Blog 73 Important Companions (Gary)
Just back from a couples session for my wife and me. Yes, I believe in therapy enough to do it for myself. And today I got from my wife how important I am to her. I needed our therapist, Beth, to say that to me, translating what my wife was saying, in order for me to get it.
I never felt important as a child, so even when I felt I was doing something important Sue would put me in my place by saying, "It’s not about you." I understand now that was about my ego, not about my "self." Tears run as I lay on the bed writing this. She wants to make me happy because I am important to her, very important. So at this stage of my life I have to decide what will do it. I think I have been waiting for that someday when I, “Big *I*,” deserve to do what I want.
On The Hill today the horizon to the west gives us a view of the sky above Santa Cruz and Monterey. It is clear, a sighting that is usually clouded from here. The perspective is grand, to know the beaches are warm and sunny as well, which is not always the case.
Stacy waits for us just above The Respite. We invited him to join us for the hike today. He is leaning against the fence that keeps people from short-cutting and eroding the trail. He started out early with the plan of meeting us up here. He looks spent and his shirt is soaked. It is not his day to do a timed climb to the tree. Here, his back to a fence post, he has processed his grief. Not that it is done, but he makes a sort of impassioned plea for support. I retell him what I know of his story as a way of letting him know I empathize. I also tell him that I support him doing grief work. He says, “The way you can support me is to call me to hike with you.” Basically he doesn't want to do life alone. He had a lot of aloneness in his life, as Mark and I have known in our lives. That must be our bond, or certainly part of it.
I always say, "Doing it alone sucks." I ended up having that conversation with my good friend’s husband this same day. He had relapsed into alcohol and lied about it to his wife. He was dealing with his wife's anger over his dishonesty, calling him a liar. He said, “I lied, but I am not a liar.” This is another time when a man feels alone and needs the support of other men. That is why the fellowship of Alcoholics Anonymous can make such a difference. Many in recovery try to do it alone; most tread water for a while and then relapse, or become so intense about their sobriety that no one wants to be around them. I told him my theory and suggested a men's group. This time he is ready.
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Blog 72 Perfectionism (Gary)
Perfectionism (Gary)
All beings don't have to be perfect to be loved. I guess that's why today I eat my beets from a can. My wife hates that. What can I say or do (smile, laugh)? I am still lovable aren't I? Aren't I? Maybe that's where my anger comes from.
In a perfect world everyone would love one another. So I try for another day to be perfect, and strive for a perfect world. But I am constantly frustrated. Let go, and accept what is shown. Love Mark's dark side as I love my own. Can I quit my assignment with “The Perfect Police?” Imperfection is everywhere. What would I do with all that extra time and energy? Ha. Sounds good. I Quit! Or at least I am off for now. I am off. I am off duty.
As I begin to sign off from perfectionist duty, I look to my left and notice a newsletter from Massachusetts General Hospital, and my eyes go right to: "Research published in the June 12th issue of the journal Neurology suggest that reducing negative emotions may be one way to significantly reduce the risk of developing memory troubles." God is always watching and willing to teach if you pay attention to your surroundings.
“Notice, just notice,” I say to my clients and I have to repeat the phrase to myself on occasion. It sometimes feels easier to just follow a familiar old script rather than open up to noticing the world where we live, and see it in a new way.
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Blog 71 Honor (Gary)
Honor (Gary)
Mark calls me late. It is his anniversary, and he calls later than we agreed. I wish them both a happy anniversary. Mark agrees to pick me up in forty-five minutes. I prepare not thinking too much about it until he arrives. I jump in the car and pick up on his energy, and his run-out-of-the-house (hair on fire) look. I get it immediately. Yeah, ladies, sometimes we are a little slow. We drive up to the parking area to start the hike up to the trailhead.
I say, “Hey, Mark, it’s your anniversary. Want to make a hundred points? Go home and tell her you realize you need to be with her, and take her to breakfast. You love her dearly . . . blah, blah, blah.” Mark asks me, “You don't mind?” I reply, “Hey, drop me off, and I’ll walk back to my house or have Sue pick me up.” Mark says, “I'll come back and get you in what, two hours and ten minutes (that’s the length of the hike at a good pace)?” I say, “Forget it.” Mark says, “Awright!” I can sense his relief after having to choose between honoring his brother and honoring his wife and their relationship.
Hey, the walk is beautiful, and I am feeling spry. My side seems totally relieved. Hey, maybe I’m cured. I am free to ponder life's questions by myself. Today I ponder marriage and divorce, having been through both.
When is it okay to divorce? Suppose you are no longer attracted to your partner or whatever? I always tell people that it’s important they give it their best to make the relationship work. Internally, what I do not say, is if they have given their best, and it still doesn't work, then it's time to consider letting it go, and that needs to be said by them, first.
Actually the question I am resistant to ask is, “When is it a ‘sin’ to divorce?” No, that's not it. Is divorce a sin? Most people aren’t aware that the word “sin” in Latin simply means “if on the contrary.” In Old English it’s used in archery and means “missing the mark.” But for Christians today it means you have violated your relationship with God. Let's look at that.
I "feel" (okay, now we are going deeper) it's a sin unless we have battled it out. Most will immediately take this as expressing anger with each other, and that is not what I mean. What I mean by “battle” is a strong inventory of the truth and the expression of it.
