I went to a workshop this weekend that kinda blew my head open. This entry isn’t going to be about that.

(Yeah, it was a New Warrior event. Marketed quite blandly as ‘Integrating Personal Leadership Training,’ the experience was a brain-busting blend of psychology, poetry, rich lecture, male archetypes, and the deepest kind of wonderings. Like most New Warrior events, we bypassed roughly four levels of social norms, and went for the gooiest heart stuff: love, blessings, sadnesses and the prickliest fears handled equally in lovingly and fierce care. Definitely worthy of some blogging, but not tonight. Tonight is about the anniversary.)

Sunday night, after three days mentally orgasming on the brain’s tilt-a-whirl-weekend, I was in altered space. I kept trying to do normal things but I’d stop and then grin for a while. Read for a while and grin, then I’d eat something and compose half an email before walking away. I watched The Spiderwick Chronicles and nodded seriously throughout. ‘This could happen.’ I would think. ‘Yeah, this is totally, like, I’m surprised it hasn’t already happened.’

Altered state.

So I didn’t make a phone call I had intended to make – an anniversary phone call.

I moved to Minneapolis 13 years ago this past weekend. Thirteen years ago, my family and Ann drove me and the U-Haul full of disgruntled houseplants to Minne-soota. We unpacked my belongings in this amazingly beautiful one-bedroom place in Uptown with wooden floors.

That chilly June evening, Ann kept huffing into the air, these short soundless barks. “Look.” she’s say to me pointing at the smoke cloud. “It’s so cold tonight there you can see my breath. HUFF. See that? It’s June, Manning. It’s fucking June.”

The whole night we giggled with each other, my family, Ann, and I as we unpacked my kitchen and my heart pounded in fear. We went out for ice cream after we unpacked, and while we sat outside and ate in Crema’s patio garden, Ann would take a eat a bite of ice cream, swallow, and then huff her cold breath into the night air where frozen crystals formed. “June.” she would say, eyes blazing.

I drove back to Illinois with them for two more weeks of in-office work. And when I came back two weeks later, it was Gay Pride weekend in Minneapolis. I was going alone.
No, no…that was cool.

I wasn’t a, you know, not a TOTAL loser. I could make new friends. Right?

I could do this.

So I went to the Big Gay Pride Stuff and wandered around Loring Park, looking at the booths. It was charming, a quality I found lacking in Chicago’s Gay Pride. Oh, Chicago was fierce, proud, and like, on steroids. Awesome. But then after the parade, the hard drinking began and if you weren’t wasted by 5pm, then what was the point of even going at all?

Minneapolis Pride, much like the entire city itself, has a very different vibe from other places I’ve lived. I personally think the Minneapolis state bird should be a comfortable flannel shirt. Minneapolis definitely has a few glamorous spots, probably only 100 or so. Totally glamorous, actually. But most of Minneapolis feels like I city that should have been named, “Bud.”

“Hey, Bud.”

Bud nods.

Whenever I approach Minneapolis from I-35W, headed north, there’s this great hill. Coming over the hill, you see the downtown skyline on the horizon, close enough to know whether the downtown lights are on at night, but far enough away that the buildings still seem huddled together, maybe for warmth. (It’s cold in June, sometimes, ya know.)

In the summer, an ocean of green trees surround the skyscrapers in every direction. From this view, mile after mile of turbulent, green waves protect the castle keep. Coming upon Minneapolis this way makes me happy and misty-eyed because I feel like I’m part of the secret kingdom that everyone erroneously thinks is in Antarctica.

The citizens of this kingdom ride bikes like fiends all summer long, which would make you think they were afraid of Winter and had to make every day count. And I suppose that’s true for some. But the rest of the city says, ‘Oh no, it’s just too damn warm to snowmobile, so we figured ‘why not bike?’ We love the summer. We love the autumn. We hate the winter (But not really. Not like that.) and we love the Spring. It’s a crazy city.

And it’s my 13th anniversary of living here!

I moved here after a heart-vision of seeing future, loving friends over for dinner in my future, adorable home.

