Or, as a nameless friend just said, "The Bitch who Gagged V-Day"
The Thing About Valentine’s Day…
I’ve received a lot of feedback about my announcement that I “canceled” Valentines Day. In a nutshell, here are the thoughts and events that led to that decision.
Hallmark is a Whore. Legally.
I am once again compelled to take notice that the idea of loving others is taken to absurdly commercial heights, and that the notion of love and appreciation of others is obfuscated by a whole lot of unwarranted angst, politicking, strategizing, and misinterpretation. I don’t think that this is what Cupid intended.
Is it “Je t’aime,” or “Je t’aime bien”?
In France, ‘Je t’aime’ means “I love you.” Je t’aime bien’ translates “I love you well”, and is that culture’s sentiment for “I really, really, really, really like you a lot.” In my current love formula, I am not sure how one treats both sides of that equation. Something needs to be added or subtracted from one side or the other. My notion was to delay the drama and pressure of Valentine’s Day, until we’ve figured out how to modify the equation to each other's satisfaction.
I’d rather have the whole year instead of one day.
Much the same as how I feel about Christmas, I’d rather be doing a better job of loving consistently, daily. At the onset of Valentines’ Day, I’d like my lover to be able to say, “Nothing so special about Valentines’ Day, since I am loved and appreciated this way every day in life.”
Essentially, I guess I'm more interested in Cupid having careful aim than feeling compelled to hit the broad side of the barn.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
It Gets Better, And Interesting
I really had no idea what the last post on this blog was going to do to my in-box. I received over three-hundred emails from people who were moved by what I’d written. Survivors, those struggling through hurt. I laughed, I cried. I was humbled beyond belief. Despite the enormity of the prospect, I felt compelled to respond. Respond, initially, to all but five emails. I just couldn’t get over the notion that each of those voices—whether that of overcomer, or that of the hurting, deserved acknowledgement for what they shared.
I am proud to have made the electronic acquaintance of so many truly strong individuals who have triumphed through unimaginable abuse. I am inspired by the quiet strength, courage, and grace of so many people in this community. I encourage those of you who can find your voice, to tell others that they are not alone. Your stories have purpose, they have the power to heal, to help others overcome.
I have been moved by the heart-rending stories of people still struggling with the unrelinquished hurt, fear, and betrayal. I encourage those of you still hurting to take just one small brave step and begin connecting with someone who will hear your pain and help you find your way. It makes no matter whether that person is a professional, a neighbor, a stranger. It DOES get better.
What has kept me from posting a follow-up for over a month now, has been the other five emails. Four of them have had the audacity to assert that victims of sexual assault—including that which happens to the very young—bear some measure of responsibility in the act. To those individuals, let me be so bold as to speak on behalf of a multitude of people when I say this:
Any act that ends with someone saying, “And if you tell your mom this happened…” is pretty much not a consensual act. Any act that a child cries “No” to repeatedly, even when punched for doing so, is not a consensual act. Any act that leaves a child growing up to feel that he or she is not worthy of another person’s pure and genuine affections, is not a consensual act. Every adult bears the responsibility to not inappropriately touch a child… no matter how your twisted, messed up perspective might view that child’s behavior.
These are the most constructive things I can think to say to the four individuals who suggested that the molestation of a child is not the perpetrator’s fault. I have many other things I’d like to say, but will reserve judgment and take the higher road.
The final email I have wrestled with since the moment I opened it. Almost a month ago.
I received an email from someone who molested me when I was eleven years old. The email was succinct, remorseful, and requested the opportunity to meet with me to apologize. I have thought over the past four weeks as to how—and whether—to respond. It’s not that I haven’t forgiven what happened. I have. A long time ago. And without the fear and discomfort I imagine would come from such a face-to-face encounter. Thirty years is a lot of time to put between me and some very painful experiences. Thirty years is almost the amount of time it has taken me to get over it. I have not really been able to convince myself that opening old wounds is really productive in this instance.
Today, one of my Facebook friends posted on his wall: “Listening may be the most loving thing you do today.” I don’t know why, today of all days, this hit me so hard. Or why I connected it to this email I’ve been pondering.
