Outta The Woods… Faith, Reflection And Tossing Glitter…

There are all kinds of faith, and kinds of ways of having faith.

Implying that someone’s faith is somehow false because it is different than yours is hurtful in the most personal way.

Photo by Carla Kinman Willis

Faith is supposed to be used to inspire. God is big enough to handle everyone being unique. God transcends everything.

Using the life and words of Jesus as an example to give and extend love and support. Love and support that has no beginning and no end – it doesn’t exclude anyone. Reflecting love is for everyone. Never be afraid to ‘Toss Glitter’ the world needs more of it…

Tossing Glitter… Speak A Little Louder… Inspiration

Tongue tied and twisted

It always comes out wrong

Comes out wrong

There’s a time bomb ticking

You’ve only got so long

Got so long

Who’s gonna hear your prayers

If you don’t, if you won’t

Who’s gonna sing your song

If you don’t, if you won’t

-Diane Birch

As it so often does, the universe was working it’s magic, though it would be several months before I’d come to connect the dots. I’d heard the name Diane Birch as we had several mutual friends, one of whom brought her to our wedding. This was a magical night. I was marrying the man I had committed my life to. Standing with Jeff, greeting family and friends from every decade of our life together, I found myself looking into Diane’s huge, beautiful and bewitching eyes for the first time. I know it’s a cliché, but I’ve always believed eyes truly are the window to a persons soul. I felt an immediate connection with her. Diane would tell me later that she kept hearing from different friends about these guys who were affectionately referred too as ‘The Guncles’. Later, she realized that Jeff and I were those “Guncles”.

During the wedding, the music trio began to play a slow, haunting and melodic version of Cher’s Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves Diane told me that as an artist she hoped to create a moment of impact with her music –to bring a moment of joy, or comfort, or beauty for that listener in that moment.

Though I’d been writing down my thoughts for the past ten years- and searching for more clarity within my writing voice – I often felt like I kept hitting a wall. I hadn’t thought about a process that might help pull me inside myself and give me what I needed to push my voice further.  Jeff was traveling on this particular morning, and I’d decided to face the treadmill solo instead of the street. Pulling my I-pod and headphones from the closet I quickly scanned my playlists. Though completely out of character – I’ve never been a flavor-of-the-moment kinda guy – I found myself looking through iTunes in search of something new. Suddenly, Diana Birch caught my eye. Smiling at the memory of those beautiful, huge bright eyes I hit download and minutes later stepped onto the treadmill. The music filled my headphones and lyrics filled my mind:

Looking through a dark light

Tear this page away

Another side of midnight

With nothing left to say

The sound and the words felt so fresh and new, yet there was something very familiar, and old soul about it. Glorious. It had been a very long time since I thought of the word ‘glorious’ when listening to new music. By the 3^rd song, I was lost in my thoughts. Visions from Farm Stories were playing in my mind so vividly I could barely get though my run. Back inside my apartment my thoughts were overflowing. I sat down at the computer, and the keypad could barely keep up. Was this simply a fluke? The following day I returned to the treadmill with Diane Birch and headphones in tow, and it was a repeat performance. If it hadn’t have been happening to me I might not have believed the effect someone’s voice, lyrics and music could have on another person’s creative process. It was as though her voice helped me to open my heart and mind and in response, hear my own. True inspiration. My process was born. Running and listening to Diane Birch became my way. And days turned into months and now into years.

‘Speak a little louder’ showed me the way to do just that. Diane Birch, as an artist helped create that moment for me through her art. And I’m grateful.

Removing The Mask…

You’re out of the woods

You’re out of the dark

You’re out of the night

Step into the sun

Step into the light

-Optimistic Voices

Your truth, or at least how you remember it.

