Sunday Streets and my sore feets

(Yes, I know that is not grammatically correct, I was well taught but a rebel at heart.)

Join me on a stroll through San Francisco’s SOMA district, and more.

This past weekend, San Francisco’s “Sunday Streets” program focused on Folsom street in the South of Market neighborhood.  Sunday Streets is held occasionally throughout the year (after a COVID pause like most of life everywhere) which shuts down traffic and opens up the asphalt for exploration by foot and other wheeled vehicles like bikes, skateboards and baby strollers.  Local merchants, arts groups, civic clubs and just about anything you might think of (and more) can be found, with unique flavors from the heritage and history of the various neighborhoods.  San Francisco has many layers – some not always visible, some forgotten and some we would like to erase; this is a unique way to take to the time to meander through blocks you might otherwise never notice driving by, meet old friends and make new ones, and see a little bit of other niches of life that might otherwise escape your notice.  

Folsom street was shut down from Main (near the bay) to 9th street – but it extends much farther than this 1.5 mile segment which was car free for about 5 hours.  It parallels Market Street – which runs from the Ferry building all the way out to the Castro neighborhood, but unlike Market there are no cable car rails or street car cables.  Folsom itself was named for Joseph Libbey Folsom (1817-1855), of New Hampshire, who served in the Army and came to Yerba Buena, as the area was then known, in March 1847.   Like so many then and now, he started to invest in real estate, became a millionaire, and eventually bought acreage near Sacramento which in time was also named for him.  He died at age 38 – it’s interesting to wonder how he would view the city 175 years after his arrival, and the street bearing his name. 

I didn’t know that about the street when I set out from my gym Sunday morning, taking another parallel street,  Brannan, and walking from 9th all the way to the Embarcadero, so I had already strolled 1.5 miles by the time I reached the bay.  Why not look up the source of that name? Well, it was Samuel Brannan, (1819-1889),  Mormon settler and founder of the first newspaper in SF, the “California Star”.  Might he have known Folsom? Could they have imagined one day thousands of cars would run on asphalt streets bearing their names? 

What would the citizens of San Francisco 1922 have thought could they see their future city?

Along the way, I passed shiny new condo buildings, and older industrial buildings; a few tents on the sidewalk, but not nearly as many as in some parts of the city.  Here, at the pace of my feet instead of traffic, at eye level and not behind a windshield, one can view that which somehow is invisible on any other day;  colorful murals like the red, white and blue quotes from the Statue of Liberty, otherwise blocked by a chain link fence;  the menu from a steakhouse featuring dishes I would never order at prices I will never, ever pay;  the nearby tents along the way where what public officials refer to as our “unhoused” find temporary shelter.  Few pass me along the way; I decide to say hello to some, and good morning – it’s a habit I think I will try to continue, but it seems a little anachronistic these days, sadly.  I realize it is a way of acknowledging their worth, their personhood – and mine – and it only takes a little courage. 

It’s amazing how the view changes when you can get past a chain link fence.

Reaching the Embarcadero – from the Spanish, “to embark”, a place of departure, usually from a waterfront – I see the bay ahead.  It is a sunny morning, much different from the foggy gloom of our home just a handful of miles away.  Here, on the corner, I see a restaurant I have heard of but never visited, another blur from the car as we pass – Delancey Street.  Operated by a foundation that gives substance abusers, ex-convicts, and others who find help there for over 4 decades now, it is part of our city’s legacy of seeking ways to provide opportunity and hope;  some work, some do not – but dreamers keep coming, and I would see more of them today. 

The charming Delancey Street restaurant – an organization that gives people second chances.

Yet just footsteps away as I continue along the way back to Folsom, I see a tall fence, with zero visibility, and what I grew up calling “quonset huts” but probably have a lot more creative name now – it looks kind of like a prison, and not until I see a very plain sign reading “Navigation Center” do I realize this is one of those creative efforts.  One of some notoriety these days, where addicts are invited to safely get access to services relating to homelessness, drug addiction, and more – like many, my life has been spared these challenges for the most part.  Perhaps like you, I am sorry to admit I could be more compassionate; whatever goes on behind those high fences, and blocked walls, I would like to believe some lives find new hope when they come out on the street, but I cannot say.  These are not just problems here, or now. 

