Afterword

It's been just over a year since the results of a DNA test came back and revealed that I have a first cousin that lives just minutes away from me, a revelation that changed my life. In addition to being a new cousin, I found out that I am an uncle, great-uncle, and half-brother for the second time. And most incredibly of all, I found my biological father. He'll celebrate Father's Day next week for the first time in his life at the age of 86. More about that later.

The DNA juggernaut seems to have slowed for now, although I do still get a surge of adrenaline every month when 23andMe says I "have new 20 relatives" and I wonder if there is some fresh, new shock awaiting me. We've all settled in nicely, and my half-sister, nieces and nephews will be visiting us next week, their first trip to California together.

So it seems as good a time as any to take a step back and share the ways that this whole journey has surprised me, saddened me and thrilled me, and try to summarize the things I've learned about myself and this whole journey.

Schrödinger's Son

In the well-discussed theoretical physics thought experiment by Erwin Schrödinger, if you are handed a box that has a cat in it, you may have a box that has a live cat, or a box that has a dead cat. Until you open the lid, you don’t whether the cat is alive or dead. The paradox of “Schrödinger’s Cat” theorem is that, until you take off the lid, the cat cannot be either alive or dead; he argues that the cat is both alive and dead, and that the fate of the cat can’t be known until it is seen. His physics point is that the result of a phenomenon depends more on the viewer than on the phenomenon.

I’m not arguing subatomic physics here, but I do believe that in many respects, I am "Schrödinger’s Son.” Let me explain.

To do so, I need to start here with my opinion on a controversial topic, abortion, for reasons that will become clear later. One of the arguments that the pro-life movement uses in its attacks on abortion rights is some variation of this: ‘you can’t abort a fetus because that zygote might become the next Beethoven.” This argument is ridiculous, and one need only look at “Schrödinger’s Cat” to see why. Of course, Beethoven became Beethoven. But we can say that because we’ve long ago opened the lid on the box that contained Beethoven. If we were alive in 1770 and were debating whether a fetus would become Beethoven, that’s a fallacy; that’s “Schrödinger’s Beethoven.” The lid is still closed. That may become Beethoven, but it just as possibly could become Napoleon, a pauper, a seamstress, or Hitler’s grandfather. We can only know these things in hindsight, after the lid has been lifted.

So I look back on all that I have been through the last 12 years, and I have to say I have sizable gratitude that Ellen decided not to abort me in a back alley. (This was before Roe vs. Wade.) However, the only reason I can have gratitude that she did is because the lid is off of the box. If I had been adopted into a family that beat me, and I became a hardened criminal, would that make my gratitude less meaningful? What if I had died of an infant’s disease at 1 month before being adopted? Would I still be grateful?

No. Gratitude in this case is a “Schrödinger” moment, it only exists because the lid is off the box. In the case of women understanding their options, I firmly stand behind their right to choose while the lid is still closed.

Looking at this from another angle, I think Tom can clearly think of this as a “Schrödinger’s Son” moment, but only now that the lid has been taken off. The connection we have is obvious, and it feels like it is 57 years of father/son bonding crammed into a couple of days, without all of the father/son fighting crap that so many go through. It’s been great.

 But the lid is off now, for both of us. We know who we are. We’re not suffering a father’s early adult fathering insecurities, or a teenage son’s indignant, stupid rebellion. We’ve been thrust into this, lid off, as an 85 year old man who has finally experienced one of life’s greatest joys, and as a 57 year old man, well past the worst cramps of his insecurities who is finally discovering what it feels like to have a real father, even if it’s condensed into just a few days, weeks or years.

Frankly, our whole relationship is kind of a reverse-Schrödinger’s thought experiment: If I had been born to Ellen and Tom and stayed in a family relationship with them, what would that have looked like?

In an alternate universe, I can picture that as being total chaos. Ellen probably wouldn’t have stopped drinking, Tom probably wouldn’t have had the life-saving help that he got in this dimension. And God knows what hell I would have experienced or put them through. In that alternate universe, I can clearly see that I am a complete disaster.

In this universe, there was only one outcome that makes sense, where I have the people I need to make my life work and create a meaningful existence where I try to change the world through music, where Ellen gets sober and finds her lifelong love, where Tom pulls his life together and meets Nancy, and they both eventually meet the son that they likely unwittingly procreated in a brief tryst in a Colorado snowbank and introduce him to the rest of his huge family. I am “Schrödinger’s Son,” lid off the box, living my best life.

Prologue

If you’re telling a story, whose is it? Is it yours, because you’re the one telling the story? Is it the listeners' story, because they’re experiencing it for the first time? If it has universal human themes, does it belong to everybody? Maybe it belongs to nobody?

Take, for instance, the story which I am unwinding. My version tells my part of it. But there is also the mother who gave birth to me, and gave me up for adoption at birth and then worked to suppress the memory until I found her 45 years later. Then there is the story told from the perspective of the other child she gave up for adoption, who found her 58 years later, or the story of her daughter and grandchildren; is it her story? And there’s the story of her oldest daughter who knew none of this, and is grappling with all of it. My mother is a grandmother and great-grandmother (x3) for the first time at the age of 80. Whose story is this?

And then there’s the young Air Force airman, assigned to make sure that the airmen under his command made up to the Colorado ski resort and back, unharmed, who remembers meeting a woman on the slopes for an unnamed fling. Is his story true? Does it connect with the other stories? Does it matter if it's true? I mean, never let the truth get in the way of a great story, right?  My father is a father for the first time at the age of 85. Whose story is this?

And then there is his first cousin, who all of a sudden discovered that a man who lived just a few minutes away from her might be the son of that airman, and decided to help him discover the truth. Is this her story?

And then there is all of you, dear readers. You have settled onto this because there must be some universal truth here. What is it? Is it fatherhood? Motherhood? Parenting? Home? Family? Happiness? When I first found Ellen, what resonated with everyone was not my search, it was that first question she asked me in our first phone call: "Are you happy?"

Am I?

Secrets

 Good starting points before you venture into this post: The circumstances around my adoption: https://acustatic.blogspot.com/2013/11/november-22-1963.html

...and more importantly, this post, which is a complete primer for all of you who may be trying to catch up on what this is about: https://acustatic.blogspot.com/2010/09/october-1963.html

Good to go? 

OK, buckle up. Because as hard as this has been for ME to keep up with this far, in the last two months it has become exponentially more confusing, confounding, surprising, life-changing and life-affirming.

Here's Why My Heart is Breaking

Here's why my heart is breaking. It's not because of police violence against black Americans. It's because we've known this was happening all along. Whatever the justification, white people have been fine looking the other way from racism, sexism and hatred in their own country, communities and even their own homes.

So white people, we're supposed to believe you now? We're supposed to believe that you'll all change, now that the evidence of America's original and continuing sin is overwhelming? Forget belief, for a moment; here is what I know:

As a kid in the late 60's, I listened as a father of a friend angrily used the 'N' word when talking about Los Angeles mayor Tom Bradley, at the dinner table.

Also as a kid, I listened as my Sunday school teacher at First Baptist Church in Fullerton said that Catholics and Mormons were evil.

In high school I listened as my fellow white students called the Latinx students spics, wetbacks, and worse.

I listened as a child when a young man (who later became an evangelical pastor) laugh when I used the phrase "Native American spirituality" because, he said, they weren't capable of spirituality.

When I worked at First Congregational Church, I watched as some people left that church, angry because they were going to make the church 'open and affirming' of gays and lesbians. The people they were insulting had sat beside them in the pews for years.

Have I done any of those things myself? I don't remember doing it, but likely so. I'll cop to it, even if I believe it would have been inadvertent. I do remember a time when I was a kid talking about the movie "Midway" I had just seen, and I was so excited about it, I blurted out "then they shot down that Jap's plane." I immediately realized that my aunt's partner, Tae Yaki, a survivor of the internment camps was sitting at the table. I'm sure she forgave me and I never mentioned it, but the horror I felt has stayed with me.

