Will you stay....



 If I experience dementia,
will you stay my friend?
Will you say my name;
not call me "him" or "them"?
Will you believe that I believe
and let that be enough?
Will you acknowledge my frustration and confusion
without laughing or shaking your head?
Will you keep trying to reach me
and ask about my yester-years and ten years before?
Will you nudge me like I'm the Pillsbury Dough boy
and elicit a spark in my eye and a giggle in my belly?
Will you tickle my funny bone?
Will you clean me
with a gentle heart and a gentle hand?
Will you tell others who I am
and what is real and wonderful about me?
Will you not be embarrassed
so I don't have to be?
Will you take me out to my favorite places
and let me pick new places too?
Will you stay my friend? Until the end?

Why do I write?

Starting a few weeks ago, I made a commitment to myself that I would try to take writing to the next level for me. I don't know if that means that I'll just jot down more notes and read a few books in between or if I will dive into the world of sharing the art and possibly publishing work that stands out and might be enjoyed by others. In her book Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg encourages writing practice as a means of self-discovery; navigating and fully participating in the world around us. She encourages anyone who writes to do so with confidence, stating that when we do "connect well" through writing we should claim our work:

     "I am not saying everyone is Shakespeare, but I am saying everyone has a genuine voice that can express his or her life with honest dignity and detail."

Sometimes you read something and you say, "Hey, that's me!" It doesn't necessarily mean you can completely identify with the author or the character she creates, but the common bond is enough to give you a smidgen of courage to explore your own dreams. Here is the passage from Bones that makes me feel that way:

      "Writers live twice. They go along with their regular life, are as fast as anyone in the grocery store, crossing the street, getting dressed in the morning. But there's another part of them that they have been training. The one that lives everything a second time. That sits down and sees their life again and goes over it. Looks at the texture and details."

Throughout reading this book, I made entries in my journal and took time to engage in the lessons Goldberg shares from her experience as a writer, a teacher and a pupil on her way to enlightenment. She dares to extinguish the self-editor we all encounter in our day to day practice. She believes "first thoughts" are the key to genuine expression through writing. She allows us to write from the gut and trust our observations whether or not they are wholly accurate from the point of view of any other observer. One lesson sent a surge through me and I submerged to meet the challenge.

Why do I write?

(My response):
   
     I write to kill the devil inside me; to give energy to the angel within all of us, to be free and clear and brave. I write to hear the voice my diaphragm can not produce and speak the words my lips and tongue can not pronounce.
     I write to find greatness from substandardization and laziness. I write to live a different way, to scream at my doubters, to attract other writers, to impress former lovers.
     I write to find justice, to JUMP on the elephant in the room, to bring forth change and discussion and release. I write so I can sing and be music incarnate, to shout from the mountain top, to bring down the house.
     I write as a father, a husband, an uncle, a son. I write as a brother, a mother (I can!), as a friend and a guide and a jewel.
     I write because once (and today even too), I said, "I wish I could write like that." I write because someone said it to me.
     I write because I dream, asleep and awake; because I see cracks in the sidewalk and weeds in the cracks and dirt on the weeds and frost on my toes.
     I write for approval, applause and success. I write in cold places so I will confess. I write because the bible was written for me; the Koran, the Tora- yes, all three and I write because Buddha sat under a tree. I write to rhyme, obviously!






 

     

Frozen

Gasping for breath. Looking upward with another boy's chest on mine or my arm held in an L or chicken winged behind me. Hopelessly I bridge, putting the top of my head on the mat; pushing on my heals and arching my back. Pressure. His grip tightens and he moves his chest to cover my face. Maybe a tight head lock and my face is in his armpit. How many times? Of course this is how things end. I frequently scored points in the first few minutes before my asthma kicked in and I ran out of gas. So I hung on to those minutes, the few matches where I was dominant or at least on equal footing for the first minute or so. Why? Why did I like this? Why did I withstand getting pinned over and over? It was familiar, and if even for a minute, I had an opportunity to push back against my adolescence; against the tide of inadequacy that burdened me so. I didn't want to be so small, to feel so small. Who coined the phrase "98 pound weakling"? Not helpful. That was the weight class I wrestled in. My freshman year I weighed 80 pounds. I wore my school clothes when I got on the scale, shoes and all.

