Wow...I Seem To Have Lost Interest InWriting This Blog.

It's been a long fucking while since I last posted in here. I wonder why...

The answer is simple, really: I lost interest. For a while it was really exciting to write a blog about some intimate detail of my past, then post it thinking that it might create some sort of ripple in the homeostasis of those around me. The perfect platform for my exhibitionist, I delighted in knowing that, if you read my blog, you knew I really didn't have any secrets.

Then I shifted in my writing. I stopped writing about me, and started copy/pasting stuff about angry, homo-hating Christians. Truthfully, I can hardly stand the sight of such people, I don't know why the hell I thought they should go in my blog. Nonetheless, the break in writing direction, I think, caused a loss of connection or interest.

Deep  breath....

SMOKE-FREE October 1, 2017 A TRIBUTE TO THE WOMAN WHO SOLD ME SMOKES WHEN I WAS FOURTEEN

It has been  one month today since I smoked tobacco. I've struggled with that addiction off and on (mostly on) since I was14 yours old.
I had two connections: Melanie, who used cigarettes as payment for babysitting services and that one woman--with the large beehive-shaped blonde wig who worked at that one particular gas station in Preston. I knew she would just take my .99 cents, toss a pack of cigs in the car and send me on my way with a "Shhhhh....." and a finger to her scarlet painted lips. Indecently the, yellow stains on her fingers suggested that she too was a smoker. Curious.. .I wonder how she is today. Is she still alive or did she smoke up to the day she died? I wonder if I was just one of many teenagers to whom she sold tobacco. Did she ever regret doing so?

Only Space For What There Is Space For

It's true...there really is only space for what there is space. A car can only hold so many clowns, a home so many people, a conversation so many words. I get that.

I remember my very first encounter with "romance."   I was five. Samantha, the girl with long blonde hair always pulled super taught against her head to form pig-tails,  lived next door. She and I did everything together: We watched cartoons, we ate our lunch outside on her cool kid-sized picnic table,  played with her Barbies, or, with my Barbies (outwardly disguised as GI Joe's). What solidified my undying love was the realization that we could build a tent with her bed linens, one that we occupied all night, along with our flashlights and other important sundry items without a single violation of our "protective shield"

That's why on the day her parents so rudely swept her away to move to another state, I was devastated! I remember frantically running in to my mother (who somehow already knew about the move)  crying.  "Now who am I going to marry."

I tell that story because it makes me look like an adorable five year old.

No seriously, I tell it to remind myself that even with the paradigm of a five year old, there was only room for what there was room for. I, of course, had no idea how my life's journey would look at that age, with one exception: I was certain I would marry Samantha. There was that much space in my mind for how marriage, for me, would look.  

While it's important to consider the  thoughts, ideas and inspirations for which we create and maintain space in our mind, what I'm really exploring is kind of the reverse side of that. What can one do when he, either intentionally or unintentionally makes "space" for something he later regrets, an "allowance" for words or actions that separate and divide, rather than strengthen bonds of affection.

At the beginning of a relationship, loving attentiveness, excitement and passion are the norm. Arguments are often believed to be what those couples do and we can scarcely stand the thoughts of being in conflict with this person. Then it happens-- usually over sex,  money or in-laws--and a space for a slightly higher level of  aggressiveness or hostility, even an unusual emotional shut-down enters the scene. The activating event brings with it beliefs and/or thoughts that are strongly defended by each party.  But, because the feeling of being in love is so vibrant, a make-up occurs quickly and a sense of equilibrium is re-established. 

Strangely, that equilibrium intensives the surprise when the next event occurs. This time, voices are raised a little higher, or, perhaps the tone is more cutting or words more poignant.  Over time, if patterns remain the same, the conflict/hostility "envelope" gets pushed a little farther. Eventually-- without an intervention to enhance communication and empathy skills--the emotional and physical well-being of both individuals are compromised because of the intensity of the conflicts between them.

