Curating a gallery of your lifetime

To start our new year, my husband and I travelled across the continent to Florida, celebrating his 75th birthday. We had a wonderful time – and like all of our adventures in recent years, took a lot of pictures. Recently, I had sorted through my mac photo library for all the pictures that need “tagging” and organization; as I renew my documentation of piles of family photos and letters, documents and memories, it becomes even more critical to, well, not get so far behind. Easier said than done! It’s hard to press “delete” on that 5th picture of the trip to such and such; it’s even harder, for some reason, to put an old print in the trash (either after scanning, or after giving up on figuring out who and what is in that picture!)

As we wandered through two wonderful museums – the Ringling in Sarasota, and the Museum of the Arts and Crafts Movement in America in St. Petersburg – I admired the art of displaying, curating, and describing the works that have been preserved. When I started this blog, I had created a page (as opposed to a post – one of those things I had to learn) with a few pictures. Since the blog “premiered” almost two years ago, my library of images has been expanded – including those in posts here. And I was inspired to do a little bit of “urban renewal” on that gallery of my life, which you can find here …

In revising that page, I realized that the images themselves had no context, no description or setting to explain why they mattered enough to me to share with the thousands of strangers around the globe who might, one day, stumble in to my little blog – and hence, this post. So, without further ado – here are the images in that gallery, a little tour of sorts for you to amble through – those who know me, and those who do not.

My mother shortly before her 1954 marriage, and my father and brother welcome me home in 1958. Their lives were not easy – but they loved me with their best love, as they knew how. Just as I am learning, still. Even from them – although they have passed, learning about my family history – and it’s place in so many changes in our world and nation – has helped me find my path ahead.

For much of my adult life, my getaway, refuge and place of renewal was Disneyland. Even though I grew up less than an hour away, our financial resources didn’t allow for regular visits until I finished school and started working. I was lonely and isolated – the happiest place on earth became a second home. I loved the artistry, the music, and I met many creative giants. I felt less alone there for a while – but in time, I knew I had to make a choice. Here I am with my favorite character, Pinocchio – I wanted to be a “real boy” too! And, in 2006, at the inaugural half marathon weekend – I trained for 9 months just to finish the course (this is from the 5k run). I still love Disneyland – but mainly the one of my memories, rather than that which remains.

Coming out, later than most, in 2012 opened new doors in my life, and new frontiers. Here I am with the Gay Men’s Chorus of LA, “Indoor skydiving” with my family in Perris, CA, and on the glacier of Alaska. I began to travel, and to understand who I was, and who I could be others – being authentic and loving without shame.

But I never imagined I would become a “biker” – albeit only marginally. Getting my 2001 Centennial “Indian Chief” was a real step outside my comfort zone. But it brought me new friends, new confidence, along with a lot of bills! It was big, beautiful, loud – and unreliable. But I rode it to the Satyrs Motorcycle Club “Badger flat” run in 2012, to Vegas, in Long Beach Pride, and to that mecca of gay history – San Francisco. It was my faithful steed, carrying me to new adventures.

As I child, I found comforts in the stories of old – and in the teachings of my faith. Believe it or not, for most of my life we did not have a TV in my home growing up – but going to the movies, and escaping the reality that I could not then change, opened my eyes to new dreams. Two of my favorites, that still touch my heart after decades, in sense represent the same them – that there is always hope. Seeing George Bailey discover that his life had meaning even though his dreams were not fulfilled; and seeing a child who felt different and longed to belong could learn to choose and through that, have some dreams come true – these moments echo in my life daily.

This year, 2022, marks 10 years since I “came out” to family and friends – sometimes with tears; some, followed by goodbyes. More importantly, I came out to myself – discovering much that I had believed and been taught was not true. And the greatest miracle of all – that something unimaginable to me for virtually all of my life could happen – Love found me, and brought my husband into my life. We were married in 2018 surrounded by family and friends – present and absent – and we continue find new happiness together, sharing joy with others. Is there a greater gift in life? Yes, like a boat out of the blue, fate steps in and sees you through.

So, here we are at the last display area in my little gallery. From this picture of me, nearly 40 years ago – standing on the edge of the sea of Galilee, seeking answers; today, here in San Francisco; with my father a lifetime ago . Still exploring faith, history – still growing. Hopefully, still giving a little to others around me as I muddle through. Dare I say I am blessed? I am.

Good news, folks – there are no posters in the gift shop on the exit. But there is something I hope you can “take home” from this free tour. I encourage you – some slow afternoon, some rainy weekend, or tonight – perhaps with a family member – pull out a box, or a thumb drive. Look at the images – which bring life to your heart, a smile to your face? Which come alive when you see that moment again?

For most of the memories in your life – the stories of your joys and sorrows, the tales handed down from your family, the misty legends that are still in the shadows of your attic of recollections – and for all the images and scraps that you have stuck somewhere, in boxes or bags, or not even on paper but on that drive you never reference anymore – their shelf life ends with you. You and only you can take steps to share them with others, to transfer the custody of those questionable treasures – or to wipe them from history, never to be seen again. As I scan the stacks of photos I inherited that have no identification, and I see the faces and landscapes, the babies and the elderly looking back at me – their lives are literally in my hands. We don’t, as a culture, keep photo albums much anymore – we have videos and data files – and a time will come, my friend, when someone other than you will open that box, or that computer file, and say – I don’t want to bother with these. So as you see these moments from my life, I challenge you – take the time to do this yourself for those stacks. Make the time – for your loved ones, and for those who will not have memories of you or your grandparents. They are priceless, they are irreplaceable, and they have meaning. We are their archivists – they are the true family jewels.

That’s it for this visit, friends – hope you enjoyed, but more importantly, I hope you get a chance to not only revisit past joys – but create new ones, new images, new memories as our world reopens. Thanks for stopping by – see you soon!

PS – Special New year savings on subscriptions – free! Worth every penny!

Creating a very good year

It’s a little odd thinking that my last post of 2021 was about how much music can mean to our lives – particularly recalling how my Mom loved the songs of Frank Sinatra – and that my thoughts this week seem to be resonating with one of his songs.   Like many around the world, the last two weeks of our lives have been filled with celebrations of meaning – and the beginning of a new year, with all the reflections and projections that come with the perspective of “out with the old, in with the new”.   It is, naturally, not that simple – but it sounds comforting.  

New Year’s 1910 Saturday Evening Post Cover – a classic Leyendecker illustraion

For some, “Fast away the old year passes” couldn’t be fast enough for 2021. I don’t see it as much referenced “nowadays”, but it used to be common in advertising to have “baby new year” and “father time” marking the occasion.  Of course, thankfully, we do not age that quickly, moving from infancy to “old age” in the course of just 365 days – it creeps up on us, until one day we see gray hairs (or no hair – or hair where we don’t want it!) and wrinkles, and perhaps wince at the sight.  Next week, my husband has a milestone birthday – 75; and shortly after that, I will be the age where the Beatles asked “Will you still love me when …”.   To many, that makes us both old geezers – neither of us is ready to embrace that title, just yet. 

A rather grumpy perspective on the past, don’t you think?

But I have been thinking lately about just what is the truest sign of old age – and I think perhaps I have found the key, for my purposes at least.  Having just last month reconnected with a fellow elementary through high school classmate, and reflected on our lives paths and the unexpected turns they took in the 60 years since, remembering the final years of my parents as their health declined, and being very much aware that it is just 3 years ago my own life was put at risk by a parasite, hospitalization and ongoing seemingly never complete recovery – I realize that as the years add up, the wrinkles deepen, and other effects of aging compete for my denial – no future is guaranteed.  No tomorrow is promised, but the hope will not be set aside that many years of joy, discoveries, love, growth and exploration lie ahead.  Yet there is one indicator of aging that I hope to avoid, and that we can take action on every day – not to defer the passage of time, but to ensure that the days ahead, and today, have as much meaning as those remembered – and maybe more. 

Talk about forced perspective – a completely distorted view of reality!

The surest sign of aging is …… letting your world shrink. 

I see it in my life, especially since moving, and then retiring early – my world is at risk of growing smaller.  Not so small yet that it is like the room my mother spent the last 8 years of her life sharing with another care patient; not as small as the houses and apartments where some spend their days living online, or watching “reality shows” without a word shared with a fellow human being, perhaps for days at a time.  COVID has accelerated that “shrinkage” in some ways, unavoidably to a degree – but it takes effort to fight.  To reach out to those we cannot touch, still, even though silence may be the only response; to force ourselves to meet new faces, move past social insecurities to speak to a stranger and share a smile, or a kind word;  and especially, to dream and then ACT on those dreams, even though some may say your time has passed. 

Many years ago, I sat in the California Theater in San Bernardino – I was probably around 40 or 45 at the time – to see a silent movie.  My own father and grandparents had watched movies there decades prior, and on this occasion, the theater organ was going to be played by, essentially, a very old man.   In a way, I was already older then, compared to now – my world was small, I remained trapped in thinking in ways that kept me alone, closeted, and lonely – but movies had always been a window out of the darkness into a world of adventure, and this was a chance to revisit a moment in time.  The organist was a gentleman by the name of Gaylord Carter – he had begun playing when silent movies were “new”, 100 years ago, and continued performing through his 90th birthday.  You can actually hear his artistry daily – over, and over, and over – in the Haunted Mansion, where his dancing hands created the magical sounds of “Grim Grinning Ghosts” on the ballroom organ where spirits enjoy their never ending waltz. 

Organist Gaylord Carter, and his performance that will outlast us all!

