Just a quick update:  Old Blue is fully repaired and cost surprisingly less money than expected. I’m home in Minnesota; the accident seems like long ago.

Why did I feel so powerless? What was my problem? Can’t remember. I would love to reflect on it more, but I’ve got many things to do:  work in the yard, update Microsoft Money, and then there’s that cauliflower in the fridge, I should do something with.

It’s easy to forget that feeling, that raw, desperate anger from a single moment in time. The day of the accident, I felt like I looked a painful truth, and yet now with so many house chores around me, and a To Do list growing daily, it’s hard to connect with that moment.

I am sure it won’t be long before I am brought to my knees once again and I will once again realize just how far my power extends.

Yesterday in my parents’ hometown, I was in a car accident.

Short version: nobody was hurt; my car was smashed up. Longer, self-justifying version:  at a stop sign, an older woman in a SUV pulled out to make a left turn and then changed her mind. She stopped suddenly and I hit her. According to the police, it was my fault: I was following too close. Personally, I don’t think she should have halted midway through a turn onto a busy highway. But there you go; can’t argue physics with a cop.

The damage to her SUV was negligible. I took photos with my iPhone and showed them to my Dad. He said, “Where’s the damage?” Exactly.

The damage to my car was shocking:  the hood is crumpled, the headlights busted out…it looks like my car was crunched hard. Neither of us were hurt, thankfully, but I’m pretty sure my car is beyond repair. Even if it’s only 2K, the insurance company will deign it unworthy of saving.

I spent most of Saturday reliving the accident, alternating between wishing it didn’t happen and being furious. Furious with me, furious with her, furious with the universe, followed by more pointless wishing it had never happened. Thursday, I finished a work contract (i.e. mostly unemployed again) and Saturday, I have to think about buying a new car. Insert many, colorful expletives here, strung together like old-fashioned Christmas tree garland.

But beyond the obvious financial pains in the ass, I was surprised at how furious I was at…well, I couldn’t figure it out. Sure, I hate anything bad happening to this car I love. That’s one layer. Of course, I hate the financial dents and possible ramifications for insurance. But beyond that I felt a surge of rage that gnawed on every breath until I finally recognized it:  I am powerless.

I am visiting my folks this week, and while I love them dearly, I need to escape. I had been headed to Chicago to visit Alesia when the accident occurred; I missed seeing her. I missed the chance to visit Chicago. I was now powerless to leave.

And beyond Saturday and weekend plans, I was powerless to leave the state and return home. I was powerless to drive my beloved car with the top open, singing at the top of my lungs. That may never happen again.

As I reflected (i.e. seethed) all afternoon, I kept thinking of all the ways that I am powerless and how I HATE being reminded of that essential fact. I cannot control my health. (I may influence it, but controlling it is beyond me.) I can barely control my career, and really, how much control do I think I have? I couldn’t control that the housing market plummeted the same week I put my house up for sale in 2007, and I could not do anything, not a damn thing, about my father having cancer and not wanting him to go through that.

Nothing.

I am powerless.

I decided to meditate, not out of some Buddha-like inspiration, but because I wanted to punch my head through a window, or go yell at my Mom (on Mother’s Day eve), and decided those were not wise courses of action. I could not think of anything else to do.

So I sat and said the words aloud, during each exhale of breath, “I am powerless.” Breathed in, and then exhaled, “I am powerless.”Breathed in…

I will not pretend that great insight arrived, or that I suddenly found Nirvana in accepting my fate in the universe, a human being with little or no power. At the end of the meditation, I was still powerless.

But I will admit that saying this aloud did something for me, created a little more space inside me for something besides seething resentment. This space was filled with sadness. I am not sure I was hoping for that exactly, rage replaced by grief, but I have to admit that grief is easier to bear than anger.

Doesn’t everyone hate being powerless?

Yet don’t we all cling to the illusion that I have power, that I create power in my life? I felt sad to be so wrong, sad that such a trivial incident like a fender bender was necessary to lift up a big rock and see the truth squirming like earthworms, and me so disgusted to see something true.

I am powerless.

I don’t love it.

I’m not thrilled about this.

I’ll keep doing my best to not get into car accidents and figure out what shit is mine to own. But in the end, the power I do have is pretty bug-like. I’m pretty awful at small talk; I keep trying to invent better ways to get to know someone than to begin with “How are you?” Ugh. I hate that opening. I think it could be more interesting to say, “Hi, I’m Edmond. Where are you powerless in your life?”

If we both answered honestly, at least we know we’d have some common ground for discussion.

Tomorrow, I am leaving town to staff a warrior weekend.

Tonight, I am pondering how I will show up. Will I be intuitive and open-hearted enough? Maybe. I hope so. But it sure doesn’t feel like it in this moment. I’m still stuck in my day-to-day details, the backyard raspberry patch which needs the winter leaves raked away, so the roots can soak in April showers. Dirty dishes in the sink, unanswered voicemails, and I am sitting next two three piles of paperwork on the floor of my den. I reduced it from five piles, but I hate leaving piles of unfinished business as I leave town for three days.

(By the way, internet people, please don’t break into my house while I’m gone this weekend. I just bought some seedlings I’d like to plant on Sunday evening in tiny little starter pots and I can’t do that if I’m sweeping up broken glass and filing police reports, trying to take inventory of all the creepy monkeys stolen from my home. Plus, all the valuable stuff is locked up in the garage with the broken door hinge, so seriously, start there.)

But it’s not just yard work and paper work that has got me bent out of shape and focused on the nitty-gritty details of life: tomorrow a large sum of money is going to be sucked from my checking account through a government tube: it’s tax day.

I like having roads and a system of justice. Imperfect as our government may be, if you watch enough Law & Orders marathons, you can convince yourself that the courts works most of the time and that the New York DAs are gruff but hug-able.

I’m pro-taxes. I like having 17 kinds of peanut butter to choose from in the grocery store. I like that there are government programs and that we’re not beheaded for being gay. I love America.