What little the public can see of a “Navigation Center”

I spot something across the main boulevard that I have heard about – “Red’s Java House” – and decide this is the perfect time to explore this tiny piece of mid 20th century SF.  Entering the small building filled with SF Giants memorabilia – the stadium is not far away, and fans have been coming here for some time – your eyes are drawn to the hundreds of black and white photos covering the walls and the simple diner furniture.  I decide to order a “double dog” – which is basically two sausages on sourdough with some condiments and cheese, and sets me back $12 before tip – but satisfies my hunger completely.  The back patio overlooks  the bay, with a small bar; this is not a game day, it is not busy, but considering this small haven has been serving up tasty comfort food and beer for almost 70 years, it was the perfect refresher. 

I continue on and stop to admire the view of the bay, the SF Fire department station with their seaworthy equipment, the Bay bridge passing overhead towards Treasure Island, and the giant bow and arrow seemingly shot from the sky above into the earth below, just where Folsom street is about to begin.  This is “Cupid’s Span”, a sculpture from 2002 that relates to a legend with which I am completely unfamiliar, of Eros shooting his arrow into the earth to make it fertile.   

A view of the bay bridge and the Embacadero

I continue on and stop to admire the view of the bay, the SF Fire department station with their seaworthy equipment, the Bay bridge passing overhead towards Treasure Island, and the giant bow and arrow seemingly shot from the sky above into the earth below, just where Folsom street is about to begin.  When I return home, I find this is “Cupid’s Span”, a sculpture from 2002 that relates to a legend with which I am completely unfamiliar, of Eros shooting his arrow into the earth to make it fertile.   

If you ever have a trivia question about where a dinosaur skull is in SF … now you know.

Nearby, a marker explains that where we stand now there used to be creatures who no longer walk this earth – with a replica of a dinosaur head gazing out towards the bay.  Two moments, one of history, one of myth – the base elements of much of what makes up this kaleidoscopic city with all its chaos and joys and desires.  I nod towards the nearby Ferry Building from 1898 – I feel a kind of kinship with it, knowing our home was built that same year, and like many structures that no longer stand, are witnesses to time in a way I can never be. 

Finally, I am at Folsom and Main, and barriers announcing the beginning of the next 1.5 miles of my journey – the “Sunday Streets” event.  A Jazz combo with an awning next to a trailer welcomes locals to have a seat and groove – how many are locals, and how many tourists?  I have no way to tell.  As I stroll block after block, the music shifts – there are rock groups and vocalists, someone with an accordion.  There are skateboard “slalom” courses, and “rock climbing” towers;  indoor gold stations and other businesses I never would have guessed lined these streets.   Nearby, the museum of modern art and other institutions mingle among the shiny new condo towers and the nearly deserted churches whose stained glass windows are covered with protective grating – but from the inside, the light still finds a way through.  The stacks of buildings from different eras seem to push in on one another like children in a lunch line, scrambling for space – there was a time when few suites were empty, but that time is gone.  I admire one of the older “residents” – the E.M. O’Donnell copper works building, just over 100 years old;  it recently sold for $9M to a residential architecture firm.  It is dwarfed by the Sales Force Tower looming over everything in its purvue.  Even in this period of uncertainty, some of our heritage remains, preserved, witnesses. 

SOMA is home to many cultural institutions and communities; there are many stories here.  The SOMA Pilipinas Filipino heritage district shared a model of the current vision for a “gateway” to their history here; everything in this city passes through generations of cultures, each leaving an imprint, but not always remembered or celebrated by all.  Emigrants from the Philippines have been woven into the fabric of our city for over 120 years; like those from China, Italy, and around the world, they have made San Francisco something unique, vibrant, bringing new energy and hope.

The planned span “Gateway” to the Pilipinas Heritage District – inspiring and sacred.

