Tag: writing

Be open to the experience

I woke Sunday morning feeling compelled to go to Church. That was unusual for me because while admittedly spiritual, I’m not particularly religious. I call my faith Kayaking…

“Religion is sitting in church thinking about Kayaking. Spirituality is sitting in a Kayak thinking about God.”
Author Unkown

In short, I’m an Omnitheist. I believe in multiple faiths and their version of God. I believe that a higher power is everywhere and I spend a fair amount of time looking for him. The place I spend the least time looking for him is in church. Irony?

But Sunday was different. I had someone on my mind and I stooped to the level of the opportunistic Christians that I normally detest and I went to pray for something close to me. Not entirely a selfish act, I was praying for the health and recovery of a very special lady and I was feeling helpless. I was exhausting all options.

I got there a bit late and I was fortunate enough to find a seat in the very back pew. My late Grandfather taught me this, in case my presence causes the plaster to crack and the ceiling to fall, I’m close to the door. That aside, there are several good reasons that I sit in back. First of all, if a person wanting to cause trouble comes in, I have my trusty 9mm and a great vantage point to stop an incident before it starts. Also, I’m not a real big “responsive reading” and hymn lover. I don’t do ritual of any kind so echoing unoriginal prayers is out for me as is singing those dreadful Hymns. I know the writers meant well but to me they are just insufferable. Finally, in the back pew, nobody is behind me to look at me in disdain because I’m not fitting in by playing along nicely. I like to sit in back and pray my own way, in a room full of positive energy and well-meaning people.

I suffered through the first 3 hymns and responsive readings and when it came time to pray, I broke from the ranks and said my own. I really don’t know how to pray. But I sometimes talk to the Universe and in this case it went something like this…

“Dear big guy, you know who you are. I’ve been living a straight forward life that I think you approve of, can I ask you to watch out for my girl? She needs a little help right now and so do I. If it’s not too much trouble, while you’re at it can you tell me what you want from me? Oh yea, would you please grant the man in front of me the wisdom to trim his ear hair? And could you have the big guy in the choir tone down the “holier than though” look on his face? Take care of the meek. Punish the dicks. Save the children. Thanks big guy, has anyone asked you how you are today? Peace brotha…“

When the prayer was over it was time for my favorite part of the service. The sermon. Our pastor always delivers a good one, relevant and timely. He didn’t disappoint on this day. He spoke of a young man, Jesus, walking into a village only to be shunned and ignored by the people of the village. They had been taught to be skeptical of strangers and the moral of the story was closing yourself off to that which is unfamiliar can limit your experiences in the world.

This particular sermon resonated heavily with me, for the very person that I came to pray for has caused me to open myself up to a myriad of experiences and phenomena that I previously dismissed as, in the words of Sheldon Cooper, “Hoakum.” She has made me a believer in destiny. In past lives and loves. A believer in providence and the existence of empathic connections. In the short time that I have known this magnificent lady my “horizons”, as it were have broadened exponentially. And none of it would of happened if, when asked by her “do you believe?”, I said no. I started with “I’m open to it.” Which evolved to “that can’t be a coincidence”, to “Holy Crap I can’t believe what just happened.”

I didn’t necessarily need to be reminded that an open mind is the portal to growth. I did need to be shown that it has fundamentally changed my life. Good things happen when you simply allow yourself to be open. When I joined Freemasonry I learned that I needed to believe in a higher power, any higher power no specification required, to join the sacred fraternity. At that point I was a agnostic (never an atheist, I am not arrogant enough to tell you that I know for sure that there is no higher power) I decided to open myself up to a non-denominational, outside the church approach to faith, which is essentially Spirituality. Since that time, I have found “God” in everything. The laughter of a child, the gait of a beautiful woman, the chirp of the bird and the magnificence of a sunset.

I went in to pray for a person. I left with a deeper appreciation of what she has brought to my life. All it takes is to shake off your initial reaction and say “I’m open to it.” Seems simple enough doesn’t it?

deep, lasting bruises

My shoulder is killing me. I have a large goose egg on my elbow. My hip is so sore I can barely walk. But nothing hurts as badly as my pride.