I tried to belong. I wanted to be popular. Still, that word has weight to it. Popular: liked, liked by many, even adored. I parted my hair in the middle, fighting a strong cowlick. My tight shirts emphasized the definition of my small frame. I stole money from my mom's purse so I could go to Quick Trip with the guys and buy a microwave burrito. But none of these things helped me to break through to the holy grail of Popular. I was always looking up. I found alcohol during my freshman year and it softened the blow of rejection. It also made me care a little less who liked me,  for a few hours anyway. I was a binge drinker. I lived for the weekend. I was daring enough to ask girls to dance with me at the school dances. I went to parties, sometimes with a wrestling buddy and often alone.

I generally dismiss these recollections. I don't want to go back there, not even in my mind.  I didn't talk about this; not with anyone. I was ashamed of my size. I was angry that I couldn't seem to do anything that made me feel like I belonged. I was jealous of my older brother and sister who didn't have to make an effort. They were both adored. My brother was class president. He lettered in three sports. My older sister was on the swim team and an honor student. They both had groups of friends, long term friends from grade school and junior high. I didn't. I made friends in places I didn't expect to; through a church youth group and acting in plays. Later, after graduation, I played cards with a few of these guys. We were free of school, which meant more to me than anyone else there. They were proud and ready to move on. I was glad to be out but it still weighed on me, like the boy with his chest covering my face. It will be thirty years next year and I have never attended a class reunion.

The term "Frozen Needs" comes from Re-evaluation Counseling (RC), a self help system invented by the late Harvey Jackins. Basic to RC is the principle that most of our problems in life come from hurts we experienced as a child. I didn't know Harvey but I have been a student of RC for almost 20 years. While the time with my co-counselors is peripheral (we don't do things outside of counseling together), this process is central in my life. Over these many years, I have had the opportunity to look inward, observe and then release. In my thirties my dad revealed to me that, when I was adopted, I was unable to to lift my head. I was three months old and this was something I should have been able to do by then. In that gap of time from birth to adoption, something happened (or more likely did not happen). I was not handed to my mother and placed on her chest. Not the fault of my birth mother nor my adoptive mother. By my birth mother's account, the nuns in the hospital were not nurturing (to her anyway). It could be that they transferred the contempt they had for this unwed mother to her newborn baby. Probably subconsciously if that is what happened. Most hurts we experience are not intentional.

This particular hurt, however it got in, has been present in varying degrees throughout my life. It's one reason I took so well to writing; I didn't have to deal with others judging my performance (or my existence for that matter). Through the process of re-evaluating, I learned that I can not fill this need to be accepted. It is a frozen need. Being clingy in relationships, agreeing with folks I didn't really agree with, drinking, rebelling, looking for physical intimacy- these were all things I did trying to reach the nirvana that I imagined existed in some relationship somewhere.

In his book Contributions to Human Trinity Hypnotherapy, Fr. John Powell borrows a quote from     

L. Richard Lessor: "Happiness is like a butterfly. The more you chase it, the more it will elude you. But if you turn your attention to other things, it comes and softly sits on your shoulder." The other things were not easy things. It has been work looking inward this way. But I can lift my head now. I have been called to leadership. I have chosen a vocation that puts me next to others who struggle with who they are and where they fit. My writing has complemented the many phases of my life so far and my aunt Barb tells me I should write a book. I may. It is a good life; a life of love and learning. The ice has melted and I am not so frozen. There is a crucial element of community that welcomes my family and lets us be welcomers as well. When we sit down for Thanksgiving dinner next week, I will again be thankful for the warmth and love we continue to share. Happy Thanksgiving to all! (Don't forget to take your bird out of the freezer).

Spare the Rod!

