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.

Okay, so it really bugged me. The geographic snobbery, that is. All this week, I keep encountering it from San Franciscians, both people I know and almost-strangers.

The latest flurry of comments along the lines of, “˜ I bet you’re glad you don’t have to go to the MIDWEST this year for Christmas”¦’ and each time it rankles me. (Particularly as I’m a bit homesick for family and friends.)

As I well know from warriors, every strong charge I have with something is always about me. I can be outraged and disappointed by someone else all I want”¦and yet the “˜charge’ originates from within.

It’s not always easy to see this charge, especially while bristling in silent outrage. As a result, I refused to see my own charge in these geographic snobbery remarks. I kept thinking, “˜what’s wrong with these people?’ instead of asking the more warrior-like question: how is this about me? What am *I* contributing to making this a charge?

Ah. Right.

A little pondering and reflection has revealed my expectations, my beliefs that contribute to aforementioned rankling. Expectation #1: people living in such a place of beauty should appreciate that beauty comes in many forms.

I harbored an unconscious expectation that people living in the bay area to be EXPERTS on the topic of beautiful geography, which (to me) means seeing recognizing the beauty inherent in many geographic locations. These people are not meeting my expectation.

And the lovely thing that happens when reflecting on expectations is that I can see them for what they are ““ projections. Sometimes quite ridiculous projections at that.

Why should a person living in San Francisco be more attuned to beauty than a woman living in Madrid, Spain or a couple living in Alabama?

As I thought about this, I realized expectation #2: folks in San Francisco would be more open, more tolerant”¦more like Tales of the City characters. Ooooops ““ now THAT is ridiculous: that I should expect the real world to act more like favorite book characters?!?

THAT is ridiculous.

I have to admit that when it came to being open to other ways of living (yes, even places to live), I thought the people here would not have “˜shadow.’ And each time someone from San Francisco puts down Minnesota, there’s some twinge of shadow showing up, some need to be “˜right,’ or ego-triumphant.

This quality is not that unique.

I have heard Minnesotians bristle in defensiveness and then brag on the state’s admirable qualities. I’ve heard Chicagoans RAVE about how it’s the greatest city and how you’d be stupid not to live there. But I expected that individuals living here in the bay area would NOT have that shadow. That they would be free of it, more evolved somehow.

Who knows how I developed this prejudice, this projection? Meh. Who cares. What matters now is this: can I let go of it?

In the next week or two when someone says, “You’re going back to Minnesota, huh? How awful for you”¦” will I be able to let it go?

I think so.

The great thing about ferreting out the buried expectations, the ridiculous standards I set for others is that by my looking at them, reflecting upon them, holding them in the light”¦they deflate a bit. They lose some of their illusory power.

In fact, the power of those buried expectations comes from hiding in the dark.

I tried not to write this post – I really did. In fact, I’ve avoided the topic for as long as I’ve been here.

But it came up again twice in the last 24 hours and I’m tired of being polite.

Over lunch today, I hiked the University of California Berkeley campus with a coworker. We’ve been trying to make time to walk and chat for months – she’s got spiritual, music, and energy work experiences that I’m fascinated by. I’d really be interested in getting to know her more as a person. We keep making plans to have lunch and I keep blowing them off – too much work to do in the office and never enough time.

Today, we finally walked and discussed why we can never seem to make the walking lunch work. I explained that the two hour commute I now have every day influenced how much time I could devote to sitting at my desk and taking a full lunch.
She asked, “How long is your commute in Minneapolis?”

“Roughly 12 minutes, I replied.”

“Wow, that’s great.” she said, “But then again…you have to live in Minnesota.”

The tone was unquestionably negative, a verbal sneer.

I wish this were an uncommon attitude.

I don’t understand why the folks I have run into in San Francisco are so mean-spirited about any place that ISN’T San Francisco. I met a guy here who explained why San Francisco was better than…well, everything. He was explaining how a great party he and his boyfriend hosted, how amazing it was – a Bollywood themed bash complete with hired dancing girls and a complimentary bindi at the door.

I wasn’t sure how to respond…clearly he wanted my admiration or at least appreciation. I thought it sounded a bit…rude. As the godfather of an Indian man (shout out to Narayan: stay in school. Don’t do drugs.) I puzzled how respectful this party was, wondered whether to say anything about that dimension.

