Your author coming home from the hospital, held by my father, March 1958
It’s just about 65 years since I entered this world, and without my planning, but noted nevertheless, this happens to be my 65th post! For some reason, this birthday is considered more significant than 57 or 66 or 82 – but all are cause for celebration and reflection. Perhaps a handful of what I’ve shared here the past three years has had an impact for a few readers along the way, but I’ve accepted that the process of writing my little reflections and observations is alas, primarily selfish. In sorting through the maze of my life, the daily frustrations, the questions that seem to elude answers with any sense of finality, I am looking to just find my way through. My family history explorations remind me that to have made it to this time in my life is a gift many did not have any opportunity to enjoy; and I am aware, regardless of how much I want to avoid dwelling on it, that life is fragile and unpredictable, a delicate mist which might evaporate at any moment, without announcement or forethought. But, this moment in time feels like it deserves a pause, if not to sum up “my story so far” like some Netflix miniseries, at least to glean some insight, feel a momentary glow, and acknowledge the awesome gifts that life offered me, and – to then again, push forward.
We aren’t planning any big parties. I have enjoyed doing that for other events – but it’s not where we want invest our time and resources at this stage; I don’t want to be exhausted! I am looking forward to some special moments with my husband, and we have had a few recent opportunities to see loved ones and hear about their lives, their dreams; more lie ahead. But I do want to let my heart speak to you who read these words, now or at some point ahead, even though our paths may only cross on this digital path through the sometimes confusing, seemingly random or chaotic events that face us as residents of this globe for a short time.
And so – I’d like to sing for you.
Fear not, I won’t subject you to actually hearing my voice, but I can still “sing” with the voice of my heart though my slow fingers tapping on these keys; very different from the black and white keys of the upright piano my grandmother gifted my mother long before birth, these plastic keys are laid out like the heavy metal typewriter of my junior high classes in the 70s where we would tap out letters as the little metal stamps would slam the rolled paper through the ink ribbon. In those long past days I sang in the school choir, and my church; later, decades later, I stood in public with hundreds of men singing in the gay chorus. I treasure those moments as gifts. But today’s song selections will be solos.
Music has always lifted my spirit. I cannot pretend to have that wonderful gift of creating song; matching words and melody to let the colors of my soul rise into the light and burst like a shower of butterflies into the bright sky. But my ears know when the truths others have put to music resonate in pulse with my own heartbeat; too many songs to remember, echoing in my memory, peeking out unexpectedly from years past then fading again like the stack of neglected old photos shoved into a drawer, too treasured to be lost but lacking the room in the gallery of my imagination to have them on permanent display. Perhaps we all have a never-ending playlist stored in dusty mental archives, and a part of us presses “random” to bring them to consciousness when we have those too rare quiet moments to really listen.
“Maxence” as portrayed by Jacques Perrin in “Les Demoiselles de Rochefort“
I made some time to listen in the silence and await whatever lessons might faintly be heard by my waiting ears. My program for you as I take this little stage consists of three songs that say perhaps more about my life, my heart, than any blog post I might ever create. I cannot say exactly why these 3, out of all the intricate melodies that I have heard in six plus decades, speak to me above others at this moment – but somehow, they rise to the front of the line. My first song was not even known to me until my music service “suggested” it a few months back, only to have it haunt me ever since. It’s not particularly famous; more than a bit wistful; it wasn’t originally written as a popular song, but as a film theme for a most unusual movie by French director Jacques Demy, after he had an “art house” success with “The Umbrellas of Cherboug”in 1964. Composer Michel Legrand scored “The Young Girls of Rochefort” three years later, as a follow up of sorts. In the original film melody, “Maxence’s song”, a sailor earnestly seeking the embodiment of his vision of beauty, but those lyrics are not the basis for this English translation, credited to Alan and Marilyn Bergman. The longing expressed in the original music and revised lyrics is most beautifully captured in a musical collaboration between Tony Bennet and jazz pianist Bill Evans from 1976. May I present – “You must believe in Spring”.
When lonely feelings chill The meadows of your mind Just think if winter comes Can spring be far behind?
Beneath the deepest snows The secret of a rose Is merely that it knows You must believe in spring
Just as a tree is sure Its leaves will reappear It knows its emptiness Is just a time of year
The frozen mountains dreams Of April’s melting streams How crystal clear it seems You must believe in spring
You must believe in love And trust it’s on its way Just as a sleeping rose Awaits the kiss of May
So in a world of snow Of things that come and go Where what you think you know You can’t be certain of You must believe in spring and love
“You Must Believe in Spring”, music by Michel Legrand, lyrics by Marilyn and Alan Bergman, 1967.
For my second number, I offer something a bit older, one of many hymns that used to be standard inclusions in church services. I was raised in a small Methodist Christian congregation, but this particular hymn wasn’t one I remember from those days. I heard it later, a world ago seemingly in my 20’s, on an album produced in that time when Christian records became more commonplace after the evangelical movement portrayed in the current film, “Jesus Revolution”. The attributed author of the hymn is a 19th century preacher, Frederick M. Lehman, whose work on it is best described in this blog post. I draw your attention to the third and final stanza as that which speaks to me most deeply, and if you read the previously linked reference which is much more thoroughly descriptive than anything I might research, you will learn that portion actually originated from a form of Jewish poetry more than 1000 years ago! Like many spiritual practices commonplace in our time, was – adopted? Reappropriated? – by Lehman for his heartfelt song because it captured his own sense of truth. Here is “The Love of God” –
The love of God is greater far Than tongue or pen can ever tell. It goes beyond the highest star And reaches to the lowest hell. The guilty pair, bowed down with care, God gave His Son to win; His erring child He reconciled And pardoned from his sin.
O love of God, how rich and pure! How measureless and strong! It shall forevermore endure— The saints’ and angels’ song.
When hoary time shall pass away, And earthly thrones and kingdoms fall; When men who here refuse to pray, On rocks and hills and mountains call; God’s love, so sure, shall still endure, All measureless and strong; Redeeming grace to Adam’s race— The saints’ and angels’ song.
Could we with ink the ocean fill, And were the skies of parchment made; Were every stalk on earth a quill, And every man a scribe by trade; To write the love of God above Would drain the ocean dry; Nor could the scroll contain the whole, Though stretched from sky to sky.
“The Love Of God”, Frederick M. Lehman, 1917 (Final stanza derived from 11th century poetry by Jewish rabbi).
“Nor could the scroll contain the whole though stretched from sky to sky”
My third and final solo is probably the most familiar; I have often told friends and family is my favorite song. Surprisingly, it too was written originally for a film now mostly forgotten – “The boy with green hair” in 1948. Written by “eden ahbez” (his chosen name was in lower case), who reputedly was an early “hippie lifestyle” practitioner, it became a huge hit for my favorite vocalist, Nat King Cole, and has been covered by countless artists; it more recently has been popularized as a featured song in Baz Luhrmann’s “Moulin Rouge” film and stage productions. May I present – “Nature boy” –
There was a boy A very strange enchanted boy They say he wandered very far Very far Over land and sea
A little shy And sad of eye But very wise was he
And then one day One magic day he passed my way And while we spoken of many things Fools and kings This he said to me
The greatest thing You’ll ever learn Is just to love And be loved in return
My musical “performance” has concluded, but we have time for an encore of sorts – my closing monologue. I do wonder if anyone out there has heard all 3 of these before; more likely, some or all are “new” to you, readers. They are all, of course, songs about love; in a way, most songs are ultimately about our shared quest for love. “You Must believe in Spring” captures our deep yearning, our inner drive to believe that in the darkest, coldest time, a season of promise and hope lies ahead, and the possibility of love – a quest our souls share but pursue in different ways, perhaps only fleetingly fulfilled. The closing stanza of “The Love of God” echoes a rabbi’s writings from centuries before, a person of faith looking beyond the known to the immense wonder of that which is beyond our comprehension, beyond measurement – a greater love that shatters boundaries of time, that asks us to simply let it be and to trust that it is, and that we are loved. Finally, “Nature boy” is my heart’s anthem – an expression more of the person I wish I was, my aspiration, and yet acknowledge I will never fully become. In a way, my lifetime has taught me, we try our best yet fail, as we cannot fully embody what somehow our spirits sense. That yearning, woven into our inner spirits from the moment we enter this planet, drives our desires and seeds our dreams – to know that ideal, that ultimate source of all love.
Last week, I sat with my older niece, sharing some of the family stories and mementos, photos and letters that I have inherited over the years. I see some ironic humor in the observation that as a childless gay man, I have been entrusted with the memories and mementos of those who came before, who lived and loved long before my entry on the scene; but their words, their faces full of life, speak deeply to me. These faded artifacts are priceless treasures – witnesses not only to history, but to what it is to live, to be human, to seek answers and hope. Yet, my connection to them, and to others entering into my life for periods short and extended, is deep. I am far from alone in my wondering; humans have over many thousands of years and countless cultures and faiths tried to establish systems and practices to try to “make sense” of life. Although my peculiar little path has been very different from theirs, I am a part of a tapestry whose whole will only be revealed in eternity. But I sense there is an artist there working through each of us; the hues in their pallet used to express the immeasurable expanse of love unlimited. I am in awe when I catch a glimpse of that working in and hopefully through each of us.