Where is your horror white people? Or more importantly, where has it been all these years?

And the horror now? We all watched as our fellow Americans voted for the worst human being on the planet for President, for whatever reason: Hillary, e-mails, immigration, health care, conservative ideals... blah blah blah. YOU are the horror. A woman I've known and loved my whole life said she did it because of health care. When I pressed her on his racism, she dropped the "my best friend is black" card. Another person said he did it because of conservative principles, even though Trump is the complete antithesis of conservatism. He lied to make you think he was a conservative, and now he's proven how gullible you all were. I cannot anymore pretend that I am OK with that. You owe the world an apology.

And now we watch as white militia morons storm state capitols and see no reprisal, but black women are killed in their own homes and black men are suffocated or shot by police officers in horrific numbers. And yet some of you white people STILL insist on defending the status quo, to the point that you'll swallow any conspiracy theory that comes around the bend because it's easier than recognizing that the only simple answer is that America is fucked up and has been most of its history.

I've been pretty silent through the last week, mostly because the floor needs to recognize the voices of the young and the people of color who are rightfully fed up with all of this: the racism, the ignorance, the corporate theft, ignoring science and what is happening to our planet, a President whose depravity knows no basement.

But this is my testament: I will not listen to the things I have listened to in my lifetime without shutting you up. You cannot ignore our past in my present or my presence any longer. Black Lives Matter.

High Holy Days

My mom had started her decline suddenly and quickly. In July of 2008, I called her on the way home from a "Relay for Life" event. She was very confused, and I could tell something was wrong, and called her neighbor to check on her. She reported back that she had been taken to the hospital, likely with a minor stroke. I flew up to be with her and made arrangements for her to move into Assisted Living in the Mennonite village she lived in. She never made it. A month later, right before the move was planned, she had a second stroke and was in the hospital. She came out and moved to the convalescent care. I made plans to fly up and see her and finalize the Assisted Living arrangements. But in early September, I got another call: she was not well enough to live on her own. Within two weeks, the call was worse: she had stopped taking water. She would be dying within days. I booked my flight.

It was September 22, 2008.
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As a musician, I have been asked to sing for church/temple services of every kind my whole career. My first job was at Santa Ana First United Methodist Church. Then came First Congregational Church (U.C.C.), where I worked almost fifteen years. During that time, I sang at Jewish High Holy Days Services, Episcopal services, Catholic services and landed at a Presbyterian church, where I have now logged 16 years and counting. I've often joked that, if I end up in front of St. Peter, I'm going to ask him which pay stub he wants to see.

I first sang High Holy Days services at Temple Beth Ohr in 2001. I know that for a fact because one morning I left the house knowing that I had on my schedule: "meeting at Connect4Education in Woodland Hills in the morning, TBO rehearsal at 7pm."

That date was September 11, 2001.

My project in Woodland Hills meant a 2 hour drive if I didn't leave early enough. So I left at 5:45am, give or take, and heard the radio reports of the plane hitting the first tower as I pulled onto the freeway. By the time I got to my destination, it had all happened. Only an Angeleno can recall the most devastating event of his lifetime as "I was on the freeway..."

That night, we gathered at the Temple, not sure if we should rehearse or pray or,... there was no advice in Torah or any other scripture about how to handle that day. I assume we rehearsed, I honestly don't remember. But I do know that my memories of 9/11 are inextricably linked with Temple Beth Ohr.
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When I arrived in Oregon at my mother's bedside, she was largely non-responsive. But she would occasionally nod her head if I asked a yes/no question. I had the presence of mind to know that I wanted to ask her about her final resting place.

I told her that I had been thinking about it, and it seemed to me that the place she lived when she was happiest in her life was when she and my dad lived in Denver. I asked her if she would be happy knowing her final resting place would be in the Rockie Mountains. Without hesitation, she nodded her head yes.

The next spring, Lynda and I flew to Colorado to scatter her ashes in the Rockie Mountains. But of course, that is a different story one that ends in my finding my birth mother just a few months later. That September night in 2008 though, as my mother faded away, I was faced with a horrible dilemma. I had booked my return flight for September 28, assuming my mother would not last that long, and knowing that I was contracted to sing at Temple Beth Ohr on Erev Rosh Hoshanah (the evening service of the evening/morning pair), 8pm on September 29. As the 28th wore on, I made my decision to say my goodbyes to my mother, drive to the Eugene airport and fly home.

When my plane landed late that night, it was September 28, 2008.
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With the exception of a few years, I have sung High Holy Days at TBO every year since 2001. Services have landed on September 29 quite a few of those years. This year it happened again.

But of course there are other high holy days (lower case.) There was the day my father died in 1985, as well as the Christmas Eve six months later when the full weight of his death landed on me. After my mom's death, there was my mentor's passing in 2013, and my aunt (my mother's sister) that same year. After 2013, the danger seemed that every day should be made holy, because you never know who you will lose at any moment. Maybe all days are 'high' and 'holy.'

This year at High Holy Day services at TBO - the closing Yom Kippur service (Yizkor), which focuses on grieving those who have gone before, was particularly powerful. The cantor sang a song that had the entire room weeping, some almost uncontrollably. I listened, and thought of all of those high holy days where the world that I knew before had disappeared: the days when dad, mom, mentor and aunt had left us. I, too, wept.

That date was October 9, 2019.
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When I returned on my flight back from Oregon, I checked with the care facility. There was no change in her status. I left my house and drove to La Mirada, sat down for the pre-service rehearsal and did my job. At 7:50, ten minutes before the service was to begin, my cel phone rang. I stepped out, and took the call; it was Oregon. My mother had passed. I shed the tears I needed to, and swallowed the rest. I stepped back inside, and was able to get through the service until the end.

Rosh Hoshanah is the Jewish New Year. That service ends with "Shana Tovah", which basically translates to "Happy New Year." I cried as we sang it, for the first time letting my guard down. I was not there at my mother's bedside when she died. I couldn't be: it was High Holy Days.

It was September 29, 2008.

Colorado

When I was nine or ten years old, my mom began a serious relationship with a man - Jim - that she thought would lead to her second marriage. We all went on many camping trips together, mom and I and Jim and his daughter, Julie. My memories of those trips make up some of my most vivid childhood memories: camping in Cuyamaca, water-skiing on Trinity Lake, fishing at June Lake, tenting at Pismo Beach. I learned to fish, pitch a tent, light a fire, cook a camp meal and how to snipe hunt on those trips.

I began to consider the very real possibility that Julie might one day soon be my stepsister. For a variety of reasons, that never happened. My mother's relationship ended with Jim one summer day in 1976 in a surprising and very sudden way. I didn't see it coming. I don't think Jim did, either. What happened next though was one of the best memories I have of my mother, despite a relationship that had way too many bad memories to recount.
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My wife's daughter and two grandchildren are on their way to Colorado, a giant road trip through CA, NV, AZ, UT and CO. They're in Utah tonight, and will be with friends in Colorado tomorrow. It will be a great trip for them, with memories that will last a long time.

Their trip is what brought back the memories of my mother and Jim.
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One mid-summer night in 1976, my mom told me we were going to Jim's, and we got in the car and headed to their house in north Fullerton. I trundled along as a dutiful son, and when we got to Jim & Julie's, I had no clue that anything was different.

"I'm breaking up with you, and I'm leaving tomorrow with Stan and we're going back to Colorado."

Those were the words she said to Jim. My words were - and 43 years later I'm pretty sure about this - "We're What?!" I don't recall what Jim or Julie said. I'm sure they were as shocked as I was.

