coming out – The New NormL

10 years out

Today, October 11, is National Coming Out day. In my lifetime, I have seen the concept of being “outed” change so much, it would be difficult to describe to someone who didn’t live through the events of the past 50 years that have changed our country, our world, so much. There is debate on many fronts – about the nature of what it is to be human; about what should be taught in schools; about what is “true” and what is “science”; even the nature of faith. Much of my life has been spent in recovery from lessons I would hope fewer children are taught now; but I know there will always be opportunities to give others encouragement to accept themselves, to stand up for others who need support, and to tell someone that they are loved.

Perhaps time doesn’t heal all wounds, but instead allows us to move beyond them and honor their lessons. I will probably spend the rest of my life continuing to learn and grow, and occasionally contribute to that in others; one of the reasons I write here is to try to share something with strangers out there who might be facing challenges that I faced, similar if different – and to say, hold on. Hold on to hope, to faith, to love – they are all real, they are eternal, and they surround you. But today the hours are winding down, and for the moment, I feel the best I can offer, now at least, is to share the letter I sent to friends and family on October 11, 2012 – like everything I write, it came from the heart. Since then – life has indeed changed. Life has truly become better – not easy, not carefree, not without challenges – but better. In that spirit – a look back at how my own path to becoming the best I can be took a big step towards growth, 10 years ago, today. The title to my email was –

A Voice in the wilderness no more

Family and Friends, far and wide, close and distant – Today is a day for sharing. I have exciting news to share – news I could not have imagined just a few years ago. Behind the headline is a larger story, one I wish I could convey in a more personal way but my hope is you will accept my offer to journey through with me. In it, perhaps, is something that will touch your life or the lives of those you love, and it is my gift and privilege to invite you to pause, listen, and perhaps see my life in a different light.

My news is that as of last month I am one of the newest members of the Gay Men’s Chorus of Los Angeles, or GMCLA. About 16 months ago I first attended one of their performances, and when they came out on stage – before even singing a note – I felt my heart welling up with tears. When I saw these men walking out in front of an audience, something about their openness and their pride spoke to my soul in a very deep way – because of the wounds that still lay deep within me. Later on, I heard a concert of spirituals that lifted my heart, and finally last June when I attended with a friend, he encouraged me to try out. When I auditioned, I knew that if I was selected, to stand with these men, to openly share not only my identity as a member of a chorus but as a representative of thousands, millions of voices that are not always heard – that I would take that privilege as a sign to fully share my story with you. It isn’t brief, but I hope you will take the time to find the meaning it offers.

It probably isn’t a surprise for me to tell you I am gay. It’s kind of funny for me to say that, still – when I was a kid, and I knew my feelings even then, gay was not a word in common use for that population. The words were uglier, and it was the 70’s, and at least in my sheltered world, there were no homosexuals – none that I knew of. They were solely characters whispered about in obscure movies and condemned in Old Testament stories. I remember my Mom complaining bitterly about how “they were stealing that beautiful word and making it ugly!” In any case, you may have assumed years ago that I am a fairy, a faggot, a queer, a homosexual (I don’t think many use the term sodomite anymore, but, whatever). But this isn’t about labels or names.

What is more important for me to tell you is how I came to the point of being able to finally embrace, willingly, and accept a part of me that I was taught, indoctrinated, even brainwashed to hate, reject, despise, and try to destroy. Because in that history is the core of whatever I have to share with you that really matters.

Many of you receiving this directly, today, “National Coming Out Day” 2012, have known something of my family life; some are family. But, unfortunately, my family life was a lot more destructive, in a well-intentioned way, than those of you who might have been a distant part of it could have known even then. It’s nothing too different from many children, but through whatever set of circumstances, disparate threads weaved together over time to form a rope, a net, and in some ways a noose that bound me more effectively than any prison. It’s not necessary to go into details; I know my parents loved me, but like all parents, they had their own brokenness and challenges. With my Dad out of the picture at a young age –probably for the best, for me – and my Mom impacted by disabilities and emotionally shattered – I was a child alone, and poorly prepared to face being different in addition to the rejection I already felt.

I don’t regret that I was brought up in a home where faith – or a form thereof – was a central facet of life. I was, as I see it, blessed with a gift of intelligence that allowed me to burrow away from the loneliness of rejection by my peers, and economic limitations, into a world of books and imagination. I could get “good grades” and be a “good boy”. But even though I am today thankful for all the good things that were a part of my growing up, and my family structure, I realized early on that a central fact about my being was the worst thing that anyone could be (in my insulated world) – I was attracted to other boys. I hated myself for it, and read books about it; I prayed for it to change, even as I left home for college; and my overall shame about not only that facet of my being, but an all-encompassing sense of alienation and worthlessness, kept me from stepping outside the safety of my pretend world, and my straight church boy alter ego, to even attempt to find my place in that other world. From what I saw in the porn I occasionally viewed, and then destroyed, I was not good enough to be attractive to other guys, and in any case, it was a sin worse than death. I also watched in the papers as news began to spread of a “gay plague” and the fear and condemnation that came from my world towards that group of “other people” was enough to keep me safely closeted.