But, dammit.

I worked for myself this year and it stings, quite frankly, to watch that balance disappear. And I was prepared:  I calculated business expenses and mileage, tracked charitable donations, measured the square footage of the area I use as my office. I kept receipts. I was responsible.

I investigated a new tax person this year, because I thought, hey, maybe a certified accountant would be a better way to go for someone who lacks the basic business sense to buy himself business cards. (Note to self:  get some business cards.) Maybe I needed more guidance than my Regular Tax Guy? We scheduled a trial run: in March, I gave New Tax Guy my paperwork and he gave me a fairly detailed estimate regarding my tax situation.

New Tax Guy did little to hide his disgust that I didn’t fold myself into an S-corporation, like I am business origami who should have instinctively become a swan. Out of sheer spite, he calculated how many thousands of dollars I would have saved in 2009 if I had.

“There,” he said pointing at the total. “Wow. That’s a lot. I bet you’re kicking yourself.”

Didn’t love the New Tax Guy.

When I entered his office, he sneezed into his hand and he said, “I’ve got a cold.” After the meeting, he reached out that same hand to shake mine. Sure he had used it for a whole lot of other stuff in the intervening hour, including eating a Snickers bar, but eewwwwww. Pay attention to small details much? But it was our first meeting, so I caved on my resolve and gave him a grim handshake.

During our time together, he made it clear I should lie on my taxes.

The third time he said, YOU SHOULD REALLY FIND $10,000 MORE DOLLARS IN BUSINESS EXPENSES, I started getting a queasy feeling in my belly. I had twice explained that I would look harder, but I didn’t spend much on office stuff or growing my business this year. I was too busy working three jobs and trying to become a novelist.

I am not shy about reimbursing whatever is legal, but messing with the IRS freaks me out. Maybe our taxes shouldn’t be so high, and maybe I am paying $24,000 for government toilet seats. That truly sucks. But the last thing I need is 15 red-necktie, blue suiters storming my house, demanding to see my fabulous, expensive, office skylight, which is not there.

And yet…I owed a lot of money this year. So, maybe?

I looked a little harder for business expenses.

I hated that New Tax Guy thought I was a chump because I did not really research the financial and legal implications of working for myself. He was right, I was a chump, and I should have thought more about that aspect of business. Now, I will literally pay for not having foresight.

If not outright lying, fudging seemed like an option.But I kept seeing business people swinging through the front windows on government-issue rope, smashing out the glass all commando style, and that dark fantasy tempered my temptation.

In the end, I had to stop an think about integrity.

The word means something to me now, a result of being in New Warriors for many years. I think of integrity as keeping my word, being honest about my feelings, telling a friend when I am pissed off at him. But integrity exists in the smaller details, too, small white lies like cutting off other drivers, and whether or not I cheat on my taxes to save a few bucks.

I don’t like integrity much on the days that it costs me money.

Living with integrity has cost me more than money, sometimes a friendship or two. Some days I don’t care for honesty, usually when someone is being super honest with me. Some days, I want to watch TV and forget about my obligations, being part of a community. But I have discovered I need to be around men who are also working on their own integrity, and women who nurture theirs. I need to be around people who fall on their knees and then ask for help, because I am often weak and fall on my knees, too. Focusing on integrity is not always easy.

I made a decision not to finish my taxes with New Tax Guy.

Nevertheless, I delayed and delayed, waiting until last Sunday to call my Regular Tax Guy, and surprisingly, he could see me this week, so we got together two days before the April 15th deadline. Regular Tax Guy is jovial and smart about taxes. I’m not sure why I thought I should try someone new; I really do want someone I trust. He gave me the bad news last night with the solemn dignity of a funeral director’s explaining that a closed casket service will be necessary after all. Year after year, he handles the good news and bad news professionally and does not think to cheat or lie, because, why would you do that?

That’s why I staff a few times a year, to remember integrity and what changes it brought into my life. I need a refresher course, like tax accountants do every year as they discover tax laws that have changed. FYI, in 2010, the IRS allows you to put up to $3050 into your HSA account, up $50 from 2009.

Regular Tax Guy always regales me with stories of tax returns performed long ago, always omitting names or identifying details, which makes them like urban legends or beloved holiday stories. Last night he trotted out the sad story of the newlyweds who did not calculate their new home tax credit correctly, and received an unpleasant surprise, a tale he tells me every other year. Why did I turn to someone else? What was I thinking?

Last night, I decided to commit to working with him for a long time to come.

I asked him about the S-corporation thing.

“It’s a good idea for you,” he told me. “But once you do it, you’ll have to find someone else to do your taxes.”

Dammit.

A few weeks ago, my sister sent me a txt at 6:30 announcing, “An earthquake woke me up this morning.”

On February 10th, a 3.8 magnitude earthquake rattled the Illinois house where she lives with my folks. Eileen said at first she had no clue as to the source:  a truck crash down the street? Did a tree fall on the house? Being asleep seconds earlier, she could not reason what could make the entire house shift from side to side.

Later in the day, Mom reported that the quake woke her up as well and she sat up thinking, ‘earthquake.’

Dad slept through it.

But he sleeps through many things, and we tease him about his nap-taking. He likes to hook his wrist watch over an arm of his glasses while he naps, sitting upright in his recliner. The relentless beeping next to his ear is is pretty much the only way to wake him. Once we photographed him with his watch dangling across his face and showed it to him.

Upon seeing the picture, his eyes opened wide and he said, “Am I really that handsome?”

A little later on Earthquake Morning, I was not surprised to see my Mom calling my cell. I thought perhaps there was more news on the disaster front. I was right.

“Dad’s doctor wants him admitted to the hospital right now, today. They’re going to run some tests.”

“What kind of tests?”

“Tests. Something’s wrong.”

On Friday of that week, the doctors started throwing around the words ‘widespread cancer.’ For various reasons, it took almost a full week before we got the official diagnosis:  stage 4 colon cancer, metastasized to his lungs, liver, and other tissue.