This weekend was a difficult one for our family. Friday night and most of Saturday, my daughter had a severe case of constipation. She had been constipated a few weeks ago and developed some painful after effects from straining to go. With the pain where it was, any movement (even breathing) could cause the muscle to spasm and result in pain so severe that I could feel my small child, my little girl, begging for mercy. Over and over she asked, "Why is this happening to me?".  After an E.R. visit and a subsequent appointment with her pediatrician, we were given instructions so we could help her have a bowel movement. On the parenting front, we tried negotiations, treat bribes and even borderline threats. She fought it. Though we promised her the pain would be less if she could let it happen, she could only deal with the pain as it came and was not able to see past it.

Both the ER and the office visit included probing, as to view the area. Despite gently talking her through how this would happen, in both instances restraining was necessary. Fierce cries accompanied each exam; cries for survival from her perspective. We did everything we knew how. It really was in this five-year-old's hands to conquer her fear and find relief. It felt tempting at times to scold her for not doing what she needed to do. Prayer and contemplation brought us back to what we knew for sure: our daughter was suffering and she needed us to be the light at the end of the tunnel. These toileting issues could really scar her and we needed to avoid that. After complete surrender and all of us collapsing in bed, she woke in the middle of the night and pooped, gathering us to admire her progress and drawing praise for her accomplishment. Things were smooth from there. She played like she was seeing sunshine for the first time. We relaxed and enjoyed her.

I share this situation, a slice of our family life, to demonstrate the complexities of parenting. I'm not telling any of you parents anything you don't already know. It's a hard job. We all love our children and we all (at every moment) do the best we can with what we have. Our girl is still just a baby. We haven't even gotten to the teen years yet. We don't have the experience and the years of parenting that many do. But I discourage passing judgment from whatever piece of earth you have to look down from. While there are some real specific, obvious places to show tenderness in our example, tenderness is something children can never get too much of. It may be a harsh world we are sending our children out into but that does not always justify the harshness with which we parent, especially hoping to hurry the results of our discourse on life to our children.

My wife and I have an agreement that we will not spank, slap, hit or resort to any violent acts as a way of disciplining our daughter. To observers in the grocery store, I'm sure we sometimes look like very permissive parents. To some extent, this is true. Often a behavior will be permitted until we are in a good place to deal with a disciplinary act, if one is deemed necessary. If the behavior is a negative one toward another person (child or adult), we will remind her about how she needs to treat the other person and prompt her to apologize. We did not feel it was necessary to discipline her for her screams of terror in the doctor's office, nor did she (or we) apologize.

Our most frequent mode of discipline is revoking privileges. This is much more effective now that she is five and has a clear memory of previous occasions when things have been taken away. When she was younger, we had to be creative and figure out ways to illustrate right from wrong in a more immediate fashion. Time Out was more effective than we thought it would be. It only took two or three times for her to understand she had to stay in the room and after that the door was only opened when we determined enough time had passed to make the impact we were aiming for. Not all of our efforts succeed. I may be wrong, but I don't believe corporal punishment is full-proof either.

In my opinion, the hardest line to draw as parents is the line between respect and fear. When I raise my voice, my daughter fears me (mostly because I don't do it often). I try to choose carefully when to take that tool out of the box. I also try to evaluate the reason I come down on her. Is it about me or about her? Am I tired and easily frustrated because of other stressors in my life? Is her behavior a reaction to something that is really unfair; possibly something she perceives as unjust? The majority of situations that require discipline seem to be about safety or protection. These things deserve an explanation, especially if my reaction is sudden and physical. Pulling her out of the way when a car is coming is clearly protection. Refusing an excess of sweets is about protecting her teeth and her blood sugar, not just because I'm mean. She needs to know that, even if I have said it before. I can count on my fingers the times that I have said to her, "Because I said so!" Respect needs to be mutual. The parent-child rule book (to me) is not written completely by the parent. My opposition to corporal punishment is that I feel my daughter is a person; shorter than me, yes (for now) but clearly a human being created in God's image.

