blog – The Tao of Bill

Dinner with My Dad: A Reflection on Life Lessons

I recently came across a writing prompt that interested me.
“If you could have dinner with anyone past or present, who would you choose?”

To pick just one person that I would want to have dinner with, alive or dead, is a challenge. Most people might choose a celebrity, a poet, a musician, or a politician. I can surmise that this is the point of the exercise for them. How would I begin to pick the one person whose contribution, ideas, heroic deed, etc. inspired me to select them over any other? Another question, would it be considered trite or a wasted opportunity to choose a family member, such as my Dad?

Well, I am picking my Dad.

Dinner with my Dad would be a very particular scenario. It would be a recreation of a lunch I once had with him when I was 23 years old. I can remember only one time as a young man when he and I ever went out as just guys. We had a beer. It was special in many ways. Obviously, spending time with my dad was special in its own right. But it was also one of the first times he stopped being in “dad mode.” He was just a regular guy. As an aside, I call this the dad hat. It’s my nickname for Dad’s tendency to act based on his perception of ‘Dad’ as a role. This happens rather than him acting as a person. I admired his dedication to it. Often, though, I wished he could have just been a friend when I needed it. That day, he was just that.

I remember that I was really struggling with some heavy shit that day. He was very helpful in listening intently. He only offered advice when asked. Of all of the conversations that day, I fondly remember him saying his famous line to me. He truly believed in that line. One that I never came around to until after he died. He said, “ Bill, believe it or not, everything will work out.”

Today, if I were to sit across from him at the same restaurant, I would struggle. I wouldn’t know what to tell him first. I mean, where do I even begin? He has been gone 12 years now, and I have spent so much time talking to his headstone. I would tell him that I miss him more than words can describe. I would tell him that the world makes less sense without him around. That men like him are a dying breed. I would apologize for so many things. I would save the best for last. I survived some mind-blowing shit. I would tell him that sitting across from him is a miracle in itself. I have come around to his trademark saying. Everything, in fact, will, does, and did work out. That in no way means that my life is what I wanted it to be. It means that I understand, and that it worked out a helluva lot better than it could have.

I realize that I have described a very one-sided conversation. It’s because I have so much to tell him. I want to honor him. I will tell him how much he was right about. I have come to value his simple yet poignant take on the complexities of life. I remember the quiet disappointment in his eyes as he dispensed valuable wisdom to deaf ears. It would mean everything to me to set the record straight. I want to see the satisfied, redeemed, look on his face. A humble man, who, like his dedicated son, only wants to know that he made a difference by sharing the wisdom accrued over a too-short, hard-scrabble life.

Finally, the check would come. He would try to pay, as expected. But I would insist. It would be one more payment towards the inequity of all that he gave me, which would be frittered away. He would insist on paying the tip. At that moment, I would remind him that he has also given enough tips in his time on earth. All of this is a feeble effort. I want to show him that his generosity of spirit and wisdom are not lost on me after all. He never knew just how much his sage advice has guided me through life. It has helped me face the most difficult challenges posthumously.

Finally, we will walk out to the parking lot and walk towards the setting sun. I extend my right arm and place it on his shoulder as we walk. I say, tears welling up despite my strict no-cry policy, “I love you Dad. Thank you for everything you didn’t know you gave me.”

Suddenly, my arm was resting in the air. The persistent force of gravity pulled my arm to my side again. It is a calm evening, still and warm. I realize that he is gone, back to where he came. Disappointed at the sudden conclusion of our visit, I walk to my car. A brisk breeze breaks the stillness, blowing my trademark scally cap off my head. I laugh, pick it up and smile broadly. He never liked scally caps. He was a ball cap guy.

Quiet victories

I am 1 year free of alcohol. I am somewhat impressed with myself that I took this long to mention it. Conversely, I am annoyed with myself that I feel the need to tell anyone. Confused? So am I, and I’m the one writing this.

For context, allow me to introduce one of the most poignant sayings ever stated regarding sharing.
“Keep it to yourself because at the end of the day nobody gives a shit.”

Those who care about what’s going on in my life can always check in here. My friends, they can ask me. But overall, I have found that staying under the radar is the way I want to go forward.

Perhaps it’s callous to say what I said above about nobody caring. It’s not entirely fair. People care, but they have their own lives to contend with. I firmly believe that everyone is going through something right now. Even the ones we think have it all together. There is only one certainty in life and that is life is hard for everyone. With regards to sharing, it’s not going to mean to them what it means to you.
Additionally, I am now a convert to the notion of disappearing. You see it everywhere on social media: “disappear for 30,60,90 days and reappear stronger.” It calls upon people to work on themselves, without the benefit or distraction of the advice of others. To not be visible during the trifling changes, but to seclude until you rise like a Phoenix, visibly and decidedly better and stronger.

I bought into that mindset a while back. I desperately wanted to immerse myself completely in the idea. I daydreamed of no contact, no worries, no obligations other than what is essential, and just working on myself. But my life doesn’t allow for it. I have commitments that I need to uphold as a man. I have a family and friends who will worry about me if I’m not heard from. When I decided to tackle my drinking problem a year ago, I decided to do it relatively quietly.

