Prologue - Happy Birthday

Mom - February 1970 (not an actual photo)

Sitting on the 3rd stair from the bottom she tugged gently at the sleeve of the yellow dress she wore.  She glanced for the millionth time at the clock….. 10:13 p.m.  Her water had broken just an hour or so before, nothing major, but it was time.

The contractions had started shortly after her water broke.  Looking at the clock, and judging from the intensity of the contractions, she knew it was only a few hour until the baby came.  The contractions at this point were about 15 minutes apart, but still, this not being her first baby, she knew was a sign the baby was coming fast.  She sighed and stood up.

Her little hard backed, plastic pink suitcase sat by the first step, aligned in perpendicular fashion with the step, the small plastic handle resting lazily on the top of case. The silver edging on the seam of the suitcase shone brightly in the dull hallway light, reflecting back to her the stress of being nine month pregnant.

10:30 p.m. - already?  She glanced again at the hallway clock, it’s large wooden, radiating arms flaring out from the center of the brass center, numbers dark and black, proclaiming the hour proudly.  Minutes were a bit harder to read, and seconds whizzed by, imperceptible really on the brass back ground.

Then suddenly lights flared in the drive way, flashing across the living room, next to the stairs. making the blinds reflect shadows on the wall, for a moment looking like a prison cell.  Eagerly, she pulled herself to her feet, flex picking up the suitcase, hanging from her right hand, left hand clutching her right wrist, suitcase hanging before her knees like a plastic shield.  

On the other side of the door the rustling of keys jangled like wind chimes in a storm.  She thought she heard cursing.  Her lips pursed in a tight line she stared at the door in the dark hallway, anxiously waiting.

The door swung open, following its arching shadow was the smell of viceroy cigarettes moved, at least to the nose, as fast as the shadows.  Grumbling about keys, his voice echoed across the small entry way.  Fumbling his hand hit the light, and for the first time it seemed he saw her, standing in her little avocado dress, red hard back suitcase in hand, he mumbled, “Ellen?”

“Bob,” matter of fact, “I’m in labor, we have to go to the hospital.”

For a moment, one of those rare moments when time seems to stop, the clock’s hand seems to move, backwards: he clutched the keys in his hand.  The cigarette in his mouth suddenly was too hot, too smoky, too bitter. He choked back a cough and said, “What?”

Not her first pregnancy, her lips belaying a patience not really present she muttered, “I’m in labor.”

Through this news the gin fog that soaked his frontal cortex faded and the reality of his wife’s condition finally hit.  “Ellen!” he exclaimed “We have to go to the hospital.”  He looked down at his clothes, a suit he had worn all day, “I have to change.”  He shot up the stairs, brushing past his wife in her  avocado dress, the stair handrail groaning under his weight leaning against it as he propelled himself up.

She looked at the clock, grimaced as the start of another contraction rose into her body.  She sat down on the steps again, knuckles white against the handrail, which groaned again.  She closed her eyes, a tear seeping out and resting on her cheek.  This pain, rising up from her groin and across her belly wasn’t unfamiliar, but it was felt again like the first time.  As the contraction tightened her muscles she remembered to breathe through it, gasping as her belly tightened around the uterus, the as of yet to be born baby slowly, imperceptibly moving into place.  In the pain, during the contraction, time seemed to stop, breathing was its own reward The contraction faded and she looked at the clock again, 9 minutes since the last one, and this one lasted nearly 30 seconds.  They had some time, but she knew not much.  The pain lingered across her belly, she wiped the tear away and glanced up over her shoulder at the top of the stairs where she could her him rushing to get changed.  She crinkled her nose at the smell of the cigarette that he burning in his lips, the dull haze of smoke clung to the air like the tension of labor.

He appeared at the top of the stairs, gasping for air, the cigarette still burning on his lips.  He looked down at her head, she was still sitting on the stairs her hand clinging to the rail.  “Ellen, I’m ready let’s go!”  He started down the stairs, his Florsheim shoes bright under the hall lights.

She looked back up at him, pulling herself upright with the hand rail.  He paused as she stood.  A light smile tugged at her lips.  He waited, cocked his head and noticed the smile, “What is it?” he asked.

The tugging became a full smile, “Bob, before we go to the hospital I think you should put on some pants.”

His face flushed and he looked down.  “Shit”  and ran back into the bedroom.  He jerked his slacks up over his shoes, flicked his cigarette with the aim of a marksman into the adjoining bathroom toilet, and fumbled with the belt, hopping into the pants as he headed back to the top of the stairs.  She was still standing at the top, the little suitcase in hand, waiting.  “Ellen let’s go” he barked as he lumbered down the stairs.

It was cold outside, February in Denver generally was, cold and dry.  The air was quiet, only 19 degrees, but the car was still warm from his earlier outing.  She climbed into the seat next to him, the suitcase resting at her feet.  She knew another contraction was due soon, it had been nearly six minutes from the last one.  He pulled a cigarette out from his pack, pushed the car lighter on, turned the key and the car rumbled to life immediately.  He looked at her, “ready?”  She nodded at him, her hands folded together in her lap, little black gloves protecting her fingers against the winter’s cold.  

They backed out on the street and he gunned the engine.  The lighter popped out of the dashboard, and without even a thought he lighted his cigarette, the acrid smoke immediately filling the car.  She coughed a little and he glanced at her, “sorry” and rolled the drivers window down a crack, the winter’s air a fridge breathe of relief.  The streets were quiet, it was a Wednesday night at nearly 11 p.m.

