Not SomeTHING ... SomeONE

"How many cares one loses

When one decides...

Not to be something...

But to be someone"

Coco Chanel




IMAGE: BBC News

My (annual) Return to a Metaphor for My Life, "My Cafe"

As I sit here…at my table on the sidewalk of this modest little ‘café’ that is my life…I read, I listen, I observe, I feel, I think (a lot), and people pass by.

Occasionally, someone will wave a “Hello” to which I respond appropriately. At some times, an individual will stop by and chat.

There are moments when someone will pass by in traffic and speak through their open window or even pull over for a moment in the temporary “Load/Unload Zone” and visit at greater length. Rarely, a chair will be pulled out and occupied for an extended time and we will speak of deeper and fuller things.

All the while, the world passes by… doing all of the things that need to be done and going to all the places that require going to… while I can be counted on… even want, more than almost anything, to be counted on… to be in my spot for whatever kind of invitation is deemed necessary by whomever deems it so. And I am delighted to be there for each and every one.

What I yearn for is someone to share my table with… permanently. Enjoying the sights, sounds, fragrances, pains, joys, and events that visit our place. Happy to be with me… of me… in me… and never jealous, resentful, or envious of the complete focus that I give as my loving gift to whomever requires a part of me. This I yearn for hourly.

[I note here the fact that this "Revisited" article was originally posted 14April2006. I present it, again, to allow new readers to have this perspective and insight... that they may know me better. JMB]


(IMAGE: Through the gracious courtesy of Ian Britton, FreeFoto.com)

Another Breakfast With Herman

“Bring your breakfast out here and keep company with me and my friends this morning” Herman said. So, I did. And as I took a leisurely breakfast, Herman reminded me of our past together. How I had taken him, as a pit (or seed, if you will) from that delectable avocado, and carefully placed him at just the right depth in a glass of water. Then onto the shelf in the window. How I maintained the correct water level as he sent those first little shoots of root toward the glass. And, when he had developed a thick and strong network of roots with a delicate head of sprouting greenery, introduced him into his first tiny pot of rich soil.

We have shared many years, and many successive pots as he grew and developed under my tutelage and nurturing. What a momentous day it was when I decided to usher him into the world of Mother Earth with all of the potential opportunities… and vulnerabilities that she represents. He took to his environment with a flourish and grew with amazing quickness into a wonder of some twelve or thirteen feet in height. Then the storms of 2004. The elderly oak, under which Herman had thrived, lost its hold on one of its dead limbs… it fell… and Herman caught the full weight of it and was broken at just a foot above the ground.

I was saddened to have to remove all that we had enjoyed watching grow to full and healthy stature. But I refused to remove all of him from his place there, under the oak. All that was left was a short stump of what he was. But under that stump there lived a healthy, complete, and strong base of roots that had begun in that tiny glass many years before. And those roots sent power and energy to that wounded remainder of my lovely tree… and he began again! This morning, the voices of Life’s Spirit… or God… or my Muse… or Nature… or Herman… whatever source you care to identify… spoke to me and reminded me of the importance of that initial nurturing in life. How critical the establishment of a strong and healthy root network is to the stability and nourishment of any Being. And how, when life’s happenstances allow some force to break us… seemingly beyond hope (and, Dear Friend, haven’t we all had those times of being ‘broken’?)… we will always draw on the energies… the foundational power… the nurturing supply from our well-established roots.

For some of us, those roots may be stunted by inadequate nurturing and care at our beginnings. It matters not. For right now… at this very moment… we all can cultivate a base of understanding… a system of supportive and sustaining spiritual, physical, emotional, and social sustenance that will establish our own place in Life’s garden. All we need do is open ourselves to the guiding care of our Master Gardener… listen to and respond to the still, small, and gentle voice within that whispers “This is for you” with new opportunities to learn, explore, experience, and grow. And we can be certain that as we encounter those inevitable experiences that cause us injury and pain… we can grow back from those ‘breakages’ stronger and more resilient than before. I know. Herman reminded me just this morning.

Conflicted

In response to questions from some who are curious about or interested in, what they have termed, my “writing process” … I am sharing with you all, my morning (today, 07 March 2008.)

Rising (as always) at 2AM, I went to the computer, responded to a few 'comments’ on the blog, then decided that what was on my soul to say today, I have already said in a previous posting. So, I went back; copied it; and posted the thought with the addition of “Another” at the beginning of its title. Done! No creativity required today. Coast. Slide. Chill for a day. OK. Well … not so OK, after all. For ‘Friend Muse’ had other ideas. Consequently, the delivery of newspapers in one particular neighborhood in Tampa went like this.