Normally, when I attempt self-improvement, I put it out there for reasons of accountability. It’s a bold, risky, and potentially problematic approach unless you are truly serious. But I only do so when I am truly serious. When I decided on January 1st,2025 to stop drinking, I avoided telling everyone. Not that I didn’t have plenty of confidence that I could do it. That’s how I am wired. I get to the point where I am completely done with something, and I summon the will to vanquish it. I didn’t need to tell people because I was doing it for myself, not for them. I could care less what they thought if I failed, my own disappointment would be enough to deal with. I told family and a few friends. I then disappeared as much as I was able. I wanted to rebuild. I wanted to accomplish something I have wanted for a very long time. To regain control of my life from those things that were controlling me. It’s a logical progression after all: conquer that which makes my mental health unstable, and then conquer the mental health.
One year later, I am leaps and bounds closer to conquering my demons. The cessation of alcohol has made a tremendous difference. It was a wonderful decision all around.

I would never say this in an AA meeting because I feel that it would minimize the struggle many are going through. But I really didn’t need the program. I went to a meeting a day for the first 30 days. After the first month, my attendance was sporadic. I had learned to value the celebration of the sober life, and that’s what meetings did for me. As for the steps, despite my background in Recovery Case Management, they just didn’t apply. I know the alcoholic min,d and I know the commonalities in alcoholics. I also know that I am not like them. I was never a “blackout” drinker. I suffered a few embarrassments, but didn’t destroy my life as others have. I didn’t have any resentments to work through. I only resented the power that alcohol was gaining over my life, so the control freak in me reasserted dominance.
It wasn’t that hard for me to stop drinking because I was done with all of it. Done with arguing with myself. Done with thinking about my next drink. Tired of the inevitable self-loathing that followed.
And it’s been the best decision I have made in some time. The blessings continue to manifest.

My health has improved dramatically. My blood work is stellar. All of the inconsistencies in my labs were alcohol related. I tipped the scale at 199 this morning, which I haven’t seen since I was sick. I am down 35 pounds. I have a spring in my step and can do things once lost on me, like touching my toes. Was I surprised that I could do that! Other major concerns, such as stomach and skin issues, simply disappeared. And dare I say it, I look much better. While I can’t say that it’s the only source of good things in my life, it was the catalyst. I showed myself that I was not too old or too far gone to improve myself. That’s what is at the center of everything that I do. Self-improvement.
In a quiet, non-public manner, I disappeared while in front of everyone and came back a better, stronger me.

So when January 1st 2026 arrived, I resisted the urge to go on social media. I did not tell people of my accomplishment. The one ones that I reached out to were a Brother who is 20 years sober and my youngest son. My Masonic Brother confirmed in a single text that he, as predicted, didn’t really give a shit. My son, well he gets me well enough to know what this accomplishment means to me and why. I was fine with that.

I overshare. It’s one of the things that I have learned about myself. Keeping this milestone between just us is both new and good for me. That is who I am working towards being. Not silent but not loud. Self-assured but not cocky. Available but not transparent. I want to leave a little mystery. The world fears a quiet man. The quiet man strikes fear in the petty and inspires the rest. This milestone is my accomplishment. Done by me and for me.

So here I am, 4 days late telling you that I completed one year of Sobriety. If you give a shit, great. If not, that’s also great. Because at the end of the day, we all have ourselves to take care of before we can be any good to others.

200 miles

To survive is to be alive, long after the reason to live has died.
Author unknown

I was thinking recently about Hugh Glass. In 1823, Hugh Glass survived a Grizzly Bear attack. Then he crawled over 200 miles before he finally reached help in South Dakota. It took him weeks. He was the inspiration for the movie The Revenant. Upon reading it, I asked myself if I was capable of such a feat. The answer required little contemplation. No.
I was troubled by what I came up with.

The story of Hugh Glass caused me to explore something I think about frequently, the Will to Live. Late at night, when the demons come, my thoughts turn dark. I debate some horrible shit when I go down the Rabbit hole. When I was sick and on Dialysis, I did my best work. I thought about suicide most seriously. While in this state, I had no regard for anything at all. My life, except for the support of my family and friends, had little to no meaning. The only thing that kept me from doing it was the thought of what it would do to my family. I had ceased to live a purposeful life. I was merely existing. Surviving through my greatest trait. Stubbornness.
I was “surviving to be alive, long after the reason to live had died.”

The above phrase is attributed to the concept developed by German philosopher Arthur Schoppenhaur, supported and furthered by Viktor Frankl. It reflects the concept of an irrational, blind, incessant impulse without knowledge that drives instinctive behaviors. It further suggests that even when life feels meaningless, the act of surviving itself is a form of survival.
Viktor Frankl brilliantly explored this concept through the context of Holocaust survivors in Nazi Germany in Man’s search for Meaning. He observed that survivors often find hope and purpose in their experiences, which can lead to personal growth and resilience.

It’s a powerful thing to ponder. Sadly, I know many people who ponder it as well. I hear them say such things as, “I have no future”, or
“What’s the point?”
“There’s nothing left for me here”,
“I just don’t want to do it anymore.”
Wait, that last one was mine.
It pains me to remember. At the height of my illness, in the darkest of the dark nights, my mind journeyed to hidden places. I can still recall the state I was in. Awash in despair, devoid of interest in the future, desperate for sleep. In those moments, relief was all I could think about. Curled in the fetal position, cocooned in a blanket, I often found myself muttering to noone in particular, “I just don’t want to do it anymore.”
More than once, I said it while sitting on the edge of my bed, .38 Special balanced on my right thigh.
Those were dark days indeed.