I have the bungalow. Loving Friends. A Richness of Life that boggles me. Stain of a dead person on my kitchen floor. Okay, THAT one I did not actually dream of, that was just a tough real estate market when I bought this lil’ home. I suppose that’s part of Bud’s charm.

“Hey, Bud,” you might say when you are a first-time home-buyer and find out you bought a house with a corpse stain on the kitchen floor, “Bud, there’s a corpse stain on my kitchen floor. How about that? What the fuck is up with this city, Bud?”

Bud raises his eyebrows, shakes his head and then goes back to whatever he was previously doing.

Anyway. That first Pride weekend I wondered if I would meet someone new. New lover? New friend? Would I ever have a friendship as rich as Ann’s and mine? What the fuck was I doing anyway? I wondered about these things and the life opening before me, and wondered if it were wise to listen to my heart pounding 10 months ago when I visited this castle-kingdom for the first time ever.

“Hi.” said a handsome man, stepping out in front of me. I was wandering around the Pride Festival, the merry-carnival: 800 colored booths of rainbow merchants and happy volunteers.

This guy and I almost walked into each other.

“Hi, I’m Brian.” he said, shaking my hand. “I just moved here this weekend.”

Brian had been in Minneapolis for roughly 48 hours and managed to capture an entourage by his own personal magnetism.

This handsome guy at the party was suddenly shaking my hand.

Maybe I’ll wax prolific some night about our tawdry affair, our few weeks of dating, our years of friendship, our Big Fallout, and how Brian’s big-heartedness paved the way for us to be friends again. Short version: he’s just in that deep in my heart. And our Anniversary is the Pride weekend, when we both moved to Minneapolis.

There were a few years when Brian, Chris, and I would hang out so frequently that on those random nights I would go out on my own, just about all the gay Minnesotans would say, “So. Where are the other two tonight?” The three of us were single and dating, so every other week Chris would perk up and say, “Oooh. Tangled web story. I had a first date with someone you had two dates with, Ted.”

Brian might reply with, “I go next.”

“Damn.” I would say. “Because my ‘tangled web’ is a good one.”

We’ve fallen away in recent years. Not like, angrily…more like attrition. They both fell in love with great guys, the Big Kinda Love, and roughly months apart and a new chapter of their lives began. Plus, I bought a home owner with a corpse stain in your kitchen, and you know how it goes. Yard to mow, things to fix, can’t see you Saturday – all booked up…how about Tuesday, no? You guys have plans on that next Friday? Okay. No, no, you gotta go to that. Huh. Well, the next weekend for sure.

We have missed some dating escapades with each other or only heard about them as opposed to lived through them together. Some big ups, some big downs. It hurts a little because Brian was the only one who ever got how overly-precious the word ‘Yesh‘ was to me. To this day, the in-synchness is always wonderfully present when we’re together, for five minutes or an occasional weekend breakfast. But the occasions just doesn’t happen often enough.

There’s always going to be a chunk of my friendship-heart that has Brian’s handsome smile throating out, “Hellllllllllllllloooooooooooooooooooooo” in the creepy-old-lady-voice he would use to answer the phone whenever I called. He would often insinuate that he (sorry…”she”) was in the middle of elderly masterbating and would I care to join in for some hot phone sex?

Ugh.

In the game of ‘raunch chicken’ with Brian, I always lose.

I love him. He’s just in there – embedded deep in my heart.

Yesterday was our anniversary. I should have called him.
(In my defense, I would like to point out that I almost thought the Spiderwick Chronicles was a documentary last night.)

I had recalled Brian throughout the weekend. Multiple times every day. During the retreat, the tough question was asked, ‘What have you let slip away in your life by not being the king? By not assuming the role of king in your kingdom, what has suffered?’ Ow. Ow. Double-ow for Brian.

Tonight I drove home from a massage and decided to take the scenic side around Lake Calhoun, because Bud is quite gorgeous in the summer when he stretches out his arms and yawns. The sky was that color of blue that is almost purple and the clouds were the color you often see in religious greeting cards. From the car, I happened upon a vista – break in the tree line and the right angle where I could see the downtown skyline, its sleepy Monday nightlife gradually awakening.