What is my foundation for considering all of this? Internally, where am I coming from? Marriage and divorce are issues that depend on history. But that is not what I’m about; I’m not about being haunted by the past and old decisions. With my relationships, my clients, friends and acquaintances, I know where I stand about the past. My past is no longer important; now it's my present I hold dear. It’s a simple philosophy. Strike from the heart of passion. The time for fantasy is over. That window is closing. And if I don't close it, time will. (Five steps later I find a tail feather of a red tailed hawk and retrieve it. Grief, aha. Tears release as a wounded warrior finds the luxury of feelings inside the battle of the ego.
My Wednesday night men’s group is an example. I am sitting in the circle next to a man who relates the story of his father who was a charming, gambling, womanizing alcoholic, and a wife abuser. He had just described my father. Ironically (or is it?) the man next to him has an almost identical story. One of his issues is making a decision about his relationship with his wife from whom he has been separated for two years. He has told us she is overweight. In his story he tells us about his mother and father getting drunk and fighting, and both of them falling down. He had to pick them up, except he couldn't pick his mother up because she was too heavy. He suddenly had an Aha! moment. We then discuss how he was there to rescue his parents, but learned to abandon himself. I learned that one too well myself.
Another gentleman in the group, sitting next to the man who just shared, is over seventy and has told us how difficult it has been for him to share his feelings. He has just recently, after many years in the group, become razor sharp in his expressions. His wisdom has nailed some men in describing their situations to the appreciation of all of us. It's a bonding moment when all of us hear it and become silent in appreciation of his direct hit.
Most often divorce happens out of allowing a negative pattern from the past to live in the present. We unknowingly allow the past to be in charge of our thoughts, emotions, actions, so that what is happening right now takes a back seat to something that no longer even exists. The thing that holds a man (or a woman) in check is an old source of pain, and once that is clearly seen as something he is defending against, he has a choice; he can let that pain continue to be in charge, or he can break that pattern and become the leader of his life.
What will he do without the pain? It has run things so well up to now. It’s comfortable because he knows how to do it. What will LEADING his life look and feel like NOW? We are all creatures of habit, and it is scary to change. Even if it’s dysfunctional we prefer to follow something we know rather than lead something new. The habit of maintaining old patterns is an allegiance to the parent imprinted in the brain at an early age.
I preach “Leading,” rather than following an ancient script that is no doubt centuries old, a negative script that has been passed from generation to generation. No shame, no blame, just dysfunctional now. A Native American belief is that we are affected by seven generations before us. We need to be conscious of what we are doing in the present as we will have an effect on seven generations after us. It is never just about us. I used to think it was. My wife, Sue, corrected me and she is right (yet again).
What are the sins of your past? Make a list and see if you are leading or following. Are you a leader to the future or a follower of the past?
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Blog 70 Continued
You see I was an original latch key kid. My mother had to work and she didn’t have a car. That meant I had to spend a great deal of time alone. It was just the two of us after my brother left for the Air Force. I think I was nine or ten. I spent most of my time evaluating things. I remember walking upstairs and going down and doing it again just to defy logic and feel what that felt like. I studied the clock on the stove to the point of being very accurate about time without needing a watch. I became, very often, accurate to the minute in guessing the time. I had my chemistry set and microscope as well, but wasted little time doing homework. That was boring. I was most interested in introspection.
What was love? I was twelve. I figured I would learn that later on. I remembered the query. Ah the gifts that come from our wounds. See Blog 71 Honor (Gary)
Blog 70 The Gift of the Wilderness (Gary)
Mark and I hit the trail and I think of our walks as a rock crusher. Not only are we grinding tiny rocks into the earth, we are talking through our own rocks. We process stuff out loud for the other to hear, but much of what we are saying is for ourselves to hear. The hard stuff goes into the machine whole and comes out a much finer compound, laying down a softer ground upon which to walk. Life is somehow easier having dumped our load of rocks into the machine and allowed the earth and sky to work it out. Nature has a way of doing that. She is the silent observer. There is something alive and working all around us as we talk and walk the earth.
We often put out our fantasies so we can gnash our teeth about what we wished we had. Those fantasies, too, seem to go through the rock crusher and become fine sand. What we used to talk about is rarely mentioned. The earth has claimed it.
I look over the valley and am aware that very few of the million people below ever get this perspective. They may see this expansive valley from a plane, but to see it looking down from the ridge is quite different. It is the shades of green in each mound of foliage of each hill. On rare occasions, it gives you the total expanse from San Francisco to the south end of the East Bay. Now is the height of summer and we see the green and the red coming in. The red is the poison oak in its glory.
The flies love me today. They try hard to bite me. I am not used to this as they usually leave me alone. But today they are particularly hungry. It is morning and they search in vain for their breakfast as I flail away at them with my hat. They are persistent even when I know I have hit them. No more shorts and short sleeves for the season. But it’s just another struggle I somehow enjoy, as I keep moving up The Hill, now focused only on the ground and my shadow. I can see them circling back. Hah, it is all part of the struggle for life, and I endure it with that feeling of aliveness. Perhaps like Moses in the desert. I would bet he enjoyed eating honey and locusts because he knew in his struggle that it gave him spiritual energy and a sense of purpose. That is it. It is a spiritual energy, a greater sense of my own spirit when I struggle a bit. My body thrives on its aliveness. It keeps saying I am alive and I thrive here mentally, physically, and spiritually. Getting bitten by life once in a while awakens you or keeps you present.