My situation has improved since then. I received the gift of an organ transplant 4 years ago. I have made great strides in reclaiming my health, recovering my finances, and rebuilding my life. I have wonderful relationships with family and friends. I am an active Mason, and it is hugely important to me and an integral part of my life. I have a fulfilling social life. I say YES to almost every opportunity now. Having stared down my own mortality, I live like there is no tomorrow. I have a great life.
Still, incredulously, I sometimes go down the Rabbit Hole. I have learned a lot about myself recently, and I am aware that I suffer from depression. It’s not constant or consistent. I just have my moments.
Despite all of the good in my life, my dark half renders me helpless when the darkness comes. I take the negatives in my life and give them more status than they deserve. I find myself emphasizing the significant but manageable negatives in my life to the point of crisis. I then find myself overwhelmed, distraught, and looking for a way out. Which is, of course, just ending it already.
The terror is palpable. As is the frustration when I come out of it. Fortunately.

Here it is. I don’t want to die. I like my life. I may even love it; it depends largely on the day. I am living a purposeful life. The negatives of my life are manageable. Sure, I wish I were better off financially. But good things always happen to me, so why worry about it? I really do desire to have a female companion on this journey. But who knows if I’ll meet her tomorrow? And amazingly, I am doing fine without one. I have a lot to be grateful for, and I am living a blessed life.

So, back to the above quote, and the man who crawled 200 miles to survive, and the question of whether I was capable of such a feat.
I have changed my answer to a firm, resolute MAYBE. What I do know with certainty is that I would never just lie down and die. I would try. My mental health would determine how hard I tried. It would, consequently, decide how many miles I would be able to crawl. If it happens to me on a day when I feel good about myself. A day when I am at peace with who I am. Or a day that I am not consumed by self-deprecating and self-sabotaging behaviors. A day in which I feel in harmony with my resilience. A day when I knowingly wield the sword of inner strength that allowed me overcome two life-threatening diseases. This strength has also helped me face many transformational obstacles.
On those days, 201.
When the darkness comes? I would have leaned against the nearest tree. I would have sighed with relief. I welcomed the inevitable with one last “I can’t do it anymore.”

My mission in life going ahead must be to vanquish the “me” that would give up that easily. But that’s the thing about the darkness. It comes whether I want it to or not. The key for me is to always focus on the purposeful aspects of my life. I want to stay on track with my hope to die a good man. I aim to be a man who left the world a little better than he found it. At the very least, I hope not to make it worse off. I have to learn to consistently look at the good in my life.

Then, and only then, will I end the dichotomy of Living with Meaning vs. merely existing.

The Feast

What a roller coaster ride it must be to read my blog. One day I say I’m doing great. Another day I am bombarding the reader with tales of isolation, depression, and woe. Good God, I’m a mess. All I can say is, hey, at least I’m working on myself.

Post Christmas Eve, which was as good an evening that could be had with Family, I did not leave my house for 3 days. I would like to tell you that I was productive, but that would be a lie. There are days when I stay in that I am productive. I write blogs, I read, I watch movies, and I work on the Masonic tasks at hand. I would like to tell you that, but in this case, I cannot. They were wasted days. I wasn’t depressed, but motivation in any form escaped me. To make matters worse, I beat the snot out of myself for my lack of productivity.
There is a positive to this. Such episodes create awareness that I have areas for improvement, and I hope that my shortcomings will motivate me to do better. But I must say, this journey of constant improvement, while promising on paper, requires a significant amount of effort. Frankly, it’s exhausting.

I wrote quite extensively about my episode over the weekend. It consumed me for most of the weekend. I feared a prolonged spiral over it, but something good and timely occurred Sunday night. The Master of my lodge called me and told me that he was unable to attend the Feast of St. John at Grand Lodge in Boston on Monday and offered me his ticket. I was happy to accept for two reasons. First, it was a second chance after I initially declined to attend because of the cost and missed the deadline. I perceived the event as stressful since it is quite eventful and long. But I regretted this decision when it sold out. The last minute ticket was a nice and welcome second chance.
Second, I recognized the need to leave the house. I wanted to prevent myself from falling into a full-blown mental crisis.
I knew many of my close Brothers would be in attendance. I immediately looked for someone to go with me into Boston.

I am so very glad that I ended up going. It was nothing less than a wonderful day.

The Feast of Saint John is a vital event in the Masonic calendar, celebrated with respect around the globe. The Feast of Saint John is held every year, typically on December 27th. This year in Boston was an installation event. Every two years, we install a new Grand Master and new Grand Lodge Officers. The ceremony is archaic and elaborate. It demonstrates the ancient traditions of our Fraternity. The Grand Lodge of Boston was founded in 1733. It is the 3rd-oldest jurisdiction in the world. Only England and Ireland are older. The architecture and decor are nothing short of magnificent. It feels like a time capsule. These ceremonies have been performed the same way for almost 300 years. Great men such as Paul Revere and General Joseph Warren witnessed them exactly as we do now.
I had a front-row seat, thanks to a buddy, for the entire event. It was indeed a privilege to witness the ceremony. It is a remarkable sight to see these ceremonies performed in that very ornate room.
Many friends were being installed into important offices. I was grateful to be there to support them. I was honored to watch them advance in their Masonic labors.
The ceremony was followed by a sumptuous, multi-course meal presided over by the New Grand Master, Grand Lodge officers, and esteemed Dignitaries. They came from multiple countries and jurisdictions around the world. How do I describe having dinner with 300+ Brothers? Some are close, and others are merely pending because I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting them.