Whatever captures our attention and energy in life, brings us delight or promises some relief from the pain of disappointment and exclusion – in the rear-view mirror, what we hold dear is the moments where love carried our spirits to a place beyond. Our hearts long, we awaken, we forgive and struggle to push to a place of acceptance and peace. However varied our upbringing and tradition, we are born with an awareness of the eternal, of something many call sacred or holy, but we each encounter it in different ways, and in this relatively short lifetime perhaps the greatest lesson we learn is indeed how to love and be loved in return. Love has surrounded and embraced each of us from the moment we emerged into light. Today I recognize my shortcomings in living out the love I sense and desire; I have many lessons ahead before I can claim to have any real wisdom to offer anyone , and I know I am graced to have my husband, family and friends continue to share love with me as I work to let that continue on through me. I have come to believe we all have the same questions, the same hopes, ultimately, just in different forms, with mountains and valleys that are uniquely ours. Perhaps we also must discover our own answers which reveal that greater love’s truths to us in each chapter of the journey called life.
The author at the Sea of Galilee, age 25 in 1983 – where did 40 years go???
Thank you, friends, for taking time for my musical musings as I pause to look back and forward from this birthday pause. If I could create a song of exultation that could somehow capture the multicolored hues of emotions and memories, hopes and regrets that make of 6.5 decades of life so far, I would dance in the sunlight and say to the stars, I am thankful, I am blessed, the dark and the light, the bitter and sweet all blending into a waltz of forgiveness, acceptance and an emerging joy. I invite you to join in the dance, with those before and yet to come. This birthday anniversary, this moment of awareness as time continues to flow through me and all of us towards some amazing future we cannot see, is just a moment to catch my breath and be thankful, and humbled, for the amazing gifts I have received and those that await me – and all of us – every day, anew. I’ll see you along the way.
When do you know that you are saying goodbye for the last time?
Winter is a cold time here in San Francisco, even though we do not have the snow. It was a little colder, and quieter, this year. I’ve never been asked to write an obituary before; it wasn’t a surprise. Neither was the late news about a distant friend; but the third was a shock. People pass from this earth every day; perhaps we keep little pieces of them with us, in a way, but it’s just as likely that something leaves us when they are no longer present. Loss has lessons for us if we can sit and listen. Perhaps by writing I can glean something of meaning, something to share; someone to commemorate, to love them again beyond the boundary of their heartbeat.
These were just 3 people from my life, some closer than others. They didn’t know each other; 2 crossed paths once, briefly, at our wedding. I guess in a way everyone just shifts in and out of our lives, most of them for moments, but some for years, even our lifetime.
David, on the left, with his father and brother.
David. If it were not for the blood we shared from our common heritage, he never would have been in my life; he was my Mom’s cousin. She had babysat him in his infancy. He had a full life; he knew joy, and loss. Born while America was still struggling through the “Great Depression”, he saw his country go through tremendous challenge and change. I didn’t really know him until well into my adult life, when he and his brother invited a broad swath of cousins and kin to a reunion in San Luis Obispo. Most there were strangers to me, but I wanted to learn more about my heritage, those who came before me that I would never meet. I got to know him better when I ultimately moved nearby after my mother’s death; his family would always welcome me to Thanksgiving gatherings, with happy voices and hungry appetites all jumbled into their home, laughing, hugging, eating – the kind of family events that were not a part of my own past. When I finally found my way to slowly letting my family and friends know who I was – and I started discovering that at last breaking through shame and isolation – David and his family were my closest family support. The years passed, and his beloved wife and son were gone within weeks of one another; after a lifetime in California, he and his daughter left for new dreams in Tennessee, and I visited them once last time as they prepared for their next chapter. He gave me a Stetson cowboy hat, but more than that, he gave me unlimited acceptance. He gave the same to my husband, and I suspect he gave it to pretty much everyone who ever entered his life. We knew his eventual trickle of health concerns would inevitably grow, surge, and carry him away; he endured through one final Christmas. And now he is gone, and it seems hard to imagine a world where he isn’t still laughing and doing crosswords and ranting about news or sharing ribald stories. His voice echoes in my soul; I don’t want to stop hearing it.
David at a 2015 family reunion
I believe there is a kind of shared spirit in our blood family, but that doesn’t make our bonds with “found family” any less meaningful. One such, for me, was Jim. I have written about Jim and his husband Nile before; when I finally reached out for help to escape the cave I had slowly burrowed into within my soul, they were among the first who I told I was gay. Their lives had also been very different from my own; both had married and had children, and later left that life to be together, at high costs. They lived in Palm Springs, the closest “community” to my rural inland California home; they were older. They had supported my Dad’s cousin Bill in the final years of his life, living in the same small trailer park on limited income. When Bill passed n 2006, I still was unable to accept myself, as a gay man, as me, as just a human being himself; that time came a few years after, and they welcomed me. They had a replica of Michelangelo’s’ “David” outside their trailer festooned with beads. They were gay men of a different time, not long before mine but long enough and their paths different enough that only chance brought us together – but they loved me. They loved me, just as Mr. Rogers used to say, into being me. They didn’t try to tell me what was right for me; we didn’t see each other often, and Niles passed before I could introduce him to Bob, but every time I made it back to the desert, once or twice a year, I would stop in to see Jim; he was in his 80’s now, and parts weren’t working in him as they used to. On my last visit, I gave my number to a neighbor, knowing it might be the last time we talked; I sent a Christmas card. A few weeks after Christmas, a note came in the mail, from his daughter, to let me know he too had left this earth; I had not met her, but Jim spoke of her often. I searched for words to put into a card soon after, telling her how much the care and encouragement that Jim had offered meant to me; I am sure I was not the only one. He cared for so many in his life. I will remember him, and Nile, always.
Jim and Nile with me in Palm Springs, 2010
Dave and Jim knew their time was coming to an end; we had talked about it. But the last time I spoke with a local friend, who I had met through Bob here in SF, neither of us could have imagined it would be our final conversation. He was younger than me, seemingly in great health and spirit, in a loving marriage and with an extensive family – and suddenly, he was gone. His life could not have been more different from my own; Bob had known him for years, but we had never spent a lot of time talking one on one. He was always surrounded by friends, and it was apparent at his memorial service that his family had loved him deeply and supported him after coming out in his teen years. His life was not without difficulty or challenge by any means, but he used his intellect, and his heart, to care and to contribute to individuals in his circle and to his broader community; he did so much with his life to make a difference. I never saw him be anything more than energetic, enthusiastic and positive. At the family memorial, listening to their stories, and seeing pictures, I wonder how and by whom it is that we are granted different gifts, and I question whether my own choices were somehow irreversible signs that I could have done more, I might have chosen a different path. The silence in all their lives now that he is absent will not be soon replaced, if ever.
The same is true with every loss; every farewell. Ultimately, whether expected or abrupt, we all eventually stand at the door and walk through to what lies beyond. Sometimes we find hope picturing our loved ones reuniting, or whatever faith lies within our hearts provides some kind of assurance that they are in a better place. I don’t want to admit my uncertainty, I wish I could avoid acknowledging that I don’t have absolute assurance about those or a million other questions – simplistic answers are like children’s candy, sweet but only offering temporary solace. Instead, I look at their lives, I listen to their voices in my memory, their faces fading in and out of focus, moments of laughter and love, and I am grateful. Grateful for their gift of presence in my life, their caring; and humbled to be reminded I have that responsibility, that power to touch others. Perhaps that is why ghosts haunt us, to remind us we are still here to love one another, and that ultimately it is who and how we love that endures when we are gone, perhaps forgotten, lost to time.
These 3 caring souls now join the chorus of witnesses whose pictures still look back at me, still alive in those moments, and perhaps eternity. 3 of countless thousands that day, just the 3 that I knew in different ways and different times. Each of them touched me, and I have thought of them often in the days since I learned that their voices were now silenced; but I still hear them in my heart.
The New NormL back when he rode …. see you around the bend, friends!
Tis the time of year when ……. we sometimes find ourselves in the curious position of wondering what our friends and loved ones, neighbors and coworkers, celebrate in terms of holidays. It can be a sensitive matter, which deserves our respect. We want to wish them well, to tell them that they matter to us; to share joy; but we recognize there are many ways of looking at life, and considering questions we all either face with uncertainty, or ignore. Honoring the beliefs and perspectives of others is worthwhile; respecting that which others hold as their personal truths is to see them as whole people, like ourselves – not as “different”, not as “right” or “wrong”, but just as fellow travelers, seekers of understanding. It’s far easier to just associate with people who see things the same way we do – why challenge our thinking? But you simply cannot escape – if indeed you wanted to – the awareness as we enter late fall and early winter, the seasonal practices that have deep meaning and significance to our own hearts may be very different than those important to others in our lives. Which brings me to Christmas; and to “traditions”. (Cue Tevye).
We all hold certain traditions, beliefs, and practices dear … perhaps too dear?