Like some self-respecting, almost middle-aged, gay couples, Sean and I went on our first date, and, just simply never went back. No, seriously, Sean never slept in his apartment again because we were so happy together. In fact, a few weeks into our co-habitation, my Land Lord , seeing a change in my affect, asked what caused "that glow. I said, proudly, pointing at him, "I've fallen in love."

Almost all of our road trips for floral design were marked with goofy laughter. I have no idea what we were laughing about...we didn't care, really. We had awesome sex a.  Nope, there was absolutely no room in our joint paradigm for hostility in the form of yelling nor violence cleverly disguised as name calling.  When disagreement arose, one talked while the other listened, followed by some variation of reflective listening. We certainly weren't perfect in our use of effective communication skills, but we always tried.

Things are different now.

One year later, anger has become comfortable. Blame-finding has replaced the quick acceptance of responsibility, openness and the desire to understand. Spontaneous acts of affection and kindness seem, on a level, to have been replaced by spontaneous upsets that then take hours, sometimes days, to resolve.Often with a different upset setting in before the first is even close to resolution. I realize how bleak this all sounds. Unfortunately, however, we've found themselves in some trouble; we've fallen into some pretty shitty habits. Or, better stated, we've developed mal-adaptive coping strategies and dysfunctional patterns of behavior that have begun and will continue to erode the affection between us if we don't change. 

What has happened between us? It's pretty simple, I think: we gradually made space for stuff we weren't expecting. We increased the volume of our voices when an argument; we increased the frequency of conflicts; and we increased the intensity of the already emotionally charged energy between us. What happened is this:  our egos developed the notion that being right is more important than being present and before long we we pushing that envelop even further.

It breaks my heart, really. I love Sean, and I want him as my partner, my friend, my confidant. I want to feel the joy I felt simply being together. I want to experience the unrestrained laughter and silliness we enjoyed while just driving to an event. I want to feel the affection of breakfast in bed or a hot bath and candles or a goofy card that reads with the simple sentiment  "I love you...you're my best friend."

So, not having the ability to turn back time, how can we "reset" the level to which we are willing-to push the envelop? How can we go back to the times when an argument was just that: a discussion between two individuals? Like usual, I want these answers, and I want them now, but alas, the answers, I believe,  will come, when I'm ready to receive them.  I fucking hope so!

I'll keep you posted.

*Yes it's true! I ended this sentence with a preposition. To my high school teacher, my apologies.

Remember? A Neurotic Little Free-Flow of Thouthts

Remember when I did that horrible thing, that absolutely devastatingly heart breaking thing? And remember how angry you were and how much you yelled and screamed and cried and withheld affection. For at least a month, I think,  there was nothing but  "discussion" between us We talked and fought and cried and sulked and deliberated about it so much that eventually I believed I would surely have a stroke, or, a mental breakdown of one sort or another. You resented me so badly I could almost smell it on your skin and you held "forgiveness" in front of me like a precious, dangling carrot, taunting me with the promise of relief from the heaviness. You knew how badly I wanted your forgiveness, how badly I wanted the hurting in your heart to stop and the agonizing discomfort between us to soften. Over the weeks that followed,  I began to feel  tolerated. You gradually mustered up the ability to be in the same room with me without shooting nerve gas out your blankly staring eyes. Ok...I know that's a hyperbolic use of drama, but that's how it felt to me.

Remember how heart broken I was, knowing that I had hurt the man I had been in love with for years? Remember how scared I was to come home and how I had walked around in sub-zero weather for at least five hours, not knowing what I could do or say that would somehow make it less painful for you? I wanted so badly the ability to reach my arm back through time to one seemingly insignificant moment when I could have made one choice differently than the one I made. I couldn't though. I had to accept that I had fucked up in the worst way and that our lives would never be the same and that you may never love me again like you had and that I was all alone--completely alone with my self-defeating thoughts that screamed horribly hopeless messages that made any reasonable attempt at reasonable-ness seem absolutely ridiculous, and....of course, unreasonable. I totally understand why you left that morning. I feel like I should repeat myself: I totally understand why you left that morning, but, I was left with a lot of pain to manage by myself. Loneliness had never felt so tangible before, as it I could sense it on the skin of my face and weighing down attempts to lift my head and arms. It felt suffocating, like a wet blanket had been thrown over me and that the only way out was to somehow find a way to relax into breathlessness.