In retrospect, and knowing my mother through adult eyes now, I think she wanted to deliver something that was designed for the greatest possible drama. She wanted to get back at Jim for... God knows what. My mother was theatrical to the core and seemingly incapable of distinguishing between perceived slight and actual harm; everything was an attack.

What she had planned in advance was a two-week summer vacation for us, a road trip to Colorado. She seemed to want to scope out the possibility that we might move back there, to the place where she had been happiest in her life, the place where she and my dad had adopted me. But she didn't tell me that, let alone Jim. Instead her words just sat there in the room. We left awkwardly, and she told me about the vacation the next morning.
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I kept a notebook of that trip. I wish I still had it. I was (and still am, to a point) a nerd when it comes to maps, geography and statistics. But in it, I keep a log of:

• Every city/town we drove through
• It's population
• It's altitude
• The passes we drove over
• The longest stretches we drove

...and a bunch of other things that have been lost to the desert of my memory. Here's what I do remember, though, as clear as a bell:

• Our first stop was Las Vegas. In Caesar's Palace, she sat down at the slots in a hallway. I begged and she gave me 10 nickels. I found a quiet machine, put the nickels in, and won $10. I was 12. Luckily, I was tall and no one batted an eye.
• The next day, on the road leaving Vegas, she pulled over and told me that I needed to know how to drive on this trip in case something happened to her. I drove three miles on a desert stretch, my first driving experience.
• This was the only time I've ever seen the Grand Canyon. On the trip, we also saw the Royal Gorge bridge, Rocky Mountain National Park, Mesa Verde and Four Corners.
• This is embarrassing, but for years the address that showed up for various mail-marketing/TV ads was in Pueblo, CO for some reason. I was sleeping as we drove through Pueblo. When I woke up and saw I'd missed it, I cried and was angry at my mother, who was undoubtedly completely unaware why I'd care about Pueblo. To this day I haven't seen Pueblo. I think I'm OK with that now.
• She wanted to see the place my dad had worked in Denver (12yo yawn) and the house I was adopted into (wish I knew where it was now.)

My mom somehow arranged a tour of the chapel and grounds at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. (A few years later she somehow managed to get us onto the USS Enterprise in Oakland/Alameda Naval Station, too.) She had her strengths.

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When we got home, my mom seemed happier for awhile, and I had a lifetime of memories to carry along with me. As I think about S, G and A heading into Colorado, I hope they have that kind of trip: one that heals and that gives G and A a trove of lifetime memories that they will always be able to draw back on.

When my mom passed in 2009, Lynda and I took her ashes to the place where I knew she had been happiest: Rocky Mountain National Park. Even though I've lived all but the first 6 months of my life in Southern California, a piece of me remains in Colorado. That piece didn't come from my birth certificate or where mom is resting. It came from that trip, the only tie I had during her lifetime to the place I was born. Thanks, Mom.

And to S, G & A - make memories: beautiful, lasting transformative memories.

When does 2 + 2 = something other than 4?

"Does 2 + 2 = 4?"

This was the question I got asked one night after playing a solo gig at a coffeehouse in Yorba Linda, many years ago. I played my set to a crowd of 15 people or so, 6 or 7 of whom were sitting at one table talking while I played. They were polite, clapped when I finished, liked some songs more than others. When it came time to pack up, one guy from that table offered to help me load the gear into my Explorer.

As we did, he told me about his group. They were a bible study group from a local church. He began to veer into familiar but uncomfortable territory for me, and I knew where we were headed. He began to ask me about my faith, and I demurred, knowing that no answer about my searching would suffice. I held him off for awhile. About the time the last bit of gear was stowed in my car, he said something about how it all just made logical sense, his religious story. I explained that my faith was more complicated than that. That's when he said it.

"Does 2 + 2 = 4?"

I was, perhaps for the first time in my life, perfectly clear about what was wrong with his theology. I said, "Are you trying to reduce the complexity of the universe, the human condition, and everything the entire human race believes down to a first grade math equation?!"

He immediately backtracked. I said good night and got in my Explorer as quick as I could and drove away.
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"But it's OK that we just go on killing babies."

"...they send their rapists, their murderers..."

"Abortion will be punishable by prison.: - The State of Georgia, 2019.

The first of those statements was by a guy I went to high school with, back before I realized that Facebook showed the worst part of the people we know, people we called "friends." (He's not that anymore.) The second, of course, was by the guy who won the vote of enough Americans in 2016 to be sitting in the oval office. And the third is my paraphrase of a law just passed in the U.S.A. in 2019. Ever since Roe vs. Wade - my entire life after toddlerhood, basically - people against abortion have crafted arguments to try to defeat it.

Some people like to see things in black and white, shun shades of gray. The problem with that is you tend to find yourself painted into an indefensible position in a corner, hemmed in by your own unwillingness to acknowledge clearly obvious facts. If you use the bible to cry against homosexuality, you are forced to come up with a rationalization for eating shellfish or wearing certain fabrics. If you take the hard line against abortion, you are forced to rationalize the forced birth of women who were raped, which is why Todd Akin was never a U.S. Senator (thank God.)

Or, if you are Georgia (or Alabama - it's coming), you enact a law that "recognizes" the life of a 7-week old fetus and rationalizes penalties for abortion that open up the most ridiculous possible outcomes.

Can a woman who is 7 weeks pregnant get child support? Can the fetus sue? Can a mother use the carpool lane? What to do with women who have ectopic pregnancies, or who miscarry? Full weight of the law and prison? Who decides?

This is how stupid we have become.

Abortion is a complicated issue. No one WANTS abortion, save for the lunatic fringe on the left. The vast majority of humans would rather fetuses be carried to full term. But the THINKING humans also understand that there is a vast difference between a baby and a zygote, or even a fetus at 7 weeks. People who are not infected by anti-abortion fundamentalism can live with a gray area, with the mother's right to choose on one side of the gray and a viable child on the other side of the gray. This is not hard.

But that's not where we are in 2019. The lunatics are in control, and they are arguing from the right. They are screaming "2 + 2  equals 4!!!"

To which, I scream back: "How dare you try to condense the entirety of the human experience to a first grade math equation."

These people have to be stopped.

Why I Write

In a writing workshop recently, I shared a story about how when I told my mentor (Frank Pooler - there are stories/posts here on my blog about him) that I was writing a blog, his response was "What on earth for?" It took me aback, as I hadn't really thought about it. But I knew I wanted to write, be a better writer, so this seemed like a good medium to do that. It's not that I feel that my thoughts or musings are that important, it's that I want to be better. I want to be a better human, a better musician, a better man, a better husband, a better pet owner, a better artist, a better American,... and a better writer. Working on the last one moves me farther down the path of all the former.

Today, a woman replied to one of my posts on Facebook with "Seems like you want everyone to agree with you." No, I replied, that's not true. But I do hope that we can agree on some things: civility, love, kindness and compassion should rule all of our decisions. I also have held some strong beliefs over the years that have guided me: being educated is better than not; being empathetic is better than being un-empathetic, etc. And most of all: the truth is better than a lie.

That last one is the most important to me. Honesty is my plum line. If I feel someone is being dishonest with me, or if I know they are, I feel a sense of betrayal that I often cannot overcome. Sometimes it's clear dishonesty, such as when a friend once said "never tell people the truth, tell them what they want to hear." (That person is now out of my life.) Sometimes, though, it's a much subtler form of dishonesty, one that might even be a person being dishonest with themselves, rather than me.

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So when I get to the comment "seems like you want everyone to agree with you," I take stock: do I? What is that I want? Why do I post things? Why do I write?