I love looking into word origins. I have no idea why; my brain just seems to be wired to ask questions, day and night, even when I prefer to be asleep or trying to relax. A number of decades ago, PBS had a series called “The Story of English”, which did an excellent job of illuminating how our common language had roots in many cultures, across continents and centuries. That was before we had Google to answer these questions easily! I was surprised to learn the root of “Tradition” is a latin word, traditio, a variant of “trader”, created from two “root” words – “trans” for across and “dare” for give. To give across; to deliver – to pass along. We pass along our traditions – and sometimes, the beliefs underlying them also, both evolving, some forgotten; some treasured by the next generation, and yet others discarded.
Often, our practices, beliefs and traditions are formed by our family, perhaps even accepted without question. Christmas was in my childhood a way to escape from reality. It’s funny to realize there is a whole generation or more that have no idea what the Sears Wish Book was; I cannot imagine how parents deal with their kid’s “lists” for Santa with all the information on the internet, social media, trends and tiktoks. We just thumbed through the catalog to see record players and train sets, Mousetrap and Monopoly sets. My church sunday school had fund raisers; I remember shyly carrying large books of sample Christmas cards glued into a binder to ask neighbors if they wanted to place an order for personalized greetings (no one could imagine electronic cards or facetime then, those were fantasies of another kind). And of course, we had our phonograph records with carols – which I loved hearing, and singing; our tree, sometimes real, often artificial (once, even aluminum!); and the old ornaments pulled out of musty smelling boxes. My mother kept ours in a large trunk in the garage and pulling it out was like the grand opening of the most “magical” time of the year.
I realize much of what I hold dear about Christmas came from the repeated practice of those rituals with family, with church, and in time with friends. But there were other factors; my childhood in a broken family, economically and socially differentiated from our neighbors and my peer group in school, planted seeds of isolation long before my awakening awareness of other differences widened those gaps. My mother’s disability, and her own emotional issues, resulted in less extended family interactions; there were no holiday trips, and little group social activity outside church. I remember so clearly being deeply ashamed as carolers, on a “mission” from another church, rang our doorbell and my mom instructing us to not answer because we could not give them any funds; and another Christmas where our freezing winter weather prompted that same congregation to gift us some firewood to heat our home. We were poor, at least compared to those around us, and compared to the other families in my school – just another fact of life that said, “you do not belong”. So, the shiny ornaments on the tree, the happy songs and the pretty packages, and the hopes that a magical jolly person would bring us gifts and joy were literally music to my ears. Perhaps from a pied piper in a red suit.
I still treasure my 60’s Santa Christmas book featuring the art of George Hinke.
Now I realize that the teachings of my Sunday school were a kind of wishful thinking too – not to say that my church teachers were not people of faith, or that the leaders were not themselves fully certain of the gospel that they preached. I carried the candles into the service, I sang in the youth choir and was a part of the annual Nativity stage production. Those services, the moments looking through the stained-glass window and past the poinsettias, the craft fairs where our neighbor would bring cookies and wonderful knit presents, were moments of hope that we certainly needed. I still hold those many carols dear to my heart, and love hearing them now “on demand”. Most of the ornaments of my childhood are gone, replaced by (I am embarrassed to admit) countless expensive “collectable” ornaments that began to accumulate in my own home once I began to observe Christmas on my own. Even after moving from my former home where I would have multiple trees as I welcomed friends to celebrate, and my efforts to divest myself of the decorations and figurines, the angels, Santas and snowmen of years past still overpopulate our single artificial tree in our smaller home. They congregate in the basement, staring at me with glassy eyes and cheery smiles to ask “why am I not put out this year”? Our new cat had something to do with that!
And then there are the cards. Yes, I still send Christmas cards, although fewer arrive annually; for a while, when I was still working, I would do a holiday newsletter via email, sometimes sharing a poem or a story but more often just chattering about events of the year. Trying to find a way to connect with people that I didn’t see all that much, but who still were rattling about in my heart in some way, and I didn’t want to let go even though perhaps some of them had already. I loved shopping for just the right cards, and I still enjoy selecting them carefully after Christmas for the following year – budgets are increasingly important in retirement! Some of the cards reflect my own still closely held beliefs in the stories I was told in childhood of a promise fulfilled, a star shining, of gifts presented by strangers to a child in the cold. Some are jollier, with smiling reindeer or friendly elves; still others are deliberately vague but still reflecting a wish for peace, joy, or hope in this special time of year. But each carries love.
One of our cards with a message of hope – Hallmark didn’t do these in the 60s!
Between my husband’s family and friends from around the country, and my own that have been added to the list (and sometimes subtracted) over the years, I addressed nearly 100 envelopes by hand the past few weeks. I also treasure the cards that I kept over the years, selected annually and kept in a special box, the cards that had my mother’s handwriting or my father’s short but heartfelt comments; the beautiful cards from friends and family. Some of those names have left my life; drifted away – or did I? I realize that some of the names that I am writing to this year would never know if that happened to me; they simply would no longer hear from me again, perhaps wondering why, but more likely not realizing it until something popped into their consciousness to remind them I used to be around.
And then there are the names for those who I cannot write to again; I cannot call, or message, or wish happy birthday ever again. Some were not unexpected, but still the shock of their absence over the past few months remains, even with us knowing their time was coming to an end. Others were abrupt, and the hole left in the world by their absence remains open. Life, and death, and sorrow and joy do not pause for seasons, or celebrations. Perhaps Dickens realized this when he wrote of Scrooge visiting Christmas past, those memories that he had buried coming into the light again, dancing with Fezziwig and begging his sister to take him home to be with father. The faces we see at the holiday dinner table glow in our memories, their voices echo in our hearts. The message of the spirit of Christmas yet to come is clear – we may not see them, nor they us, next year or the year after that. But the loss we feel is, in its own way, a gift as well.
Here I am holding Santa close at a 60’s Christmas with my brother and grandparents – I barely remember them, but still have the styrofoam Santa!
I cling to that tradition, and think of all those faces, present and absent, as I write the addresses out, and try at least to write a little something on each; but my hands tire, and if I was honest with myself, I would ask why do I continue? Does what I send matter to these now absent dear ones, really? But I press on because ultimately, I want to do even this small action to hold on to what we once shared, to say I remember, that I care still – that they mattered to me in the past, and even though now our lives are far from close, I still treasure them, that they live and were for a time a part of my life, and that celebrating those moments gives us a reminder that we need to create them anew, with the people in our lives today, every chance we can get. Somehow, it feels as if I stop, I am letting go, and I do not want to lose them.
Hands down, my favorite movie, one that touches my heart every time.
Last year, as the COVID restrictions began to slowly be lifted, my husband and I enjoyed attending the SF Symphony more than once during the holiday season – their performance always lifts our spirit, but I particularly enjoy those with a chorus and vocalists. One was a tribute to the holiday songs made popular by Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald, and the soloist paying tribute to Ella shared a song I had never heard before, but it had a special magic. The melody isn’t brassy, or loud, or flashy – no heavenly choirs, no catchy “hooks”; more of a lullaby than an anthem. In its own unique way, it serves as a reminder of deeper lessons. If you click here, this should take you to a YouTube video of Ella performing “The Secret of Christmas”. Here are the lyrics …. but I hope you can enjoy the recording.
“THE SECRET OF CHRISTMAS” by Sammy Cahn/Jimmy Van Heusen
It’s not the glow you feel when snow appears It’s not the Christmas card you’ve sent for years
Not the joyful sound when sleigh bells ring Or the merry songs children sing
The little gift you send on Christmas day Will not bring back the friend you’ve turned away
So may I suggest, the secret of Christmas it’s not the things you do At Christmas time but the Christmas things you do all year through
These haunting lyrics and quiet melody remind us that love is not seasonal.
Soon we, and perhaps you, will be packing away the ornaments, perhaps buying cards for next year, and folding up the artificial tree to stuff into the dark corners of the basement. For many, it’s on to New Year’s parties, parades, resolutions; for others, the whole holiday cycle has little personal meaning. So, the question I am asking myself is amidst this flurry of activity – what is it about Christmas that is truly significant – that is worth not only celebrating, but sharing? What is the tradition worth passing on to the next generation? And what is important to let go? I cannot yet answer that for myself, but it is worth thinking about, seriously. That trunk my mother had for ornaments is long gone, but it is the storage in my heart that needs attention now – to make room for what really matters, and to say goodbye to that which does not.
After those enticing aromas of favorite dishes are wafted away, and we return from the “season of magic” or whatever terms are used in commercials these days, to the “daily grind”, we have a moment of opportunity. A moment to stop and seek clarity before we rush head on into repeating mindlessly the habits, the traditions, and the mindsets of the past. Can we dare to take a hard look at what we claim to believe, compare it to how we treat others, and see the chasm between our words and our actions? Will we have the courage to stand before whatever we grasp as representing something beyond our knowledge – or perhaps just even before our own mirror – and honestly admit there are changes we need to make, even if we honestly don’t know how? There is a danger in passing on traditions without questioning their meaning, or their value; there is a risk in blind insistence that our “truth”, whether political, moral, spiritual or otherwise, is absolute. The risk, the danger is that in closing our eyes to the possible, we close our hearts to something greater, seemingly impossible – a love that is immune to all the traditions and “rules” we have buried it under; powerful enough to push beyond the limits we use to fence it in, and keep it away.