I probably won’t write much about his cancer on my blog.

I feel comfortable writing about the world from my perspective and details from my life. But this cancer is his story, our family story, and not exclusively my tale to tell. I can share the big picture stuff:  we all cried. We held hands. We sat vigil with him in the hospital room for a week and a half and we cried some more. During non-upset intervals we did crossword puzzles, and also yelled out answers during Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune, trying to beat each other and cheat each other, because that is also part of our family story.

(Dad most often gets the Jeopardy answers right, but we don’t give him credit because he doesn’t phrase his responses in a question format. We are sticklers for rules; our Wheel of Fortune battles are awesome to behold.)

Regardless of how his chemo turns out, I can’t help but wander around dizzy, aftershocks of the world going upside down. I mean, sure I thought this day would come, but I had planned on my being 98 and him being 132. That was the plan, and a damn good one in my opinion.

How could he consider leaving us?

One of my favorite Wordsworth poems is We Are Seven, in which a creepy old man relentlessly grills a small girl. Despite the fact that two of her siblings are dead, and he practically verbally assaults her with his maniacal insistence that those two are DEAD AND GONE, she keeps repeating, “We are seven.” Ah, with great poetry like this, who needs Harry Potter? Wordsworth’s subtle-like-a-hammer point is that children grasp a reality adults cannot fathom.

My parents, siblings and myself:  we are six.

Sure, it doesn’t have the same ring to it as “We Are Seven,” but still. I can’t imagine the world without all of us yelling at Wheel of Fortune or secretly photographing each other sleeping in hilarious couch-draped poses so we can show each other drool photos.

Whenever I call home for cooking advice (twice a week, three times max) I have to go through Dad.

“Hi Dad. I need help. Put Mom on.”

“I can help.”

“It’s about cooking. Put on Mom.”

“Try me.”

“Can I substitute milk and a little butter instead of 1/2 & 1/2? I don’t want to buy 1/2 & 1/2 it because I won’t ever use it again.”

There is silence on the other end.

Finally, he says, “Hang on. I’ll get Mom.”

Every damn time, he insists I ask him my questions for him and every damn time, I do, because he’s one of the funniest guys I know. I love listening to his answers: “If you don’t have any eggs, just skip ‘em.” Or perhaps, “I’m sure baking powder is the same thing as baking soda.” Sometimes I hear Mom yell in the background “DON’T TELL HIM THAT.”

Once in a while he will remain quiet for an extended pause after my question, prompting me to clear my throat.

He will say, “Hang on, I’m thinking. I’ve almost got it.”

On my birthday, if they can’t reach me on one of my phones, Mom and Dad sing Happy Birthday into my voice mail. Mom always counts softly on their end, “1, 2, 3…” so that they can begin singing at the exact same moment. I always re-save the message every 180 days, listening to it when I need a boost. I love that both of my parents still want to celebrate the day I showed up, even after knowing me all these years, and how I turned out.

It’s not over; I’m still anticipating my next birthday’s voicemail message. My Dad is strong and he never took a sick day from work in his life, so who knows? Chemo may work. I have faith in Bolinas.

I called home the other night to see how he’s doing and get the daily report. We covered how he ate, how far he walked, and that day’s oncologist visit. There was a pause in the conversation, perhaps as we both contemplate this new dimension to our phone calls, our discussion of his daily vitals and subtle changes to his sleep and diet. Our landscape has been shaken.

He said, “Do you have any cooking questions?”

I was actually making a slow cooker pot roast that day. Do the vegetables go under the meat or sit on top?

“Dad, just put Mom on.”

“You can ask me. Go ahead.”

I asked.

What can I say? I like his answers.

The very first weekend I moved to Minneapolis, I met my friend Brian.

We met on a hot June Saturday at the Gay Pride Festival. Brian was surrounded by a half-dozen admirers – a fan club, really – and I thought, “Wow, I wonder how long you’d have to live here to have that many suitors?” Turns out he moved to Minneapolis the exact same day I had:  Friday. Ever since I have known him, people want to be around him to bask.

We became best friends.

The only thing that made this friendship sweeter was the inclusion of Chris, a friend of Brian’s who became a friend of mine. Chris writes thank you notes after everything. From him I learned I could stand to be kinder to others, because Chris was always kinder. For several years the three of us were inseparable. If only one of us went out to a bar, acquaintances would invariably ask, “Where are the other two?”

We created a world of inside jokes, shortcut conversations, and I thought nothing of seeing these men five times a week. We shared the dirt, the hurt, the mundane details about trips to the post office and stray observations which occur sitting at street lights. Brian and I developed a system for getting out of awkward bar conversations: when backed into a corner, we reasoned, just tilt your head upwards and scream, “CAW! CAW!” It was our bat signal. The first time he actually did it, I was a little surprised.

In 2001 after a big fight outside a movie theater, I stormed away from them, outraged over some unforgivable slight (which I can no longer quite remember) because I shouldn’t have to take crap from people who are my family. I vaguely remember that my interpretation of the movie differed from theirs and I did not feel respected. Given that the movie was the Planet of The Apes remake, my reaction seemed extreme even to me.

It took me hours to understand why I was furious.

Chris and Brian were my Minnesota family.

I had heard the words “family of choice” and understood it well enough, I guess. But after our big Planet of The Apes Fight, I finally got what those words represented. Unfortunately, I never have life realizations while I am sipping ice tea or strumming my guitar. Maybe because the guitar has sat in the same spot for seven years, unplayed. No, my life realizations come right in the middle of my being an asshole or lying on the living room floor surrounded by three dozen Oreo cookies with the centers scraped off.

I have a younger brother and nobody compares to him. I have awesome parents and sisters I love, so I wasn’t really shopping for a Minnesota family. But it was too late by that point: Chris and Brian were in my heart in this permanent kind of way. My brothers. I did not understand this until that ridiculous fight.

Last night, the three of us dined together to celebrate Brian’s next grand adventure:  he’s moving to San Francisco.