H0 brothers and sisters! I say go into the wilderness and find your spirit. It does not dwell in the city. The city is to exist; the wilderness is to thrive. Spirit is nurtured here.
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WALKING THE HILL THE ART OF ACCIDENTAL TRANSFORMATION
Blog 69 Change for the Better (Gary)
Hey, it's Mark, me, and Stacy, another man from our group whom I invited along today. All of us are struggling up The Hill at a snail's pace. I thought it was just me. With a better view at higher elevation we soon discover the smoke that clouds the valley; no doubt from the San Diego area fires. Regardless, it's another beautiful day, yet Mark continues to unload his darkness from the bowels of German persecution, the foundation of his doctoral dissertation on the Holocaust. He is very dark and intense. I attempt to remind him of the beauty of the day but he refutes it with an assertive, "I am always intense, what do you expect." I assert back with a loud, "Lighten up!" Interesting that we are close to the last stretch of the Hill of Cruelty.
We continue on to the tree and make a poor but better than expected time of one hour, nine minutes and some odd seconds. We turn around to take in the view. Smoke and haze cover the valleys. It is good to be up here looking down on it. I actually feel better up here than when we started. We rejoice in our time, pee on a bush or tree, and slowly descend.
I am not sure what today has brought. Stacy is quieter than usual. Mark is his usual intense being. I point to each one of us starting with Stacy and labeling him “relaxed,” me “medium relaxed,” and Mark “not relaxed,” as we head down the hill.
So what do I take from today? I know that I always want people to change for the better. I know I need to let go and realize this is it. Little if anything is going to change in my friends. I don't like this. The truth is I don't want things to change, but I want people to change. They won't be able to love me if they don't change. I can't stand that. Let's extrapolate on this.
It goes back to tearing up my classmate’s fucked up drawing of the duck in first grade because he didn't do it right. You can't have love unless it's perfect. Only the perfect get loved. Only the good child gets the candy from Santa. If you are deprived of love you must not be good enough or perfect enough to receive it. Okay, got it.
Fuck. Another lesson from The Hill. And from a commander who when I voiced my expectations of certain commanders said, “Remember, Gary, they are just people.” Thank you, Col. Turos. That keeps vibrating in my head.
How accepting are you or have you been just as critical as I?
Thanks for the gift mom—NOT.
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WALKING THE HILL THE ART OF ACCIDENTAL TRANSFORMATION
Blog 68 Loneliness and Perfection (Gary)
Reflecting on my neediness. I am afraid of it, as I know it pushes people away. Maybe I can reformulate it some way.
I believe most men are lonely because of their programming to be providers in excess and absentia. Then we become even more needy. Like my client who worked hard to make a fortune, and is now unhappy in relationship, so he travels the world, seeking and empty.
What would do it for me? Hot sex helps, but so do hot cars and . . . . choose from the list of wants and toys, you can name it. Maybe it's working less and being quiet, as I wrote earlier. I thought I must be unlovable, so I try very hard to do all the right things, and be a good person. Who now abandons whom?
I get it. I have abandoned myself, an abandoned child who learned how to abandon himself. Just like an abused child learns to abuse. The quiet has certainly opened Pandora's box. These walks are killing me open. So what would it look like to not abandon myself and to no longer follow mother’s directives?
I just now lost my words to write about all of this. Guess I will have to ponder on another walk up The Hill. What if I was, what if I am . . . lovable? Would there be nothing to do?
How about you? If you were lovable would you no longer have any work to do on yourself?
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Walking The Hill The Art of Accidental Transformation Plep/Yoslow
Blog 67 Be Prepared: Gear Up (Gary)
I’ve got my Cool Max socks and shirt, my water bottle with Emergen-C, camera, stop watch, knife, Sting Kill, sun screen, note pad, pen, clip-on sunglasses, and lastly my special pack that Mark bought me that just holds my water bottle and a few of the items. The rest go in my pockets. It's funny because I am always critical of sports that require all kinds of special (especially brand name) gear. Yet this is de-re-gore for me. Here I am with all of my special shit. I realize it is fun to carry all my equipment, and that each item has become almost sacred. They work, and they can make a difference. I despise the culture of wanting, yet I have perhaps played a part in what I most resent. I want so I walk. That does seem to be a part of it.
Is it okay to just “want” to be alive and live well?
My great mystery is unraveling. I am discovering things about myself in the walking and the writing. I walk because I want something. That rings true. I know I crave the contact with Nature, and the energy I get in my body, but yet I continue to talk about what I want. Maybe I am struggling with the conflict of wanting, and never having enough, like everyone else. Hmmmmmm. Could be true, doctor. (Is the word really “want?” How about “starved?” My mother couldn’t even remember if I was breast fed or baptized. Obviously I had no one to feed me everything we are starved for beyond food.)
The weather dictates the changes in my gear, and I have a number of other items I add or subtract depending on climatic conditions. And before I go out the door I check Air Now on the web to make sure the air quality is considered safe. It's the shits to be on a good start to a hike and realize my lungs are heavy, burn, and I cough because I know I am getting something in my lungs that doesn't belong there. The wood smoke rising from homes on the surrounding hills on cooler days can be debilitating and a nuisance.