I have long been committed to non-violence and I have made my relationship with my little girl part of that commitment. I don't see a distinction between hitting my daughter when I want to make a point and hitting my wife when she doesn't see things my way. I know a lot of people feel differently about how to deal with a child's challenging behaviors. I try to offer a hand if I see someone else struggling. I enjoy making faces at the child in the grocery cart in front of me. Occasionally, I smile at a parent and tell them that I share their distress. I will say something positive that I have observed about their child; something they may even be able to take some credit for (i.e. "I love her nails. Did you do them?") I'll say it again; parenting is hard. Us parents know that. It's a heck of a good reason for us to support each other. I am part of a few groups of families that do things together on a regular basis. We know each others' children and we are familiar with each others' parenting styles. We give each other plenty of support. The African proverb rings true- It takes a village to raise a child.

 

I want to give some honorable mentions here: To my Mothers and the rest of my family(s) in the Midwest, thank you for casting the cloud of your love over many miles and cleansing our daughter with your hope and purity. To Vale's Abuela and those families and friends in Mexico, Muchas gracias por amar a Valeria tan profundamente y dándole una segunda casa. To my in-law families who take part in raising Valeria every day, thanks for all of the unselfish acts that fall like raindrops on our girl, contributing to her growth and flowering confidence- you rock! To our Re-evaluation Counseling, Meeting Ground, Deep Roots and Catholic Worker friends, we are on a long journey together and it is a pleasure to travel with all of you who have such a deep commitment to a world where children are welcomed and valued. To my other-brother- from-a-different-mother (Todd), thank you for all of the times that you stopped to hold Vale' in your bubble of love, especially when I was on a break and didn't have my fun cap on- you are deep in her heart (and mine too) for forever. Finally, to my Dad who loved to wrestle on the living room floor, I hold Valeria up to you and ask that you breathe the breath of heaven into the wind that blows our way.

 

Swiss Army Phone!

I am having a 3:00 a.m. moment of clarity. Yesterday, I couldn't find a screwdriver for a project I was working on. I resorted to pulling a (Swiss Army-like) knife out of the kitchen drawer. It did the job and I admired my Macgyver/Tool Man Tim success. A smart phone is a modern-day Swiss Army knife! I can map a trip, whip out a flashlight, see the weather forecast, pull up recipes, utilize a magnifier, get the Sunday golf results and (oh yeah) make a phone call all from my living room chair holding a light as air, rectangular, glossy, metallic looking device. That's just a glimpse into what I can do on my phone. I didn't mention the entertainment value. The word "value" may be disputed by some (even me in a former life). All in moderation. I find my phone is something my daughter and I play with together. She gets to feel important navigating through the menus and choosing things she is familiar with (often educational). Pictures are fun to share and receive. Music sparks memories of yester year and has me doing Karaoke in strange places.

I don't want a planet where personalism is lost. I really don't! I have a friend who I am working with on a world-changing project. She is a very grounded person. Despite the speed at which her life moves (with teenagers, work and a myriad of responsibilities), she manages to keep things in perspective and strive for a mindful existence. We text each other almost every day. We are essentially journaling back and forth. We edit our thoughts to the degree that we try to be thoughtful of people we struggle to understand. We also avoid giving any details about our personal relationships. We build each other up at every turn and I think I can speak for her in saying that we both feel honored to be witnesses to a life well-lived.

I love to write. I always have. I may be doing too much writing and not enough living. That is possible. But what seems far more likely (for me- I can only speak for me) is that I am constantly nurturing this curious animal that wriggles about in my brain. Much of the thinking I do takes form in my smart phone; eating lunch, waiting in line, during commercials, etc. I have also reignited the flame of reading in my life. I bought a book :) and I am reading a beautiful blog about living and loving while experiencing pain.

Finally, I feel the exchange of information is invaluable. Is it always necessary and do we get caught up in learning information we don't need to know? Of course. There are pitfalls, obviously. When we take on technology, we are responsible for doing so with the good of human kind in mind. There needs to be an ongoing discussion on where the scale gets tipped too far and technology replaces the vital connections we have with other humans. But, I am encouraged by the use of media and technology in movements that are creating change today. Now THAT's a knife!