Using right hand … assemble two sections of paper on surface between myself and passenger door ; roll sections together; slide rolled paper into plastic bag draped over right thigh; hand now-bagged paper over to left hand; throw paper from window of van (with accuracy that would intimidate a major league baseball pitcher [grin]) … pick up pen; write one-half of poetry verse on pad …

Assemble; roll; Slide in bag; Throw; write; … (repeat cycle whilst driving around neighborhood. Watching out for joggers, walkers, going-to-school bus students, dog walkers, other vehicles, trees, and so forth, and so on.) So, Dear Friend, Yes! The morning paper was a bit tardy in its delivery to a few customers this morning.

Then to the market for a few groceries, and home. Put Norah Jones on Pandora.com, and type the result. And here ’tis … (I hope that you enjoy it!)

Conflicted

This is where it started
Where it all began.
You a lonely woman,
I, a yearning man.

I responded to your passion …
Invitation to “Secret Love.”
Knowing in my Spirit,
What this was made of.

As You are reaching for me,
Your mind says “Go away!”
When all within would send Me,
I hear you beg me “Stay!”

I hear you say “I loathe you!”
And then “I love You Dear.”
Your anguish in “Go from me!”
Then, “Keep me ever near !”

The love you see me sharing,
The intimacies I’ve shown,
You long to have in your life.
You want them for your own.

I understand your struggle,
I see and hear your pain.
Subjected to your turmoil,
Again, and yet again.

Our natures are too dif’rent,
Conflicts crystal clear.
Longings when apart …
Clashing when too near.

So now you must go your way.
And Me, I must go mine.
Perhaps we’ll each know Love’s song,
Some other place and time.

John-Michael

07 March 2008

Now, Dear Friend, you have a peek into, not only what is stirring within my heart, but how Life’s sweet voice, my Muse, clarifies it all to me. And, so that you will have a more accurate picture of this John-Michael character, I will share what I know that I should not. An “alternate” verse four:

I heard your “Stay away!”
Then “Keep me ever near!”
I’ve told you that you give me,
This pain that’s in my Rear.

Go ahead! Have your chuckle! It’s called “coping!” [silly chuckling myself]

I thank you for your indulgences as I open myself even further to you this morning. I love you (Yes! You!) and I like what Life has given us in each other.

My Voice

“All I have is a voice to undo the folded lie…
We must love one another or die.

W. H. Auden (1907-73)

Having established the understanding that my direction had to come from within with my compass settings to be determined by choices to benefit eternal (as opposed to temporal) accounts, I needed to find my voice. You know; the question of “How do I communicate to those around me what I am feeling, what I understand to be true, what I yearn deeply for…without having them look at and listen to me as a complete FREAK.”

So, how does one find his or her “voice”? Where can you go to learn a way to express what you have seldom been able to whisper to yourself in a moment of introspection? I had no one to go to for directions. Even if there had been a mentor figure (and who, pray tell, is so blessed) I am certain that I would have been incapable of framing the question. What does one ask…”Excuse me, but I am in search of a voice, and wonder if you might have a recommendation?” No, the way seemed to be to listen to the voices around me and sift out all of those incongruous to me with an increasingly discriminating mesh to single out that one, or combination, that comfortably sang my spirit’s song.

For my quest, I found two. They sang different parts in life’s chorus, and they produced a harmony in which I, for the first time in my life, felt free in expressing myself.

The first was (and still remains, some twenty-plus years later) a treasure who stopped me cold in my tracks with the simplicity, candor, intimacy, and unadorned caring of her voice. This is a person whose audio-cassette brought me (literally) to my knees in gratitude and admiration. I know that she would, today, be embarrassed with the simplicity and unrefined quality of that early message, but it was the perfect thing for me… right there and right then in my journey. Ann Kiemel’s “Hi, I’m Ann” was, and remains, one of the most momentous discoveries of my life.

From that tape and the book with the same name, I discovered the spirit with which I could speak to my world… every day…in every circumstance… with each individually unique person… and maintain the integrity of my own soul’s purpose… to heal… to encourage… to minister. But Ann, as an attractive young woman, was not a figure who would be perceived in the same social context that I would be. Had I presented myself with the same vocal script that served her so well, I would have produced a completely different (and undoubtedly unacceptable) response.

Then came the discovery of Leo Buscaglia, Ph.D. From Leo, I learned the art of approach… address… and retreat. The language and manner of those elements, in caring and honest combination, allow me, almost daily, and sometimes frequently in a single day, to approach complete strangers with a message of how they have touched me in some specific and enhancing way. Let me give you an example.

It was one of those “The well is dry… I have nothing more to give… please leave me alone, everybody!” days. I intentionally chose a ‘Hamburger Joint’ that did little business, due to its bad location, to minimize the chance that I would have to interact with anyone. Upon entering the place, I was encouraged to find that there was only one customer, other than myself, there. This gentleman was a rather tall, robust, elderly fellow who moved through the traffic-control maze with a slow, stooped gait that reflected the wear of the years. In the quiet of the near-empty establishment, I could not help overhearing the gentleman presenting a well-worn copy of a cartoon to the order taker. This young girl was, quite clearly, not amused (not with the cartoon, being there, doing her job, or, at that moment in time, with life in general.)

