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.

Thankfulness, Part Five

Thankfulness Project, Part Five

(Scroll through previous entries to see parts 1-4)

The Moments Seize Us

Karen Cutaneo...thank you for that shooting star...on that night...when we were least expecting it. Never before nor since have I shared that experience with anyone. It was every bit of the word -- magical! Perhaps some moments we do seize, but I am certain that on that night it was the moment that seized us.

Viktoriya Semenyak, two years ago, on a New Year's Eve, on a rooftop bar, at the Doubletree Hotel in Amsterdam, you approached me and asked me to join you and Valentina in celebrating the dazzling city of Amsterdam. I cannot begin to tell you how much that simple, beautiful, and friendly gesture meant to me. I was in a sad and dark space that night when we met. You changed my whole experience. The next day I again joined you and Valentina, and we ate, laughed, and danced the night (and morning) away. Oh, what life in us! No matter how old we get, those memories are frozen in time. We are forever young!

Sandra Nogueiras Caruso, I didn't tell you this then, but I want to tell it to you now. We've known each other for several years, as I am a yearly feature at the Frelinghuysen Middle School. I have always enjoyed our talks and catch-up moments, but this past year was a moment that seized me.

You relayed to me that your husband is a jazz musician. I asked you, "Do you like jazz?" You quickly responded, "No." I started laughing. (I'm still laughing). I was so happy to hear that, because I have no stomach nor ear for jazz, but it is considered the music of the intelligentsia. We are both highly intelligent (or at least fake it well), but I just don't get jazz. I've tried to appreciate it, but I always fall short.

What I really loved and learned from that moment was your bold acceptance of YOU. You are married to a jazz musician. And yet, it doesn't concern you that a critical part of your spouse is submerged within a music venue in which you have neither passion nor interest. You still love him. There is no conflict for you to love (and marry) a person, while still maintaining an essential part of you. You (or your ears) are boldly at odds with jazz, yet you are not dismissive towards those who differ from you. I'm not sure that you realize most of the world fails to embrace that transparency. Trust me. I know. I am a fellow sojourner. I have been at odds with the world for a long time.

Your confession that day tickled me because it was bold, honest, and stripped away from the malaise of everyday chatter; it was, indeed, a seized moment. That day was a transcendent experience, as those moments are few in our brief stint on this planet. Thank you. Your unscripted, out-of-the-box, authenticity was and is deeply welcomed. Ironically, jazz was created out of the unscripted, out-of-the-box, authenticity we presented to each other. So, perhaps, like all jazz, we just play it slightly different.

Tracy Lawrence, this story goes back to the day that we started our friendship. I was at your school, packing up after a performance, and you came up on the stage to talk to me. We instantly connected. Heart to heart. Our passion for those who have been misrepresented and ostracized was very clear. But it was more than that. We realized that our paths were strangely connected, even though we grew up in different environments, do not share a similar look, and enjoy a plethora of varied interests. However, what was and is clear both then and now is the wonderful, tingling laughter and rage we share towards issues in the world. What I thought would be a brief conversation ended up lasting the better part of an hour. When we finished, (we both wished for it to continue), we gave each other the most soul connected hug. What a moment! I still relish in the way my heart celebrated with you. Thank you, dear Tracy.

May we always have more moments in all our future connections, whether on stages, dinners, driveways, or theaters. May we seize momentous occasions!

Kelly Marie, you are class. Remember how we both felt the night we saw a Broadway show a couple of years ago? We had gotten some food and drinks beforehand. I don't remember all the topics we discussed, but I recall the mutual elation we experienced.  And do you remember how each time we went out for dinner or drinks on our subsequent adventures, the amazement we had in just feeling alive? I recall the statement we both would laughingly announce: "We are so lucky!"

And we were. And we are. We are lucky to be a part of all of this. We are lucky to laugh. We are lucky to shed tears. We are lucky to be hurt. We are lucky to be alive. In our brief time of spending time, we bought every second we spent. Our gift was found in the multiple, seized moments.

My life is richer and luckier in crossing paths with you.