She gasped as the beginnings of the contraction hit her.  He looked at her, panic flashing across his face, the cigarette on his lips standing to attention from the pursing of his lips around it.  The car began to accelerate, it was a 1964 OldsmobileF-85 DeLuxe, a big car with lots of power, and like new.  They were in Littleton, but the doctor they were powering towards was a couple of miles away in Denver.  She groaned as the pain tightened, and he pressed harder on the accelerator.  A stop sign blew past, unnoticed and forgotten, except that behind them appeared the familiar red flash of a cop car its siren screaming into the winter’s night.

The cop’s siren seemed to make the onset of the contraction worse, and she clinched her teeth as the pain clutched her belly, the shifting muscles pushing the unborn closer to escape.  Bob muttered under his breath, “Shit.”  He slowed the car, flipping the turn signal on from habit, and the car rolled to a stop, engine still running, cigarette burning, its ember light lost in the flashing lights of the car behind them.  His grip tightened on the wheel, the creaking of his tendons audible in the cold night.  Even in her contraction she glanced at him and offered a grimacing smile, “It’s okay Bob.”

The cop pulled his car behind the Oldsmobile and looking through his wind shield he noted in his log the license plate number and make of the car.  He opened his door, the fridge February air enveloped his skin quickly and he gasped.  He could see the heads of the couple in the car before him, not moving really.  He noticed the car was still running. He debated using his car loud speakers to tell them to turn it off, then shrugged, probably a couple of kids out drinking.  No big deal.

He ambled to the car in front of him and got to the driver’s window, with the butt of his flashlight he tapped the glass, which was already partway down, “Sir, roll down your window and turn off the engine.”  He turned the light to shine it into the car for a better view.  It was a young couple, a woman in the passenger’s seat and a guy, looking very nervous behind the wheel.  He could smell cigarettes from the car and maybe gin.

Bob rolled the window down, his hand shaking, and glancing at his wife who was in a full contraction, he started to stutter at the cop, “This is an, a, uh, well, damn, a, um, this is AN EMERGENCY.”  His voice became fever pitched and the emotions of the night carried in his tone.

The cop clicked his tongue, leaned into the now down window, and managed a forced smile, “Sir, what emergency?”  He was focused on the driver, who it seemed was either drunk or something else.

Bob stammered, waving his right hand towards Ellen, “My wife, she’s pregnant!!”

The cop looked more closely at the woman in the passenger seat. He noticed she had her head back, her lips were tight, and her hands were clutched her full belly.  She was indeed pregnant.  He looked back at the driver, “Sir I can appreciate that but…….”

“Damn it man!” Bob yelled, “She’s in labor right now!!!” 

The cop looked back at her and noticed she was gasping, in distress.  He stepped back and stood upright, looking back at his car.  He could call an ambulance and they would take care of this.  He looked back at the driver, “Sir, you say she’s in labor?”  Bob nodded.  “Miss, miss, can you hear me?”  The woman nodded, just barely as she breathed through what appeared to be a severe contraction.  

Bob had it, he reached through the window and grasped the cop’s arm, “Look bud, we can debate this all night, but I”m not sure we’ll make it in time for you to call an ambulance, we’re going to hospital and you can arrest me there, but we’re going unless you want to deliver a baby!”

The cop sighed, he looked at them both.  He had only been on shift an hour or so, so this was already more excitement than he had seen all month.  “All right sir, I can’t have you running stop signs and speeding, and no, I don’t want to deliver any babies, so tell you what, you follow my cruiser and I’ll get you to the hospital.  Deal?”

Bob nodded, his cigarette’s ash falling on his coat.  “yes, let’s go, Porter Memorial”

The cop nodded, pleased at himself and jogged back to his car.  He picked up his CB radio, and dialed into dispatch.  “Dispatch, this is unit 99, over.”  

“Go ahead 99, over.”

“Yeah, um, I’ve got a 10-59, a pregnant couple urgently need escort to hospital, location Porter, Denver County.”

“Roger 99, to confirm you’re 10-59 to hospital, Porter, Denver County.  Please be advised 99 it’s out of jurisdiction, over.”

“Roger, I’ll escort and get out of there- over.”

“10-4 99, over.”

The cop smiled, flipped his siren back on, pulled out in front of the couple’s car, waiting for them to assume position behind him, and he floored it, lights and stop signs be damned.  He nodded, hell this was kind of fun.

They had been close, and the drama of an escort was minor, but Bob pulled into the hospital’s emergency parking, the cop was on his heels, “Sir, let me help.”

Bob glanced at him nodded, “just grab a wheelchair I think.”  The cop nodded and darted into the hospital, emerged moments later pushing a small wheel chair to the car.  He noticed the couple were out of the car, and the woman seemed to be okay, she was clutching with on hand a small pink suitcase, and the other holding on the man.  He wheeled over to them.  “Folks here you go, good luck.”

Bob smiled at the cop and helped his wife sit down.  He glanced at the cop, “Thanks for everything, be safe.”

The cop nodded and watched them disappear into the building, their breath seemed to linger behind them in the cold.  He slid into his cop car and shook his head.  Babies and drunks.  What a night.  He pulled out and headed back into Littleton.

Later, several hours, they rested in the room, the baby had been delivered.  She stroked his little face, dark features, everything was completely normal.  He was nestled against her breast, asleep.  She sighed when she looked at his little face and nodded with a smile, “Hi Thomas.”

And thus I was born.