Dinner was delightful yet twinged with a little sadness, not only because Brian is moving. We three have drifted apart over the intervening years. We don’t call each other first to say, “You’re not going to believe this…”

I have spent a lot of time pondering how we slipped. I have sought the advice of friends, warrior brothers, and talked to a therapist about it once. I can point to a number of critical moments, missed opportunities to fix something, address the distance. I wasn’t always the friend I should have been.
Insert platitudes: people grow apart. Take different life paths. I’m not the same person I was when we met and neither are they. It’s unrealistic to think we’d hang out five days a week with lawns to mow and lovers, nurturing careers and answering emails.

One more platitude: it hurts.

I understand why Charlton Heston broke down at the end of the original movie. Sure he was pissed that he didn’t make it back in time to experience the 1970s. But eventually, I think he’d get used to the banana cream pies, banana steak dinners, banana-flavored dental floss, and banana sushi. He’d eventually settle down with a primate of his own. Maybe Dr. Zaius had a daughter?

But it hurts when the world changes on you and something beautiful you counted on for strength is irrevocably gone.

Last night through dinner, we ate off each others’ plates, interrupted stories but always circled back to hear the rest later. We pointed out hotness in the wait staff and admonished each other to QUIT POINTING when one of us was being obvious. Our anecdotes for each other required more back story as catch up, and in some spots more glossing over, because it’s hard to tell everything. You really had to be there to get the full impact.

Nevertheless, these two have permanently earned the right to call me with their one phone call to say, “Bring bail money and do not ask questions.” For the rest of their lives I am their get-out-of-jail-free card. Perhaps they are the brothers I would call in similar circumstances. (I’m sure some friends have put aside a little bail money for my inevitable incarceration. Whatever the charges, I’m sure I will be completely innocent.)

Chris drove us to the restaurant and on the way home he and I had a sweet, sad conversation acknowledging that time in our lives when we were inseparable, and how that time is not now.

I came up the front steps last night feeling grief.

I did not feel boo-hoo crying sad; this felt like the grief of age.

For me, this grief seems to come through loving people who are not in my life every damn day. Maybe it’s nobody’s fault. Some days, I wish Mom would yell up the stairs, “Get crackin’ up there.” I’d even welcome my younger sister pounding on my bathroom door to remind me OTHER PEOPLE HAVE TO GET READY FOR SCHOOL, TOO. I miss a lot of people. Some days I celebrate how lucky I am to have friends who I love. Some days I grieve how people invariably move to new planets.

Some days the Statue of Liberty is full of sand.

Chris waited until I was inside the house before he flashed his headlights and drove away. He always waits to make sure you’re safely inside. That’s the kind of man he is.

Last Saturday at almost exactly this time, 10:50 a.m., I raced from house to my car. I squealed out of my street parking spot and while I’m pretty sure that the tires didn’t actually “squeal,” in my congealed memory, they did. So, I squealed out of my parking spot and raced to Park Ave. I chased up Park as quickly as the speed limit allowed and occasionally a teensy bit faster whenever I remembered the time-sensitive nature of this mission.

I reached my destination and jogged to the front doors, raced up to the Counter Guy and said, “Did I miss breakfast? Do you have any McGriddles left?”

He smiled kinda extra wide when he said, “You’re the guy from last week.”

He was right.

I hadn’t even realized that, but he remembered.

He laughed outright at me, a rare break in the dull McDonald’s veneer and he said, “You missed the McGriddle last Saturday, didn’t you? You missed breakfast by 1 minute.”

“Yeah, that was me.”

Now, this was just downright embarrassing.

“You missed it again. We just switched over to lunch.”

He had no idea how he devastated me; I have recently fallen in love with the McGriddle.

My friend John made me aware that there are websites devoted to honoring our dear friend, Mr. McGriddle, breakfast sammich with syrupy, maple flavor infused in each bite of the pancake and sausage -

Okay. Slow down.

This is the kind of talk that gets me speeding on Park Ave. at 10:53 a.m.

Two weeks ago, John, Brett, and I saw a movie that parodied McGriddle worship, and it made me curious to try one. How good could a pancake breakfast sandwich be?

The movie wasn’t quite my taste but I did find parts to be hilarious, and even more hilarious was to watch John keel over, howling with his strong, staccato laugh. His laugh is itself hilarious, because it comes from so deep inside of him and it’s so raw and joyful. John’s got an amazing sense of humor. He arranged our outing, a movie premier night with a young college crowd, something I would have never experienced but for my friendship with John. Over the past year or more, John and I have grown closer and I would even go so far as to say close.

I never dreamed I’d have these kind of friendships with straight men, the kind where I choose to be vulnerable with my fuck ups and frailties and they understand me, understood better than I thought would be possible. They have their own fuck ups and frailties too, which equalizes us. Perhaps the biggest difference between us is that after a man and woman’s big date, he might send flowers and the gays would rather leave a four-minute, raunchy voicemail. Well, I’m sure some straight men leave their girlfriends sexy voicemails that make their toes curl.

And I have sent flowers.

We may have more in common than we think.

John is a warrior friend and that means we can be furious with each other, be jagweeds (as my friend Mary-Scott likes to say), and sometimes be soft.

The night of the movie, John and I talked on the way back to my place. As we veered into one topic that apparently was sensitive for both of us, the talk became a little tense and by the time we exited my car, we had a full-blown fight on our hands. John was making me crazy. Turns out I was a bit crazy-making myself.

Another thing we have in common.

I will not repeat the argument. Private stuff.

But I can summarize my side:  I was stubborn, I couldn’t listen. I was right and he was wrong and it’s so frustrating when the whole world doesn’t agree that I’m right. We should all agree on something, so can’t we agree that I am the wronged party? I closed down and was an ass.

When the big anger had spent itself and our argument neared its conclusion, someone had to step up and be the bigger man and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be me. John spoke quietly and said, “I love you, Edmond. I’m glad we’re the kind of friends who can argue like this.”

