whose physical appearance could best be described as a traveled warrior. I was cautious, avoiding any lingering eye contact, though, I was struck by the irony in my behavior. In my life work, I encourage people to smile and say hello to those they do not know, because it is a simple gesture that potentially contains profound effects. Yet, something, perhaps instinctual, was holding me back from pursuing this creed. I wasn't quite sure what it was, but I obeyed it. Still, I was left with an unsettling debate between my conscience and my behavior. My conscience was lovingly chiding me, "Be careful of becoming a phony."

Within a few minutes of me sitting down, the man next to me, spoke up. I don't remember his exact first words, but I felt an immediate release from my leery position. We ended up speaking for about 20 minutes. He just started opening up about his life.

He drove tractor trailer trucks for a living, and had seen most of the US in his travels. Because of my frequent travel schedule, we compared and shared stories about highways and hidden gems. He relayed to me about the toll that such travel placed on him and his family. At the time of our meeting, he revealed that he only saw his family three to four times a year. He was married for the second time, and had two children from that marriage. He took a deep breath, then he self-disclosed further.

His first marriage was a disaster. He confessed that he was extremely violent and volatile towards both his first wife and their three children. He admitted that during that relationship he was a nasty man who would often viciously beat and break the bones of those he "loved". He regretted ever being that man, and continued to live with remorse for the pain he inflicted and the lives he ruined. His ex-wife and their children no longer spoke to him.

In his second marriage, he worked hard to change the man he was. He learned calming techniques and communication skills. And by his own admission, he never placed his hands violently on either his second wife or their children.

(On a side note, I realized that my initial hesitancy had much to do with instinctively identifying his violent past. As a survivor of a violent childhood, I often see elements of my father in men who struggle with their rage as well.)

At some point, he asked me what I did for a living. I tried to explain the creation I bring to the stage. I am uncertain about the words I used in my description, but I do remember telling him that I try to help people to realize the brevity of their lives.

I saw the man perk up, and I saw his eyes start to glisten. Immediately, I thought about some lyrics from a Bill Morrissey song called, ‘Barstow’: "I can see his eyes, and they shine like brake lights. And I am grateful, I cannot see mine."

He spoke with a distance that I can only describe as a levy barely suitable to hold at bay any further emotions. He shrugged, then said, "I understand little about what you actually do, but I agree that our lives are short." He paused, then took a deeper plunge. "Last year I was driving my rig in Ohio. It was late, and I was talking to a buddy of mine who was also a truck driver. He was driving through some icy mountains in West Virginia, and we were keeping each other awake on our CBs. At one point, he says to me, 'Holy S***!' I said, 'What?' He then said, 'I just hit an ice patch and my truck just flew off this mountain. Tell my wife and children that I love them.' I heard a loud sound, then nothing. So, yeah, you never know when it’s your time. I agree with you on that one."

I was moved, honored, and somewhat surprised by this man's confessional. It was refreshingly brave and possessed a vulnerability that is not often experienced in our brief, passerby interactions. In truth, many of us do not experience it in most of our relationships, regardless of the level of intimacy. I felt alive and deeply connected to him. I knew I would never see him again, but I was glad that I got to see and meet him.

What I do know now is our communion enabled me to see the person, not the abuser; I saw the fragile man who shared conversation and connection with me. He allowed me to be part priest, part therapist, and fully human.

I drove home that day with my eyes wide open, my heart full, and a gratefulness that most often only gets revealed through death. So, I thank you, my friend, wherever you are, wherever you may travel, for giving to me the gift of kinship, for breaking the barrier of strangers, and making me more alive.

Thankfulness, Part Seven

Thankfulness, Part Seven

It Must Be the Irish in You

Mike Burke, do you remember the words we would shout while riding our bikes up and down the streets of Bellingham? (Brace yourself. This may cause a flush of red to your cheeks.) We would scream (mind you, with more fire and brimstone than a southern preacher): "WE'RE KINGS OF THE PERVERTS!" I'm not sure if, at the time, either one of us knew what we were saying. We were 10. What can I say, we made our world adorably ours, even if we didn't fully comprehend it. Sometimes I wonder, "How did we survive?" We were products of loving fathers who used fists and belts to discipline wild children. And as much anger as we traveled through, we are better people today in what we give to the world and our own children.

