Peaceful, Welcoming Spaces

For some people, tomorrow is opportunity to carry on the family traditions we grew up with, and that can certainly be a wonderful thing. For others, holidays like these can also be a beautiful reminder of how far we have come in terms of chosen family, chosen faith, and chosen peace. 

If you’ve moved away from circumstances, relationships, patterns or groups that were breaking your spirit or didn't align with your conscience, good on you. No need to explain yourself. I see you. I celebrate you. I honor your choice to heal. Good on you.

There are also a lot of complex feelings that come up, especially in regards to both the loss of those you needed to leave behind to find peace in your world and with respect to the grief and horrors currently taking place in the world around us. A posture of gratitude is wonderful, yes, but acknowledging anger, hurt, pain or discomfort does not make us ungrateful. 

Some years, we simply carry more sadness or outrage than gratitude. I want to remind you that this is perfectly okay. We can hold space for the goodness of ritual, gratitude and tradition (whether through families or ones we have created on our own) and also feel frustration, grief, even anger. 

We carry so many things within us. Maybe the kindest thing we can do for ourselves and for one another is to lower expectations and do our best to provide peaceful, welcoming spaces for our weary, complicated souls to break bread together and simply be. 

I hope you and yours have a peaceful Thanksgiving, or whatever you call it, however you choose to celebrate it. You're Loved, Fam.

Bob Welch and the Heirloom of Dodger Baseball

Many of my favorite childhood memories are of my grandfather taking me to Chavez Ravine to see the Dodgers play. 

The one that will be forever cemented in my memory was my first ever trip to Dodger Stadium.  It was a Sunday afternoon game on May 23rd, 1982. In my first ever game at the ballpark (I was five years old), I saw Bob Welch throw a complete game shutout against the vaunted St. Louis Cardinals (who were deep, with Ozzie Smith, Keith Hernandez, rookie superstar Willie McGee, etc.). They even went on to win the World Series that year.

But as great as it was to see my heroes like Ron Cey and Steve Garvey, I was mesmerized by the performance of Bob Welch. Everything he did was flawless. He was an artisan pitcher of the highest order. Fortunately, it would be the first of many memorable starts that I would have the pleasure of witnessing until Welch went to Oakland in 1988. However, as good as they were, they will never replace the magic of that first game.

I've been lucky enough to witness a lot of amazing things in my life. I've seen the sun kiss the rooftops of ancient bathetic cities, felt the sand between my toes on majestic beaches on different oceans, I've stood, awestruck, in the early morning in the Pacific Northwest, watching the Northern Lights cascade across the sky...  And I've seen Bob Welch take the bump at Chavez Ravine and mow down a handful of  superstars and future Hall of Famers. 

I was never the same after that. I was, from that moment on, A "Baseball Man." That love never leaves you, no matter how many times the game breaks your heart. It's a lifelong love, and Bobby Welch was a huge catalyst in creating that spark.

The older you get, the more it means. 

Mr. Welch left us a few years back, but I can only hope he's on the mound, somewhere, in some other life, bringing joy to a little boy at the ballpark for the very first time. 

In the meantime, here in This world, pitchers and catchers report to camp at Camelback Ranch in three months. And after that, for a few months out of the year, I get to be a kid again. Some would say Bobby Welch won't be there, but I'd have to disagree..

Seasons..

I have come to believe that there are seasons for most things in this blessed, messy mystery called Life. And not all of them are easy. 

There's no shame in acknowledging our struggles, or in changing the way we experience things in different moments of our lives. There are seasons of belonging and seasons of deep loneliness. There are seasons of firm clarity and certainty and there are seasons of severe confusion, exhaustion and unknowing.

In this life, this reality.. There are seasons and they are cyclical. Good times and hard times interchange. Moments of stress dance with moments of indescribable beauty. We are breaking apart and rebuilding ourselves stronger through these seasons and changes. We are being continuously remade and sometimes, in the process, we come undone. It's painful and it's beautiful. It is lonely and it provides solace. It's sobering and it's restorative.

And here you are, right now, in another changing season of your life. Maybe you're in pain. You might be overwhelmed and a little lost, but you're also growing. And you know what else? You're beautiful and you're loved. Even right now. Even when it sucks. Even when things feel dark and unfamiliar, there is grace, as there is an every season.  