NH has a very stringent policy on Motorcycle endorsements. You can only have a learner’s permit for 45 days at which time you need to schedule a road test or complete a state run safety course that, provided you pass the skills test you are granted a license upon completion. Once the 45 days is up you had better have a license because you can’t get another permit. I set up and timed it perfectly, I took the surprisingly difficult test at the DMV exactly 45 days before I would complete the safety course with the hopes (dare I say expectation?) that I would leave the course with my license.

I then embarked on as many days of riding as I could, the weather has been terrible) and at the end of the 43rd day I felt good about my skills. I put almost 2000 miles on my bike in that time and I deliberately worked on areas of difficulty to make myself a better rider.

I showed up at the practice course ready for 2 days (8 hours each Sat and Sun) of learning. I had jumped through hoops to make it work, including rearranging my dialysis schedule which included making my extra day a 6 AM (ugh) start. Great sacrifice went into this but it was a necessary evil and I was ready.

Overall, it was a cool experience. The instructors were knowledgeable and fun. It was hot as hell but we took many breaks. At the end of the day I was tired. It probably isn’t advisable for a dialysis patient to spend 8 hours pushing and riding a motorcycle in the heat but I didn’t complain, I didn’t want any special treatment. At the end of day 1 I was exhausted. I had a hour and a half hour ride home and when I got there I was done. I woke at 5 am the next day and embarked on day 2.

Day 2 was a disaster. It was baking hot and I hated the motorcycle they assigned me. It was really small and the controls were much closer than on my own bike and I never got used to it the entire day. But I got through the day, barely. Worn from the heat, cranky and not feeling well I felt my stomach drop when they announced “evaluation time.”

I don’t test well, I have extreme test anxiety. I have a hard time performing anything in front of a group of people. It’s the main reason I had to abandon my Porn career. I was nervous and filled with dread despite their assurances that it would not be difficult. The 12 of us lined up.

The first exercise was fine. Not great but I did it. I was really struggling with the size of my bike. The second exercise not so good, on a corner I cut too sharp and the bike tipped over. I was furious, embarrassed and in pain. None of which compared to the sudden realization that I had also failed. The instructors made sure I wasn’t hurt and pushed my bike to the side. I was hurt but didn’t tell them. I went to sit in the shade and fume. One of the instructors came over and told me not to leave, no matter how mad because there was still the knowledge test and if I missed that I would have to repeat the entire course.

There I was. One of the only class members who had actually ridden before, sitting in the corner with a fucking Dunce Cap on.

For the next 30 minutes I waited inside in the AC and fumed. I was beyond myself. While I was waiting I walked over to a chart on the wall. At the beginning of the class we were asked to rate ourselves on our own skill, knowledge and awareness of motorcycle riding. I was a cocky prick and I felt safe giving myself 8’s and 9’s. After all, I had ridden in groups, highways, hills and corners with some very good riders. I erased all of my scores and changed them to Zeros across the board.

As the rest of the non-fuck-up classmates trickled in I kept my face in a book to avoid eye contact. I would have chewed my own arm off to get the fuck out of there at that point. But I didn’t. I took the test, scored 100% and waited for my exit interview. I made it easy for them, I said “yea, I screwed up and I will take the course again.” The instructor felt bad.

“Bill, you’ve got the skills, you just had a bad day.”
“If you think I have the skills, will you pass me?”?
“Sorry. No.”

That was the end for me. I got in my truck, texted Lois that I was a failure and an idiot and made the hour and a half hour drive home. I was miserable.

I spent the rest of the day in a foul mood and woke up about the same. I sulked around for a few hours and then I decided I had to take it on headfirst. I went to the DMV and enrolled for a road test. I scheduled it for next week. I am going to practice the moves that I struggled with and I am going to pass that goddamn test with the assistance of improved skills and a hopefully nice test administrator.

I hate pity parties and therefore I host as few as possible. My wounds still hurt today, but the ego feels a little better because I took some action to resolve this. I don’t feel great, but at least I don’t feel bad for myself.

