Sunday, July 16, 2017

You Can Lead a Horse to Water, but You Can't Make it Eat an Apple

A couple of weeks ago, my 5 1/2-year-old granddaughter attended her first pony camp, which, by the way, I knew was definitely misnamed after viewing the photos my sweet daughter-in-law sent me of my teeny-tiny, little-bitty, she's still my baby girl Coradoodle sitting in the saddle atop a huge horse. Pony camp? Seriously? That camp should obviously be called "If You Let That Monster Horse Hurt My Precious Granddaughter, You Will Face the Wrath of Ghee" camp. But, my little grandgal had absolutely no fear of the giant misnamed "ponies," and she was super excited to tell me on Skype all about everything she learned at "pony" camp.

I don't think any of us really know what sparked Coraline's infatuation with horses, but I've come to the conclusion after more than a year of her being obsessed with all things horses that it's not just a passing phase for her. She genuinely loves horses and wants to learn everything she can about them. In fact, she already knows the correct names for most parts of a horse's body, how to bathe a horse, what all the pieces of the saddle are called, how to get a horse to go or stop, how to get it to turn right or left, and even what a horse likes to eat. I know you're already thinking it, so I'll just go ahead and say it for you ... both of my granddaughters are undoubtedly geniuses. 

Fortunately for Matt and Becca's bank account, one of Matt's colleagues has an inside connection at a local stable so Coraline's been able to do a fair amount of horseback riding free of charge. As fate would have it, I suppose, the stable horse that Coraline has developed an extra-special bond with is an even more gigantic beast than the ones at pony camp. His name is Kota, and he seriously has to be the biggest horse ever born into the horse kingdom. The thought of climbing up on Mr. Kota's back would have most adults shaking in their cowboy boots, but not my little Boo. Debunking the myths that animals don't have feelings or that they don't possess the mental capacity to remember certain people, Kota lowers his head for Coraline to pat him the minute he sees her, and he's a perfect gentleman every time they go for a ride. And if he happens to take too large a bite of the carrot that Coraline feeds him post riding session, Mr. Kota gently puts his mouth down onto Coraline's hand and graciously and gently returns the surplus carrot. Gross and sweet all at the same time if you ask me.

During one of our Kota conversations on Skype, I asked Coraline if she ever fed Kota apples because I'd always heard that horses like apples. Her eyes were as big as saucers as she quickly said, "No, no, no, Ghee! I do not feed Kota apples because he absolutely does not like apples." She shook her head back and forth as she added with great emphasis (probably to be sure that I got it), "Ghee, no apples for Kota. No matter what you do, Ghee, do not try to feed apples to Kota because he does not like apples and will spit them on the ground if you try to feed them to him. No, no, no, Ghee ... I do not feed apples to Kota." And of course, me being the type of Ghee I am, I immediately replied, "So Coraline, do you ever feed Kota an apple?" Suffice it to say, my little grandgal was more than a bit exasperated with me as she went through the entire Kota doesn't eat apples story again.

As much as I wish I could tell you that my writing tonight means that my blogging exile is over, I'm afraid I can't. I was thinking last night as I drove home after babysitting one of my co-worker's two kiddos that in the past I could and probably would have easily written a couple of blog posts in the three or so hours after the kids went to bed. Last night, however, instead of writing, I finished up some projects for work and then I watched episodes of Law and Order that I've seen so many times I could almost quote the dialogue word for word. Many of you have written to ask me why I'm not writing or if there's anything you can do or say to get me back to the keyboard, and I honestly appreciate both your concern and your encouragement. The simple answer to your question of whether I will ever get back to being the prolific writer I once was is I don't know. I hope so, but I just don't know if or when that might happen.