I grab my gear from upstairs and do a quick trot down to the door. Neither of us wants to be chastised for being late. Mark’s old BMW convertible pulls up shortly or he is waiting with his bandana on his head. Oh, one of those things I forgot to mention.
When did a bandana become cool? Actually I think it looks pretty stupid (you will find our judgments throughout by the way). Like you’re a fucking pirate or a Russian cleaning lady who is out to pick up a new broom or something. I am sure some athlete started this, and now everyone has to follow, much like the backward baseball cap. I know I only wear the bandana under my hat when it’s hot. I soak it with cold water and slap it on my head. It helps. It has become another somewhat sacred tool, certainly on hot days. (You fool, don’t you know you will be rejected and won’t be loved if you wear that? Mom has a set of requirements for love. Pay attention.)
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BLOG 66 SUFFERING (Gary)
The heat helps. It can be brutal but Mark and I seem to love it. It claims us and we give it all up moment by moment as we think we might drop. It's kind of like our lives. Both of us have tried so hard to have life be different from what we have known: 107° and no shade and a 25 lb. pack go steadily up hill. It forces us to do our best at what we know and can do. It’s really more of the same.
I know that has been my life, to always be struggling up some kind of hill. Somehow this is more gratifying and tangible as we have a finish line. We can see it, it's achievable, and almost immediate compared to other things in life.
The tree is our goal. Just to get to the tree. The last hill is a bitch and we seem to push each other faster. The pace has changed, and we are now competing against our last time. Awe for the mountain, the tree, and to pee. Maybe something will grow better here due to our efforts. We check our stopwatches and give ourselves an "Alright!" and a high five or "Oh well, still pretty good" and a fist bump for the day, then a gentle hike down.
Sometimes I am depleted for three days. Other times I want to go to the gym and continue the work out. It seems kind of crazy as I write this to walk three miles up The Hill and three miles back and then want to go work out. Maybe this is true masochism. Now that is something I haven't studied.
Maybe I am addicted to a certain amount of pain. Where did I possibly learn that? Well, the military teaches you to survive pain with your buddies. I most pointedly remember basic training, and a bunch of us sitting in a room full of tear gas after a 4:00 a.m. forced march. It was cool doing an ordeal together. I also remember the times I have sat in a sweat lodge with a group of people and “sucked dirt,” got closer to the floor and cooler air, or continued sitting upright in a “warrior sweat.” Is it good or stupid to be the last one sitting up when you notice even the Shaman is down once the steam clears? I don’t know. I felt stupid, alone, and not liking it. Being the lone survivor sucks, again. And being the hero . . . eh.
Maybe it's the group experience, the shared suffering that is so addicting. I certainly know how it is to suffer pain alone. This doing it together is very satisfying. I always tell my clients that doing it alone sucks. I believe that.
I learn as I talk and as I write, yet in the past I couldn't write, and it is only recently that I seem motivated, maybe because, here again, I am not doing it alone. This could be another difficult journey, but because it is shared I relish the hardship. I know Mark, who is a writer, is going to push my ass hard to get it done, a commitment to do something very difficult and productive that will require discipline and sacrifice. How often did he warn me about that? I am in. Wow, that actually feels exciting. Okay, I am addicted to pain and suffering, as long as it is for a good cause. Maybe our ramblings will influence others to take on a challenge or maybe just enjoy the story of two crazy bastards who love to push our edge physically and emotionally with vibrancy.
The Hill keeps it simple. It's grind rocks, pick up glass. Don't fall on your ass.
I can recall The Hill breaking me down several times. It's hard to be resistant to emotions here. I get vulnerable quickly, especially before something like the Hill of Cruelty.
Mark on grief: “Go deep into the darkness until you find the pinpoint of light.”
Or, from Gary: “All in to the light through surrender.”
Mark: “Honor the light. Use it to turn loss into honoring” (said just before The Hill of Cruelty). Another form of connection.
What does it for you? What opens you up to life and grief? I challenge you to be awake and connected. Connected to what? Yourself, the core of you, and what awakens you and keeps you awake.
Is it a race or my stream of consciousness carrying me up The Hill? I love breaking from the shade into the sun. I find myself in a sauna. It's the feeling of being baked by the earth and the sun. I am like the earth here. The mud and water God put together. I am cooking like a good bread. It feels right. Not at all punishing, as some might hold it, but rather a form of aliveness I feel to my core.
God, my gut hurts today. My stomach muscles that I worked out yesterday are talking to me today since my hill hike. Ah, time to take the shortcut down.
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Blog 65 War/VIETNAM (GARY)
I talk about Vietnam to someone in my circle at the Roasting Company and what it holds for me: "You know you can look at that place on Google Earth." I think I have heard of this before but chose not to look. Today I finally download Google Earth, and I am blown away at how the whole earth can be put on my computer.
I enter “Nha Trang Air Base” in the search field and I get its history. Then I go back to Google Earth and enter “Nha Trang Air Base or airport.” I don't remember which but there it is. I feel my body shuddering as I look closer and closer.