The truth is that I post a lot of political commentary on social media. I don't expect everyone to agree with me, although I hope that the articles I post will be enlightening to someone. I certainly have no illusions, however. I take care not to post memes (which are usually out of context and/or misleading) and not re-post articles from clearly biased sites. Fox News, MSNBC, The Daily Caller, ShareBlue are too far from the center to bother with. (I know that a lot of people would disagree with some of the sites I think are fair, even calling some "fake news," so I won't mention them here to avoid getting off track.)

But at the end of the day, I keep going back to those core beliefs I have: civility, love, kindness and compassion should rule all of our decisions; being educated is better than not; being empathetic is better than being un-empathetic. Honesty above all else.

So, yes, I believe that the Trump administration is inept, corrupt and dangerous to the core, and that the GOP is complicit in the ills that he is inflicting on us. I believe that because I saw Trump as the con man he is WELL before he rode down that fucking escalator. That others didn't see it, or chose not to look at it, shocks me still to this day. That some people STILL choose not to see it is dumb-founding.

For now and on this topic, this is why I write: because I want to practice being a better American. I can't be a better American if I don't at least attempt to make the case for honesty, civility, kindness, empathy and the rule of law. If you don't want those things or if you can't see what's happening, that's on you.

To All the Women Who Said "Me, Too"

The last few days, the proliferation of "me too" posts on FB and Twitter has been staggering. One of my beliefs has always been that men are pigs, but... holy shit. The math of the "me too" revelations is staggering. It means that a man I know, or multiple men I know, are guilty of the harrassment, groping - or even rape - of women.

I have known men who were probably guilty of all of the above (short of rape,... I think). In every case, I have distanced myself from them. I recently had a discussion with a good friend over a series of comments about going out with "the boys" on a day last winter when it was raining cats and dogs. I said I'd stay home, and the comments I got back were of the "what a pussy" and "ask your husband if you can go" variety.

I'd seen these before. But this time was different. I told my friends that I would not be going, that the safety and health of my wife was more important. Furthermore I said that I didn't appreciate the negativity toward anything feminine. I explained that I owed my entire life to the women in my midst: my birth mother, my adoptive mother, her sister - my Aunt Jean, the first pastor who changed me, Mary Ellen Kilsby, ...and my wife, Lynda, who has more strength and courage than any man I have ever met. To his credit, my friend understood and agreed.

So, as I watch these protests against the patriarchical BS that has destroyed so many lives, I feel many emotions. I feel anger against the men who have done this. I feel sadness that it has happened and that I couldn't help or didn't realize how bad it was. Mostly I feel compelled to fight for the things that Mary Ellen, my mothers, my aunt, or Lynda would need.

But I'm also scared that I, at any point, unwittingly was part of this. Because of the huge influence of women in my life, I have bent over backward to be good to the women in my life. But all of this makes me wonder, ...what if I failed? What if at some point I enabled a "me too" moment? What if I was part of one? In all honesty, I don't remember a moment where any of that happened. But I am aware, and if at some point it happened before I was aware, then all I can offer is my deepest apologies.

So, then, to the women in my life today, this: I have always been in your corner, because I would not be here but for the women who carried me here. I owe substantially nothing to men, save for my mentor, Frank, but his main influence on me was artistic. I have no illusions about his relationships with women.

I say not "me too", but that I stand beside every one who has said that. But for you and your sisters, I would be nothing.

On "Senseless" Violence

I keep seeing politicians and journalists using the phrase "senseless" violence. Today it hit me that part of our problem is exactly that. We somehow decry violence like that which happened on Sunday in Las Vegas as "senseless", when in reality, we need to just admit that we are a very violent society and it is precisely the attitude towards "accepted" violence (as an antonym to whatever "senseless" means in this case) that has brought us to this place.

Is there ever such a thing as "senseful" violence? So are we saying that some acts of violence (war, maybe? self-defense?) are OK in the eyes of society, but "nah, we gotta draw a line somewhere, bruh"? We worship football and our soldiers, and shrug our shoulders when police kill citizens.

It seems to me that all violence is a symptom of failure. When violence occurs, it is because there has been a breakdown in the communication and understanding prior to that point. Violence occurs when something is broken or damaged. Maybe it's something that could have been prevented with conversation, or intervention in mental health issues. The guy who killed in Vegas, everyone is saying that "he seemed so normal." Really? How can that be? Someone else said that he was withdrawn and never spoke. And no one thought that was odd and tried to step in or offer help or friendship? I don't know, I wasn't there and I certainly couldn't know what I would do in their shoes. But certainly society failed him, which is why he in turn failed society in such a spectacularly horrible fashion.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that his friends and family were responsible for the shooting. He owns that alone. But we all are responsible for the ways we fail each other. One of the greatest stories in the Christian tradition is the story of the Good Samaritan. And yet "christians" time and time again walk on by on the other side of the road. "It's someone else's problem." "He seemed normal enough to me."

Every time a shooting occurs in our country - every, single, time - it is a failure on all of us. We have failed each other. And until we step up and take responsibility for each other, we will continue to do so.  And there will be more killings, more "worst mass shooting in US history", more Columbines, Sandy Hooks and Pulse nightclubs. Gun control is part of the solution, but not the only one.

The only thing that is senseless is us.

Some Days Define "Life is Hard."

When you reach a certain age, you recognize that the cliche "life is hard" is not really a cliche, but actually is a truism. On a daily basis there are things that challenge the notion that everything is OK, that look you in the face and tell you to kneel over in pain, because of this, that or the other.

And then there are days like today, which are a thousand times worse.

One of my musical guides died today suddenly. And that was only the second worst news of the day - by far - as we learned what happened in Las Vegas, where my wife and her friends had been partying on Friday night, a matter of yards away from the horror of Sunday night.

And I found out the news on Monday morning, the day after attending the joyous music festival envisioned by my late friend Joshua Fischel, Music Tastes Good.

...and then the mind says, "it could have been us. It could have been Lynda, staying an extra day, it could have been both of us and all our friends here in Long Beach had the lunatic chosen our music festival instead.  It could have been my five friends that were there in Las Vegas at that festival, but who escaped unharmed, it could have been them."

Yes, to all of that.
_________

But Tom Petty died today, of what appears at the moment to be a cardiac incident (although I add that when rock and rollers are concerned, you shudder when the autopsy report is released days later. Nothing is certain.) But what we do know is that his death was not expected. And of course, all those who died in Las Vegas were ENORMOUSLY unexpected.

But does anybody expect it? I'm not saying this to be morbid, or to alleviate the horror of what happened in Vegas or pretend the shock about another music hero dying. There is no alleviating any of that. (I'll come back to Vegas in a moment.) I'm only saying it to point out that, not only is life hard, it's short. Way too short. We know this, all of us. Sometimes the reminders are hard and painful and cause you to double over in horror.

A man yesterday chose, yet again, to pull out a gun to alleviate some sort of pain he had and use it to make himself feel better for a moment, more powerful, more in control. That he chose to do so in a way that ended the lives of 58 people (or more) and cause suffering for thousands means that his death and his entire life was in vain. It was for naught. At the end of his life in that hotel room, there was no glory or light. There was only darkness.
________

And then there was Tom Petty. I listened to his music from the throes of adolescence in the back seat of my friend's cars all the way until a few weeks ago. His music filled me - filled all of us - with joy, with longing, with wonder. I remember, after 9/11, hearing TP sing "I Won't Back Down" on that telethon that followed and marveling at how the song that he had written years earlier had so much relevance to that pain, and that helped a nation get back on its feet. And I understood so much more deeply that night that a songwriter is there to provide hope, solace, joy, when it is most needed.
_______

Which brings me to Las Vegas and Sunday night. I'm going to be blunt: I think the election of Trump was the death knell of our country. We were sorely lacking in a way to fix our societal ills before he was elected, and I fear we lost our last chance to do so. Instead, we elected a narcisstic attention whore who has no intention, knowledge or desire to lead.