What was amazing to me about Gaylord, and his performance, was his spirit.  He was so alive – by that time, I think he was probably in his 70s – but so full of energy, and joy, and laughter.  I think too of a woman I never met, but who I often read of in the paper in Redlands, California – Hulda Crooks, who a park is named for in Loma Linda, California – remembered for her worldwide hiking including climbing Mount Whitney 23 times between the ages of 65 and 91, along with nearly 100 other peaks during those same years.  I did not know my own grandparents, sadly – but there were many others I met during my time in various groups and organizations, or even just preparing their taxes – men and women who remained more vital and more excited about life than most of the people I encountered on a daily basis.  They did not let their worlds get small – they pushed the limits, insisting on moving forward, and discovering new perspectives. 

How do we retain that fresh outlook, how do we embrace the hope for something beyond what is known?  In part, at least, it means letting go – our hands, our hearts, our intellects can only hold so much, and we must make choices about our energies, our focus and our goals.  Many of us did that, perhaps, as December wound down and the fireworks began to be shown on our televisions and phones and laptops around the world, a celebratory orgy of rebirth and a yearned for optimism for a better year ahead, less dread, more joy, less alone, more together.  But it is up to me, to you, to each of us in a way alone yet in a way together, to set our courses and our desires to deliberately, daily, move ahead – to not just sit where we are, to take the chances and the steps – tiny, or leaps of faith or both at once – into the future we want to make real.  Intentions and wishes, resolutions and dreams – they are only launching pads.  We cannot stay on the diving board forever, or at its foot, imagining that our fantasies will be realized and dwelling in the vision – we must work, we must sweat, we must sacrifice and lift up those around us moment by moment to inch forward and make it happen.  

By this point, you may have wondered (or perhaps forgotten) how I might see any of this as relating to a Sinatra hit from 1965.  I was eight then – soon I will be 8 times that – and my thoughts were of grades, and Hardy Boys books, and piano lessons.   A composer whose name I did not know until I researched today, Ervin Drake, was already well known for a hit, “I Believe” – a song of hope – and this number was originally recorded by the Kingston Trio in 1961, becoming a kind of “comeback song” for Sinatra when he recorded it 4 years later  It is a song of memories and gratitude, reflections – the kind of thing that becomes more a part of life with age, perhaps.  But it is the final lyric that comes to mind for me – “It was a very good year”.  

For me, with all it’s trials (and yes, disappointments too), 2021 was an amazing, wonderful year – and I want that to be even truer in 2022.  How can I make that so?  How can I keep my world from shrinking as the rolling online dial for “year of birth” takes longer to scroll to?  Part of it, I believe, is knowing this – my life is at its fullest when I am the truest, deepest, and best “me” I can be – whatever that is or looks like, but forever imperfect and flawed; therefore, the process of moving towards authenticity is never complete.  You and I will never be “finished”; we can never stop our journey. A page on a calendar is neither a beginning or an end – our beginnings were before our parents met, and our endings lie outside the limits of our knowledge and imagination, but the now, the today, is where will build on one and create another yet to be seen.  

My own desk calendar for 2021 was one of those “page a day” with quotes – and two, from December, seemed appropriate for my own reflection as I worked to shape my priorities and goals for my next stage of life.   The first, by a contemporary author and counselor, Craig D. Lounsbrough,  reminds me that there is work that must be accomplished, there are doors that must be closed, and that the to-do’s need to be done – so that I can move on.  We must finish our business and not drag it endlessly into our future – there is not enough room for new dreams if we are forever reviving the old.  We must choose.

The second, by Danish theologian Soren Kierkegaard more than 150 years ago, forces us to recognize that creating our future takes courage.  We cannot know the outcome, we cannot guarantee anything – the “safety zone” of our childhood, if it ever was even partially realized, does not extend into becoming whatever we choose of the possibilities on our menu of life. The uncertainty, the darkness, the fog of the future that stretches just beyond our nose is not, and never will be, under our control – we must seek reassurance and trust from something more than we can know or measure – but the only way to get there is to leap.  The great something lies awaiting.  It does take daring to enter that universe of perhaps and maybe.

For many, last year’s resolution is this years excuses and regrets. I did not accomplish everything I set out to do a year ago – so what? My resolution as I shared with a friend via text today is simple – keep going and keep growing.  I will work to make my world bigger – not smaller.  More full of life – taking the chances, welcoming new friends into our circle, exploring parts known and unknown – trying new adventures. How that looks and how it ends up will probably be very different than I might wish for when the baby new year toddles out in diapers until his older self shuffles off next winter, his journey over. But just as I can embrace the process, widen my world, and go forth boldly – so can you.  Make your world bigger – or perhaps just realize it is already bigger than you ever could have imagined!  Perhaps as you set sail, and catch the wind anew – whether today is January 1, or March 18, or October 27th – like me, you have matters to be finished, and then leaps to be made.  But staying where we are – that is the surest guarantee of a shrinking world, and the quickest way to a year that we will never remember.  I want to stand at the end of 2022, and look back and say – yes.  Yes, this was a year that mattered – it was a very good year.  Let us make the next one, better. 

Until next time, friends …. thanks for stopping by to visit!

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The chairman of the Board, and the melodies that linger

This week, we got to attend our wonderful San Francisco Symphony again for the first time in more than two years – it was an unforgettable evening of joy.  And our second concert is coming up Wednesday – a holiday musical tribute to the artistry of two giants – Frank Sinatra, and Ella Fitzgerald.  I’ve been reflecting on the power of music, universal in its ability to provide a sort of magical ticket away from the daily stresses and rebirth joy – perhaps through remembered moments, perhaps by unearthing some lesser explored part of our hearts, setting energies free to sing and dance, even if only to ourselves.  I listen to music constantly – rediscovering songs I had forgotten through streaming services, along with new artists, new voices. It lifts us, it can inspire, infuriate, renew and reveal – artists vocal and instrumental, composers and lyricists whose names deserve more recognition than the performers.  Some – a few – are timeless; we can form bonds with music that last a lifetime, that become the soundtrack to our history. 

My Mom loved music too – and as we look forward to hearing the Sinatra tribute this week, I realize how much his music meant to her throughout her lifetime. My memories of her are many, but they all have a common thread –  she suffered from debilitating pain throughout her time on earth.  Born in 1926, having me as her second child in 1958, she was already developing problems from rheumatoid arthritis after my brother’s birth 3 years prior.   She had health problems from childhood, multiple surgeries and hospitalizations, and by the time I was five, separated from my Dad, disabled and raising two boys on minimal child support and alimony.   As the years and the deterioration of her muscle strength progressed, she had to have special shoes made for her feet and became dependent on pain treatments that today’s patients happily can avoid. I remember the many nights when she would try to take care of things around the house, pushing through the pain, and the sounds of her distress and discomfort were not easily ignored – nor easily forgotten, decades later. 

This is not the “Mom” I knew – but in her day, she was quite the “pin up” girl from So Cal!

But music could somehow transform, or at least diminish, her distress into joy, in moments.  She had a pretty large collection of 78’s – big, bulky, scratched, in these sort of cardboard folio albums – along with later LP’s.  She also had held onto an upright piano, gifted from her mother who passed before my entry on the scene – and encouraged me to take piano lessons, which I did for years.  She also would occasionally peck at the keys a bit, but more often just turn on the radio.  As a teen, I remember digging through the record cabinet, wondering at the names – some I knew, many were unknown.  She didn’t listen to 70’s artists; I think her most contemporary albums were by Jack Jones and Rod McKuen (no Beatles, and certainly no rock!) – but there were many scratched 78’s and several 50’s/60’s albums by Frank Sinatra – the “Chairman of the Board”, “The Voice”, the emblem of a generation.  

It wasn’t until my 40’s, when she entered a long term care facility and I took on the years long task of cleaning and repairing her home, and the many boxes of her life that remained unopened for decades, that I began to see how much Sinatra had been part of her life.  By this time, I had become more familiar with the music of that era – certainly loving many of the songs he made popular, especially later when I started enjoying karaoke at the bars in Palm Springs.   Frank himself had passed by then – I’d seen some movies and knew a little of his history from the tributes and television coverage.  So, when I came across the boxes of photos, and the magazines, and programs – it was like a time capsule of my Mom’s love affair with his songs.  

The 1943 Hollywood Bowl program – the first “popular” artist to perform there.

It was during those years, the final few of her life, that she began to share some of her memories of the 40’s in LA – before meeting my Dad, before the ravages of health gnarled her hands and distorted her feet, keeping her in a physical prison and to a degree an emotional one as well.  Seeing pictures of her as a glamour teen, in a bathing suit, were kind of astonishing – this was not the woman who had raised me, to my eyes at least.  Growing up in Long Beach and working in that area, she had made friends with ties to Hollywood, somehow – after all, as a teenager at the outset of World War II, with so many young men leaving to fight for freedom, young women were exploring new ways of living that their parents never imagined.  She had gone on a bowling double date with Mickey Rooney, had lunch at the Paramount studios commissary with Orson Welles and Rita Hayworth one table over, and visited the home of Errol Flynn – a young woman bursting with life, and dreams and hopes of romance.  All influenced by the crooner that ruled the radio, and in time movies as well – Frank. 

A signed drawing by my Mom, clearly copied (with love) from a publicity photo.

She told me how her father took her to the Hollywood Bowl in 1943 to see Frank break with long held tradition there – somewhat controversially – performing “popular song” instead of the usual classical fare.  Years later, visiting the Bowl Museum, I heard a recording of his comments that night – it was the beginning of many ups and downs in his career, but a pinnacle for the scrawny kid from Hoboken.  My uncle, a few years her senior, was in England building glider planes for the Allies – he told me later how much all the enlisted men hated Sinatra for staying home, getting all the attention from the screaming fans.  It surprised me to see on display at the museum the same program I had found in her belongings, carefully preserved.  

A recording of Frank Sinatra’s 1943 Hollywood Bowl appearance … almost 80 years ago. You can even hear the screaming, swooning fans …. including my Mom (but probably not my Grandpa!)