Knife's Edge

This is a tough post for me and I've debated writing about this topic in a public fashion, but for those who know me, and if you're learning about me here or on social media, I'm a fairly open book.  There are no secrets here.


I think as a child, a catholic child specifically, is when my fascination with life really took a hold. I should clarify, my fascination with what happens to life after death.  I have to remember all these years (like almost 40 years) have passed between when I was a little boy and today.  In that time my curiosity about life and death have evolved, thinking back now as an adult trying to remember my thoughts,  my experience of life and death as child, well they are very different.  All the same though, my curiosity on the topic remains.


All this aside, I have always wondered that question, which I suspect many of us do, does life truly end at death, or does this strange phenomenon of awareness of self continue beyond the experience of death?  I don't know the answer, but in growing up in the Catholic Church I was given many answers to this question, most of which said resoundingly, yes life goes on.  Not only does life go beyond death, but it's better than life here!  It is perfect living, especially if you are not a "sinner" (whoa such a qualifier) and even more especially if Jesus Christ is your lord and savior.  Now as it was I was indoctrinated into that faith, I never was given the option to choose it so while as a child, and even as a young man I would have said if asked, "Yes, Jesus is my lord and savior."  This answer though was meaningless because I had no idea what the alternative was, and in fact did not know that there was an alternative.


Funny stuff this immortality given as  a gift only after one dies.  Heaven is described as perfection.  It was there that we were taught that in heave there existed: no suffering; no fear; no loneliness; total union with the divine; perfect knowledge.  And as a young boy I wanted this.  I wanted all those things, they sounded so amazing.  Yet a caveat existed, you couldn't go to heaven if you committed a mortal sin, and self harm to the point of death (suicide) disqualified you.  The act was anathema.  And so we had to wait for the gift of heaven until we got old and died, got cancer and died, hit by a car or shot by a bullet and died.  No way that was coming to us in the state of knowing that we were (or are) currently in.

I like the darkness.  My entire life I have always wanted to be the hero, the noble knight, the heroic cop, Superman.  Yet for all that longing, I always found myself feeling more empathy with the fallen knights like Lancelot (stealing Arthur's wife); the bad guy who fell into crime because of social and economic situations; I'm more Batman than I will ever be Superman.   I remember reading the stories, fables really, of Lucifer, Satan, and thinking, "Well I can understand his jealousy of mankind.  I always suspected that the stories of the bible, regarding the "bad" guys, or evil, had been biasedly written from the perspective of the good guy, and I always thought that likely this perspective was subjective rather than objective.   Bad guys probably weren't as bad as good guys said.  Evil probably wasn't the force of destruction as much as the good guys said. I mean after all, my entire life I was told that the best football team in the world was the Denver Broncos, but I'll bet that if I grew up in Dallas, I would think that the Dallas Cowboys were the best.  Oh dear reader, see how much I like darkness.....I used a sports analogy!

I had a nice life as a child. I played quite a lot, though I was truly a loner.  I had no more than two or three close friends my entire childhood; Chester my cousin; Daman my junior high friend; Marc, Chris and John in high school.  That was it.  As a little boy I most often played alone.  Creating in my mind entire universes; whole worlds that better or more closely looked like this heaven I had been promised in church.  In my imagination, heaven was  my play time.


But there were those times, evenings often, when I wasn't playing anymore.   I would sit alone in my room, surrounded always by my hundreds and hundreds of stuffed animals and wonder then what was heaven really like.  My wonder actually was more along the lines of, what is death?  So often I would think of this, and wonder that I began to imagine that it might be okay if I died.  I began to tell myself that death, in all it's scary "unknowingness" was so tempting, so much a desire, that I was less afraid of it than I was of living.    Play into death was as tempting for me as play in life.

So there, alone, in darkness I wondered and debated.  If my imagination created such a wonderful life, full of adventure and mystery, fulfillment and fun, then too wouldn't the experience of heaven past life provide this even more, and more completely, fully immersed?   And thus my first thoughts about ending my life crept into my very young mind.  I was probably eight or nine years old.  And my conflict was that I was afraid of the affect not of death, but that if I died at my own hand, I could potentially be neglected the experience of heaven.  Now I didn't experience much in the way of teachings about hell.  It was brought here and there, mostly in context of sorrow things like, "oh those poor souls in hell," or occasionally in referencing truly awful people like Hitler, "he must be in hell."  Now, I didn't want to be associated in this fashion, and I thought, no surely, someone like me, even if I brought myself to death I would be spared hell.


But  I didn't want to risk it.  Not at first anyway.


Now please know, I was in no way neglected or unloved by my family.  My mother was a very caring person (still is).  She fretted over us, kept us fed, loved us, sang to us.  I did have joy in my life, and I wasn't exactly depressed.  I did brood (I still do), I did like reading about dark things like dragons, evil wizards, devils and demons, but I also loved bright happy things too.   I played for hours with my legos, hot wheels, swords and things.  But many times, I would imagine myself dead.  Gone, wandering into the next life whatever that life may be.


One memory, so clear for me, is of an evening when I was alone in my room, maybe around 1979. I had a small Swiss army knife, the old kind that had only a few tools and blades.  It had one larger blade, and this one was pretty dull.  I pulled myself under the blankets in my bed and took out that little knife.  I remember holding it in my hand.  The sensation of the red plastic case at first cold, then warming to the touch of my skin.  I remember flipping open the largest blade, gleaming under the flash light and snapping it shut, time and time again.  Then  I remember taking this blade and pressing it against my stomach, point into my flesh. I remember pressing it, hard enough to push the skin in deep without cutting, and thinking to myself "press harder, you're so close."