The gentleman was simply standing there… waiting…hoping to make some pleasant contact in his seemingly lonely world. What he was being met with was an irritated indifference… and my heart could not stand to witness his disappointment. “My very Dear Sir,” I addressed the note written on personalized note paper (I had gone out to my car and retrieved the very nice paper to make the impression that the gesture was worthy of care), “Please accept this note of thanks and appreciation for your willingness to reach out in a world that often is not ready to accept reaching out. Your generosity in offering humor touched me and made my world a better place. I feel better because of you and salute you.” Then I signed the note “a fellow pilgrim,” added my name, and when the man went back for his free refill of beverage, placed the note on his tray and left the restaurant.

Upon reaching my vehicle, I looked back and was instantly brought to tears of gratitude by the radiant smile and hearty salute sent to me by the man with a small note of encouragement and appreciation in his hand. We were two comrades joined in the quest to abolish indifference in our shared world. This was the expression of the “voice” given to me by Life. The intimacy learned from Ann Kiemel, expressed with the technique gleaned from Leo Buscaglia combined to give my soul its voice.

(This passage excerpted from a book in progress, John-Michael)

IMAGE courtesy of Ian Britton, FreeFoto.com

'Tis You, and Not Me

Again, this morning, in response to the thoughts accumulating and falling in order as I work … I stop at ‘Mickey D’s’ on my way home. The staff knows … coffee … back corner booth … Waterman in hand and little tablet on table … let the writing begin!

And, today, I offer decades of repeated experience in the form of :

'Tis You, and Not Me

I have heard the “Darling,”
The "Sweetheart” and “Dear.”
I have listened to whispers,
And, hope-filled, drawn near.

And, Oh how I’ve wanted,
Yearned that it be …
That the moment, the enticements,
Were intended for me.

But time has belied it
Too many lips have grown cold,
For me to deny
The truth that they told.

‘Twas never Me that they wanted
I was never their dream.
Only my heart’s expressions
Did they long to glean.

The lyrics of my love’s song,
The ballad of my words,
From the lips of another
She wanted them heard.

She has longed to hear
Declarations of love
The One she has chosen
Is not capable of.

So, I hear her “I love you”
Knowing yet ‘tis untrue.
She loves my words only
To be spoken by You.

The soundtrack, the script,
From my pen she would place.
In your heart she would have them;
On your lips … in your face.

Thus, now knowing and wiser
I give my heart voice;
Aware and accepting
That You are her choice.

I now sing my heart’s love song
Lest the song go unsung;
That You may adopt it …
From You, now it comes.

John-Michael

05 March 2008

Life's Tears

I return, today, to a thought shared two years ago. For, this morning, I sense a ready and wanting Soul looking and listening for what lies in this reflection.

“Dad…Why do you always cry? You cry when you are happy and you cry when you are sad. Why?”

I knew that this was one of those rare moments when my concrete thinking daughter was open to an insight that could have long-lasting consequences in the development of her ability to relate to her feelings. I had best be brief, succinct, and accurate. “Please God” I silently prayed.

“I cry because I allow myself to feel… and tears are an important part of the feeling system. You see, Sweetheart, we were created with our hearts capable of feeling both joy and sadness. But our hearts can’t contain too much of either. So…we have a safety system that keeps our hearts from breaking if we feel too much of either sadness or joy. The extra comes out as tears. They can be happy tears or sad tears. But they both come out so that our hearts don’t have too much of either to hold. Because I permit myself to feel a lot… I have a lot of extra.”

Those with whom I have shared the first part of my emerging book 'Why I Am Here and You Are There', will know that I live my life in response to the leading of “The Master Gardener” as my “still, small” inner voice speaks to my heart. Today I awoke with the recollection of the dialogue (with my daughter) that I just shared with you and an acute sense that there is someone, some “plant” in the “Master Gardener’s” care that is in need of the nurturing benefit of this little message of encouragement. In my capacity of “Minister of Manure” I am compelled, by previous commitment to the Master, to spread some of the “compost” of my past experience where preparation has been made and a receptive heart is readied. So, My Friend, whoever and wherever you are, here is the answer to your petition.

Go ahead… it is OK… allow yourself to feel… to embrace…to experience… to savor life as it is being presented to you at this very moment. Your heart will not break… tears will protect it from the hazard of too much (and the garden all around you will benefit from the watering of the excess of your courageous participation in the adventure at hand.) Live life… all of it…saving it is not an option… invest YOURSELF in living. And if tears are the result… let all (your children, your family, your friends) know that the tears are from a heart overflowing with the excess of living life.

Love Storm

Seizing, testing, and tearing at the togetherness of his vessel,
The sudden, unbidden storm of cyclonic passion unleashes its powers.
While the wizened and weathered sailor thrills at this new challenge;
His readiness and responses to the furious encounter telling of storms before.