It was a long night but it was just what I needed. I fall into intermittent episodes of depression. Why isn’t my first instinct to immerse myself in the company of my Masonic Brothers? I am at a point in my life where I can almost break it into two categories; before I took my obligation, and everything after. Becoming a Freemason has changed almost every part of me for the better. And there is no big secret, despite the world endlessly clamoring for one, to the appeal. It’s the connection. The friendships. The bonds we create as we unite in our tasks at hand. It has been one of the greatest undertakings of my life and I plan to go as far as it takes me.

That’s the big picture. The smaller one, today in my living room, is that it saved this wretched soul yesterday.

Shadow Work

My mind knows all my weak spots, replays failures like favorite songs, questions my worth at midnight, turns memories into weapons. I fight battles no one sees, lose sleep to thoughts that never rest. The hardest war isn’t outside, it’s surviving a brain that refuses to be kind to its own heart.
Ticus Writes

I’m in a somewhat good place overall. I have been working hard on myself. I have been summoning all of my questionable inner resolve to make significant improvements in my life. I have made considerable progress in self-awareness. I am unabashedly accountable about myself and my actions.
I suspect that many men my age simply accept who they are, peccadillo’s and all. It is tempting to think, “the hell with everyone, let them handle me as I am in all my weirdness.’ Me, I’m not willing to go down that road. As a Mason, I believe in the Fraternity’s emphasis on continuous improvement until we advance to another plane of existence. Rough stone to polished. That belief supports my desire to get myself right, even if it culminates with my last day on this planet.

For all of the effort put in, it all goes out the window on days like yesterday. I really spiraled out. The worst part of it is that I saw it coming. Yet, I still self-sabotaged myself. In a very embarrassing and expensive manner.

Last week my good friend and Masonic Brother asked me to do some snow plowing for him. He is away on a short Florida vacation. He is a tremendously hard worker and needs some R & R. He asked me to come along as he managed his only account. It’s a dental practice. He wanted me to get a feel for it. I’ve plowed before, the job seemed easy. I told him I would do it.
That night I had a panic attack. My mind bombarded me with all of the reasons why I can’t do it. How I would damage the truck or some property. The idea of plowing it with cars there suddenly terrified me. It was irrational, it was annoying, and it was typical of what my mind does when I smoke weed. The next day, no longer stoned, I was still a little anxious but more confident.
Good thing, because it snowed the night before.
My anxiety flared. Despite that, I got myself out of the house and did the job. I went to his house, drove the truck to the job, and did a fine job on the lot. I chunked up a bit of grass, even left a few tire prints, but nothing terrible or costly. I felt better about myself and my abilities, but I was still anxious. I knew in my heart that I was about to self-sabotage myself.
As I pulled into his long driveway I realized that I would have to pull the truck in. I had found it backed in. So I searched (panicking the whole time), for a spot to turn around and back in. Against my better judgment, I pulled into a spot. I was immediately stuck. As I tried to get myself out, the truck slid sideways into a previously unnoticed embankment.
I knew that I was screwed. And I knew that it could have been avoided by listening to my better instincts. But they were nowhere to be found. I had done it, the self-fulfilling prophecy of being so afraid of Fucking Up that I do exactly that.
It’s resolved now, but it cost my buddy, who coordinated the removal while driving to Florida, quite a bit. I was so upset about that. I went home and sat in utter despair, beating the ever-loving shit out of myself. All I could come up with was.
“Why do I continue to do things like this?”
“Why do I have such anxiety about something I am able to do?”
“Why did I make that reckless move that caused all of this?”

It was bad. Despite my friend’s reassurance that it wasn’t a big deal, I was in a bad place. For a brief and terrifying moment, I revisited the idea of eating a bullet. I just wanted to end this shit already. Even if 100 people were in my apartment, they couldn’t convince me otherwise. I felt like the biggest fuck-up ever born.
It was at that moment that I decided that I needed to step up my quest for self-improvement.

I discovered an article about Shadow Work. Shadow work involves acknowledging and exploring the hidden parts of ourselves. It helps heal the parts that we reject and repress into our unconscious minds. It involves confronting and integrating these repressed emotions, desires, and traits to foster personal growth and self-awareness. It is rooted in Jungian psychology. In this context, the shadow self represents the darker aspects of our personality that we often avoid. The goal is to help individuals reconnect with and embrace all parts of their identity. As it turns out, there are apps for it.

I spent most of last night reading up on Shadow Work. As a Psychology major in college, I enjoyed the Personality theory of Jung. Jung expanded and broadened the narrow constraints of Freudian personality theory and Shadow work is a worthy extension of his theories.
I am going to give the app a try. I have nothing to lose and everything to gain by doing so. I have to do it.
Because there is no way that I am going to continue to go through the agonizing, self-flagellating, monstrous tearing down of myself that I engaged in yesterday. I simply can’t do it anymore. I know that I am better than this and I owe it to myself to find the way to fix this.

Christmas Reflections: A Journey Through Disillusionment

Christmas is a very different experience at this point in my life. In so very many ways.

For the sake of a concise opening, I will state up front that I very much dislike holidays. And I am not entirely sure why. I do know that I haven’t for quite some time.