You taught me a lot, Mike, in those formative years. I was shaped by you. You schooled me on the topic of girls. You had more experience at that sport than me. It took me some significant years to understand what you knew at 11. I was never confident; I was too anxious and strange to even know that I was too anxious and strange. I couldn't compete, in my physical features, with my brother. He was handsome, I was studious and mischievous. In other words, I was a nerd. I never felt that way around you, nor did you ever try to make me feel that way. We were best friends, and we rode our bikes through the neighborhood, finding approachable trouble.

You also brought rock n roll into my life. My memory is very clear on this one. It was on a summer morning, and you had stopped by my house to see if I could come out and play. We were downstairs in my basement, (I had just woken up), and you asked, "What is your favorite song?" At the time, the only songs I knew were religious and church songs. I answered, "Amazing Grace." Little did I know that your next words would set off a chain of events. You huffed, "You don't even know any rock n roll, and your breath stinks!"

Well, two things happened on that day. First, I became obsessed with rock n roll. That Christmas I would get my first three cassettes: Journey 'Escape', Air Supply's 'Greatest Hits', and Quiet Riot 'Mental Health'. My parents allowed me to sign up with Columbia Records, and I accumulated an additional eight cassettes within the next year. That was all my parents bought for me, but within a two year period, I had stolen over 150 cassette tapes from stores. I became obsessed with collecting music. I wanted to know rock n roll, and never again, hear the words, "you don't know".

I don't steal anymore, but my obsessive collecting has followed me throughout the course of my life. I have collected books, movies, beer bottle labels, lighters, fireworks, magazines, knives, baseball cards, postcards, photography, and personal stories from anyone willing to share. I'm sure I'm missing a few other items, but you get the idea.

The second event to happen on that day was me becoming obsessed with breath. I have serious issues around this topic. I love my breath smelling delicious 24 hours per day. If I sense that it is not, I always have a supply of mints or mouthwash on me. It's over the top, but it's me. This thought strikes me as comical as I write it.

There's lots of things for which I can thank you, Mike. I am glad that our paths crossed again in recent years. You were my best friend in our childhood days, and you are one of my dear friends now. I accept you, even though you are a Red Sox fan. In other words, I accept your shortcomings, too.

Una Pedreschi, there's so much I can say, but the essence of what you have meant to me on this planet is quite difficult to frame into my own words. Therefore, I call on the spirit of e.e. cummings to get me started:

"somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands"

Our connection started in 2006 -- wow! Just writing those words moved me. We spent an entire year, (almost every night), speaking on the phone. I was in New Jersey, you were home in Ireland. You were (and I suppose in some ways, you still are) a conduit for my vulnerability, helping it to find refuge and expression within me. I'm not sure if I ever told you this story, but it is worth repeating now. When I was a boy between the ages of 9-13 there were a handful of heated moments between my mom and dad that were more extraordinary than their typical arguments. These conflicts can still make me shudder. On a couple of them, my mother would leave the house in a fit a rage in order to cool down. But it's what she would say while leaving that has left deep scars in me. I can hear the shrill in her voice as her body would shake: "I wish I could just die and leave all of you to fend for yourselves." I remember the tears falling freely from my eyes, and I remember my subconscious promise -- I would never let another woman hurt me in that manner again. I would never make myself that vulnerable to another woman.

Then you came along, and you opened me up, piece by piece. Ah, the Irish muse and soul singer. I opened my heart to you, and it was beautiful. And it was painful. And it was rewarding. And it brought joy. And it was tragic. And it was alive and enormous.

Then you left, as I knew from the start that you would. That was a part of the script, embedded in the magic of the moment. I never anticipated the immediate and defined disconnection, though; I wasn't prepared for losing all of you so suddenly. It troubled me deeper than any of my previous relationships. I was unsettled and dangerously unwell, as Ani DiFranco's, Independence Day lyrics kept haunting me:

"So many sheep I quit counting
Sleepless and embarrassed about the way that I feel
Trying to make mole hills out of mountains
Building base camp at the bottom of a really big deal
Did I ever tell you how I stopped eating
When you stopped calling me?
And I was cramped up shitting rivers for weeks
And pretending that I was finally free"

It took me almost a year to heal. I am stronger, slightly more guarded, now. You were and are a great guide in my life. I am grateful for your touch in and on my life. I do not hold onto the pain of what I felt back then. I am struck by our bravery. I allowed vulnerability to cloak me, welcoming you to get that close, that embedded, in me. You were courageous enough to open your heart in a larger capacity than you thought was possible at that time. Thank you, Una. I am more because of you. Your beautiful self has made both of us more beautiful.