Remember when I watched you pack your bags and prepare for escape to that short, kinda cute chick with inviting dimples and how I pleaded with you not to leave, but to stay home with me so we could work things out and so that I could show you how much I loved you from the deepest part of my soul? You just kind of did one of those "herhumpf" with your throat and said very stoically, "I'm going to Peppers." That's when I felt even more ashamed. If I had had a tail, that fucker would have definitely been hid between my legs. My quiet leave I could not have taken too soon. But, where would I have gone? Reality, with all its wound-opening bitterness would have surely followed me where ever I went. So...I sat on the sofa and cried. I cried a lot for a long time, until finally it came time to go to that stupid AA meeting. I did not want to go! Embarrassment in front of a bunch of drunks?  No way! But, because you asked me to go--actually I believe you made the subtle, yet deafening suggestion that anyone with any desire to save his relationship would be going to the meeting--I went. In fact, I not only went, I chaired the meeting. "Hi, I'm Shawn. I'll be your chairperson for today's meeting, and, um....I relapsed yesterday." I half expected some of them to laugh so hard they spit their burning coffee in my face.

But, as people are fond of saying now days, what's done is done and nothing could be changed that had already been done, despite any doing on my part. So, I want you to know, even though it sounds completely neurotic and narcissistic and maybe even a little creepy...
for leaving me there alone that morning, although you did the right thing, I forgive you.

More importantly...I'm really sorry. And, I love you.

Is This That Little Boy at Play?

A big chunk of time has past since I wrote in this blog, at least with any degree of consistency. I had intended that it be some sort of journal; a chronology of my life, with all the profoundly moving stories of my wacky world. While it started out that way, it quickly became more of a collage, little snapshots of the journey thrown onto this cyber-canvass with the hope that someday the reader of my "journal" is able to put all those pieces together and arrive at a mental image of me.

Today's "snapshot" is that old familiar stirring in my gut, the one that comes up when overwhelm begins to feel too, well...overwhelming. That's when I know it's time to do one of two things: either retreat inward and shut down for a while or sit my ass down and write.

So here goes...

My baby boy is graduating from high school in just a few days, and, I'm an absolute mess. I am very happy for him, for sure; as well as bursting with so much pride I can hardly contain it. I am also, however, feeling sad. In fact, I can't talk much about it without tearing up. Alone, and alone with my thoughts, and I'm a sobbing, snotty-faced nut-case.

Why is his upcoming graduation effecting me this way? With Cody and Hillary, each of whom went about this phase of their education in unique ways that best suited their individual styles, I certainly experienced a range of emotions that went from pride to worry about this or that and then back to pride again. With Alec, it's different. There is something about his graduating that has me asking myself what the hell is going on.

Maybe it's just empty nest syndrome. Could it be that thoughts of seeing Alec pack up and move away from us leaves an empty space in my paternal paradigm? I think I remember hearing my parents talk about something like that when I left the proverbial nest.(Actually, given my adolescent collisions with the law and worsening alcoholic behaviors, it's likely they wished I had left much sooner than I did.)

