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.
Friday, March 31, 2017
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
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.
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.
Monday, February 24, 2014
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.
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...
Thursday, November 21, 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, November 9, 2013
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:
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.
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.
"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.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
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.
“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.
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.
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.
Monday, January 21, 2013
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.
"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.
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