Fear.  I was afraid of the knife, not of what it would do, but what if it couldn't do what I wanted.  At so young an age I didn't know what that meant, hurting myself, desiring to know what lay beyond the veil of living into the veil that we all are finally in, death.  I think I knew that the little Swiss Army knife couldn't have possible killed me, or I was just very, very afraid of the possibility that everything I had been told about death was not true, that there was no living beyond dying.  Or part of the fear was in me that if I hurt myself to the point of death, the promise of heaven would be lost to me because self harm, suicide was a mortal sin, it killed you not only on this plane but in the next.


I didn't come so close to death again for a long time after that.  Whatever held me back in that moment kept the thoughts of dying at bay for many years.  The thought occasionally came into my mind, flittering from time to time, sweeping in like a little humming bird, buzzing around my brain tempting me with, "death just like sleeping, don't you like to dream?"

It's funny, I'm not a depressed person.  I rarely am low, I don't have many bad habits, I don't usually mull too much over things.  I think my friends would describe me as happy, carefree even, most certainly silly.  But as we have seen in life, those high moments, which is where I usually reside, can lead to dark lows.  Dips in my mood are severe, but they are fleeting.  I'm not a manic depressive, at least not clinically.  If you meet tomorrow and then run into me in three months randomly, you'll find me in the same mood. I'm consistently consistent.  So this fascination with death isn't one that boils up because I'm hopeless or lost, but rather it comes from this place of pure dream.  It's a fantasy, a dark, dangerous fantasy.  I suppose I would say that if I am depressed I'm an odd bird, because for most days I value the experience of living and I'm quite happy.


But there somewhere in my mind are whispers of a darker desire, hints back to my childhood begging me to explore life and it's natural end.  Now that I've studied death myths, legends, theories of heaven and afterlife I do not believe there is any type of continuance of existence beyond what we know.  I believe that at death I simply cease to exist.  Our lives, our consciousness are like light switches, once flicked off, we simply cease to shine.  So the fascination with death for me has lost the appeal of escaping into a better existence.  But funny, this thought of dying, death has become such a close friend of mine, it's hard to let it go.


There was a time in 1993, January, when I stood on the edge of a rooftop on a building in Rome, some ten stories tall and looked down at the paving stones below and nearly leapt.  Now this was a time when I was depressed. I had been living in Rome then, studying to be a priest, struggling with my sexuality, struggling with being an atheist, struggling with a realization that the Catholic Church, which had become my home, my lover, hated me.  So standing there on the roof of the Pontifical North American College, looking down in the darkness at the road below, I stood; toes dipped over the edge of the building, the wind buffeting my back, encouraging me, daring me to fly - for a moment - to kiss our earth - to stop being me.

I remember the guilt of such dark terrible thoughts. I remember wondering what would my mother think?  My father?  Would they have to come to Rome to get my body or would they ship it back to the USA?  I stood there that dark evening, chilled in the Mediterranean winter air, and once again, for a moment heard my inner voice whispering to me "step over the edge, you're so close."  My own sense of self preservation kept me anchored to life that evening, but I was closer to the edge than I ever had been.


There have been other dark moments in my life and those random thoughts have popped up for me thinking how much easier it could be for me if I just allowed myself to slip into the great sleep.  In all these years, with therapy, the right friends, and maintaining a more firm grasp on reality, I've not stepped off the edge, but what my ever present struggle with thoughts of death and suicide have brought me, are an absolute lack of fear.  I've known pain, physically with surgeries, a bout with cancer, broken bones.  I've known pain in loss of loved ones, death of friends, end of relationships, heart break.  I've known pain in feeling insignificant, unimportant, unable to affect change in the world.  So yes, those dark thoughts have crept up in my mind, and the faint whispers of my old friend death hisses in my ear, ".....you're so close."  And because my old friend death is an ever present part of my personal darkness, I've come to not fear him at all.

So where am I today dear readers?  Well I'm happy, living and working hard at bettering myself.  I'm trying to learn more, discover more, love more. I'm trying to complain less, seek the bright parts of life and living while acknowledging that life isn't a matter of heaven and hell.  I am trying to remember that death too is not a matter of heaven and hell.  Rather, this life, my existence, my awareness, is an incredible gift of great fortune brought on by the power of stars.  The alignment of "knowing", that is consciousness awareness, seems, at least to humanity now, to be rare.  We are special, at least in this corner of the infinite universe.  And knowing this, acknowledging this is enabling me to better appreciate and respect the uniqueness of my experiences of life.  Every moment is special, powerful, unique for what it is.  My existence is so quick in the grand scheme of things that I realize the desire to end life, my life, is pre-mature.  It would be like going to a movie, picking the perfect seat, ordering my popcorn and soda and then walking out when the previews start.  I'd be missing the point.  So I've buckled down, accepted that the temptation for relief of the great sleep is real, at least for me, but that I shall not give in.  Rather I am focused on building up within myself the temptation to stay, to thrive, to live.


I'm happy to discuss this topic and post with you or anyone - leave a comment or send me a message.  I've lost friends to suicide.  I've lost friends and loved ones to early death, and to death after a long life.  And that loss is real.  That loss is painful.  That loss is hard to bear.  I know my life will one day end, hopefully not for a long time, I'm learning there's lots more living to do and I'm only getting started.  So in  the meantime I'm going to keep growing, keep learning, allowing myself to fail, but always allowing myself to get back up after a failure and try again.  I know that death is always close, lurking around the corner but my movie has only just started and I don't want to miss the ending.