“I mean, who in Minneapolis would have ever thought of THAT? Bollywood?!” he bragged.

I stared at him with a blank expression and wondered

“Seriously.” he said again, “Nobody in Minneapolis would have thought of that. Right?”

Oddly, he really wanted me to agree that this was uniquely a San Franciscan idea.

Again…I wish the attitude were unique to a couple people. Yet everyone I encounter seems to say to me, “Oh, thank GOD you got out of Minneapolis.” When I explain that I’m headed back after my San Francisco stint is complete, instead of backtracking there’s further sympathetic in a comment like, “Oh. I’m sorry.”

I agree that the San Francisco area has wonderful, lovely aspects: ocean coasts, redwood forests, temperate climate, and let’s not underestimate Thai restaurants that deliver to your door. Absolutely breath-taking in some places. I love being in deep forests, fragrant primordial oxygen pouring through me. It’s beyond words.

But why does that mean that every other place on the planet absolutely sucks in comparison?

When prodded today, my coworker explained, “Well, this place is just better.”

Hmmm.

She certainly can love her city – I get that. And there are lots of good things about San Francisco and the bay area. However, I still don’t understand the mean-spiritedness: if this place to be so wonderful, why must every place else must be a shit hole?

When I was home over Thanksgiving, Stephen and I visited Lake Harriet around sunset. Standing on the frozen earth, listening to the quiet lapping. The sky was seven shades of twilight and the sharp air was frigid enough to burn my lungs. We stood there and I remained amazed at how loving and gorgeous this landscape appeared to me. We didn’t stay long, but I was struck dumb by Minnesota’s accessible beauty, the commonplace grandeur of adorable homes in a green, friendly environment.

If Eckhart Tolle weighed in, I’m sure he would turn the reflection back onto me and my reaction. I think he’d say to me, “Edmond, it’s your ego that’s invested in their response, their answers. Each time someone puts down your home, your state, your city, listen and do not react. Do not argue with them or shame them for their opinion. Listen and let it be alright just as it is. Perhaps ask them questions about what they dislike and why they think the way they do with the goal of honoring that person. Ultimately what matters is not their egoic opinions of geography, but whether or not you honored the presence and sheer power of their own cosmic divinity. Go with ‘what is,’ and do not fight their opinions.”

Even typing his projected response is comforting to me.

I recognize that the response of putting down another city is ‘small.’ Whoever does it, that’s the ‘little me,’ the ego, coming out and doing his angular jig. For the ego to thrive, someone else has to be wrong or bad, has to be ‘less than.’

And every time I rise to ‘fight’ the geographic snobbery, that’s my little ego coming out to meet the charge.

Last night/early this morning, I dreamt that Dog the Bounty Hunter came after me.

I was teaching a class, a federally-sponsored workshop on correctly submitting some form of IRS paperwork, I-9s or something like that. I was teaching this class in a sports bar. All the attendees were milling around during break (drinking beer, I must assume) when Dog came in to collect me.

As soon as he walked up to me, I knew exactly what infraction brought him. I had paid $28 on a $29 dry cleaning bill. I don’t know how I got the dollar amount wrong, but I had shorted the dry cleaner $1. Because the dry cleaner was in Minnesota and I was in California, they sent a bounty hunter to collect.

I mentioned this to Dog and he explained, “It costs $3000 per day to track you.”

We both pondered this.

Dog agreed to let me stay and teach the rest of the class, which I gather was a bit of a surprise even to him.

Okay, dream ends there.

Now.

As a student of self-reflection and someone generally interested in learning as much as I can about myself and my world…am I bound to try to understand this from a Jungian point of view? Can there be any archtypes present or lessons?
Good lord.

I went searching

along the coast

(tidal pools)

for a starfish,

any starfish

so I could brag,

“I discovered one!”

Grasping a rock,

clutching its anchor

wave after pounding wave

little starfish

but they were all hiding,

it seems,

shy

little

creatures

shy…

Goddam nature,

how dare you

not oblige

my every whim!

I came for novelty!

Nevermind the

unspeakable ocean

Ten feet away,

or

four dozen yards of dying,

miracle seaweed

or

millions of

dime-sized crabs

dragging their lives -

No, no

those aren’t

the miracles

I asked for.

Where’s

my

fucking

starfish?