It's not there. What I remember is no longer there. The only building I recognize is the large steel roof of the base church where the priest forgot part of the mass. I am dismayed, relieved, and in some sort of state of shock. How could something that affected me so profoundly no longer be there, and how could I be looking right at it? To me, it has been alive and active in my mind for forty-one years. To me it is like last year. It's gone! It is hard for part of me to believe, but at least part of me gets it now. My story no longer has a physical presence, and it's hard to comprehend. Maybe now I can be home and be free of Vietnam?
I think I am done. I am finally home, but there is one more episode that makes it all complete for me. It is hard to type this because the emotions are so strong. This happened last weekend.
I show up in uniform for my first California State Military Reserve Meeting. I get my first salute at the doorway to the armory. I shadow the lieutenant and take emergency readiness classes. Then it's time for lunch. A group of us decide to walk three blocks to the fast food place. It's hot, we are all in uniform and someone honks their horn. I think it is someone making fun of us. Then I notice someone is waving at us. On the way back from lunch someone is waving at us again. Then someone stops and wants to take our picture. The police officer waves as he drives by us. I finally realize these people are proud of us, and acknowledging us. I discreetly wipe my right eye and hold back the emotions as I connect with what I so missed when I came back from Vietnam, a “Welcome Home.” I got it. Thanks America, I finally got it.
After the weekend drill at the armory I am driving home in my tight new uniform, and wearing my hat with the captain's bars. It is a warm summer day and a man ahead of me is driving his red Ferrari with the top down. I used to envy that or fantasize what that might be like. But today it means nothing. I feel only pride and a sense of satisfaction. I am home. I am happy driving my truck and I am home, at last I am at home.
This July 25th, 2008, makes it 40 years and 341 days for me to come home, but who is counting? Ha, ha, ha. I am home. HOME AT LAST.
“A man afraid of himself has no place to hide.” — Gary Plep, 1976.
Yet whenever I think I am done with something I am not.
It is Monday evening’s group three weeks later. I have supported one of the men to journal. This evening he claims time as he has something he wants to share. I am thinking it is something about his childhood or relationship.
He says quite flatly, “I would like to share a story about Vietnam that I have never shared.” I tear up just a little as I have an idea now of what is coming. He asks if it is all right with me and I tell him, "Yes, please do."
He describes flying a helicopter in Vietnam to pick up dead and wounded, and it is a hot landing zone, meaning there is a lot of incoming enemy fire. He lands, picks up dead and wounded, and before he can pull up a sniper with an AK-47 in a tree directly ahead shoots out the bubble of his helicopter sending shattered pieces of plexiglass everywhere. He is hit twice. He yells to his copilot to pull the chopper up and out of the landing zone, but as he turns to yell at him he sees he has been shot dead between the eyes. He is on his own now, and pulls up and out and flies to the hospital landing zone some fifteen minutes away. He makes it to the zone, falls out, and hits the ground unconscious. He wakes with Nurse Molly (actual name unknown) holding his hand, and telling him they didn't think he was going to survive. She visits with him daily until he recovers. One day a staff officer comes to see him, pins a bronze star on his chest, shakes his hand and leaves. He is back to the war zone and flying out dead and wounded again. He and his colleagues are angry with the copilot for doing something stupid to get himself killed. That is post-traumatic syndrome for you. Not logical. He states, “I am still angry, not at him. Just angry.”
Both of us wiped a tear or two from our eyes, but I was surprised to see I could just be there and he could tell the story so calmly. He said it was the first time he had told anyone this story. I tear up a little now as I write, and have great respect and appreciation for the women who saved our souls: another piece of the healing and coming home.
Too many movies. I guess I will never be done, but I am HOME. It has been hard to feel whole while part of me has been in another country. I needed to be welcomed home by strangers on a street, honking their horn as they drove by. I needed to welcome myself home.
Welcome home, brother. You have traveled a long distance to get here.
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Blog 64 Alone (Gary)
I don't trust anything. I am scared to be here. I have seen so many people give it all up for false gods that I have come to believe it, too. Part of me doesn't want to, but part of me does. A practice, a discipline of just being here with Sue and my Cedar, but even that can change. My Cedar will go away some day and I will be alone again. Everything leaves either through will or age. Even me. Maybe the recent acknowledgments from men are telling me it's okay to be here. That it is enough. That I am enough. That was it.
When I came back from Vietnam I was hit hard with ALONE AGAIN in a strange world. ALONE, yet I preach not doing it alone. Here I sit, still alone, not home, as the home I was to come back to wasn't here anymore. Where is my home? I have searched my whole life for a home. I have been in this house for twenty-one years this month, but only now am I considering making this my home. Not “be here now,” rather, “be at home now.” Claim this home and be here.
Too bad life takes so long to achieve. I could achieve life here. Quiet, oh Fantasy Mind. Stop. Is it too late? So much of what I do is an attempt to make it be safe where I am. Maybe I don't have to keep at it. Maybe I am HOME.
I realize that I am sitting in our new and beautiful wicker chairs with my feet up and my dog lying nearby. It sure looks and feels like I am at home. I couldn't walk The Hill today due to a wild fire and its intense smoke polluting the air. The house smelled like smoke and outside was like being close to a fire and having the smoke blown toward you, except it didn't go away.
The State Military Reserve finally called, and I guess I may be "in" with the answer to a few questions regarding my medical history. It will require my attendance one weekend a month. Maybe that will force me to be home. Maybe the exploring I want to do is done, unnecessary, and less valuable than showing up for someone else. Maybe I am almost here and The Hill has brought me home. That feels right in my heart.