One of the trademarks of my posts in the past has been my ability to find the lesson or truth or deeper meaning in the everyday things of life, and though it doesn't happen often these days, I think I may have discovered one in the story of the special connection between Coraline and Kota, and I'll leave it to you to decide if you see it, too. That sweet little girl and that gigantic beast of a horse are as different as any human and animal could ever be, and it doesn't matter at all. There exists a connection between those two that isn't based on size or color or status or wealth or age or power or intelligence or species or physical appearance or whether their favorite snack is apples or carrots. I'm sure there will be many other horses that come into Coraline's life over the years, but I'm willing to bet that she will never ever forget Kota and the special place he held in her heart. I'd also like to believe that Kota, that gigantic beast of a horse, will never forget the little blond-haired, blue-eyed girl who brushed his mane and put clean hay in his stable and fed him carrots. Not apples ... just carrots.

I'll give you one hint on the lesson, friends ... it has nothing to do with horses and everything to do with humans.


Monday, June 26, 2017

Why it Matters

Remember all those posts I wrote that I felt needed a disclaimer? Well, my post tonight can be added to that list. Some of you won't like what I have to say this evening ... heck, it very well could be that many of you won't agree with I'm going to say. And so you know, I'm completely okay with that ... you have a right to your opinion just as I have a right to mine. I don't believe, however, that having differing opinions about something gives anyone, myself included, the right to judge or hate or mistreat another person. Now that you know my post this evening may not sit too well with some of you, let's get on with it.

Over the course of the last week or so, I've received a large number of emails asking me what I think about the guilty verdict that was handed down in what the media has dubbed "the suicide texter" case. If you're not familiar with the case, here's a very condensed recounting of what happened. A teenage girl sent her boyfriend, who had been struggling with depression and had made suicide attempts in the past, a barrage of text messages encouraging him to go ahead and kill himself. Even when the young man exited his carbon monoxide-filled vehicle and told the young woman he was scared, her reply via text message was, "Get back in." The 17-year-old girl told her 18-year-old boyfriend to get back in his truck and die ... and that's exactly what he did.

The young woman was found guilty of involuntary manslaughter a little more than a week ago and could receive up to 20 years in prison for her role in the young man's death. There has been and continues to be a great deal of controversy surrounding the case, and there are many who believe that the guilty verdict is in direct violation of a person's right to freedom of speech. The young woman waived her right to a jury trial, therefore allowing the one solitary judge to decide whether she was innocent or guilty ... I can't help but wonder if she's regretting that decision considering the outcome of her trial. I'm sure her attorneys are already working to file an appeal to have the verdict overturned, but for now she's out on bail until she goes back to court in August for sentencing.

Now, here's where I'm guessing some of you won't like what I have to say about this terrible tragedy. It should go without saying that I think the young woman's actions were deplorable and that she must be held accountable for the messages she sent and the words she spoke to the young man in the days leading up to death. And I think it is equally necessary that she be held accountable for what she didn't say or text to him or someone who could have helped him in the final moments of his life. As to whether I think she should receive the maximum sentence of 20 years in prison ... I'll just say I'm sure glad I'm not the judge who has to make that decision. I do hope that part of her sentence includes some type of mental health treatment, because there's not a doubt in my mind that she desperately needs it.

For those who are upset about her being found guilty because of what the decision could mean in regard to freedom of speech, there's a part of me that understands where you're coming from and why you're so concerned. But there's a bigger part of me that thinks you're forgetting what's really important in this tragedy ... a young man is dead and a young woman's life is ruined forever. Many of the articles I've read about this case have asked the question, "Can words kill?" In this particular case, I would have to say yes, words can and did play a role in the young man taking his own life. Had that young woman written or spoken different words to that young man ... a young man whom she knew was depressed and in such a fragile state ... had she encouraged him to live instead of die, I think he very well might still be alive today.

I don't think the discussions about freedom of speech or what kind of precedent the verdict in this case may have set for future cases are what should matter most to us. I'm not saying being concerned about those things and discussing them aren't important, because they most certainly are. I believe, however, that what's most important about this case is that we recognize why it matters. Though they may not be as extreme or blatant as the young woman's texts to the young man, we're just as guilty of sending the same message to others. Believe me, I know this is true because I've been there ... times when words spoken to me, or not spoken to me as the case may be, felt very much like I was handed a loaded gun and goaded, even begged at times, to pull the trigger.