At that exact moment, I was listening to the song Ever After by Carrie Underwood from the Disney movie, Enchanted. What can I say? The sun was setting, I just had an incredible massage, and I am loved.

I was so stunned and flooded with joy that I LIVE HERE! I HAVE A LIFE HERE! I had to pull over and stare at the skyline, staring at the colors in the sky, the lights of the city, and my heart was singing. Birds were twittering.

Any hesitation I may have had about calling this old friend after missing our anniversary vanished, because I had just had my I-LOVE-MINNEAPOLIS! anniversary moment, a goofy grin from my old friend, Bud.

Brian did not answer with Creepy-Old-Lady voice, which I was half-expecting.

“HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!” I yelled into the phone. “IT’S OUR ANNIVERSARY!”

Brian laughed and said softly, “Yesh.”

We talked for a few moments but he was eating dinner so we promised to talk soon, a promise I am sure now I will keep. I learned a few things about myself this past weekend and how I can let important people slip away. I know we have lots to catch-up on and hope more yet to experience together. We both love 30Rock with a freaky passion and while the-falling-in-love-with-30Rock happened at different times and not-quite-together, it means there’s a part of us that still really ‘gets’ each other.

“You were on my mind this weekend, Brian.” I told him.

“I think you mean your MIND-grapes.” he corrected me in a Tracy Jordan imitation.

And THEN it was the perfect Minneapolis moment.

Happy Anniversary, Bud, and thanks for Brian.

Bud nods.

I know people talk to their plants, say loving things and tell them to ‘grow, Honey, into that leafy emerald goddess,’ and I think that’s sweet. If I were some shy Minnesota houseplant yearning for a little more sunny goodness from November – May, those words might be comforting. Uplifting, even.

So, I’m just saying, I know it’s not weird to talk to your plants. Or sing to them. I’m sure I will some day.

However, I talk to the yard plants as if I were their CEO and they are my employees. I’m not sure it’s normal to threaten downsizing for some of the underperformers and talk to the desirable plants as if there are advancement opportunities if they just show up a little on the weekends.

It started normally enough, I guess – just a quarterly meeting, really.

I would chat with them about last quarter’s harsh Spring – the numbers were NOT good – and how “second quarter is really our big time of the fiscal year to move product.” I swing my arms with a little energy, like it’s an off-site meeting in a Hilton conference room. “So, let’s all get geared up for Photosynthesis ’08! We’ve got Marketing putting together some great slogans!”

I think they’re responsive. My yard plants are definitely proactive and love to think outside the box.

Well, some of them do. But there are non-team players, like Charlie.

Creeping Charlie.

I’ve tried to have his ass fired from Backyard, Inc. so many times and yet he always manages to get in good with Human Resources; he makes me out to be the big-bad middle-manager trying to crush his career goal of racing throughout the lawn. Surprise, Charlie, you shouldn’t have take the front-yard-account away from me, because now I’m using my fiscal ’09 budget to hire some outside consultants who specialize in organic removal. Outside. Consultants. That’s how far you pushed me.

In the mornings, even days usually, I tour the Raspberry Factory. I nod approvingly but with a slightly haughty demeanor. The hard-workin’ Joes who are busy producing squishy, crimson fruit like to see the Big Boss wandering around every now and then, nodding at their blossoming performance.

It motivates them.

Our nearest competitor is Rose, who is an amazing gardener. She lives next door (and no, she’s not a plant-metaphor-thing. She’s real. I just didn’t think about how confusing that would be when I started this post.) Years ago, Rose planted these pencil thin twigs against the rustic, wooden fence joining our two lots.

“Trust me.” she said.

I was skeptical.

Now they’re an impossibly thick arch – hundreds of bright pink roses, literally hundreds. She trained them up and over the gate, so walking through that fushia foliage is like a like being the prize-winning horse at the Kentucky Derby. It’s intoxicating and my heart swells every single time.

Rose isn’t a competitor anymore, she’s a strategic alliance. A resource partner. She tells me things, organic cures and such, and tonight I offered her some impatiens, a lateral career move for a eight-pack of seedlings who felt they would have better advancement opportunities over there. Good luck, guys. Remember what they say about the grass being greener.