When I finally, due to job requirements, left the safe but cold and lonely womb of my home, despite my Mom’s pleadings to remain, I started to cautiously but still shamefully and full of self-hatred step into the world I had only viewed from a distance. What happened at that point changed my destiny in a single night at age 26, when I was held at gunpoint, tied up, and my home ransacked and car stolen by a stranger I had brought home for what, in my twisted perception, passed for intimacy. I called the police, who ridiculed me behind my back and made no effective effort to find my car; more importantly, I called my Dad who came to bring me back home – to “safety”. There, after tearful confessions, I told my parents (separately) my horrible secret. My Dad was not overly reactive – he was not someone equipped with much in the way of caring skills – but my Mom prayed for my deliverance. And that is when the threads began to tighten around me.

For several years, I was in therapy, and eventually happily and hopefully participating in what was called “Ex gay deliverance” ministries, aka conversion therapy. I reached for the promise of being “healed” – of becoming straight, or like Pinocchio, a real boy. I attended groups where were prayed for God’s help in overcoming our “brokenness” and sin; I was prayed over for deliverance from demons; I confessed my temptations, I fasted, I read books. I even travelled to San Francisco for consideration in a yearlong residency at a home where young gay men could be taught how to become straight, through faith in God and the support of others. The only problem was … God wasn’t answering those prayers, and the support of the few believers that I turned to wasn’t enough to matter. The counseling failed to provide any consolation; and after several years, I just gave up – on living, on believing I could matter, or that there was any hope for love. Fortunately, for me, even though I made weak attempts at a typical straight life, I did not take it so far as to carry the deception into the life of another through a sham relationship and marriage. I poured myself into my work, my education, and artificial happiness. Alone. Always, alone.

When my Mom reached a point of decline that she needed to be moved from home in my 40’s, I literally returned to that original site of isolation and loneliness. Oddly, in working for literally years to clean my childhood home of my Mom’s hoarded treasures, I found in the stacks of old family photos, forgotten letters, journals and albums a message of hope. I saw that my life was a part of a chain of events, of other people – and I learned that their lives had tragedy and loss as well as the joy and happiness in the faded black and white snapshots. I learned that my family had lost members crossing the US to settle the west, that they had died in flu epidemics, and that they were separated by wars and fought many trials to stay alive. Out of that … I was born. My life was not some random occurrence; I was a part of a larger stream of life – and not only a leftover, or a mistake. For whatever reason, out of that I began to feel that my life had to have meaning beyond just taking care of others, beyond just working.

I had never abandoned my sense that my life was part of a larger whole, or a foundational belief that a Creator existed; but I had reached a place of desperation where I felt abandoned by a God who never responded to my pleas, and that must mean I did something wrong. I saw myself only as a failure who could not achieve what he was created to achieve – conformity with social expectations and gender roles, sexual roles, that were shouted all around me, along with that ongoing hatred of perversion shared by those who sat in the pews and sang the praise and worship songs, whether to an organ or a guitar with drum backups. The healing deliverance never came. There certainly was no one I could be honest with about what I felt; my prior counseling for years had produced only a sense of futility and hopelessness, and I clearly was not doing something right with all the ex-gay ministries. But as I delved into my family history, I reconnected with a member who had been scorned by my father, and effectively abandoned by the rest of the family – his gay cousin Bill.

Bill was an irresponsible man who took advantage of others while, at times, putting on airs of sophistication and living for the moment. He had come out during the 40’s as a teenager and lived as a hairdresser in Hollywood and Hawaii during a time of social change; I had only met him twice, briefly. When I visited Hawaii due to a business trip in the 80’s I was relieved that he and his partner were gone on a trip. When I went to visit him 20 years later in Palm Springs, and shortly thereafter his partner passed, I eventually became legally responsible for his care. I will never forget the Thanksgiving I asked my Dad if I could bring Bill to Corona for dinner, and he refused immediately. I visited him occasionally; he took me to a brunch one Sunday at a gay resort, and I remember feeling extremely uncomfortable and out of place. But Bill never asked me about my life; I made excuses for being single. Years later, I learned that he told his friends I would come to my senses one day, and he hoped they would help me.

Beginning in early 2006 with the loss of my stepmother, May of that year with my Mom’s passing, Bill’s death in October of that year and my Dad following in May of 2007, my world changed. Everything that had kept me in place was gone. I was in a new job; I had finished my second master’s and bought a beautiful home where I could at last display all the things I had spent time and money accumulating. I turned 50; I was utterly alone, I knew nothing about love, and I had to finally accept that unless I was ok with spending whatever time I had left isolated and uncared for, I had to find a way to accept that part of me that I had worked so hard to kill. I had to try to find a way to accept being gay, even though the teachings embedded in my brain and heart for 4 decades still shouted at me that they must be obeyed. The noose was beginning to unravel along with the lies that came from it.