John often melts my heart.

But I was pretty fuckin’ pissed so I told him that I could not say back those words at that moment because I try not to say, ‘I love you’ when I’m angry. It’s one of my quirks, the little rules I make for myself. I withhold the words, giving me a stronger reason to make up later, so I can say those words back and mean it from the very strength and softness of my broken heart.

Some nights will be mine to carry our friendship but this night was his. He hugged me goodnight and he meant it. I hugged him back and I meant it, because I really did melt with his words.

I steamed over the next few days, reflecting on our argument, reflecting on what a good friend he is to me. A week passed, a whole weekend of McGriddles and by now I had had two of them and wanted to let John know that.

(Weekdays, no problem making it to McDonalds early. But I sleep in on Saturday.)

Since the night of the fight, we had talked, seen each other in our warrior group, and were even kind to each other. Because of crazy schedules, we hadn’t created that alone time where conversations go deeper and we can both bring our quirky unloveable bits to the surface, to see if a friend can love the unloveable bits any better than I can.

This past Tuesday night, John came to a workshop that Stephen and I presented because John is the king of moral support. He’s the guy who shows up early on your panicked moving day and says, “I can do anything. Point me in a direction.”  He showed up Tuesday because, duh, why wouldn’t he? He’s the king of moral support.

After the workshop concluded, he and I carried materials to Stephen’s car. We finally had a chance to talk for five minutes under the dark shade of night trees.

Making up after a fight is easier with other warriors but also harder too. I find New Warriors are less likely to hold a grudge and are willing to let me be a jagweed sometimes. But it’s also expected that I dig deeper and show some understanding as to why I was that way, the story behind the story, the hurt behind the anger. That can be harder, more vulnerable.

Still, I find it less confusing to navigate friendships with New Warriors because if you’re sad or upset and you feel silly for even talking about it in the first place, the friend will likely say, “Tell all of it. Once it’s all out there, you won’t have to worry about feeling stupid.”

And this seems to work.

I told John I was sorry for how I acted. I explained how my shadow was triggered by our fight, how my frustration with him came from a place of feeling inadequate. In a hurt voice, I asked him for feedback on my behavior, wanting to know how I hurt this friend I have come to love. It didn’t take 40 minutes to work through this fight, only five. Tuesday night, I said, “I love you, John. I’m really happy we’re friends.”

I felt joy when I said those words, and it also hurt to say this aloud because I had just finished explaining why I was an asshole to someone I love.

John offered to take me to the airport the next morning, for my trip to San Diego.

On the way to the airport, I observed that it was 10:13 a.m. and if the security line moved quickly, I could almost make the McDonald’s breakfast cutoff. This prompted my explaining my McGriddle adventures and how the Counter Guy at my nearest McDonalds looked at me in wonder.

John said, “Did you get your McGriddle?”

“Yes! The manager heard me and she totally took pity on me. She touched her employee on the shoulder and said to me, ‘We’ll do it.”

We laughed about it in the car. I think she was amused, basically. I think she and Counter Guy were going to share a laugh right after I left. But I didn’t care:  she forgave my tardiness and I was getting a McGriddle! And, honestly, the wild look in my eyes was probably pretty damn funny.

Airport security line was amazingly light, except for the woman in front of me who remembered she packed a bottle of shampoo in her luggage with 24 zippered compartments.

I called John a few minutes after I got through airport security to inform him I had missed the airport McGriddle by four minutes – just four!

He laughed his strong, staccato laugh. I love to hear that guy laugh.

He said, “I’ll buy you a McGriddle when you get home from San Diego.”

I am forgiven.

After visiting the dentist a few weeks ago, I started thinking about death.

Usually, I think about death before I go to the dentist. An old part of my Catholicism resurfaces, the part that believes in hell. I think my personal hell would be sitting in a dentist chair listening to other peoples’ miseries, root canals and cavities drilled with a Phillips screwdriver, knowing mine would be worse and would begin shortly, as soon as my demon dentist quelled his shaking hands with a few more Long Island Ice Teas.

I don’t love going to the dentist.

But I left the dentist requiring a root canal and a crown and realized that my broken and dysfunctional teeth are the only ones I will know until death. Of course we’ll all die:  life is uncertain, every day is a gift, nobody escapes death, focus on living, yadda, yadda, yadda. But somehow it hit home that these teeth are with me to the end. I might have problems in my 70s due to a lack of vigorous gum brushing in my late 30s. Maybe I’ll have to have many of my teeth removed. A thousand years later when someone digs up my skull, they’ll say, “clearly he lived before toothbrushes were invented, because look at those fuckin’ chompers. Yikes.”

I don’t think I’m going to die next week. Maybe, but, you know, not if I can help it. But my teeth are middle-aged, my feet are middle-aged, and my face has these wrinkles that aren’t laugh lines. They’re just wrinkles.

I guess this hit me harder than I thought because I recently turned 42, and also, Michael Jackson died. I didn’t really think much about Jackson’s death other than to marvel at the weird media circus, but one of my favorite webcomics did a piece on his death and I read a certain line that hit me strong:

“He was your Elvis and when your Elvis dies, so does the private lie that someday you will be young once again, and feel at capricious intervals of a joy that is unchecked by the injuries of experience and failure.”

Ow.

The part of my life where I am young…is over.

I guess it’s useful to think about death when it leads to reflections on living:  how to live, whom to grow into, to ask am I the man who I always dreamed of becoming and will I be him before I die? I like those questions. I’m closer to that man than I have been in the past, but still not as big-hearted as I want. I’m still not quite that man. I’m still selfish and have stuck behavior patterns. I’m working on myself, but I guess I’m going to greet death with a root canal and an invisible crown, possibly a bridge if I don’t brush my gums better and take care of the neighbor teeth.

To help me grow into my manhood, I’ve invoked specific male archetypes to guide my journey. Right after my NWTA, I invited Warrior energy to help me create better boundaries, to help me learn a new kind of strength, to help me center my life around integrity. I got a tattoo to represent the warrior and remind me who I want to be.