After processing some common weeds and filing them under N for Nuisance (hey, it’s my filing system and it works. I can find anything). I often do an onsite at the satellite office – the window box out front. Later, I retire to the corporate housing, through the exclusive C-level entrance, the deck. It’s an entrance the majority of the employees of Backyard, Inc. never get to use.

And the unfortunate few who DO make it to the deck are decapitated on their stems and their bodies are proudly displayed in a vase on the plastic table on said deck. Everyone in the backyard can see their pink-slipped coworkers, bobbing in water.

There is often a nice green tablecloth to soften the blow of their stolen comrades, but nevertheless I know it’s upsetting to the ranks of Backyard, Inc. because these on the table in the vase – they were the yard’s star performers. Why did they deserve this? How did this happen?

Corporate politics are so confusing, sometimes.

I do worry about how much my corporate career has seeped through my life.

The Mighty Corporate World is like a mission-statement/religion I did not intend to worship, these metaphors and crumbly phrases conveying mirthy acceptance of an adequate life. Not great, but adequate. We all know that the ones tossing around the catch phrase, ‘think outside the box’ couldn’t get out if the box was on fire and the only path was littered with cool, blue diamonds.

I can’t watch the TV show, The Office.

It makes me sick to my stomach. I know, I know…it’s funny. I have seen parts that make me laugh out loud. It’s not the show, it’s me. When I laugh at something funny in The Office, it’s like laughing when I have a toothache and have forgotten that the rush of air inside my mouth is about to jangle a nerve in about 1.1 – NOW, actually. Ow.

It’s not funny to me, I guess, because it’s too damn familiar. I feel like someone should pay me to watch that show because it’s like being at work. Make no mistake – my coworkers were awesome. Not nearly as dim or obtuse.

But I worked as a consultant for 17 years which means I have actually worked for roughly 100 companies and I watched them operate. The gi-normous bunglings! The insane decision-making! Plants are often mindless and seemingly vicious in their competition to survive, but at least they produce beautiful flowers sometimes while doing so.

I take this confusing mind-clutter out on the backyard, my strange language, mental constructs. I think it dehumanizes me when I think of the backyard as a Venn diagram of resources and time and garden space. I am not entirely grateful for that kind of thought process.

And some days when I’m forgetful of Corporate America, I do chatter mindlessly to the plants, saying supportive things like a motivational coach instead of a boss. Sometimes I work through fiction-writing problems with them, talking about how ‘if this character does this…how will he get over here…’ and they listen without giving advice because I didn’t really want advice. I wanted someone to listen. We’re colleagues in these moments, when I soften my brain and consider their beauty.

I think that’s why the Creeping Charlie never quite gets canned, year after year. I’ll be growling about their following the wrong incentivizing program maximizing market share – and then suddenly I will see them all waggling in a breeze, winking neon purple smiles and I remember that beautiful maxim: weeds don’t know that they’re not flowers.

Oh. Okay.

Right.

This isn’t one of those things where I have to win…I have to co-create. Right. I do that sometimes with the universe – we create stuff together. This is one of those times, huh?

If I can just soften my brain from some of the corporate mindset that I seem to have adopted, I am softer to them, maybe softer to myself as well.

Maybe they will invite me to the company picnic this year.

When I tour the Raspberry Factory, I will appreciate their beauty, plump red blobs bobbing in salutation. And I will try to remember that life can be less about productivity/efficiency and a little more about laying in the grass with my hands behind my head and casually saying to the nearest vegetation, “Enough about me. What would you guys like to talk about?”

No shit.

While visiting my pal Ann last week in Iowa City, I picked up Friday’s paper. We had just finished snarfing down eggs and bacon at marginally famous Hamburg Inn and while waiting for Ann to emerge from the restaurant, a front page Iowa-Citizen newspaper picture caught my eye. The high school math teacher was wearing a wizard hat, hugging a student in a cat-in-the-hat uh…hat (there’s no good way around that phrasing) after victory at Regionals. Cute story.

While scanning the rest of the front page, the REAL news appeared in the top left column: a local man (John) had discovered Jesus – you got it – in the crinkles of a plastic bag holding groceries. Below are a few excerpts.