Now if I can just get the remembrance of dropping a motorcycle and hitting the pavement in front of a large group of people out of my head.

Lessons unlearned

I came home today to be greeted by the sounds of Circular Saws and Hammers. The Contractors are finally finishing work on our Farmer’s Porch that they started in October. On the way into the house I paused to watch in fascination as they measured, cut and nailed with such precision and skill. And, as often happens, I triggered myself. Again.

I can’t hear a saw, a hammer or a drill without thinking about how much I didn’t learn from my father despite the many offers and opportunities. My dad was beyond handy, he could do almost anything with his hands. My earliest memories were of my dad rebuilding our house as we lived in it. He would work from 5 AM to 6 PM or later, slam down a quick dinner and then go to work until at least 10. The saw and hammer were sounds I knew at a very early age.

As I got older Dad tried to enlist my assistance, not because he necessarily needed help but instead to teach me. I was eager to help him but not very interested in learning anything new. This was odd for me because I was an eager student in every other aspect of life. I would pull nails from a pile he created, I could swing a hammer fairly well but offers of learning to measure, use woodworking tools and such were dropped due to lack of interest. Even offers of car maintenance were met with tepid enthusiasm despite our shared love of everything to do with cars.

One incident really stands out in my mind. One evening when I was in my late teens Dad offered to show me how to change the oil on my car. He had it already in the garage, the drive up lifts set up and all. The house phone rang (cell phones weren’t invented yet) and it was my girlfriend (she was goddamn gorgeous if that is relevant at all here) and she was imploring me to come over her house. I told her I was doing something with my Dad that was important and she insisted that it was very important. I had to make a decision and I can honestly say that I made the wrong one. I blew off my Dad.

The look of disappointment on his face was tangible. In my feeble defense, I really thought my girlfriend needed me. That almost helped me pull out of the garage feeling good about myself. Almost.

I arrived at my girlfriend’s house 20 minutes later and knocked on her door. She yelled for me to come up. I went upstairs, asking as I climbed the steps if she was ok, still very curious as to what the emergency was. As I entered her room and saw her lying there buck naked with a rose between her teeth I knew that I had been suckered. It was merely a sexual emergency. I somehow managed to get through it but soon after I began to feel bad.

I apologized profusely to my Dad the next day. He was curt and brief with me. He wasn’t mad, he was disappointed and that was always so much worse. He told me that he had offered to show me something for the last time. It was a pivotal moment in my relationship with my father and one of many regrets that I have from my childhood with regards to my dad. If I could talk to him for only five minutes it would be a priority in the conversation. He was such a hard-working and self-taught man. I admired him so. I take some comfort in many other things that I did learn from him that have made me the person I am but there is still a lot of regret.

Sorry Dad, how’s it go…If I knew now what I didn’t know then?

On Grief

She cared for her husband when he was sick and dying. He was a veteran with a pension and Medicare but he couldn’t secure a spot in a Nursing Home. For six long years she was Nurse and Caretaker until the day he left us. I never saw her cry. She claimed that she grieved his loss while he was alive.

A short six months after her beloved husband died she met another man. A man that adored her. It was a second chance for both of them and they were happy. They moved in together until they decided that their upbringings demanded that they get married. They did. 3 short months after he was diagnosed with Lung Cancer. He died 10 days from diagnosis. I never saw her cry.

She went on an online dating site 2 months after he died and began dating a man soon after.

She put her beloved dog down last Friday. I saw her cry for a brief moment. That’s it. She’s already talking about getting another dog.

She is my mother, and she does not Grieve.

I have grappled with and marveled at this for many years. I am no closer to understanding it now than before. If she was a closed-off person by nature it would make more sense. But she’s a warm, caring person. She is outgoing, friendly and kind. She had a caring, if not somewhat overbearing mother who showered her with love. Her father was, in my opinion one of the nicest men ever to walk the planet. But something or someone critical in her formative years taught her that women, not just men, don’t cry.