It would not be true to say I had no friends in my life, but those that were did not know that part of me of which I was so ashamed – with one exception, Helen, a friend a fellow person of faith who did not condemn me. She didn’t pretend to have answers like most, but she knew enough to be sure that God did not hate me, or any of those who like me failed to meet that standard of purity and conformity. I made a friend in Alan, who taught me to ride horse back and who had himself followed a very different path, one of accepting himself early on and pursuing the life that I had denied. I started taking tentative steps and went to a gay bar for the first time in April of 2010; that summer was a time of confusion as I walked into a world very different from anything I had known. I made more friends, some of which lasted and some of which turned out to be ones that I needed to move on from. I began to come out to people I had spent my life lying to, out of desperation, because of the confusion I was experiencing as I tried to bridge my earlier perspective with the realities confronting me with each excursion beyond the prison of lies.

In time I found my way to the LA Gay and Lesbian Center, where for about six months in 2011 I spent time each week in a men’s group where others of all ages, races and backgrounds shared their process of accepting where they were, and finding that acceptance, sometimes, from others as well. I gradually shared my story with varying degrees of acceptance, some unsurprised, others shocked. I began with the people I felt I had lied to the most; the ones who I did not trust to accept me, and from whom I had hidden in shame. As I told one dear friend – I don’t have the answers; I don’t know why. But I know that God – and yes, I still believe in a creator that cares – loves me, and everyone like me, even though those who claim to be his representatives shout down any suggestion otherwise. I wanted her to know that anytime she heard someone share that lie, that she knew someone who loved her and who she loved, who had been a part of her life, who she knew to be a caring and decent man, was one of those being condemned and rejected –and that God wanted that to change.

I would be remiss if I failed to share the impact that another change has had on my life. Against any expectation on my own or from others, I find myself riding a beautiful, black, loud, shiny and at times unreliable beast I have named Prometheus – my 2001 centennial edition Indian Chief. It was brought into my life, of that I am sure. My courtship has been tentative, but I have not given up taming the beast. One of the proudest moments of my life was riding last December with the Satyrs Motorcycle club – my first group ride – the oldest continuously operating gay organization of any kind, in the world. And a few weeks ago, I rode into San Francisco – for the first time, as a man who accepts himself as he is, without shame, without lies. It has been transformative. In a way, it typifies my resolve to pursue what my heart desires against all the self-doubts and uncertainties – to take hold and not let go, regardless of what others think. The attached photo is from the Long Beach Pride parade I was able to ride in this past June.

In the past 30 months I have seen things and been on a journey to places that polite conversation would not welcome, and that’s as it should be. I don’t pretend that my experiences or desires are those common to all who walk the earth. But I have learned to not hate myself for it. And in that time, I have made many mistakes, blundered into situations for which my life of isolation did not prepare me, and frequently walked away feeling desperately out of place. And yet … for the first time in my life, I feel a sense of rightness. That instead of crushing my own heart, it breathes and beats the truth. When during the course of conversation an older gentleman proclaimed “Oh, so you are just coming out”, I responded that I feel it is more than coming out – it is, for me, comingtogether. Accepting pieces I tried to crush, to burn, to kill, to destroy – not knowing, not realizing that it was those very pieces which I needed to at last reach out and touch, and be touched, by others in the way that we all so deeply desire. At last I can say without doubt – what I feel is natural. It is normal. It is whole. And for me, for how I see the broader realities, it is blessed.

Beyond all these passages, I remain profoundly grateful. Grateful to be alive; grateful, at 54 in a world that values youth and in a life where I lost decades from living in a box, bound by fear shame and lies … to be able to stand. Able to choose. I never thought I had choices in life; it was all so very well defined. No thinking was necessary, or welcome; it was all set out for me, to follow the dotted lines. But I didn’t fit. I wasn’t created to fit. I now see we are all created ultimately to be true to ourselves and in that to honor the source of our life with that truth. And that only in accepting that truth – the whole of it, not just the pretty parts – can we fully realize, and then share, the most powerful resource our hearts can embrace –unconditional love. Not love that says “First you must” or “Only if you” … but love that comes from knowing we are ok JUST AS WE ARE.

For those of you out there reading this who want to respond with theological positions or scriptures … don’t know you I have spent my life on those questions? Don’t you realize I have cried in the darkness, alone, begging God to please change me? I have often wanted to stand in front of the bodies of believers who have been taught, thoughtlessly, to hate the different ones and ask – how much more did Jesus need to die, to bleed, for me to be forgiven and accepted? No … I am not straight. And don’t you believe that if God wanted me to become something I am not – he would or could zap me and make me conform to that? I reject those arguments. I will not participate in them. I will not waste one more moment hating myself or anyone else, or stand by while anyone shares lies and judgment, telling anyone that they are not good enough to stand up in the sunlight and be accepted and live as they choose, as they are, as they were created. We may not be able to choose who we are but we can damn well choose how we live. I stand today having to remind myself, just like any other man of character, that regardless of how others respond to me, regardless of how they view or accept or embrace or reject me – I must be true to what values and priorities that I want to define me.

This Saturday, I am so moved, so grateful, so blessed to be able to stand with nearly 50 other men and sing for an audience of 1500 teens, young adults and their parents who are hearing, freely, what I was never told – that it is ok to be gay. It’s ok to be lesbian. It’s ok to be unsure. It’s ok to not have answers – and that no one has the right to tell them to change. No one can tell them they are “wrong”. I hope that I won’t break down in tears. I hope that my smile will shine through as I stand before them, free to be myself, accept myself, and reach out with that hope for them.