She even shared how, as the president of a chapter of the Sinatra Fan Club, she had attended some of the earlier west coast radio feeds earlier in his career, from LA for the Major Bowes Amateur hour – a few of which I share here – with notations for the timing of the breaks, and songs, on the I imagine now rare scripts.  Thinking of her in Los Angeles, occasionally getting to ask for his autograph, long before the realities of life brought her elsewhere with two sons and no husband or job or car – I began to understand her life from a different perspective. 

As I enjoy the recordings of Frank today – and have retained the photos and magazines and other items, despite my brothers encouragement to sell them since at the time of his passing they had more value – I also remember the joy that those songs brought my Mom, a kind of healing, at least for a moment, a respite of sorts for her spirit.  Perhaps, when she sang along with those records, or played the radio for a special song while struggling to keep up with the responsibilities that lay on her alone, she was carried back to those moments – those hopes and dreams.  But my Mom never expressed regret that things did not work out as she had imagined – she focused on the challenges of the day, caring for us, and trying to sort through the choices we all have to make, in whatever circumstances we face.  

Unlike Mom, I never saw Sinatra perform live – at least, not that Sinatra.  After my Mom’s passing, a friend and I drove to see his son, Frank Jr., perform in Orange County – sitting a few seats away, his daughter Nancy (without her boots), knowing and reliving their own memories of their father through song.  The upcoming symphony performance is nearly sold out – a remarkable testimony to the legacy of Sinatra and Ella, the composers and artists, and the power of music to give us life.  Over two years ago, we enjoyed a similar tribute to my own favorite vocalist, Nat King Cole, and Aretha Franklin there – voices that remind us that our humanity is shared, our desires are not so different, and our yearnings unchanged from generations prior.   I am glad we can again be gathered together, celebrating not only the season, but the timelessness of music – and of the hopes that it nourishes.  My heart will sing along; I will smile, thinking, just maybe, Mom will be listening, too.  

The smallest of Mom’s signed pics – and yet, somehow, my favorite.

Wherever your week takes you – I hope you find some joy. It’s there, for the discovery – and the sharing. Until next time – thanks for stopping by to visit. You are always welcome!

It’s the season of giving – at least, it is when I post this! But, whenever you may read this, subscriptions to new posts is still a bargain – at nothing! Worth every cent and more … hopefully!

The Island of Misfit Holiday Newsletters

Do kids watch old TV shows still?  “When I was a kid” (yes, I will go there – it’s the privilege of having survived so far), Christmas shows were few and therefore a major event on one of the 3 networks – and if you had a color tv, even more exciting.  The biggest of all was “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” – created by the unique artistry and vision of Rankin Bass stop motion animation.  Although it was not my favorite – (more on that later) – it was something to look forward to.   The song, of course, is fairly short – so the story was expanded with additional characters, and adventures – including the island of misfit toys, where the playthings no one wanted were abandoned and forgotten.  Very, very sad …. Like Disney, the storytellers behind those specials knew that tales that touched our heart were not filled solely with happy thoughts. 

What was wrong with the dolly? One theory – she had no nose? The debate rages on.

And, of course, not all 60’s homes – maybe none, in fact – were like the tv sitcoms filled with laughs year-round or shimmering with Christmas lights and goodies as the kiddos awaited Santa.  I am grateful for the efforts both my parents made to give us a holiday, in the midst of great challenges; I remember the delight of opening gifts to find unexpected (and hoped for from the Sears wishbook) treasures.  The only picture I think I have with my father’s parents is with a toddler aged NormL holding a styrofoam Santa figure, with my brother alongside.  And I think the earliest color picture of me is at the foot of a Christmas tree, in our then Vacaville California home, alongside my older brother and our new treasures.  I do not remember those moments – but I remember the feeling, the yearning, the hope that “Christmas is coming” brought to my heart, and the carols we sang in the church youth choir, until the big day. 

A very faded photo of my older brother, me in diapers, and our treasures – Christmas 1958

Christmas cards were a mainstay of life then – so many would come, and my Mom would keep seemingly all of them.  Some from friends and family I never knew – some with letters describing what was happening with their own families, kids in school – before technology of mass production enabled the use of the sometimes detested, mass produced holiday newsletter.  I am glad my Mom kept so many of those handwritten notes – I have been able to share them with the children of the authors, bringing memories alive again, like quiet lights from the fireplace of a long-forgotten winter.  I am also grateful to have some of the cards from my Mom to me – remnants not only of her beautiful handwriting, but her heartfelt love.  For a few years, our church youth group tried to raise funds by sending us door to door with gigantic volumes of elegant Christmas cards, that you could order with your name imprinted – I found it difficult to walk up to my neighbors doors, often strangers, knock and show the books, asking for an order – probably the earliest realization that I was not destined for a life in sales or public relations! 

With the broad availability of pcs, home printing and more, Hallmark and other card manufacturers started to lose business to new ways of sharing sentiments. Recently my husband and I enjoyed a classic holiday episode of “Everybody Loves Raymond” – from December 2001! “Season’s greetings” finds exquisite, bitter humor in the family receiving a relative’s holiday newsletter and responding with a boastful one of their own.  We laughed a lot – and I thought about it as I feel the clock ticking on our own communications for Christmas and the holidays.  I am happy to say that we still send cards – receiving fewer each year, but that’s ok – and that we have friends who walk all kinds of paths, so some are about Christmas, some about the holidays, and some are just year-end wishes.  Time constraints seem to get tighter every year – even in retirement – so I suggested that this year we get the cards out right after Thanksgiving, without a newsletter, then follow up with an email which awaits my attention this week, with a little over 3 weeks until Christmas day.  I reached out to my friends who observe, to varying degrees, Chanukah (which came early this year) directly; now my thoughts turn to what to include in a communication to our broad circle of family and friends, that many may only glance at briefly.   And time is running out ….. 

There have been years where I tried to be more creative, taking the rhythm and structure of a familiar holiday carol or song and changing the lyrics to reflect the events of the year behind; one year, I wrote a story that was essentially a follow up to “It’s a Wonderful Life” (my favorite movie), where the older angel and his protégé watched the shoppers in a snowy small town scurrying about their tasks on Christmas eve.  I cannot say what year I initially started the habit of writing – maybe 20 years ago, maybe more – and some years, like now, I resorted to email rather than print.  I imagine both are mostly passé now – we no longer receive many, and even the “family photo card” seems to be less common – many probably depend on Instagram, Facebook and other media for ease of use, immediacy or other reasons.   Yet – there have been years, whether printed or electronic, some who got my newsletter wrote back, saying they were touched, encourage, or somehow warmed by my sentiments – that feedback led me in a way to this blog, and writing to a world of strangers who might enjoy my words – including you. 

I try to avoid this kind of result – I really do!!!

The past few years, since our wedding in 2018, the newsletter became more of a cooperative effort – so I tend to not be as freeform in my approach.  My husband and I have talked about the events of the year that we want to include – nothing surprising there – and I will touch on the fact that he has a major birthday in a month that we look forward to celebrating.  There is much to be grateful for; but my heart wants to put something into that email that I find difficult to define.  Add to that the need to be respectful – rightly so – that not everyone in our lives thinks the same way about the holidays, or may even be in a place where they feel like celebrating – we have several friends that are facing immediate and severe health crises, others who have experienced loss and depression.  And it is somewhat egocentric to think that people we don’t see regularly, who were once a part of our circle of life but who are now less present in every sense, want to know about our lives and the events we enjoyed – or endured – the past year. 

Perhaps, in a way, 2021 has been for many of us like being stranded on the island of misfit toys – feeling alone, forgotten, unwanted.  Perhaps the news, the never-ending voices of panic and dissension, the latest shocking school attack or string of store break-ins, and the seemingly deepening sense that better days are too far off to see has just worn us down.  Thinking back to my church days, even into my adulthood, and the sermons and promises, the certainty and assurances that now seem even more phantom like than Dicken’s 3 Spirits of “A Christmas Carol” or Clarence of “It’s a Wonderful life” – I am not qualified, or even assured within myself, of what to turn to for answers.  Yet – it is a kind of faith to still look up, out, and believe that there is a greater hope – a more real, eternal and powerful source of love – that remains in spite of all the turmoil of this era, and this moment in my little spirit.  

I have set my goal, for this year’s email to family and friends, to not be one that belongs on the island of misfit newsletters – but to say something that reaches from my own heart, and outside of it, to our readers, in all their different paths of life.  But what do I have to offer? Sometimes I get a glimpse of what seems to be a truth, around the corner, just moving out of sight but still calling to me – keep looking, I am here.  Was that truth present in a manger?  Was it more, or less present, in any of the millions of lives and thousands of gatherings of dissimilar faiths, yearning, reaching, crying out for hope – for peace and reassurance?  Do we ignore our desire to somehow, if not grasp with finality, to approach to that sense of a sacred place that some long unused chamber of our being senses but cannot inhabit?  Those childhood wishes for Santa came from a deeper place that I think we all share. Whether the readers of whatever I end up writing have some faith, in something, or not – there is something we have in common, and that together we can celebrate as winter begins to deepen. 

Aaron, the “Little Drummer Boy” from the 1968 TV special, and his dancing animals

As I mentioned at the start, my own favorite childhood Christmas show was not Rudolph. I remember the first Charlie Brown Christmas clearly; I detested Frosty, although I cannot say why; and I loved the Andy Williams holiday shows with “Dancing bear” and the ultra large Williams family (along with the Lennon sisters!) in harmony, sweaters, and all smiles by the fireplace.  But the one that touched my heart was one that wasn’t entirely jolly, built on a foundation of less than happy family – also from Rankin Bass, the “Little Drummer Boy” as narrated by Greer Garson.  Even now, it makes my cry –a lonely orphan, his parents murdered and home burned, bitter at how the world treated him, abused by those who took advantage of him – seeking help, and finding a gathering of wanderers, shepherds, and animals in the night.  In 20 minutes or so, he finds a group of very dissimilar people kneeling in awe before a newborn, not understanding why – and he feels his own gift is not fit for a king, not good enough.  But he gives from his heart – and like all good childhood stories, reaches a happy ending.  The Vienna Boys Choir had a hit recording of the title song, still a standard – but the one I loved is less well remembered.  “One Star in the Night”.  It is quiet, reverent – and hopeful.  If there is nothing else that we can take from whatever holiday observance matters to each of us, surely hope is more precious than ever.  