Every time we make someone feel worthless ... every time we exclude someone from a conversation ... every time we dismiss someone's pain or discount someone's illness ... every time someone is hopeless and we stand by and do nothing ... every time we judge or look down on or ridicule another person ... every time we don't apologize to those we've wronged ... every time we know that our words are wounding another person's soul and we speak them anyway ... every single time ... every single time, we're committing the same crime ... we're committing exactly the same crime.

At what point do we accept that we aren't put on this earth to care only about ourselves? How many deaths will it take for us to understand that it is our responsibility to look out for each other? At what point? At what cost? That's why it matters, friends ... that's why it matters.

Sunday, June 11, 2017

No One to Tell

Unless you count the mini ones in the little pots at Home Depot, I had never seen a live cactus until last weekend. I've seen plenty of photos of the unusual desert plants, but those photos paled in comparison to seeing the real thing with my own eyes. Seeing all the different varieties of cacti last weekend in Phoenix reminded me of how I felt when I went to Maine for the first time and saw the lighthouses. There are some things in life you have to experience firsthand ... things you have to see and feel for yourself ... things you can never comprehend until you see them with your own eyes and feel them with your own heart. Things like majestic lighthouses that stand regally above the rocky Maine coastline. Things like prickly cacti that grow strong and tall in the burning sun of the Arizona desert.

The reason for my visit to Phoenix last weekend wasn't because I was on a quest to check seeing cacti in their native habitat off my bucket list ... not hardly. I traveled there with my son Brad and our sound man Jason for a very special filming session for the documentary I talked about in my previous post. Our time with Nate, Mark, Dortha and Mark's beautiful family was incredible, made even more special for me personally because Mark's daughter graciously allowed me to hold her precious 3-week old baby and give him his bottle. To experience firsthand ... to see with my own eyes and feel with my own heart the abiding love that exists within this family despite the horrible circumstances they came from ... it was truly incredible.

Their visit last weekend was the first time that Nate, Mark and Dortha have all been together in many, many years, and we were beyond honored and humbled that they chose to include us (and allow us to film) their reunion. There were plenty of tears as they talked about what it was like to have Fred Phelps, Sr. for a father ... his tyrannical demands and irrational rantings ... the severe and devastating beatings he levied against his wife and children ... the doctrine of contemptible hatred he preached from the pulpit. There was laughter as they talked about the ways they would try to avoid their father's wrath and of the few fleeting moments of joy they had as children. I have no idea how many hours of footage we left with when we headed back to Kansas, but I do know that the stories we captured on film ... the stories of three of the strongest, most courageous people I've ever known ... their stories are ones that absolutely must be told.

You'd think after all the time I've spent interviewing Nate, Mark and Dortha over the last few years that I would have come to know everything there is to know about them and their stories by now, but something struck me last weekend as I listened to them discussing their childhoods once again. I've always wondered why they never told anyone about their lives at home ... why they never shared with someone what was going on in their world. And then last weekend, it hit me like a ton of bricks ... they had no one to tell. They had no one to tell about the horrible beatings they were receiving ... no one to tell about the denigrating, demoralizing, despicable verbal assaults perpetuated on them by their father. They had no one to tell. Nor did they have anyone to tell about the good things in their lives either. They were isolated from other people. They were trapped. They were on the outside looking in. They had no one to tell about the bad things, and they had no one to tell about the good things.

I know some of you know firsthand that having no one to tell about the stuff of life, both bad and good alike, is tough, perhaps even one of the toughest things we as humans can experience. We are created to be social creatures and to be in relationship with one another. The desire to be connected to other humans is woven into our DNA from the moment we are conceived. We are meant to do life together ... we need to do life together. We all need someone to tell ... someone we can trust with our deepest, darkest secrets and our most incredible joys and successes and know that those parts of us are safe with that person. I know what it feels like to have someone like that, and I know what it feels like not to. We all need someone to tell, friends ... not a single, solitary person should ever have to feel that they have no one to tell ... about the bad ... about the good ... and about everything in between. We all need someone to tell ... every single one of us needs to have someone to tell. That we do ... that we do indeed.


Monday, May 29, 2017

Not My Father's Child

"Mom, wake up! Get out of bed and wake up and listen to me. I need to talk to you right now!"