 

Zombie War (This is not an advertisement for a video game!)

Headlines are crashing down, day after day now. Parents mourn their child even more as his last words are argued over and his last steps are challenged. I'm sorry, but what kind of fucking justice system allows this to happen?! I'm not questioning the motives of George Zimmerman. He felt justified in the actions he took that night; this is clear. I am questioning why his mindset is acceptable, even when supposedly scrutinized.

I am puzzled by what others view as security. I go back to this constantly. We televise and absorb a man walking a rope over the Grand Canyon, somehow viewing this risk as a worthy one. Yet, we fail to extend ourselves to other human beings for fear that they might be dangerous. We put up fences to halt the threat of invaders eating our food and seeking healing in our hospitals while we go to church and smile (across the aisle) at someone we can't imagine having lunch with. We reward the petty conflicts that keep us from each other and call this "reality (TV)"! How far are we from a Jesus who stopped at nothing to show love to strangers?

Trayvon Martin will ever be remembered for his hoodie; for covering his head in a rain storm. With his right to bare arms intact, Zimmerman tracked him and ultimately murdered him. Zimmerman may have felt his life was in danger. If we are going to deal in perceptions though, next time it will be acceptable for someone to take a pot shot from a car- to take out the hoodied intruder before he does any harm. Beyond that, our neighborhood watchers will be allowed to fire at will while standing their ground from a balcony outside their back door. Bring on the Zombie War! In essence, Trayvon was dead to Zimmerman before the gun went off; a virtual zombie.

Still Begging!

This is a follow-up to a previous blog addressing gun violence. The hamster in my brain kept running and I felt it necessary to cover another corner of this discussion.


We, all of us, are living a myth; a myth perpetuated in each breath we take toward that one last breath. So we frame our fears on the mantle of security, seeking immortality. Security runs the same cycle as the chicken and the egg and justice is even more elusive. I am talking about self-defense; about playgrounds and punching and Call of Duty and deployment and courtrooms and departments and covert strikes and overt desperation. I am talking about fists and feet and billy clubs and knives...and yes, I am talking about guns. No battle can be won. We live in a country steeped in the tradition and the mystery of faith, yet we have so little. There is one immeasurable line walking away from the few willing to take a leap of faith.

Do I believe in the preservation of human life? I do and I love life and I love the human race and the opportunity to give and receive love each day. What I don't believe in are good guys and bad guys. We have witnessed evolution; taking on racism, sexism and homophobia. Disabilities are less disdained and we may, after enduring mass murder after mass murder, scratch the surface of mental illness. Once we do, once we get there, we will find our beloved brothers and sisters opening their arms instead of opening fire. Then there will be no Cowboys and Indians. Utopia? Perhaps. But we will never get anywhere climbing the stockpile of guns that are scattered about our great land. Starting now, somewhere in the discussion, we must consider the only answer that feasibly confronts a culture of dualism- unilateral love. Heaven lies behind that dimly-lit door.

We spend a lot of time and money on protection. I'm not saying it is foolish to lock doors, but I think we have to take a long look at how we can, more effectively, "love thy neighbor". In the process, we will redefine neighbors and shrink the world around us. So many bonds are formed when fears are hurdled. Lives are saved and love grows. Love your neighbor. I beg of you!

I beg of you!

Growing up in Waterloo, IA, it was part of my childhood and my young adult life to attend many events in the UNI-dome. While I saw a few concerts in the dome, I mostly attended sporting events. Large crowds cheered for the home team. Voices echoed through the vast stadium. My mother worked in the dome. She was Secretary to the Athletic Director. It was there I found her after calling to tell her my good friend and former roommate had been murdered; shot down while out for a walk with his fiance. Mom left her work that morning and took me out into the seats of the dome.