“…Two days later, when he (John) was resting on the couch, he said he looked over at the bag and saw the religious figures. The sunlight coming through the open blinds in the room helped create the image, he said.”

“He said he believes there is a head-to-toe image of the Virgin Mary on the right side of the bag and the face of Jesus on the left.”

Apparently John captured the image on his cell phone camera and has been eagerly showing it around town. People gaped in wonder and awe. Over 300 have now seen it. But he can no longer show anyone the original bags anymore. Why not, you ask?

“I guess my friend or I must have picked it up or thrown it away,” John said.

This miraculous appearance led Ann and I to speculate on several important issues:

* Why were groceries he purchased from Walmart sitting on the table for two days? Were there perishables? What if there was cottage cheese or milk involved in this purchase?

* Why did he – after discovering the miraculous nature of these items – throw away the bags? Or maybe “his friend” did it. Uh…John. Take ownership, buddy. C’mon.

* Why didn’t the newspaper include a picture of the miraculous Walmart bags? It seems odd to run a story devoted to and centered around potential proof of God (or his family) and then not show the photo of said images.

* Seriously, what was in the bag that made him say, “I guess I should unpack these groceries now.” Oreos? Were they Double-Stuff? Because maybe they were put there by the devil.

In the car ride back to Ann’s place, we howled with laughter.

Poor Virgin Mary – little did she know that this mother-of-god gig would require her to make appearances in various oil slicks under Ford Escorts and also in pecan rolls outside Knoxville, Tennessee. I wonder if the Angel who gave Mary the “Blessed art thou amongst all women…” speech made full disclosure? It would have to be something like, “Oh yeah…and centuries after you’re presumed dead you’ll be appearing in parking lots and on Walmart bags.”

Mary must have hesitated for just a moment and then asked, “What’s a parking lot?”

I found this whole article supremely hilarious until I got home, visited my own website, and noticed that I had devoted a whole mess-o-words to a $1.79 bag of ice sent by mystical loving powers of the universe.

Huh.

Suddenly making fun of John’s Walmart bags wasn’t so amusing.

I wonder why it’s so hard for me to believe someone else’s faith experience. I sure struggle with that. I can believe some curious coincidences in my life have deeper significance. Of course they do! Even if they are not exactly physical representations of dieties, I often ponder if this is the “universe communicating” through physical objects, through people I love, through angry drivers trying to make illegal turns at red lights. I have no problem wondering about THAT.

And yet…someone else shares their experience of God or Goddess, of Buddha or their own Mohammad…and I’m rolling my eyes thinking, ‘Ah, here comes the big delusion.’

Why am I so stingy in this regard?

Faith does not always come easy for me. I stomped on it for many years, believing it to be an antiquated shackle left over from humanity’s collective fear of death. And after turning my back on the ‘hard sell’ of life-after-death mythology, what need had I of faith?

What a surprise, years later, to find in me a babbling brook of eager, happy faith, flowing towards a destination I did not see nor understand. What the hell was I supposed to do with THAT? I remember being surprised and confused that this faith didn’t require me feeling like I am a shitty person or a convoluted belief system taxing me to believe I’m going to hell for various impossible reasons. This faith was…refreshing. Literally, refreshing. Invigorating. It filled me with gentle power and humility, instead of over-blown righteousness and obsequious submission.

Well, clearly I’m still working on ‘righteousness.’

And I still don’t have the answers. I don’t really expect to get them in this lifetime. I’m cool with that. Really. Who knew that I could have faith without knowing its final destination? Besides, I wouldn’t trust anyone trying to sell me life-after-death religious insurance. Yet why is it so hard for me to trust someone else’s experience of divine intervention just because it was not the exact same as mine?

I hope I can use this Iowa City newspaper to remember that the universe probably doesn’t work through everyone the exact same way. John, if you’re reading this (and being that the universe and the Virgin Mary collaborate in mysterious ways, perhaps you are) I’m sorry I doubted your experience of the Walmart bags.