Those are the words every parent fears hearing when their phone rings in the middle of the night and startles them awake from their deep and theretofore peaceful sleep. My dad used to say that no phone call after midnight when you have teenage or young adult children is ever a good phone call. I would agree with my dad's statement for the most part, I suppose, with the exception being when you're the mother of a particular young filmmaker who has quite the track record for having some of his most brilliant ideas during the hours when other folks (like his dear old mom) are sound asleep. Such was the case a couple or so years ago when the ring of my phone jolted me from slumber and I answered to hear my movie-making son say, "Mom, wake up! Get out of bed and wake up and listen to me. I need to talk to you right now!"

I had no way of knowing that night as I sleepily tried my best to focus as my middle kiddo rattled off his most recent brilliant idea that the conversation we were having would end up changing both of our lives forever. That wee hours chat we had that night was the beginning of an incredible journey for us ... a journey that continues to test us in ways we never imagined possible ... a journey that has introduced us to some of the most courageous, compassionate, caring people we've ever known ... a journey that will be a forever reminder to me of how tremendously blessed I am to have such close relationships with each of my children.

Brad's couldn't wait until morning idea that night was that he and I should work together to tell the story of Nate Phelps, son of the late Fred Phelps, founder and leader of the infamous Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kansas. Some of you may have read the posts I've written over the past couple of years regarding our film-making pilgrimage, and I would imagine that more than a few of you have been thinking we had failed in our endeavor or had simply given up on our quest since we've been relatively silent about the film for a while. Not true in either case ... in fact, we're currently ramping up big time and, providing we secure the funding we need, we hope to have a rough cut of the film done by the end of the year.

Part of that ramping-up process for me is writing copy for grant submissions and the film's soon to be launched website. I've been doing a lot of research over the last few weeks, wading through mountains of statistics and scientific studies. Before I embarked on my recent research endeavor, I thought I was well-versed on what Nate, his brother Mark and sister Dortha went through when they chose to leave Westboro. I thought I had good insight into the range of emotions they must have experienced in the days, weeks and months following their departures. I was wrong.

Last weekend, I discovered something when I was reading about various forms of psychological trauma that can occur when a person is rejected or shunned by others. I was surprised by what quickly became a common theme in what I was reading ... the devastating consequences of being ostracized. For all the conversations I've had with Nate, Mark and Dortha over the last two years, I failed to recognize or acknowledge one of the deepest wounds inflicted upon them by their father ... his decree that they be ostracized from both the church and their family.

Medical professionals have come to the conclusion in recent years that ostracism is among the most devastating experiences we can endure because it is deeply connected to our most fundamental human need to be accepted and to belong. In fact, it's been scientifically proven that ostracism can adversely affect a person's cognitive ability and in extreme cases even reshape the brain's neural pathways. The need to belong, to matter, to be included is so strong that when someone is ostracized, he or she experiences psychological and physical effects immediately. Neuroscientists have found that social or personal rejection is experienced much like physical pain ... they are both connected to the same neural circuitry in the brain. One of the reasons that ostracism wounds so deeply is because it isn't confined only to the period when it happens ... just remembering a past episode of ostracism can produce the same level of agony as the original experience. The bottom line? Ostracizing someone is one of the most hurtful and cruel things a person can possibly do to another human being.

I'm sure we can all recall times in our lives when we felt excluded or rejected or even intentionally ostracized by others, and I know that some of you are in the midst of such a situation right now. And I'm equally as sure that we can all agree that ostracism creates a deep and lasting pain like no other. It's dehumanizing ... it robs you of your self-esteem ... it screams that you don't matter ... it shouts that you aren't worth being included ... it crushes your feelings of belonging ... it destroys your ability to trust ... it buries your willingness to be vulnerable ... it crushes your spirit and shames your soul ... it tears apart your heart ... it wreaks havoc on your mind ... it shouts that those who ostracize you have a better life without you in it. I say again, ostracizing someone is one of the most hurtful and cruel things a person can possibly do to another human being.