But I feel a kinship to the little drummer boy, uncertain that I have a gift worth offering.  It took me a lot longer than that half hour show, but after a lifetime of beating myself (and others) up for not being perfect, good enough – I begin to see how much sometimes I am afraid to give my own offering of mere words, lacking in poetry or unique charm,  just to say that I love someone.  Because I have not been the model of love that I was taught I should be, I could be – no angel, no wise man, no holy being – and far from what was modeled as ideal within my little world in a time that now seems so long ago – I fear my heart’s attempt to just share my imperfect love, even though I don’t always call, or haven’t seen them in years, will seem like a lie. I have not lived out the love I feel; perhaps few among of has. I am a poor ambassador indeed. Yet I feel that greater love, outside of me, waiting for me to drink it in, and then let it flow on to others somehow still – and I am aware of it as being bigger than myself, or all of us.  The love that I feel is like a glow that exists outside the range of our vision but surrounds us, unseen but alive, and enduring beyond the moment, beyond the fears and frustrations, and well beyond the limits of seasons and holidays, rituals and the ancient rooted traditions that seem to take up so much energy and attention without our stopping to strip away the veneer to find the life underneath awaiting our discovery, perhaps, even where we are not looking.

Perhaps, giving what we have, simple as it may be, is the greatest gift to offer, in love

I will have to do some digging of my own to put into words something of what I feel to those who receive, and take the time to read, our short email with holiday wishes.  There are many ways of celebrating – and many who just need to know they are not alone, and to be there for them as best we can.  Sometimes, I think that for me, writing – this blog, the newsletter, a short note to a friend – is a form of prayer, of connecting with a larger hope.  Perhaps in our words, and actions,  we get beyond thinking we have “no gift to bring” the act of reaching out and saying we care, we miss you, we love you and we hope all good things for you matters in ways we cannot predict.  I will of course listen to my own favorite carols, and reflect on the teachings of my childhood, and the questions of my current years, and the mysteries in the gaps between that seem immeasurable, but there will be moments when what is now, is enough.  Whatever your own heart speaks, I hope you can listen and hear the sounds of hope, the quiet of peace, and the comfort of joy along your walk.  Thanks for sitting a while with me – I wish you, and those you love, a season of promises realized and dreams reborn – until next time. 

One Star in the night … singing silently …

You can hear the music if you listen with your heart.

One Star In The Night, Shown o’er Bethlehem,

Magic in the moment when that lonely star began its lovely song.

Angel’s lullabyOn that holy night, Sung unto a Savior who was born beneath its glow.

One Star In The Night, Rainbow in the dark,

One night to remember; that peaceful night the King of Kings was born.

“One Star in the Night”, music by Maury Laws, Lyrics by Jules Bass – from the 1968 Rankin Bass stop motion animated TV Special, “The little drummer boy”

My gift to you …. freely offered, and worth at least every penny! And – wishing you, and yours, blessings and joy in whatever celebrations you share, now and tomorrow.

A leather bar in Liberty’s shadow

This past August, we mustered our resolve and our masks to board a plane and cross the country from San Francisco to Philadelphia.  My husband was born in nearby Wilmington Delaware, and I was looking forward to finally meeting his brother and sister in law, and other family and friends. I was also very excited to be visiting the historic location of one of my favorite musicals, in which a number of men in wigs and stockings argued and danced vigorously and sometimes wittingly, railing against the injustice of those in power.   Nope, not “Hamilton”, but “1776”.   As a teen, it was the first “professional” touring musical my Dad and stepmother had taken me to see all the way in Los Angeles from Corona – and I had enjoyed the soundtrack many times. 

The trailer is awful, but the movie and music are wonderful!

But of course, it’s been 50 years since I first heard Adams, Jefferson and Franklin sing about liberty and courage, and much in our world has changed – as have I.  We were somewhat concerned initially about whether it was “safe” to go – interestingly, some of the greatest numbers of unmasked faces in public were to be seen in Wilmington, where the Biden’s are just “folk” like everyone else (well, to some).  Happily, we remained unaffected and enjoyed a wonderful trip, and as we stood in Independence Hall, and then in line to view the Liberty Bell, it had many memorable moments. 

Philadelphia too has changed much over the years, like all big cities – we took a bus tour, visited some museums, and since I had never been to the area, being a gay history buff as well as a history buff, we wandered into the area just a short stroll from where the Declaration of Independence was signed, known affectionately as the “gayborhood”.    We found a wonderful variety of eclectic shops, restaurants, homes along narrow cobbled streets – and I was delighted to pick up a few books at the nation’s oldest LGBTQ bookstore, where a few new volumes are dwarfed by several floors of older books on all kinds of subjects.   

But of all the gayborhood businesses we visited, the one that seemed the most filled with history – even though not my own – was a bar called the “Bike Stop”.   When I had taken up riding a motorcycle in my own early coming out years, I enjoyed going on rides with a gay biker club in Los Angeles, called the Satyrs (read about them here) – like many, they had formed in the years when the emerging communities formed in major metropolitan centers, offering those men who found their way to a new kind of life, and less of a sense of isolation, the opportunity for friendship, belonging, and support – and, in time, the basis of political influence, and impact beyond those areas that few predicted would ever come to pass.  

Yep, that’s me on my Indian Chief, Labor day weekend 2012 …. and yes it was loud!

The bars these men frequented, were the “infamous” leather bars, and not everyone visiting rode bikes – many just wanted sex.  Movies like “Cruising” and magazines reported a distorted view of that time and way of life – I was not part of those days but being closeted and far removed from anyone gay in my own circle, I was fascinated by the portrayals and pleasures it seemingly offered.  Now, having met men whose lives were intertwined with those events, I realize the gift that such bars and clubs offered to so many who had been rejected and left out, were deeper than the brief encounters portrayed then (and now) in more salacious publications and films.  They offered family to those that had none – to those who felt they did not belong anywhere else.  Although that history was not a part of my own – the feelings certainly were. 

Walking through this darkened bar, opened in 1982 (but with a history stretching much further back in time as shown in this excellent article), I was deeply moved.  I had known that loneliness for much of my life, and not found any sense of real community until I let myself accept those regions of my heart that others had encouraged me to crush.  Seeing the pictures of these men, relaxed, having fun, standing unashamed were more than moving to me, they were in a way, sacred.  I knew that many of these men probably, within a few years of the pictures on the wall, died of AIDS – and that others lived, and with friends and growing acceptance in other communities, worked hard to raise money for the care of those ailing, and the search for a cure. 

Various cases around the bar are barely visible – especially in the darkened corners – but the photos are still striking, fully of life and energy and joy.  The pins from various clubs and bike runs are framed;  the artwork that 30-40 years ago was cheap bar promotional material now sells for thousands of dollars in galleries, and the banners and awards that were bestowed upon those deigned representative of the aspirations and values of this niche community may no longer even be noticed by the current denizens.  Yes, bars have changed, and technology changes how like-minded people connect (or isolate); but they are also adapting to the changing populations of the city, and the mindsets and priorities of those who, different perhaps in what they seek on the outside, still long for belonging inside (click to read)

Another photo of the bar denizens in the dusty display cases – where are they now, I wonder?

I realize as a “maturing” white gay male, of my era – even though I did not take the same steps in life as the men in those photos, or many who are in my circle today – for some, serve as a bridge from that era to the future.  What I find fascinating is that no matter what the issue is, there are always going to be people who are “outsiders”, and always going to be others who label and exclude; it is to be expected, if not accepted.  And yet, within a short stroll from this building, where the numbers of men and women who congregate here, and neighboring businesses, are less dense than in the era of the cabinets filled with mementos – a very different group of men gathered and argued and debated and ultimately created a model for a society that could be more inclusive, and offer greater freedoms, in time.  It is far from a perfect union still, but it moves toward being more perfect – just as we do in our own growth. 

The August evening is settling in as we leave the Bike Shop, and return to our family’s home, soon to board a flight back to California.  The voices of the American Revolution, and the voices of the gay liberation front, and the voices of today, clamoring for change, inclusion, respect and justice, rise from the streets of Philadelphia, and our world.  I will remember the men in these photos, whose faces I never saw, but whose courage and resolve, and need, gave me a chance at a better life – and I realize I too have a responsibility to continue that pursuit of happiness for others. 

The National Aids Grove in Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California

Although I had thought the prior paragraph was going to be the close for this post, about 4 months after my visit to Philadelphia, I find the forces of life and time that are impossible to predict remind me that December 1 was Worlds AIDS day 2021. Started in 1988, this annual commemoration of the ongoing efforts to prevent and treat AIDS, and to bring attention to the needs of those impacted by it in now 4 decades of international loss. It was the first world health day, and now, in a pandemic that again sweeps our globe, people are coming together against seemingly insurmountable hurdles, lifting one another up, just as the patrons of the Bike Stop, other bars in other cities, and an emerging community nationally and around the world built bridges. The National Aids Grove is a memorial, like so many others, to the losses and sacrifices and courage of uncounted thousands. Can we take inspiration from those who reached across their differences to offer hope? Can we set aside our expectations and our limits, our walls and our blinders – shedding the scales from our eyes – to offer love and encouragement even when we do not have answers or “fixes”? Perhaps the greater question should be – how can we not?