Thankfulness, Part Six

Thankfulness, Part Six -- Tag You're It

Dear Angela Lutzi, some years ago, you took a trip with me to Amsterdam, (one of my favorite cities), but I never completely told you why I invited you on that trip. For that explanation, we need to start at the beginning.

My first trip to Amsterdam was a solo expedition back in 2007. I was in a sad and dark space, and wanted to stretch my comfort zone, in hopes that I could find some solace. Traveling to a foreign country, where English was not the first language, (although, most people spoke communicable English), seemed like the perfect conduit towards healing. My assumption was correct. Amsterdam became my destination spot for healing. I knew I would return, and I knew that I wanted to share this city with a special few in my life. Enter you.

I blush thinking about how many hours of phone conversations we had in the past; those late night liaisons, where one of us would fall asleep (usually you) on the other end of the phone line. I get nostalgic when I recall the laughter we shared while sitting in your house with glasses of wine, contemplating all things professional and personal. We must have been possessed or enchanted by beauty and power to speak so freely about relationships, dreams, disappointments, sex, and family. Unhinged, we so unmistakeably relayed our respect and love towards each other. I swear we were immortal in those moments, or perhaps our mortality was the very fodder of our mindfulness.

In 2008, you were going through a tough time. I forget all the details now, but I'm sure bad breakups and annoying boys (we can't call him a man, can we?) were involved. I wanted to help. Enter Amsterdam.

You were deeply moved by my offer to invite you to Amsterdam with me, as I was deeply moved by your gratitude. And what do you know? Amsterdam was healing for you, and you fell in love with a plethora of adventures that the city could hold. Your wide-eyed wonder and thirst for new experiences allowed you to reach out to a variety of people. If it weren't for your pure curiosity and passion for novel experiences, I'm afraid my path would not have intersected with Jeffery Severin. You tagged him with your laughter, and he tagged us with his generosity. Angela, you have made my life more.

Jeffery, you are an extraordinary and giving person. I first met you, with Angela, in your country. I believe we were all sharing conversations and dance moves at the Bulldog in Amsterdam. I was fascinated by two things: your general concern for people, and your profession as a police officer. Being American, being black in America, can, at times, cloud my interactions with Caucasian police officers. In America, there is (a societal engineered) animus between black and police officers that I have worked hard to avoid. Thankfully, I did not let that potential bias leverage my interactions with you. This choice served in my favor.

What could have been a fleeting interaction has turned into a beautiful friendship. Though I do not frequently see nor correspond with you, I cherish this friendship. On a subsequent trip to Amsterdam, while with my friend Cecilia, I reached out to you. You took us to dinner in a neighborhood outside of Amsterdam. That action, in itself, was kind, but you did more than that. You first showed us around your community of Edam, inviting us into your home. I feel honored by your hospitality, and I want you to know, I treasure your existence in this life. In follow-up discussions with Cecilia, we both have referred back to your kindness as one of our life highlights. You tagged her with your generosity, and you tagged me with an enhanced belief in our good.

Cecilia Ramirez (a.k.a. Homie), hey Pisces' woman! I think this may be accurate to say -- every time we have spent time around each other, both of us have grown wiser and more alive. We have so many connection points. We connect on pain: that deep chasm of extraordinary, but sustaining, sadness. We connect on intellect: you have been a great source in helping me reevaluate the muddle in my mind; you quell my paranoia (in mind expanding ways).

We also have found communion in our spiritual thirst. God comes alive in you. I love your questioning madness. You were not raised as I was raised, believing, without ever questioning, the milk and meat that were force fed to me. I was taught to accept, and to swallow my inquiries. You, the outsider to religious control, bring a freshness that foams with all the bewilderment of a giggling child. And in this repetitive cloud of laughter and enlightenment, God exists.

I love the way you stretch me. When we were in Amsterdam we sucked the very marrow from the streets and experiences that were before us. I rejoice that you shared the experience with me; for as you may recall, that trek came on the back of one baby born only five months prior, and a newborn baby was on the way as we sat on the plane. I was in a funky place, winded by life, sweaty and exhausted by thoughts of the potential of what would later become true. And not for a moment did you judge, criticize, or raze me. You allowed my fear to sit between us, holding its arms, so it would not choke me.

Oh, Cecy, the tangled webs we weave. I do love you. We were born to be healers. I mean, hell, what else do you do with all that pain? Thank you for tagging me with your love and life.