A few years later, I invited magician energy into my life, asked that archetype to dance. (Which meant another tattoo!) The magician represents extremes: big emotional earthquakes and quiet miracles, loud and quiet, rescripting your life into something wild and unrecognizable at times or turning a familiar overlooked part of life into something new. New perspectives, new vision. While focusing on the magician archetype I lived in California, created an enormous career shift, and I uncovered my life’s true mission, just as I had always hoped. And I discovered I had a creepy monkey collection. Weird.

Visiting the magician sometimes comes with a price. I don’t write about everything that happens to me in this blog, despite how I over-share about my dental hygiene, raspberry obsessions, and assorted quirky habits. The last few years have been hard in ways I do not care to share publicly. Some of the downs have been pretty fantastically shitty, quite frankly.

Thank you, Magician energy. You delivered.

I think I would like to get off the wild rides of highs and lows.

With my middle-aged teeth, my emotional battle scars, and my new fervor to be published, I’m reading to invoke another archetype, another passage on this masculine journey.

I’m inviting the archetype who recognizes “days of capricious intervals of joy unchecked by experience and failure” might be over. This archetype appreciates the gifts of the wild magician, the strong gifts from the warrior, and yet strives for balance in these energies, directing them into a power greater than himself. I think it’s time for a greater letting go of ego, as I strive to find a way to serve the world, a world that will go on long after my personal death. It’s time to tend to the kingdom.

Welcome, king energy.

I am ready to serve.

I’ve been whining (and I do mean whining) about the hard choices I’ve had to make lately:  to stay as an independent contractor or find full-time employment, to sell my house or fix it up, and even the hard choices around smaller life stuff, how to return phone calls when I’m exhausted from traveling and not eager for normal conversation. How do I know when to spend time on me or fulfill my obligations?

Last night I came home from work and felt I needed a night off. However, Tuesday is the night my warrior buddies and I get together, sit in circle and answer the question, “So what’s up?” in the most heartfelt way we can. It’s not always pretty and it’s not always fun, but it feeds my life and helps me grow closer to the man I have always wanted to be.

But I wanted a night off.

I called my buddy Stephen to help me decide, asking him to listen to the story I was telling myself, and asking him to call ‘bullshit’ if it seemed I was actively lying to myself. Okay, maybe I was half-looking for a big, “Awwwwww….you poor guy!” and permission to skip.

“If you don’t show up tonight,” he said, “men in our group will suffer.”

Not exactly the permission slip I was looking for.

“And if you show up tonight just for us, you will suffer. All of your choices will lead to suffering for someone.”

This infuriated me, because after discussing it a few more moments with him, turns out that he’s right. All the hard choices have consequences to someone and even the very best decisions sometimes leave a lasting mark.

When I start feeling sorry for myself regarding the choices I face, I think of a 15-year-old girl named Cassaundra, someone killed at Columbine High School back in 1999. I read about Cassaundra during the media frenzy that followed the shooting. When the two gun-totting killers stopped next to her, one of them asked, “Do you believe in God?”

She said, “Yes.”

They shot her in the head.

The story is horrific of course, one of the many nightmare stories to come from that day. What continues to amaze me is that Cassaundra was faced with a hard choice, one that meant she would not ever worry about a mortgage, or career, or go see another movie. She would never have the luxury of another hard choice again. In that light, all my hard choices seem silly. She could have begged. She could have said something like, “Define God…” because who knows, maybe they would have let her live if she believed in Buddha.

But what they printed about her at the time was that Cassaundra used to practice witchcraft, this high school junior, considered herself a pagan until roughly a year earlier she discovered Jesus Christ. This odd detail impresses me even more because Cassaundra had given conscious thought to her faith, and when she said she “Yes, I believe,” it wasn’t a reflex reaction from being taught in Bible school.

She knew what she was saying. She understood the consequences.
Could I do that?

Would I choose my integrity, my faith, knowing what would immediately follow?

I started this post reflecting on my ‘hard choices’ and now, here at the end, I can’t even remember why I thought my decisions were hard. I struggle with big life decisions:  keep my house or sell it, how to make money, how much to plan for retirement and how much to live in the present. And none of those details seem to matter as much as Cassaundra’s hard decision.

We never met; she doesn’t know the end of her life touched mine. But I do try to honor her, if that’s possible, by trying to say, “Yes” with my authentic self to the parts of my life that require unflinching integrity. Most days, I’m not as good at it as she was, so I try to learn from her. Some days, the hardest choice I make is to keep my heart open say, “Yes.”

Sunday afternoon I staggered towards my car, the last man out of camp.

(Technically, I was one of the two last men out of camp, but it’s more dramatic to say, “I was the last one.”) Peter and I had been assigned as liaisons to the YMCA camp folks, charged with making sure everything about our rented site had been properly restored and scrubbed clean after our New Warrior Training Adventure (NWTA) last weekend. We remained behind after everyone else had departed, confirming furniture in its rightful place, mopping the last bathroom, picking up trash.

My legs hurt, my feet hurt, my arms hurt, my hands smelled like toilet bowl cleaner. (Normally my hands smell like The Chipotle Grill, but earlier on Sunday, I scrubbed 9 toilets.) For three days, I hadn’t slept great.  I craved Cheetos and cherry Coke. The weekend experience drained me physically, emotionally, and pressed almost every unflattering psychic button I possess regarding control issues, leadership, and my ability to handle administrative details. At one point on Friday, I wept with a grief so overwhelming I just lay in the grass sobbing, feeling powerless, until everything inside me was spent.

Sometimes I end my New Warrior staffings this way, feeling like I have used up my every ounce of willpower, my heart busted so wide that I cannot stand to feel this loss, giving my every last reserve of energy.

I paid $100 for the privilege to be on this staff. I gave up weeknights for staff meetings, prepared extensively for my weekend assignments, made phone calls, organized materials I needed, and did this volunteer work during a time frame which included work-related trips to New York City, Philadelphia, and Washington D.C.