It is Christmas, of course, given the timing of this post, that I dislike the most. I think I always have. To establish context, I’ve disliked it for many years. The reasons have changed as I’ve evolved as a man, husband, father, and now aging cynic. At the base of it, I reject the fundamental reason for the Holiday. I have never, despite fleeting moments of attempted conformity, totally believed in the Christ story. I think it is a nice idea. Part of me wants desperately to believe in it. Yet, it largely eludes me. I remain a deeply spiritual yet skeptical man.
Lack of belief aside, I played along. As I said, it’s a very nice idea, and it gives a lot of people comfort. So I played along with my family as a child and young man. I went to Church with them, I partook in the pageants, and I even went Caroling. The pageantry appealed to me to a degree. At my core, I know I enjoyed it when people were nice to each other. It was pleasant for a few weeks each year. That, of course, would fade. I learned at a very young age that Christmas, and the accompanying benevolence, was largely bullshit. A very select few celebrated the actual reason for the season, everyone else practiced rampant consumerism and excess. The charity ended when the trees hit the sidewald on January 2nd.

The consumerism in my house was noteworthy. My parents, who practiced relative financial responsibility most of the year, went full consumer on Christmas. For my dad, showing my Mother how much he loved her was a challenge. He did this by bestowing an obscene amount of gifts on her. Which of course, she would try to reciprocate, and it evolved into a big contest. I was well taken care of as well. But I wasn’t very materialistic, and my experience was watching the obscene gift exchange play out before me. I can’t find a word to describe how it made me feel, but ‘uncomfortable’ and ‘misguided’ come to mind.

When I had my own family, I began to enjoy Christmas a little. The Christmas Eve party was something to look forward to. The enticing aromas of appetizers and the exotic and abundant cocktails were delightful. Sharing all that with family and friends made it even more special. Even when I knew we had an all-nighter ahead, putting together the big toys was necessary. This was after the nearly impossible task of getting excited little ones to sleep. I hated it then, but what I wouldn’t give now to be awoken at 4:30 AM (or earlier) by excited tykes checking out the bounties of Santa Claus. We would sometimes succeed in getting them back to bed. However, it was more likely that I would make my coffee. I would then watch as three months of planning went into action. Shopping and wrapping quickly transitioned into torn paper and opened gifts before our tired eyes. It was frustrating then, but the joy on their faces remains one of my favorite memories as a father. The gifts were an easy and fun way to express our love. The joy on their faces justified all the work and stress. A labor of love with a tremendous yield indeed.
I miss those days, brief and fleeting as they were, so very much.

As the kids grew older, Christmas lost its luster. Not only to the parents. The kids no longer believed in the myth of a bearded Man with Reindeer-powered sleighs. They learned that it’s just the parents doing the best they can. And we did. Christmas was always a day that we tried to make a special family day, to mixed results. But my wife and I tried our best. Even as we went our different ways after financial hardship fell upon us. We made the most of it.

Now, we are at a special time for Christmas. The kids are all grown and have their own places. My role, and my ex’s, has evolved from caretaker to guest. Our children now invite us to their homes and wait on us. I want to clarify something. It is now their pleasure to tend to us. It is not their obligation or duty. It is such a nice transition. Additionally, there is a baby in our Christmas celebration once again, with one on the way. This year, Christmas Eve felt special once again. My little granddaughter just stole the show. Reminding me that the joy of the Holiday lies in the joy of the Children.

The hardest transition, for my ex not me, is letting the kids have Christmas day to themselves. I think my ex struggles with this one. I think she, much like me, carries a lot of guilt and resentment of how things were for our family. Consequently, she (in my opinion) tries a bit too hard. But she has accepted that they have their own lives now, with in-laws of their own to visit with. As for me, I enjoy having Christmas day to myself.

This Christmas Eve, as I said, was very pleasurable. The food was amazing, the company better, and the memories forever. Our family is thriving in so many ways. The only problem is that I wasn’t feeling well. I have been fighting a losing battle with a cold and I couldn’t wait to go home and rest. When I was invited to my youngest Son’s house the next day, I made it a game-day decision to attend.
Regrettably, I did not attend. As expected, I felt miserable yesterday and stayed home. I know I missed a good time, and I wish I had been able to go. Had I gone, I wouldn’t have been given the time and environment to stew on how much, save for the family time, I dislike the Christmas holiday. I spent the entire day alone. I never showered, dressed, or left the house. I wallowed in how the Holiday is still lost on me.
I don’t feel the religious “tug” of the day.
I think most of the sentiment is horseshit and will end as soon as the page of the calendar turns.
I resent the gross consumerism and excess of the season.
Most, not all, of the charitable attitudes will disappear with the holiday.
I have no one to be joyful with.

There it is. Nothing exacerbates my dislike of the holidays more than my absence of a special someone in my life. It permeates my life during all seasons, but it is so very conspicuous during the Holidays. So many people around me are downright giddy about sharing wonderful moments with their loved ones. While I am happy for them, it depresses me terribly. I struggle with wanting a special someone in my life year-round. This time of year the weight is almost unbearable.

The Fall of Rome

“Hell is empty, and all the Devils are here“.
William Shakespeare

I’ll say this, Ole Billy Shakespeare had no idea how prescient a statement it was. We don’t need to do a deep dive into religion or philosophy to understand evil. It is everywhere we look and walks among us. Our very civilization is collapsing around us.

I don’t know if I’m more angry or sad at the state of the world, especially in our country.
We used to be a nation of laws and ideas. We established this country on Western Christian-Judaeo values. Those values permeated the ideas behind the vision the founding fathers had for the United States. The founders envisioned a Utopian society; one free from religious persecution, outdated monarchies, stifled thought, and oppression. To support this, they created the fairest legal system in the world.
Yet we are bordering on being a lawless nation. Violent crime is more prevalent, as well as increasingly savage, every day. Theft, from looting and shoplifting to embezzling and large-scale financial scams are constant. I can safely say that when we think we have seen the most shocking acts ever, it can be topped. And it will be.