To you Nate, Mark and Dortha ... I'm so very sorry I didn't get it ... I'm so very sorry I unintentionally minimized that part of your pain ... I'm so very sorry for what you each endured and continue to endure even today. I'm so very thankful for each one of you and so very, very, very honored to be on this journey with you guys. Love you beyond words and respect you beyond measure. 

To everyone who happens to read my post tonight ... please think long and hard before you send someone who trusts you into exile. Remember that none of us are perfect ... remember that life is so very short and that not one of us is guaranteed another tomorrow. Take care of one another, friends ... take care of one another.

"If exposure to ostracism continues over an extended period of time, the individual's resources for coping are depleted. He or she will feel alienated even from those whom they feel close to, thus increasing feelings of depression, helplessness and unworthiness. Nothing threatens our core being and social nature more than being ignored or excluded." --- K.D. Williams and S.A. Nida


Sunday, May 7, 2017

Not Enough Glue

Being born 15 years later than the youngest of my three siblings meant that I wasn't part of all the great adventures they had together when they were kids. And yes, I'm quite certain that my brothers and sister did indeed partake in more than a few great and glorious adventures prior to my existence because they told me in great detail about said adventures many times over the years. Sometimes I wonder if them telling and retelling me about all the things they did together in their youth was their way of trying to make me feel better about missing out on all the fun ... or maybe they did it because they knew I always felt like I was the odd duck of the family, the one on the outside looking in.

While I don't know what their reasons were for doing so, I do know that by sharing their stories with me, my siblings allowed me to know them in a way I couldn't have had they decided to keep their childhood adventures to themselves. There's something else I know about the stories my siblings shared with me all those years ago ... I know there are truths and lessons contained within them that need to be seared into my brain and melded into my heart far more now than I did when I was a kid. Take the story of the time my brothers were roughhousing and broke my grandmother's favorite vase, for example ... if I ever needed a story to wash through my soul ... if I ever needed to believe in the goodness of people ... I need it now.  

I'll spare you the lengthy details of the unedited version as told to me by my sister and brothers, and just relate the basic gist of the story. Each summer, my brothers and sister hopped on a train and traveled from Tennessee to Kentucky to spend a few weeks at my grandparents' house. On one of those extended summer visits, my brothers were goofing around in the living room and my brother Jerry stumbled into a table that held Granny's favorite vase and sent it plummeting to the wooden floor. In a panic, Jerry quickly scooped up the pieces of the broken vase, tried to glue it back together as best he could and put it back on the table, hoping that Granny wouldn't notice his crude and childish attempt to fix what he had broken. It turned out that Jerry didn't have to worry long about getting punished for breaking the vase ... his guilty conscience got the better of him and he confessed later that same day what he had done.

My brothers didn't get punished for their careless wrestling and roughhousing that day, nor was Jerry punished for breaking Granny's favorite vase ... no lectures, no grounding, no scrubbing floors or having their favorite cereal taken away for a month. Instead of attempting to teach her grandsons what very well might have been a temporary lesson by punishing them, Granny chose to show them what true unconditional love and forgiveness really look like. If the story I was told down through the years is true and I believe it is, Granny's focus that day was on Jerry's attempt to fix what he had broken and him owning up to what he had done. In Granny's eyes, what mattered most of all was my brother's effort to repair the damage he had caused ... it was the glue that meant so much to her, friends ... it was the glue.  

So why am I breaking my blog silence to write about something my brothers did more than 65 years ago? Why am I telling you how much I need the truths of this story to fill every part of my being? Because I personally know seven people who have lost someone they cared about to suicide in just the last few weeks. I'm writing because the seven people who ended their lives decided there wasn't enough glue to put them back together. They decided they were too broken ... that their souls were too shattered ... that their hearts were too crushed ... that their minds were too fragmented ... that the betrayal was too deep ... that the pain was too intense. I know what that feels like ... I know what it feels like when every fiber of your being is screaming that you don't have enough glue and that you never will.