Or, is it just worry. God knows my mother taught me  how to worry! I mean, seriously, he's not mature enough to go away to college and make the decisions and bear the responsibilities that go with such a move. Is he? Isn't he still that little boy at play? Isn't he still that beautifully shy boy who required a little push when it came to talking with people he didn't know or being the new kid at a new school or trying something with the slightest hint of celery? Isn't he still that boy who I thought would stay close to his parents for a very long time, until he was really ready to step out on his own, I mean, 5 or 10 years from now kind of ready? Where did that kid go? In what feels like and instant,  Alec the boy is gone, and, reality is: I do worry about him, but not much more than I do the other two. Alec is maturing very nicely into a responsible young man, very capable of managing the challenges that lie ahead for him, and/or, gathering the resources he needs to figure it all out. Moreover, he's gifted with copious amounts of  talent, emotional-intelligence and wisdom for his age. (Those are just the facts...not the boasting of a proud dad.)

My heart tells me it's not that; that it's not about my son at all; not even a little bit.. Alec, I think, represents something to me. I think he stands out in the caverns of  my psyche as the last chance to get it right. Drug addiction is an isolating illness. It's ability to progress through its' usual course generally comes at the expense--at least to some degree--of relationships between the addict and those around him. So how is the relationship between Alec and me? How has my addiction effected his ability to feel close to me as his father? How have my attempts at recovery improved on my abilities to draw him closer in as my son, rather than keep keep him at arms length because of shame and guild? Apparently, despite any kicking and screaming on my part, now is when these questions are begging to be asked.

I used to think that, because I'm an addict, I am automatically a bad parent; At best, little more than an ineffective presence, always sort of looking into their lives, wanting in--desperately wanting in--but feeling separated by the consequences of my choices. Now I'm realizing the "cross of shame" that fostered separation was something I, after having been indoctrinated into the false belief that addiction is a moral issue, chose to drag along with me. The truth is: addiction is a medical issue, a disease, and is completely separate from my morality, or that of any other person or religion or society. The acceptance of that fact has allowed for a degree of  self-forgiveness that is long overdue. So...why the sadness?

Here's why: my relationship with Alec, while certainly not worlds away from where I'd like it, as in years past, is not where I want it. Frankly, I have not been honest enough with him about my drug use, in recent months, to allow an authentic deepening of our relationship to happen. (Alec is no dumb-bunny! He knows I've been using more than that for which I've been accountable.)  I have put far too much effort into maintaining the appearance of the "appropriate" parent, to allow the real me to be consistently present.  Now, to some degree, I feel stuck in that superficial limbo sort of energy that sits like the awkward silence between strangers just getting acquainted. And that's not what I want! Damn it! I want authenticity. I want a stronger closeness between my son and me. I want Alec to trust me and look to me for at least some answers to the questions life will be presenting at this important juncture. I want to be more than just the cumulative  example of decisions I hope he does not make; more than just the do as I say, not as I do kind of parent!

Deep breath...

So, what the fuck am I going to do about it? That's not a question I can answer right now. More about that later I'm sure. I do want to thank my son for holding up for me the mirror I really needed to see. Thank you Alec, for showing up me in complete perfection and for showing me how I can better show up for you.  I am so proud of you, son. I love you with all my heart and I am honored and grateful for the opportunity to be your dad.

Congratulations my dear boy!


(There better be lots of facial tissues available at this graduation...that's all I can say! Perhaps I'll just shove a roll of toilet paper down my pants before going in.)

Good Bye Melanie- -A Tribute To My Beautiful Sister

(Read at Melanie's funeral, January 5, 2013) 

When I stood at this podium, just a few months ago, honoring my niece Jennifer, I had no idea I would soon be here doing the same for her mother. Since hearing that my sister had died, I've done some praying. I've expressed to God my anger and my sadness, my confusion and my desire to understand. "She is too young to die!" I said, "this is not what a fair and just and loving God should do" Looking back, the arrogance is comical, but the response was an attentive silence, like He wanted only to listen.  