I am not coming out to you today for you; I’m doing it for me and for anyone in your life that may need you to accept them as well. This isn’t about me seeking your acceptance or blessing; it’s about me at last, at last, having the strength to accept myself and step fully into the light without shame. I am so grateful to those who have stood with me in this passage; the trials are not over. So many who have led the way, so many who were braver than I, who fought and created the programs and the places and the freedoms so that I could take these steps. I want to thank them all. I especially want to thank the men who have listened, who have held me, who have encouraged me, who have accepted me. My promise is to live up to their hopes. My promise is to keep fighting. My promise, my choice, is to walk out of the shadows, and love.

I hope you will do the same. And I hope, wherever you are, whatever you believe, that if nothing else – you will go see a Gay men’s chorus. Listen. Open your heart. Let truth wipe away darkness. Let light dispel lies. Hear them sing. Hear me sing.

In love … Norm

With my husband in Dolores Park, San Francisco, October 2022.

Beyond Pride on a Sunday stroll

It’s July 2022. Quite a bit different from July 2019, or 2020, or 2021 – in fact, different from any July, ever, in my life – in yours too, probably. We’ve changed – not entirely willingly, not entirely happily. The air itself sometimes seems to smell of conflict – like an undercurrent of chaos bubbles beneath our feet, waiting to grab us. Not a happy start to a blog post, I know – but sometimes it feels like our reality is seething with energy, anger – a heavy, bleak fog making it difficult to breathe – to hope. Honestly – that sucks. It’s like we have fallen into a pattern of shocking news, new threats, one after the other – we are all like little Indiana Joneses, running from one giant boulder only to find another waiting, trying just to catch our breath in between but finding no safe place – no rest.

It takes work to pull our heads out of that space – to give our hearts hope. It takes determination, and courage. Sometimes it takes anger – but more often it require a choice to forgive. Those who didn’t give us what they promised, or what we hoped; those who failed to treat us with dignity; those who offered expectations that could never be achieved, but which our hearts cried out for. And, to forgive ourselves, if we can find the honesty to admit we too have abandoned others in those dark passages, we too have not been what we held forth. It takes a lot of forgiveness.

Why am I writing about this, as we say goodbye to June – now considered Pride month here in SF, and many parts of country; with festivals and parades, commercials and special rainbow products? The fact is, writing a blog – for me, at least – is difficult. Sure, time consuming – doesn’t have to be, sometimes it isn’t – but the digging in my own brain and heart trying to pull out exactly what it is I want to “put out there” – it’s draining. Let’s be realistic – Pride has for many become somehow less meaningful. Even here, friends say they don’t bother to go to the parade – it’s too commercial; too crazy; too political, or not political enough. Too many out of towners, or dozens of other reasons to skip it- now, supplemented by the never ending health scares lingering lingering like unwanted relatives who just won’t leave your home after dinner. Even the Pride flag is controversial, needs replacing; some want to keep others out of Pride entirely, or start their own parade. The upheaval and uncertainty that seems to taint everything in our lives has not excluded Pride.

I think my first visit to a Pride parade was West Hollywood in 2012. I went with a friend, made the long drive on the long, weaving freeway from “Inland” southern California to Los Angeles – driving from a city most of the folks waving flags and throwing glitter had never heard of. There were homeless people sleeping on the street before the start. But as the crowds drew, and the hour grew closer, and the roar of motorcycles signaled that at last, the parade was beginning to move our way – there was excitement. I din’t feel a lot in common with most of the people around me – but I was in the sunshine, I was there, I was standing and smiling and waving as others walked past, drove past, some dancing, some in drag, some young, a few old.

Since that year – 10 years now – I have ridden my own motorcycle in a Pride parade (gosh, that was over quickly after hours of waiting!). I have walked, singing show tunes, with the gay men’s chorus. I have visited different cities, and even gone to a few dance parties – now that was a place I did not fit in! – and in 2019, as I carried a banner for a volunteer group near the very front of the parade, I stood motionless for hours because a handful of people who felt it was their right, their duty to hold up a celebration by thousands who had prepared for this day for months before, and later sued the city for mistreatment because ultimately they were pulled out of the street so the parade could continue. Pride and the related events have always been close cousins to political groups, movements, protests – but their evolution in recent years has left some feeling that Pride no longer has meaning for them.

But 2022 held a very special meaning for me. Now, I don’t have to drive for hours to get to LA – the “big city” – to march. My husband and I drove a couple of blocks to our BART station where other early risers were awaiting the train to take them a handful of stops away, down to the Embarcadero, and the lineup awaiting again the roar of motorcycles after a 3 year pause. We strolled through the staging area where politicians, cultural groups, vintage cars, musical performers and even a club of Corgi owners huddled, nearly 200 “units” of all kinds of people, all kinds of meaning. The sun broke through the fog just as our section began to move onto Market street – greeted by happy cheers. Pride was back. San Francisco was back. Our lives were back – that’s what we wanted, what we yearned for, what we needed to believe.