Today, I emailed this man and suggested that I am willing to entertain meeting him, with some safeguards and conditions. Why? Curiosity? Closure? I guess I’ve been mulling that over for all these weeks. Today, I figured out the answer:
For love; of self, of God, of others. Listening seems a small price to pay for the privilege and opportunity that are contained in those gifts.
I am proud to have made the electronic acquaintance of so many truly strong individuals who have triumphed through unimaginable abuse. I am inspired by the quiet strength, courage, and grace of so many people in this community. I encourage those of you who can find your voice, to tell others that they are not alone. Your stories have purpose, they have the power to heal, to help others overcome.
I have been moved by the heart-rending stories of people still struggling with the unrelinquished hurt, fear, and betrayal. I encourage those of you still hurting to take just one small brave step and begin connecting with someone who will hear your pain and help you find your way. It makes no matter whether that person is a professional, a neighbor, a stranger. It DOES get better.
What has kept me from posting a follow-up for over a month now, has been the other five emails. Four of them have had the audacity to assert that victims of sexual assault—including that which happens to the very young—bear some measure of responsibility in the act. To those individuals, let me be so bold as to speak on behalf of a multitude of people when I say this:
Any act that ends with someone saying, “And if you tell your mom this happened…” is pretty much not a consensual act. Any act that a child cries “No” to repeatedly, even when punched for doing so, is not a consensual act. Any act that leaves a child growing up to feel that he or she is not worthy of another person’s pure and genuine affections, is not a consensual act. Every adult bears the responsibility to not inappropriately touch a child… no matter how your twisted, messed up perspective might view that child’s behavior.
These are the most constructive things I can think to say to the four individuals who suggested that the molestation of a child is not the perpetrator’s fault. I have many other things I’d like to say, but will reserve judgment and take the higher road.
The final email I have wrestled with since the moment I opened it. Almost a month ago.
I received an email from someone who molested me when I was eleven years old. The email was succinct, remorseful, and requested the opportunity to meet with me to apologize. I have thought over the past four weeks as to how—and whether—to respond. It’s not that I haven’t forgiven what happened. I have. A long time ago. And without the fear and discomfort I imagine would come from such a face-to-face encounter. Thirty years is a lot of time to put between me and some very painful experiences. Thirty years is almost the amount of time it has taken me to get over it. I have not really been able to convince myself that opening old wounds is really productive in this instance.
Today, one of my Facebook friends posted on his wall: “Listening may be the most loving thing you do today.” I don’t know why, today of all days, this hit me so hard. Or why I connected it to this email I’ve been pondering.
Today, I emailed this man and suggested that I am willing to entertain meeting him, with some safeguards and conditions. Why? Curiosity? Closure? I guess I’ve been mulling that over for all these weeks. Today, I figured out the answer:
For love; of self, of God, of others. Listening seems a small price to pay for the privilege and opportunity that are contained in those gifts.
Friday, January 7, 2011
My Version of "It Gets Better"
I read and mulled and watched and agonized a couple months ago as many great voices, large and small, shared their inspiring and moving testimonies of “It Gets Better,” as a way of raising awareness and providing encouragement for those who have been, or are being, bullied.
I knew I had things to share and say that would be beneficial. I was bullied as a kid, preyed upon for being fat, poor, smart, shy, awkward, and socially marginalized by my parents’ life choices. I have been bullied as an adult, in the workplace, in marriage, in family relationships. I am glad to say that after nearly 40 years, I finally found my way, and found the courage to draw boundaries, repair the damage, and make myself whole.
It’s not that I don’t have tons to say about what that feels like. Pain is pain, and it hurts. And much like many other things in life, I’ve managed to overcome and conquer. As always, I’d rather focus on the good, rather than the bad.
What kept me from sharing on this topic really comes down to a lack of zeal. I just couldn’t put my finger on some aspect of the matter that I felt truly resonated with me in a way that would translate to something meaningful worth reading. Until today.
A Facebook friend posted a version of this news story on his page about the suicide of Bill Zeller, renowned Princeton computer programmer. Bill took his own life after twenty-some years of unsuccessfully dealing with the aftermath of sexual abuse as a child.
As many of you know, I have long been an advocate for suicide prevention, having lost my mother, a co-worker, and a slew of friends to such tragic ends. I have compassion for those so enshrouded in hopelessness that they find this dark end the only means of ending their suffering. Life is truly rough sometimes. I have endless sympathy for those left behind, who must make sense out of such senseless and enormous loss. Moving on is rough, too.