If we studied history, we would understand that mankind has always been savage. Humans have consistently engaged in slaughter. We need look no further than the Middle Ages. The torture methods from the period show that man has always had the capacity to inflict unimaginable pain on others. Seemingly with pleasure.
But we are supposed to have evolved since then. Particularly in the Western World, where we profess to have decency, morality, and compassion. We even tried to engineer such values through our Declaration of Independence. The Constitution also acknowledges inalienable human rights granted by God. To enforce these ideas, we created the best legal system in the world.
But a declining value system makes such laws merely academic.

I am not the biggest fan of religion in its broadest sense. However, I believe strict adherence to morality is crucial. It needs to be supported by those who keep it at the forefront of their actions and behaviors. This is the glue that keeps society together. People largely played by those rules, and we policed ourselves. Is it a coincidence? As the number of people who claim to be of faith declines, the crime rate goes up.
I don’t believe so.

The world I grew up in had a clear definition of right and wrong. The rules by which today’s society functions are Grey at best. I was also raised to be tolerant and accepting of others, particularly regarding their beliefs. In matters of Politics and Religion, it was to each his own. Today, we vilify, mock, taunt, seek to destroy, and even kill those with whom we disagree. It is a sad state of affairs.

There is a term that I picked up on not long ago that, once I heard it, I never forgot. The veneer of civilization. The term “veneer of civilization” refers to a thin layer of societal norms. These norms and moral codes protect and maintain order in society. It suggests that while civilization provides a framework for behavior, it is fragile. The veneer theory was coined by Frans de Waal. It critiques the idea that human morality is merely a cultural overlay. That morality is not ingrained directly in human nature.

If we are to understand Frans de Waal, adherence to a moral code is a learned behavior. It is not a dominant or durable trait. So, for the sake of conversation, despite humankind’s predilection for savage and inhumane behavior, let’s say that we have been able to maintain that veneer to date. I would offer that it’s thin and stretched to its limit. We are at a period in time in which every great mind throughout history had postulated that society would be advanced in both technology, thinking, and behavior.
Yet here we are.
Killings as a political tool (not a new concept).
Shouting and berating vs. respectful dialogue.
Violence as a means to an end and not as a last resort.
Disinformation, including outright lies, is blindly accepted as truth.
Soundbites accepted as reality vs. research and education.
Selfish, self-absorbed behavior vs. a community mindset.
Overly sexualized, offensive behavior with no regard for children or decency in general.

I could go on, but I won’t. I am getting a headache just thinking about all of it. I’m not angry about what I see all around me. I’m disgusted and sad. Can we come back from the precipice, or will we fall off the edge? At what point will we recognize that civilized behavior is essential to maintain a society that is comfortable going out in public, without fear of meaningless, random violence?

Or is it the Grand Plan that all of this break down? Without being political, we know that there is an element of society, traditionally known as leftists. Leftists have always had an agenda of anarchy. Of a New World Order in which the system as we know it collapses. By this mindset, a centralized government is targeted for destruction. As is a strong moral system driven by religious and philosophical doctrine. Additionally, a robust and fair legal system and a strong economy are under threat. We have fended these forces off to date, through institutions of education and religious belief. We emphasized education as an alternative to “lower” behavior, and we taught religion as a system of values to govern our thoughts and actions.
Is it really a surprise that education is now indoctrination and religion is declining in popularity and influence? I think not.

Behavior is all that separates us from the lower animals. As humans, we are blessed with the abilities of reason, rationality, and empathy. We also profess to have humanity, a most unique aspect of Homo Sapiens. So are we losing our ability to apply and utilize these gifts, or are we choosing to ignore them?

We had better figure out the answer to this soon. Or we as a society will follow the example of Rome. It was a society that achieved greatness in every way. However, they lost the interest and motivation to maintain their achievements. Consequently, they watched as it slowly burned to the ash heap of history.

A Dog’s purpose

The other night, while strolling through 179 channels of nothing I came across the movie A Dog’s Purpose. I’d heard of it, in particular, that it was sad. I’ve wanted to watch it but I learned my lesson with Marley and Me after I barely recovered from the ending of Old Yeller some 45 years ago.

An aside, I can watch the worst horror movie jam packed with gratuitous sex, entrails hanging from the rafters and enough blood to fill a swimming pool and I will sit, unflinching as I munch popcorn. There is no limit to the depravity I can view and call it entertainment. But I lose my mind if an animal is harmed, especially a dog.

Curiosity prevailed and I selected it and sat back in my recliner. An hour and a half later I sat transfixed as the credits rolled. It was worth the watch, in fact it was wonderful. There were a few scenes that made me tear up, including the ending but it was a joyful brand of tear-jerker.

If you’ve seen it please indulge me, this is not a movie review but instead a homage to the lead character, the beloved dog.