And let's be honest: when 23 school children were killed in 2013 at Sandy Hook, and WE DID NOTHING to address our assinine gun laws, the writing was on the walls. There is absolutely ZERO chance that Trump, McConnell, Ryan or any of the rest of dipshits in DC will do anything about what happened in Las Vegas. We are screwed.
________

So, what now?

We fight where we can, we win what goals we can, and we never surrender our nation. We hope that the only functional branch of government left - the judicial - will save us before RBG dies. We insist on the ideals, principles and morals of the American Idea, and hope that enough people on the other side finally begin to see the light. (The guitar player for one of the bands last night posted that he has changed his mind on gun control after yesterday. Let's pray that a lot of other people did, too.)

And we follow the principles of the lights that went before us. Honor their ideals, principles and morals.

I, for one, "I won't back down. I'm gonna stand my ground."

Dreams of Writing, a Conversation with Andrew Sullivan. ...sort of.

I had a dream last night that I ran into Andrew Sullivan at a bookstore, and he and I had a deep conversation. (There was a third person with us, who kept changing identities, but all of the identities were people who I know that have some layer of illusion in their lives.) We talked a bit about his years at Oxford, and eventually we got to the topic of the election last year and the state of our country.

I told him that I've only had one real take away from it all so far, and that is that I have come to re-evaluate humanity, not necessarily our politics. As I scratched the fur on his trademark beagle sidekick, I said that I downgraded my estimation of where we are a species in our spiritual evolution. As the third person in the conversation changed to someone I know very well whose illusions run very deep, I woke up.

When I started this blog, Frank asked me aloud, "why?"  (If you don't know who Frank was, scroll down and read some of my older posts from January 2013.)  He chuckled at the seeming narcissism of writing a blog. "Who will read it?" he asked, and "what is the point?"  I answered that I felt it was mostly about the practice of writing and honing your thoughts. Whether anyone read it was probably less important.

I've fallen out of practice. And I think the appearance of such a noted blogger as Sullivan in my dreams, someone who helped shaped my current outlook on life, society, culture and politics, is my subconscious telling me that I need to keep doing it. I need to do it for me, not for any mythical person who might read it. (Read on, unicorn.)

So, I'm back.  Thanks, Andrew.

Christmas

Christmas and I have a complicated relationship. Certainly, I have great memories of Christmas when I was a child: my drum set which started me on my musical trajectory, all of those years of great childhood toys. There are those hideous silver Christmas trees that I remember, the revolving light that shone different colors on the tree, all of the family meals, casseroles and the family.  I remember Christmases with Mom, Dad, Aunt Jean, my grandparents, my great aunt and uncles...

Of course, they're all gone now. Part of the complicated relationship with Christmas is that it reminds me of all of those people who are no longer here to celebrate it with me. Even my mentor Frank, who wrapped all of his gifts to me over the years in aluminum foil (an endearing quirk that I recall fondly every time I seal a leftover dish), is seared in my Christmas memory.

In the early 90's, my ex and I bought some pieces of Dickens Village houses to decorate with. We ended up giving some even nicer pieces to my Aunt. A few years back, she gave me the last of her pieces, and she passed away three years ago. All that I had bought with my ex, either for us or for my aunt, now was back with me. For a year or two, I put the pieces up with hesitance. Too many memories. And that's part of the rub, too. Christmas is about great memories, but as you get older, the tough memories are intertwined with them.

The biggest part of the complicated relationship, though, is the work. I have worked at a church on Christmas Eve since 1985, by my recollection. Since church musicians start rehearsing Christmas music in October (I'll be charitable), that is 30 years times three months, or 90 months of singing Christmas music. It's exhausting. I'm sorry, folks, but I am definitely NOT one who gets excited at the first sound of carols. In fact, they make me groan. But I soldier on because, well, it's my job.

.........

This year Lynda wanted to replace the tree with a ladder. ...yes, a ladder. Her logic (which is correct) is that our new home has no place that we can put a tree. It's sort of true, although we could move the cat post or the plant stand in the corner to make it work if we really wanted to have a tree. But her imagination pictured an old stepladder with boards across the steps, covered in green carpet, with the Dickens Village pieces covering it. Wrap it in lights, and it looks like a tree! she says. Well, here it is.

I resisted. In fact, I was kind of a pain in the ass the night it went up. But I went along, knowing that the bulk of my resistance was because Christmas exhausts me because, ...you know, the whole job thing. So tonight, I'm looking at it again.

And realizing it is beautiful. And it is a perfect representation of what Christmas has become. It is not what it was supposed to be when I was a kid: a tree. But it's sort of like a tree; it kind of looks the same. And it has the trimmings that have memories: lights, Dickens Village pieces that have followed me around these many years, including some that my aunt held.

But the ladder is old. It is stained with paint, and a little weak in the joints. The wood is weathered and gray.

It is me.  And those lights and pieces from my memory make it beautiful, give it a sense of being something greater than itself. It's not a borrowed ladder; it's a beautiful Terraced Christmas Village, complete with lights and little Dickens carolers.

Today, Lynda's granddaughter and I played with the carolers on the ladder, visiting the houses, delivering "presents", and pretending that it was a Christmas village.

Merry Christmas, Andie. I hope one day this memory carries you through a Christmas that you need a little help through. You did it for me today.

Pastors and Musicians

Whenever I've been asked by a parent "should my child be a musician when he/she graduates from high school?" my answer is always no. The reasoning is simple: it's a hard way to make a living. Your child will not become a star, the odds are way too long. Even if they figure out how to make a full-time living at it, it will be tough life, full of periods of hand-to-mouth existence.

And the upshot of the reasoning is this: if anyone is going to make a career out of it, it will be the kids who would do it no matter what anyone tells them.

You have to have thick skin. You have to love your art and craft so much that you are willing to spend countless solitary hours practicing it, forgo relationships to pursue it, and perhaps leave home for months on the road living it.  I was luckier than many in this, as I only had a few people directly telling me that I should quit, (although I do remember vividly my mother-in-law asking me one day when I was going to quit following "these pipe dreams.")

The only ones who will succeed are the ones who will do it no matter how many times I, or their parents or friends or family or society, tells them it is worthless.

________________________

Yesterday was the last service and sermon at Grace First for our Senior Pastor, Steve Wirth, who I have worked with and under for ten-and-a-half years.  As I think on the road I have traveled with him serving this congregation, I am struck by the similarities in our chosen fields.  It is arduous and tough (and getting tougher to make a career in) calling that asks you to forgo much in your personal life.

Increasingly, I think the job title 'minister' or 'pastor' is losing its clout in American society today. It used to be that the role of the pastor in small-town America was one of the primary pillars of the community, right along sheriff and mayor.  As mainline churches see their numbers dwindle and the scandals among priests and clergy rock the church (not to mention the appearance of hypocrisy that many younger Americans sense in organized religion), the importance of the position in our communities has lessened.

But it is, like a musician, a career that requires not just a decision, but a sense of call.  It requires a feeling that I am made to do this, and nothing the world or family or friends tells me will change me from that path.  It requires hours, week after week, spent honing a sermon in privacy, just as a musician spends hours practicing those scales.  It requires you to pick up your family and go where the call comes from.

In my nearly 30 years in music ministry, I have been very fortunate to work alongside some very good pastors.  In particular, Mary Ellen Kilsby taught me how to care for your staff and congregation, and lead through loving example.  Steve's example has been a different one.  He leads through a quiet sense of confidence, and by listening to all of those around him and trying to build consensus.  While other pastors might have had more temporary success barging into a room and screaming "this is how we are going to do this!", Mary Ellen and Steve built long-term success by encouraging all of the people around them to grow and become leaders and creative thinkers and problem-solvers.