When I got home, I’d planned to work on a post – but, hey, my feet were really tired. My ears were numb. So a week went by, and boom, it’s Independence Day – which will be another post, probably – but even though “Pride Month” is over and the rainbows have started to dissipate, my heart tells me I need to share the Facebook post I created that evening, with you – mostly strangers, finding your way here somehow, someday. I was surprised by how many “likes” I got – it’s not like I have a lot of friends, I am not anywhere near an influencer; but, my words touched some. So perhaps you, whenever you see this, might find some meaning from it too – it’s simple, it’s honest, it’s real. And it’s a heck of a lot shorter than what you just read through, too!

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Today my husband and I walked in SF Pride together – our first since our marriage in 2018. We watched some of the tv coverage after we got home; reporters sometimes asked the crowd what does Pride mean to you? I don’t have a simple answer, but I’ll try. I have friends here who knew me in my youth and our paths diverged; I have friends from later years long before I “came out”; I have friends from the past decade since then, and so many new friends who welcomed me from Bob’s many years here, and his family. Yet until I could accept that my attraction to other men wasn’t a defect or mistake or something wrong, I could never really believe I was truly loved and accepted by anyone in my life. Today, thankfully, I’ve moved past those distortions and I continue to learn how to love and be loved. In many ways I still feel guilt that it took me so long to – but love, through you my friends, my family, my husband and others, has fought it’s way through the lies and high, thick walls of shame. I grew up in a community of faith, and that too has grown deeper with the knowledge and understanding that greater love knows no bounds or limits except the ones we embrace. So yes, I am proud – to belong to such a wonderful community of acceptance, encouragement and hope – and learning to do my own little part to give back. Because love, that deeper love, is deeper and stronger and powerful to change lives. And to give even me the amazing opportunity to walk through a crowd of cheering voices, holding hands with my wonderful husband. There is wisdom in the words, Love wins out; love never fails. That of all the qualities we consider spiritual- faith, hope and love – love is indeed the greatest. Today, we celebrated the power of love, and pride, and the ongoing struggles to bring that to our communities and our world, in a sea of glitter and rainbows and more. So, thank you, all of you who’ve shown me love, in ways large and small – that brought me to a place, still growing, but where I could begin a post saying – today my husband and I walked in SF pride, together.

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We don’t know what the future holds, or even a few hours from now; I don’t know what I will remember towards the end of my days on earth. But if I had to just have a few moments that I could carry with me the rest of my life, holding hands with someone I love and walking down a sunny street filled with cheering strangers would be one. There’s still a lot of people who hate seeing men loving men, and women loving women – I was part of that myself. There are still a lot of people who just don’t realize how magnificent, immeasurable and powerful love can be when we take off the chains and pull down the walls and stop limiting something that is beyond our comprehension because that’s the way we want reality to be. My walk down Market Street in June 2022 won’t change the world – but it changed me a little bit. And maybe some of the the people who saw us found a little bit of hope as well.

Maybe – maybe – someone will, for a moment, see that love is bigger than they ever imagined; it doesn’t respect barriers; it doesn’t stop for anyone. Love is, just, love.

I will never be a muscle boy dancing on a float to the latest gay anthem; I will never be one of the stars that people notice, and I will never write a speech that inspires people around the world to stand up and be counted. But I can love my husband, my family, my friends in my little imperfect way, and stumble through the daily routine, and fret about gas prices and political leadership and wrongs that need righting – and occasionally, I can say I am proud, and I love you, and hold out my had gently, and hug someone just enough to pass on a touch of encouragement, a pinch of joy, and go to bed hoping that somehow, today, I touched a life and sleep, at last.

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!

Spiritus Sanctus in a Leather Jacket

Today, July 26 2020, marks a significant anniversary for me, and you’re invited along. Perhaps some readers may recall Billy Pilgrim, from Slaughterhouse-Five, by Kurt Vonnegut; he became “unstuck in time”. Like Billy’s journey, I realize that my sharing of my life here is nonlinear, but I write about what is on my mind, and what I think matters and might have meaning for someone out there today. Although the overriding theme of my blog is “my journey to authenticity”, today, rather than the “New NormL”, I think perhaps what I have to share is a bit of the “True NormL”. But before I go on – friends, this is going to be a long one. I do hope you will agree it’s worth it; this is from my heart, like really everything I post here, but this is the post it has taken me a lifetime to create. I hope it won’t seem that long to read!!!!

I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep”.
Kurt Vonnegut, “Slaughterhouse-Five”

Like many of my generation, church was a foundational factor in my upbringing. In childhood, growing up in circumstances that brought many blessings but also brought me to a place of separation and isolation, I attended Sunday school, like most “good families” of that 60’s era, even though mine was profoundly broken. I imagine today that the trappings of those gatherings are mostly forgotten – little “story boards” with felt figures of Bible folk to illustrate stories, songs we would sing together, craft fairs and choir practice. I was raised Protestant, but in my teens my mother – disabled and facing challenges beyond her means – sought comfort in pursuing the Evangelical movement. She clung to the shouted words of healers and held on for a miracle. I followed, in time – I wanted to belong, and to be accepted. Of course, the big hurdle in my truly feeling loved, accepted, “saved” or whatever other term you might pick was just one little problem – I was attracted to other boys.