For him ‘tis but an awakening of long-dormant senses.
He thrills in his celebration of this rush of uncommon energies and power.
All made richer by his ability to understand; to accept; to welcome.
For he knows ‘tis nothing but a passing gale … a magnificent gift of Nature.

But he relishes that wistful dream of distant trade-winds of constancy;
Reliable breezes of prevailing forces that maintain a pleasant voyage.
Thus he sails on … enjoying the breath of Friendships that sustain;
The occasional gust of camaraderie … a sweet puff of Congeniality.

Keeping, all the while, his sailing skills sharpened … his ship in readiness;
For that anticipated, unknown, yet expected eruption of Love’s powers.
And he smiles the smile of One who never abandons his yearning
To sail into life’s sunset-painted horizon with sails billowing,
Filled to Desire's capacity ... with satisfactions brought by,
The still unknown ... Her.


John-Michael
03 March 2008

Persha

I am, occasionally, asked (by the “uninitiated“) what this “still, small, inner-voice,” “Muse,” “Life’s voice,” business is all about. Today I am going to give you a “real-time” account of just what the aforesaid is “all about.”

It was at 11:30, last night ... (and those of you who know me best know that I am soundly asleep at that hour [given the unrelenting reality of rising at 2AM for work every day]) ... and I was awakened by an immediate and clear understanding that someone who I care about was in some sort of emotional crisis and had their mental and emotional focus on me and reaching me. So, I took myself from my bed, went to the computer and fired it up, checked for any message that would clarify the specific nature of the crisis, saw no message … and waited (Yes! I waited … because I know that the forces of our Spiritual Self communicate far more directly and quickly than technology’s finest efforts.) And, at 11:47, as anticipated, the telephone at my elbow rang. And on the line was the sobbing, completely hysterical voice of one of the dearest of my Loved Ones. She was completely out of emotional control. She was terrified and panicked … and at least one and one-half hours away from me by car.

I told her that I was on my way … where could I find her? She protested the distance, time, my having to be at work in a few hours … and all with the frightened and pleading tones of voice that said “Help Me … Please!” I spoke words of reassurance and comfort all the while knowing that neither would be accomplished without direct and immediate physical intervention. Then I heard the Other Voice. I heard my Loved One speaking to, and being spoken to by, Someone who was intensely, yet calmly and caringly focused on understanding my Loved One’s situation. That person took control of the situation with a grace and confidence that was not of this world’s teaching or direction. There was, in her voice (this “Someone”), a purpose and assurance of imminent comfort and peace. And I enjoyed a certain knowledge that Life had carried to my Loved One all of the love and care that I was feeling.

This Someone told me (for she insisted that my Loved One allow her to speak to whomever my Loved One was speaking with, on her cell phone) that she had just returned home, would normally have gone into her dwelling place, but, on this occasion, “felt lead” to go down to the area where my Loved One was. This special Someone and I agreed that our following of the leading of our heart’s Messenger was something that should be a “normal” course of all of our lives. That to consider such a happening (as was being played out between her, my Loved One, and myself) to be out of the ordinary was an indictment of humanity’s failure to realize a critical aspect of our being. That of the potentials available to our spiritual attunement to one other.

Life’s loving and protecting, nurturing Power is known to many peoples of many cultures by many names. At approximately 11:50 PM, last night, its name was ... Persha.

Namaste, Persha.

The Children

I have, of late, found myself enchanted by stories shared by Mom’s telling of their lives with their diverse children. All sort and description of environs and settings. Varied ages and interests told of. Demonstrations of talents, abilities and gifts that entertain, amuse, and bring a tear of admiration. And I miss, sorely, an immersion in that magic.

I have attached, to this reflection, a photo of myself in an environment that was as close to heaven as I have had opportunity to be for a long while. I was invited to visit a local elementary school that I might provide a “break time” for teachers of kindergarten and first-grade students. Each teacher would bring their class to the library (Yes!, don’t say it, please. I know. It is now referred to as a “media center” in today’s nomenclature. But it will always and forever be the library for me. And my dear and treasured friend, Carole, who was [she has retired now] the “Librarian”, was my hostess and the one who invited me.)

So, on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, for a few weeks, I had the immeasurable joy of having a single class at a time sitting on the big round rug before Mister Brown’s chair as I read a wondrous selection of stories to them. And I took advantage of the opportunity to pause … and s_l_o_w_l_y point to each and every one of these gifts from heaven … and tell each individual “I love YOU,” and after another pause … the next one … “and I love YOU” … and so on, until each child was personally reassured that they were, in fact, loved for that day … as an individual. I took the moment to let them absorb a reality of relaxed, comfortable, natural, and gentle language of love and respect. For each other. And for themselves. It was glorious!