I think Mary Ellen had an easier job in this, in retrospect.  She had a congregation that already had a large contingent of movers and shakers.  When she led First Congregational into the Open and Affirming waters, she attracted some of the best young minds and hearts in the city to the church, people that included, CEO's, corporate Presidents, Deans and Professors, Doctors and Artistic Directors, many of whom (but not all) were gay or lesbian. FCC was one of the founding churches in Long Beach, built out of brick and mortar downtown.  It survived the 1933 earthquake and calls itself "a tower of faith in the heart of the city." When Mary Ellen led the church through an earthquake retrofit, it literally became a rock.

Steve's job has been tougher.  Grace First is more of a blue-collar congregation in a blue-collar neighborhood, sprouted in the 50's as McDonnell Douglas birthed neighborhood after neighborhood of post-WWII tract homes for assembly line workers, engineers and teachers.  There are certainly movers and shakers in the congregation: bank board chairpersons, business owners, CEO's, etc.  But they are fewer and farther between than what I knew at FCC.  Steve has had to try not only to grow a church, but to change a culture.

But he has done that, as much as he possibly can. By leading through teaching, listening and building consensus, he has set Grace First up to succeed with the new generation of leaders who will come in.  Like Moses and the promised land, he won't be there to see it thrive.  But if the congregation takes its call and learns to lead, to find new ministries and new places/ways for service, then it will thrive.  And it will have been because of Steve's leadership that it happens.  I do say if, because I think the jury is out still.  There are already calls to cut the budget and go into survival mode (which ironically will be the long-term death knell of Grace First, IMHO.) But the opportunity is there.

________________________________

Personally, I am grieving this change.  Not only has Steve been a great boss, he's been a great collaborator.  He's been supportive of all of my ideas and whims, some of which have fallen flat on their face.  But some of them have flown (the Branches, Concert Series, Taste at the Point, etc.) and redefined the church and me.  

Beyond even that, though, not only has he been a great collaborator, he's been a great friend.  He was one of the first persons I spoke to at length when I decided to divorce.  We were at Lake Tahoe for a conference, and that night talking on a bench beside the lake was one of the most healing moments in my life.  He was there at my bachelor party 5 years later, toasting me with my ragtag group of friends: the Deadhead, the comedian, the recluse, the musician/photographer, the habitual chronic liar, the librarian, and the pastor.  He fit right in.  We were the beginning of a bad joke: "This deadhead, librarian, musician and pastor walk into this bar..."

One of the reasons going into music as a career can be so rewarding is that you know - even if you don't get to see it tangibly every day - that you are making a positive difference in peoples' lives.  That is the other area where the Pastor and the musician are alike.  No matter what happens in the remainder of Steve's career and life, the people of this church and this community have been forever and irrevocably changed for the better.  Steve will say it is because it was the love and justice of Jesus Christ working through him that changed their lives, to which I can nod my head. But in truth, I think it had a lot more to do with him than he will ever know.

Godspeed, Pastor Steve. I will be forever grateful for the lessons you taught me and the support you showed me. My life is forever and irrevocably changed because of you. 

To my friend, Steve: I'm going to miss the hell out of you.  Let me know when you are in town, and let's go get a beer...

November 22, 1963

On November 22, 1963 - 50 years ago today - my mother and father, Betty Joan and Jack DeWitt finally realized their biggest dream: having a child.  It was an adoption, as they had found out several years earlier that they could not get pregnant.  They picked me up from the adoption agency and drove home with me.  When they arrived home they heard the big news of the day.

John F. Kennedy had been assassinated.

People around the country reacted with shock and horror at the murder of their President.  My birth mother (who I found in 2009) said that it was one of the first events she remembered from the year 1963.  She had ended her alcoholism when she found out she was pregnant with me by entering A.A. and gave birth to me on October 27.  She asked not to see me so she could stay strong, and I was in foster care for the next four weeks. Kennedy's assassination was the first clear image she has from her life at that point.  She said she remembers walking through downtown Denver and seeing grown men walking down the street, sobbing out loud in public.  She remembers the underlying sense of fear that everyone shared, wondering how the nation would survive.  "Would we be all right?", she recalled to me recently.

When I think about what my parents emotions must have been that day, it is almost incomprehensible.  The joy of finally having a child of their own juxtaposed against the horror of the day's event playing out before their eyes on television - the first televised assassination.  What could they have been feeling?  No one would have faulted them if they chose to turn off the TV and cocoon themselves, ignoring the mayhem.

My adoptive mother was not an easy person to grow up with, but when the chips were down, she always made the right parenting decision, every time.  I think this was the first chance she had to do that, and she did it right.  Years later, she would tell me that she felt a sense that it would somehow be my legacy to fill JFK's shoes.  Not literally, of course; not to be President.  But certainly figuratively, to be a good man (at least she thought JFK was) and to fulfill whatever promise I had for my life.

When I was a kid, that was hard to listen to at times.  The last thing you want to hear when you are 12 years old and just want to go out and ride a skateboard with your buddy is some hoohaw about how you have a legacy to fulfill.  But I do think that single decision on her part, to accept the assassination and make it into a positive for my life, affected all of the other decisions she made as I grew up which were right.  Stan wants to play music?  Support him. Stan gets busted shoplifting with some friends? Ground him quietly and make it into a teaching moment.  Stan hangs out with the wrong friends?  (See above.)  Find new outlets for him to make new ones.  Stan drank some of my wine and thinks he won't get caught?  Just quietly let him know he got caught.  Somehow the idea that I had a 'legacy' to fulfill animated her parenting.

Oh, to be sure, she made some bad choices.  Throwing the frying pan at me one time was not a great one. The occasional blind rages fueled by menopause?  Not good.  Trying to scare me out of having sex with a girl by saying she'd "kill me" if I ever got a girl pregnant?  Yeah, that one messed with me for a long time.  She was a human with deep anxieties and fears of her own. But those were all excusable mistakes that didn't really matter.  When it mattered, when the time came to really do the right thing, she did, every time.

As I said, today is the 50th anniversary of that day.  I celebrated my 50th birthday a few weeks ago, and my thoughts on that day were with my birth mother.  But on this day, they are with my adoptive mother and father, who brought me home on one of the worst days in American history.

In some sense, John F. Kennedy has kind of always hung around the edges of my life.  We share that one day of horror/joy, of course.  When I was in high school, the conspiracy stories were continuing, and my American History teacher devoted a whole unit to JFK's assassination.  There have been countless movies, docudramas, books, magazine articles and TV shows devoted to him and Nov. 22.  And they all make me think of my mother.

How many people can say that?  "I say 'JFK assassinated', what's the first thing you think of?"

"Mom."

Well, Mom and Dad.  I am thinking of you this day.  For all intents and purposes to you, this was my birthday.  Happy birthday to me.  And thank you.

On Being a "Good Man"

Ta-Nehisi Coates recently wrote a post about football hall-of-gamer Tony Dorsett's announcement that he was suffering from CTE, due to years of concussions.  In it, TNC writes this:

"It's getting harder, the more I read, to find any valor in violence. Even self defense is a kind of failure, a breakdown, a submission. Perhaps this is our world and the job of a moral human is just to try to, somehow, live honorably in it. It's been two seasons, now, since I gave up my religion. Everything I have seen since has confirmed my feeling. I did not want the world to change. I would settle for myself."

Reading that last sentence helped crystallize something for me that has been rolling around in my head the last few months.

I turned 50 two weeks ago, and for whatever reason, the universe decided it was a perfect time to bring some of my emotional trigger points around for a good dust-off.  Family members who I haven't spoken to in years, family members going through divorce, friends going through divorce, my ex-wife popping back up with a flash drive of pictures for me, most of which I had completely forgotten about.  All of this happened within weeks of my birthday, and forced me to deal with some emotional baggage I would have preferred to ignore.  But I've dealt.