*This is what Sunday School media looked like in 1964.*

But I could not accept that in myself; it wasn’t something I could embrace or act upon. By my twenties, entering the professional world after college, my heart was a lonely cave where the air was thick with shame. I attended bible rallies and went forth for prayer for deliverance, for laying on of hands and speaking in tongues. I travelled to the Holy Land and prayed to be changed; I remember asking the leader of the tour, a very knowledgeable, loving and well learned man in many faiths, what I could do to be “fixed”. His reply – “just stop it”. I recall listening to tapes about demons being cast out where the speaker “saw” frog like spirits beings released from those possessed by homosexuality. When I finally moved in the mid 80’s from the isolation of my mother’s home to have a degree of independence, my search for what I thought was love got me into trouble; after being held at gunpoint in my apartment and calling the police to report the attack by someone I had brought into my home, I heard their snickering behind my back, and I shrunk in humiliation. Without a car or wallet, I called my father to please come bring me back to my mother’s home. I told them what had happened, but no one else could know – I remained silent and solitary.

Hallelujah! After the exposure to my family, my secret was “out”, and it seemed that I could finally get help. I began working with a counselor for “reparative therapy”; I dated a girl from church and to this day regret the pain I caused her with a breakup, but realize I did her a favor. I attended “ex gay” programs offered by “Desert Stream” at a church in Pasadena, riding from the “Inland Empire” more than an hour each way with a fellow church member who worked for Campus Crusade. There, I met others, including men who worked for “Focus on the Family”, and a few women – all seeking “deliverance” through Christ. To somehow become – normal? Good enough? Or at least, celibate, and less self-hating. I even visited the “Love in Action” program in San Rafael, which became notorious in later years and eventually moved from California. There are many destructive forces in life, and shame is one of the most insidious, and deeply rooted in our souls. Shame is like climbing into your own coffin and nailing the lid shut from inside. Hiding from the only thing that could really bring healing – light.

The greatest gift you have to offer is the real you – don’t hide it, let it shine!

Thank God (and I do mean that), those programs, books, prayers and meetings – failed. I didn’t realize this was a blessing instead of a disappointment. For years, I fell deeper into my cave; I did not know any other life, and my existence centered around work and escape. But, in time, particularly after the passing of my parents in my late 40’s and the end of the family structure that I depended on to have a sense of purpose, I realized that I needed to find a way to accept myself. That unless I did, the loneliness that engulfed my life would only grow until there was no life left. I found a wonderful counselor; he tried to convince me to accept being gay, but I fought it for a long time. Eventually, the walls that had been built with years of indoctrination crumbled, and I began to see that the love that I sought was already there, it was just up to me to accept it – no one else. In 2010 that I finally found courage, and reached out to the only two gay people I knew, to ask for help.

*Was Ovaltine really the source? Nope – that was not on our grocery list.*

In my 50’s, I joined the “Men’s coming out support group” at the LA Gay and Lesbian Center, driving more than an hour and a half to West Hollywood weekly to share, learn, and listen. I started exploring the admittedly unfamiliar world of bars and more. I made friends, slowly – there wasn’t a lot of gay life in Perris, CA! I would drive nearly an hour to Palm Springs and used to tell people I lived in the Perris without croissants. Many had never heard of it – especially when I joined the Gay Men’s Chorus of LA in 2012 and started “coming out” to friends and family. It was both rewarding – and painful. Because, as I started to be more honest with those around me, along with the new friends I made, and the support I found from old friends and family – I lost dear friends. People who could not see past the same teachings that had kept me bound and alone most of my life. Teachings that in spirit were meant to bring life but had been twisted to crush the hearts of many, leading to families that were broken and lives that ended. Many have been deeply burned by actions done in the name of love, and turned away. I do understand why so many see religion as bringing death rather than life; I am not ashamed to admit that I do not have all the answers, but I still find comfort in reaching for faith, which like me, is evolving.

Gay Men’s Chorus of LA 2014 concert “I Am Harvey Milk”, Walt Disney Concert Hall

Thinking back on it, there were 3 stages to my “new life” – “Ex”; “Ex-Ex”, and eventually, yes, XXX. One of the really surprising things, to those who knew me, was that I bought a motorcycle. Never mind that I didn’t know how to ride – I had seen an Indian Chief parked near my home and I just wanted to take the bull by the horns, so to speak. I had always thought that bikers were “hot”. Now, we all have our fantasies, ok? I learned to ride, taking my licensing class in pouring rain just before Thanksgiving, soaked to the bone. I had a deep respect for history and learned that the Satyrs Motorcycle Club of LA – one of the oldest gay organizations in the world – invited all riders to join them on periodic “runs”. In 2012, I rode my 2001 Chief for the first and only time to San Francisco – my first visit there as an “out” gay man – clumsily making my way to the Castro, and the South of Market area, where my Satyr friends had recommended a cheap hotel. I visited some of the bars, feeling completely out of place; and then I rode on to the annual “Badger Flat” gathering the Satyrs held in the Sierra National forest; I was welcomed by all. In July 2015 a friend from the Satyrs run invited me to stay in his San Francisco home while he went to the Sturgis Bike Rally. That visit led to the life changes that today I celebrate.