The prayer of a desperate man, from “It’s a Wonderful Life”
For me – as a believer who struggles with reconciling what I know intellectually with what I sense and understand at a different level – Christmas is many things, and separating the wheat from the chaff can be difficult. The traditions of the past generations, of our own childhood or culture, can be like comfortable little boxes we never dare to open up and peek outside. There is a world, many worlds perhaps, out there waiting for us to find the courage to dare to open those doors, and walk out, even into darkness, knowing there is more to be found. If this moment in time brings you to a place where you find yourself wondering, is it worth the chance to be wrong, to make mistakes, in the hope that it is not too late to create a better life – I hope you can find a way to say, yes. To retain that which has meaning from the familiar – and to embrace the sense of curiosity and hope to keep our minds and hearts open to that which is new, while honoring and sharing what has meaning from our past. What many now accept as truth, in whatever faith, was at one time scandalously outrageous to almost everyone around them; throughout history, in all kinds of movements, those who seek had to leave behind traditions because they believed that they had encountered something more real, more powerful. The amazing possible in our lives is still emerging.
Let us not allow traditions to be a prison, keeping us from sharing life and love more fully – like the chains that bound Marley, weighing us down while we cling to them in the mistaken belief that is the best we can do. Whatever matters most to you – whatever you truly wish to pass on, whether to your children, your community, your loved ones – let that be your beacon in the dark. It may not be shared by all or even seen by all; you may even feel alone. I sometimes think we each have our own to follow, and it takes a lifetime to stumble our way along the path. But if you are truly lucky, your heart will not let those uncertainties keep you from daring to follow its light to a better way of life, one where that greater, enduring love awaits, under a brighter star, shining just beyond the horizon. Can you feel it calling? Look for me along the way, and I will look for you.
With my husband at the SF Symphony, December 2022 – discovering love daily.
Whatever traditions or practices have meaning for you, and others in your life, I hope they bring you a chance to share love and hope this season, and always! Wishing you all happiness and joy ahead in 2023!
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.
It’s hot as I write this. Very, very hot – for San Francisco, and more so for most of our friends and family across the continent. It’s not the time of year to plant in the garden – in fact, with water restrictions, I have had to let some of the container plants go, awaiting the proper time for planting, in the fall, or perhaps spring. We do not have air conditioning in our 19th century “Victorian Cottage” on a hill, where cattle belonging to Leland Stanford use to graze, on property he purchased from Adolph Sutro – they would be amazed at what their city and region has become, in more ways than one.
I often find a kind of inspiration in working in the garden, going out early today to water before the hose became too hot to hold. There is never ending change in nature, and in the plants and insects that visit our little space, and in the sky watching us all quietly. They take little notice of the chaos and confusion that our airwaves batter at our souls with, endlessly; they have their little time on stage, doing as they were designed or created or evolved to do, depending on how you see our world. And then, they are gone, as we shall be as well one day.
When it is so hot that there is little escape for us, we close the curtains and shades to wait it out; yesterday, at the height of the blistering oven awaiting outside the door, I spent some time on a different kind of roots – my family tree. As I have shared before, my heritage amazes me in a way that is difficult to put into words; as life would have it, the bibles and diaries and stacks of photos of ancestors from all sides of my family found their way into my boxes and crannies, and even when I neglect them for that “someday” when I will pull it all together, they call to me. Services last Ancestry, Family Tree, My Heritage and others flood my email with “clues” and “discoveries”, and they make it so easy to click “accept” so that, boom, hurrah, you have 15 new ancestors!! But that is not really learning, or understanding – it is just data piling up. As a friend asked me last week (who also enjoys dabbling in their family research), “What are we doing all this for”?? The only answer I could provide is that it speaks, to my heart; they speak, from long ago, and I lean forward to hear their lessons, their secrets, hoping for answers to my own questions.
It will take a great deal of work to really develop the research skills, writing, photo restoration, and technical understanding to create a meaningful history of my family; my hope is that it will have meaning for others, my nieces and nephews and cousins who sometimes ask little questions but whose lives and interest lie elsewhere. I feel a kind of stewardship over these lives lived before mine, their faces looking at me through faded torn photos, their scrawling words on tattered pages. In a way, it is ironic that the gay childless man has taken on their heritage, but as I age, I come to see more and more than life is filled with irony; our expectations of what the future would look like fall to whatever fate decides, our prayers if any might seem to be unheard. But I am aging; my memory is starting to blink on and off like a “battery replacement needed” indicator, my body is telling me things I really do not want to hear, and my heart is drawn more and more to reflecting on what is the best way to make something useful of whatever time I have remaining.
So there is the garden; and there is the family tree, which needs tending; but there is a third set of roots that need my attention. They are old, and perhaps if not forgotten, I wanted to ignore them. They are the foundation of the garden of my mind, my spirit; the lessons I was taught, the seeds I planted slowly over years – beliefs, behaviors, habits; and the choices I made that brought me to where I stand today. We all have those hidden gardens, and perhaps we are reluctant to open the gates and see what lies within, and beneath; it is easier, surely, to find something else to focus on. Somehow, now that the running to and fro of a career and the unfulfilled wishes of a young man are behind me, and I move into what lies ahead, I know in a way that has nothing to do with my intellect that those roots, those foundations of so much of my life, need me to find them, and sit before them, and listen to their stories, and under the quiet skies of dawn or the shiny carpet of stars, renew my soul garden, clean up the refuse, give it the sun and food and water to bloom anew.
When I started this blog, I felt I had a message to share. In a way, our lives, our daily acts of kindness or anger, giving or selfishness, speak much louder than words. But words carry power, amazing power to change our own world, and those around us; I felt, perhaps with a false sense of having some wisdom worth passing on, that being open about my life might give someone else who faced struggles of their own, some hope. I called this blog “my journey towards authenticity” – not “to”, because I haven’t made it. In fact, as I have grown (fighting all the way) and opened my eyes to see things a little differently, the truths that I have seen are not always pretty about myself; I am realizing how far I have to go in terms of acceptance and forgiveness, responsibility and giving. It might sound wonderful to say “I am going to be authentic in my life and relationships” but you have to be willing to look in the mirror and really see the truth about what you yourself have to work on, what you have to take ownership of and have the strength to admit you have a very long way to go. Honesty isn’t always pretty.
Is blogging about this part of my life appropriate? I am this first to admit, I don’t know. I spent nearly all of my life from my very earliest years (talking about roots) in hiding. I hid because I was afraid of being hurt emotionally and physically in a home environment where threats were very real; I hid because those who cared for me taught me that I needed to be someone that I was discovering I was not. I buried my heart and worked hard to conform, to achieve, to be seen as a success – but in hiding from others, I closed the door on myself as well, and even after reaching a place in life where I could be more honest about my feelings and my orientation, I still tried to fit a mold, instead of letting what was inside my soul garden blossom.
I was surprised recently to learn of a quote attributed to David Bowie. I know little of him – my own taste in music tended towards people who were old when I was born, and contemporary artists generally didn’t sing those kinds of songs. Still, from what I know of his life, he had struggles, he walked a different path than many around him, and his creativity touched lives. Perhaps he did say these words, or repeat them, but whatever their source, I see their wisdom now more than ever. He said –
“Aging is an extraordinary process whereby you become the person you always should have been”.
As attributed to David Bowie
Of course, we all have different opinions on what that “should” might look like – but I think there is some truth in saying that each of us inherently have unique characteristics and gifts, drives and desires – and that it is never too late to be open to discovering, and sharing them, more fully. I see this in my garden, and in my family history, and in my own spirit harmonizes as though this truth remains – whatever designer and design there may be to our lives, the greatest gift each of us has to offer is to be fully ourselves, human, imperfect, unashamed and without blame towards ourselves or others. This is the heart of grace and forgiveness, however we might seek them – to be loved and to love one another for who we are, not for who we want to be seen as or for what we expect one another to become later. Love is for today, as is.
Friends and strangers who read this, I am a terrible example of any such principle, but if I wait until I can be who I wish I already was or always had hoped to be, there would be no reason for sharing. Our souls may not be as pretty as we’d like to pretend; we may choose to close our eyes to the light of honesty; but at the same time we shut the door to being ourselves. Sitting under the branches in my “soul garden”, it is far from the promise of beauty and love that I long to share. In realizing what I portrayed to the world (through my filtered eyes) needs renewal and refreshing to be any kind of oasis or inspiration, there is a temptation to shut the gate, put up the stage backgrounds again and try to forget the lessons that life is asking me to acknowledge, to live with pretense instead of honesty. What a tragedy that our world makes it so difficult to trust, to be honest and know we are accepted – and what a powerful gift we each can bestow by becoming that source for others in our lives.
Just as the seasons require me to care for the plants in our yard through their cycles, year after year; just as the challenge of discovering my family tree of life, my ancestors lessons and gifts and sacrifices to preserve to those who follow; It will take my lifetime to tend to this garden of my soul. But I sense this realization, as daunting as it seems to loom ahead, is a gift; to open my eyes and know that aging does not mean only closed doors and memories, but paths to discovery and sharing, contributing and creating joy. Change and growth is not just for children, or perhaps we all remain children even though our bones and muscles age and our brains slow, children in a garden, looking for beauty through aging eyes. My life has always been called to a path of differentness, I have fought it and tried to walk the road that others picked for me, but I am forging my own way, and will continue to write about that here. I hope that, occasionally, for someone, my words will resonate and the lessons I am trying to live out can somehow, help them as well.
