I am very in favor of Mankind Project’s “mission of service” until it happens to conflict with the time I arise on Saturday morning. That’s when I grumble a bit of disagreement.

Nevertheless, I dragged myself from sleep and stumbled over to Dan’s home early yesterday morning so that we could join other sleep-eyed New Warriors to work for Habitat for Humanity. Dan organized about 14 of us to work with Habitat’s Master Gardeners to landscape a home in North Minneapolis. We cleared dead lawn, planted (and cedar-chipped) dozens of perennials, and left the family with an entirely different yard.

Well, they did that.

I was busy in the back yard.

When we first arrived, the back curtains in the first-floor windows seemed to swoosh open and then close mysteriously, fluttering every few seconds as if by a strong wind inside the house. And yet, no one was standing there. Spooky. But easily explained by the childrens’ father. Curious about the visitors, it would seem his children were also shy. All seven of his children were under the age of nine, with only one of them too young to jerk the curtains open and then run away.

A few minutes later, we gathered in the front yard and leaned on rakes to listen to the Master Gardeners’ master plan. As they explained bush placement, the front curtains performed their whiplash dance once again. I went to investigate. I know, I know, I should have been attentively listening to the Big Boss big plans, but I figured someone would point and say, “Dig here” and I could do that without understanding the comprehensive blueprint.

Instead, I made goofy faces into the living room picture window. I crossed my eyes and bared my teeth, I scrunched my nose up and then made my eyeballs go completely white. Each new facial tic was followed by a chorus of screeching as children who ran away from the window and then ran right back. I taunted them by turning away from them until one of them gently tapped the window, then I would flip to face them with my face contorted in some bizarre new expression.

I am very much my father’s son.

They screamed and fled; returned and screamed. Tapped on the window and I spun around again. Repeat as necessary.

When it came time to get the work, I assigned myself the odd job of uprooting hundreds of backyard dandelions. When the first four of volunteers had arrived a bit earlier, one of the Master Gardeners surveyed the yellow carpeted lawn with us and she said with obvious disappointment, “Well, we’re just mostly focusing on the front yard today. It’s too bad because yellow is the symbol of drought in his culture.”

Say no more.

I’m a fan of metaphor, symbols, and I know how the universe sometimes uses weeds, and free bags of ice to communicate. I know how best friends, new friends, and even compassionate strangers become vessels in my life to greater love. I can dig it, this time literally. So, I’m all over the yellow drought flowers. They have to go.

Of course, I don’t pull the dandelions in my own yard (though I often wish my neighbors were overly-ambitious and had a lawn fetish). But there I knelt and started digging with that long skinny two-tonged yard implement that looks like a stretched-out fork. I bet that thing has a real name, but I’m too lazy to google it.

I rooted weeds for a while, enjoying this satisfying chore and accumulating quite a pile of dead yellows, when suddenly I heard that familiar tapping from the back window. The curtains whooooooshed once again.

“Make a funny face!” I would hear the muffled cries from behind glass. “Make a face!”

“Sorry,” I called cheerfully to them from the yard. “I have to work now.”

“Make a funny face!” they cried.

“Come help me.” I called back. “Come help.”

Over the course of the next half hour, we taunted each other until they made tentative steps onto the back porch and then even daring to come and stand right next to me while I sweated over the next extraction. The weed pile grew bigger.
“Wanna help?” I would suggest and they would giggle and run away, chattering happily in Somali.

You have not seen such gorgeous children. Each of them, more handsome than the next. Only my four handsome cousins have ever rivaled that kind of beauty in one set of siblings. (Shout out to Anita, Bithika, Kamala, and Narayan.) Shy and laughing, eager and playful, four of the seven gradually came to say my name aloud before running away: “Ep-mon.” (We were wearing name tags.) The two youngest of the six walking kids (and apparently twins), sat on the back steps with their tiny hands on their little knees, wide-eyed at all the excitement.

One of the Master Gardeners had brought a kid-sized trowel and shovel, as well as cute little work gloves for smaller hands. I gathered them together and tried to give demonstrations on how to pull out dandelions by the root.

“See, the best satisfaction comes from getting out as much of the root as possible without damaging the surrounding soil.”

That was what I intended to say.

I think I got as far as “…best sat-” and the four children scattered across the yard to start digging. One ditched his little-kid-shovel and dragged an adult shovel across 50 dandelions in search of one to dig out. Two found adult-sized hand trowels.

They all began eagerly attacking the lawn.

I twitched a little bit because nobody stayed for the lesson, but how hard could this be? And yeah, I’m a control freak sometimes, so I ordered myself to chill out and let the little energy balls go dig. Knock yourselves out, kids.

The first one returned with a trowel full of mostly grass and one yellow dandelion.

“See?” she said to me shyly.

“Yes, that’s very good.” I said, but honestly, I think she picked that dandelion and just set it atop some hand-pulled grass.

She ran away to dump it in the pile.

“Yes?” said the oldest boy, who had a wide smile. “See?”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s right, now try to…”

And he ran away to join his sister at the dandelion burial mound.

“This is a big one.” challenged his little brother. I liked this kid a lot. His chubby cheeks and middle-child status somehow reminded me of me; I felt a kindred spirit. “It’s big!”

“Yes, it’s great.” I said, eager to give a little more tip on how to get it deeper at the root.

He smiled this big happy smile and jerked away. Off to the graveyard for weeds.

The younger sister presented a genuinely harvested dandelion in a generous divot of dirt.

“OH.” I said, a little alarmed. “I think that’s uh…you got one, yeah.”

This is why we have instructions, people. Not that I uh…myself listened to the Master Gardeners that morning. (koff, koff…hypocrite.) But still. Order. Rules. There is a reason we don’t just go scouring all over the yard and scooping up chunks of healthy grass.

“THIS is a big one.” Said the older brother.

“Yes.” I said a little less generously.

“How about this one?” said the next kid in line. “Big one?”

“Yes, it sure is. Yeah.”

See, the cycle of energetic children meant that one was very frequently standing in front of me and I now couldn’t get much done. So not only was one side of the yard being hammered with shovels, but it was also worse: I wasn’t getting anything DONE.

And that’s where I often seem to stall in life. Being a better person, growing my compassion is fine, yes yes, that’s good and all. But now I’m at WORK. Or now I’m BUSY. And that’s where I often drop the ball. I know your feelings are important, but Best Buy closes in half an hour and I have two other errands. Call you back.

You ever get like that?

I daydream that my compassion or big-heartedness is going to be needed sometime while I’m hosting the Oscars. Or when there is a burning orphanage and someone has to go rescue Skittles, the beloved kitty trapped upstairs. Yes, the Big Shining Moments. (Although honestly…Skittles would be shit-out-of-luck if it were up to me ’cause I get easily confused about directional orientation, especially when I’m in trapped in a burning building with a terrified, scratch-happy cat.)

So maybe I’m not ready for the big moments in life yet. I still have to keep practicing on the small ones. I forget the small ones are available pretty much daily - the chance to be a king in someone’s life. A king. And whenever I keep waiting for the Big Shining Moment, I forget that it might be happening right now.