Something I have not talked or written about much from my own experience is the way sexual abuse in my childhood impacted me. Other than succumbing to thoughts of death, I have experienced much of what Bill Zeller shared in his final missive: the darkness, the self-loathing, the pain, the fear, the isolation, the inability to find courage for real intimacy, the betrayals encountered in the search to repair the damage done. I can understand how and why a person would want permanent respite from these things.
I have been that person who bore daily physical reminders of such heinous violation. I have struggled to reach out of a darkness from which I sometimes could not justify my own escape. I have self-sabotaged aspects of my life because I was afraid—of what, I’m not sure. I have chosen poorly in nearly every romantic relationship I’ve tried to have, because somehow, latching on to someone I knew would hurt, betray, or otherwise neglect me seemed just dessert for damaged goods. I have hurt other people in my irrational and illogical attempts to keep myself “safe” from further harm, perceived or otherwise.
Thankfully, it does get better.
As I read Bill Zeller’s final words, my heart ached for a young man who never learned to love himself. The greatest spiritual battle we face is being separated from the love that was placed in us by creation. Every religion—Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, Taoism, etc.—all speak to the importance of loving one’s self. Biblical scripture says, “loving the Lord your God with all your heart, even as you love yourself.”
I don’t want to get dogmatic or preachy, but those are powerful words. Love. Yourself. No matter what has happened to you in this life, you are a person worth knowing, worth loving, and blessed with a life worth living, and sharing with others. I read somewhere recently, a quote, “You don’t have to go looking for love if it’s where you come from.” Loving yourself is fundamental to sustaining the rest of one’s existence in a healthy, happy way. If you don’t love yourself, how can you believe that others—family, friends, God—love you, too?
For other Bill Zellers out there: You are not alone. Statistically speaking, one of every four females, and one of every seven males you meet on the street has been sexually abused. The things that isolate you are not entirely unique to your own human experience. You are precious, valued, loved. There is confidential help available through mental health professionals, sexual abuse hotlines, online resources.
For the rest of us: Recognize that every person you encounter has struggles in life. Some things that have been engrafted into the hearts of friends and loved ones are this plaguing, this monumental, this difficult for the individual; no matter how they are presenting on the outside. Be a friend. Be a confidante. Recognize the signs and symptoms of the seriously depressed and those predisposed to suicide:
• Ideation (thinking, talking or wishing about suicide)
• Substance use or abuse (increased use or change in substance)
• Puposelessness (no sense of purpose or belonging)
• Anger
• Trapped (feeling like there is no way out)
• Hopelessness (there is nothing to live for, no hope or optimism)
• Withdrawal (from family, friends, work, school, activities, hobbies)
• Anxiety (restlessness, irritability, agitation)
• Recklessness (high risk-taking behavior)
• Mood disturbance (dramatic changes in mood)
• Talking about suicide.
• Looking for ways to die (internet searches for how to commit suicide, looking for guns, pills, etc.)
• Statements about hopelessness, helplessness, or worthlessness.
• Preoccupation with death.
• Suddenly happier, calmer.
• Loss of interest in things one cares about.
• Visiting or calling people one cares about.
• Making arrangements; setting one's affairs in order.
• Giving things away, such as prized possessions.
And may we all remember that there is no problem so great that it cannot be conquered when the job is properly divided among friends.
I knew I had things to share and say that would be beneficial. I was bullied as a kid, preyed upon for being fat, poor, smart, shy, awkward, and socially marginalized by my parents’ life choices. I have been bullied as an adult, in the workplace, in marriage, in family relationships. I am glad to say that after nearly 40 years, I finally found my way, and found the courage to draw boundaries, repair the damage, and make myself whole.
It’s not that I don’t have tons to say about what that feels like. Pain is pain, and it hurts. And much like many other things in life, I’ve managed to overcome and conquer. As always, I’d rather focus on the good, rather than the bad.
What kept me from sharing on this topic really comes down to a lack of zeal. I just couldn’t put my finger on some aspect of the matter that I felt truly resonated with me in a way that would translate to something meaningful worth reading. Until today.
A Facebook friend posted a version of this news story on his page about the suicide of Bill Zeller, renowned Princeton computer programmer. Bill took his own life after twenty-some years of unsuccessfully dealing with the aftermath of sexual abuse as a child.