William Daniels – as John Adams – in 1776 – a dream for a better tomorrow – for all; we go on.

So, folks, we have reached the end of today’s journey … but more to come. See you around the corner – and remember ….

Hey, here’s a late Cyber Monday offer – heck, its good year round – if you want to stay apace with my wanderings. I love to hear from strangers who, for whatever reason, find their way here and find something that resonates. Hope you find joy today!

Looking for Lorenzo ….

Sometimes, our family history has loose ends – blind alleys, unsolved mysteries.  Perhaps you took advantage of the post Thanksgiving “Black Friday” sales which offer DNA tests to reveal our hidden secrets – or at least that appears to be the appeal for many.  An easy way to find out where we are from, and what our ancestors were like.  Sometimes, it is easy – but not always.

The “percentage match” we get from online sources gets rapidly smaller by generations

The “matches” that flood our email for tiny percentages of DNA connections are dependent on so many moving pieces – who submits a test, the “odds” of shared segments, and how each testing company samples from your own submissions.  The databases are constantly changing; the “ethnicity estimates” are only as good as the data that the company uses which can be misleading.  Think about it – even your “full” sibling – a brother or sister from the same two parents – will never have more than 50% shared DNA “markers”, much likely less – and with every generation, the percentage declines. 

When it comes to researching my own heritage, I was fortunate, in a way – my father had written a letter to my brother and I with his notes on various family members.   Dated April 16, 1965, shortly after my parent’s divorce, and during a period that he was facing many uncertainties, it offered some facts on his mother and father’s heritages, with scribbled notes and typos – but it was at least a jumping off point for my journey. Another page appears to be a request for further information from perhaps a distant family member; and, as I would learn in time, it was not entirely factual.  As you too may discover in digging into your ancestry, the “family lore” is often vague, rife with errors and misspellings, and incomplete or shaded by time. 

Because I grew up so isolated from most of my family – and because I was not in a home where there was a lot of visits from friends or neighbors – when I started to dig through boxes and found the diaries and letters, I felt like I was discovering family I never knew.  In time, my new “family” members became more real, with each new revelation, or old photo identified.  On my Mom’s side, there was a lot of documentation – less on my Dad’s.  I had known his parents only when very young – but now, as an adult, I found gaining an understanding of their lives to be very meaningful, and I wanted to learn more.  I sought out cousins, and using websites like Ancestry, found distant family on both sides around the world. 

Christmas time in the 60’s – with my paternal grandma Bela, daughter of Jim Grey (I’m with Santa!)

But one branch of the family remained a mystery – the parents of my paternal great grandmother.  My father’s great grandmother, Ramona Pereida had married my great grandfather – alternately referred to as James Grey, or Jim Grey, or James Gray in various documents; in fact, on her death certificate, even her husband misspelled her maiden name as “Perryda”.   They had met in southern Mexico when he was working on (no music, please) the railroad – he had been born James Gronso Jr., but changed his name when he left his parents (purportedly after fathering a child out of wedlock) to seek his fortune in the expanding west.  I had been able to find his family’s descendants – they were thrilled to learn what had happened to him, lost to time – but in Arizona territory, and Mexico itself, records of family were not as extensive in the late 1800’s, and I had little to go on. 

My father’s letter described Ramona’s parents briefly; Lorenzo, her father, “lived in Nogales; his father or grandfather came from Spain and was executed during the reign of Maximilian”.  Her mother was “Ligrada Corrella De Pierada”; they had “married in Hermosillo Mexico”, and supposedly had 13 children, practiced medicine, but “was not a doctor”.  Other “facts” about siblings and history were scant – and in time, I realized, erroneous.    But I was fascinated with the old pictures of Jim Grey on a desert landscape, and his wife and two older daughters, Dora and Bela.  I never was able to talk with my grandmother Bela about her knowledge; she passed when I was quite young. But, I am sure some if not all of the notes my Dad made were from her memory. 

The only photo I have of great grandma Ramona, and her daughters Dora and grandma Bela – c. 1894

Fortunately, in time – thank you Ancestry and the Internet – I found a Pereida relative (and the correct spelling!) and through him, a distant cousin – descendants of siblings of James’ wife, Ramona.  Like many Hispanic families, they had named children after parents – and so, there were records for a Lorenzo Pereida in Arizona – just not “mine”.  Together, we visited Nogales, and found the gravesite of his wife, Librada (not Ligrada) – or, “Liberty” – and other members, neglected in a long forgotten plot.  And, another cousin – descended from my grandmother’s sister Dora – had a video recording of the youngest sister, Aunt Monie – in which she made a startling claim that Lorenzo had come to San Francisco from not Spain, but Portugal; returned there, and then emigrated to Mexico where he met Librada and married her. 

The 3 adult daughters of James and Ramona – Dora, Bela and Monie

So many questions – where did this Lorenzo come from? Was he indeed somehow a practitioner of medicine, and did he cross the ocean multiple times?  Had he emigrated to San Francisco prior to the gold rush (I would love that, as it would make me eligible for some rather distinguished associations here!), and if so, why did he go back?  What if any was the family connection to Maximilian, Emperor of Mexico, killed in 1867?  My hope was that if I could find even more living descendants of Ramona’s supposedly dozen siblings, they could provide some answers.  And, yes, secretly, I harbored a hope that there would be a chest of rubies and gold that was being held for my share of the family (well, one must dream, sometimes!) 

As of today – I don’t have those answers.  The DNA tests that I purchased through 23 and me, Ancestry, Family Tree DNA and My Heritage sometimes provide “connections” that seem promising – I write, but there have been few responses and no real information.  I am glad I connected with the cousins that I did find online – we have shared what little we know.  I search the archives of the Newspapers.com website occasionally finding Pereida references, sometimes to a sibling, but mostly of dubious shared heritage;  there is evidence to suggest that the family name has closer ties to Portugal than Spain, but I have found no contacts there as of today. 

There were two “finds” in the past year, courtesy of the indexing and online references provided by the Latter Day Saints FamilySearch.org website.  It is free to all; and because their faith tenets emphasize the importance of tracking down family, they devote many resources to indexing and sharing records from around the world.   Being “trapped” – oops, sheltering in place – gave me more time to poke around, and I was very excited to finally find a formal record naming Lorenzo Perieda and his wife Librada Corella de Pereida – from July 26, 1887.   The civil registry of Nogales recognized that James and his wife, Ramona, brought their 3 children (!) of varying ages to be formally recorded as legitimate offspring (I guess people weren’t in a big rush back then!) 

A friend in LA and his friend who was more familiar with “traditional” Spanish handwriting and language helped translate the wording – which revealed that by that point, Lorenzo was deceased.  And just last week my sister in law helped me “walk through” a marriage record of “Santiago” Grey and Librada Pereida, in Spanish of course, from the civil registration records of Sonora Mexico.  It states, among much “legalese” (yes, even back then) that they wed in her mother’s Guaymas home on February 6, 1882, with witnesses present – including Librada.  But there is no mention of Lorenzo.  From the Nogales gravesite and other records, we know that his wife, Librada, passed in 1908;  my father’s letter only mentioned that Lorenzo died in Ures, Mexico – whether his grave exists today, I do not know.  

I found this 1851 illustration of Ures, Mexico, by John Russell Bartlett from the “John Carter Brown” library online in Rhode Island …. this is the life my great grandparents would have known.

Why does any of this matter?  I cannot answer that, other than a sense in my heart.  Perhaps it is because I, as a childless man, know the probability that I will be forgotten in time; I would like to preserve the memories of Lorenzo, his family and more relatives for my nieces and nephews, and their children – hoping that they will find some value, as I have, in understanding what our forebears went through for us to have our lives here today.   I had this interest long before Pixar’s “Coco” used the Day of the Dead to urge us to “remember me” for our lost relatives; I can almost relive sitting in my mother’s bedroom, going through boxes, and the sense of wonder I had at the old pictures and letters, and the lives of those who came before.  I wanted so desperately to have a sense of belonging as a child; to have the family that my schoolmates talked about; perhaps in a sense I am still trying to rebuild what was lost.  And, maybe, in a way, I will save a little bit of me for those who remain after I am gone – just as those who wrote the letters, took the photos, and saved the family Bibles did from decades past. 

A few years back, with my Pereida cousin Rudy, when we visited Nogales in search of heritage

I would love, one day, to visit the point where Lorenzo began his own journey – to know why he made the life changing choice to board a ship and cross an ocean, perhaps more than once, and how he came to Hermosillo,  and where Librada came from, and her parents.  The DNA tests might one day provide, if not a connection, a clue or a confirmation – or it might just be luck.  But I do think I will stand there, and be in awe again at the mysteriously woven tapestry of my life – all our lives.  I hope my own digging inspires some of you to consider what you can do to preserve your stories, your ancestors, for the future generations; their voices speak to us, their wisdom and their sacrifices, their love and their hopes.  We may not seem them clearly – but they are worth remembering and honoring, and from that, carrying forward in our own lives.  I wish you well in your quests. 

If you haven’t seen Pixar’s Coco, it is well worth a visit …. and remembering ….

Act quickly – a free subscription to “The New NormL” is the perfect holiday gift!

Where gratitude leads us

A lovely thought from a treasured vintage postcard, gifted by a good friend

In a little less than a week, many in America, and others around the world, will celebrate by giving thanks.  You probably have your traditions – perhaps they include special foods, or sports – perhaps online shopping, or a hike, far removed from the daily routine.  As we approach that day, I have been thinking about the role of thanks not only in that upcoming day, but every day – and what I hope to gain by being a better practitioner of gratitude.  Perhaps you, too, have reflected upon Thanksgiving a bit more this year, after all the hurdles of recent times.  There have been years for me where I questioned what it was I was supposed to be thankful for; in recent days, the gatherings of my past seem to be offering a lesson for the future; I cannot quite make it out, but perhaps together we can find some meaning to share. 