I had to decide what was more important: pick the dandelions THE RIGHT WAY or accept these gardeners presenting their finest work?

I decided to become The Dandelion King.

“This is a big one, isn’t it” said the eldest, eyes beaming.

“It’s incredible.” I cried. “You’re awesome!”

He bolted.

“I did this one myself!” cried his sister. “I did it.”

“You’re doing beautifully.” I exclaimed.

I had seen their father enter the backyard and after watching the parade of children to Ed-mon-d (they had improved significantly), he laughed and started digging himself. His children ran to him and softly, cried “Aabbe, aabbee!” (”Father, father!”) and he would put a dandelion on their shovel and the kid would carry it to me for approval before its demise on the weed pile.

“You are wonderful.” I sometimes said and I hoped they heard that it was about you kid, not your work. Not your deeds. You don’t have to earn praise. You’re always going to be good enough.

One of the two youngest girls from the porch cautiously joined in, seeing the excitement in her brothers and sisters. She walked to me carefully balancing a trowel of dirt, 100% free of weeds or greenery of any kind. Just a pile of dirt.

She stood before me with her eyes on me expectantly. She spoke no English, so there was nothing she could say.

“You are the most wonderful dandelion picker!” I grinned at her and hoped she could see the message behind the words.

She nodded a little before she turned and walked to the weed pile. Or maybe just drooped her head because a hand-trowel full of dirt is pretty heavy for a two-year old. But I prefer to think she understood what I said and she acknowledged me.

Who doesn’t want a blessing from The Dandelion King?

Christopher suggested to his soon-to-be-married housemate, Steve, “We should have a bachelor party for you. At Edmond’s house.”

Curiously enough, this was done with my full knowledge and encouragement. I say ‘curiously,’ because I don’t consider myself much of a party person. So whenever there’s a party at my house, I have a confusing reaction of being delighted there is cause to celebrate and also a conflicting instinct to say, ‘Thank you for coming. Now, go home.’

I blame genetics.

Mom used to have great parties (well, she still does) at 32 N. Myrtle St. where I grew up. But I know she lay awake in bed the night before fretting over the quantity of ham, the quantity of buns for said ham, then back to the quantity of ham and what if people take buns but not ham because people will do that to you sometimes. And when she had sufficiently exhausted the ham and buns and they were paired up to her satisfaction, she would turn her worry towards supplemental dishes, because not everyone likes those little marshmellows in their fruit salad.

Weary-eyed the next morning, she’d tell of a previous night’s dreams involving burned mastacolli while party attendees complained for lack of ice. She blamed herself for falling sleep; she wouldn’t have disturbing dreams like that if she worried herself awake all night.

I would roll my eyes and think, ‘Sheeeesh, get over it. It’s a party.’ That is, until I found myself hosting parties myself and I would lie awake in bed pondering forks. What if I run out? Sometimes people take more than one fork you know. Maybe I should buy more dinner forks, just in case.

Mom understands.

Imagine my surprise to ‘trust’ the party. Trust it.

Christopher, my co-planner, radiated this quiet strength, this understanding that everything was going to turn out fine. He didn’t have to verbally remind me to trust that the men coming and the dishes they brought would be ‘enough.’ Just what was needed. He didn’t have to say this aloud because he simply radiated it. He just trusted. So I trusted.

The other pleasing element regarding this party was the post-meal entertainment: meditation.

Steve and his lovely bride-to-be met at a most excellent meditation retreat titled Warrior Monk.

The almost-week of Warrior Monk is both soft and strong, like Grandma Hemmer. And if you have had a Grandma Hemmer in your life, you know of which I speak. Warrior Monk is like being held in a soft lap with warm hands soothing your back. At the same time, just because of her soft eyes behind sagging skin you would not mistake Grandma Hemmer for being a pushover.

When Grandma Hemmer said, “Now, it’s bedtime” there was really no point in fighting it, not really, because her strength wasn’t in yelling or arguing, her fierceness was in truth. She said it and therefore it was so. Warrior Monk’s fierceness is in gentle, unapologetic truth.

Steve and Carole Anne met on a Warrior Monk retreat two years ago and so the bachelor party would honor their first meeting.

(Aside: the only downside to a post-meal meditation is that I always wanted to be at a bachelor party with an enormous bigger-than-a-life-sized cake. The cake is for the stripper, of course. Quite frankly, I had very little interest in the stripper, but I could definitely see yelling, cheering, and cat-calling for a colossal white-frosted cake with pink frosting roses. I have had naughty fantasies of running my fingers through the sugary frosting while the stripper did her arousing dance for the other men. Yeah, have fun with that. Just leave me the giant cake. However, I have recently been informed that this ‘cake’ is never a real cake and not even decorated with real frosting roses. It’s merely a vehicle to hold a stripper. So all-in-all, my disappointment in not having a stripper cake was minimal.)

Small miracles happened at last Friday night’s bachelor party.

Enough potluck dishes appeared in the arms of Steve’s men friends. Delicious pink salmon on a steaming bed of warm rice, frosted carrot cake cupcakes, a perfect green salad and fruits. Soda and beer came through the front door, just what was needed. Everything provided. Yes, I ran out of dinner plates and silverware. True, I was one guest away from using outdoor, green plastic chairs at the dinner table. And it turns out that every-

thing

was

all

okay.

All of it.

Perhaps because of Christopher’s calmness. Perhaps because of Steve’s intention. Maybe a little Warrior Monk energy infused the night with Grandma Hemmer energy stating, “Everything is fine. Enjoy.” Maybe because we weren’t gathering to impress each other with miracle drinking feats or recounting crazy exploits.

We ate together, laughed together.

And then the twelve of us marched upstairs to my bedroom.

Christopher and I had arranged a circle of tea-light candles with cushions behind them.

Sit where you like.

One candle, a thick maroon pillar sat in the center, unlit on a golden platter.

When we were all seated, I blessed the candle and lit it. I reminded Steve that all of us had gathered to witness his love for Carole Anne. That instead of getting completely trashed on watermelon shots and vomiting in public alleys to show our support, we were trying a new tradition: showing our support through silence. Through loving him quietly. Loving the two of them with quiet intention. This pillar candle was our strength as men. And we would pour our love into this sold maroon candle, strength for him whenever he wanted it by just lighting the wick.

So we sat.

In silence.

At one point during our sit, gentle rain began to fall, splattering the newly unfolded leaves in Minneapolis. The screened windows carried twilight’s soft and breezy goodnight kiss.

After the soft peal of the Tibetian singing bowl had faded, signifying the end of our silence, we went around the circle and in soft and manly voices, blessed what we saw in Steve, what each of us saw in his growth, his power, his love.

Steve’s older brother spoke last. And while I wish to preserve the sanctity of his blessing by not revealing what he said, suffice to say it was rich and loving and I remember thinking everyone should have an older brother like Steve’s to say loving and calm words two weeks before your marriage.