There are so many who live every single day of their lives praying that someone will see how broken they are ... praying that someone will help them glue the pieces of their lives back together ... praying that someone will tell them they matter ... praying that someone will care whether they live or die. We need to be kinder to each another ... we need to remember that words can wound far worse than any sword ever could. We need to not give up on each other, and we need to own up to it when we break each other's spirits. We need to focus on the glue, friends ... we need to make sure our families and friends and neighbors and co-workers know that we want to be their extra glue when they don't have enough. We need to leave absolutely no doubt in their minds that we see them ... that we hear them ... that we need them. We need to care more ... we need to love harder ... we need to listen longer ... we need to understand that even our next breath is never guaranteed.

By the way, my brother Jerry saved every penny of his allowance and bought Granny an ugly, bright blue, violin-shaped vase to replace the one he had broken. Both the broken vase and the ugly violin vase held a place of honor in Granny's home until the day she died. I remember asking her why she didn't throw the broken vase away, and she said, "Because your brother cared enough about me and how sad I would be over my broken vase that he used every drop of glue in the bottle to try his best to fix it."

May that be our legacy, friends ... that we care enough about one another to use every drop of glue in the bottle to fix things.





Monday, April 17, 2017

13 Reasons Why Not

In my previous post a couple of weeks or so ago, I said that my heart and I needed to take a breather from writing for a while, and though I wish I could tell you that's changed, I can't. As much as I wish I could tell you that I woke up this morning feeling like I could suddenly write the breathings of my heart again, I can't. But for tonight, there's something else I can't do ... for tonight, I can't not write. No matter what may come ... for tonight, I can't not write.

One of the young gals I work with stopped by my desk a few weeks ago to ask me if I had seen the new Netflix original series "13 Reasons Why." I told her that I had heard about it but that I hadn't watched it, and she told me I absolutely must go home that night and watch at least the first episode. I watched way more than the first episode that night, and it only took me a few days to watch the entire series. Had I not been so overcome with emotion several times that I had to hit the pause button until I could compose myself, I would have most definitely binged-watched all 13 episodes in one sitting.

The series has already garnered millions of views since its release on March 31 despite the tough issues it deals with ... bullying, rape, homosexuality and suicide. It's not surprising at all to me that "13 Reasons Why" has become such a hot topic of conversation among both teens and adults alike. It's also not surprising at all to me that there's a great deal of controversy surrounding the series, and though I do have an opinion regarding some of the questions that are being raised, what I think about those things isn't the reason for my post tonight.

I'm writing tonight because there are families and friends who are grieving the death of a loved one who committed suicide. I'm writing tonight because there are people at this very moment who feel that death is the only way to end their pain. I'm writing tonight because there are so very many, myself included, who fight every single day to keep the wolf on the other side of the window. I'm writing tonight because there are people of all ages who see themselves in one of the characters portrayed in "13 Reasons Why."

I'm writing tonight because one person commits suicide every 16.2 minutes. I'm writing tonight because in the U.S., suicide rates are highest in the spring. I'm writing tonight because every suicide intimately affects at least six other people. I'm writing tonight because depression isn't about being sad or looking for attention. I'm writing tonight because I know firsthand that depression is a nasty, nasty beast that cannot be fully understood by those who've never experienced it. I'm writing tonight because I know all too well that depression robs people of their will to live, forces them to believe others would be better off without them, shatters their relationships with family and friends, and shreds every ounce of hope they once had. I'm writing tonight because staying silent makes things so much worse.

I know I've said it many times over, but be kind to each other, friends. Make it your mission to care. Make it your mission to listen. Make it your mission to see when someone is hurting. Make it your mission not to give up on those who need to know they matter. Make it your mission to be one of someone's 13 reasons why not, instead of one of their 13 reasons why. Be someone's reason why not, dear ones ... be someone's reason why not.