As many of you know, I have long been an advocate for suicide prevention, having lost my mother, a co-worker, and a slew of friends to such tragic ends. I have compassion for those so enshrouded in hopelessness that they find this dark end the only means of ending their suffering. Life is truly rough sometimes. I have endless sympathy for those left behind, who must make sense out of such senseless and enormous loss. Moving on is rough, too.
Something I have not talked or written about much from my own experience is the way sexual abuse in my childhood impacted me. Other than succumbing to thoughts of death, I have experienced much of what Bill Zeller shared in his final missive: the darkness, the self-loathing, the pain, the fear, the isolation, the inability to find courage for real intimacy, the betrayals encountered in the search to repair the damage done. I can understand how and why a person would want permanent respite from these things.
I have been that person who bore daily physical reminders of such heinous violation. I have struggled to reach out of a darkness from which I sometimes could not justify my own escape. I have self-sabotaged aspects of my life because I was afraid—of what, I’m not sure. I have chosen poorly in nearly every romantic relationship I’ve tried to have, because somehow, latching on to someone I knew would hurt, betray, or otherwise neglect me seemed just dessert for damaged goods. I have hurt other people in my irrational and illogical attempts to keep myself “safe” from further harm, perceived or otherwise.
Thankfully, it does get better.
As I read Bill Zeller’s final words, my heart ached for a young man who never learned to love himself. The greatest spiritual battle we face is being separated from the love that was placed in us by creation. Every religion—Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, Taoism, etc.—all speak to the importance of loving one’s self. Biblical scripture says, “loving the Lord your God with all your heart, even as you love yourself.”
I don’t want to get dogmatic or preachy, but those are powerful words. Love. Yourself. No matter what has happened to you in this life, you are a person worth knowing, worth loving, and blessed with a life worth living, and sharing with others. I read somewhere recently, a quote, “You don’t have to go looking for love if it’s where you come from.” Loving yourself is fundamental to sustaining the rest of one’s existence in a healthy, happy way. If you don’t love yourself, how can you believe that others—family, friends, God—love you, too?
For other Bill Zellers out there: You are not alone. Statistically speaking, one of every four females, and one of every seven males you meet on the street has been sexually abused. The things that isolate you are not entirely unique to your own human experience. You are precious, valued, loved. There is confidential help available through mental health professionals, sexual abuse hotlines, online resources.
For the rest of us: Recognize that every person you encounter has struggles in life. Some things that have been engrafted into the hearts of friends and loved ones are this plaguing, this monumental, this difficult for the individual; no matter how they are presenting on the outside. Be a friend. Be a confidante. Recognize the signs and symptoms of the seriously depressed and those predisposed to suicide:
• Ideation (thinking, talking or wishing about suicide)
• Substance use or abuse (increased use or change in substance)
• Puposelessness (no sense of purpose or belonging)
• Anger
• Trapped (feeling like there is no way out)
• Hopelessness (there is nothing to live for, no hope or optimism)
• Withdrawal (from family, friends, work, school, activities, hobbies)
• Anxiety (restlessness, irritability, agitation)
• Recklessness (high risk-taking behavior)
• Mood disturbance (dramatic changes in mood)
• Talking about suicide.
• Looking for ways to die (internet searches for how to commit suicide, looking for guns, pills, etc.)
• Statements about hopelessness, helplessness, or worthlessness.
• Preoccupation with death.
• Suddenly happier, calmer.
• Loss of interest in things one cares about.
• Visiting or calling people one cares about.
• Making arrangements; setting one's affairs in order.
• Giving things away, such as prized possessions.
And may we all remember that there is no problem so great that it cannot be conquered when the job is properly divided among friends.
Monday, December 27, 2010
The Party's Over... 'Cuz the Lights are Going Out...
No more incandescent light bulbs? What? As if that’s not bad enough, I heard this from Doug La Malfa’s Facebook page. This cave I’ve been living in really is insulated from the outside world.
For those three or four of you who might be as sheltered and clueless as I apparently am, here’s the deal:
In 2007, George W. Bush signed some sort of energy bill which, in part, begins phasing out incandescent light bulbs. Those are the non-funny-shaped ones. The ones we’ve taken for granted all our lives. The federally-mandated phase out does not start until 2012. However, California, in order to meet its own energy reduction mandates, is beginning the phase out of 100-watt bulbs effective January 1, 2011.