Shortly thereafter, the gathering ended.

Christopher stayed behind and we washed dishes and chatted about the evening.

“Finally, a party designed for introverts.” I told him while we washed and dried his lasagna pans.

But the truly curious thing about this party to me was that we ran out of forks (and plates and chairs). And it was alright with me.

I know why Mom has parties now.To gather those she loves and be able to see them all in one room. And maybe she also does it to test herself, to see if she can let more go, to be okay with who shows up and who doesn’t. Maybe to find peace of mind in having leftover ham or running out of buns.

Can I celebrate life and let it not be perfect? Can I create new traditions with my friends that ignore what-has-always-been-done?

Because sometimes people take buns without ham, you know. They do. And then what are you going to do?

“Matt,” I began as soon as he answered his cell phone, “You know how we always said that if one of us were to become unemployed the other one could move in?”

“We never said that.” He replied calmly.

“Oh, sure we did, all those nights in our bedroom growing up,” I inform him. “Lying in our twin beds talking about the future. Look, I’m going to need to cash in that marker. Just for a while.”

“Yeah, we never said that.” He protests. “I’m pretty I would remember that.”

We waste a few more cell phone minutes arguing about this minute detail, me embellishing slightly with a side conversation I steadfastly argue we also had about providing a little ‘spending money.’ Nevertheless he agreed to let me sleep at his newly-acquired condo a few nights while I was in Chicago. Before I get off the phone, I ask him some basic color questions so I know what furniture to bring.

“Your crap won’t match anything.” Is Matt’s firm reply. “Bring no furniture.”

Being unemployed (or rather – not working – as a friend told me to use last week, as it’s less pathetic than ‘unemployed’)…ahem. So being Not Working, I decided to visit Chicago for a week so I can remind my family and friends both what they love about me and why I drive them nuts.

First up: the younger brother. Aw, he’s not that much younger. He’s gonna be 38.

Matt and I exchange our traditional greeting banter when I arrive.

“Any house rules I should know about?” I inquire politely.

“No parties.”

I belch a groan of disappointment.

“No strangers. No homeless people or you know…anyone that’s not you.”

“Does this rule include German trannie prostitutes?” I ask politely.

“Definitely.”

“If you use my computer, quit changing the home page to one of your web comics.” Matt growls a bit.

“Ah, so you noticed that.” I remark. “From my last visit.”

“And don’t do web searches on google that you think are funny for me to find later.”

“What?” I protest innocence. “Searches for ‘illegal porn’ and ‘donkey sex’ ARE funny.”

He pauses. “You don’t know who could see that. The government or something.”

I sigh, but perhaps that last request is reasonable.

Matt engenders in me this desire to poke him. Sometimes that’s literal, with a stick or a fork or dangling a piece of string so it’s twitching against his forehead like a bug while he’s trying to nap on Mom and Dad’s living room couch.

But sometimes it’s just to verbally poke him, see if I can make him laugh or at least give up an amused guffaw. He’s trying to do the same. Is this how it is with all brothers? Older brothers and younger brothers? Or is this just because I like him as an adult – genuinely think he’s one of the best people I know? I don’t have an answer to that, as I only have the one brother, so I can’t really research this.

But I do worry about him a bit.

After unpacking all over his living room, an instant mess, I am alarmed to discover from Matt that he hasn’t been to his local greasy spoon. He doesn’t even know its name, just that it’s at the corner of Western and Montrose, a few blocks from his house. Matt is nervously eyeing all my clothes and comic books and items scattered across his floor.

“So you’re just going to leave that there.” He says. “Right there, huh?”

I think he should eat at the local greasy spoon because that’s where you see interesting people. I worry about him watching too much TV (kind of ironic coming from me) and I worry that he may not get into enough trouble in life. That he may not experience enough uncomfortable situations to experience the more golden surprises that often result.

These worries are probably stupid and entirely ego-based because Matt is smart and is adventurous in his ways. He has done speed dating multiple times, which terrifies me.

When I wake up the first morning, smacking my lips on his couch, there’s a detailed note waiting for me in his crooked printing, endearing to me because his chicken scratch looks like 8-year-old Matt wrote it and also because he used little boxes for bullets which is exactly what I do.

I call him at work for directions to the greasy diner. I feel it’s my responsibility to check this out for him, so I can strongly advocate it to him.

When he answers the phone I say, “You didn’t give me any house rules specifically about fire. There were no rules about fire mentioned last night.”

“Uh…” he says in his work voice, “I didn’t think I had to.”

“Yeah, well, you probably should have mentioned any rules about fire if there were.”

“Huh.” He says.

I switch gears and ask him directions to the diner.

“Did you find the keys.” he asks and I did.

Last night Matt handed me a key ring with three keys informing me that ‘these may work or not. I haven’t tested them. So if you leave ,you had better take everything you need, ‘cause…who knows.”

He’s kidding, but not kidding. He hasn’t tested the keys.

This morning I found those keys on the bulleted note but now each key now had a small piece of masking tape and a letter indicating which of the three doors it opened. While I snored and drooled on his new leather sofa early this morning, he quietly tested each key, made little labels, and wrote me a note reminding me there was soda in the fridge.

This is Matt.

Over the next two days, I ate breakfast at Jeri’s Diner and it did not disappoint.

When I walked in, the guy who ran the place was ranting (I could tell he was in charge because he was wearing a giant white apron and patrons were looking hungrily at the empty grill. He waved a spatula that signified he had the power over all things food-related). Anyway, he ranted that there were only three real investigative reports in the world: Edward Murrow, Walter Cronkite and Pam Zekman. She’s a Chicago phenomenon and this is truly one of these ‘had to be there’ experiences from the 1980s.

(I swear, events really transpired like this in the diner; It’s all true. And Pam Zeckman is real.)

There is yelling from a patron who wants more coffee. “Miss? Miss? Miss?” he keeps repeating in an irritated voice. “Miss? Miss?”

I have seen this guy for all of 27 seconds and I want to punch him. He is relentless.

The grimacing waitress remains patient even though he’s repeating the word ‘Miss?’ while she saunters right to his table and she smiles at him while pouring more coffee.

“Thank you my dear,” says the old man in his most charming smile. I still want to hit him.

“I’m gonna poke his eye out with a fork.” She mutters as she passes my table.

Maybe ‘mutters’ isn’t the right word, because her complaint is forcibly loud enough for him to hear, for all of us to hear, and he starts cackling and she starts slamming things around and suddenly I’m the one outside of the joke and she interrupts the investigative journalism discussion to demand a raise for putting up with this crap.

Some yells, “You tell ‘em Ruth.*”

* To be perfectly honest, I’m not 100% sure that her name was Ruth. But it was a Ruth-like name.

I order eggs and bacon and she calls me ‘hon,’ about a half-dozen times over the course of my breakfast and while I smile shly at her. Secretly, I love it that she calls me ‘Hon.’

On the way home, I stop at a bakery near Matt’s house and pick up a piece of apricot, butter-cream-icing marzipan. I remember the name because I made one of the girls name every freakin’ piece of marzipan in the case.