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Blog 63 Disappointment (Gary)
I have to look back to where I got that sense of feeling cheated. I spent a great deal of time alone as a kid, either looking out the window to see what others were doing or simply looking outside of myself. Then I spent a lot of time watching TV, which we did not get until I was twelve. I spent an enormous amount of time dreaming, and picking my world out of pictures. Then at puberty I created pictures in my mind and hedonistic ideals. I created my world from these images. My move from a small town in Oregon to a large city high school in California and the “greed” teaching of an elder friend didn’t help. I began to believe that everyone should have these ideals. Didn’t everyone? I don’t think they fantasized to the extent I did as I had little other stimulus. Now I am plagued by all these images, which I must put into their proper perspective, or go to my grave with a visual lust and feast that can never be achieved. I must consider the source. I placed these images in my mind out of scarity and probably anxiety for lack of of something else. I altered my situation with fantasy. So now, IF I can fill myself with what is real (Sue, Sarah, Heather, Chris, Eric, Cedar, friends), grasp the abundance in what I have, I will be okay. I have to wrestle with the fantasies. Maybe if I don’t wrestle I will be okay.
The fear of missing something comes up. I like excitement. It, too is a drug. Lament I find anxiety when I consider letting go. Maybe if I could find joy instead of excitement? I find myself sad and fearful of being still. I never could. I was moved around so many times as a kid. Then there was my fiancé’, and the hope that I could make a “still” life work. I could build a peaceful place. At the same time there was my deployment to Vietnam where my world became foreign and ripped apart by the men senior in rank to me and older than I who didn’t adapt well to living in fear. Yet we all shared a certain amount of excitement of living and surviving in a war zone. Physiologically, fear and excitement are two sides of the same coin. Alcohol and sex were the drugs of choice. My squadron commander said laughinly that we had the highest rate of veneral disease on base, WOW. I was twenty-one years old and I was going to become a good Catholic boy while I watched even the priest, who was teaching me the Catholic religion, drop out an essential part of the mass. All the while the letters from my girl were changing and I was hearing about her “friend”.
I came home to a whole new culture where my story was not wanted, my pain not recognized, my woman with someone else. I lost all hope. I recently asked my wife sincerely if the war was over, as in my heart I have never settled. I am not back. This is why I have to go back to Vietnam and the Wall. You see, ever since my mother and father separated when I was three, I had been looking for some kind of order I could rely on. I thought I found it until Vietnam. Now I don’t trust what I have. I gave up all hope. I recently visited a Vietnam veteran in the hospital and he said Vietnam left him not trusting anyone.
Wanting to include some history of the Vietnam War, I opened a book offered by another therapist who is a Vietnam vet and participates in one of my men’s groups. I thought I might find something revealing and perhaps soothing. I just flipped to a page, and found a Vietnam veteran writing about going to a veteran’s organization after the war and getting into fistfights because the prior generation wouldn’t legitmize our war because we “lost”. That was one more stab in the heart I had to put the book down.
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Blog 62 Ego (Gary)
I wrestle with ego and beauty. I will start with ego: my fear of it. I don't like too much acknowledgment. This comes up as I have recently received significant acknowledgment. I find that I don't like it. Yet I have been touched by the differences in men's lives because of something I contributed.
Is it because I don't value myself enough to let it in? I always say I despise ego because I have seen what it has done to people. Am I afraid of my own? That is what the mirror could be telling me.
Let's explore this. Maybe it's a cover. Maybe I don't want the responsibility of having made a difference. Then I would have to show up more. I would have to stand out, and there is a risk to that. Is it the risk of making a fool out of myself, or being shamed, or looking stupid? I have to be with this, but I talk it out loud to Mark as we walk together. Mark attempts to help me see that I don't abuse ego. I get that I have been hurt many times by others’ egos. Disappointed and hurt. At the same time I can get in an ego state that creates arrogance, and then I awaken and stop myself. I don’t want to separate myself. I prefer to join. My goal is to not feel alone but rather to feel connected and loved.
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BLOG 61 Ego Vs Acceptance (Gary)
Ego vs Acceptance (Gary)
Mark and I walked on Friday. That finishes my exercise for the week. I talked about my frustration and pain in dealing with recent clients’ addictions. I don't usually get worked up over such conundrums, but the ego involvement was so pronounced.
One man is a survivor from Vietnam. He is a boat person whose ego helped him survive, and now he is a multimillionaire who looks very successful, with multiple symbols of success, and multiple addictions that are leading to the end of his marriage. My other client relapsed, and had to go through a hospital detox because his ego didn't know what to do without the sustenance of alcohol.
Often, people without their addictive substance end up anxious and relapsing because they don't know how to survive without it. They have to be taught acceptance. I know this fires me up because I am still learning self-acceptance, and I can say that because I have become quiet enough to get the ego out of the way. When the ego is quiet life can be pretty sweet. That is why I walk The Hill with my brother, continuing to collect more evidence for further change in my own psyche.
Hoka Hay (Gary)
I am sitting in the sun
in my beautiful back yard
with my dog,
looking at my thriving plants’ colors.
It is Fall..
Hoka Hay:
Today's a Good Day to Die. BUY THE BOOK
Blog 60 Surrender (Gary)
Note: Interesting timing for this piece.