And of course there are politicians – and causes – represented by booths and speakers.  I got a smile from the “Climate Anxiety” booth who asked if they could help me, and explained that their “Lucy” had fallen ill that day;  too bad, as it was one of the first truly beautiful summer days so far in what many here call “Fogust”.   I also stopped to chat with a representative of the LGBT hotline, whose rainbow phone caught my eye;  they have been a resource for people seeking support and community across our country since they started in a broom closet of a gay bathhouse in NYC in the 70’s.  Out of the closet, indeed.   Nearing the end of the route, this is the area included in the Leather/LGBTQ cultural district – a haven for decades of shops, artists, bars, and refuge for another “tribe” of our city, one where many voices and many hearts seek new homes. 

I’ve walked over 3 miles now, and nearly 4 hours, and through 150 years of time; I have seen many faces and heard different voices, but all smiling, all happy to be able to walk in the sun.  Perhaps not all see what I see, or hear what I hear – but the city speaks to me, soft voices, even silent ones.  Here, and in your city, there are places we see but we do not see – and faces, too.  We drive through them – they are not our home, not our block, not our people.  Or are they?  I cannot say this stroll has changed me … nor have I changed much here, either.   But as I make it back to my car with feet aching to be freed from their shoes at home, I realize I want to see what I have not, at ground level, without glass in between, free of the reminders of appointments – to discover, to unearth, to be awed and reminded that beauty remains, waiting to shine, if we only look.  If we only listen.  

“Cupid’s Span”, from 2002; in the distance, the 1898 Ferry Building Clock tower; and, some guy.

Next time I explore our city by foot, I will have to remind myself, again, to say “good morning” to strangers, if that is the world I want to be a part of, again.   Perhaps our paths will cross – do say hello. And join me in walking your own streets, you will find treasures there as well. Until next time …..

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.

Quiet words of hope to a stranger

My goal in writing here is simple – to share from my experience, my observations and my heart what I hope might have meaning for some readers, to offer the lessons I have learned or that my life demonstrates that, like yours, sometimes came at great cost.  A cost in years of unfulfilled potential, and wandering, trying to reconcile what I had been taught to the calling I felt in my own heart.  During some of those years, I was blessed that some came into my life to “walk alongside” and encourage me.  Little did I realize that I would be asked to do the same, for someone I never met and will never know. 

As I write in June of 2020, this would have been the month that many cities, mine included, were planning to host celebrate Pride; in SF’s case, the 50th annual.  But in 2012, I was just starting my own coming out process, in my early 50’s – a “late bloomer” in every respect.  I think my own first attendance at Pride was LA a year or two prior – so I was hardly in a place to share insights on “gay” life. It was a time of adjustment, discovery, mistakes and choices – not all of which turned out well.  Still, for some reason, my counselor at the time asked me to consider writing a letter – to a stranger. 

He had been approached by the parents of a 14-year-old boy who had recently come out to them as gay – something I could never had imagined when I was that age in 1972, 40 years earlier. His parents were more than supportive – so much so, that they felt and realized they could not offer their son all the guidance and insight he was seeking, and they had tuned to my counselor for help and support, for them as well as their son.  For some reason, he thought that I should write this teenager a letter of encouragement.  After all, my counselor was gay – what did I have to offer? 

To me, this was confusing.  I had spent years in “reparative therapy”, hiding from everyone in my life, exposing myself to danger through denial, and letting shame rule my heart; never knowing love, openness, true honesty – and missing out on acceptance from others as well as myself.  I was trying to find my own way after a life of hiding. What could I say to a 14 year old two generations younger in a very different world?  But I said yes – and ultimately, perhaps, the letter I wrote was the one I wish someone had sent me when I was alone and every voice around me was telling me that what I felt in my deepest heart had to be ignored. 

Here is that letter, from 2012 – and following – a closing observation.  

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To my young friend, who has more questions than answers – for whatever it is worth, this is the best wisdom I have to offer you as you begin an uncertain journey.