“What’s that one? Oh really. Huh. And that one? Oh, that sounds good. What’s that one?”

The bakery is empty so there’s nothing really waiting for her to do, but she’s irritated nevertheless. Hell, I’d be irritated by me as a customer.

I decide on the gorgeous four-layered apricot beauty and it seems to me that two layers between cake are fruit-whipped something. It’s like wedding cake. I didn’t know you could buy wedding cake in individual slices! When did this start? Someone should have told me this news.

I buy a piece for Matt and I want him to taste this. I want him to eat at the Greasy Spoon and for people to look up when he comes in and say, “Hey Matt” to him in a bored voice. I want the bakery girls to flirt with him when he comes in for a piece of wedding cake. But I don’t get to control the world or my brother’s life, so I will have to being content to extolling the virtue of Jeri’s Diner and hope that he tries the biscuits and gravy because they really were quite good.

I get back to his condo (all the keys were labeled correctly) and tidy up a bit so he’s not bug-eyed in alarm by how much I’ve expanded. I do consider that I have certain squatter rights. But I am leaving soon to go wandering around Chicago and he’ll probably be home from work before I get back to his place later tonight.

I stand at the fridge with the door open, a pen poised over the marzipan box. It’s a cardboard box, the kind you can write on, and I intend to leave him a note. I want to remind him how important it is to do uncomfortable things, things that seem too public or too intimate to share. To meet strangers who probably won’t become your best friends because honestly, you have nothing in common. To have awkward conversations where you open your heart so much it makes you nervous.

And I’m the last person to be giving this advice. I should probably try take a few doses before dispensing so liberally. But I worry about him. I do. I sometimes think that I would agree to miss out on certain life opportunities if I could be guaranteed he would get my share. I have had more than my share of laughter – more than a person can reasonably expect. Is Matt getting his share?

Instead of saying something so absolutely cheese ball, I put my pen to the box holding the apricot marzipan and write:

“THIS IS FOR YOU, MATT. SORRY ABOUT THE FIRE.”

A mentor of mine left me a voicemail this morning, suggesting days and times for arranging a meeting, some life detail we need to discuss. Then his tone switched.

“Now, Edmond.” he began with a new sharpness. “I want you to consider this. And reply in an email to me.”

I stopped what I was doing to listen closer. He has that kind of voice.

“What’s your legacy?” he asked. “What are you leaving behind in the world? Think about this.”

I love this man, this mentor. I don’t think I could say that a few years ago, not without blushing furiously and feeling kind of…you know…queer. You’d think it would be easier for me, actually being queer and all, but it’s not like that. Men don’t say things like that to their men friends, the men they lean on. You don’t just go around expressing love and gratitude like it was easy.

“What’s your legacy?” he asked me in voicemail.

Instantly, I pull a Tom Sawyer: imagining the funeral, the long black velvet drapes, a tasteful brass urn, the weeping figures mourners unsure they will able to go on living now that their beloved - me - has departed this earth. It’s really quite gratifying. You should try it sometime.

I herd these imaginary mourners into a tasteful, expansive setting, comfy plush chairs and couches that have the swirly pattern that seems to show up in everything I pick.

Is this my future house? Is it a glamorous hotel lobby? I’m sure the oceans of grieving parties wouldn’t all fit in my current living room. They must have rented a hall or something. There are large bay windows and its green and lush outside, late Spring maybe, and a breeze comes through every now and then, just the way I would have wanted it.

“He always loved cheese fries.” says my sister Eileen, uncomfortable by the weight of silence.

Several people would murmer their assent and it would get quiet again.

“He was obsessed about them, actually.” Ann says from across the room, staring at Eileen, the two of them having a moment together.

“Well,” interrupts Brian Mangin, “Not just cheese fries. I mean, he had other weird obsessions.”

“Spam.” someone volunteers.

“Girl scout Thin Mint cookies.”

“The last episodes of TV series.” Alesia remarks. “He never watched a single American Idol, but he still managed to catch the very last showing.”

“And leaving his pants on the dining room floor.” Dave Rak volunteers with an edge to his voice.

He grips his partner Don’s hand. “It’s not like it’s challenging or difficult to just put them away in a drawer, but nope. Not Edmond. There were always pants in his dining room. You could just stop by and there’d be pants.”

Mom would nod at him gratefully, for the understanding.

My father would stand soon after, figuring he should go first. Something serious.

“I never thought,” he says, his voice trembling. “I would ever have a child…quite so…irritating.”

His mouth clamps shut in a firm line and he is overcome with emotion. It was the beginning of a good story, a really good story, actually, but he can’t finish it just now. Mom reaches up to put her arm on his and he gradually sits.

I was a difficult son.

It’s different now that they’re the age they are and I’m the age I am. I am quite sure that with their youth restored and the supernatural ability to pick from any number of possible sons, they would debate pros and cons of the different models and then eventually settle on me, exactly the way I am.

The energy shifts as a result of my Dad’s eloquent non-story.

“He was funny.” says Sam, a former Allen Interactions’ coworker. “He shot Nickelson in the neck with a nerf blow dart once and it left a red circle right on his neck. Nickelson had to go home and explain this hickey-like thing on my neck was from a male coworker.”

“Actually,” says Nickelson, “it kinda hurt.”

A number of stories crop up: the blow up doll named Plastiqua, waking everyone on a NWTA with silly string, strange packages arriving mysteriously in the mail, cereal box postcards and such, and foul-mouthed poetry found in glove compartments.

“And don’t forget all the internet porn.” Stephen says with a certain melancholy. “Man, did he have a lot of porn.”

First of all, that’s not even true, but geeeeeeez, Stephen! My family is sitting right there!

Aw, hell. I sigh with acceptance because this kind of honestly, this freedom is one of the great things about Stephen. He goes on being himself everywhere, always himself. It’s a trait I find common in fellow warriors. The male warriors and the female ones.

“Okay.” says Ron Morris, standing up, tired of the delays. Ron gets frustrated by conversation that doesn’t cut right to the heart of the matter. His discernment is that sharp.

“We all know that he sparkled.” Ron says, blanching everyone with his ominous shouldn’t-you-be-studying? eye contact.

“So let’s just say that. He sparkled. There.”

“He could be angry with you,” Ron continues, “he could be laughing, telling you work stories or things he observed about his basement sink and you listened because there was always more to the story. More to it. Another layer. And he made sure that everyone in his life knew they were loved. Whether you knew him a little or a lot. And that’s his legacy.”

Ron nods briskly and sits quickly.

“Would you like to speak?” my brother Matt nudges the woman next to him.”Oh no.” she blushes furiously. “I’m just an oncology nurse from the hospital. I’m only here because he told me I should come.”

Matt nods and says that it’s very kind of her.

She hesitates but says,”He said that there would probably be cheese fries.”

“Oh.” cries my Mom, eyes filled with anguish. “I’m sorry…we don’t…”

“No, no.” the nurse protests and blushes redder. “It’s fine. Really.”