That said, I could not stop asking WHY. Why, God did she have to go now? Why not let her live until she’s 95 like her great-grandma Talbot, so she could use old age as an excuse for wearing her right shoe on her left foot and her left shoe on her right foot and saying she couldn’t understand why her feet hurt. Why not let her live until she’s 78 like her grandma Ransom, so she could use her tired aging bones to explain why she absolutely MUST watch the Price is Right—and that annoying soap opera that followed it-- every single weekday. Or, God, why not let her wait until she’s 71 like her father, so she could say that she’s just too old to drive amongst all the crazy drivers on the road, “and why won’t they just home."

Then, it occurred to me that if Melanie had lived as long as those people she would probably have become so amazingly refined-- similar to how coal turns to diamonds when the weight of the earth bears down on it-- that I would not have recognized her. There’s not a person I know who has suffered as much heart-wrenching grief as Melanie. Even if she did not fit the mold that some of us, unfortunately, use to define courage and fortitude, Melanie held her head high and walked bravely through what is likely the most painful thing some of us humans have to endure: the death of a child. And, she did it three times!

Then, there is the weight of the burden of her disease: the disease of addiction. And, if by chance there are any of you who still struggle to see addiction for what it is: a disease, a medical issue--NOT a moral issue--I strongly encourage you to get the appropriate education regarding the true nature of this devastatingly fatal disease. The information is abundant and easy to obtain online. It requires only your commitment to find it and an open mind to receive it!

Like others, there was a time when I allowed Melanie’s addiction to justify and fuel my self-righteous judgments against her. There was a time when I proudly wore the “I AM NOT AN ADDICT” chip on my shoulder. And that, in my paradigm, made me better than my sister. I judged the decisions she made as a mother. I became angered when the symptoms of her disease became apparent and infuriated when those symptoms made their appearance while introducing Melanie to new friends or partners. Eventually, however, Melanie's addiction and my reactions to it, became a very insightful mirror for self-examination. I'm reminded of something taught to me by and Native American Shaman. He said holding a C-shaped pointer finger in the air, "Remember this: we will always attract to us that which we fear, and we will forever become that which we judge.”

So, as you can probably imagine, with all that stress and all those challenges, and the depths of despair through which my sister traversed, a deep and brilliant refinement, over time would have surely taken place and, that transformation, I believe, was not part of Melanie’s divine purpose.

Now, far be it for me—a grossly imperfect, liberal, gay, Buddhist, vegan, drug addict with the audacity to have a temper tantrum to God—to determine another person’s divine purpose. So, I’d like to turn to Holy scripture, the Word of God where Matthew, chapter 25 offers a hint at Melanie’s divine purpose and an answer—if only an answer to comfort my broken heart-- as to why this has happened now:

Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was an hungered , and ye gave me meat. I was thirsty and ye gave me drink, I was a stranger and ye took me in. Naked, and ye clothed me. I was sick, and ye visited me. I was in prison, and ye came unto me.

Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungered, and fed thee? Or thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee? Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee.

And the King shall answer and say unto them, verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done unto the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

In recent months, if I can just be really honest, it has been difficult to listen to and even see Melanie at times. Her disease had brought about changes in her body that made it apparent something was dreadfully wrong and changes in her cognition that made simple conversation horribly awkward. Her speech was often pressured and disorganized and her mannerisms came from a place of anxiety, self-preservation and defense.

More than that, in recent years, Melanie’s tremendous grief showed through every goofy thing she did, her smile and her laugh. When she wasn’t visibly mourning the loss of her beautiful daughters, she was expending the energy required to keep her emotions at bay. Melanie’s emotional body had been so wounded that to watch her go through the horrifying pain of her grief was very difficult, to look at her squarely in the face was often too painful, and to simply BE present with Melanie, sometimes felt like it was too much.

According to Matthew, chapter 25, Christians are admonished to treat their fellow brothers and sisters, their friends and neighbors and even strangers and those considered enemies, with loving kindness. When they are hungry Jesus said to feed them; when they were thirsty, give them something to drink. Or, when they were a stranger, perhaps behaving strangely--emotionally distraught, mentally ill or overwhelmed by the heaviness of the burdens they carry, Christ said to go to them of love them, comfort them and BE present with them.