Last week, my friend Dave asked me last week, “Do you ever get tired of doing this warrior stuff?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sometimes.”

So why bother?

Staffing various NWTA weekends, I have witnessed men cry over lost parents with a grief they could never express, not even at the parent’s actual funeral. I’ve watched men get finally get angry over being abused, allow power to course through their trembling hands as they finally choose to live. I have seen men surrender their griefs, their soul-crushing hurts, back-packed and dragged around their entire lives, and I’ve watched them spill all their messy and fucked up thinking…and then choose to stand differently. I watched men pick up new confidence like an Olympic gold medals, beaming proudly as they triumphed in ways they never dreamed possible.

This past weekend, one staff man invited his adult son (also on staff) to stand with him before our entire assembly of men, blessing him, ending his heartfelt speech with, “I love you, pal.” Two nights ago, I talked to a man who attended our NWTA and over the phone he asked me with wonder, “Why is my head so clear? How is this possible?”

And I don’t just go to watch other men’s stories.

While I did not enjoy weeping with grief last Friday, the bliss that followed remains with me today. My life changed that afternoon, got bigger, by letting myself feel so damn shitty, held in the grass by two of my favorite friends. The question I ask myself is this:  would I choose joy without grief? God, yes. While I would prefer joy came with Junior Mints instead, I accept that grief and joy sometimes go hand in hand, so I guess I will take grief and being spent if it leads to joy.

Last weekend I made such instantly deep friendships that 48 hours after we met, parting was painful. I practiced setting boundaries, I got angry in a clean way, I blessed other men, and I practiced being powerful. Where in the world does a man get to “practice being powerful?”

Of course, it’s not all Oprah moments with testosterone. One of the reasons I didn’t get much sleep on Saturday is because I stayed up late laughing my ass off, watching men pull pranks on each other. On my exhausted Sunday, I zombied my way over to my car to discover someone had jammed a rubber chicken in my tail pipe.

It’s fun to be a man.

I think one of the most thrilling aspects of staffing for me is that for the most part….we’re nobodies. We are accountants and unemployed electricians, students, guys with corporate jobs, men who work in grocery stores and in fast food. We’re gay, straight, old geezers, young bucks, overweight, Christian, divorced, agnostic, long-haired, clean-shaven, thick-bearded, bald, growly, Mother Earth worshippers, and ultimately…average.

Average men who have decided to shine.

While I may get some crap over using the word average in this context, the problem is I keep meeting men from all over the world who have this same insane potential to love the world, so instead of being an elite cadre of super-powered individuals, it turns out every singe one of us is super-powered, which makes having this super power…average.

Besides the locals from Minnesota, staff men showed up from Florida, Texas, Louisiana, Washington state, North Dakota, Wisconsin, and Arizona. These out-of-state staffers not only paid their $100 staff fee, but paid for their own transportation to get here. They came to love strangers, men they might never see again. I am fascinated to meet these men and to recognize that if our lives were different, if we lived as neighbors, these men might be my best friends. Instead, we share a single weekend together, hugging each other goodbye and saying happily, “I loved getting to know you.”

By Monday morning, I had slept in my own bed and had my fill of Cherry Coke. I buzzed around my neighborhood lazily, photographing my rubber chicken with spring flowers (it seemed like a good idea at the time), when I came across a child’s sign taped to a fence in an alley near my house. The sign pleaded, “SLOW DOWN KIDS ARE CROSSING THE ALEY.”

The homemade sign filled me with sadness, sad that children have to plead with adults, “Please watch out for us. Please don’t kill us.”

Our world is a scary place for kids and adults alike these days: swine flu, road rage, economic despair, abusive parents, drug abuse, preventable deaths. Life is hard and then you die, right? Sometimes my response to our often-shitty world is to clench my stomach, squeeze out a limited amount of empathy like toothpaste, and then hide in the numbing comforts found within my house.

Who will watch out for the alley kids?

Maybe a new warrior. Maybe a man whose weekend I just staffed.

Every now and then, I find it thrilling to give everything I have to give, every drop of energy, all my physical stamina, to push myself hard while trying to keep my heart open so big, that the only sane response seems to be to drop to the ground in the company of men friends, weak and exhausted, overwhelmed by the world and so happy to be part of it.I’m already looking forward to my next staffing.

I currently mentor a man who told me he wants more joy in his life.

Joy!

Such a slippery, effervescent quality, so hard to grasp, sometimes hard to recognize. I always seem to spot joy in the rear view mirror as I drive away. I think, “Boy, that was fun.” A few hours later, a softer voice whispers, “Actually, that was joy.” I myself would like to become more skilled at recognizing when joy is in the room, and appreciating that particular presence.

I have no illusions that I can teach someone ‘joy,’ so I am flustered by my mentee’s request. I don’t know how to manufacture it. I have witnessed it, sure. I’ve watched a shitty situation slip off its brown bathrobe and reveal naked joy quite suddenly. Joy can be sneaky. Part of that quality we love is its elusiveness, our inability to command it.

Sometimes, I feel the best I can do is tease it into the open. Maybe if I dance while nobody else dances my goofy movements seduce joy to the dance floor. I have discovered joy in first dates, baking lasagna, and once while cleaning the basement. There are other means of seduction…of course…

…I speak of…

..cookies.

I invited my mentee to my house on Saturday, Valentines Day. Let’s call him Carl.

Carl showed up trusting me because I never explained our purpose. Earlier on the phone, he said he was nervous.
“I’ve heard about you.” he said. “You have a certain reputation.”

“What?” I asked.

“The chicken suit.” he told me. “I’ve heard stories.”

“Oh, that. I wouldn’t worry about that.” I said. “Just show up.”

Carl came over with a sheepish smile, and we decorated four dozen, heart- and star-shaped gingerbread cookies. I baked them the day prior. Mostly were fat and doughy, just like my Mom makes.