Matt touches her hand and then seems to notice her for this first time. And this is good because, really, she’s quite smokin’ hot.

She looks at Matt.

Excellent. They can talk later at the buffet.

“He had this yellow and blue shirt.” says Perry mournfully.

“I HATED that shirt.” my first boyfriend cries passionately. “I fucking hated that FUCKING shirt!”

He realizes that everyone is staring. “Oh. Sorry. It’s just…he just wore it all the fucking time. Also I don’t normally swear this much at funerals.”

Perry nods in sympathy. “He had no sense of style. We know, bubala. But he was tenacious and he didn’t give up on things. He never gave up on me.”

“Or me.” someone else says.

“Or me.” says another.

And I think that might just be my legacy.

“He did give up on me for a few years,” says someone else. “But we worked it out eventually.”

Hey, nobody said I was perfect.

“Speaking of shirts, can I have his red shirt?” Eric Lucas looks guilty for asking this. “The one with the white 87 stitched on it? Wore it like…every time he staffed?”

“Dibs on his comics.” quips Mary-Scott before anyone else can respond.

Steve Grechis walks into the expansive setting, my first boss and owner of the Dairy Mart. He’s wearing a burgandy apron with dried mayonnaise smears, and he’s grinning cheerfully, which is how I remember him and this is my funeral euology, so I couldn’t be more delighted he’s wearing a dirty apron. His hair is grayer than when I first met him as a 15 year-old boy.

“Hey everybody.” he waves and drops his demeanor to a little less cheerful. “I hope I’m not interrupting. He placed an order at the Dairy Mart to be delivered here after he died. Before…”

He trails off and everyone notices the four or five metal catering tins being carried in by industrious teenagers, also in burgandy aprons.

Steve carries the first tin to my parents, and Mom, with a shaking hand, lifts the top.

Cheese fries.

There are probably about 18 or 20 styrofoam containers in this first pan, the cheese still hot and steaming.

Andrea and Eileen stand to help distribute them, which seems kind of natural because the three of us used to work at the Dairy Mart all through high school and even through college.

Ann distributes the small plastic forks solemnly, like communion at church.

Everyone loves cheese fries.

Especially at a funeral.

A week ago or so, I met an interesting gent online.

We started an email discussion and immediately the conversation went to the richest places: gilded insights, masculine archetypes, and personal growth. One of those fascinating, cool connections with a wonderful someone in a far away place. He’s retired, mentor and advocate for teenagers’ rights, and he takes night walks to speak with owls and skunks.

After discussing fiction, I sent him a link from my website and he returned an email or two later with the news that he poked around, read everything, and was now planning to attend a NWTA.

The question he posed to me was, “Why didn’t you invite me?”

I froze.

Sitting at the computer, staring at the email from a man I had not known a week ago Tuesday, and…his gentle curiosity pierced a rusted dimple in my heart armor. Something stuck me deep and my outside body froze solid while inside I melted memories into sticky little judgments.

Why didn’t I invite him?

After all, New Warriors has been a focal part of my life the past four years. (Five?) It’s the most powerful mens’ movement I’ve witnessed. Flawed? Absolutely. It only works with each man committed to his own personal integrity. And we’re men, so we’re all fucked with all the ego armor each of us has already accrued.

And yet I’ve watched New Warrior energy bulldoze shitty lives and leave behind strong green growth. I’ve witnessed victims shed that skin, bullies melt with vulnerability, cowards command courage, and poor of spirit men elevated to instant kingship.

Men reach out to transform their own and their brothers’ lives in subtle, really big, and massive ways. I remember during the last moments of a 2006 staffing, a twenty-something man tried to tell me what I had done for him personally, how he thought I transformed his relationship with his children. But he couldn’t speak. He just stood there with his hand clenched on my shoulder and these streamlined tears stealing down his cheeks as his eyes burned into me with unflinching love.

I understand this man now reads to his sons almost every night.

Massive.

So why wouldn’t I invite this new friend - a man already a warrior in a hundred ways in his life?

Shadow.

Yeah, shadow. Projections, acquired ego or armor to protect from shitty stuff that happens in the world. That which we hide, repress, or deny.

I talk about Shadow a lot on this blog because it’s like March’s salty brine, that slosh accumulating on the windshield that messes up my view of the world. Instead of Spring, I am still staring at grimy residue of childhood wounds, accumulated mental garbage, miscellaneous eight-legged emotional shit that buzzed and crashed, smearing its guts in my view.

No wonder why it sometimes seems like winter in June.

I didn’t invite this man because…

The first obvious layer of shadow is my craptastic history with religion. And despite the amazing nudge New Warriors gives my life, inviting a guy to the NWTA feels like saying, “Come to my church.” (Words that make me cringe as I type.)

One of the reasons I love New Warriors is because they don’t order me what to think, how to believe, who to love. (Uh…like that would ever work with me.)

My first I-group got together weekly for three-years after the NWTA. We had a conservative Christian and a Ganesha-worshipping body worker, an IT guru and a cab driver. And me, corporate guy/artist soul. And we managed to love each other pretty damn well. So not only is diversity of background respected, it’s actually celebrated.

And yet I still resisted inviting this new friend because I was afraid of secreting the smell of church. Huh. I had better look at that again. I know there are plenty of decent churches out there, so this must just be my crud.

Anything else?

(That’s the thing with shadow. There’s often another layer.)

Shadow: If I invite a guy to the weekend and he doesn’t love it, it’s my fault.
Reality: I don’t control everything. If he has a crappy time, that’s his experience. We can still be friends.

Shadow: If I invite a guy to the weekend, I’ll look like a dork.
Reality: Holy crap, I wallpapered my bathroom with comic books and there’s a Mageneto sticker on the front door glass threatening would-be burglars. I’m already a huge dork!

Shadow: If I invite a guy to the weekend he’ll assume I’m totally gay for him.
Reality: Oh please. If that happens, that’s his projection. I don’t have to carry that possible scenario like a wool sweater on a hot day.

Enough swipes with the wiper fluid and the shadowy windshield smears start becoming translucent. Turns out it’s not so impossible, so measly gray out there. Could even be the sun’s out and I never knew it.

This new friend’s question gave me a bit to ponder.

And ponder doesn’t mean twist my hands over who wronged me most, nor does it mean purchasing an action planner for 2009 goals. It’s right now in this moment, this breath, this strange and wonderful place: present tense. What if I breathed a little bit and let go?

Beyond this cleaner windshield the world sparkles with billowing green trees and silver/red dragonflies zing by. I didn’t realize the sky was quite that richly blue. I ponder how I’ll handle the opportunity when it comes up again and I express some dragonfly gratitude for the gift this new friend inspired by just asking his question.

Have I changed? Am I a better man?

Maybe.

But I’m not measuring my life using inches anymore.

I’m measuring by miles.

Inside, I have this deep seated spark of confidence that next time I’ll be more willing to say something like, “Hey bud. You may be interested in checking out this amazing mens’ weekend. It could change your life. Add more richly blue.”