I have no doubt that MANY of these gems of potential had never been spoken to in such an intimate and gently caring way. Most especially the boys. So you can only imagine my joy when, as his class was lining up to leave the library, a tall, thin lad of far-East extraction, ran back to me, threw his little arms around my neck and declared “I love you Mister Brown!” I have tears flowing as I recount the moment, even now. Nothing could surpass my joy in that instant. Then, seeing what this bold classmate was doing, an adorable little “Shirley Temple look-alike”, bolted from the line and delivered her version of the same. I know that there were clouds in the sky that day … but they were so far beneath my feet that I couldn’t describe them.

After that encounter, it became “group hug and proclamations of love” time for each class as they prepared to leave me. I had teachers whose classes did not come in for reading sessions, come into the library to find out just who this guy was … this “Mister Brown” that they heard students and directly involved teachers speaking of. And why? Simply because I chose to open my heart to, and teach those darling treasures to open themselves to, intimate and genuine expressions of those emotions that they had no previous vocabulary for. I allowed them to discover the joy of honoring and being confident in the worth of their feelings. And the boys seemed to be the most grateful .

On my last day there, I attended several holiday presentations made by students for their parents, in their individually decorated and prepared classrooms. Their was an endless parade of parents saying “So! YOU are the Mister Brown that he has been talking about all these weeks.” Don’t you see, My Dear Reader, it mattered to these children. An environment of validation and caring was immensely important to them. As was demonstrated by the excited voice of one little boy as he repeatedly called my name whilst I was headed for my van at close of all of the holiday festivities. Here he came, at full gallop. His Mom was hurriedly trying to catch up with a very large package carried in both hands. “He asked me last night, to bake his most favorite cake for today. When I said that that was a very nice idea for his classmates … he replied ‘Oh no, Mom. It’s for Mister Brown … he will be there!’” I was overwhelmed! There he stood … waiting … knowing what simply HAD to follow … “I love you [and I gently spoke his name]” He literally glowed!

So, Dear Friend, with my eyes blurred with fond recollection, I take this moment to thank all of you whose stories of loving and supportive … caring and engaging … and intimately involved living and growing experiences with your children, have been such a joy and blessing for me.

I do, indeed, love You.

Please Meet Me

I’ll not meet you side the highway,
Nor in the halls of commerce,
Where serenity and quiet,
Have no home … nor can be found.

I’ll reserve for us a table,
With a window on the bayside.
Softly draped, with cloth of linen,
Weaved by noble Peasant hand.

We will sup with wine by locals.
Label known not to the merchant.
We will dine on fare from labours,
Of attentive, gentle care.

We'll be slow about our speaking.
Of each other we are learning.
Of each other are becoming,
More as One, no more, the Two.

We are learning, and accepting,
All that is our inner Beings.
All within us … all that makes us …
All defining … who we are.

Can we cling to, save this moment?
Can we hold it to our bosom?
Will it nurture and uphold us?
When our outside worlds, we face?

‘Tis most certain that we cannot.
For life’s swirling all about us.
This, the fledgling bond between us …
Life would pull and tear apart.

So please meet me, ere you wander,
In your busy life and duty,
At our table … by that window.
Where our union … knits once more.


John-Michael
25 February 2008

Inspiration

With gratitude to the Enchantress whose grace and silent eloquence lifted the Muse's veil this morning, setting "Inspiration" free ...

Inspiration


Wishes, Faith, Hopes, and Dreams

All lie just beyond.

Distant enough to elude my grasp,

Teasing as sunlight to Dawn.


Moving me onward, when my past says "Stop!"

Urging me ever to go.

Canceling fears, hesitations, and pause,

Ignoring the "I just don't know!"


Don't try to dissuade with logic and sense;

Offer not, reason nor fact.

I'm empowered to fly; to run; to dance.

Inspiration was all that I lacked.



John-Michael
27 February 2008

DIFFERENCES

OK … brace yourself! This is another of those Muse-abused mornings. (She can be so unrelenting!) Awakening all fresh and empty of either thought or concern, I was feeling GOOD! To which that devilish little inner whisper said “Here’s something to occupy that ‘blank slate!” And all through work, the trickle of thought grew to a torrent of words that required, yet another, fresh cartridge in the Waterman, and cup of coffee at the remote corner in Mickey D’s.

Here, I present a gut-wrenching (for me) personal insight. “So, why do you do it?” Your rational and completely natural question could be. And the answer to that, totally appropriate, question, would be … the very point of this message.

So. I would have you stop … and focus your customary page-skimming eyes … and allow your Self to absorb what is, arguably, the most crucial reality in our human interactions. We are different! Yes, You and I … You and many with whom you work, live, worship, play, and even sleep … are different. “No shock Sherlock! Of course we are different. Tell us something that we don’t already know.” you defensively reply. Yet, whilst you profess a knowledge of this fact, you will, in all probability, become frustrated with … bothered by … irritated with … and, in all likelihood, confused by, the words or actions of someone in your life today. They will simply fail to do something, or react to some stimuli, in a way that you deem “appropriate” or “right.” Their behavior just will not “make sense” to you.