Where it has taken me is to the question "what does it mean to be a 'good man'?"

I felt a lot of love at my birthday party, and from my friends, family and members of the church where I work.  So I'm not really debating whether or not I am a good man; I tend to believe that, by and large, I am.  But I have been wondering about what truly defines a good man.  Is it honesty?  Virility?  Kindness?  Some combination of things?

The reason TNC's post helped crystallize it for me is twofold: First, I think men often mistake 'manhood' or 'strength' with being a good man.  Our culture rewards men who are individualistic and rugged, and often penalizes men who are soft or emotional.  (As much as I hate John Boehner, I think the political left's mockery of his crying jags is pretty repulsive.)  And I think that is wrong.

To be sure, part of being a good man is having strength, but I think that emotional strength is as important as physical or mental strength.  But the key, as I see it, is balance: balance between a developed sense of the typically masculine attributes of strength, sexuality, and emotional toughness and a sense of the typically feminine attributes of kindness, sensuality and emotional openness.

But as my wife, Lynda, pointed out to me, the same thing can be said of women.  It's the balance for both sexes that makes a good human.  Perhaps the balance is harder for men in 2013, I don't really know.  My parents' generation was definitely patriarchal; my generation is perhaps one of the first that has been able to embrace gender equality.  This also means the men in my generation have been the first to have to figure out their roles in a balanced society.  All of this is probably much more personal than universal.  Having had no significant male role models growing up, how to be a 'man' has been a struggle for me my whole life.  But it has certainly made me more open to the feminine attributes in the balance scheme.

Of course, there is one key trait to being a good man (or human, really) that applies here, too: honesty.  By that, I mean both honesty with others and honesty with yourself.  My friends and family who are going through the divorces right now are reeling from the repercussions of dishonesty.  In the case of my friends, it is ultimately his lying that is unforgivable, more so than his infidelity.  He was seeking out an outlet for what he felt would make him a better man: tapping into his idea of sexual virility and power.  But through his lies, he has completely come undone and recast himself as the lowliest caricature of human frailty and hubris.  If I could see him today, I truly would want to beat the shit out of him, and I have never said that about another man, ever.

…but that takes me right back to TNC's post, and the whole point of this ramble.  Beating the crap out of a man, regardless of how ugly and horrible his actions have been, and how much damage he has done to people I love, would dishonor the balance that I so seek to find.  It would feel good, for a few minutes.  But it would ultimately only serve to prove to him that his way of finding himself through power and strength and virility is the right path.

"I would settle for myself."

And there it is.  The self-awareness to understand that the person I am now is not the person I want to be should lead me to be willing and able to accept change inside myself.  I cannot change what he did, nor can I help him change; that is up to him.  I can only work on changing myself.  So for me, for today, being a 'good man' means being balanced and restrained, being completely honest with myself and others, and always striving for change inside myself.  I may not end up getting somewhere when my days are done.  I may look back and see that my mistakes outnumber my triumphs.  The world may or may not be a better place when I leave it, and it may or may not have anything to do with me.

But I will know that I changed.  And that will be enough.

Jean Lewis in Memoriam

(The following is the eulogy I wrote for my Aunt, Jean Lewis, who passed away on 8/30/13.)

My wife Lynda and I, first of all want to thank you all for being here today, for being Aunt Jean’s friends, neighbors and the center of her life during her years in Oregon.  One thing she never failed to tell us each and every time we visited her at Friendsview was how fortunate she felt to be there, and how much she loved her life in this community.

But that was, as we all know, one of the themes that she said ran through her entire life: how “lucky” she was.  At some point, though, luck isn’t the right to word to describe it.  At some point, the only word that fits is blessed.  It’s a word that I know she would happily use to describe her life.

There are myriad ways we could look at Aunt Jean’s remarkable life.  A woman who went from a farm in remote Clovis, New Mexico, to study nursing at Ottawa University, to getting a Master’s degree at American Baptist Seminary of the West in Berkeley, to an illustrious career as a nurse in San Francisco, to retirement in Oregon centered around helping seniors, is worthy of note.  She started that path in the 1940’s when women were primarily expected to stay at home, which makes her a trailblazer in many respects.

I want to focus on two aspects of her life that I think animated her journey: her faith, and her desire to help others.

“Desire” may not be exactly the right word, as I think helping others was truly something she felt that she had to do, something, perhaps, that she was called to do.  Of course, every person who chooses a career in nursing does so, at least in part, because they want to help people in need.  But for Aunt Jean it went beyond that.  She threw herself into nursing, earning awards from the Chancellor of the University of California.  When her health failed in the 1980’s, she left it for awhile, but came back to nursing, earning yet more accolades.

And what did she do in retirement when she moved to McMinnville?  She co-founded the Faith in Action program and founded a program serving seniors at the United Methodist Church there, programs that still help residents today.  And when she moved to Friendsview?  She became the Floor Representative for several years.  And when she left that job?  She found a way to continue to be helpful to her friends and neighbors, one or two at a time.  And all the way to the end, she gave money to all variety of charities and causes.

I do think that, on some level, her failing health the last six months were because she knew that her days of being a care-giver were over.  While we were all a bit surprised at how quickly she slipped away from us at the end once she had decided to go into hospice, in the light of her role as caregiver from the beginning, it makes perfect sense.  Judy Elliot, mother of Mae Hara, Aunt Jean’s neighbor and friend for the last few years, was with Aunt Jean at the end.  She told me that Jean had told her that when May passed away in the spring, Jean – quote - had finished her last project – unquote.  She felt that her work here was done.

And then there was her faith: inquisitive, deep, open and loving.  One of the stories she repeated often, particularly these last few years, was how she had developed her faith from an early age, “on the farm, out on the plow, talking with God.”  Never “talking to God,” it was always “talking with God.”

And they never stopped talking to each other.  She was a Baptist in Clovis and Wichita, a Presbyterian in San Francisco, and a Methodist in Oregon.  Her greatest passion in retirement was learning, particularly about world religions.  She knew more about Judaism, Islam, Buddhism and Hinduism than any other Christian I’ve ever met, and all of them informed a bright, joyous sensibility about life.  I’m sure that when she got to heaven, she and St. Peter had a tremendous conversation that is probably still going on today.

For me, I cannot begin to express what this woman meant.  She taught me to read.  As I’m sure she told many of you, she was there when I took my first steps.  She taught me to love music in a way that I hadn’t before.  And most importantly, she taught me to love, unconditionally.  She showed that love to me; she showed it to my mother (her sister) and her parents; she showed it to Tae, her partner of over thirty years; she showed it to her friends in Newberg, McMinnville, San Francisco and before.  I was an adopted child and my adoptive parents split up when I was four – Aunt Jean’s presence in my life was the rock that kept my life anchored.

I found my birth mother in 2009, and our story is one of the good reuniting stories that has enriched us both immeasurably.  Last year, Aunt Jean told me how happy she was that my mother and I had found each other, and that when she left this world, she would be glad that she would not be leaving me alone.  Again, her work here was done.

Jean Lewis showed that loving spirit to thousands of patients, senior citizens and anonymous recipients of her largesse throughout her life.  Most of them probably never met her, never knew what she did for them.  But their lives were better for it.  All of our lives are better for it.  

We will all miss her.  I will miss her more than anyone who has left before her.  But I will forever be grateful for the love she gave me.

In fact, I think you could say that I feel… blessed.