I’m ending a 9.5 year relationship.

Like any relationship, this one had its ups and downs over the years. Some incredible highs and then some days when I thought, ‘why the @*#$ am I here?’ Over the years, my emotions shifted and right now it seems time to break it off, take a little time away to get some perspective, some distance.

This isn’t a bitter breakup. It’s actually rather kind and loving, as much as these things can be. There has been hugging. Some sad goodbyes.

Divorce is hard.

Oh, and I’m *definitely* going to miss getting paid.

Yup. After nine and a half years I am divorcing my job.

I realized the enormity of the relationship’s end last night on the phone with Ann. It was late - probably 11:30 p.m. I was nestled in my living room staring at a roaring fire, alternatively feeding it birch logs and then poking it with a metal rod while Ann and I laughed HARD about random hilariousness of this week’s follies. There were tears coming out of my eyes. Sometimes it’s like that with Ann.

As we were winding down I said, “Hey, do you have time for a quick work story?”

“Sure!” she said.

I made a mental note that I can’t really ’say that’ anymore: a work story. I’m unemployed now.

I started relating a detail from an exchange with a coworker. I mean, former coworker. That led to a story about another coworker. I mean, former coworker. Somehow this led to my sharing my absolutely favorite moment with Dr. Allen, the company founder. As I was describing what the moment meant to me, how oddly gifted he can be with people, tears sprang to my eyes.

“That was a beautiful story.” Ann said softly and the blazing fire crackled in the background.

“Anyway.” I said, suddenly embarrassed that this much emotion had emerged in what was supposed to be a two-minute story. In fact, my “quick work story” turned into about seven or eight quick (and not-so-quick) anecdotes about leaving, saying goodbyes, who said what, etc. I hadn’t realized that more than a half-hour passed. It was after midnight.

I apologized again.

“No,” Ann said soberly. “This is important.”

When she and I got off the phone, I continued to stare into the flickering flames and it continued to dawn on me that this really *IS* important. Yes, it’s a big deal to leave a job where I have spent almost a decade.

For the past two weeks I have been regularly reminded of the societal impact of this.

Mom and Dad call every other day to inquire about the weather, the house, and then to slightly-too-casually ask, “So, have you found a new job? Any leads? What are you thinking about health insurance?” Bless them. I find it adorable that they’re in a near-panic regarding my being out of work. (I wonder if that makes me a sadist.)

A decade. I spent a decade of my life with these work people, this environment, waving my flag under this particular banner.

There are odd details I will miss. Ardelle’s greeting every morning and her razor sharp wit. Meeting Mary-Scott and Pete by the fridge after their smoke break. Microwave conversations that occur while leftovers slowly spin and warm. Shooting nerf blow-darts into the necks of colleagues. I mean, sure, I can assault friends with nerf darts, but it’s just not the same as nailing someone in a professional environment.

I will miss threatening (and being threatened by) my arch nemesis, Rekstad. I don’t think we remember why we’re arch nemesis anymore, but it’s good to have one. No really, it’s healthy. He once tried to get everyone to adopt a new nickname for me: Boog.

“Hey Boog!” he chirped every morning for two weeks. “Hey everybody, Boog’s here!”

Damn you, Rekstad.

During Cyndi’s first week on the job as our new Human Resources representative, Mary-Scott and I visited her office together.

“If I wanted to file a harassment claim against this woman,” I said, thumb jabbed towards Mary-Scott, “where would I find that paperwork?”

Mary-Scott scowled and didn’t give Cyndi a chance to reply. “I’d like to fill out my harassment claims about him online. That way I can just copy and paste for each subsequent new claim.”

Sometimes we are not entirely kind.

I will miss wandering over to Sam’s desk and standing in his space uncomfortably close to him until he finally turns around and says, “Do you actually want something or are you just trying to irritate me?” About 80% of the time I’m there exclusively to irritate him, so Sam shrugs and turns back to his monitor while I make snot noises and rifle through his desk drawers. Sometimes this works and he is enormously distracted. Sometimes it does not work.

You know…as I relieve some of these work vignettes, I’m wondering why they didn’t fire my sorry ass.

I suppose in every relationship you put up with the quirks (and borderline inappropriate behavior with clients) for the sparkling gold that you know is inside each other. You tap my gifts, my potential, and I’ll do my best to make you shine. These gifts emerge through shared experiences, a shared vision. We did some brilliant projects together.

When I applied to Allen Interactions, my soon-to-be-boss, Jason, mentioned Allen’s mission statement at the time: to enhance the human mind and spirit through wonderful, interactive multimedia.

“Seriously?” I asked with skepticism.

“Seriously.” he answered.

How could I resist a corporation that used the nebulous word “wonderful” in its mission statement?

So nine and a half years ago I shook hands with Jason and said, “I’ll give this a shot. But you better not be kidding about that mission statement. That would really piss me off.”

I was good for Allen Interactions. Allen Interactions was good for me.

Well-wishing friends keep saying, “Well, that’s over. What’s next?”

I don’t have an answer ready for that question.

For now, I think I’d like to breathe and watch the slowly dying embers in the fireplace.

Do you have a life mission? A single sentence, a guiding force that gives purpose to your very existence?

I do.

I didn’t always.

If I were to create an unofficial history of my life mission, it may look something like this:

Age 4: Get cookies.

Age 10: Get cookies.

Age 16: Get cookies.

Age 21: Get laid.

Age 27: Get laid.

Age 30: Get a good job. Then get laid.

Age 35: ?

Jung is often quoted as having said, “No man (person) can have a spiritual life until after they turn 30.”

I get it.

Around age 32, I had a fantastic job. I lived in a gorgeous, charming house, decorated in cheerful comic-book colors with groovy music swimming through my oaky, plant-filled home. I had been (and continue to be) blessed with more rich, loving friendships than is possibly fair. And I could buy cookies whenever I wanted.

Amidst this abundance of riches, I surveyed my fabulous little kingdom and a voice quietly asked, “Is this it? Just keep doing this until I die?”

Such a quiet little voice, asking this feeble little question.

“Is this all there is?”

Hey, I overcame shit: did the therapy thing, got better in dealing with anger, read some good love-yourself books. I was growing my spiritual and social awareness and had evolved into a pretty swell guy, even if my shirt didn’t always match my pants and I never got around to weed-whacking the far side of the garage.

“Is this all there is? Just keep doing this until I die?”

Fuck that little voice! Fuck that little stupid voice telling me to look for more.

So I ignored it.

Nevertheless, the nagging little question would pop up at times and I would barely acknowledge it before looking away. But a curious thing happens with repetition…I began to hear nuances in the question. I realized that little voice was not judging me or shaming me…but genuinely inquiring with child-like wonder. Is this it? Is this it? I began to hear the question not phrased as “you should DO more…” but rather as “could I possibly BE more? Am I more than this?”

These little nuances in tone matter.

Perhaps at a later time I may write about the journey from beginning to *listen* to actually finding a mission. This moment right now doesn’t feel quite right to elaborate - I’m too tempted to document it as a linear journey instead of respecting its true inclination: a meandering flow of heart-stretching experiences.