Reaching into the dark, friable, remote, hidden corner of your mind and heart. Universal. Shameless. Soul-baring. Is it terrifying? In a word, yes…

First, I had to completely forget any kind of hiding. Removing the mask and being transparent can exhilarate and paralyze almost simultaneously. As I began writing and listening, I made my own discoveries. Honesty must be foremost. People not only deserve honesty but have built-in radar for bullshit. Even when disagreeing there is respect for standing tall in your own truth. You must do it for the right reasons. Having an axe to grind shows little personal growth and only adds to the ugly. Don’t disclose personal information simply for the sake of getting attention. Being open can be beautiful and liberating, but be honest with yourself about your intent. Connecting and relating to others will give you the needed boost in creating a place where people can relate and reflect. You never know what someone will respond to. It can be anything from coconut pie to sharing a smile with your grandmother. You write it because you feel it. No matter how hard or sad. You’ve not only grown and evolved, and by grace you are still here!

Preparing for the backlash. Not everyone will like and agree with what you have to say, regardless of how eloquent and heartfelt you believe your words are. And with the Internet, prepare for the shocking. Anonymity brings out harsh and unkind criticism. The old saying holds true, if you can’t take the heat get out of the kitchen. In my case I’ve faired really well. The occasional sting is quickly forgotten with heartfelt responses. The overwhelming amount of people who suffer with shame is staggering. The private messages from people who have someone in the LGBT community – a child, grandchild, a sibling, or perhaps just a friend have touched me with openness and trust. It is an honor to feel that something I shared about myself could provide understanding and hope to someone else. Each email can come from a different set of circumstances, but ultimately everyone wants happiness for the person they love.

My process looks anything but like the attached photo, with the exception of empty Red Bull cans. But there is indeed a process. Sitting in the same brown club chair, normally in my running clothes while listening to a self-made ‘Farm Stories’ play list. My process conjures a feeling of sadness, strength, hope, and inspiration. It pulls me and stretches me in ways that are not always easy, but are always necessary. There can be a kind of conundrum in memoir – you have to sink into yourself in a way that can feel solitary, but you still must connect with the world.

With each Farm Story my voice became clearer. As I slowly began to embrace my voice and celebrate what was unique in me, my voice became stronger. The need to adjust my voice to please others evaporated. The desire to be who I thought I needed to be slowly began to vanish. But I have found that digging down deeper into my own past and self, my world has gotten bigger, not smaller. It’s gotten richer, not narrower.

The DIVINE MISS M … 70th Birthday… Tossing Glitter

He introduced me to Roberta Flack, Laura Nyro and LaBelle too, but Bette Midler was the one who made him gush.
Bette’s debut album, The Divine Miss M., was a favorite of Mark’s. We’d sing along to it at first. By the time we got to the second or third drop of the needle, we’d lower the volume and talk to each other while we stared at the ceiling, my right shoulder tight up against his left in that tiny twin bed. My physical preoccupations subsided during those hours in Mark’s room. I stopped worrying about my own awkwardness long enough to enjoy the emotional connection that I couldn’t have imagined sharing with anyone else. I think of him whenever I hear Bette Midler.
Maybe it wasn’t the rough-and-tumble male friendship of a football field or a hunting trip, but it was my first true friendship with a boy. It showed me that I could have a male friend. And it showed me that not all men were jocks or standard-issue Indiana guys – some were artists or just appreciators of art, and no less male for it. It took me longer to understand all the ways a man can be masculine, but it was my friendship with Mark that helped me see that male friendships weren’t defined by a slap on the back or a punch in the arm. Men could listen to music together and be physically at ease in each other’s presence.

Tossing Glitter… All Our Girls… Gratitude

It’s not how long I held you in my arms

What matters is how sweet the years together

It’s not how many summertimes we had to give to fall

The early morning smiles we tearfully recall

What matters most is that we loved at all…

-Marilyn Bergman, Alan Bergman

It’s an honor to love someone so much that your heart breaks when they move on to their journey from life to death. From living to loss. It took a long time for me to understand this simple fact of living. I’m not strong or sensible when dealing with death. Each time Jeff and I went through the process of grieving, we would tell each other that we would make it through – together. But even with the person you love best by your side, grief is consuming and grabs you by the throat when you aren’t looking. Despite telling each other we’d be OK, we would find each other bursting into tears seconds later, just wanting to pull the bed blanket over our heads and hide. Among other things, loss is exhausting.