  1. BELIEVE in yourself.   Whatever flaws, whatever failures – you are an amazing and magnificent creation.  You have potential that you cannot imagine.  You must be on your own side – others will join you – but always, always know you have worth.  Surround yourself only with those who affirm your unique worth, and in turn believe in them and their worth as well. 
  2. EXPLORE life with an open mind.  The world has more wonders than you can ever see, more perspectives on life than you can ever learn, and more ideas than you can imagine.  Travel, whether it be across town or oceans, to see something new and be open to embracing that which others may not accept.
  3. RESPECT all individuals, whether they stand with you or are in your face – their lives are just as precious, unique and wondrous.  There will be some that you will never agree with on any issue at all – but you must respect them, and their values, to learn from them and become all that you might be.
  4. CREATE something – anything – you have abilities and powers that are yours alone, and that means that there is something you have to offer the world, one person or millions, that can only come from you.  Don’t shut doors that are open to you – try something new, the only failure is to say “I can’t”.
  5. GIVE freely … give from your heart, give often.  Give forgiveness to those who don’t understand you, give support and encouragement to those in need whether through your abilities or through your wallet, give when no one asks but you see the chance to make a difference, and give without anyone even knowing it came from you.  In return, in time, you will receive joy unlimited.
  6. ACCEPT that you cannot have everything the way you want it – not in your own life, not what you want from your family and loved ones, not from your school or your job or your friends.  You cannot control what happens to you – but if you accept that you cannot make things happen the way you want, you have taken a step to freedom.  This is a very hard lesson to learn, and live.
  7. If you can … have FAITH.  Faith is different from belief, different from knowledge – it is understanding that there is something larger than you.  You may not choose to have the same faith that those who love you want you to have; you may in time grow to have faith in something other than what you understand today.  That is ok.  But … if you can see that there is a power beyond you, beyond all that you know, and if you come to believe that power loves and cares for you, and each person you meet in life … you will experience life in a way that most never imagine, and you will find joy. 

Life is not always kind, and rarely fair; the rules and stories we learn as children in time may seem to be something to throw away.  There is truth in everything, and I hope you will, more than anything – SEEK – look for the truth, look for that which has value and meaning that lasts.  If you do look, beyond what others tell you to do, or be, or pursue – if you look within, and look above – you will find.  You will find the wonder of life, and you will celebrate, and you will become the miracle only you are. 

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Here we are, eight years later. I always loved happy endings, in fairy tales and myth, and later in movies – but I cannot offer you one, today.  I can share that in the years since, I have found love, married, moved to San Francisco, made plans that didn’t happen, and like you am doing all I can to stay balanced through the present challenges – and more to come.  But life has taught me there are no endings, only streams that converge and diverge, mingle and dance.  I cannot tell you what happened in that young man’s life, or where he is today at age 22.  But my counselor, Patrick, did tell me that the parents and their son were touched deeply by what I wrote.  So why share it with you today? 

By nature, most of us tend to congregate with others who share our viewpoint, history, goals or interests.  Birds of a feather. But sometimes the connections we need to open our eyes to new possibilities must come from outside our bubble. We cannot learn from those who merely repeat what we already believe to be true.  Although my life path might have similarities with your own, or someone you know, I believe we sometimes learn more from people who are different from us – that there are truths in all our experience that we can glean if we are open to listening to others, then looking within ourselves, and then realize there are options ahead we did not previously see. A secret door. An unfamiliar path. 

You have the keys to someone’s door, and the light to their path that they perhaps need your help to step forward on. Today, we are surrounded by need – and opportunity – to change our world.  Not probably in huge ways, on our own – but by listening, and caring, and accepting.  And perhaps, by sharing.  Perhaps your truths, that you paid a price for – are the hope that someone in your life needs to hear.  

So, join me for Pride – and “come out”.   Not in the sense that you might generally think of – unless, of course, that is something you might need to consider.  But in the sense of looking at what perhaps lies buried in your own life, unshared, that could make a difference by opening up to someone in need.  Perhaps that doesn’t seem likely to you, but I promise – you have pearls of great price that may offer hope to a stranger, as well.  Isn’t it worth it to take that chance?

If there was ever a moment to listen first, and learn – to realize none of us has “all the answers” but only together can we BUILD the road to a better tomorrow – that moment is now.  Listen to the hearts of those around you, perhaps strangers now, and your own – and you will know, somehow, when it is your time to “come out” and share your truths to those whose stream crosses through your path.  You may never know what miracles may follow. Let’s move forward , together.