“God damn would you stop whining! You are becoming histrionic.” Mark is testing my patience around surrender. I say, "Ye of so little faith." Yet ONLY he has ever been in this place. That's my job just like it is his sometimes. Not to fix but to listen, although I would claim he has more fixes than I. Sometimes he doesn't want to listen long enough for me. I surrender and listen.
You see, I believe that it is useless to fight, or try to control certain events. It feels to me that things always seem to provide a lesson or a better way that you won't realize until later. Enough people have told me stories that were tragic yet in some way the outcome made sense. Obviously, some things are just tragic, period. My side hurts, yet I am setting too fast a pace for Mark. He invites me to go on alone. I slow up and tell him I will follow his lead. I will walk with him. We are not as fast today but we still make it to the tree in a great time. We turn at the tree for the downhill, and our physical energy is spent as well as his angst. We float down. It has been a good hike. We have seen only one bike rider and at least one of us has left a large piece of our load here. We are quiet now. Thank you, spirits of the mountain.
Blog 59 Shadow (Gary)
I notice that sometimes we are in shadow and sometimes in light. What a great metaphor. This walk is a perfect exposure to all the elements, most particularly those within our self. I also came across a black feather today, and wonder what bird has left a part of himself, and was it from grooming or from trauma? Is he alive? That, too, is symbolic to me.
Can we rid ourselves of the dark parts? It seems to me we can, but it is usually only through grooming ourselves to a different level of understanding, and letting those parts go, or through some trauma that forces us to change. Most of the time it seems to me that we are forced to shift through some form of trauma. Maybe this is a message for me to let go of something dark. I don't take everything I see as a symbol or sign, but I feel quite often it happens the other way, in that there was a sign and I didn't pay attention to it, and should have. So I look at today’s sign and ignore it only to look at it again now as I write. I have slowed enough to observe from a deeper place and ponder the question.
Is there a deeper sign here? I play with it and have to say there is some truth in this possible message. The more I let go of what fantasies lay in dark shadows, the more productive I am in writing this book or getting any task accomplished.
I pick up the black feather and reflect on what magic it may carry. As a matter of fact, it was resting in the shadow of the trail. I carried it with me into the light. It doesn't seem to hold much for me now, so I let it go. How perfect, I think now, as so often I embraced something in a dark way, and when I thought about it—and by doing so brought light to it—it didn't have any value. Of course, you deserve an example.
Surrender (Gary)
“God damn would you stop whining! You are becoming histrionic.” Mark is testing my patience around surrender. I say, "Ye of so little faith." Yet ONLY he has ever been in this place. That's my job just like it is his sometimes. Not to fix but to listen, although I would claim he has more fixes than I. Sometimes he doesn't want to listen long enough for me. I surrender and listen.
You see, I believe that it is useless to fight, or try to control certain events. It feels to me that things always seem to provide a lesson or a better way that you won't realize until later. Enough people have told me stories that were tragic yet in some way the outcome made sense. Obviously, some things are just tragic, period. My side hurts, yet I am setting too fast a pace for Mark. He invites me to go on alone. I slow up and tell him I will follow his lead. I will walk with him. We are not as fast today but we still make it to the tree in a great time. We turn at the tree for the downhill, and our physical energy is spent as well as his angst. We float down. It has been a good hike. We have seen only one bike rider and at least one of us has left a large piece of our load here. We are quiet now. Thank you, spirits of the mountain.
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Blog 58 Support (Gary)
What I loved about Mark Ruskell was that he was a straight shooter and if you needed a hand with something he was there. We had many honest conversations about our feelings, and we had a boatload of adolescent fun together. We went on a couple team trips to Mexico and a canoe trip in which he was the only one to come back and save my ass from spinning in a circle.
Remember that old science experiment where you put a pin on top of a cork in a bucket of water and watched it spin as a compass needle? That was me, and that was our first adventure since our Sterling Men’s Weekend. I had decided to be macho after the Sterling Men's weekend, and took one of the canoes by myself after a water fight. Well, I got in the middle of a lake, and the wind just kept spinning me in a circle like the pin-on-the-cork experiment. I spun from east to west and back again time after time. I was exhausting myself trying to move forward only to be blown in a circle. Mark came back for me, and we somehow got me to the dam where the trip ended. His weight and strength saved the day. I never forgot that.
To have a friend who will come back for you is a treasure and a measure of someone you want to walk with throughout life. Do you have friends who will do that for you? If not, seek them out. Those are the kind of friends I have chosen, and it most certainly made life’s struggles much easier.
The Hill became more than a hill, or exercise, or being in Nature—it became a relationship: a relationship with Mark(s), and a mirror to reflect back an image of myself and my relationship with me. Each chapter reflects part of my, and our, struggles for wholeness. Sometimes those are the most beautiful times.
It's amazing that we always fall into a pace that is mutual. Maybe it's just that, but I add the word respect. It is a pace of mutual respect. This walk is many things, but I think our pace represents a mutual respect for each other. We have melded. Why so? Is it the walk? I think it is because this walk is a catharsis for two, sometimes weary, older men. Notice I didn't say "old." Fuck that. I am tired of people referring to themselves as old. Especially when I know we are in better shape than most forty-year-olds.