If I were still in Iowa City, I would invite you to the Hamburg Inn and you could show me the pics on your cell phone. Over eggs, perhaps I could ask you questions about your faith. And really, you should try the biscuits and gravy. They’re quite good.

I am very in favor of Mankind Project‘s “mission of service” until it happens to conflict with the time I crawl out of bed on Saturday morning. That’s when I grumble about ‘stupid mission’ stuff.

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 front and side yard.

Well, everyone else did that.

I chose a completely different, fairly useless assignment.

When we first arrived, I stood in the backyard, meeting the homeowners. While we chatted, one of the Master Gardeners surveyed the yellow carpeted back lawn which was not our focus today. She said with obvious disappointment, “We’re 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, creepy monkeys, and free bags of ice to communicate. So, I’m all over the yellow drought flowers.

They had 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).

During those early minutes in the back yard, while folks drank coffee and nodded over the work to be done, I noticed a curious phenomenon.

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, I could see no one. Spooky. Easily explained by the children’s father:  curious about the visitors, his kids were also shy. All seven of his children were under the age of twelve, with only one 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, now front curtains began their whiplash dance. I went to investigate. I know, I know, I should have been attentively listening to the Big Boss big plans, but I already had my work assignment.

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 ran away 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.

Soon it was time to work.

For an hour, I knelt and dug 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 found myself enjoying this satisfying chore and accumulating quite a pile of dead yellows. Then I heard that familiar tapping from the back window. The curtains whooooooshed once again.

For the next few minutes a voice muffled behind class would cry out, “Make a funny 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 dared to come and stand right next to me while I sweated over the next extraction. The weed pile grew bigger.

“Wanna help?” I said, and they giggled and run away, chattering happily in Somali.

You have never seen such gorgeous children. Seriously, 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 wore name tags.) Two of the youngest (and apparently twins), sat on the back steps with their tiny hands on their little knees, wide-eyed at all the excitement.

Finally, the oldest boy said, “We will help.”

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.

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

Well, that was what I intended to say.

I think I got as far as “The best sat–” before the four children scattered across the yard to start digging. One ditched his little-kid-shovel and instead dragged an adult shovel over 50 dandelions, searching for one to dig out. Two other kids followed suit and found adult-sized hand trowels.

While I watched nervously, they began to attack the lawn.

Nobody stayed for the lesson, but how hard could this be? Just get in there by the root and dig it out. 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 my established pile of drought flowers.

“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, beaming.

True enough, he had a big dandelion.

I liked this kid a lot. His chubby cheeks and middle-child status somehow reminded me of me; I felt a kindred spirit.

He said proudly, “It’s big!”

“Yes, it’s great,” I said, “But you really have to –”

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

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

“OH,” I said, alarmed. “You got one, yeah. Lots of dirt in that one, huh?”

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.

Oldest brother returned to challenge his younger bro. He said, “THIS is a big one.”

“Yes,” I said a little less generously.

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

I said, “Yes, it sure is. Yeah.”

I was no longer happy.

See, the cycle of energetic children meant that one was very frequently standing in front of me demanding praise and I now couldn’t get much done. So not only was one side of the yard being chunked open with shovels, but it was 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 while I’m hosting the Oscars. Or when there is a burning orphanage and someone has to go rescue Skittles, the beloved cat trapped upstairs. Yes, the Big Shining Moments. (Although honestly…Skittles would be shit-out-of-luck, because I get easily confused about directions, especially when I’m in trapped in a burning building with a terrified, scratch-happy cat. I don’t see a great outcome for Skittles in this scenario.)

Maybe I’m not ready for the Big Shining Moments. I have to keep practicing on the small ones. Those small ones are available daily, the chance to be a king in someone’s life. A king. Whenever I wait for the Big Shining Moment, I forget that it might be happening right now.

Saturday, 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 said with enthusiasm.

Their father enter the backyard and after watching the parade of children to Ep-mon-d (they had improved significantly), he laughed and started weeding 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. You’re always going to be good enough.

After seeing the excitement in her brothers and sisters, one of the two twins watching from the porch cautiously joined in. She walked to me very 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.

We blinked at each other a moment and I said, “You are the most wonderful dandelion picker!”

She nodded 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?’