I wrote in my "Thoughts Along the Way" journal about this a few months ago.  Here are those musings, "I am, for this rather insignificant moment in space and time, aware.  Based on the incredible rarity of life, especially life aware of itself, this is the importance of being.  Our existence itself seems to point to the meaning of life itself."

If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of suicide ask for help.  In the USA the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is an amazing resource.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

1 (800) 273-8255

www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org

The Desire to ever become a creature of wonder

Dear “Friends”:

Here is a post I have wanted to write for a while mostly because it is cathartic to put these thoughts out into the universe.  No doubt I shall offend some of you and loose some of you as followers (friends?), but I want to make clear my view on the world and my place in it.  As some of you may know, I genuinely do not have the desire that you should think or believe as I do, but I absolutely must insist that each of us think for ourselves, that we read, research, be open.  I maintain that if our source of information is only the news, media, social posts or headlines – we have heard no news, learned nothing, have simply been manipulated so as to become a consumer of a product – that product is false information whether it be from FOX, CNN, Huffington Post, or elsewhere.

So I want to present the heart of my thoughts arising from the current political and social context– full disclaimer, I am as many define, Liberal, socialist.  That said I did not grow up in a liberal household.  I did not go to liberal colleges or universities – just the opposite in fact.  But then these words liberal and conservative are generally used to refrain, define or confine a way of thinking.  I’m really more of an enigma I guess.

So here I am today:

·        I have deep anathema to racism.  Yes, I am a white (privileged) male.  Even still I have experienced racism, for example during the 1^st gulf war I was attacked in Missouri by a group of boys (in a pickup truck of all things) who threw bottles and rocks at me, called me derogatory names and screamed that I should return to Iraq.  And all my life I have been asked, “are you Mexican?” “are you Arabic?”  “are you……?”  why should that even matter?  I just don’t understand how a human being becomes a racist – to paraphrase Dr. Bill Nye, race is barely even skin deep.  This topic is so beyond my comprehension that I honestly cannot fathom how or why this is an issue in our world.  Yet it is. I know that I must do more to oppose racism for my silence in the face of racism is my consent.  Right now, today, people who are not white are hated because this country, the USA, was founded on the principle that not all lives matter, that some lives matter more, especially white lives.  So in today’s climate, the outrage, the riots, the marches, protests MUST happen because without revolt the status quo shall continue to be okay. 

·        I am opposed to the universal access we as Americans have to obtain guns.  I believe very strongly that there must be stronger gun laws; I’m not calling to ban guns, but rather to restrict such easy access.  Seriously, it’s easier to obtain a gun than to adopt a PUPPY!!!  It is easier to obtain a gun than to get a driver’s license. It is easier to obtain a gun than to obtain a marriage license.  Really?  This is okay? 

·        I am opposed to hunting for sport – ever.  It is no longer necessary.  It is not a sustainable activity.  It serves no purpose other than to kill, destroy.  It seems to me that “sport” hunting serves no purpose other than to satisfy some strange primordial need to control another living beings presence, to the point of death (yes, yes I know about herd and population management, which is now a necessary evil because we destroyed the environment and healthy populations of natural predator to prey levels).  As we study space and search for life outside our known solar system, galaxy it seems that life may in fact be quite rare, unique and special and so too the wonders of life on this little ball of rock should be valued, preserved by we simians who know that life is precious and valuable.

·        I believe that the militarization of our police forces is unnecessary and creates unnecessary conflict between the people of society and the militarized authorities (such as a militarized police force).  In my mind, police violence becomes so horrific and unbearable especially because the men and woman who are police are thought to be the very heroes and protectors of peace and harmony, yet they fail so much because they are created, trained and taught in an environment where it is believed, as I stated earlier, that not all life is matters.  It is the role of the peace keepers to de-inflate, not inflate.  It is the role of peace keepers to bring peace, not to bring chaos.  I can tell you, if you hand a person a powerful tool, they will want to use this tool.  It simply is in our nature. When I was a little boy I dreamt of being a cop.  Now they’re in my nightmares.

Those are a few “negatives”, the things that have me thinking, but what about the positives?  These are the things that get me out of bed in the morning and offer a glimmer of hope.  I post mostly about these things below because they make sense to me and help me appreciate the “me” of myself. 

·        Biology - Developments in animal study and research in biology amaze me.  These last 20 years have been an amazing age of discovery of animal science, evolutionary science and the amazing connections that all living beings share on this little ball of rock.  The wonders and mysteries of life, how it is evolved, surviving, and yes in some ways still thriving amaze me.

·        Evolution - Research on our simian cousins (and many other species) is literally changing the way we understand not only evolution overall, but our own evolution as a species.  Linguistic studies, the pattern of thought and the socialization of these amazing creatures, apes especially but many other animals, have indicated just how very much the same we simians, and all living things truly are. 

·        Astronomy – now this is the age of discovery.  What we have learned in the last 10 years, 5 years and 1 year is unprecedented in discovery.  We are literally discovering not only the local solar neighborhood, but are exploring and discovering the very nature of space-time itself.  The universe is bigger than infinite and so mysteriously complex that knowing the universe will take all of time and then some to scratch the surface.