I tried talking to her about it the other day. I asked if she grieves in private or not at all. She revealed that she has her moments when she thinks about my dad and her second husband Frank. The memories are all over the house in the form of pictures and the fact that my Dad essentially built the house we live in. T0here are the triggers, the songs and smells and random nuggets that make us think of that one special person. They make her cry…a little. But not for long, no sense wasting time on what’s already happened.

This can only be the inherited toughness from her mother. Mom’s family cab be faithfully traced back to the ages of Plymouth Rock and the Mayflower and they were solid, steadfast people that frowned on weakness. Her mother was a stalwart example of that bloodline. I’m sure her mother taught her to “suck it up” and not dwell on that which is beyond our control. It worked for her when she was orphaned at a young age and was raised by her brow-beating Grandmother. I’m not sure she did her daughter right by passing this on to her.

I have no pretense of trying to change her. It simply cannot be done. I also inherited, or learned, toughness as one of our family traditions. It has served me well as my life’s buffet has been a seemingly endless supply of Shitburgers. But I do know how to let things go properly.

I wish my mother would just, for once, let it out. Grief is like a lungful of air after a deep inhale. If you let it out slowly it hurts. If you open up and let it go it leaves the body quickly and painlessly. I admire her toughness and her ability to trudge forward no matter how strong the wind is. But toughness at the risk of emotional health is the wrong way to go.

Yes, those of you that know me know that I admire and exemplify a high level of toughness and it is no exception with her. But before I tell something to Fuck Off from my life permanently I deal with it properly. I forgive once I decide that it’s good for me to do so. I cry occasionally because it’s too hard keeping it in. I admit when I’m wrong because it’s the right thing to do. I also know how to grieve, too well unfortunately. I’ve had lots of practice. My mother, on the other hand doesn’t deal with things, she just plays the waiting game in hopes that it will go away on its own. And she always wins. It’s not healthy.

Yes, let it go, but only after you have made proper peace with it.

Goodbye faithful friend

You’ve been struggling for a while. The spring in your step wasn’t quite there. Your deep brown eyes lost a bit of their sparkle. Your playfulness had begun to wane.

We tried to call it a phase. We woke each day hoping that we would see that spark. Occasionally you showed us glimpses of your old self. But you were tired. You were in pain. Life wasn’t fun for you anymore. It eventually began clear to us that you were never going to come out of this.

This last week you provided us with no glimpses of former you. You moved slowly. Your pain was obvious. When you fell on the stairs and needed help to get up we knew that a terrible but necessary decision was made.

It was time to put you to sleep.

For 13 years you were the loyal family dog. You weren’t a pet, my heart can only be this broken for a family member or a dear friend. You were always happy to see me, even when no one else was. You were always by my side so that I never felt alone. When the house was empty, I had wonderful companionship sleeping at my feet. As only a dog could do, your friendship was omnipresent and unconditional. I was one of your pack.

As one of your pack, I vowed that when your time of need came that I would be by your side, tirelessly and unconditionally. That promise was called in today as we woke to find you listless on the kitchen floor. Your sad brown eyes said it all. You were done, you needed relief from your pain and we had to do what was right for you despite how hard it would be for us. We called the veterinarian and asked to bring you in.

I carried you in to the office. You never let me pick you up until today. The waiting room full of people knew why you were there. They avoided eye contact out of respect and the knowledge of what we were there to do. They let us right in and we placed you on a cold metal table. I put your favorite blanket under you. They gave you a sedative and fed you treats until you put your head down. We patted your head and told you what a good boy you are, and have always been. The Dr. asked us if we were ready. Mom was sobbing. I teared up a little. But I held your little paw and stroked your ears in your favorite spot as they shaved a small section of your leg and gave you an injection.

As you stood by me in life, I stood by you at the end of yours.

“He’s gone”, the Dr. gingerly uttered a few moments later. We were asked if we wanted a private moment. I left my mother alone with him. I had said my goodbyes.