In short, the movie is about a dog who experiences reincarnation. It is narrated from the dog’s POV and the story takes us through about 30 years, starting with a young Golden Retriever that belongs to a young boy in the 70’s. Most of the movie occurs with this character as he loyally stays by the side of the boy as he grows into a young man. It is an extraordinary relationship and the scene when the Dog (Bailey) gets put down is indeed a tear-jerker. It didn’t help that I stood in such a Dr.’s office less than a year ago as we watched our beloved Brandon draw his last breath. The movie unfortunately nailed the pain and grief of the moment and I was impressed but sad. By sad I mean bawling like an idiot. But the movie brings the viewer back to smiling as we see Bailey emerge as a new puppy, one possessed by the knowledge that he was “back” and had the presence of ,mind to remember his past life. We are walked through several incarnations of Bailey; a German Shepherd Police dog that gets killed in the line of duty, a Corgi that dies of old age under the love of a married woman that he had been with since she was in college, and finally a Mutt that has a miserable life at the hand of an abusive owner. But the owner sets him free (cruelly, by just pulling the truck over and kicking the dog out) but our hero turns it into a blessing when he reconnects with (by the power of the wet nose) a woman from his first life. This woman was the girlfriend of his first owner and they had broken up as teenagers. Amazingly, he reunites the two, who fall in love again and get married thanks to their 4 legged matchmaker. The movie ends as Bailey miraculously manages to convince his former owner that he is indeed his old dog in a new body. It is a beautiful, tender moment and a wonderful ending to a movie.

Thus confirming what I have known since I buried my first dog as a young teenager.

A Dog’s Purpose is to form a completely unique and unbreakable bond with us, make life unimaginable without them and then leave us too soon with a enormous, smoking hole in our very souls. If we value friendship, and most people do, we are left feeling as if we have lost our best friend.

I don’t know how the chain was determined, how it was decided which animals are chosen to be beasts of burden, which are food and which become domesticated companions. The line is further blurred as we see species never before regarded as a pet; reptiles, goats, pigs, miniature horses, cows and even “wild” animals such as big cats and bears showing up on cute FB videos as “pets”. As refreshing as these friendships are none are as special and, let’s face it, as natural as the relationship between the dog and man.

I’ve experienced a lot of loss in my life. In fact, I have often felt that I have experienced more than my share. I’ve been to a staggering number of funerals. Dear friends in HS at the hands of tragic accidents. Family members. The loss of my father to name a few. Sadly, I think I am more “over” all of them than I am my first dog. Am I saying that a mere dog meant more to me than my father, family and friends?

Of course not.
It’s just not the same. The hole left to fill is as big as a Black Hole. Friskie, my first dog, was my earliest memory. He was a pure-bred Brittany Springer Spaniel, gun-shy at a young age and rendered useless as a hunting dog. We found him at a shelter when I was about 5. He became my constant companion, my shadow, my best friend. As a child with few friends, we were especially close. He even saved my life. Twice.

We lived on the bottom of a hill that was the main route to get to the Middle school. One day, I was playing by the street and my football got away from me. I followed it into the street and suddenly found myself being tackled. It was Friskie, who ran across the street from the other side. A school bus nearly missed him as he knocked me to the ground. We were both nearly killed. As he sat on my chest, he looked into my eyes and I swear at that moment that I was staring into the eyes of a kindly, wise old man. He was never “just a dog” to me.

I was a teenager when he died. Despite him being an older dog that lived a full, wonderful life, I was crushed.

For years I missed him. We got another dog, which I loved. Mom and Dad had a few after I went out on my own, and I loved to visit them. Their household always had a dog, my parents were in agreement with me that despite how crushed you are, no matter how big the hole they leave, another dog is the key to recovery. Not that you ever get over that particular dog, you simply need to fill the hole in your life.

When I moved in with my mother her dog, which she shared with my father before he passed, was healthy and thriving despite his advanced age. A year later, that changed. I hated to go through it again; I wasn’t ready. But I put on a good face, and I tried to love him through the concerned looks and worry. I believe that it is imperative to love a senior dog as much as you did the puppy and be there when they are in pain and to always be there when it is their time to shut their eyes forever. We owe it to them, and that is just what we did. It was terribly painful, but I have no regrets. Other than our four-legged friends not living forever, that is.

My Mom got another dog. She had to. Hers was a dog home, and we are dog people. Her new dog, a beautiful Cocker Spaniel pup named Sammy (Samuel L. Spaniel, his favorite human word is Motherf@#ker lol) is a pure destructive delight that brightens her house in ways that I can’t even count. He checks all of the boxes when it comes to loyalty and unconditional love. Although I don’t live there anymore, I visit as often as I can. I will deny this to my Mother, but sometimes I need to hug Sammy more than I need to visit her.

Sometimes, when I look into his eyes, I have to wonder. Beyond what is he thinking and what his particular need is at the time, and wonder if it is possible that we have met before. That behind his young eyes is the wisdom of an old dog. One that has met me before and is as glad to be reunited with him as I. Then I remind myself that reincarnation is not real, that it is impossible. That what I am feeling is just unconditional, pure and unfiltered love.

For to love me more than it loves itself; to only think of and need me alone when I sit preoccupied with the events of my day; to devote its entire life to being there for me…THAT is a Dogs Purpose.

Moving forward

I’ve been in a good place recently. I feel well, my upcoming biopsy is on my mind, but not consuming me. I’ve maintained the weight loss and am getting frequent comments of support. Also, I am rapidly approaching the 12-month milestone of sobriety. It pleases me that I’m not tempted to imbibe despite the high prevalence of alcohol everywhere during the Holiday Season. Additionally, my mental health has been better. In particular, I am struggling less with the self-worth issues that have plagued me.