There was no cheering. For the most part, my tears were silent. I was sad, angry and confused and I couldn't find a reference point for my pain. It was like the first time I had the wind knocked out of me or my first bee sting, but worse. I told my mom that I thought I should go on a hunger strike until somebody did something about guns being so accessible. Her answer was poignant and compassionate. I have a short memory for many things, but I think I have this one right. She said I should do what I felt I needed to do, but that she wanted me to know that she believed God was angry too.

I made a little noise and wrote a letter to the editor, hoping to calm some of the racist reactions to this tragedy. We planted a tree for Jeff in the park near where he had grown up. I may have believed that, as we threw dirt over the roots of that tree, we were burying this sin; this senseless misguided, evil thing that had happened. We were burying it so it would never be seen again. If only that were the case.

A few years later, my same-age cousin was murdered. She was managing a restaurant while a man walked in and shot her and a co-worker in cold blood, as they say. That gun was designed for elephant hunting! Cara was my mother's Godchild. My mom and my aunt composed a petition to get people to act on the sick reality that guns and ammunition were being sold just feet away from children's toys and lipstick.

I was influenced by these losses. My innocence was gone and I tried to reclaim it by doing good for others. I moved into a Catholic Worker house and was part of a live-in group that provided shelter and meals to people who were down on their luck. Shortly after one of our live-in staff moved out, he was shot and killed while working at the laundromat a few blocks from our house. Again, a tree was planted. It grew in our front yard as a sign of Derek's life and spirit. It was all there was for Derek's parents when they arrived from Poland, looking for a remnant of their slain child.

So, I am a victim of gun violence. I don't claim that often. I don't feel victimized in an oppressive sort of way. But lives were taken. Relationships were lost. Connections were disconnected. Hearts, including mine, were broken.

Massacre is a word that is hard to fathom. I don't know this experience with the intimacy of simple murder. It's a matter of numbers, I suppose. But it seems even more senseless and I feel some sort of exponential grief as I am restimulated by these events. And then....children. For weeks I noticed folks only discussed this recent tragedy for moments at a time. It was gruesome enough to envelop us all and close enough that we could not put our collective outrage into words.

There is a heated debate brewing and I know some feel that their rights or even a way of life is being threatened. I can only analogize this in terms familiar to me. I am an avid golfer (I am referring to frequency and not quality). My favorite club is my driver. But, if hundreds of thousands of people were being murdered with drivers, I would gladly sacrifice that club from my bag. I would melt it down, immediately! The hole in this analogy is that you can run from a golf club. Even if unexpected and someone is clubbed from behind, a room full of people would have time to escape and a few people could rally and detain the mad golfer. Please don't propose that someone can do the same damage with a kitchen knife as they can with a semi-automatic weapon. This is absurd!

Another part of the debate concerns mental illness. Via my career and the work that I continue to do with the homeless community, I have known many people who live with mental illness. There are some I most certainly would not want owning or possessing a gun. But, be sure of this. There are many more people that pass us in the mall and on the road that we travel each day who go undiagnosed. Many are pent up or clad with anger, sadness and total defeat- folks we will never know are feeling that way. While we can make headway through the throngs of persons receiving medication and other forms of treatment, those who are most lost have either abandoned a path toward recovery or have never been identified. I submit that no sane person can take the life of another. It is a noble area to explore and I'm sure we will have a better society if resources are maximized and the larger community can understand the signs and symptoms of mental illness. However, this is a multi-tiered challenge and clearly not a hefty solution to gun violence. I see no logical solution to gun violence that does not eliminate the gun from the violence.

For weeks, I have been unable to write about this. I get stuck because I can't think of a way to sufficiently influence people with a radical view on this subject. I'm sure many would see my view as radical. There is a middle ground. I will not be satisfied with banning only assault weapons. My friends and my cousin were killed with far fewer bullets. But I will feel like progress is made if we can start with assault weapons. There has to be movement from those who will feel naked without their AK-47s. We don't have time to wait for a discussion on this. Someone filled with rage- misguided on how to express it, someone who cannot connect with other human beings in a way that will lead to them feeling loved, someone is going to do this AGAIN. Please join me in trying to stop it. Please let your representatives know how you feel. Please, I beg of you, ACT!