·        Physics – I wish I had discovered physics more deeply as a young man.  Seeing how perfectly math helps us understand matter, energy and how they interact with each other. The pure simple brilliance of the Theory of General Relativity makes so clear how and why the universe is what it is.  It leaves us guessing the very first part of how it came to be but that’s okay because so far, as we have started to open our eyes and minds to discovering things that only 100 years ago most believed were impossible I know we shall discover the nature of the universe and her beginnings.

·        Atheism – well you surely know I’m a former catholic priest, a former Christian.  I became an atheist while in college (before I was a priest) but didn’t understand my atheism until much later.  Then upon realizing I was and had been an atheist, I left this pursuit of atheism at the side and didn’t embark on truly understanding my own atheism until the last few years.  What I have discovered recently is not just that atheism for me is a valid and rewarding way to live, it has helped me to understand better the human need, the psychology of the human mind that NEEDs religion.  I do not question the why of or for existence.  I question the human spirits need to have a “raison d'etre”.  Our fear of mortality seems to drive us, coming I suspect from our evolved sense of flight or fight (or as new behavior studies say we have a third response to stress which is “freeze”).  Anyway, atheism didn’t take anything away from me, but has given me the drive, the desire, the want to not find meaning in my own life, but to better comprehend the discovery of the mysteries of our universe through better comprehension of biology, physics, astronomy, maths and other sciences.

So here’s the rub.  I’m disengaging from people who have an agenda for me.  Recently unfriended several “family” members who haven’t really spoken to me in 20 years or so, but suddenly feel the need to talk to me about “Jesus” or God.  My life is so much richer and full without “faith” in deity or divinity.  If your only context or experience with me comes from my days as a priest or Christian you have to move on.  Engage me as the man I am today, not the child I was then.  Yes I was a Christian/priest.  Yes, it was a mistake for me to have chosen that life (I was young and foolish and really didn’t know any better).  But I’ll tell you, in the last 20 years that I’ve not been a priest or Christian a lot has happened.  I have lived all over the USA, fallen in and out love a few times.  I have faced sorrow, loss, illness and health.  I’ve read some great books, seen some good movies, drank too much and sometimes not enough. 

Listen, if your life is full of fear of losing something because of words or mind-sets like “that’s my heritage” – “you’re stepping on my rights” – “that not how things were when I was a child” – “I don’t like all this political correctness” – or if you’ve ever hated someone because they’re different in creed, sexual orientation, skin color or race, social beliefs, then I don’t know if we should be friends or if we have enough common ground to walk together.  Those things are also a source of anathema to me. 

I can admittedly be a bigot.  I’m trying not to be. 

I can admittedly be intolerant.  I’m trying not to be (when it comes to supporting others rights to live and let live – I am and shall remain intolerant of hatred, bigotry, cruelty, sexism, greed, or a theology or creed that allows a person to hate).

I am also a lover.  I am becoming ever more a creature of wonder.  I am an explorer, if only in my own mind, I am exploring.  I am trying to let go of the fear of not being significant, because my significance is not relevant, but rather reveling in the joy of being alive is.  I am for this unimportant blip in the experience of space and time, aware of myself.  That is the wonderful mystery of my own cognitive musings; awareness, this awareness in life as it seems so incredibly rare in the universe, at least from the .0000000000000000000000000000001^10,000% we have observed, is what makes life have its meaning.  I value this life and all those living, wonderful beings around me. I value the fabric of the universe in all her mysteries that seem so incredibly marvelously endless. 

Musings - It's all passing away (VIDEO)

Musings, it's all passing away

Lately I've been enjoying a lot of reading and studying about space and time. The entire concept, of either and both is mind boggling. Honestly it's entirely beyond me. But what has been gotten my attention is less the theories of time and space, and more the desire for us to understand them. In a world, my world, I don't have the dream, the hope of immortality. Honestly I wouldn't want it. The idea, the thought that I, me, Thom, would go on forever seems entirely dreadful. I'm a nice enough fellow I suppose. I'm generally honest, friendly, respectful. I am not especially talented, good-looking, artistic, charitable. I am not able, not capable of contributing to the world in a grand fashion. I'm no great warrior, king, scientist, philosopher, poet, painter, musician, laborer, farmer, father or even friend. I'm down right average to below average. No need to drag this existence out beyond its estimated 70-100 years. 70-100 years, not even 100,000,000,000th of a millisecond in the grand scheme of existence. My presence here, on this ball of rock and magma is so non consequential that my presence here is no more nor less impactful than a day in the life of a mosquito.

Now I do not want you, dear reader, to think that I do not appreciate my life. I value that I have awareness of the world (which from all studies and scientific observations the mosquito does not). This life, this 100,000,000,000,000 of millisecond of existence is valuable, to me, and for all of us whilst we are aware of it. It is entirely possible that conscious life exists in the universe only here, on Earth, and that makes the experience of it even more special, at least in theory. It is also entirely possible that conscious life is found through out the universe, and our experience of it is as common as dust on the lamp shade. Either way, I know I am alive, I am aware. I know that I have an expiration date (by average estimates another 30 years or so).

What makes my musings ponder some, is that in this world, this existence, I do not feel the need to seek refuge in the hope, in what I believe is a false hope, that of an eternity beyond that which I experience here. I don't recall that my childhood entry into faith was ever driven by fear of not living forever or even fear of death itself or fear of some sort of divine punishment (hell) if I didn't live a faith filled life. My faith was always driven by the social aspects of religion. I was raised in the faith more in a community function rather than a theological one.