So if you're currently mired in the part of the season where grief abounds and hope feels in short supply, I am here to gently remind you that the feelings and struggles you are processing are valid, yes, but they are also temporary. Feel them. And know that you are loved and full of light, even on the darkest night; even in your fear or your despair. Even right now as you read this sentence.

More loved, dare I say, than you could possibly imagine. 

A Few Thoughts About Imposter Syndrome..

In order to begin to accept the havoc that imposter syndrome was wreaking upon my life, I had to learn to grapple with it, to understand it, to accept my role in the entire mess. I no longer wanted to get stuck in cycles of shame that were punctuated by so many senseless moments of fear and self-destruction. But in order to begin that work, I had to be willing to go toe-to-toe with the bully in my head.

It took a long time and rather Herculean (and continuing) effort to begin to change my mind set regarding imposter syndrome. For a long time, I felt very much like a fraud because my writing wasn't as sharp or polished or practiced as others; either because I didn't read as widely as I should or because I subscribed to some rather ugly old views about my own worth and talents that I have since, through diligent work, spiritual practice and therapy, recanted. 

It's never too late to change an opinion of yourself or the world, to learn and embrace better ideas, to learn a new skill or dream a new dream. I've learned that we are not frauds for taking the time we needed to get to where we are today, and to get to wherever it is we may be going. One of the precious gifts of passing time and age and growth is that we can begin to discover incredible, buried skills later in life: to become writers and dancers and comedians and creators when we previously couldn't envision these things for ourselves. It's a beautiful moment when we can truly begin to detonate those limiting beliefs and become who we are truly meant to be. 

The imposter syndrome mindset says that we're imposters if we lack the formal training or "sweat equity" that some others have poured into their art. But, the truth is, we are always growing and evolving - all of us. We will always be in the process of finding our way forward. And just because you haven't been writing or dancing or woodworking as long as some other people, that doesn't mean you haven't been living your life, learning and observing and growing and reading and being. And guess what? All of those things contribute to our eventual creative acts. 

This realization has been a radical life change for me because I wouldn't have been able to say these things to you in previous years and be telling the truth about it with firm conviction. I was unsure, insecure and mostly felt like a fraud whenever someone offered the beauty of praise, which feels so good and lifts my soul, but even more so when I can accept it and believe them. Sometimes, I still battle that feelings of fraudulence. Luckily, it's a rarity these days. But goodness, if you feel inspired, try your best mot to let that inner critic be the loudest voice in the room. Be inspired. It fucking feels good. If you want to write, write. If you feel like dancing, dance with your whole body and soul. Cook, run, sew, sing. Do it with dedication and love. Whatever sets your being on fire - jump in and do it! And guess what? You'll get where you need to be eventually. It might not be an easy road, but you'll get there.

Shame tells us we are imposters for rejection, or for social media disengagement, or for a myriad of other reasons that have very little to do with what we have actually created. Besides, to be creative is to be rejected at times. To exist with integrity on social media means the algorithm will usually work against us. And as much as rejection or diminished engagement can suck, it is simply not indicative of our worth, creative or otherwise. Please believe this and remind yourself of this, especially when the path feels like a lonely road.

If we are actively investing in our craft, "knowing better so we can do better," if we are accepting practice as a virtue, connecting with others not for what they can do for us but because we genuinely want to know them and share space with them, we will grow into our skillsets as a natural byproduct of living in such a manner. We will become more familiar with our chosen mediums. We will, if we can learn to silence the inner shame soundtrack and believe in that spark of beauty and passion that got us rolling in the first place, begin to trust our gifts more and more. And it seems to me, that when we truly get into this sacred space, the imposter syndrome begins to rear its head less and less. It simply doesn't have the fat to chew on without us playing a role in our own degradation. 

And just to remind you one more time, my friend: You are not an Imposter for not being perfect. We're all in the process of being formed. And we'll never completely get there. There's no clear finish line. Just keep doing what sets your heart ablaze. Just "serve the work." The world needs your voice. As the Poet Laureate of Skid Row, Mr. Charles Bukowski himself once wrote: "You are marvelous. The gods wait to delight in you."

I wait to delight in your gifts and talents, too. 

Hey There, Slugger.

It would be over soon. That terrifying, hissing sound that the big snake made when it started to come to a stop, just before peeking it's eyes out of the platform tunnel. That was the worst part. The noise gets in your ears and rattles around and you have to go to "no, no, no!: to it to make it stop, like all the bad things. It's easier if your crush your teeth together. Covering your ears doesn't help much, but Andy used to try that sometimes, too. 