On Frank Pooler, Life, Love and Friendship

From David Mitchell's brilliant Cloud Atlas, which I just finished:

"If we believe that humanity may transcend tooth and claw, if we believe divers[e] races and creeds can share this world as peaceably as the orphans share their candlenut tree, if we believe leaders must be just, violence muzzled, power accountable, and the riches of the Earth and its Oceans shared equitably, such a world will come to pass.  I am not deceived.  It is the hardest of worlds to make real.  Torturous advances won over generations can be lost be the single stroke of a myopic President's pen or a vainglorious general's sword.
   A life spent shaping a world I want Jackson to inherit, not one I fear Jackson will inherit, this strikes me as a life worth the living."

* * * *

My mentor, teacher, college choir director and friend, Frank Pooler, died two days ago.  It was 33 years ago when I first was astounded at the sounds made by his CSULB University Choir.  I joined the choir after I left my home town, and learned more about life and music from him during my six years at CSULB than I have from anyone before or since.

But our relationship didn't end when I graduated and (coincidentally, the same year) he retired.  Shortly after, he bought a computer so he could begin the process of coalescing his memoirs.  For all his gifts, he was a mess with anything technical. So he invited me over to help him learn how to use the thing.  We would usually spend an hour or so going over some basic function, and follow it up with lunch, which he always paid for.  That was my pay - lunch.

Actually, that's not true.  My pay was the time I got to spend with him.  For the ensuing years, we would meet for breakfast or lunch most every Friday unless I was out of town or he had other appointments.  Each week he would regale me with stories from his youth and news of his friends, stories I never tired of hearing, even on the 3rd or 4th time through. We continued to meet even after he had mastered his computer, and his printer, and his fax machine, and his slide scanner, and his flatbed scanner, and his LP to MP3 converter, his e-mail or YouTube; rarely did I need to help him with technical problems anymore.

We would talk about movies, politics, TV, music, friends, old CSULB acquaintances, dogs, and books.  We talked a lot about books.  He would very often begin a breakfast conversation with "I just finished 'such and so', and I have never read anything quite like it!"  He never tired of reading and learning and soaking up everything he could.  A few years ago, he bought his Kindle, and his reading went into overdrive.  He could buy a book from his bed and be reading it 10 seconds later.  He often joked that Amazon must have thought he was their favorite customer.

In one of our last breakfast meetings two months ago, I told him that I had seen the film version of Cloud Atlas, and he told me that he had loved the book.  I got the book as a Christmas present from my wife, and I told him in one of my last e-mails to him that I looked forward to talking with him about it.

* * * *

The themes of Cloud Atlas, for those who are not familiar with it, are as many and varied as the seven stories included in it's pages.  They include (but are not limited to): violence vs. virtue, reincarnation, how are deeds play out long after we are gone, love, music, corporate and individual evil, and on and on.  As I think now on how the book has hit me, I realize that the excerpt above is the part that means the most to me.  If I substitute the name Grayson (Lynda's grandson) for Jackson, or any other child that I know, I find it is exactly the force that animates my life.  This is how I want to live my life.

Frank's enduring gifts to me - the music, the discussions, the deep love and friendship we shared - are not mine alone.  Since his death, the outpouring of emotion from friends and students has been sustained and intense.  We all felt, rightly so, that Frank forever changed our lives, and are grateful for every moment we had to spend with him.  And that is probably exactly the theme in Cloud Atlas that I would most associate with him: the good and virtuous deeds you do for others in the name of love will play out for generations after you leave this Earth.  Frank embodied that like no one else I have known.

I wish I could talk to him about that today.  I want to hear him say one more time "I've never read anything like it!"

I miss you, my friend.

The Case for Being Better Humans - Part 2

I believe that the color of your skin and the accent in your voice do not matter.  If you do not speak the same language as I do, that is just as much my fault as yours.

I believe that you do not get to choose the person you fall in love with. 

I believe that to deny someone legal status or rights based on the point directly above (marriage, for those who don’t get my point) is wrong, immoral, unethical, and goes against the fabric of our society’s progress towards equality.  Either we claim equality, or we do not.

I believe that a two-celled zygote is not yet a human being.  I don’t know what point the zygote goes from being a mass of cells to something that we choose to call human life, but I would bet it is someplace around viability outside the womb.  Until that point, it is not two lives we are debating but one.  And in either case, no one can stake a claim to knowing something that is a moral decision.

I don’t care whether you believe in the God of Christ, the God of Moses, the word of Allah, or the word of Buddha.  I don’t care if you call yourself a Sikh, a Hindu, a Catholic or a Lutheran.  I only care about one thing – do you treat the people you come into contact with on a daily basis with love, respect, kindness and fairness?  If so, you have my love, respect, kindness and fairness.  If you do not, or if you seek to deny anyone those four things, then you have not earned mine.

America is the greatest nation on earth.  But America is not the greatest nation it can be.  I do not believe in the notion of American exceptionalism.  In my short lifetime, I have witnessed Vietnam, Watergate, bussing and segregation, Iran-Contra, Grenada, the failed “War on Drugs”, Whitewater, impeachment for a blowjob, 9/11, the invasion of Iraq, torture and Guantanamo, Katrina (and now Sandy), mortgage-backed securities and textbooks for children designed by creationists.  No nation that wants to be seriously considered the greatest nation on earth can claim that mantle without looking critically at those things and ensuring they never happen again.

America is the greatest nation on earth.  I know this when I see us sending a rover to Mars, dropping a man in freefall from low orbit, watch what Apple creates, think about Apollo 11, listen to jazz, play bluegrass, see the response to 9/11, hear the support for our troops, walk the beach in Cambria, fly over the plains of Kansas, see the love that is shared between friends and neighbors. 

I believe these two views are not exclusive; I can love my country and be critical of it at the same time.

I believe that it is possible to disagree about the basics of politics, religion or culture, but only if you and I have a respectful one-on-one discussion about it to find the sticking point.  If you feel that scripture is inerrant and that leads to our disagreement about gay marriage or abortion, that’s fine.  But let’s then have the discussion about the inerrancy of scripture instead of the one about the other two things.  Then we can have a productive discussion.

I believe that anything can be corrupted by greed or power.  Exhibits A through G: Barry Bonds, Karl Rove, Anthony Weiner, Lance Armstrong, Ted Haggard, the Catholic Church hierarchy and Richard Nixon.  I believe we should stop acting surprised when someone behaves this way.

I believe that people can act in very magnanimous and beautiful ways.  I believe we need to reward those people, especially the ones who do it for no recognition.

I believe that there is a way to be a faithful doubting Christian, but I believe most “Christians” don’t understand this.  I believe this is becoming the undoing of the Christian church.

I believe that music has the power to heal, transform and transport, and opens up the largest window we have in our lives to the eternal, to the spiritual, to God.  I don’t care how you define it, but I truly believe music is what keeps us alive.

And finally, I believe that only one thing really matters in our lives, and that is love.  Who did you love, what did you love, how deeply did you love, how freely did you give yourself to unconditional love, no matter how much it may have hurt.  The acts you committed in the service of safety, fear, your own comfort, power, avarice or greed will leave you empty at the end of your life.  The acts you committed in the name of love will leave you full.

My friends, I will not post about politics anymore on Facebook.  This is a medium that has lost its luster for me, and revealed itself to be shallow and depraving.  As I said above, if you and I can have a deep conversation about any of this, I am all ears.  I live for these conversations.

But posting photos of what Einstein said, or saying “Like if you love Jesus” or recycling the latest meme from Moveon.org or the GOP goes against the grain for me, and I can’t stomach it anymore.  I am mortified by some of the things I have seen human beings say in some of these threads, and I can’t be part of it anymore. 

I’m voting for Obama on Tuesday.  I don’t care who you vote for; just vote.  But I don’t expect my vote or an Obama win will do anything to change our country.  Only we can do that.  So I will look for other, more productive avenues to do so.

Open your hearts.  Put on some music.  Let love rule.  Because on November 7, after this is all over, nothing will have changed unless we decide it is time for it to change and do it.