*The newly “out”NormL with my 2001 Indian Chief near Badger Flat, September 2012*

San Francisco was known for decades as a refuge for countless men and women who were “different” in many ways. In the 80’s, the community began to lose thousands of lives to AIDS. I remember reading about the mysterious diseases emerging in the Advocate, a gay newspaper that my college had in the library, and later in magazines that would give me a (unrealistic) window into the world I wanted to be a part of but was not. In response, the core gay and lesbian communities around the world – New York, LA, SF and more – turned to fundraising events to support the needs of organizations trying to help the infected, and their families. One such gathering was held on a small block in the South of Market area in August 1985 – nearly 35 years ago – called “Up Your Alley” on Ringold alley. It grew – and in 1987, was shifted to nearby Dore Alley, off Folsom.

*Glenn Michael Hughes of the Village People, and yes of course I had a crush on him!*

The Castro was what the world saw, perhaps, as the center of “gay” life – certainly it had the bars, the parties, the music, the lights and political focus. But South of Market – it had its own crowd, flavor, energy – and reputation. John Rechy in 1977 wrote of the LA chapter of this subculture in his book “The Sexual Outlaw” – more people would recognize it from the popularization of the “Leather Man” Glenn Hughes from the Village People. It was this community in South of Market that created, supported, and celebrated their lives in Folsom – at the bars, the clubs, the alleys and more. Over the decades, there were less bars, but the reputation still lingered, held up by a few residents and businesses – part of the kaleidoscope of cultures in what used to be called the “Baghdad by the bay”. And the “Up Your Alley” fair endured, along with the larger “Folsom Fair” held annually – these were the raucous gatherings that evangelicals used to portray the “perversion” that they could use for fund raising and fear mongering, condemnation and shaming those who were different.

A vividly expressive ad for the 2015 Dore Alley Street fair – perhaps unrealistic?

That July 2015, the Dore Alley street fair – “Up Your Alley” or “Folsom’s dirty little brother”, as it was promoted, was literally outside my door. Of course I had heard of these events – I had visited the bars on prior trips to the city, and similar bars and gatherings in LA and the desert. But attending was something like this was a first, for me. The street fair attracted thousands to the small area that bordered on my friend’s home on Folsom. I was, for the most part, alone – I didn’t know that many people in San Francisco, and even though I could pass for a “biker” in terms of my gear – I could “look the part” – I completely felt out of my element. I don’t enjoy loud music, crowds, and am a non-drinker – but this was the SF of my fantasies from decades past, and I was “out”, and I was going to take the leap. As I strolled down Folsom, a young lady asked if she could take my photo – I was flattered and said yes. A few weeks later, a friend in LA said they saw me on the event website – so, here is what I looked like midday on Sunday, July 26, 2015.

*Near the intersection of Dore and Folsom, July 26 2015 … Not my work outfit, clearly.*

About an hour after that photo was taken, I walked into a reception at a local boot store, “Stompers”, where party goers could escape the noise, relax, socialize – as long as they had boots on. Which, of course, I did! It was crowded with men in leather – everything I had imagined about the San Francisco I saw in magazines decades earlier! Suddenly, I saw a stunning man (yes it was a “lightning bolt” moment), one I immediately wanted to meet – just as a friend called and asked if I could join them outside (they did not meet the boot requirement). I reluctantly left, hoping I might return soon. Trying to keep my eyes on the door while we visited, I noticed the object of my attention had walked outside … and when I walked up to say hello – he said words I had not anticipated ….

*Stompers Boots as it looked in 2015 – now, shuttered and painted over, but not forgotten*

“Norm … it’s Bob”. In 2013, while on he was in LA on business we had met briefly. I knew at the time he was married and living in San Francisco, and to be honest, I had not recognized him (we won’t go into the circumstances, folks!). Bob’s husband had passed just a few months earlier after a long illness, and visiting friends had coaxed him into joining them at a brunch, and then at the street fair, briefly. He had seen me in Stompers, but lost track of me until, as it happened, there we were at the concession stand. One year later, Dore July 2016; Stompers had closed, Bob and I had been dating long distance, and I joined him and many friends at the annual brunch reception before heading to South of Market, and the crowds. As we strolled through Dore together, eventually we stopped near where, a year before, we had – accidentally? – reconnected at Stompers. It had closed a few months prior, but we paused nearby for a burger, where he had invited friends to quietly gather. Moments later, we were engaged.

*The moment Bob asked for my hand in marriage, one year later, July 2016*

It’s a lot easier for me to write a narrative history than to somehow discern what from those experiences I am feeling a need to express. In some ways, like Billy Pilgrim, and perhaps like you or someone you love, my life was largely fragmented into pieces I kept separate, some buried deeply, many that only with time could I learn to accept and even embrace. I am hardly the first human to “come out” late in life, nor fundamentally unique in any other characteristic; but “coming out” applies to all of us, not just GLBTQ individuals who still face unique challenges around our globe. Perhaps my story illustrates how critical it is for ALL of us to reach a place where we accept ourselves perhaps not fully, but enough to say “this is me, I know I am not perfect, I am still working on me but I would like to let you get to know me”. When we hide in the shadows – when we let shame, or fear, bury us and keep us from sharing our hearts with others – everyone loses. Our world loses.