We are trekking through our past and into the present through our babble. I really shouldn't call it babble because that might give you the wrong impression, but sometimes it is just that. That is what catharsis often is: just a lot of babble. The mind seems to need to occasionally relieve itself of too much gas (yeah, that is often part of the walk as well) or something. Yes, brain fart now has a new meaning. This is either because we have pressed the mind too hard, or because it's in an infinite loop. It's stuck without any way to free itself other than by babbling. Simply put, the mind needs to detox from all the input it gets from the world. Eckhart Tolle, author of The Power of Now, refers to this as "the pain body."
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Blog 57
Earth School (Gary)
I believe we are all here to learn something, otherwise what the fuck. Life is a school for the soul and if you don’t get the lesson it will be repeated. I hate those repeats.
I wasn’t hungry for the learning. I was starved, literally starving.
I feel that past generations were forced to choose more of a shadow way of thinking in order to survive. We have the greater luxury of conscious thought to choose which one will predominate.
Some go numb, some awaken,
some are just shaken—by Nature.
It is the God-given caldron that blends
the best and worst of a man to go deep if he allows.
To stretch, wither, and die if he chooses.
I prefer awaken.
It chooses me and I choose it.
I am open to every smell,
every breeze, tree, flower that varies with each season,
the colors and shades, feathers, scat,
a rush in the brush.
It is all vital to me.
Clean air, blown in from the coast,
blue skies, cloud formations always changing,
shadow and light, blackberries,
early morning feeding birds,
my track upon the ground.
It is here in the dust I am most alive.
I live here; I exist in the city; but I live here.
This is where love comes from.
Its origin is here and I can feel it.
We are born here and this is returning home for me.
Thank you.
Thank you for Love.
It originated here and I feel in my heart that we all did.
Home is in it.
In the earth.
Maybe that's the body.
The soul seeks a higher place, and as yet unknown to me.
What might it be?
Maybe it's flitting in and out of all of it,
the whole spectrum of the universe.
As I look out over the expanse of ocean,
breathe in the air,
I am enlivened:
to pull it all into my body and—soul.
Drink in the river. Swallow it whole.
I am it, and it is me.
Ah, so close to God.
It is an energy that moves in all things.
Spirit, Holy Spirit, no, Wholly Spirit.
I soar with thee.
There is a God for me and She is in everything
but clearly seen up close.
Most clearly seen up close!
Thank you.
This reminds me of Mothers, Sons, and Lovers where Michael Gurian talks about drinking in the sea of the feminine. I now think of the Universe as the Divine Feminine or Divine Mother. That is where I walk. I walk with the Divine Mother. She nurtures my soul. She feeds me light and dark energy and makes me feel at home. This is where I come from and this is where I go back to. I am a part of it and it is a part of me.
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Blog 56 Choose the Light (Gary)
I’ll get back to the point. I notice that any time I go somewhere, I do people's inventories. Part of me is always contrasting and comparing, evaluating and judging. Hell, I do it just driving down the street comparing houses, cars, people, almost everything in my field of vision. Recently, I have made a real effort to stop this dark practice of projecting shadow on everything, realizing it's the ego that is always on alert to protect, defend, or fight for itself. I notice when I stop this mind chatter I automatically shift my focus to more productive aspects of life. It's a positive shift. In other words, I bring in light rather than dark energy. When I do this I am automatically more productive. So sometimes I walk in the shade and shadow, and sometimes I choose the light. Today I choose more light. I am separating from my mother’s shadow. I end my allegiance to her cause. I fight the negative imprinting we all have from our parents rather than surrender and be just like them. I had to choose: Will I be awake, or be asleep and unconscious of choice? That is part of the work of therapy.
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Blog 55 Sacred Moments (Gary)
As I walk The Hill several times each week I try to lock each experience into my memory as though I may never be able to do it again. Just like the way I am playing ball with my dog right now. Yes, as I write this I am playing with my dog, Cedar. He loses the ball under the cabinet, and I have to get down on my knees to retrieve it. I will always remember these moments because it is a part of "our" game, a sacred game wherein life is precious because I know that his life is short. Not because he is ill but because he is a dog and he maybe has four years left. That kills me to know but at the same time keeps me conscious and holds "our" time as sacred. Not so different is my relationship with Mark.
We share much that I treasure, and I hold each walk sacred because that too may end. Either because he moves to establish his career, or moves away, or one of us becomes ill or dies. It all happens. Staying conscious is part of the walk, the walk of life. I could choose to ignore my feelings, but I choose not to because I also enjoy more of what I have. I am alive to walk and feel life fully, living each moment to its crest, rather than the way I used to do things, which was to feel like someone had to pinch me in order for me to believe the experience. Disassociation is another way to avoid pain.
I felt outside of my experience much of the time. I know I am not the only one who does this, so that makes it okay for me to disclose, right? I can feel my ego again. I certainly don't want you to hear that I have any flaws. Ha, that's funny, because I always tell my clients that I prefer humility, but now, with you, even though I probably don't know you, I have to be humble. It's a good thing. I know I have been a successful practitioner partly because I am real and willing to share my wounds, my teachings, what I have learned, and laugh at my flaws. It’s also a way of screening my clients for motivation. I only want those who are willing to join me, in a sense, and do their work, otherwise it is a wasteof time and energy for all. I know with all certainty that is what makes my men’s groups so rousing.
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