Once upon a time, not so long ago, hearing a train whistle was not an uncommon event for those in big cities, or small towns scattered in remote areas. To some, trains are like noisy, dirty animals … great hulking monsters spewing smoke, crushing what lies before them; but they are also friends, like Thomas, that little boys play with, dreaming of being big boys. I had those dreams once … and I had a train, too. Of course, I thought of it as a magical train – the first memories of it are gone, it is more like echoes of my childhood thinking of putting the metal track pieces together in living room on special occasions. Those echoes are like the steam whistle, and the memories of Judy Garland singing “On the Atchison Topeka and the Santa Fe” while the engine roared into town bringing the Harvey Girls to tame the wild west – all wispy fantasies that fade like the smoke into the sky, but the echoes reside in my soul, with others.
Judy Garland leading “On the Atchison Topeka and the Santa Fe” in “The Harvey Girls – 1946 – All Aboard!!!
I have written before about my Mom’s tendency to, well, hoard. She kept things that had value – and things that had no meaning at all. It took me years after returning to my childhood home to sift through it all – there were treasures to be found among the trinkets. I had never forgotten the train set – it was a happy memory, like playing children’s records and lying in the bedroom on a quiet afternoon reading. When I found the box, at first I didn’t realize what it contained, because she had literally kept the shipping box itself, a plain cardboard box which I opened to find another “sleeve”, and under that, the carefully preserved decades old Lionel engine, and accessories – dusty, unused, kept in darkness … it had been years since it ran around the small oval, years since the farm animals had been let out of the barn. Years in which a large part of my own life too had been put away, kept in darkness, waiting.
The dusty box with childhood treasures, buried but not forgotten
Memory is an odd creature, too – it moves in ways unpredictable, little eruptions now and then emerging, and the emotions tied to them still. My mother had always said that I had won the train set from the toy store in Vacaville, California, where a drawing had been held; I would have been 2, so I remember nothing but my brother, 30 months older, retained the memories more. We would play with it together, and alone; we had those moments of shared joy as children, but they were fewer to be found as the years grew, and we grew apart. Our home was not the one shown on TV – not the one shared apparently by our classmates in the small town where we moved when I was 5; it was in that house I learned to be alone, to hide my feelings, to put them in a box like the train and put them away.
Like many brothers, we are very different, and it has not been easy or really entirely successful to bridge the differences between us – a distance greater than a train, toy or otherwise, could shorten. We shared our younger years but had very different hearts – and diverging paths ahead. He went to live with our father, and was less present in my life, ultimately marrying and having children out of state, with occasional return visits. In my mother’s final years, spent in a care facility near our childhood home, I returned to that house to deal with those challenges – a single man, in what was probably the loneliest time of my life, not yet having the footing to stand and say who I was, what I felt, who I wanted to be and to love. I returned to a home without friends, finding pieces of my family, and in a way finding pieces of myself as I tried to bring what had been forgotten into the light – to renew the small tract home my parents bought for our future, before the family picture shattered and the curtains closed. It was in some ways a chapter of renewal for us both.
Some of the other artifacts that were buried in boxes, and in books, revealed that trains were more a part of my past than I could have imagined. I remembered the whistle in the night going through the Corona orange groves – the smell of the smudge pots on winter nights to preserve the fruit – that heritage has been replaced now with distribution centers and tracts, and the citrus packing houses remembered by fewer as the years move on. I discovered my great grandmothers handwritten journal describing her son’s birth in the Corvallis, Oregon train station where his father was the station master; I found photos of my father’s grandfather standing by a steam locomotive somewhere in the desert of Arizona, or Mexico, with antlers on the front as he worked with Santa Fe to build a rail line to the coast near Guaymas, where he found his bride. I learned of my other family lines who came west by wagon train, seeking gold, seeking new homes – seeking opportunity away from the farms and everything and everyone they knew for the chance for a better life; some were lost along the way. These were the seeds of my interest in family history – me, a lonely boy, a “gifted” boy but an invisible child, realizing that others before him had faced challenges, failures, obstacles but continued to dare to hope, to dream. Somehow, their spirits out there, somewhere, were still connected to me – outside of time, speaking to me in words and old greeting cards and photos with scribbled names, some still mysteries even now. Their secrets, their dreams, their passions were waiting to be unearthed, revealed – like the train.
My great Grandfather in the Sonora Desert in the late 1800’s – the wild West.
I decided it would be worth the effort to see if the train had any value – after all, it had to be unusual to find an intact set, in the box, with all the accessories and the vintage catalog and more! 20 years ago, I found an Ebay listing that seemed to be the identical set – which had sold for over $1700! It was known as the “Halloween set” with the “General” engine – due to the orange and black colors, I am guessing. And mine was in better shape! It was not until after my Mom’s passing in 2006 that I finally sold the home and turned over the keys and closed the door for the last time, leaving what had been the core of my upbringing forever. In the months before and after her passing, time also took from me my father, his wife who had become a part of my life decades before, and his cousin Bill who I cared for in his final years. My own heart was still in a box of its own – I was still shut away, like the train, like the boxes of memories and old toys and photos that I put first into storage, and then into my new, “dream” home, closer to work, big and spacious and sunny. A new chapter was being written, and the light began to break through my own closed doors, and I pulled out the train as I prepared for a Christmas where I could welcome friends … setting up the track again, connecting the frayed wiring and … finding the train would not move. It needed repair. It needed help to function; help from someone who knew how something old and broken could be brought to life again. I didn’t know it at the time, but so did I. And I found it – for both of us, eventually.
Instructions, and even “billboards” (although from a VERY different era!)
I reached out for help – I found someone out of state, online, and shipped them the engine and the electrical parts. There were not many resources to be found with that knowledge; it was not easy. Some online sources indicate the set was only made in 1960 for distribution at independent retailers, with 7300 produced; for some, it is “legendary”. Bringing something back to life that is neglected takes special care. It did not run that Christmas, of course – but it did come back in time, if not “restored” – at least, able to run. I found others to help me learn to run, too – finally, in my fifties, finding the strength and support to not hide in the closet of secrecy and shame. It’s been a little over 10 years now since I started to tell others that the Norman they knew had never been able to fully share his heart with them, or anyone; looking back, I can see it has been a long and hard journey which still stretches ahead, unlike the metal track sections that form a loop to nowhere – my track is being laid in new directions. You have to travel down roads you don’t know to get to a new destination, of course – and my wanderings brought me here to SF and to my husband, and the train came along, buried in the basement – something of value, to be treasured, along with so many little pieces of my past, and my family.
Yes, the farm was included – along with a little “station” and more.
More than a half century has passed since I won that drawing; my brother’s children are grown; he is divorced, and recently retired, about to turn 68. He has mentioned the train set over the years; first when his children were young, but they lived on the other end of the country, and we did not see them often. Now, they are grown – and although I reach out occasionally, they have lives of their own, and we really are not close to one another. Still – I feel a responsibility to preserve the lessons, the heritage that I found in my Mother’s closets – and now that my brother is in a new chapter of his own life, in my heart I sense that it is time to let the train travel east to his home. It won’t be cheap – it is large. I bought a large box and will pack it carefully; it will reach him there before his birthday. He was willing to wait, but I have a sense that the time is right now; time to let go, in more ways than one, and with more than just a vintage train set.
The thrilling accessory catalog – and invitation to become an honorary stockholder – must be under 16! You’ve made an investment in happiness!!
And yet – letting go is freeing, too. I want to believe, to hope at least, that his children’s children will play with the train, and keep it; and perhaps some will retain the knowledge of how trains changed their family’s lives, and futures. I accept that, like most old relatives in photos, particularly those who never had children, my name will be mostly forgotten, my face a new mystery. But in a way, that little train carries generations of love, and history – not just my memories, or my brothers, but those of our parents whose not fully successful dreams of a happy family gave us life; their parents whose work and sacrifices gave us opportunities many in our world would never know. The little train will go around it’s track, and as I say farewell, I look ahead toward the future which still holds promise, and discoveries to be shared, free of the restraint of tracks, awaiting my steps on a road that daily winds ahead.
See the old smoke risin’ ’round the bend I reckon that she knows she’s gonna meet a friend
Time to disembark, folks – hope you enjoyed the trip – watch that last step! Thanks for visiting – always appreciate chatting with friends and strangers! Oh, and don’t forget to subscribe – it’s complimentary with your paid first class ticket today!
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.
Do you have a quest? Something you have felt a drive to achieve, but never quite made it? Perhaps we all do. Some define quest as an unreachable goal – a dream – something beyond our reach, but worth pursuing. I have written before, and gotten some surprising positive feedback, on my own quest for improved fitness. Fitness in more than just the traditional body sense – extending into an overall place of well being, but very much including strength and physical health. In the past few months I have been slowly recognizing some factors that have helped me – not in necessarily traditionally measurable ways, but more in how I am feeling confident that I am on the right path. It’s been about 9 months since I posted about my progress – it seems like a good time to update you (and me, too!)
Everyone has to start somewhere …. and we all have our own paths to discover!