Now, 100-watt bulbs, I can see eliminating. It’s like a thousand splendid suns in someone’s living room. But on the heels of that, my beloved 60- and 75-watt luminaries will also become contraband. I’m getting to that age where time and gravity have collided with good looks and grace, causing a wrinkling Armageddon across my face. Make-up only does so much. I rely on other people’s poor vision and good lighting to compensate for the rest.
And I’m left to wonder, what the heck was so important in the past three years that I missed this impending train wreck?
For those three or four of you who might be as sheltered and clueless as I apparently am, here’s the deal:
In 2007, George W. Bush signed some sort of energy bill which, in part, begins phasing out incandescent light bulbs. Those are the non-funny-shaped ones. The ones we’ve taken for granted all our lives. The federally-mandated phase out does not start until 2012. However, California, in order to meet its own energy reduction mandates, is beginning the phase out of 100-watt bulbs effective January 1, 2011.
Now, 100-watt bulbs, I can see eliminating. It’s like a thousand splendid suns in someone’s living room. But on the heels of that, my beloved 60- and 75-watt luminaries will also become contraband. I’m getting to that age where time and gravity have collided with good looks and grace, causing a wrinkling Armageddon across my face. Make-up only does so much. I rely on other people’s poor vision and good lighting to compensate for the rest.
And I’m left to wonder, what the heck was so important in the past three years that I missed this impending train wreck?
Friday, December 10, 2010
What Would Jesus Buy? Or, Why I’m Kicking the Eight Pound Baby Jesus Out of the Manger
So, for the past several years, I’ve ranted about the commercialization of Christmas, and pleaded with friends and loved ones to put some magic back into this time of year. No amount of love from those I adore warrants a year’s worth of consumer debt, worry, stress, or consternation.
Instead of buying me a sweater, share a cup of tea with me. Instead of making me some trinket, spend time making memories with me that we both will be unable to erase from our legacies.
This year, the ‘back to basics’ epiphany has hit me this way:
Going broke buying gifts to prove you love me as much as you love the eight-pound baby Jesus, is like giddily leading Herrod to the Christ child. When we buy what we can barely afford, we are laying all our tribute at the feet of Target, WalMart, Macy’s, and Sears. If we’ve converted all our worth into commercial gifts, what do we really have left of value to share with one another, or with Christ?
This year, I challenge you to put aside your notions of tangible value on loved ones. Cast off your warm and fuzzy notion of the baby Jesus in the manger. Consider instead, bravely embracing the 23 year-old, 165 pound Jesus. Not much is written about him. I suspect that he was out and about, eating locusts, doing more of that 'I’m the Son of God' 40-day fasting plan, and generally being tempted in all manner of men. And at 23, he was likely bemoaning that day’s equivalent of walking the life of a man-child. He was finally able to go out and drink with his buddies, but not quite old enough to be getting a good driver insurance rate, due to his age.
This year has taught me more about faith than any other time in my life. Facing death makes one reconsider a lot about life in general, and personal circumstances in particular. I believe that in Christ’s young manhood, he had to be conflicted about his life path, knowing that he was headed for a road of rejection, condemnation, and betrayal, all in the name of the family biz. Still, we’re told, he counted it all joy. He was steadfast in his faith. That's what I want for all of us in the coming year-- a steadfastness that helps us endure challenges with joy, and a gratitude that makes us drink in every moment of goodness that comes our way.
Instead of casting our lot with the cute and cuddly little bugger in the manger, let’s worship the guy who went through who-knows-what, for you-know-who (us). Let’s emulate the dude who was strong enough physically, and mature enough emotionally, to move forward through the tough times, knowing that doing so gave us all a foothold to joy unspeakable.
Let’s trust one another, hold each other up, love one another in the non-trinket form; in ways that better sustain us, better propel us, and better bond us to one another in the coming year.
Instead of buying me a sweater, share a cup of tea with me. Instead of making me some trinket, spend time making memories with me that we both will be unable to erase from our legacies.