I cannot tell you my first memory of Thanksgiving, as a family gathering.  Some do have those “Norman Rockwell” images and memories; there were years that my family, in various configurations, tried to achieve that.   Although the years of my parents being together were few, I am certain they tried to give my brother and I the “turkey and fixings and pumpkin pie” kind of meal. But, probably not with family, because in those years we were together, we lived far from any close relatives.  I do, however, remember – and had to confirm with my older brother, whose recollections are a little clearer – after my parents separated, my father picking us up and driving us to his workplace for a dinner – at the Chino “Men’s rehabilitative state institute”, or, state prison, simply put.  I remember driving through high, barbed wire topped automatic fences and eating in a large community room (with inmates and guards and families)  – I think it was all he could afford, in those early years of separation and divorce.  It wasn’t “pretty” or picture perfect – but he wanted to spend that meal with us, and that is what I choose to remember, now. 

My Mom’s health issues were many, and she was not a cook (and neither am I!) But, when I was a little older, Dad remarried – a local elementary school teacher, single and older, who loved cooking (and was darn good at it!) – who prepared everything and more for Thanksgiving and just about any occasion. In time, their son was born – I was in junior high – and on occasion, a cousin or other family member might join as well. Years later, of course, both my brothers married, and had children, who joined the tradition now and then.  My stepmother (who, confusingly at times, had the same first name as my Mom, creating two women with the same name in our not so large back then city) was always kind to prepare a plate for me to take home to my Mom.  The other part of that tradition I remember – not so fondly – was the focus on hours and hours of football games.   They seemed utterly boring and pointless to me. 

In my college years, I would come home for Thanksgiving from the dorms; as I began my professional life, I often returned to those family gatherings, until a period of several years, after I moved away from my roots, when my own personal struggles led to more isolation and searching for understanding.  I would sometimes spend the holidays alone, or going to see movies, or escaping for a “feast” to the “happiest place on earth” – Disneyland – where the music and energy would provide respite, briefly, from my inner uncertainties.  I had long since stopped going to church – the gulf in my spirit between what I felt and what I had been taught was too wide to ignore.  But, being raised as a “good church boy”, I often brought to mind the hymn that often had been sung in my childhood services – replaced later at more contemporary evangelical gatherings by “praise singers” – ever constant reminders that we “should” be thankful for our many blessings. 

The song that I associate with giving thanks, with lyrics – sung now for 5 centuries, in various forms

As a history buff, I’ve come to realize, perhaps by coincidence, how the origins of the celebration crisscrossed my journeys. More than 30 years ago, on my solo and only drive through parts of American history on the east coast, I visited the location of what is now recognized as the first Thanksgiving by colonists – in the Jamestown settlement of Virginia.  And nearly two decades later, I had the opportunity, courtesy of a friend, to visit Provincetown, Massachusetts – the first landing on what became American soil by the pilgrims, seeking refuge from religious oppression.  Some now see these moments in human history primarily as infringement on indigenous peoples; certainly, their lives and world were forever altered by these events.  The picture books I loved in my childhood and youth, and stories of heroes, are seen differently now by many.  But as I reflect on the essence of what Thanksgiving means to me, if not to all – I remember those moments on my own journey to new life; recognizing that there were many sacrifices made for what we now enjoy.   And realizing that I was fortunate, indeed, to never know true hunger. 

For all of us, the years of family gatherings can never last forever; my Mom spent her final 7 Thanksgivings in a care facility a short drive from our old home, where she would sit in her wheelchair sometimes outside in the sun, and the occasional visit from my brother’s family was a welcome distraction.  It was during those years, cleaning her home through the paraphernalia accumulated over decades, I started my own discovery of family history through the letters, photos and mementos she had stored in forgotten drawers of her home of 40 years; my digging led to new connections, and renewed family sharing with many cousins. I remember another holiday during that period where I had asked my Dad if he was open to having me drive his cousin Bill, now a widowed gay retired hairdresser living in a trailer park in the desert, back to Corona for Thanksgiving.  Dad was not open to that – after 30 or more years, he held on to his reasons for separation, and they were not to see one another again. For her final Thanksgiving in 2005, facing treatments for pancreatic cancer, my stepmother did not prepare her traditional feast; I drove her and my Dad to a Marie Callender’s for Thanksgiving buffet.  She passed that winter; my Mom followed in spring 2006, and Cousin Bill in fall 2006. Dad outlived them all – he had his final Thanksgiving while living in a care facility near my younger brother, and while at a family gathering that day with both my brother’s families, he asked me to drive him back to the facility before we ate dinner together.  That was the last time we were under one roof before his passing the following spring of 2007.  

Those next few Thanksgivings felt very empty.  It was a season – several seasons, cumulative, folding upon one another like a line of dominoes – of grief, and memory, and healing.  In time, the process of working through the old, and accepting the new, opened doors in my own life to move ahead; the growth and understanding I came to embrace, through many lonely holidays, brought me to a very different – and better – place, in time. There have been many gatherings with family since then – at Thanksgiving, and more – and with friends, old and new, including one memorable Thanksgiving feast with something like 20 hungry gay men crammed into a small San Francisco home, wolfing down gourmet dishes.   Like most of you reading this today, I spent Thanksgiving 2020 eating at home – happily no longer alone, but with my husband, something I never envisioned a decade before.  This year, since neither of us fits the mold of being great cooks, we are looking forward to a sumptuous buffet at a restaurant, with masks suitably lowered but readily at hand. 

All of these prior Thanksgivings are swirling in my memory, and those who prepared the food, and who sat with us, although not present still are nevertheless still at our table, in my heart. I will be surrounded by memories as we go through our day – bravely enduring the Macy’s “parade” from the comfort of our den, with calls to and from family and friends, and Facebook posts, and a feast where our regrets begin probably before we put down the fork and put on our masks.  I can assure you, however – NO FOOTBALL!  But there is a deeper lesson to be learned and shared, even if we cannot – or choose not – to be “together” on that day; a lesson of what I am coming to think of as the destination we seek to reach on a road paved with gratitude.  Where does our gratitude lead us?

I am coming to understand that the “injunctions” I heard from the church school of my childhood, and the pulpit of my later years, about giving thanks, and prayers, and acknowledging our blessings – whatever your own faith or views may be – have a greater end and purpose than just rote performance.  When I reflect on the many graces and gifts that have come into my life from all sorts of people, not always in moments that traditionally might have been classified as “holy” or spiritual – I am humbled.  I begin to see things differently –  that the practice, consistently, of giving thanks opens my heart and my awareness to a greater peace and a living hope.  Not born from my intellect, but from a connection outside my own being. 

For me – giving thanks broadens my perspective in a way that I find difficult to describe, but feel deeply. Acknowledging that I have been given so many good things in life helps me to accept that I can never have all the answers, never control all the outcomes, and – at least on this earth – never understand the many “whys” that echo in my soul.  It reminds me of my limits, certainly – but also helps me see the many miracles, dare I say, that have visited my life – and those of my family, now and in the past.  That is one of the treasures of discovering ancestry – realizing the struggles and sacrifices, joys and daring choices that my forebears took to survive and build and create, which they gave me.  Childless, I can only look on my family and friends and imagine the bond that they share with the next generations, and realize that legacy is priceless, and I try in my small way to add to it with love and encouragement.   Our love is woven by unseen hands into something that lasts.

The practice, the habit, the discipline of giving thanks consciously leads to many outcomes, and the discovery and awareness of deeper truths than just what gifts I have received. It leads to humility and acceptance of my own limits, and others; to a peace and faith that the things I cannot know or see will be brought together for good, in time; and to an empathy and compassion for the lives I encounter once, or often along the way – wandering, as I do, on a path that none of us fully comprehend. Developing slowly, with effort, an “attitude of gratitude” opens my heart to knowing – I have been loved, I am loved, and those around me are loved and this moment, this day – whether filled with cooking meals or watching football or practicing music or sitting by the bedside of someone otherwise alone, and wondering what lies ahead – each moment is one that I can give love.  Not answers – just love.  A touch, a word, a smile, in between all the traffic jams and gas lines and news of conflict and ongoing threats that barrage our awareness and try to drown out the silent, patient hope. 

Every step we take, as we build our path moment by moment, matters.

Whether your own life has brought you to a place where you believe there is a force out there, larger than us, who listens – or whether it is enough to realize that the power of community caring can lift us all to a better place, regardless – Thanksgiving is a day of hope, and realization, as much as celebration and remembrance. If you are with family – perhaps for the first time in a while – this could be a time for you to share and preserve your memories, histories, and lessons.  They are worth celebrating, and sharing, for those who will walk past our days here.  If you are alone, as I was for many years, this could be a chance to reach out to another and say, simply, I appreciate you, your caring for me, and I care about you too.  What a joy it can be to find an opportunity to say that, in a brief moment, whether to a loved one or a stranger, and know it may mean the world to them, too.

My distant cousin, Susan Applegate, is an artist in rural Oregon, where our Applegate western pioneer roots were first established.  Years ago, she did a painting of the “Old House” – indeed, the oldest house in original family hands, in Yoncalla – the home of my great great great grandfather, Charles and his wife Melinda.  Her art showed multiple generations of family – dozens, over the many decades of life there – gathered around the fireplace, celebrating across the bonds of time.  That thought – of our timeless connections, even among strangers – resonates with me as the nights start earlier and the leaves fall. Next week, I will be here in SF with Bob, feasting (and regretting) – but I will also be in that quiet now ancient home in Yoncalla, and in Denver with my grandparents I never knew, then in Corona with my parents, and also at that men’s prison in Chino, and smiling with my cousin Bill alone in Palm Springs; knowing again, somehow, all the moments of time, and life, and the echoes of their souls, laughter and love.