You can a find numerous books about lifting routines; technique; videos, apps, charts and more. I imagine they are all pretty helpful when used correctly – and I have bought (and given away) more than I care to remember. What surprises me is that there is relatively little written on the mindset one needs to embrace to move towards fitness, and I am realizing that is where every successful effort rests on a solid foundation. And that’s what I am going to try to convey with this post – some of the perspectives that have helped me refocus my efforts, creating results –the best of which will never be measured on the scale.
WARNING!!! Health advisory – my learning curve may differ significantly from yours! Were you among the “last picked” in PE? Have you spent your lifetime feeling like your body is best left unseen by human eyes? Have you found emotional comfort in food? Did most of your dating life consist of what flavor ice cream to binge? Then, well – maybe some of what I am about to share will resonate. Maybe, you too, have spent years yo-yoing between gyms and diets, workouts and guilt, success and failure; maybe there’s more like “us” who never reach their “ideal” – but keep coming back. Some might call it foolish, or compulsive; even destructive for some, sadly. But – something in us still calls to keep on striving. To not give up.
Been there, done that – and probably will again!! Because I am HUMAN!!
My not always effective efforts to become more like the physical ideal I yearned to be were thrown off track at age 60, when I had to be hospitalized for a parasite, and lost a great deal of muscle mass, and required physical therapy to resume first walking, and driving. When the time came to return to any kind of exercise 3 years ago now, I nearly cried at my inability to lift the bar on the bench without any weights attached at all. It felt like everything I had ever achieved was now gone – but I began to gradually build back. This spring I just turned 64; I did all I could during COVID to focus on improving, or at least maintaining, my fitness through home workouts and eventually limited gym access. Thankfully, our gyms are now fully open, and although in some ways I miss the backyard weight bench and adjustable dumbbells, I am so glad to be able to go be among others again and have a great selection of equipment to work with. But this is not some transformational success story, just yet anyway – I remain today far from an example of a successful gym rat.
Sure, I would like to be the guy in “The 300” – but WEIGHING 300 is easier for most of us!
We need to redefine “success”, and identify our own ideals
Here in SF, and being a gay man among many, the gyms are a kind of temple to what many hold as the masculine ideal – it’s on parade everywhere. It is so, so very easy to look at those muscular toned bodies, the tight outfits, the gleaming skin, and feel like a complete failure. Friends – take my word for it! To go in day after day and swim in that ocean of buffness is a potential recipe for depression! During COVID I began to realize, especially during the months when we had to stand in line to enter the gym by appointment, for less than an hour, outdoors – the people who truly inspired me were, well, the ones that might be classified as “rejects”. Not the models; not the gleaming Adonis (although I certainly still admire their physical state!) – but the ones like me. Overweight; skinny; average; older. I came to see that for me, and perhaps for them, because coming in took more determination, more commitment – often without visible results – they were showing me how to find that same energy within me. In fact, the one I remember most, was an elderly woman, at least in her 70’s, faithfully using cardio equpment, slowly moving her arms and legs, showing up like the rest of us – with greater effort. She would walk to the gym, and might have lived locally; she clearly faced many challenges – but that did not stop her. I never spoke to her, and now that things are “open” again, I haven’t seen her in months – but she is to me an example of spirit and dedication.
What do you see when you look in the mirror? What does your tomorrow you look like?
Insight the first – You’ve got to adjust your optics.
Having recently seen the latest “Fantastic beasts” movie, I reflect on the scenes where one wizard and another shoot the obligatory bolts from their wands – realizing that the setting for their battles has relevance for me! Now, I am not a “Harry Potter” expert by any means, but it seems to be kind of traditional that when they have these fights, they somehow move into a kind of shadow land, where it is just them, and everything and everyone else around them is kind of in a blur, another reality. Silly as it may be, I have started thinking of my time at the gym that way – surrounded by all these more physically developed – and younger, for the most part – low body fat percent flexing bodies, I move into a different mindset – where it’s just me, and the weights. I can’t “blur” them out of my perception, but – it really helps, somehow, to think of this as being my gym! When I walk in and stow my protein shake and keys in the locker, I walk out into “my” training ground – where I focus on what I need to do, right now, today. If I walk in with an attitude of not being exactly where I belong, well, I will go through my workout with less results! Don’t ask me to explain it – call me a kook if you like – but I am truly, finally feeling like I really DO belong there – in “my gym” – working on me, exactly where I am.
I remember this guy on TV in the 60’s – he was quite the motivator for many people!
Insight the second – Our quest may be solo, but it doesn’t have to be alone.
Over the years, and at the roughly dozen or more gyms I have joined on an off, I have had both good and not so good experiences with trainers. Having a trainer is not some guarantee of success! A good trainer can truly help – but they can’t do the work, they can’t help you have the right attitude – although they can be encouraging, or worse – disheartening. Working with a trainer effectively requires trust – and trust means respect, and acceptance. If you don’t have those elements, you are wasting your time and money – best to move on. It took time, but eventually I found my current trainer, who had some availability, and we started working together twice a week about six months ago. I am truly seeing results – in part because of his encouragement and helping me with technique. And for the majority, who can’t afford trainers, or even a gym – you can find a cheerleader, if you look. And you can BE a cheerleader – lifting up those around you. You never know how a kind word at the right time might help a friend – or a stranger – find the strength to carry on. Like the Village People proclaimed in YMCA, “No man does it all by himself; young man, put your pride on the shelf”!!!
How do you see yourself? Do you love your body as it is today? That’s a good start!
Insight the third – The worst cardio you can do is – running from reality.
I have never gone to a “boxing” gym – I don’t have to, I have a lifetime of experience in beating myself up!! Friends, not all of us are going to be calendar models! Not everyone is going to be anywhere close to the “ideal” we have – but we sure as heck aren’t going to get closer by having unrealistic goals, and then hating ourselves for not making them! Working out, eating right – these are ways not only of loving our body, but accepting our imperfect selves – and others around us – as we are, and rejoicing, even giving thanks, for what we are able to do with them now – balancing that with an honest assessment of our limits, and the passage of time. My best won’t be your best – whatever comes of my efforts isn’t entirely up to me, or you – but if we can say “I did my best” today, when we close our eyes, that is cause for celebration, not shame. We must relish our victory in the knowledge we are on the path!!
Now, when I go to my workout, I tell myself I, too, am a bodybuilder – and this is MY gym!
Insight the fourth – Find YOUR inspiration – and BE an inspiration!
So now I will be really personal, and maybe a little weird, but … one thing has really made a difference for me in my entire approach to what I call my “fitness journey”. Maybe it’s a kind of spiritual lens for this part of my experience – or maybe it’s just a mental trick to help me get past my own inner hurdles. Either way – it’s working – so here goes. Now, when I look at some of the examples of real bodybuilders around me at the gym – the well developed upper and lower bodies, the chiseled figures, the fat free curves of layers of muscles – I sense a kind of echo within me. I feel as though, somehow, I am drawn to them because those same possibilities are in me, awaiting to emerge. Perhaps it is like a kind of “future” mirror – we are, after all, not that different from one another – and somewhere, that new me, the product of the work I do today, all the yesterdays, and all the tomorrows – is waiting, eagerly, to emerge. I feel it with every set. And I see it happening – around me, and within me.
We humans are an amazing organism – many parts that are a single whole
Insight the fifth – Blurring the line between the inner and outer you
Just as I am slowly finding my way to let parts of my own, long suppressed, dormant inner being be expressed, shared, enjoyed with others – so are the elements within my physical shell joining in that chorus of awareness. I am, somehow, feeling my physicality more now that I accept that the same possibilities that others have embraced are there for me, as well. I sense my body more completely – I actually feel more integrated within it as I work on the different muscle groups. There is an energy flowing through me that is a different level of being alive, as I slowly integrate this awareness. I think it is kind of sad that for so many, the concept of a spiritual aspect to our existence has become something to be avoided, to be denied; it is a loss. Yes, our bodies will, one day, be irrelevant; but they are the vessels of the gift of life, one we must treasure, cherish – and honor in one another. To care for our physical well being – and that of those we love – is no less an act of faith, love and devotion. It is a dance with grace. I am finding a new kind of joy, integrating my mind, my heart, my faith and my body – together, growing, and finding peace in just being, today, this moment – and the next after that.
I like to think every day, every moment, offers a new start – and there is never a final finish.
Insight the sixth – The only “last place” is for those who never leave start.
We have to let our goals be our friends – milestones, not millstones. Just as this blog is subtitled my “journey towards authenticity”, I view my quest for a better body as one that does not have an end – a finish point. It’s not easy to balance goals with being realistic – I don’t pretend to be good at it. But I am a bit more balanced than I was, and – I am moving ahead. I still sense within me, yes even at 64, that I can do better; and I am not doing this for others, or what they think of me, or how they react to me, anymore. I am doing this because it brings me joy. I feel a possibility within me and I am working to give it a chance to become reality. There is no limits to what I can learn about fitness, although I truly acknowledge there are very real limits as to what my body can do, and it’s very different than what I might have been able to pursue 30 years ago. Does missing those decades of achievement mean taking hold of what I want now is a waste of time? I would say, not at all – but that’s a choice everyone has to make for themselves. Every goal we say “yes” to means an uncounted host of possible that we release.