"It has to get better. The way we treat each other and look out for each other ... it has to get better somehow." --- Clay Jensen, "13 Reasons Why" 


Tuesday, April 4, 2017

Because You Deserve Better


"Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart." 
--- William Wordsworth

First, how could a guy with the last name of Wordsworth not be a writer? I mean seriously, right? And yes, Wordsworth really was his last name and he, together with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, helped to launch the Romantic Age in English literature with their joint publication "Lyrical Ballads" way back in 1798. As you may have gathered from the title of his first writing venture with Mr. Coleridge, Wordsworth was a poet; in fact, he was Britain's Poet Laureate from 1843 until his death in 1850. I'm betting the significance of his surname wasn't lost on Mr. Wordsworth, and I'm guessing I'm not the only person who upon hearing his name immediately thought, "What are words truly worth? What are they worth to other people? What are they worth to me?" Pretty deep, I know, but I think it's definitely worthy of some pondering and mulling over.

I first read the quote at the beginning of my post this evening many, many years ago when I was a student in college, and the words of Mr. Wordsworth obviously made a lasting impression on me. So much so that I once wrote them out on a note card and taped the card on the ceiling of my bedroom to serve as a constant reminder to me of the importance of writing from my heart. If I haven't learned one other thing about writing in all the years I've been putting pen to paper, I've learned this ... Mr. Wordsworth was absolutely correct in his instruction. But I would add something else to the indisputably wise words he penned so many years ago ... if you can't fill your paper with the breathings of your heart, you need to stop filling your paper until you can.

Have you ever fallen so hard that you got the wind knocked out of you? So hard that you wondered if you'd ever be able to breathe again ... so hard that you were sure you were going to die right then and there? I know I certainly have, and it's such a scary feeling when it happens ... it's almost like you can feel the life being sucked right out of you. It's one of those feelings that stays with you, one that you hope you never have to feel again. It's terrifying ... completely and utterly terrifying ... to wonder if you'll ever be able to suck the air back in again. You struggle to breathe ... you want to breathe ... you need to breathe. But you can't, at least not for a while anyway ... you just can't breathe.

Many of you have written asking where I've been and why I haven't been writing, and you deserve better than me offering up no explanation as to my missing in action status. And that's what this post is ... it's my feeble attempt to explain as best I can why I'm not writing much right now. You deserve to know that I'm not writing because I can't write the breathings of my heart, and until I can do that once again ... well ... my heart and I need to take a breather for a while. Thank you for your notes and your kind words, friends ... I appreciate each one of you so much more than you'll ever know.

"Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart." 
--- William Wordsworth




Monday, March 27, 2017

What Are the Odds?

You'd think I would have learned by now that the posts I worry the most about posting are the very posts that I most need to post. I spent some time this morning before I went to work reading through some of the emails I've received in response to last night's post, and I can't begin to express how deeply moved I am by your words or how truly humbled I am that you would entrust your stories to me. Some of you have suffered such great loss ... some of you are fighting to stay alive ... some of you are doing everything you can to keep someone you love from taking his or her life. Please know that even though I can't read all of your messages, my heart is with you all. You aren't alone in the fight, friends ... you are never alone in the fight.

When I got home from work this evening, I took Ollie for a long walk ... one of those long, meandering, I have much to mull over walks. When we got home, I built a fire and flipped on the television thinking I'd watch for a few minutes while I ate my dinner. I guess it shouldn't have surprised me when "Ordinary People" just so happened to be the movie that was playing ... an older movie about a family whose oldest son died in a boating accident and whose youngest son tried to commit suicide following his brother's death. 

What are the odds that movie would be on television tonight? The night after I posted Mark's letter about losing his friend Olivia to suicide. A movie I haven't seen in over a decade and yet it appears randomly on television tonight. I think maybe Someone wants to make sure I get the message.

What are the odds, friends? What are the odds indeed?

Sunday, March 26, 2017

Fade to Black

Before you read tonight's post, there are a couple of things you should know. Other than this opening paragraph, I didn't write the words you'll read. I found them one night while I was browsing through emails, and I've wrestled with whether I should post them. You should know they're not easy words to read and that they're even less easy to get them out of your brain once you do. I wish I could believe that it was only by chance or coincidence that I just happened to open that particular email, but I don't. I believe I was meant to read this young man's words, and I believe I am meant to carry his words with me forever. It was no accident that I opened his email, and it's no accident that I now have the peace I needed to have before I could share them with you. I would ask that you read the young man's words with a spirit of compassion and grace ... I would ask that you be kind to one another always ... I would ask that you never take even one moment for granted.