This year, the ‘back to basics’ epiphany has hit me this way:
Going broke buying gifts to prove you love me as much as you love the eight-pound baby Jesus, is like giddily leading Herrod to the Christ child. When we buy what we can barely afford, we are laying all our tribute at the feet of Target, WalMart, Macy’s, and Sears. If we’ve converted all our worth into commercial gifts, what do we really have left of value to share with one another, or with Christ?
This year, I challenge you to put aside your notions of tangible value on loved ones. Cast off your warm and fuzzy notion of the baby Jesus in the manger. Consider instead, bravely embracing the 23 year-old, 165 pound Jesus. Not much is written about him. I suspect that he was out and about, eating locusts, doing more of that 'I’m the Son of God' 40-day fasting plan, and generally being tempted in all manner of men. And at 23, he was likely bemoaning that day’s equivalent of walking the life of a man-child. He was finally able to go out and drink with his buddies, but not quite old enough to be getting a good driver insurance rate, due to his age.
This year has taught me more about faith than any other time in my life. Facing death makes one reconsider a lot about life in general, and personal circumstances in particular. I believe that in Christ’s young manhood, he had to be conflicted about his life path, knowing that he was headed for a road of rejection, condemnation, and betrayal, all in the name of the family biz. Still, we’re told, he counted it all joy. He was steadfast in his faith. That's what I want for all of us in the coming year-- a steadfastness that helps us endure challenges with joy, and a gratitude that makes us drink in every moment of goodness that comes our way.
Instead of casting our lot with the cute and cuddly little bugger in the manger, let’s worship the guy who went through who-knows-what, for you-know-who (us). Let’s emulate the dude who was strong enough physically, and mature enough emotionally, to move forward through the tough times, knowing that doing so gave us all a foothold to joy unspeakable.
Let’s trust one another, hold each other up, love one another in the non-trinket form; in ways that better sustain us, better propel us, and better bond us to one another in the coming year.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Accounting for 2010
Let me tell you where this year has gone…
Divorce.
Salt Lake City.
The wintery star-filled skies of Wyoming.
Denver.
Albuquerque.
Winslow.
New Tattoo.
Matching piercings with Katy.
Rode the last Sunset Dinner train.
Golden Gate Bridge.
Drove up the coast.
Ate Well. Vintage. Rubicon. Tapas. Yama Sushi. Kobe. Mt. Fuji. Penny’s Diner. Tasty Mouse. Trader Joe. Waffle House. Black Eyed Pea. The Fort. Minerva’s. Taco Trucks. Quizno’s. Maria’s. Anette’s. Dad’s. Rick's. P.F. Chang’s.
Said hard good-byes.
Said sweet hellos.
Made choices.
Packed.
Loaded.
Stored.
Hauled.
Moved to Denver.
Found life again.
In a basement.
And atop a 14,000 foot mountain.
Manitou Springs.
Broadmoor Hotel.
Colorado Springs.
The Continental Divide.
Rode my motorcycle through the Rockies.
Stayed in the town that inspired South Park.
Saw the Nuggets play a few times.
The Rockies with Scott.
Bon Jovi with Josh.
Walked the beach at Santa Cruz with a loved one.
Barack Obama.
Drove myself back to California to face some unknowns.
Aspen.
Hotchkiss.
Durango.
Four Corners.
The Navajo Nation Rodeo.
Colorado City.
Zion National Park.
Las Vegas.
Death Valley.
Tonopah.
Mina.
Reno.
Susanville.
Burney.
Redding.
Bare Naked Ladies with Maria
Lost 70 pounds.
Cheryl, the loaner mom.
Nevada.
Utah.
Wyoming.
Colorado.
New Mexico.
Arizona.
Mexico.
Oregon.
Illinois.
Texas.
Washington, DC
Migraine.
Vomit.
Diarrhea.
Cramps.
Nightmares.
Bleeding.
Pain.
Non-stop Pain.
Jumped out of a plane.
Found clothes that fit well, simply by changing the way I see myself.
Found peace through the harshest of circumstances.
John Mayer with Maria.
Loved.
Lost.
Fought.
Won.
Been sick,
Been well.
Gained.
Lived.
Died.
Wept.
Lost fear.
Lost hair.
Found courage, faith, and grace.
Learned yoga.
Danced with a man under a warm summer sky.
Laughed, like I haven’t since I was a kid.
Drugs. Prescriptions. Medical Care.
Medical Bills.
Insurance.
Insurance Companies.