But peace does return when you adjust to what is your new ‘normal’. When we center ourselves back into living and connect with who we are once again. And within that peace we are able to look back and remember. It’s something I do an awful lot of these days. I’ve come to understand that our girls have taught us many things – including dealing with illness and eventual death. And from that comes the lesson of moving forward with love, compassion, and grace, knowing everyone’s time is limited.

Over the past twenty-seven years Jeff and I have shared our life with five dogs. Our girls. But more importantly, they shared their lives with us. Each one completely unique and left an individual imprint in our hearts and minds. With their unconditional love, I learned a great deal.

Chelsea, our Springer Spaniel, was Jeff’s companion when I met him. She taught me compromise is essential when creating a new family. Mind you, Jeff and Chelsea had their routine down together long before I arrived on the scene. I didn’t really recognize that at the time – I hadn’t had a real companion pet before and wasn’t used to animals in the house. There were many challenges. I imagined that I was intruding on their lives – a new and unwelcome presence competing for Jeff’s time and attention. For me, seeker of perfection that I was, perfection included a sterile environment. A trail of dog hair and a nose print on the windowpane sent my OCD skyrocketing! I can’t forget the look on Chelsea’s face the day I came home from work to discover she had chewed through dry wall and rubber water pipe because I’d tried to limit her living space to just a couple of rooms. I think raging frustration and annoyance was mirrored back and forth between us.

But then, without my even realizing it, those problems evaporate. You forget there ever were any. The last year of her life Jeff was traveling constantly with work, leaving me the task of giving Chelsea her daily insulin shots. She never left my side and stared at me endlessly with her beautiful big brown eyes. I’ve always had this thing about girls with beautiful, soulful eyes.

Janell, a retired racer, picked me by resting her head on my shoulder when I happened to pass by a group of rescued greyhounds. Never have I experienced gratitude at this level. Her quiet grace and loving disposition was combined with such an unassuming elegance. She won not only our hearts, but enraptured everyone she came in contact with. I recall our joy as the neighbors gathered to watch her run from yard to yard, leaping over hedges with such ease that she seemed to be lifted by wings. Then our complete devastation when she passed away so quickly from cancer after bringing her home. Janell’s time with us was short, but unforgettable.

Alexandra, ‘The Most Beautiful Girl In The World’ taught me the power of healing through the conquering of fear. The fear of loving and attaching again. Alex was our ever-constant North Star while Jeff and I shared great change throughout thirteen years. Through career changes, and a big move from Florida to New York City she flourished. Just as New York City was perfect for Jeff and me, urban life suited Alex, the most beautiful girl in the world. And New York was more beautiful with her in it. Throughout Alex’s illness I began to look at life differently. I finally understood that it was time to live and love in the moment. Each day at a time, taking just a moment to pause and remember that this is all we are given. A day at a time. Because that was all we had. And that when we love, there doesn’t have to be a goodbye.

When she left us, Jeff and I were devastated. Exhausted, all I wanted to do was sleep. But in bed all I could focus on was missing Alex’s back against my legs. Jeff hated the empty mornings without her, and began taking a solo walk through their usual route in Battery Park. It would take me months before I could enter the park again. Jeff promised we’d get through this grief-together. This time I wasn’t sure.  As the months passed, friends would gently suggest perhaps it was time to give our hearts to someone new. I would immediately feel guilty- there was no replacing the ‘Most Beautiful Girl In The World.’ Then the day before my birthday Jeff and I were sitting at a favorite restaurant remembering Alex. Laughing, loving and embracing our precious memories while expressing our shared loneliness, we took a deep breath pulled out Jeff’s IPad and Googled poodles.

When we found Alexandra’s Place we couldn’t believe our eyes. We saw a photograph of two beautiful sisters in a wicker basket, and we fell in love instantly. And in one of those small and graceful moments that the universe sometimes gives you, we discovered that these sisters were born on the same day Jeff and I met. It was as though the Universe was letting us know – Alex was giving us another gift of love. It was okay to share our hearts, home, and love again. The next day Jeff and I drove upstate to pick up our new girls Dolly and Loretta. It was a burst of love and joy and letting go. I love to remember these moments – now, I love to remember the moments of sadness and loss as much as love and joy. Never one without the other. That is the blessing. And that is the truth of life.