In this Mission River, two ports get special notes. The first: MKP. New Warriors were the ones who said, “What’s the one greatest gold you’re hiding from the world? And why won’t you let us see it?”

When I tried to resist with, “Hey, I’m middle-aged, overweight, homo, desk-jockey who can’t possibly…”

They cut me off and said, “Yeah, yeah. Seriously, though. Whats the one greatest gold you’re hiding from the world?…”

A little trust, a little heart-stretching, and one weekend later, I had a mission.

They didn’t tell me this mission. No, no, that would be too easy. And honestly, I could never co-opt someone else’s “this is your life’s mission” crap. No, they helped uncover what was already inside me; they invited me to polish it. Make it sparkle. And then, go out there and live it.

Bastards.

Part of polishing this mission was attending Warrior Monk. I sat. I listened. Sat a little longer. And from the stillness came a compass, a way of interpreting mission and mission work. It was like hearing the music of an instrument that never existed before, a language that had never been spoken. Oh.

Oh.

It’s uniquely mine, this evolving mission. My words, my spirit. It’s bigger than me, bigger than I can accomplish in this or the next lifetime. But instead of being intimidated by this, I yearn for it, because every day I live that mission fills me in a way the comic-book-colored house cannot.

It’s a single sentence, memorized. Every day it races through my brain as well as up and down my spine. It’s tingly.

I share it sometimes, the words, but only when asked. And only when we can stand close enough that you can see my face light up when I say it aloud.

The question I hear regularly in my head these days is no longer the reedy, small voice of a wondering child. Is this it? That kid is out playing kickball, laughing his ass off. Now the voice is larger. It booms. And yet it’s quite affable and often relaxed.

‘So.’ says the voice and I immediately begin to grin. ‘How do I want to live my mission today?’

Let’s review the checklist:

* Find starfish. Check.

* Get lost in a redwood forest. Check. Check. Check.

* Meet Armistead Maupin; have him sign some books for me. Check.

* Participate in a Village People look-alike contest on stage at the Castro Theater. Check.

* Live in a Tales of the City apartment for four months soaking up San Francisco. Check.

* Have a little bit of romance. Check.

* Find the best carbonara and tiramisu outside Italy. Check.

* Introduce a lovely trans-gender woman to Anna Madrigal, as she had never HEARD of the Tales of The City series. Check.

* Worship the coast, the ocean, the beauty of waves crashing the shore in the light of a full moon. Check.

* Finally see Beach Blanket Babylon. Check.

* Check out Alcatrasz on Halloween. Check.

Time to head home.

One of my favoritest people on the planet (Mr. Dave of Peanut Butter Pie fame) and I howled with laughter the other night on the phone. Have you ever laughed so hard that what spews out is a combination of animal barking, gasping, dry coughing, and unintelligible explanatory words all the while weeping with laughter tears?

It’s one of the true delights of deep friendship.

I was trying to explain to Dave how UTTERLY TERRIFYING it was to be running through a darkening redwood forest eluding serial killers and sleek-muscled cougars. All the while I tried to portray myself as a victim of shortened winter days, awful trail signage…

Dave’s refrain was the same incredulous question: “Yeah, but didn’t you KNOW that it was late in the day when you arrived? I mean, you KNEW night was approaching, right?”

I would pause and then reply, “Perhaps you didn’t hear me explain the part about the absent trail markers.”

Oh, he was sympathetic at first. And we were giggling while I was explaining my fear of Nike-Zombies and flesh-devouring Redwood trees. That’s how it begins - the giggling. The snickering.

And then I had to confess the next ugly part: it happened again, roughly a week later.

“What happened again?” asked Dave.

I explained how I *somehow* ended up alone in a redwood forest at dusk on Christmas Eve. Different redwood forest. But roughly 8 days after the first experience. Cue the mountain lions, serial killers, and zombie attacks. And while I wasn’t quite as lost as the previous week, nevertheless I was still pretty far from the park entrance when the sun zipped out of the sky.

“You can’t be serious.” Dave’s voice raised in mild alarm. “Again? A week later?”

I swear I could actually hear him thumping his head against the wall on the other end.

There’s a point at when horror with someone else’s behavior turns into humor.

Dave’s chuckles started linking together to form a rippling wave. “You…(laughter) did this to yourself…again (laughter) …”

“Oh, it gets better.” I told him.

***

There’s a little story that goes with this tale, taught to me by my buddy Stephen. It’s called:

My Life In Four Chapters

Chapter One: I’m walking down the street and I see a giant pit in the middle of the street. I get too close and fall in.

Chapter Two: I’m walking down the street and I think to myself, ‘hey, this is that street with the giant pit in it.’ I get too close and I fall in.

Chapter Three: I’m walking down that same street and think to myself, ‘hey this is that street with the giant pit. I fell in a couple times before. I should avoid it this time.’ Then, I fall in the pit.

Chapter Four: I take a different street.

Most of us spend our life in Chapter Three: walking down the same street, knowing there’s a giant pit ahead, knowing that we’ve already fallen in it once or twice before, warning ourselves to be smarter this time, be more aware this time…and then falling in again.

I remember a friend of mine once saying to me, “God, this is the fourth person I’ve had a fight with this week about money. Why is everyone so focused on money?”

Good question. Why is EVERYONE ELSE so focused on money?

That would be Chapter Three.

***

I laughingly explained to Dave that this time it was different…this time…I…I…

Dave was beyond listening. “AGAIN?” He howled. “You did this to yourself AGAIN? Do you WANT to be eaten by zombie mountain lions?”

Well, to be completely honest…I did it twice more. In addition to being in Montgomery Woods on Christmas Eve just after sunset, I was in the same forest on Christmas Day.

After sunset.

And while I had BIG INTENTIONS to get out of the forest before sunset, I got caught up in the search for the tallest tree and suddenly there I was again in a redwood forest at sunset.

Any explanations I tried to offer were lost in the hacking, whooping sounds from Dave’s end of the phone.

“Oh my god…” he wheezed, “three times in ONE WEEK…”

This would set us off again.

Chapter Three.

“And nobody knew where you were…” he gasped for air.

Sometimes the best warrior work is to laugh at the Chapter Three situations I create for myself and cherish the ‘how did I get here?’ moments, to embrace them.

This coming weekend I’m headed to another redwood forest.

Alone.

My intention is to be in the forest by 10:00 a.m. so I have plenty of time to roam before sunset.

Dave is not sure this is such a good idea.

In fairy tales, the peasant children run hand-in-hand right into the enchanted forest at night, and twenty paces into the thick growth, they’re very afraid. As readers of said fairy tale, we notice that forest-at-night-thing with scarcely a nod and a, ‘Sure. Sounds scary.’

You have no idea.

A week ago Saturday, I found myself wandering the trails of Armstrong Redwood Forest just outside the resort town of Guerneville. I entered the forest at 3:30 and was assured by the friendly ranger that the hiking trail I selected should take me about 1.5 hours. I’d be back at my car before sunset.