Found joy in the simplest of things—a flower. A phone call. A hug. A sunset. A day without a headache.
Laughter.
Met with dignitaries.
Awed in the presence of the poorest of folk.
Connected with positive energy.
Disconnected from the negative.
Found liberation through drawing of boundaries.
Been broken.
Been made whole.
Walked on the beach, while questioning my existence.
Been reminded in the most humbling of ways that I am valued, loved.
Written more in the past year than I have in ages, reminding me of where passions reside.
The environment.
The Holy Spirit.
Communities.
Big Foot.
Polygamy.
Health. Sickness. Death. Dying. Moving on.
Serenity.
Justice.
Peace.
Grants. Reports. Spreadsheets. Reconciliations.
Made new friends.
Found old friends.
Sat still.
Been humbled by the help of others.
Been inspired by those who heroically endured much.
Met lots of troopers.
Stretched.
Grew.
Been tested.
Slept.
Dreamed.
Hoped.
Loved.
Prayed.
Kicked Ass.
Possessed the courage and audacity to make it all so.
Divorce.
Salt Lake City.
The wintery star-filled skies of Wyoming.
Denver.
Albuquerque.
Winslow.
New Tattoo.
Matching piercings with Katy.
Rode the last Sunset Dinner train.
Golden Gate Bridge.
Drove up the coast.
Ate Well. Vintage. Rubicon. Tapas. Yama Sushi. Kobe. Mt. Fuji. Penny’s Diner. Tasty Mouse. Trader Joe. Waffle House. Black Eyed Pea. The Fort. Minerva’s. Taco Trucks. Quizno’s. Maria’s. Anette’s. Dad’s. Rick's. P.F. Chang’s.
Said hard good-byes.
Said sweet hellos.
Made choices.
Packed.
Loaded.
Stored.
Hauled.
Moved to Denver.
Found life again.
In a basement.
And atop a 14,000 foot mountain.
Manitou Springs.
Broadmoor Hotel.
Colorado Springs.
The Continental Divide.
Rode my motorcycle through the Rockies.
Stayed in the town that inspired South Park.
Saw the Nuggets play a few times.
The Rockies with Scott.
Bon Jovi with Josh.
Walked the beach at Santa Cruz with a loved one.
Barack Obama.
Drove myself back to California to face some unknowns.
Aspen.
Hotchkiss.
Durango.
Four Corners.
The Navajo Nation Rodeo.
Colorado City.
Zion National Park.
Las Vegas.
Death Valley.
Tonopah.
Mina.
Reno.
Susanville.
Burney.
Redding.
Bare Naked Ladies with Maria
Lost 70 pounds.
Cheryl, the loaner mom.
Nevada.
Utah.
Wyoming.
Colorado.
New Mexico.
Arizona.
Mexico.
Oregon.
Illinois.
Texas.
Washington, DC
Migraine.
Vomit.
Diarrhea.
Cramps.
Nightmares.
Bleeding.
Pain.
Non-stop Pain.
Jumped out of a plane.
Found clothes that fit well, simply by changing the way I see myself.
Found peace through the harshest of circumstances.
John Mayer with Maria.
Loved.
Lost.
Fought.
Won.
Been sick,
Been well.
Gained.
Lived.
Died.
Wept.
Lost fear.
Lost hair.
Found courage, faith, and grace.
Learned yoga.
Danced with a man under a warm summer sky.
Laughed, like I haven’t since I was a kid.
Drugs. Prescriptions. Medical Care.
Medical Bills.
Insurance.
Insurance Companies.
Found joy in the simplest of things—a flower. A phone call. A hug. A sunset. A day without a headache.
Laughter.
Met with dignitaries.
Awed in the presence of the poorest of folk.
Connected with positive energy.
Disconnected from the negative.
Found liberation through drawing of boundaries.
Been broken.
Been made whole.
Walked on the beach, while questioning my existence.
Been reminded in the most humbling of ways that I am valued, loved.
Written more in the past year than I have in ages, reminding me of where passions reside.
The environment.
The Holy Spirit.
Communities.
Big Foot.
Polygamy.
Health. Sickness. Death. Dying. Moving on.
Serenity.
Justice.
Peace.
Grants. Reports. Spreadsheets. Reconciliations.
Made new friends.
Found old friends.
Sat still.