I really don’t understand why I struggle so with self-worth. Particularly at this stage in my life. I am definitely on the back nine of life. I have nothing to prove to anyone. My children are grown, and by all measures, successful. The worrying never ceases as a parent. However, now that they are grown, my children are a source of comfort, not worry.
My career is over. Any work I undertake going forward will be done at my discretion and on my own terms. The days of worrying about my job are over. Gone with it are the endless attempts at pleasing thankless employers through giving entirely too much of myself. Now, money is about survival.
I have a thriving social life. I actually have more events to attend than time to do them. While most men my age, according to studies, have few friends, I have an abundance.
Things are good because I’m trying to look at things through a different lense.

I have been feeling overwhelmed of late. I continue to ignore my limitations and carry a full calendar. I do too much and then lament how tired I am. It’s because I can’t say no.
As an active Mason, I have the ability to be out as much as I want. There is always something going on. Being known as an active Mason, I get invited to a lot of events. Masonic events are a true joy for me. I truly enjoy the company of my Brothers, some of the best men I have ever met. And Masonry itself, what can I say, I love everything about it. The civility, historical significance, the fraternal atmosphere appeal to my very being. It is hard saying no because everything is a “can’t miss.”
But it takes a toll on me. I get so tired that I need time to recover.

Since my recovery I have been Jim Carrey in Yes Man. I hit the ground running and started to live my life as if living itself were dependent upon saying YES! After spending so much time dealing with being sick and potentially without a future, I began to spend my time enjoying being healthy with the prospect of living a full life. I love saying Yes.
But then I got tired. I began to have difficulty bouncing back from too many nights out and required more rest. Every instinct told me to take a break, that not everything requires me to be there. So I took a small break. That wasn’t the answer. Slowing down is the exact opposite of what I need. If I have to pick one, because I am totally incapable of walking a line down the middle, I have to pick being busy.
I can rest when I’m dead.

What I have come to realize is that being active has been very good for my mental health.

Facing Health Fears: From Transplants to Cancer Risks

I discovered an interesting trend this morning. Whenever I see a “click-bait” post about dangerous health conditions, I always click on it. “These 3 symptoms indicate heart failure. “Do you have these symptoms that indicate lung cancer?” “These factors could indicate Colon Cancer”. I can’t resist it.

It could mean that I’m a hypochondriac, but that’s not it. There’s a darker motive; I am convinced that I am going to contract a non-renal related disease and die. I could sugar-coat it, but why bother?

I should be concerned about my Kidney transplant failing. It’s logical after all, it’s happened before. But that won’t kill me. The worst-case scenario would be dialysis. Dialysis is a less-than-ideal option. I absolutely hated dialysis. I was sick. My blood work was always askew. I had terrible reactions that led to agonizing treatments. I felt terrible towards the end. When I got the call for a new Kidney, it could not have come soon enough. I absolutely dread the notion of doing it again, but as the expression goes, “But did you die?”. It wouldn’t kill me, but I can say goodbye to any quality of life.

No, I am afraid of cancer. Post-transplant (both times), I was given lengthy lectures on the do’s and don’ts of living with a new organ. Risks of rejection, hazards to avoid, the importance of faithfully taking medications, etc. I listened and understood, but it didn’t faze me. Very little did, I just wanted to go out and live again. But there was another conversation that occurred that replays in my head on a loop because it rocked me hard.
“Because you are on immunosuppressant medications, you will be very susceptible to certain types of cancer. Of which you may not be able to fight with a compromised immune system.” That statement terrified me.

It would prove to be true, the part about being susceptible to certain cancers. I have had bouts with skin cancer 7 times and counting. But I’m not afraid of skin cancer. I worry about Lung Cancer, Colon Cancer, and Prostate. All of them are diseases that I may not be able to fight while taking my current regimen of medications. It logically follows that I may one day face a decision. It could turn out to be a Pyrrhic choice in which I lose my kidney to save my life.

I’m facing such a choice now. I am currently undergoing a scare of sorts. My prostate has been problematic for a few years. I have had 2 MRIs. I have a growth that has been biopsied. My PSA is climbing, and the mass is growing. My second Biopsy is scheduled for next month. It may be terrible, it may only be something to watch. It still scares the bejeesus out of me. As does the idea of dying of cancer itself.

In the spirit of maintaining complete and raw honesty in my writing, I confess that I am not always afraid of death. There is a often discussed state of being in which people say that living has become a chore. That they are not living, but merely existing. I have those moments where I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to be here either. I have even grappled with the most difficult of decisions. Should I stay around? I don’t want to hurt the ones I would leave behind. They would have nothing to ask but why. How could I ever explain to them that I was alive enough to show up? Yet, I was also dead enough not to care if I did. That conversation is had in the darkest hour of your worst sleepless night. Of which I’ve had plenty.
Of course, I was very sick then.

Now, I go down the rabbit hole of continued existence less often. Overall, I enjoy my life. I am active both physically and socially. I have many friends that I rely on for support. I am able to live independently and care for myself, once that was only a dream. Yet, I am consumed with worry about so many things about my future. So much that the notion of just leaving it all does still occur to me.

But, this is a very big consideration. If faced with another life-threatening illness, I wonder if I would have the motivation to fight. Would I have my trademark grit and determination? Or would I say “Thank God” and just let it take me. Would I rage against that good night? Or would I fade away into it?

I hate that I think about these things. But the fact remains that I do. Frequently. It truly depends on my mood. I’m not sad or depressed. On good days I want to live forever; Head up, chest out, larger than life, ready to take on all comers. On the bad days, I would welcome an opportunity to put down my shield, stop fighting everyone and everything, and just let death take me.

It’s exhausting being me.