You will notice that I excluded myself from that response. Though I sometimes waiver, my many years studying and applying the principles of differing temperaments and personality types, have made my acceptance of all sorts of behavior, a habit. It is now, for me, an automatic reflex to see the behavior of others through the prism of their innate “type.” I accept, even embrace the mechanisms that cause us to sense life in sometimes radically-different ways. And, as is my usual, I will give you a living, breathing, real-time example to illustrate and (hopefully) illuminate my critically important message for You (though I know neither your personal identity nor circumstance.)

Inasmuch as I am defined as one of the small minority of strange (some would deem ’weird’) folk having been “blessed” with my funky temperament type … (check the number of solitary Shaman, introverted Writer/Poet, isolated Medicine Man, types you know of) … I could no more sense life’s stimuli as You do (given the likelihood that you are “normal”), than I could grow gills and assume a life beneath the waves. Our differences are truly that great. And, inasmuch as we have all been mystified and enchanted by the plight of lovers depicted in the “Little Mermaid” and other similar tales, there is a legitimate sub-conscious reason for our fascination with this genre that plays out in a “Two Different Worlds” conflict … it is REAL.

Yes, indeed, we can … and often do … love Another who is of “another realm.” The primary demonstration of this reality, in my life, is the relationship between myself and my now-grown daughter. (I told you that this would be “gut-wrenching” for me!) She hates her Daddy! (If it made you cringe to read it ... imagine how it felt to write it.) But, that summarizes our deal to date. She and I are diametrically opposite in EVERY imaginable way. Where my natural, instinctive impulse is to “give it all away,” hers is to take all that she can get (a completely “normal” and acceptable survival instinct.) There is absolutely nothing inherently right … or wrong … with either of these inborn impulses. They are stamped into our individual psyches from conception (or at whatever stage of development such things are instilled.)

For her, life’s unyielding burden is to be a responsible and efficient Achiever. To garner all of the successes, accolades, honors, rewards, and material goods (that Life has blessed her with potentials for acquisition of) is her motivation. So you can see how she finds it impossible to understand my burden (and, yes, it can be and sometimes does become burdensome), in my making certain that the sun does not set on any property, resource, word, or inspiration, that I might have given to Another, that day. We both possess tremendous potential to be astronomically obnoxious in our compulsions. While my giving is endearing to its beneficiaries, it is perceived as an outrageous exercise in irresponsible extravagance to those who (like my daughter) see me giving what they KNOW, in the core of their very being, should rightly be theirs. My open and unrestrained generosity of spirit spurred my daughter’s “Well, Daaaaaaad, (parents know the inflection all to well) you have a beautiful family too.” in response to my excusing myself from our table; crossing the restaurant; and saying, to the man dining with his family, “Please forgive my intrusion, my friend (‘thank you’ Leo Buscaglia, for teaching me this magical device) but I could not help but be impressed and touched by this beautiful family that you are so blessed with. My compliments to you Sir.” Whereupon I quickly turned and returned to my own table.

This (very normal and usual [for me]) behavior was cause for the irritation to, and resulting remark from my daughter. In her eyes, I had just given some of my attention, and in fact some of my Self, to someone else. And her natural bent is to see that “giving away” as my dispensing something to which she expects sole claim. My response to her was, “I have no need to have the beauty of my family brought to my awareness. I noticed that family, and that gentleman who was displaying his indifference to and disregard for them. My Spirit spoke to me and encouraged me to encourage him. To awaken him to the wonder and beauty of those who were alone … in his presence.” With an unreceptive sigh accompanied by the ever-famous “rolling-of-the-eyes” (don’t we all just loooove that treatment!?), she replied, “Does everything have to mean something?!”

I then, in my insensitivity born of ignorance of the whole “temperament, personality type” thingy, and acting on my perceived imperative to teach and inspire my child (I can be so stupid! … and have I mentioned “obnoxious” … sometimes) I answered with, “Everything does, in fact, mean something Sweetheart (wasn’t that a nice touch?). And it is our choice to either see life’s meanings, or let them pass us by … unseen and unknown.” (I know … stop yelling at me … I can be a complete pain in the ass when I am on a roll in my natural personality/temperament mode of an Idealist/Romantic.)