Dear Mrs. Johnson,

I'm Mark and I'm writing to you because I know if you read this you'll help me get other people to read it to. I don't read your blogs much but my friend does and she told me to read the one you wrote back a while about it being easier to die and some others you wrote about being depressed. And when I did she told me I should write to you and you maybe would read it and get other people to read it and here's why. My friend Olivia died 8 days ago on her birthday after she hung herself in her room and she text me right before she did and said "fade to black". I thought she was joking and didn't mean it because she used to say that a lot. Like she would say when she was way down that she wanted to fade to black like the last scene in a movie. Olivia liked movies better than most things except for her little brother Hal. I thought she loved him enough that she would be ok and be able to keep coming out of the depression but not even that was more than her sadness was. 

I can't sleep much since Olivia died because I think I should have done something to help her or been a better friend and kept in touch with her more than I did after I got a new job at the mall. I cared so much about her but it wasn't easy sometimes to be her friend because of the depression she had. When she was in a good place she was the best and so much fun to be around. But it was like I knew even in those times that the sadness was still there and just waiting to get her down again. And when that happened so many times that the depression made her hate herself so much it was hard to keep watching it and I guess I got tired and stopped talking to her as much and told myself she'd be ok in the long run. And now she's dead and I can't sleep because she trusted me and I wasn't there. And I keep reading the text she sent me all the time when she said fade to black.

Why I'm sending you this letter Mrs. Johnson is because my friend says you're a real good person that wants to help lots of people and maybe my letter can help keep someone else from killing themselves. My friend Olivia was 17 years old the day she hung herself and it was Hal her little brother that found her and he is only 11 years old. I hope by a miracle you read my letter and put it in your blog if you want to and I hope it helps other people. Thank you.

Mark


Monday, March 20, 2017

And Just One More Thing

I have a confession to make ... it's been a while, a pretty long while, actually, since I've started a post with those words, and I'm sure you're on the edge of your seats wondering just what my confession might be. Though I would like nothing better than to share with you the plethora of thoughts I have regarding confession being good for the soul and how important it is to be open, honest, real and transparent in all things, I'll restrain myself and get right to my confession ... I seriously envy people who can think quickly on their feet and say everything they need to say in every conversation they have. Yep, I surely do envy those people a lot ... those people who are in touch with themselves and their thoughts well enough that they rarely, if ever, have to say, "And just one more thing." Whew ... I feel so much better now, like a giant weight has been lifted off of me. It's true ... confession really is good for the soul.

As I'm sure you've guessed by now, this evening's post is my "And just one more thing" addendum to my previous post, Soul Staring. After reading a bunch of emails I received following that post, I realized I had left something out ... an important something that happens when my little hound goes with me when I venture out to public places. People are so taken with Ollie the wiener dog that they're far less likely to judge me because of my short, spiky hair or my suspenders and bow ties or my tattoos. It's crazy, I know, but it's definitely true. People who might otherwise stare me down with "the look" (and if you're gay, you know exactly what "the look" is and what it feels like when it's sent your way) ... well ... they don't do it when Ollie's with me. I think he's giving off some mighty strong anti-hate vibes or he's my own personal cloak of invisibility. People are so focused on his cuteness and how well-behaved he is that they don't even notice that I'm different than them ... they don't see gay or straight, black or white, rich or poor, old or young. People see a woman who loves her dog and a dog who loves his human. And that, my friends, is pure awesomeness times a billion.

I know some people think I'm a few fries short of a Happy Meal when it comes to my canine pals I've had down through the years, and they may well be correct in that deduction. All I know is that there are few better ways to learn about unconditional love or loyalty or forgiveness or trust than from a dog. Imagine how much better the world would be if we humans could do for one another what my Ollie does for me. Just imagine if we didn't see race or nationality ... just imagine if we didn't see economic status ... just imagine if we didn't see gender or sexuality ... just imagine if we didn't see age. Just imagine how much better your world would be if you could do for others what my Ollie does for me. Just imagine, friends ... just imagine indeed.