My times of giving thanks are not quite this photogenic, but they feel like it sometimes!

I invite you to join me on the path to gratitude and more; to give thanks tomorrow, and the day after – forgetting on occasion, I am sure, but returning again – in the morning quiet.  Finding peace in accepting that as there have been joys and disappointments through every year of life, more lie ahead – but we will never be truly without hope, and without much for which to be grateful.  And we will be reminded that those gifts have come, to know that greater love – from all the sources and all the hearts – is flowing not just to us in those moments of reflection, but through each of us, to others, like a timeless river of life.  

Thank YOU for visiting! And yes, that “Black Friday” free subscription offer is active now – act quickly and you can move on to other sales!

The pause that refreshes

No, not Coca Cola. It’s been nearly 100 years since that slogan was introduced – and probably quite a while since it’s been used in an ad!

Rather, “The New NormL” (the site, not me personally) has been refreshed during a pause since my last post in September. It’s been two years since, a few weeks after I made the decision to retire, I decided to pay WordPress a very reasonable sum to start a blog. I of course had no experience or technical background – and like many goals, once I paid the fee, I thought about it now and then – but did nothing to post.

Until …. spring 2020, when circumstances gave me a LOT more free time. With our lives a little freer now, I have been doing a lot less writing – and I have missed it. My readers may not have noticed, but I felt it was time to reframe the website and figure out where to go from here.

So, I have a revised “welcome” page! And, a new “guide to my explorations” page, which uses categories (all added in the last few weeks) to every post to date! And, a new “index” page (a little rough, but at least it will give the new or occasional visitor a chance to find their way around a little bit more easily).

Soon, I will upgrade my photo gallery page, and make a few other tweaks – but, since today marks my paying WordPress again a most reasonable fee for my little corner of the internet, I am finally ready to set off in new directions.

So – more to come, and little more frequently – my musings, insights, wishes, and sometimes wistful regrets. There will be the ongoing quirky histories of my family; my forays into San Francisco and parts hither; my own discoveries about life and the bumps along the way; and sharing more questions than answers about what matters most to me. Get ready for year 3 and beyond!!!

Thank you faithful readers, strangers and friends. I hope you enjoy stopping by a bit now and then, and I wish us all good things ahead.

The days grow short … when you reach September

The equinox – a balance of day and night

Summer is dwindling, a few hours left until our globe intersects with the sun and the light of day is in balance with the cloak of night. Do our souls sense this? Or is it just our awareness of the calendar, and knowing that it is just a little darker when we awake. Whatever the case, at last, I have been able to sit and write, and reflect, again.

The wonderful Brothers Four – their voices blending like honey flowing.

Although my posts have been less current of late (goodness – 6 weeks!), I think about tidbits and wonderings all the time, and write down ideas – “to be explored”, like the pathways of an unfamiliar garden, rather than my mind, or history, or my city.  In fact, I have been able to get out a little more, taking walking tours of neighborhoods that I have only driven through – you discover hidden sides of this city by walking.  I do admit, though – it has been difficult to sit down and work on putting thoughts to screen (can’t say paper anymore!)  What makes it difficult?  Of course, my excuses are easy to reach for, when I remind myself that I want to work on writing – but one overrides all the rest.  I am just not sure that I have something meaningful to say. 

Sometimes you need to leave the familiar to gain perspective – now, we have all left that which we know.

When I paid WordPress nearly two years ago now, in late 2019, for the name of my blog, storage, and more – we were all in a different place. I certainly was. As I have shared, I had come to the conclusion that it was time to end my career (or, end getting paid for it, at least), after a health crisis and many changes in my personal life.  Friends had often said, kindly, that my periodic letters with news via email had meaning for them – and, having spent years trying to work through various issues, coming “out”, finding love, and leaving my southern California life behind to move to San Francisco – I thought, perhaps, there might be some value in sharing my experiences, lessons if you will, with strangers, and friends – that the price I had paid might benefit others to find courage and hope to move beyond, unlike me, before the parade passed by. 

Some might be shocked to hear me say that phrase – it’s not that I do not have joy in my life, or that I have not continued to have amazing life experiences in the nearly 10 years since I made a decision to work towards finding a way to be happy in life as I was, instead of swimming in shame over who I wasn’t.   I know I am very, very lucky – to be alive; to be loved; to be relatively stable and relatively healthy, especially in this era of constant uncertainty and shifting “truths” that drive our everyday behavior.  So it is not that the parade is over – but the band is a little quieter, a little more distant – and I am coming to a kind of peace with accepting that I cannot catch up, nor could I ever have – only try to stay in step, and raise my banner in time. 

But recently I was reminded that sometimes there are old boxes in the basements of our memory, dusty and filled with things we don’t need anymore, and they can pop open at the most unexpected times.  For me, several came together at once, starting with a film I saw listed last month on Netflix, but have not yet viewed, about various leaders of the “ex gay” movement that was at its strongest in some ways during the years I was pulled into its relentless gravity – looking for freedom, healing, holiness, and all those other tasty promises that were held out by the cheery Willie Wonkas claiming to represent the will of God.  I eagerly gobbled their candy, and sang the songs, and shouted my huzzahs and hallelujahs, but still knew only emptiness inside.  I had thought after all that I had come through, and come towards, in the past decade, that the feelings associated with that era were vanquished; that I had only happiness to work towards now.  So it was shocking to me that in just mentioning the existence of the documentary to a friend – one who, like most in my life, did not share that experience but knew that it had molded – nay, mangled – my heart – I felt a well burst open, of pain, and regret.  I spent decades wearing masks, before Covid – those were deeply embedded in my face, so that when I looked in the mirror, even I could not see who I was underneath. And the boxes stayed, not fully forgotten.

I am certain you too have some buried wells, and although I will someday, soon probably, watch that documentary – and learn, and remember, and move on just a little more – it was not time, just now, to air out those old boxes.  The geyser of feeling, and pain, had taken me by surprise – I thought I had put all that behind me.   As some have told me, trauma never fully heals – but we learn to deal with it, and to balance the future and the gifts of the present against that past.  I sometimes feel deep regret that the process for me, which continues, impacts the lives of others who love me but who cannot relate, cannot understand – only in part.  This is a wounding of the soul, so deeply, for so long, that is perhaps blessedly only fully known by those of us who swam in that dark pool.  My regrets cover me like layers of old blankets, sometimes they weigh a little less, but for whatever reason, I cannot leave them by the side of the road. 

But I have been surrounded, carried and comforted by those few angels on earth, others who walked that path and who stand with me when I crumble.  Along with the counselors whose words even know come back to me, encouraging me, letting me be in that pain and yet holding open a window to a blue sky that I might not otherwise remember is also ahead. A close friend has commented on some of my posts that they are therapy for me, and she is correct.  But I hope somehow by sharing this journey, for which I have no map, and no truly identified endpoint – it lets others find hope too. 

There is a way to climb out, and there are more around us than we know, waiting to help us climb.

Oddly connected in ways that may not make sense to anyone but me, as my husband recently traveled out of state to see dear friends who had moved to a new home, I found myself looking for something to view in his absence – we share many tastes, but not all – and I settled on the Netflix reimagining of Shirley Jackson’s “The Haunting of Hill House”.   Of course, yes, it is a horror series – but under the narrative is a theme of a deeper horror than the whispers of ghosts – it is the seeping poison of secrets, and bitterness, and judgment that drives loved ones apart, leaving us on islands alone instead of together in our imperfections.  Watching it, I realized I have my own ghosts – as does my husband, my friends and family – even this city, foggy, has spirits hovering in it, trapped in another time, which we do not see but whose legacies, not out of ill will or threat, still weave into our conscious and unconscious daily life. 

I found myself thinking about what I really want to make the priorities of the uncertain amount of time I have left, here or wherever – what really matters.  I respect deeply that for many the very notion of faith, or inspiration, or varying belief systems and religious practices, have left scars – and yet I still find comfort in seeing things through a prism of a larger reality beyond my ability to grasp, measure or comprehend.  And I realized that the threads of faith which have been woven into so many of our lives, in confusing ways as well as creating little glimmers of hope, remain very much a part of how I process my experience – particularly in this age of bubbling chaos and the winds of rumors and fear that buffet us as we try to stay upright.  And I know that even though I lack answers and will readily confess my own perspective does not necessarily hold any value for others – that I need to write about that, here, moving ahead.

Sometimes it is not that we need to see something new – but for our heart to see what we know, anew

Not just that, of course – but it colors my vision.  We all have filters over our eyes, whether we are conscious of it – politics, values, memories, culture, stresses and wounds that over the years can fog our perceptions, closing our hearts and our intellects.  I know for all that I think about love and forgiveness and hope, any words that I write could be easily held up against my daily actions toward others – those dusty boxes in my basement have voices of their own that I have listened to, silently, for over 60 years.  

I also want to write about my family history – having the documents, photos, diaries and paraphernalia of so many ancestors piled into boxes and files – they have spoken to me over the years, like the other ghosts.  Their lessons, their sacrifices and joys – they are like little tarnished forgotten jewels that only I can shine, polish, clean and present to those who will walk on after I am gone.  If I do not take the time, no one will – and those images and voices will be gone forever.  And I want to write about the little slices of life that we walk through, my husband and I, gradually getting out a little more, like so many others – realizing that what we did before COVID may not be how we really want to use our time and energy as we gingerly step out and gather.   For many in my life, some of those may not have meaning at all – but I want to write about my new experiences and explorations, nevertheless.  I am blessed to know wonderful people of all walks of life, many who have no connection to LGBTQ history or culture – some may not like all they see, or read – but where I see beauty and hope, I want to share it, even if for some it seems a contradiction. 