Therefore, it came as no great shock, when she squared her shoulders and declared (at some point toward the end of her college years), “You are an embarrassment and a humiliation to me!” What was a shock (as I stood there in her Mom’s kitchen … just her and me) was the immediate thought processes that I responded with. First, the recognition of how humiliating it must be for her to meet her college classmates … particularly her sorority sisters … and have to come up with a response to “ … and what does your father do for a living?” What kind of a social-enhancement could she spin in explaining that her Dad had (as she has ’delicately’ put it) , “dropped out of life.” He had left the glossy towers of commerce, the thousand dollar suits, the seminars presented, meetings managed, personnel and clients dealt with … to deliver newspapers. Would the fact that he had made that choice ... to allow himself to be able to spend his daytime hours … teaching rudimentary reading and sequencing skills, motor-skills coaching, social-skills imparting in coffee shops and restaurants, physical training at the YMCA, for her older brother, who had no other resource for overcoming the challenges of his cerebral palsy … make it any easier to present herself with an upwardly-mobile image? The answer, of course, was “no.”

But the second of my inner reactions to her cutting proclamation was most amazing to me (and I was lost in wonderment even as she stared at me in her anticipation of a response.) I was proud! That’s right! I was proud and happy that I had created an atmosphere of safety and confidence that gave this young woman the inner-assurance necessary to make such a statement to my face. (If I had ever said anything even remotely like that to my Dad, I would be picking myself up somewhere in next week. For that’s how far he would have sent me.) “Wow! I am a good Dad! “ was how I felt. (The shattering despondency hit as I drove toward my little one-room cottage.)

I could go on and on with examples, illustrations, and demonstrations. But my point would drown in the stories. So I will stop all of that and summarize with this. My daughter reached a point in her disdain for my Personhood (with the encouragement of a second parent who delighted in the alienation of her affections), that has eliminated me from her life. No invitation to college graduation. No invitation to her wedding. Nothing! And, I have accepted her election with a distanced, yet respectful, peace. Much as one does with a death.

For, you see, I have learned (thanks be to all that is Holy!) that I am a part of an infinite and eternal Reality that supersedes all of these daily details. I answer to Life, my Creator, God, Allah, The Numinous … by whatever label or name … I answer to the eternal and without limitation. And I enjoy a daily celebration of my awareness that I am giving every bit of all that is Me to the betterment of all that is in need of whatever I have to offer. I live in a certainty that all that has happened … all happening … and all that is to come, is choreographed to render ultimate beauty and harmony. I like being part of that!

Including our amazing … and often vexing … DIFFERENCES.

Unstoppable Love

She’s no respecter of distance.
Life’s blockades cause her no pause.
She surmounts every challenge.
Love is an unstoppable Cause.

She conquers Detail and Hurdle …
Melts walls of hindering cares.
Percolates through every barrier …
That Circumstance would put there.

She has no concern for a “This” …
Or a “That” put in Her way.
Love has thrived through history’s turmoils,
And will blossom for us today.


John-Michael
25 February 2008

Speaking the Unspeakable

Today I write with difficulty. Not like most days (as in yesterday … when I couldn’t even make it home, from work, for fear that my stream of thought would be broken and I would lose all that my Muse [that still, small whisper that is Life’s voice to my Spirit] was giving me. So I had to stop at McDonald’s …have a cup of coffee in the most remote booth … take out my wonderful Friend (my Waterman fountain pen) and write like a crazy man.) But not so today!

For today I am speaking to you from a reluctant heart. Not reluctant because of any reservation or doubt about my message. But, instead, hesitant because of a lifetime of ingrained and indoctrinated mental bondage. Today I am going to speak of what is quieted in every man that I have ever known. What is kept locked behind the impenetrable door of “A Gentleman does not speak of such things.”

And it is the doing of a new reader and, I trust, a new friend (Jeanne) who wrote a lovely Email to me yesterday. In her gracious note, she said (in part) “I want to encourage you to continue to put your feelings and thoughts out there for those of us who are not as able to tell others how we feel.”. And that statement set my mind to work. Upon awakening, this morning, I was visited by my Muse’s nudging imperative “You MUST speak to this! There is someone who needs to hear it … today!” So, My patient and forgiving Reader … here ‘tis.

Jeanne’s statement stirred a long-simmering and sometimes-boiling-over burden on my soul. That being our woefully-inadequate and usually-stilted efforts to know (in our own minds) and/or communicate (to those, who matter most to us) our truest feelings. Fear of “sounding stupid,” “appearing awkward,” “saying ’the wrong thing’,” “REJECTION!,” and myriad hang-ups, of all sort and description, keep all (and I freely say “all” because the exception is so rare as to be listed on the registry of extinct species) silent and unwilling to permit so much as a thought to ourselves about the genuine nature of our feelings.

I can best tell you what I need tell you by relating to two who will remain anonymous and a third who will be painfully revealed (Me.) The first that I will mention is an acquaintance who, in his later years (he is now deceased) spoke often to me about his miserable relationship with his wife of many decades. He was beyond unhappy. He was bitter and angry. “She pats my leg, as we get into bed, then turns over and goes to sleep. Just like I am some little house-pet that gets a little “nice doggy” before being dismissed. She is content that I am there … where she wants me to be … and that is all that matters to her. Well! That is not what matters to me.” he continued, “I am a man! And, damn it! I want to be respected and treated like a man,”

But had he ever had this discussion with his wife? Was the door of receptiveness open with her? No, to the first. And another No, to the second. For … My Darling Reader, the topic was simply pushed away with the broom of “A Gentleman does not speak of such things.”