It was 3:19. Andy knew Ian probably wouldn't be on this train. Final bell was only 14 minutes ago, but he got here early just in case. Sporting that trademark Andy wall-to-wall smile, he nodded his head and said "good afternoon" and "it's such a nice day" to people exiting the train and moving up onto the higher platform or out onto the street. Sometimes, a nice old lady would smile back at Andy. Andy liked it when people were nice. He didn't see the kid who borrowed his walkman, but he hoped he would bring it back soon because it had his favorite Billy Joel tape inside. Billy told Andy about all the good things and the good people in his songs, but also that love was hard sometimes. But probably not for his brother Ian. Things were easy for him because Ian was the best brother in the world. 

Andy smiled and offered up a few more "hellos" and "how are you todays" to people passing by, before giving up and going back to sit on the bench. "The next one comes at 3:31," he announced out loud, trying to be helpful. "Don't worry, Ian is on there. And your brother might be on there, too!" 

The man on the bench sitting next to him got up and walked over to another bench. "Don't worry about it," his brother's voice told him in his head. People didn't like to talk sometimes. That's why Andy didn't go to the loud Starbucks but the smaller one where Jessica worked. Jessica would always talk about TV shows and Billy Joel with him and she was his friend because she's nice. Andy made it a point to stop in whenever he knew she was working. 

If Jessica were here, she would talk to him, Andy thought. "Her favorite song is Shameless. Garth Brooks sings it, too. He's a country singer. Billy's not a country singer but Jessica says Garth is pretty good, too. Just not as good as Billy."

The man on the other bench blurted out "Billy fucking sucks!" His voice was aggressive. He used the f word and everything. It scared Andy. He didn't like it when people said mean things, especially when their voice got louder. He wanted to tell the man that Billy didn't suck but he was afraid he might get madder and maybe try to hurt him and Ian wasn't here to make him stop. He got nervous and hoped the train would be here soon. He wished his friend would come back with his tape and his walkman. He wanted to hear "Uptown Girl." It always made him want to dance. Ian used to say that he didn't like to dance but Andy knew Ian would be a good dance if he wanted to because he's such a good runner and jumper and baseball player. 

One time, he took Andy to the batting cages and they let him swing like a real baseball player. Ian helped him stand like the guys on the Dodgers do and he hit it two times. "Home Run, Bud!" Ian would say, smiling. 

I wish the guy on the bench had a brother like Ian. He's probably mad because he never got to boom swing home runs. I would teach him how to do it but he's mean so I don't want him to get mad at me again. 

The loud, roaring hiss came again. It made Andy a little dizzy as he crushed his teeth together.

"It doesn't really help if you cover your ears," he said towards the man on the bench, but then he noticed he was gone. It's OK. Andy was used to that. At least he wasn't saying mean things about Billy Joel with the f word anymore. 

He scanned the cards, watching people step off the train one at a time. He met the eyes of several strangers and tried to smile at them, but most of the just looked away as they exited. "Don't worry, they're probably just busy and not being mean on purpose," Ian's voice reminded Andy in his head. Andy knew lots of people were always in a hurry. He got bumped into a lot on the street because they were always going so fast and Andy couldn't walk very fast. 

The numbers were dwindling as people stepped out onto the platform. He recognized some of the people from before, but most of the eyes and faces were unfamiliar strangers. Just before the doors closed, he saw Ian, with his backpack draped over his shoulder. 

The big kind of smile came over Andy's face as he hobbled over to his brother. "Well hey there, Slugger!" Ian said to him, smiling. 

"He calls me that because I can hit home runs. I already hit two last time," he told an older lady with tired eyes walking close to Ian. She nodded her head and quickly shuffled off. 

On the Beauty of Music, A Return to Childhood & A Glimpse of the Life that Liturgy Celebrates..

I have a pretty clear memory of the first time I went to the symphony. I was about seven years old and it was during the Christmas season. 

Even walking into the concert hall (I wish I remembered where and my grandmother is, of course, no longer alive for me to ask) gave me the overwhelming sense that I was there to witness, or experience, something new and profound. My young brain sensed that this event was important; like church, but on a much larger scale. Folks were gathered in their nicer clothes and the quiet murmur of voices contained a kind of adult excitement, a prelude to something mysterious and joyful - the stuff that one rarely glimpses as a child. 