Tossing Glitter… Autumn In New York

Autumn in New York, why does it seem so inviting?

Autumn in New York, it spells the thrill of first knighting

Glittering crowds and shimmering clouds in canyons of steel

They’re making me feel, I’m home.

– Yared, Gabrial / Billie Holiday

When it feels authentic you love forever…

Real Men Cry…

I’ve very little regret these days; forgiveness seems to have washed that pain away. For as much as I was made to believe that men crying was shameful, I welcome my tears. They feel like an old friend. My tears reassure me that no matter who might or might not like my words, they truly contain my truth. It feels freeing and like I’m leaving a trail of emotion behind me. Yes, real men cry, laugh, love, wear capes and toss glitter. Real Men stand tall in their own authentic truth.

Tossing Glitter…Remembering Mark

‘Shiver Me Timbers’

Leavin’ my fam’ly

Leavin’ all my friends

My body’s at home

But my heart’s in the wind

Where the clouds are like headlines

On a new front page sky

My tears are salt water

And the moon’s full and high…

-Tom Waits

When it’s authentic you love forever…

Tossing Glitter… Shadows And Fog

The 1930’s / 40’s saw some of the most creative and imaginative films within the realms of terror cinema.

These exotic fairy tales, beautiful, poetic, made you less scared than simply mesmerized with such striking imagery. Like looking through a breathtaking old photography book you discovered in the attic, these films were old and contained scratches making them imperfectly perfect.
“Boy, you are on your own with this crazy Goddamn movie.” This would become Papaw’s standard proclamation every Friday night throughout my childhood. Needless to say, his tastes ran more towards John Wayne. But he would make sure I was all set up for my movie night, even if he wouldn’t stick around to watch it with me. So there I would be on a dark night. Settling in with “The Body Snatcher” a bag of pork rinds, ice cold Mountain Dew and knowing soon a foggy, black-and-white apparition would appear on the screen, and make me smile.

Like my very own ‘Island of Misfit Toys’ those characters found a home within my childhood and heart. They began to take on this authentic life all their own. And when it feels authentic you truly love those characters forever.

Learning To Color Outside The Lines…

“Tell me a farm story, Eddie,” they’d say…

My collection of stories began with an anecdote that my mother told me a few years ago. It was a small memory for her that had grown into larger meaning over the years. From that small memory, her world had been changed – by me.

“You must have been about six at the time,” she began. “That means that she would have been twenty-six. “You used to love going to the beauty salon with me,” she continued. “You’d sit by me, wide-eyed, mesmerized by the blue jars of Barbicide, the capes, the gossiping women, all of it. Other little boys – ones who looked like they’d been dragged inside by their mothers – would sometimes throw tantrums, but not you. You were always well-behaved at the salon.

“One day while I was sitting under the dryer, you were by my feet, working in your coloring book. I came across a word in Reader’s Digest I didn’t understand. So I lifted the dyer lid, looked up from the magazine, and asked the woman doing my hair, ‘What’s a homosexual?’”

When people reminisce, they often celebrate the past by saying it was a simpler time. A time of homespun wisdom and black-and-white choices. A time when the road before you was marked with clear lines and commanding signposts. But when I look back now, I think of the extraordinarily complex path it took for my mother and I to arrive at simple truths. Simple truths in a more complex world.

Once I’d come out of Indiana and begun working as a hairdresser, my regular clients would tell me they didn’t know anything about me. What’s your story, Eddie? Where’s that accent from? And so I would tell them about where I had come from. Not just the town in Indiana I’d left behind, but the world that I had lived in it. I cherished the friendships that evolved with those clients. Their acceptance and genuine interest gave me a way to recount the events that shaped my life. They parted the curtains. Their warm curiosity gently lit a small stage onto which I could enter. “Tell me a farm story, Eddie,” they’d say. And I would oblige.