And then there is the learning curve of technology, speeding past our ability to keep up. I am frustrated, intimidated and flummoxed by my lack of technical understanding of WordPress, how to lay things out, how to index and make them “discoverable”.   When I began, I just thought posting and using keywords would be “enough” – now, I realize anyone visiting would have to randomly scan through to find anything of interest – and why, with billions of words being generated around the world daily on blogs and websites, would anyone take the time to do that?  So, another goal will be to restructure this website – to make it easier to find similar posts.  Will that be easy?  Uh, no – but, just like exercise, that which is hard is usually that which is most worth doing.  If I don’t take the time to learn how to use the tools, I cannot expect my work to be as potentially impactful – circling back to my uncertainty that the time and effort I put into writing these occasional posts has the appropriate “cost/benefit” relationship.  “Partitioning” the nearly 40 previous posts; exploring the guts of WP mechanics; and refocusing what “The New NormL” is about – moving ahead – is a priority as fall begins to creep forth and the sun drops below the horizon a little earlier each evening. 

So, in that moment coming soon, when the sun and earth balance the hours of night and the hours of day, we too try to find our balance. Think about it- for half the planet, spring is approaching – for “our” half, fall. But we all move on in our cycles, and my journey also continues toward authenticity – to fullness; healing; frustrations occasionally, but hope bouncing back eventually, round after round.  My season is changing, and something new, and wonderful, is waiting to be discovered, shared, and celebrated. Here in San Francisco, most faces still remain under masks much of time, but the process of peeling those layers of old masks from my heart takes more than just permission from authorities.  I have no idea how far the road stretches ahead but staying put is not an option.  Yes, we still face many threats – political, social, health; economic, interpersonal, and weaving through all that, however you may put it – spiritual.  That which is bigger than “us” or “me”, the mysterious stuff of time and timelessness, the longings of a deeper part of my being and, I dare say, yours as well – albeit on a different path.  

I find myself frequently turning to music as a touchstone to my feelings and my longings.  Today, the song that comes to mind was written by Hoagy Carmichael, whose work is remembered perhaps more than his name,  but you can learn about him here.  I think I first heard this reverie as the opening credits song for a film which was about memory, and longing – love, and joy, and forgiveness, and hope; all the things my heart is drawn to as I walk along my path, with time slowing my pace.  The movie was “My Favorite Year”, with Peter O’Toole, and it retains its charm 40 years later.  I guess in a way, even at my advanced age, I relate to the character of the young writer – a fictional blending of the experiences of writers like Mel Brooks, and Woody Allen, on 50’s variety television – working through life’s dreams and illusions to find the deeper, and more meaningful, reality at the heart, what we long to hold and to know.   Perhaps my deeper discoveries lie ahead – I will do my best to share them with those few who find their way here.  Until next time – stay safe as “the purple dusk of twilightime … steals across the meadows of your heart.” 

Finding my fit – part 3 – Working out our invisible muscles

My previous two posts have been about my ongoing, lifelong journey – struggle, battle, triumph? what have you – with “fitness”.   It isn’t over; I haven’t “made it”.  And that’s actually kind of exciting, in a way – the process of learning about our bodies never ends; just as age is inevitable, there is always more we can know, understand and practice.  I also wrote about lessons that I am learning, and relearning, about how my thinking impacts not only my workouts, but my outlook in general – and the principles I can follow to be more effective in this quest.  But there are some insights that take time to root within our understanding, to be revealed in our growth – and to emerge into our awareness, gradually, like a slowly blossoming flower.  So, this last entry about my fitness journey – for now, at least – is about a realization emerging and unfurling its own petals in partnership with my workout regimens.   

For many years, I felt somehow not at home in my own body.  What on earth do I mean by that? It’s hard to explain; I believe I am not the only one who has had that experience, a kind of disassociation, or lack of cohesion.  Certainly, my body was not something I felt proud of, or confident in; like many aspects of my deeper identity, I tried to literally cover it up, instead of accepting it as is. Strangely, during this past year or so at the gym, feeling my muscles move and sensing them more fully, has given me an added awareness of my physical being that I lacked before.  From this, I began to develop an appreciation, and a kind of awe, at the complexity of our individual “selves” – physical, inside, outside, and everything in between.  Somehow, working on my body has evolved into a sort of integration of things that were not fitting together as well before; pieces of a puzzle fitting into place for a larger picture.  I began to feel a glimmer of understanding ….. but I still wasn’t grasping it, but rather – sensing it. 

As I fumbled through my workouts, seeing the calendar models physiques surrounding me whose weight loads are twice mine and more, as well as their biceps and chests – I found myself thinking about whether I was focused on the right muscles, in my workout regimen. Because my visible results weren’t meeting my expectations, I wondered – was I really on the “right” path to develop the important strengths? What was I failing to incorporate? What was I doing wrong? As I began to look beyond what my eyes saw, and what all the fitness and diet apps focused on – the “chest/back/shoulders/legs” type of workout breakdown – to what lay beneath; I realized there was something I was missing, something essential to incorporate alongside all those practices.  I needed to train what I came to consider as my invisible muscles.  

Our bodies are miraculous creations, wondrously complex, infinitely mysterious, and constantly evolving.  Just as our physical selves depend upon a structure of organs, muscles, and nerves to functions, there are networks supporting other aspects of our awareness and existence. Perhaps these invisible muscles are just as amazing, working in harmony with those we see, but remain hidden to our eyes, immeasurable. But just like our bodies, these muscles really aren’t that much different; they need stretching and challenge to gain strength, and nourishment to grow.  If we tend to one set in our training and neglect the other in our thinking and practice – we will be imbalanced, no matter what our bodies look like to those around us. 

Maybe the concept of a correlating network of invisible muscles sounds ridiculous to you – perhaps it would help of them as not physical, but, spiritual or psychic or whatever word works for you. Don’t get hung up on verbiage – rather, consider this invisible muscle structure as just operating in tandem with those in all the exercise videos. Even though no one at the gym can see these muscles, building them will have a more lasting effect, than I can develop solely by pumping iron and pulling cables.  It doesn’t mean that seeking physical health – strength, fitness, whatever term you prefer – is a waste of time.  In fact, I am coming to understand that the outside reflects (and even depends upon) the discipline of what I am embracing inside – I am building from the inside out, not just the walls of a beautiful edifice, but the “whole” of me  living within that physical structure.  Think of it as inner bodybuilding, the hidden strengths humming along silently underneath the outer facade. 

At the gym, we train our legs to carry us farther and faster; our arms to lift heavier and higher; and our chests to be stronger and broader.  The workout of the inner muscles is focused on different parts of our being; to name a few – compassion; forgiveness; grace; faith; tolerance; choosing joy; opening minds and ultimately loving hearts.  Only with these can we accomplish feats of strength like reaching out to others in need; stepping forward with conviction to stand for what is right; carrying a burden for loved ones and even strangers that has left them broken.  And, for many of us, instead of merely lifting weights, we learn to let them go – inside ourselves – through forgiveness and reconciliation.   The unseen muscles direct the efforts of our bodies to accomplish the vision of our hearts – together.   

Why do we need to exercise these internal muscles? As with the rest of the amazing bodies we are given, if unused, they become less enduring; weaker; atrophied. Yet they are just as fundamental to a whole life, if not more so.  The muscles in the workout videos depend on many hidden inner muscles to be fully realized – discipline; consistency; patience; acceptance; courage; community; hope.  These are critical to power the motivation, and the creation of our intent, to accomplish almost any goal – physical or otherwise.  Working them doesn’t come naturally but requires intent – purpose – commitment. Our inner muscles need reps too!  Qualities of character that take time to build, just like all those physical muscles don’t transform overnight.  But these muscles give us the ability to accomplish feats of strength that don’t call upon our bodies as much as our hearts. This inner “fitness” will help us push beyond obstacles and barriers to new life and joy.

I sense, but I cannot prove, that both the visible and invisible muscles are designed to work together, to be integrated. There are probably philosophies and theories about the nature of identity and “being” that address this better than I can explain. But I think, maybe, building them both involves some of the same key principles that I wrote about in my earlier entry – letting time do its work; accepting ourselves and others “as is”, while still moving towards a better reality; finding joy in where we are, right now.  One thing I am certain of – focusing solely on building the muscles others see – without also doing the “reps” on our inner muscles – would leave only an outer shell lacking the inner strength that is waiting to be birthed in us all. 

I am, ultimately, encouraged as I continue my personal quests – knowing I have not “stood still” and wanting to cheer YOU on as well!  Whatever mountains we face, sometimes seemingly alone – we are sharing common dreams and hopes, and seeking the better lives that our dreams call us towards.  I recently found this wonderful zoom music collaboration created to raise funds for the Actors Fund – featuring amazing jazz musicians on one of my favorite Nat King Cole songs.  It rings true for me – sometimes, when we are down on the ground, we need the strength – the inner AND outer muscles! – to get up, and get going, stumbling maybe, but back on track.  If you look around, you will see me cheering you on – and others – you are not alone.  I hope this brings you a little joy and encouragement, as it did me. 

So, friends, my fitness journey has broadened, and deepened, and continues to be a path of discovery and understanding on many fronts. “Working out” through this pandemic has certainly opened my eyes in unexpected ways.  I started with a dream that I could transform my body – and instead, or alongside, I am transforming my mind and heart. Realizing that I need that inner workout has become more apparent with the consistent practice of an outer workout! Somehow, in trying to recover the strength I lost – as well as gain the kind of acceptance and confidence that I never had to begin with – I am building more than just my body.  I am training and building my whole being – and discovering the wonderful possibilities that still lie ahead.  They are there for us all – waiting – taking work and effort to dig through, but well worth the quest.  Until next time, friends – keep reaching for your dreams. The journey continues, for us all.

My journey literally takes to the air for a flight across our continent. For the next chapter, whenever I can set down whatever captures my imagination, register below for free notifications, and stay safe, friends! See you next time, and thanks for stopping by!