After settling into our seats, the lights darkened and the curtains opened. The memory comes back clearly: the feeling of anticipation, a venture into the unknown about to unfold right before our ears and eyes. As the musicians began to play, I felt this sweep of rapture move across me. I started to cry. I couldn't help it. The tears were involuntary and felt almost holy. I felt a mixture of intense affection, wonder, longing, smallness, immensity and gratitude. I felt like the luckiest little kid in the world to be witness to the inner lives of these beautiful beings laid bare on the stage, these strange fellow creatures who loved to make objects sing for no apparent reason other than to commune with the hearts and ears of those who came to witness. 

I never felt that in church. Church, at least for me, seemed mostly to obscure the raw force and glory of whatever that rapture is. Only in nature, in music, in love, and in the arms and care of other humans - only in the warm mysterious arithmetic of those radiant forms - did I sense the nearness of the divine. It seemed to me, that the only time I came close to glimpsing a similar feeling during church, it was in the elements that felt earthen and wild and weird; the fleeting flashes of playfulness and mirth. The all too human beauty that dances within the mystery. 

I did not come upon this DJ's NPR Tiny Desk Concert expecting to dissolve into near tears of awe, but that's what happened. This young man seemed like some strange and otherworldly version of a priest, and it is entirely possible hat he's never even opened a theology book in his entire life. This - this is eucharistic. This is a glimpse into the Life that liturgy celebrates. This is the all too human beauty beauty that dances within the mystery, And I feel like I'm seven years old again.

My grandmother is no longer here to share it with, so I am passing the beauty on to you. 

Happy Sunday. You are Loved more than you could possibly imagine. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4iQmPv_dTI0

In A Simple Passing Glance

Dear Friend,

We are not the glossy, carefully cultivated digital versions of ourselves that we present to the world. We are living, breathing beings of complexity who cannot exist without each other. And yet, our eyes so often see strangers when they meet the gaze of another. Perhaps, if we knew the immensity of beauty and humanity contained within a simple passing glance shared between two flawed humans, illuminating upon one another's face and form, we would buckle beneath the power of it, and finally recognize and remember each other.

We are not strangers. 

How We Begin Again

The time of darkness was upon us 

Long before most of us even recognized it, my son. 

 

Neighbors became strangers 

We were defined by fear, by border, 

By distance 

A prisoner of the stories we told ourselves 

Until we had no chance but to believe. 

 

Some held on for love 

The currency of endurance 

Longing hearts rejecting apathy, 

Refusing to surrender to numbness 

 

But the skies erupted into fire 

The night burned flashpoint red 

With flames of hatred 

Constructed by our own hearts and hands. 

 

Books, buildings, dreams 

Scattered to ash 

In the name of tribe 

Of power 

Of Nothing. 

Dividing lines and dividing souls 

Losing our most precious gift: 

Each other. 

 

The sickness sank into our bones 

Burned holes into our souls 

The filters could not cover the shape of the lie 

Or the stench of the decay. 

 

Cynicism replaced curiosity 

Love slipped out of fashion 

Cruelty was rebranded as a superpower 

Vulnerability was the old way 

And the old way was cursed, mocked, shamed 

And then it was forgotten 

 

Endless breath was wasted on rage 

Engulfing and suffocating 

The prayers of grandmothers 

The cries of babies 

The dreams of our fathers 

 

The village songs muted 

Fences built high 

With the wood from church pews and kitchen tables 

The feathers of hope, torn bit by bit 

We chewed them up, spit them out. 

 

But let this not be how it ends.  

 

So, my son 

I say to you now 

Under these darkened skies 

In these graveyard cities stained with blood 

 

If you are permitted the chance to start again 

If you are called to build a new Canaan 

Start with the simplest things. 

 

Tend to what is beneath your feet 

Place your faith in seeds 

Listen to the story of the cicadas 

Rest your hands in the dirt 

 

In the faint, stirring breeze, 

Hear the songs of children to come. 

Let the rivers and trees speak 

Ask nothing in return but to listen 

And to marvel. 

 

Touch one another’s faces 

Make the soft folds of flesh holy 

Let the songs you sing to one another 

In the crisp of air of morning 

Glorify The World You Tend to 

The world you hope to build 

And the world to come. 

 

Summon the hope and the empathy 

To imagine what our dead would ask of us 

And find the courage to give it. 

 

Learn the names of every pair of eyes you meet, my son 

Say them 

Sing them 

Remember them 

Tattoo them on your heart 

 

This is how we remember 

This is how we begin again.