He leaves a hole that can never be filled for reasons that can never be explained. I will cherish the memories, for that is all that remains of my loyal, silly, loveable little furry friend. He is in a better place, at peace and free of pain. Somewhere over the Rainbow Bridge.

Unlike those of us who wish he was still here.

Bad things to great people

I woke this morning to an absolutely beautiful, cloudless day. Spring and Summer have largely evaded the Northeast so far this year so I deduced that I really had no choice but to take the iron steed to my Nephrology appointment. I saddled up for the 50 mile ride south.

As my window had suggested, it was nothing short of a glorious hour ride and I’m pretty sure I smiled the whole way. I made excellent time so I rode around a bit before I pulled into the Medical building the suggested ten minutes early. I parked Bella, wiped the dust and pollen off of her and went inside.

After I checked in I went to sit in the waiting room. Seeing the helmet, several people struck up conversation with me about riding, the weather, etc. I’m still amazed at what a conversation starter a helmet is. After several minutes of small talk, I was called in.

My doctor, who handles most of my needs including monitoring my progress on dialysis, glanced at the helmet, surveyed my jeans, boots, tanned arms and face and said “Well, I guess I don’t have to ask how you’re feeling, do I?”

“I could lie to you, Doc but I feel great.”

After a thorough 30 minute evaluation he concluded that indeed, I was feeling great. He ordered some routine tests and sent his Nurse in to do some follow-up exams. Her name was Madison.

Madison was very good at talking to patients and we immediately began talking as she breezed through her routine. It didn’t take long for her to start talking about her fiancé, and how he was critically injured at work. He is a tow driver and he was hit by a car. I suggested that maybe it was the opening for him to maybe get a better, safer job someday. That’s what I do, put a posi spin on things. She agreed. Then she said something that really resonated with me,
“It seems bad things happen to the best people. As a nurse I see it every day.”
“Can I expound on that?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“It’s been my experience that the illnesses and accidents create the best people.”‘
She was visibly intriguedby what I said. I kept it as brief as I could as I told her what Chronic Illness and my experiences in the blogosphere with the many Chronically ill bloggers that I loyally follow and interact with have shown me. That illness and injury bring out the best of us. I have stopped short of calling it a blessing, but it is undeniable that when faced with unpleasantness and uncertainty many people develop a true appreciation and zest for life that “healthy” people may never achieve. We love more, fight less, forgive more easily, breathe more deeply and waste fewer moments because we don’t have the luxury of guaranteed longevity.

Madison is young, I would guess no older than 23. She was enthralled by my thoughts but I suspect she is taking my word for it to a large degree. She is too young to have seen a lot of the ugly in the world. But I know that I gave her something to think about. She is a good nurse and I’m sure she is decent and kind to all of her patients. But I hope that she will learn to treat her more hardscrabble patients not with pity or sympathy, but instead as the warriors that they are.

Every day is a beautiful day if you take the time to find the beauty. It beats waiting for a better day that you may not be around to see.

The inconvenience of being happy

This happiness shit is wreaking havoc on my blog.

Yesterday my daughter said, “How’s the blog going, Dad?”
Without thinking much about it I replied, “I haven’t done much with it.”
“Why?”
“I guess I’ve been too happy.”

Even I had to take a moment to absorb what I had just said. Do I only blog when I’m unhappy?

I had a nice long ride to think about this on the way home and my answer is a sound, firm, fairly certain and resounding maybe.

I’ve written a lot of posts considered positive and uplifting and I have to have been in a good state of mind when I wrote them. But most of my earlier posts, in fact the inspiration for creating my blog in the first place was born out of a deep disharmony in my life. I was extraordinarily unhappy, dealing with illness, a divorce and consequent feelings of rejection, and having to move in with my mother. I had plenty to write about.

Nearly 2 years later I have completely reconciled those things within my control and have a firm grip on those that I don’t. Where once stood a confused, insecure and nearly defeated man now stands a man in a total Zen state with the world. I have forgiven everyone and everything. Even the most difficult of events and people. Everyone knows where they stand with me and I leave everyone as if I may never see them again. I am open to everything and kind to all. I walk around like a man with a secret when it’s no secret at all. My happiness is being free of negativity, resentment and hate. I am at peace with myself and in harmony with the world.