As small town Roman Catholics, we never really studied the bible at home. Our parish church was built around the catholic celebration of the Mass. It was almost always entirely ritual, rarely theological, sure the priest would offer a homily (sermon) but these were often platitudes and niceties built around one or two of the biblical Sunday readings. Of course I'm sure our parish had adult bible studies, RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults) and other things, but from the time I can remember until I graduated high school, my participation in the Church was always around participating in community. It was a matter of being together in like belief, not necessary being together to better understand Divinity externally or internally. In the monastic tradition, in which my parish was heavily influenced by as our long term pastor, Thomas Dentici,

who was a former monk, there exists the belief is that actions of faith, i.e. ritual prayer, meditation, community, one's work, the very walls and stones around you, would reveal God's mysteries and wonders, and the overt expression, theological expression of wasn't always necessary. I grew up in the mountains of Colorado, and certainly the mountains were an inspiration and expression of awe. Sometimes in the dewy foggy mornings of spring it is easy to see how and why we would attribute nature's grandeur to more than just circumstance of natural progression. Nature herself might inspire us to want to believe that because we are aware of the universe and the world held therein - then indeed the universe and nature herself might be an expression of awareness, an expression of a god. Therefore it is not inconceivable then that in my experience of faith as a child I was never afraid of the world beyond this one as I was raised to live in the world I was already aware of - living in the world of the here and now. I was raised in awareness not raised in fear. I am grateful for this unique theological upbringing. I am grateful that it lead me to study further theology in a more formalized manner via intense biblical studies, the study of philosophy, history, arts, sciences in a monastic tradition. My own first theological and formal training were through the Benedictine Monks at their seminary. There we lived in community, in a world held apart from the rest - cloistered from the world, restricted so that we might find theological inspiration in divinity studies as well as theological inspiration in community with each other.

As I have departed a faith life, and have moved into a humanist approach to ethics and morals, I rely upon understanding the world through scientific theory (observation and evaluation of the laws of physics, time, space and the world around us). I have always been that sort - I have never believed in ghosts or even aliens on Earth. My approach to believing something is that if it can't duplicated or observed by others in a controlled manner or even recorded in some fashion so as to be verified by other eyes, well I don't accept it as truth. Funny, how in my belief of God it took me until my early twenties to apply the same standards. Yet now, with the wisdom of some 44 years under my belt, it makes sense that my atheism didn't mature because as I stated earlier, my first experiences of what faith was, were based in the community expression of love and God's actions. I was taught that God was observable in community, good actions of humanity were the tenants of faith; the community and it's love for one another was the "proof" of God. While the scriptures and theological theorems were nice, they were never the center of believing. God seemed real to me because I was loved. I think in many ways my family, who is still faith filled, still believes this as the ultimate proof of God's existence. Their "scientific theory" is that because love exists in a community of family and like believers, then God is indeed real.

This desire, this faith is so tempting. Even now as I write these words I am nostalgic for that faith life. I do miss raising my voice in song with a community. I miss the brotherhood I felt at the seminary.  I miss standing as a leader of people, as a pastor, a priest and guiding the community to a common mission. Yet I don't miss from those days the mask I wore. I don't miss hiding myself, my true self. As I left faith I lost family, friends and became more alone. More alone, not lonely, but more alone. My community shrank from many to few, and in that reduction, simplification, I discovered truth. That fear of not being included, of feeling different, of doubting was okay. My family now is small, but more intimate. My family now is small, but more authentic. My family is small, but it's real. When I raise my voice in song my new family sings with me and even sometimes through me.

This short life, my 100,000,000,000th of a millisecond or less, is more precious because it's all I have. Space and time, observable and measurable, tells me that my matter, my carbon and energy will not be lost, they will be transferred, carried on in some other fashion. Perhaps my ashes will fertilize the soil. Perhaps the movement, my atomic energy, will someday join the light of a star. And perhaps when the energy that moves me is expired it will all pass away. But somehow, this passing away is just fine. For before I stepped gently on this green wet earth, I was in 100's of trillions atoms and protons worth in places elsewhere. Before I existed I was not missed, I was not known. And so too when this moment ends, my life, I won't be missed. Oh sure, for a 100,000,000,000th of a millisecond maybe I'll be missed, but for all of us, it's all passing away. But I don't need to be more than what I am - temporary. That is what makes this moment so precious. This quick 100,000,000,000th of a millisecond of awareness is a special thing. It is to be treasured and I don't need anything other than what I am to make it valuable.

I wear a size 10 shoe

In September of 2014 New York Times published an article, "Corner Closet Opens Up a Bit Wider" about gay CEOs and the further development of gay power in business. Interestingly enough, one subject of the article, Travis Burgess stated, "Being gay is just a fact. I view it like height, or eye color." New York Times, "Corner Closet Opens Up a Bit" by James Stewart September 5, 2014.

It's been an interesting year or two in the world of celebrities and those who are gay or bi-sexual. Legalization of marriage for same sex couples aside, a lot of ink is spilled talking about gay sports figures, news casters, journalists, celebrities in film, stage and television. The fascination with these folks sexual orientation and how well they will fit into their perspective fields of expertise has been much the topic of discussion. Even to the absurd where a reporter commented on Michael Sam, the former player for the St. Louis Rams (who happens to be gay) and his showering behaviors at the training facility.
 