Lyrics by David Zippel, music by Alan Menken, for “Go the Distance” from Disney’s Hercules
Insight the final – There is a hero within each of us – waiting to emerge!!
I love music while working out – not the squealing beat of the gym pop that blares, but my own personal soundtrack. It’s amazing what you can find – including this beautiful cover of the song from Disney’s Hercules, as performed by a male youth and adult choir from Brigham Young University. The video is stunning – but more importantly, the voices are divine, and the words carry me through some of the hard times. Here are the lyrics, and I hope you will find that which inspires you, too, to reach beyond where you are, and where you thought you might never be, to become. Enjoy the quest, friends. I’m there beside you! I’m cheering for you – together, we are becoming – the champions!
I have often dreamed of a far off place Where a hero’s welcome would be waiting for me Where the crowds would cheer, when they see my face And a voice keeps saying this is where I’m meant to be
I’ll be there someday, I can go the distance I will find my way if I can be strong I know every mile would be worth my while When I go the distance, I’ll be right where I belong
Down an unknown road to embrace my fate Though that road may wander, it will lead me to you And a thousand years would be worth the wait It might take a lifetime but somehow I’ll see it through
And I won’t look back, I can go the distance And I’ll stay on track, no I won’t accept defeat It’s an uphill slope But I won’t loose hope, ’till I go the distance And my journey is complete, oh yeah
But to look beyond the glory is the hardest part For a hero’s strength is measured by his heart, oh
Like a shooting star, I will go the distance I will search the world, I will face its harms I don’t care how far, I can go the distance ‘Till I find my hero’s welcome waiting in your arms
I will search the world, I will face its harms ‘Till I find my hero’s welcome waiting in your arms
Hey, if you see me at the gym, hugz are free!
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Time is a funny thing. We measure it carefully, we use our devices to map out every minute; yet when we look back, it is more slippery, evasive – our memories are like kites in the wind, colors flashing, sounds emerging and then fading, forgotten faces and melodies. My 64th birthday was just last week, and I was happy to hear from people in almost every chapter in my life, so far – a remarkable kaleidoscope. I know that I am very fortunate, in some ways – most ways – to have been able to choose to stop working more than 2 years ago, when my peers are still trying to figure out when they will retire. But the unexpected in life is like an imp, relishing its unpredictability, laughing at our plans for everything to work out “just so”.
Still, most people – at least in our culture – see this time of life as one to step away from the “daily grind” and finally “enjoy life”. How much better it is to try, at least, to see every day as an opportunity to not only experience joy – but to create it for others; to give meaning, and hope, to those we encounter. I have found and continue to discover new meaning in life now that my days of paychecks are long behind me. But it’s odd, and to be honest, perturbing to share that I often still dream of work – various jobs, and people, mingling from my past in a kind of alternative universe where they all pop in and out of meetings. I often awake and come to a kind of relief and realization that – no, I don’t work anymore; I don’t have a deadline. I don’t have to drive anywhere today, or solve that budget problem, or fill that position.
But today, March 31 as I write, marks a change of another sort. An end to a journey that started a very long time ago, when I would visit the career center – a glorified name for a classroom with a library and some microfilm readers – at my local high school, taking aptitude tests and awaiting computer reports by mail to analyze my responses. Those reports would tell me, somehow, where my future lay – what path would be fit for my skills and aptitudes. I had excellent grades – it surprises me, now, that old classmates remember some tests and achievements which at the time seemed so important but which I forgot long ago; but I strove for those grades, I had nothing else to point to that gave me a sense of worth, or belonging. And those tests told me I was fit for being a librarian, or a bookkeeper, or some sort of similar administrative role – not the kind of future a lonely, closeted boy would dream of in 70’s California.
If you remember using these to program … what a change we have seen!
Still, I followed my career center’s advice – and decided my future was to pursue being a CPA. I didn’t really even know what that meant – just that you had to take certain classes, and then join a “public accounting” firm. A Certified, public, accountant – promising a guaranteed career path, financial stability, and more. Those were gleaming dreams in the eyes of a kid who grew up in a one parent family, with no car, little money for clothes, and who had never been on an airplane. I did well in college – naturally – good grades got me interviews, but my awkward discomfort with myself, much less other people, put me at the back of the line for the “national firms” – the “Big 8” back then – and I ultimately got a job with a firm in the majestically named “Inland Empire” to begin my professional life. I took my first plane trip, to a training course – I remember sitting on the aircraft, half expecting the pilot to announce as we began our ascent – “Ok, everybody, here we goooooo” just like all the times the recording had played on Peter Pan’s flight at Disneyland. I never would anticipate where my life would head from there.
What many people thought accountants did … and for some, it was true!!
Back then, it took at least two years to become a CPA – two years of very specific experience, and I barely made it through the first year with my job intact, but I learned how to get my act together. I pushed – like I still do, when I have a goal – and then, after the two years, came the next hurdle – the CPA exam. A large room, four tests over 3 days. Many students took what were called “review courses” then – I couldn’t afford it, so I purchased books from some publisher back east for a few hundred dollars, and spent hours on the little desk in the bedroom of my childhood home, studying the past test questions and materials for hours. Worrying, as I always did, that I might not pass; I might not be smart enough, not as smart as the rest. Back then, it took a very long time to get results – you might pass some, or all, of the sections – but I cleared that hurdle. Shortly thereafter, I paid my “license fee” the state of California, and joined the professional associations, and was able to proudly add to my business card, those 3 letters – C.P.A.
I actually did have to run tapes like this back in the 80’s!!! Ah, technology.
Computers were just beginning to emerge as business tools in 1980, when I graduated college; my own programming classes had utilized punch cards to submit to the computer lab, with a report to be picked up the following day on large computer paper with green stripes. Fax machines were next, then cellular phones, and PC’s – my first home computer from Radio Shack/Tandy utilized a cassette tape for programming. Now, these terms have themselves become antiquated – and in a way, so has my knowledge. Public accounting was, in fact, an excellent career for job stability; even with my flaws and foibles, I was able to maintain my employment through more than a few periods of uncertainty and change. In time, I even pursued an MBA, which I am glad to say did give me a better understanding of how the technical aspects of the work I provided, moving from public accounting into internal financial administration, could help the organizations I serve better achieve their goals.
Yes, Bill Cosby sold us our first home computers! Maybe Will Smith can ask him for advice ….
Those 4 certificates were framed and displayed above my desk, proudly, through my last office job in 2017. Every two years, I would complete the required continuing education classes – sometimes at conferences, but often on my own – just enough to meet the state requirements, and pay the fees, and get that license renewal. Even after I decided in 2019 to end my pursuit of employment, at just barely 61, to prioritize my new life with my husband and other pursuits – I filled out the renewal forms and paid the fee. But the certificates stayed in the basement – until last week, when after another dream about work, I knew the time had come to close the chapter. I was a little surprised, somehow, that the papers which I had been so delighted to see arrive in the mail after my efforts, long in their frames, were really just flimsy sheets. This morning, they were picked up, joining all the other contents of the trash barrels at 4 am.
Now, only memories remain. I felt a sense of “moving on” when these went into recycling.
Legally, from this point on, I cannot say I am a CPA. Not that this is not a sad occasion – just a memorable one. As I reflect on all the memories of all those jobs – calling an old friend from that era, who like me waited anxiously to learn if they had met the standard – I think not of all the financial reports that I wrote, or the presentations, as much as I do about the lives that I was able to somehow, in a small way, encourage. The numbers were not as important as the decisions and choices they facilitated – and the health of the organizations that I toiled for, served the needs not only of their communities, but the individuals who worked alongside me in the teams, trying to get through their own daily grind. I know how fortunate I have been – but I still remind myself – to have the ability to live a fairly measured life in retirement. free from that sense of uncertainty that there will be enough. It is very different from the life of that young boy trying to choose what path to take, what road would lead to if not success, safety.
Beyond that gratitude, I am struck by the realization that we all define ourselves so much by things like our job titles. Yes, we are nurses or cops or clerks or dancers, bartenders and barbers, sales reps and janitors – yet, we are so much more. When the time comes to walk away from that paycheck – we do not stop being significant. In fact, this is a moment to give ourselves to see new opportunities – ones that we could not take up when we were grasping so tightly onto the horses whose reins we had already taken in hand. We built well defined, comfortable boxes for ourselves – we look for labels, and present those to others; we see models and try to look like them, because somehow they represent the pinnacle. Whether in our careers, our relationships, our schools or our bodies of faith – we try to conform. To meet expectations; to have that “seal of quality” that say, yes – we have made it!
That label, at least – CPA – for me – is now history. The career ended a long time ago; the dreams remain, and I doubt that getting rid of the certificate will end those. But slowly, like many other “skins” of my life, I am shedding the walls that I gripped so closely to define me, and allowing myself the opportunity to, if not spread my wings, dip my toes into new pools, tenderly. I am glad that my career gave me the opportunity to contribute to the well-being of so many organizations that do good in our world – in a small way. I am grateful that for a very few lives, that I worked alongside, I was able to encourage and perhaps even inspire a few to believe in themselves even though that was difficult for me to embrace; I saw in them opportunity and gave them permission to chase it. And I am moved that some from those many years remember me now, kindly. Today, those desks belong to others and the computers I used are more than defunct, the financial reports shredded and forgotten; all that pressure and stress, just a dissipating smoke of memory.