Been humbled by the help of others.
Been inspired by those who heroically endured much.
Met lots of troopers.
Stretched.
Grew.
Been tested.
Slept.
Dreamed.
Hoped.
Loved.
Prayed.
Kicked Ass.
Possessed the courage and audacity to make it all so.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
The Gift That Is Forgiveness
Forgiveness has never been that difficult of a thing for me when it comes to my end of the gig. I have long understood the power and force behind owning one’s mistakes and doing what one can to make things whole for those I have hurt or offended.
I have forgiven others for transgressions from large to small. Whether spiritually speaking or not, I simply believe that the love which inspired the relationship is greater than any snare that could tear at it. From my theological point of view, forgiveness is imperative to honoring the work of the Cross. To withhold forgiveness is to say that Christ’s sacrifice was not greater than the transgression one has suffered.
To me, it has never mattered whether a person even asks for that forgiveness. It’s just my job to make my own heart right in the matter and forgive. In fact, upon reflection, some of the greatest hurts I’ve endured in life have been forgiven that way. I forgive and move on, while nothing really gets restored in terms of the relationship, for lack of the other person's contribution. It’s certainly not ideal, but it’s far better than letting bitterness prevail.
Recently, I was confronted with a request from someone for the opportunity to ‘clear the air’. This was someone who had broken my heart at a point in life where I really could have benefitted from his friendship and support, if not the love we had shared. Quietly, over the span of some time, I had made peace with the situation, with his absence, and with the lack of closure over it all. I forgave, silently, for the sake of both our souls.
I had not expected to ever hear from him again. As happens at times, his life took some unfortunate turns that apparently made him re-evaluate choices he’s made in the course of his journey. It is with a fair amount of shame that I admit I was reluctant to have this proposed ‘air clearing’. I was skeptical. I had made peace with things from my own end, and didn’t see the point in rehashing old wounds.
Ultimately, propelled by compassion for his extraordinary circumstances, I capitulated. We met.
In all my life, I have never had someone apologize so sincerely. No mitigations, no “I’m sorry, but,” just an apology-- succinctly, sincerely, and with humility, expressing regret and remorse for pieces of the past that could have been lived better, or with a greater degree of kindness. It assuaged a lot of sleepless nights, a lot of sorrow, and a lot of questioning of self. It humbled me. It made a very broken piece of me whole.
It was a gift for which I don’t even know where to insert the proper thanks.
I have forgiven others for transgressions from large to small. Whether spiritually speaking or not, I simply believe that the love which inspired the relationship is greater than any snare that could tear at it. From my theological point of view, forgiveness is imperative to honoring the work of the Cross. To withhold forgiveness is to say that Christ’s sacrifice was not greater than the transgression one has suffered.
To me, it has never mattered whether a person even asks for that forgiveness. It’s just my job to make my own heart right in the matter and forgive. In fact, upon reflection, some of the greatest hurts I’ve endured in life have been forgiven that way. I forgive and move on, while nothing really gets restored in terms of the relationship, for lack of the other person's contribution. It’s certainly not ideal, but it’s far better than letting bitterness prevail.
Recently, I was confronted with a request from someone for the opportunity to ‘clear the air’. This was someone who had broken my heart at a point in life where I really could have benefitted from his friendship and support, if not the love we had shared. Quietly, over the span of some time, I had made peace with the situation, with his absence, and with the lack of closure over it all. I forgave, silently, for the sake of both our souls.
I had not expected to ever hear from him again. As happens at times, his life took some unfortunate turns that apparently made him re-evaluate choices he’s made in the course of his journey. It is with a fair amount of shame that I admit I was reluctant to have this proposed ‘air clearing’. I was skeptical. I had made peace with things from my own end, and didn’t see the point in rehashing old wounds.
Ultimately, propelled by compassion for his extraordinary circumstances, I capitulated. We met.
In all my life, I have never had someone apologize so sincerely. No mitigations, no “I’m sorry, but,” just an apology-- succinctly, sincerely, and with humility, expressing regret and remorse for pieces of the past that could have been lived better, or with a greater degree of kindness. It assuaged a lot of sleepless nights, a lot of sorrow, and a lot of questioning of self. It humbled me. It made a very broken piece of me whole.
It was a gift for which I don’t even know where to insert the proper thanks.
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