He made it quite clear to me … in no uncertain terms … that he wanted (oh my, I am going to say it!) … s e x . He was as aware as anyone … MORE aware than anyone … of the reality of his impotence. That was not the issue. The issue was in his stated “I am not her little house-pet! I am a man!” but he had no skills … no confidence … no common ground for intimate conversation … no respectful, trusting, accepting basis for opening himself to suggesting, to her, that … maybe … perhaps … just suppose … there were alternative ways for them to exchange expressions of still-alive passions and desires. How tragic!

The second of my illustrations is in someone brought to my attention by an acquaintance. The grandfather, of this acquaintance, was (at age 84) eagerly and anxiously anticipating his soon-scheduled wedding. When the person known to me, asked his grandfather what the hurried rush was all about, the grandfather replied with something in the order of “when you discover that “things” that you had not known, for many years, are working … you, at my age, do not delay the use of those “things.”

Now, that would seem to be (and indeed was related to me as )a “cute” little story. But what I find troubling in the account is the stark fact that this man … far along in his journey … was unaware of his own locked away desires and needs for “many years.” Why? Because “A Gentleman does not speak of such things.” And he was (he is, also, now deceased) beyond all else “A Gentleman.” Leaving him and all of those men with whom he shared weekly get-togethers over coffee, fishing trips, social and lodge meetings and gatherings, absent a healthy exchange of very basic and humanly fundamental discussions, because “A Gentleman does not speak of such things.” To all of that I say (with every element of eloquence I can muster) “Horse Dung!!”

Hence I get to the third of my illustrations (Ouch! This is already hurting [in the vulnerability and self revealing way]). I must, first, (yes … I am stalling) say that … I am in love with “someone.” She is a remarkable “Someone.” And, No! We are not going to be “getting together.” The combined circumstances of our separate sets of requirements and commitments will not permit that happy end-result. We have both acknowledged that painful reality. Yet, we are, in our silly, almost-adolescent giddiness, quite in love with each other. And with that comes the inevitable (and altogether delightful) lustful passion familiar to lovers. And here is where I must not only cross … but trample into the dust of oblivion … the walls of “A Gentleman does not speak of such things.” Because, you see, we both want to express our affections to each other in terms that are beyond propriety. We have a craving to make known to each other the depths and intricacies of our secret and most-guarded yearnings. She is at a marked advantage in the fact that (our male-dominated) society quietly endorses the Woman’s knowledge of, and ability to speak of, the Man’s “equipment.” But, to the extreme contrary, The Man is expressly forbidden to have even an at-a-distance knowledge of the Woman’s corresponding anatomy. (I think that I am doing fairly well so far … don’t you?) Therefore, motivated by my respect for this Lady’s right to have me speak of all of the ways in which I would want to give her pleasure, I was compelled to Google “anatomy of female genitalia.”

I want you to know, beyond question, that as hard as it was to type those words just now … it was at least equally difficult for me to type them into that anonymous “search window” at the top of my browser. I had the overwhelming sense of skulking in shadows and slithering along the gutter scum of some gutter in a neighborhood where I had no business being. But there before me was a depiction of something lovely, delicate, all together as deserving of all of the poets’ attempts to describe womanhood in terms of flower petals and blossoms of joyous description. And I had willfully entered the mystical realm of where “A Gentleman does not speak of such things.” And I am pleased that I have ended three-score years of wasteful ignorance.

And, Dear One … I GUARANTEE YOU … most of the men reading this message have not made it even this far on the page. Hence my point. We are all made in a glorious and beyond-description beautiful way. To hide the magnificence of our feelings … the wonder and magic of our desires … the intricacies and mystically fulfilling magnificence of our bodies … from our Selves … or the ones who we care most for and desire most to be part of … is a foolish waste of a gift beyond measure.

There! I’ve said it! And if you want to have me remove your name from my Email mailing list … simply send me a “please discontinue Emails to me” note … and I will respectfully comply. But if you are the struggling One for whom I have willed myself to open my most private and personal Self to today … Please take some tiny step of healthy “wall removal” from your life. Begin, this moment, to dismantle those barriers impeding your comfortable knowledge of your own feelings, needs, and desires … and those of that special Someone in your life. Perhaps consider giving a copy of this plea to your Someone … that they too can begin to understand that Gentlemen and Ladies, alike, have a respectful obligation … borne of a trusting and caring concern for the fulfillment and happiness of each other …to know … accept … embrace … and celebrate with your Loved One all … I repeat … ALL , that is available to you for your very best life.

I humbly thank you for your indulgence in my efforts at your encouragement.