It comforts me to know that when we did keep-company with Melanie and when we really saw her and the challenges she faced, and when we were willing to do our best to just BE present with her-- faulty though it may have been because we’re only human—we were actually doing those things for Christ? Indeed, if you are a follower of His, you should offer up your prayers of gratitude for the assistance Melanie provided in the development of your relationship with your God.

Melanie—my dear sister, my friend, my teacher, my confidant-- thank you for sharing your life with me. Thank you for showing me how to laugh at my goofiness and and for helping me to love and accept myself when to do so felt impossible. Thank you for making me feel special and loved, for feeding me and taking me in and for visiting me while I was imprisoned. And, most important, thank you, Melanie, for being for me the voice and face and light of Christ.

Amen.

 

Celebrating Jennifer

(Read at Jennifer's funeral, July 25, 2012)

It is such an honor for me to speak at Jennifer’s memorial, the celebration of her life, her willingness to love and the laughter and joy she brought into our lives. It’s my belief that Jennifer is with us right now, and it is my intention that my words leave her with an awareness of our gratitude and affection for her.

I have had the pleasure of being close  with Jen since the day she was born. Someone asked me about my fondest memory of her. Perhaps my fondest is also my first. When the twins were born they had to spend some time under funky ultra-violate lights. Melanie would feed them and love on them and then immediately they’d go back under the lights. Jennifer would only sleep with her butt straight up in the air, which I thought was funny enough. But, one day I saw Jessica staring blankly at Jen’s butt, which she had managed to put right in front of her face.  I laughed out loud. I also remember hearing her make a purring sound when she slept, earning her the nickname Purr, by her mother.

Personally, I think funerals suck. I know there are very important reasons for having them, but I don’t like them. I’ve done a little research on the origins of funerals. Turns out that primitive humans—with our lack of knowledge and understanding about the human body, the cycles of life and death, and the process of decay—lived in fear for their impending death. In many cultures, the sight of a corpse was a very bad omen and something to run from. Most primitive humans also had strong beliefs in spirituality and beliefs in God or Gods or other beings capable of creation, capable of sending blessings to the humans, and capable of causing death and destruction. Understanding that, it’s been easy for anthropologists to find lots of evidence showing that rites, or ceremonies, were developed to either placate or please the Gods and wart off any more of their rath on us helpless human creatures. And, that, is how the modern day funeral came into existence.

I prefer the concept of a celebration; a tribute and honoring of a person’s life. A celebration would, I believe, honor the cycles of life and death, health and illness, youthfulness and not-so-youthful and instill and reinforce in us a more profound sense of respect for these cycles, rather than fear of them. Celebrations of life also fit more appropriately with my belief in the principles of NON-DUALITY. At the risk of sounding like a pot-smoking hippy from the sixties,  let me just say that non-duality is the belief that WE ARE ALL ONE. Many of our worlds cultures believe in the principles of non-duality which reminds them that they are not here, while God is there. Or, that you and I are different and separate. Non-duality says that we are united with each other--and with God, whether that be a Heavenly Father, the Great Spirit of the Universe, or our Mother Earth—like a wave is a part of the ocean. When a wave gives way to gravity and falls back into the sea, it doesn't cease to exist; it simply changes form and units with its source until another opportunity presents itself to dance again in the sunlight. Like I mentioned before, I believe Jennifer is still with us, she has not ceased to exist, she simply has changed form. She still contemplates and feels. She still laughs and loves. And, she probably still purrs.

That being said, there are four attributes of Jennifer’s that I absolutely love. I'd like to briefly touch on and honor those today. I'm entirely confident we all have personal experiences with her that serve as examples of these attributes. 

The first is her big smile, her wacky sense of humor and her contagious laugh.