Mom’s gingerbread cookies remain one of my favorite Christmas memories. My siblings and I always tease and argue over how to decorate, demanding praise from each other for sprinkling blue sugar on a frosted bell. See? See, Mom? We bitch about the Santa cookies because the cookie cutter is blobby and he never quite looks like Santa. Perhaps tired of our complaints, Mom didn’t make Santa cookies one year, so we complained how Santa had been banished. Poor Mom. I do not envy that woman.

I frosted gingerbread and Carl added sprinkles:  red crystals, purple crystals, multi-colored pink and red jimmies, those tiny little colored balls. Carl invented some new combinations:  half purple and half pinks, an array of different colored sparkling sugars on pink-frosted gingerbread.

We played while we decorated, him asking questions like, “Are we raising money to pay your rent? Are you going to use these as a distraction during a bank robbery?”

At one point, I told him my strategy:  he would sit in a wheel chair with a cardboard sign begging for donations.

“No…” he said, eyes wide. “You’re kidding right?”

“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “We’ll make you a good sign. It’s cool.”

We talked about joy, about limitations, about how doing something strange and uncomfortable can sometimes lead to joy. I think that the problem with joy is that it’s too hemmed in:  I won’t do this. I won’t, I can’t, I refuse.

I refuse sometimes. I refuse to play, refuse to ask, refuse to listen. I refuse to bend and I need to be in control. Do it my way, please. I know better. I’ve worked here longer. Joy doesn’t seem to show much at those times.

Carl and I talked about boundaries and how useful they are, as well as how they sometimes get in the way of bigger love. We chatted about our backgrounds because we’re still getting to know each other. I showed him a great quote about joy I had just received from a warrior monk friend and we finished our cookie ministrations, packing them carefully in boxes.

“When do I get to know what we’re doing?” Carl asked.

He had been more than patient, so I finally confessed that I had picked a location in town for us to show up and hand out Valentines Day cookies. Just offer them to strangers as they went about their Saturday errands. No fee, no real message or lecture, just a single question:  want a cookie?

Carl suggested we go somewhere that housed people who needed it, like old people in a retirement home. While they might be a great audience, I explained that there’s a subtle difference in giving a gift towards some charitable end versus offering it to strangers on the street. Considering people as “charity” invites condescending presumption.

Offering a cookie to a street stranger invites personal, awkward rejection. They might ignore us, scowl, cross to the other side of the street, pretend they didn’t hear us, etc. To be truly vulnerable, we need to risk that rejection.

Accompanying rejection, who knows what we might find?

Carl embraced the idea quickly, admitting that this will indeed be difficult for him. Carl is not exactly shy, but he’s also not a guy who stands in a room and says, “Can I have your attention?” Actually, I’ve seen him do that and he does it well. But he blushes furiously and stammers a little because he forgets that he’s powerful. Carl expressed willingness and even suggested we head to the nearest dollar store to decorate ourselves.

Awesome.

By the time we hit the mean streets of Minneapolis, we had decorated ourselves in red-shiny garland. You’ve seen the stuff: it wraps around anything and molds to that shape, perfect for table decorations and maybe even ribbon around a red-wrapped gift. Carl wrapped some garland around his head and down his winter-coat arms. I tore the shamrocks off some feathery St. Patrick’s Day head decoration and wrapping it in the same shiny hearts.

We looked like Cupid’s trailer-park cousins.

A woman parked nearby laughed at our invented costumes, and shook her head. Before she drove away, I grabbed her a cookie because, hey, she laughed.

We stood outside for more than two hours, offering cookies as well as those little candy hearts and chocolate-covered cherries on beautiful platters. Valentines day boasted 15 fat degrees here in Minnesota, so we regularly returned to my car to restock our platters, warm up, and swear in loud voices. Fucking cold! We walked around Lake Calhoun part way to offer sweets to intrepid walkers, men and women who braved the cold to stand in the sun.

Reactions were fascinating.

Most people were gently surprised and after a shy smile, said, “Sure.” We met a woman vacationing from Italy, new parents, and goofy, friendly people, eager to stay and chat for two minutes.

Plenty of people said, “No,” abruptly and hurried away. Some offered a cheery, “No, thanks!” Others asked “where are you from” and when they discovered we represented nobody – just two guys handing out homemade cookies – their eyes sparked a greater shine. One woman photographed us for her Facebook page.

Several cars stopped us in the parking lot, asking for a cookie. I remember one SUV, where a kid’s hand flailed desperately from the back seat, worried his front-seat parents would forget that he, too, liked cookies. Carl made sure to give him one of the biggest.

Folks asked us if our cookies were “gluten free.” (Considering we stood in a Whole Foods parking lot most of the time, we probably should have expected that question.) Others delighted to taste homemade gingerbread and complimented us on our decorating. I deferred all compliments to Carl.

Best part:  the strange innocence of that single-word question:  “Cookie?”

It’s an offer to break bread together. I invite you to tear down a very practical boundary between us. It might not be street-smart to take food from strangers, but some rules can be broken on cold-ass holidays. There’s something oddly vulnerable about offering a cookie you decorated. There is something oddly vulnerable in saying, “Yes.”

Towards the end of our adventure, one woman excitedly stayed to chat. She explained that she and a cashier had just joked how neither one had a special sweetie and the bottle of red wine she just purchased was her Valentine to herself.

“I wasn’t expecting anything.” she said. “This is the only Valentines I’ll get today!”

She was mid-30s, a beautiful woman with rich, dark skin, and this fantastic smile. Well dressed, pretty voice, smart green eyes. I found myself surprised that she’s single. Then again, I’m always surprised that I’m single too. I mean, I’m not as hot as she was, but I make a damn good lasagna and have other good qualities, I think.

She was not the only person to tell us “this cookie is my only Valentines.” Hell, I would have liked a snuggle buddy on Valentine’s Day, too. And yet, behind this sadness lingered a little bit of unexpected, gingerbread joy.

I could see it in her eyes.

I bet she could see it in mine, too.