Didn’t quite work out that way.

In my defense, the trails were poorly marked. On the map when two dotted lines intersected each other, I figured there might be a little signage gently suggesting which way to steer. Nope. In reality, three paths converged and all three paths led off in separate directions. I actually whined, “But there are only TWO dotted lines here!!”

The map did not reply. I made my best guess and wandering.

(The only sign I encountered out in the woods suggested that picnic tables were nearby. It was posted 30 feet from actual picnic tables.)

Nevertheless, I walked slowly, savoring every step. I stopped to smell sap dripping down the trees, to rub a little between my fingers and taste it. I practiced walking silently for a couple hundred feet. I sat on a stump, I watched…stared…marveled.

A giant misty cloud hung in the middle of a redwood clump. The shapeless fog seemed to be hesitating…waiting. Usually fog, well, it moves; it’s on its way somewhere. Not this mist. It just dangled, suspended. Perhaps some primeval, woodland ritual was about to occur.

I smelled the sap on my fingers, snapped a few pictures of enormous trees. Trees that wouldn’t be nearly as impressive when digitalized.

I started wondering where I would run if the zombies from 28 Weeks Later appeared over the spiny ridge, sprinting towards me. I hate the new and improved fast-running zombies. They would undoubtedly give chase not caring about getting poked with sticks or worry about tripping over logs. They’re already dead – who cares about a twisted ankle?

Galloping zombies wouldn’t necessarily stick to the trail. Totally unfair.

Huh. Getting darker.

I shook off this absurd fantasy by considering how much more likely it would be to be found by a serial killer. After all, this was an out-of-the-way state park. I had only encountered about 3 people on trails in the past hour. Perfect place for a serial killer to find his next victim. He probably already had a shallow grave dug nearby. The fact that nobody knew I was at this particular state park and there was ZERO cell phone service within a 12 mile radius made me an ideal candidate for Victim #14.

Oddly, these ruminations did not help with the zombie fear. Now, mentally I was being chased by the serial killer (who stayed on the trail) and the woods-sprinting zombies (who did not).

Hmmmm. Why was I here?

I LOVE the redwood forests – they speak to me in a language I cannot express with words, music, or the dozens of snapped photos. When I’m alone and meditating through a redwood forest, I feel I’m walking through pure energy. I can understand why clouds of mist hang about – who’d want to leave? The absolute stillness, the vibrating energy…this is a sanctuary, a place of radiating power.

Eckhart Tolle, spiritual guru, advises his listeners to reach inward and feel their “inner body,” the energy that animates our flesh, that powerful inner-self who is pure consciousness. Beyond thought, beyond emotions is a consciousness, the well-spring of all that is. Tolle would suggest that it’s sometimes hard to feel this inner body, given how much we get caught up in our day to day dramas, etc. But that doesn’t make it less real.

When I’m in a redwood forest, I feel like I’m walking through the earth’s ‘inner body,’ that energetic field that is less tangible than the trees, but is everything and everywhere. Breathing the very air seems sacred, more than breathing and exactly that.

And in the gloaming, that power is just as present and perhaps is even more ominous, more strongly felt.

The sun was setting. I couldn’t actually see the sun or its rays from deep in the basin in the forest, but I could see shadows lengthening and a distinct lack of overhead light.

I tried not to panic. I ran into a few humans (non-zombies, non-killers) who steered me back towards the right path…but by now light was almost gone.

“Good luck.” They said, turning onto a different path.

I ran.

Running through a forest at night, even on a wide path, is a dicey thing. First off, every tree holds the power to hide some lurking creature. Maybe a bear waking up from an afternoon nap. Or perhaps a mountain lion awaits, still irritated about not finding any lunchy goodness.

And there I was, jogging with my face pointed up, using the vestigial colors in the sky as my flashlight.

Despite my pounding heart, I had to stop for a moment and visit The Colonel as I passed.

Armstrong Woods boasts of one of the oldest redwoods in California – Colonel Armstrong, named after a lumberjack who looked at the tree and decided to spare not only that tree, but the entire section of the forest. The Colonel is 1400 years old. Think about that – a 1400 year old LIVING CREATURE.

I came upon The Colonel and knelt on the ground before this massive redwood. If I died this year and was reborn within minutes, it would take 30 more lifetimes before I matched this creature’s age.

And what spiritual thoughts went through my brain as I knelt before The Colonel? Listening to my heart pound and then pound harder as a twig snapped behind me, I had to consider, ‘how much do we REALLY know about redwoods?”

What if they’re actually carnivorous?

Seriously.

I mean sure, no one has ever SEEN them consume human flesh. But…they’d be too smart to do it when anyone was looking. After 1000 years of photosynthesis, don’t you think a tree would get a little bored with converting sunlight into energy? Might said tree not fantasize about salty, tangy human flesh?

I bet that if redwoods ate humans, it would take dozens of years to fully digest a human body. You’d be locked up vertically inside this living coffin, softwood tendrils and root systems burrowing just under the skin to tap into your veins and arteries, converting blood into usable nutrients.

And you’d scream for a few days, hoping someone would hear you, and even though a Wyoming family is snapping photos four feet away, nobody could ever hear you through the three feet of soft wood and bark. You’d live for a few more weeks (maybe even months if the redwoods could somehow pump nutrients into your body) before eventually succumbing.

In the forest at night, the mind does wander.

So, I left the Colonel and his sanguine appetites.

…Zombies with Nikes.

…Dangling clouds of sentient mist.

…Snack-oriented mountain lions.

…Serial killers posing as a helpful pair of German tourists.

…Flesh-devouring redwoods.

…Groggy bears still stretching their limbs, ready for a good warm-up run.

…Sinister, invisible things that only come out at night.

I ran.

Well, actually, I jogged quickly. I felt that running full speed might convey that I was wildly terrified, and I wouldn’t want any carnivorous 1400 year old creatures to sense my enormous panic, so I allowed myself a cantor usually reserved for trying to catch a bus as it pulls away from the curb. Then I thought about the zombies again and broke into a full run.

I thought about children in fairy tales wandering into the woods and how we in our ‘modern times,’ really don’t have the same fear. Our recent forbears wandered these same woods with no map, no promise that an organic juice bar was just over that peak a mile away…they made camp and probably DID worry about hungry mountain lions, listening to the crackling of branches and praying that they lived to see the morning. (And I bet they did worry about carniverous trees, even if they laughed it off in the morning.)

Now, we’re only a hiking-path away from the parking lot where we can lock our car doors, crank a CD at full volume, and drive back into town without incident.

Which, it turns out, I was able to do.

I emerged at the hiking trail head, stopped to breathe and rearrange my clothes. I wanted to get that crazed, harangued look out of my eye before I encountered anyone else headed towards their cars. I didn’t want them to think I was a serial killer out looking for Victim #14.

In the parking lot, I took the photo (below) which reminded me why I’d be back hiking again: the forest truly is an enchanted place.