(Put on goofy glasses)

When Jennifer was a child, if I felt sad or depressed, one thing I could do to make myself feel better was to make Jen laugh. Her laughter was contagious. I laughed at her laugh, which would make her laugh more, giving me yet more reason to laugh myself.

Some of you have envelopes taped to the bottom of your seats. Please get those and if your says “Big Smile” please open it and join me in wearing these goofy glasses in honor of Jen's laughter.

Thank you Jennifer for the memory of your awesomely contagious laugh, your corky sense of humor and your big beautiful smile.

Next is her generosity.  

A few years ago, when she lived in Logan, Jen and I spent a lot of time together. That was during a period of my life when I didn't have much, materially, Emotionally and spiritually I was pretty bankrupt also. If I needed something and Jen had it, she offered it to me without thought or reservation. And, no matter how she felt physically, no matter what condition her self-esteem may have been that day, she always spoke with love and kindness. 

Some of you have envelops that read “Generosity.” Inside you’ll find chocolates, more than one, mind you. Your task now is to share the chocolate with those around you. In honor of Jennifer’s generosity, make certain that everyone gets one, including those people with whom to share may NOT be convenient or comfortable. For example, some are labeled “diabetic,” On a little more emotion level, some are labeled “Not like me; different culture, lifestyle or beliefs,” and some are labeled “Never met before.” Look around the room and share with everyone your abundance. While you do so, please offer a small word of kindness, a compliment or an appreciation.

(pause…allow for sharing.)

Next is her Rebel.

Jennifer was indeed a rebellious one at times; she was a rule-breaker; she was an envelope pusher. Often to the breaking point she pushed that envelop! However, I believe the term “rebel” has been terribly mis-understood. Europeans came to this country in effort to rebel. I’m pretty confident that, if not the Bishop, at least the janitors of this building do not encourage the eating of chocolate in the chapel. (That being said, please put any wrappers in the envelops they came from.)

And, Lastly, is Jennifer’s Spirituality and her childlike open-mindedness.

Will those of you with the remaining envelops please open them. Inside you’ll find candles, symbolic of the pure light of Jennifer’s spirit and the open mindedness that guided her through some of life’s most painful experiences. If I can maintain my composure, I’d like to read a text conversation between she and I. On May 15, two months ago, I received a text from her that read,

 "Uncle, I have a crazy question, but I won’t ask it unless you give your word you won’t tell anyone.” (Don’t hate me Jennifer, but I’m actually gonna tell everyone.)

"Ok.” I said.

“Do you believe in heaven?” she asked. “I've been trying to come to grips with being sober, and , so much of what I have thought—through my whole life—has me so confused!”

A pause from the texts, and then: “It seems I don’t know how to be sober real well, but, one day at a time! It’s just so sad to think about my sisters. You know? And so many people say there is no Heaven. No Heaven! I just hope there is a good place! But what do you believe uncle?”

A longer pause on my end, before my reply:  “Absolutely! Absolutely I believe in Heaven. But, Jennifer, it’s not a place where we go after we die.   It’s a STATE OF MIND. Your sisters are right here with you, and, their state of mind, whether they are at peace with themselves or not, is what determines if they are in heaven.”

Her response came quickly, showing how easily she cultivates faith and how open her mind is to matters of the spirit:  “Thank you so so so much" she said.  "That helps me a lot.”

Jennifer...thank you for your beautiful example of generosity. Next time I’m asked by someone considered different, or the “other” for some spare change or a dollar to two, I’ll think of you and I’ll share what I have, and I’ll try set aside any judgments and do it with a smile and a kind word. Thank you for your rebellious side that reminds us that to stand for something--or someone --is not always an act of defiance, but often an act of courage. And, Jennifer, thank you for the childlike curiosity and open mindedness, it is truly your spiritual path, and it serves as a sublime reminder that, just like a wave is part of the ocean,  we are, indeed, ALL ONE.

Amen.