I spent years trying to find myself and I was me all along.

Ironically, my illness has progressed since I started my blog but I am in a better place with it than before. Dialysis, once a worse-case scenario is now my lifestyle. Some people live and act it, but not me. I am rocking it. I jump into the chair and 4 hours later I spring out of it. Instead of merely existing between treatments I instead pause my wonderful life just long enough to get a treatment. Last week I was asked to be a Patient Advocate for Dialysis patients. I asked why me and the Nurse Manager said,
“You ride a motorcycle to treatments. You ask us how we’re doing. You always feel good. You laugh and joke through your treatments. You do what you’re told. You’re the ideal patient to help someone else through this.”
I was deeply humbled. I’m also going to do it.

I feel so good I have to be reminded sometimes that I am sick.

Lastly, and by no means least important, Superman has found his Lois. A woman who has made me feel desirable, worthy and loved. It is a nice departure from feelings of inadequacy, worthlessness and loneliness. She may be my Phone Booth.

I’m not ready for a format change or a new name for my blog just yet. I’m sure I have plenty of good blogs left in me. But for now, I won’t be taking up my keyboard to exorcise fresh demons. I’m too busy enjoying my wonderful family and friends, spending time with my exciting lady friend, riding my motorcycle through the winding hills of NH, and being out living my life every minute that I am not strapped to a machine.

On paper I have so many reasons to be unhappy. But I have to tell you…

Life is good


Music Challenge

Pensitivity 101 has asked me to participate in the weekly music challenge. It looked interest so I’m giving it a shot.

Time once again for Laura Venturini’s Weekly Song Challenge! Here, as always, are the rules:

Copy rules and add to your own post, pinging back to this post.
Post music videos for your answers to the musical questions.
Tag two people to participate!

Post a video of a song that makes you think of the true meaning of Memorial Day.

Trace Adkins, and don’t tell me you don’t like Country, wrote this beautiful song from the perspective of a fallen soldier in his final resting place. If it doesn’t bring out powerful emotions then you may not be human…

this song is a beautiful homage to the fallen hero, in his or her final resting place

Post a video of a song that has the word war in title or lyrics.

this song was conceived while the band was touring Afghanistan and saw the war play out before them. This is for the soldier, about the soldier and the horrors they endure

Post a video of a song that is part of a movie soundtrack that had something to do with war.

this song is not about War, but as a critical part of the soundtrack of Good Morning Vietnam it has taken on a whole new context for me , and I suspect for many more who saw this powerful movie. As it played, horrific, visceral scenes of warfare, carnage and bloodshed that was the Vietnam War played out in front of us. Never has there been such a paradox to have such a beautiful song as a backdrop to senseless death and destruction

I nominate my lovely Bella and Good Buddy Steve if they feel so inclined to participate…

Happily Ever After

She’s a romantic at heart. Despite all of the ugliness in her world she believes in a Happily Ever After. If anyone should be discouraged by love, it’s her. Yet she persists. She’ll find her White Knight if she has to punch his Noble Steed right in the mouth and knock him off and then drag him away.

He isn’t. He told her at length about how he wanted to believe in a happily ever after but it just wasn’t his nature. He was a man of facts, of pragmatism. Things had to make sense to him. Besides, he didn’t feel he had anything to offer. Women want security, a future. He could offer neither. His final answer was No, he didn’t believe in a Happily ever after. Maybe for someone else but not him. His only cogent offering in the way of explanation was that he was broken beyond repair.

“That’s a shitty answer, coming from you” she said. She was right. He, for the first time had no snappy answer. Not one that would satisfy her.

She asked him to write a Novella. In order to access her big, wonderful heart one must first seduce her mind. He was up to the challenge. After all, it’s just words. He set pen to paper and he wrote a story about a boy and a girl. It was sentimental, it was passionate, and it was genuine. It was also fiction. She loved it. Until the boy dies at the end. It ruined it for her. Where was the happily ever after?