We are so, so much more than a single, limited perspective – even our own is less than complete. When we let go of not only trying to meet the expectation of others, but to free ourselves of the limitations and definitions that have been our own private islands – we can travel to new destinations. New life can emerge – regardless of our age. Now just for ourselves, but for those around us – we can start to push through the boxes and find a new world outside, filled with promise and uncertainty just like the ones we faced when we took off our high school robes and filed our diplomas. I am glad that life still offers a chance to me, and anyone facing once again the question of what purpose to make primary, what goal to pursue – a choice. A chance. Those doors are forever ahead of us, not just behind; each leading to adventures and discoveries we cannot imagine. Onward, my friends – onward!
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I would never claim to have anything original to say about love. No memorable new quotes, no revolutionary observations, no insights for those reading this who are asking themselves that question right now. I only have, as with all things, my story … one still being written; just like yours. So, for this Valentine’s day, this is just a little piece of my heart in hopes it touches some of you, out there. By now, if you have read any of my posts, this won’t be much different – Like life, I sometimes know where I start and have an idea of where I want to end, but the road is something I discover along the way. Shall we?
I still have Valentine’s day cards from my childhood, and some from later years – from my Mom, of course. She kept not everything, but bits of most things, and I am glad for that. Back in the 60’s, kids valentines were pretty routine, you’d buy a box for $2 and give one to your friends in class – maybe themed to pets, or rocket ships, or cartoon characters. As a shy child, with a single disabled parent, my path to not fitting in was only beginning then; in junior and senior high, my sense of not belonging only grew deeper, there was no dates, there were virtually no encounters with my peers outside of school; and there certainly was no LGBT youth outreach at church, or even adults who I could tell what I was feeling, to seek help through all the confusion and conflict. The road to “being an adult” was filled with mile markers that didn’t apply to my trip.
This is what was upheld as ideal in my childhood – what happiness would look like.
I was alone. Or at least, I felt very alone – like many boys and girls in that era, we had no place to “belong” as ourselves. So, when I reached the age where dating was expected, I made some awkward attempts, including one at the encouragement of a well-meaning counselor that resulted in deeply wounded feelings for a woman in my church who, like me, didn’t belong; wasn’t part of the crowd. I think perhaps church groups were a refuge for those who felt rejected – and yet there was still an effort to achieve the standards of, if not perfection, conformity. I knew well enough that as much as I wanted to be “normal” – heterosexual, straight, whatever words fit – that I wasn’t, and that pretending to be so was something I could not fulfill. My withdrawal grew deeper.
Every February, when Valentine’s day would come around, I would give candy to my Mom, and sometimes take goodies to work; I admit there were years I bought boxes of Sees in a tuxedo box, their Valentine’s gifts for men, for myself. Recently, I reconnected with a friend who knew me from kindergarten through high school – we had not seen one another in over 40 years and had a lot of catching up to do. She had the most insightful observation – that during our high school years, I had simply kind of disappeared. I was there, but not there like everyone else – not at the dances or the games, certainly not at the prom. She shared that sometimes, over the years, my name would come up – but no one knew what had become of me. I had left all those connections behind, because I could not be honest about myself and feel safe or accepted – that was impossible to conceive. So, too, was the idea that I could be loved for me.
We all know loneliness during our lives – sometimes we feel like we live in a private wilderness. Photo by Markus Spiske on Pexels.com
The only source of love that somehow kept creeping through the walls I had built around myself was my spirituality. Somehow, despite the heartfelt assurances of the sermons in the churches I still occasionally tried to belong within, I found a way to believe that God’s love was bigger than what I had been told. I am eternally grateful to Alan, my straight, Christian counselor who held onto the belief that the creator he knew had a love greater than the one I had come to believe in. Unlike many who are wounded, deeply, by the hypocrisy and ignorance that so many people of faith still embrace, I found a way to see that God’s love could not be confined by the traditions and models and standards that were paraded as the only way to live; that there was a greater love, and a source, that pushed beyond those artificial walls and shined brighter even though my eyes might be so blind that I could only occasionally see a glimmer through the cracks in my lonely fortress.
Today, I am gifted, graced and blessed with real, honest to goodness love from my husband. His life path has been very different from mine – and yet, in some ways, alike, just alternate roads until ours crossed and we realized that our hearts belonged together. I had never been in a real relationship; he had been with his late husband for over 35 years; he had come out in the 70’s, I had come out only shortly before we met; he had lived in San Francisco through all the changes that eventually brought the right for all to marry and have their love recognized; I had lived in towns where gay was a four letter word, and there were no rainbow flags fluttering from windows.
Our Valentine’s cards to one another today.
And yet, love found us. Love indeed brought us together, like so many from around the world, in ways we didn’t plan or predict. So on Valentine’s day, today, we exchange cards – mine a Hallmark, his an American greetings – that are from a husband, to a husband. How remarkable that is to me, and yet, seemingly unremarkable as our culture has shifted, at least here and now; for others, they still hide in the shadows, many alone, fearful of the consequences of sharing their hearts openly, and the risks of being known for who they are at the most basic level of existence and identity.
I have many friends that are single, still; straight, gay, whatever. Some have found happiness alone, others wonder why they are not finding someone who is their life partner, and still more are perhaps in relationships that have evolved, where the fires of love have cooled but the comfort of being together is better than parting. Some will have no calls, candy or cards today, others might be looking for a short-term escape from solitary to numb the sense of uncertainty whether they are the problem. Whether they will ever find someone to say “I love you” to, and hear it in return, and know it is true.
Perhaps, as Paul writes, Faith, Hope and Love are all gifts – or a single gift with many forms? Photo by Yelena Odintsova on Pexels.com
I am not an eloquent man, and I have no editor to help me better share something rising from deep within my spirit. I have only the longings of my heart to find a way to express something meaningful in my entries here. But those feelings run deep, deeper than my faith or whatever it is that calls me to reach out beyond what I understand factually and yet is just as real to my spirit. And in my heart, I write to anyone out there reading this on Valentine’s day, or any other day, who is looking for love – trying to figure out what it is, where it comes from, and how to get more of it. I don’t have those answers, and never will – but if a repressed gay Christian man in his 50’s can find a way to work through the mounds of muck that engulfed my life for too many years, and encounter someone from such a different walk of life and together, discover love and joy, hope and intimacy – not just for ourselves, but giving that through our love to others in our life – then I offer this a just a little bit of light, perhaps a minor miracle. Not proof of God, or right and wrong; not a formula for success; no Hallmark channel movie. Just me telling you – it happened; we love one another; we are blessed. I truly believe – yes, I even dare to say I know – that love exists for all of us, sometimes in ways we don’t realize or perceive, but it is there for us to reach out and know – and to share. There is no perfect love on this planet, just our awareness that something better exists, built into our codes somehow from childhood; if we dare to let it speak to us, it challenges us to step out without answers, and just find a way to give. Better to give, than receive, someone said; perhaps by focusing on giving, the promise of receiving begins to form.
I often include links to music here – music has been a way for the better angels of that great unknown to reach my heart. The music of my childhood in school chorus, and church choir; the music of the men’s gay choruses around the world; old hymns, new anthems, longings and wishes expressed by talents I will never be able to thank. As I thought of which song I might want to include today, “Where is Love” from the musical “Oliver” came to mind; sung by the title character, an orphan in a seemingly hopeless world of loneliness and rejection, it is timeless in capturing that sense of asking not only where, but why, and when, and how. I found this version – it may not be obvious from the video itself, but from what I could find online, the young boy performing here is blind. Filmed in 2009, he would now be a young man – with challenges I, and many of us, will never know. Perhaps he still sings, perhaps he has forgotten this moment – it has less than 300 views, and there are many others, by well known names, and with more technical polish. It is, in a way, unremarkable.
And yet, it is just that commonality that captures perhaps what my heart and my mind is doing a poor job of communicating; that we all just want love. We just want to be loved for who we are, and get past all the mountains and all the chaos, we can’t answer the whys, we will never be able to predict the future and much of the time we can’t understand the past – we certainly don’t control the present (and often wonder if anyone does). We muddle through and when love happens, whether for a brief glimmer in time like a candle that burns brightly and fades, or whether for decades surviving whatever life throws at us – love is worth celebrating and sharing. It is worth being laughed at for; it is worth fighting for; it is even worth forgiving for. It is worth giving away without question. It is worth believing in when we seemingly stand alone.
Wherever you are, my wish for you is that somehow, today, you can look at your life and see that love has been there, and is there now – mysterious, immeasurable, but real. It may ebb and flow, but it is alive, and real – and timeless. Whether you read this today, or on a hot summer afternoon, or Halloween or whatever – for the few who read this – you have the power to reach out to someone else and give them some love that they may be longing for, missing, in ways you could not imagine. This is my little effort to offer you that hope, just as the love I share with my husband was a gift to my life – and ours. Undeserved, perhaps; unplanned, certainly; amazing to me, always. I will be reading this to him tonight, as we share a quiet few moments reflecting. And I will continue to learn how to love, and to be loved – albeit imperfectly – from the heart.
The New NormL 