Shame has deep roots, sometimes invisible. It takes more than any single action to be free of that pile; it requires ongoing and severe honesty; the hearts and hands of people who accept us as we share our truths; and, I believe, faith in that which is larger than ourselves, however we may come to see that source of life. 5 years after that “chance” meeting that changed my life, that has become our life – I am still “coming out”. Being open with this post today is another step for me; I share my path with you because it has been a curious merging, a graceful dance between desire that I was taught to suppress and deny – and a sense of the power of faith in a greater source of love, grace, and forgiveness. It took me most of my lifetime to realize that my definition of that power was too small. I had kept it in a box, and tried to fit my life into it, blaming myself that I could not conform. But the truth was bigger than my box; bigger than me. I just had to let my eyes move beyond the borders, and let my heart be open, to move beyond those limits. I had to have faith in what my spirit heard and what called to my heart. Now, I continue to work on integrating those fragments of my heart, spirit, and mind into my own coat of many colors.

Be your own creation – the best of what you are given, and the rest of your dreams.

I am sure there are many more learned minds than my own that can espouse at great lengths the connections between spirituality and sexuality, so I will not even try. But for me, they are kind of like Astaire and Rogers – each beautiful on their own, but together, truly divine – far more than the sum of their parts, and dare I say, incomplete without one another. In my church days, much of which I still treasure and reflect on and am grateful for – we often were taught about the “Holy Spirit”, or in Latin, “Spiritus Sanctus”. It was always mysterious, and kind of pushed away – probably because it could not be explained. I like to think the Spiritus Sanctus just as easily wears a leather jacket and boots as it might for others be in priestly vestments. We find a connection to the Eternal in our own ways, and we need to respect that others do as well – but the common thread is one of our basic humanity, our need for love, acceptance, hope and forgiveness, as we work our way through a very uncertain world. I am more at peace, now, not having an explanation, but accepting that it is no longer needed; just like I cannot explain how all the moving pieces of two separate lives brought us together on a crowded street during a leather “kink” festival. But it did. And I am thankful for it, and grateful for the love that continues to grow as a result.

Words of “The Little Flower” of France, one of the most popular saints of Catholicism.

Since that day, I left Perris behind, put my home on the market, said goodbye to what had really been my entire life there since 1962, and moved, as I put it, not to San Francisco, but to Bob. In August 2018, we were married; our two-year anniversary next month will be a quiet one – no dinner out, no parties. No gathering with friends and loved ones, or at least, only “virtually” this year. For many of us, Dore, Folsom, Pride, and other annual gatherings are sometimes half-jokingly referred to as gay “high holy days”. Like church services, they are gone, for now; there is no Dore “Up Your Alley” gathering in Folsom this year; there will not be thousands of men and women walking in the sunshine, wearing all kinds of clothing (or little to none), buying and selling all kinds of interesting devices, demonstrating skills you don’t learn about in Boy Scouts (or, maybe you do), and raising funds for charity. There won’t be loud music or the “Twister” booth, and all the other activities that get covered in the media – you can see all those images from prior years online. What the pictures cannot fully capture is the energy, acceptance, belonging, joy, and yes, love which brought those thousands of celebrants together, for so many years. I look forward to coming together again, somehow, some day.

Theodor Seuss Geisel, aka Dr. Suess – a wisdom that touches all ages.

Dr. Seuss had a gift for sharing truth through simplicity. I never read many of his books, except when waiting in medical offices as a child. But that quote from “Oh the places you’ll go” harmonizes deeply with a realization that continues to grow in my own awareness – that only bY being genuinely ourselves – warts, failures, flaws and all – can we offer authentic love, caring, and acceptance to others. And only in accepting others as they are, can we climb, together. We have to get there from where we are, not by pushing others down to where we think they are supposed to be. Early this morning, July 26 2020, Bob and I briefly strolled down those familiar streets – Folsom, Dore and Ringold. There were no crowds, or booths, and the bars were silent. Others may gather later, not willing to let traditions go – I respect that, truly. We happily returned to our little blue house with two cats, together.

With Bob this morning, at the intersection of Folsom and Dore, remembering.

Bob and I are together because somehow the many intricate moving pieces in our separate lives brought us to the same noisy, crowded street during a gay leather festival. We love each other, imperfectly but truly, and we try to share our love with the others in our lives, when we can. I am grateful to say that I felt the call of the spirit in a leather jacket, and I said YES to that call, and seek it still. I hope that when you sense something calling to your own spirit, in that deep place only you know, you will find the courage and strength and acceptance to say “yes” – leave that safe nest you know only too well, spread your wings, and fly. I’ll look for you out there, soaring through the clouds.

***There is always – always – ALWAYS – Hope for new life. Especially – TODAY!!***

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 50^th 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.

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.
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.
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.
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”.
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.
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.
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.