He insisted that this was how the story must be. She insisted that true love always has happy endings. Don’t you see that?, she implored. He didn’t see it. He couldn’t. He could write it, but he didn’t believe it. He’s just not a romantic type.

Then he read what he wrote again. He took in his own words as if reading them for the first time. Who wrote this?, he jokingly asked himself. When he came to the tragic end, he recognized his own voice, his own life, his own tainted and shattered perspective. The boy died at the end because the author refused to believe that he could ever be happy.

Then he read it again. And again. He came to the stunning realization that the guy who wrote this is a romantic. He had to be. He poured his heart out onto paper about what he wanted in his heart of hearts and he called it fiction. He wasn’t fooling anyone, not even himself. He feels unloved, unwanted, unappreciated and lonely to the darkest recesses of his soul. But somehow, through his writing a sliver of light emerged. He believed, he just didn’t feel worthy, and his tactic of shutting people out so that they can’t hurt him simply wasn’t working anymore.

He painfully admitted to himself that yes, he wants love. He wants romance. He wants to savor moments with someone and count the minutes until they are together again. He wants spirited conversation and comfortable silences. He wants passion and intimacy. He wants to give everything to one person without another crushing rejection. He wants crazy. He wants fun. He wants to allow himself to be vulnerable yet unafraid of being hurt.

He wants something he’s never had and until now he thought it was just too late.

Now he wonders if it’s time to tell her that she’s right. She deserves more than anything to have a Happily Ever After. The least that he could do was try to believe with her.

Maybe the boy lives at the end after all…

Showing up

You’ve heard the quote, although the percentages vary, 80% of life is showing up. I agree. Wholeheartedly. I have always shown up, I’ve even been early more often than not. But I’ve always thought about a caveat. After you’ve shown up…then what?

Showing up without pursuant action is a false gesture. It is not enough to wake up and say “I’m here”. You then have to say, “What am I going to do now that I am?”

In my current state I am, on paper, the least able to be a man of action that I have ever been. My health, my time, my remote location have placed so many constraints on my ability to be the involved person that I once was. For a while, as I adjusted to my new lifestyle of scheduled clinic visits that occupied 15-17 hours per week, a new home over 100 miles from my friends, family and my beloved Masonic Lodge, and many additional days of unplanned fatigue and general crappiness I was noticeably absent where I was once omnipresent.

Now, I am happy to say that I am back in full force.

I’m back as a full-time member of my Masonic Lodge. Once word got out about the ordeal it is for me to attend, often while not feeling well, other members felt inspired to follow my lead. In addition, I was able to rejuvenate a Charity of ours that had been without a leader in my absence. In the first day we helped 3 School students fulfill needs not available through traditional programs.

I’m back volunteering at the Food Pantry, I’m not able to do the full shift but I still stay as long as I can.

Our Community Club, consisting of most of the full-time residents of my town is suffering from an aging membership and a drought in people willing to lead. I threw my hat in the ring for Vice President. An older member approached me and thanked me for “stepping up.”

It feels good to get involved, it feels better to get results. It wasn’t enough to go to my meetings, to be a kinda volunteer at a charity. I had to be a part of it. I have to tell you that it feels great. It’s almost enough to take my mind off of the myriad problems that would bring a weaker man to his knees.

This morning I sent 2 texts and made 3 phone calls to friends who are dealing with obstacles in their lives. One of my buddies came home Friday to find that his girlfriend had left him and took her 2 kids, who had been like his own children for the last 8 years. Another lost his job yesterday, no severance package. Another is going through terrible marital problems. The others were ailing friends and brothers. They were all grateful for the call, and more than one asked why I was worried about them with all I have going on. I told them that I’m here, I don’t really have anything else to do, what better way to spend my time than doing something positive with my time?

After all, time spent in service to others is time not spent focusing on yourself.

I’m here. I showed up. But that wasn’t enough. I still have something to offer and as long as I am of value to others then I will continue to value myself.

Don’t just show up. Jump in and make shit happen.

Superman out…