I've personally never been especially comfortable in an all gay scene; going to clubs or bars that cater to exclusively gay or LGBT communities makes me a bit uncomfortable. Sure I've gone plenty of times to gay bars (I do love the EAGLE), either because I was with a date or a partner or because the reality of the 90's and even now is that it just feels safer to be with others who have a like mind. Yet, I quite often have wondered that is that exclusivity still entirely necessary or is it even healthy? Perhaps there is the need culturally, a safe place, and I understand the desire for as is said, "birds of a feather, flock together." Yet, as I grow older, and more established in my relationship (going on 13 years), I much prefer to sit and enjoy social company in a diverse and mixed crowd - gay, straight, black, white, etc. I have come to realize in my life that while my being a gay man is part of who I am - NOT something that I choose - but rather something much more ingrained, my entire sexuality, sexual identity is not the sole definer of what makes me, me.


 

Those reading who are my friends may know this about me, but I like Batman. I love the story of this man who was broken, hurt by a tragedy in life, who swore to not let his type of pain be felt by anyone else. That the loss of his beloved parents, especially his father would move him to try to be better than, rise above, conquer the life he had been so cruelly dealt, bereft of parents, alone in the world. Of course, as a young boy I also loved his bat-tools, bat-car, bat-cave. I loved that he was a character of action, resolution, pride and honor, but that he was willing to sacrifice those elements to achieve his goals, which was to fight injustice, seek vengeance and rise above. It didn't hurt my childhood mind too thinking that here this Batman, was just Bruce Wayne. A self made hero - not super, just super resolute. I loved dreaming that I could be Batman too, well maybe. Yet my love of Batman - it does not define me. It's part of me and has been since I was a very young boy. I also loved the Six-Million dollar man, the Incredible Hulk, Captain Kirk, C.H.I.P.S., and many other "hero characters". I can say that the Batman is part of who I am, mostly, very likely, the darkness of Batman, which I came to respect and love in the 1980's. Yet this Dark Knight is not who I am, it is not the sole characteristic of my personality.
 

Now many of you may not know that I also love fantasy novels. I started consuming them in the 1970s, reading voraciously every science fiction and or fantasy book I could get my hands on. I loved Lloyd Alexander, R.A. MacAvoy, JRR Tolkien, Piers Anthony, Ray Bradbury, Clifford D. Simak, Robert Asprin, Margaret Weiss and Tracy Hickman and many, many more. These worlds, created and imagined became my reality. I escaped into them, not so much because I wanted to get away from something, but because I wanted to discover something else. These rich worlds of magic, fantasy, adventure were a place where I resided most of the time. As a child I never thought of myself as different (or gay or straight or otherwise), nor did I ever even consider my sexuality. Instead my youth, up into my teenage years were spent focused on stepping through the door of new worlds, the threshold of these doors being the fantasy books I journeyed upon. My life and world were, even perhaps through young adulthood, consumed more with creating in my own mind a world filled things yet undiscovered, mysterious or fantastic. I was never an overly sexualized young man, not even loosing my virginity until my early twenties and then it was well after college. But in my world, I had already lived life as a king, a hero, a villain, a knight, a bard, a wanderer and a peasant and the focus of these world's never included my sexual orientation; which gender to which I was attracted never even entered my mind, much like my shoe size (which is 10 narrow by the way).
 

 

An elephant often in the room, when some folks discover that I was a former priest, is that I must have left the priesthood because I was gay, or even that I became a priest at first because I was gay. I know that this is true for many men in the ministry, the celibate life is an alternative to living a life as gay man.  In the Catholic Church at least, homosexuality is considered abnormal, and acting on gay sexual urges is considered morally reprehensible, a mortal sin even (a sin so grievous that one without the sacrament of confession will not see the shining gates of heaven or St. Pete's ugly mug). But again, for me, in my journey it wasn't a concern. I wanted to be a priest because in this world, at least in my young mind, it presented the opportunity to continue to play at the fantasy life I had been living in for so long. I could be the magician. I could be the cleric. I would be the hero. I had never even thought of priests in a sexual manner, but of course I never thought of my parents or any other adult in such a manner either. My priesthood was simply a continuation of the fantasy I had been living since I was eight years old, exciting, new, a discovery, but ultimately, for me, it was just that, fantasy. It never had anything to do with my sexuality. Even in college, surrounded by so many young men, some quite handsome, I did not explore my sexual orientation or act on sexual urges. It was there, the urges, the desire for a sexual experience, but it was not the driving force. This changed when I became a priest, in part because I was no longer a naïve young man (younger anyway) and in part because I knew that the fantasy world of priesthood was not sustainable. It had to end, but not because of my sexual orientation, but because I fundamentally did not believe in God.

So now as I enter the last half of my middle age (I'm 45, soon to be 46, I've got what, 25/30 years to live?), I can reflect back and take in the whole experience of my life, both as a man who happens to be gay and as a man with a size 10 shoe. My feet are important. They've gotten me into and out of a lot of trouble, a lot of fun, a lot of sorrow and have enabled me to journey through a life that has taken me from the peaks of Colorado to the deep valleys of Israel. My sexuality is important too. I've fallen in love more times than I can count; broken as many hearts as times mine has been broken, and in my sexuality I have met and become the man I am. Yet it is a single part of me, not a defining part, but a part. I suppose on some level it's like mixing yellow and blue to achieve green, for without one of the two colors the third would not exist. For if I had not been gay I would not be the man I am today. For those that know me well (and like me, there are still few of you left), you can appreciate I hope and embrace the gayness. But perhaps no more so than these feet of mine. They take me to you, near you, with you or away from you. They support my body everyday, sometimes they hurt, get blistered, wear out shoes, but always they are here, helping me move and discover the world around me. So sure I'm gay - but guess what, I also have size 10 feet.