Miss Understood

"People cease to understand you when you need understanding the most." ~ Antony Baekeland, the Protagonist in the film "Savage Grace"
(Based on the true story of the incestuous/matricide of the Baekeland Family, heir to the Bakelite Plastics Fortune.)


Right. Besides being a pretty disturbing film, set on the even more dysfunctional spin of the actual Baekeland brood, that quote above kind of kicked my ass. It snapped me back into my own reality (thankfully out of the biopic reality of that fuct up family), and helped me see just how defensive I can get when I feel hurt. Sure, this is a common gut reaction for nearly everyone feeling the pinch of love gone bad, even if but momentarily...

I think I am starting to see that my approaches to communicate about said disconnects often leaves me feeling more disconnected, ironically. So, one has to wonder: Is that I am choosing to love emotionally distant people, or am I accidentally adding insult to injury when what I seek is intimacy?

Harville Hendricks (author of a million self help books that friends, former therapists, and Oprah all highly recommend) has a few great passages on this subject from his book (with the gayest title ever), "Getting the Love You Want":

In despair, people begin to use negative tactics to force their partners to be more loving. They withhold their affection and become emotionally distant. They become irritable and critical. They attack and blame: "Why don't you...?" "Why do you always...?" "How come you never...?" They fling these verbal stones in a desperate attempt to get their partners to be warm and responsive – or to express whatever positive traits are in their imagos. They believe that, if they give their partners enough pain, the partners will return to their former loving ways.

What makes people believe that hurting their partners will make them behave more pleasantly? Why don't people simply tell each other in plain English that they want more affection or attention... or whatever it is that they are craving? ... ((he goes on to explain why...))

...When we were babies, we didn't smile sweetly at our mothers to get them to take care of us. We didn't pinpoint our discomfort by putting it into words. We simply opened our mouths and screamed. And it didn't take us long to learn that, the louder we screamed, the quicker they came. The success of this tactic was turned into an "imprint," a part of our stored memory about how to get the world to respond to our needs: "When you are frustrated, provoke the people around you. Be as unpleasant as possible until someone comes to your rescue."

Damn, he really hit the nail on the proverbial head, didn't he?!? I kind of feel dumb for being so infantile, and cranky when my feelings are hurt. But his point was to illuminate that it is the only tactic we knew as language-less babies – one that worked quite effectively, if we have survived into adulthood. The thing is, our modes of communicating have often been stunted, and semi-permanently stuck in those less than mature stages of life. Not having further refined our communication skills not only kind of sucks for our partners' sakes, as they are on the shit end of the stick, as they say – but, it also prevents us from getting what we wanted in the first place. So, everybody loses! (Awesome! I wanna go crawl under some love-less rock right now...)

This author goes on to illustrate that the smallest alterations in our approach to love and the moments when love feels out of reach can transcend the gaps, and reconnect us in ways we have previously only hoped could happen. Of course, all of these practical applications seemed to have slipped my mind over the past year while wrestling with the loss of love, or the months before that when love was thinking of dropping in for a visit.

While dissecting my erroneous ways with my best friend, she helpfully pointed out that my big trigger issue is not feeling understood. She said that often times folks who take care of others ("people pleasers") seem to feel leveled when their beloveds don't return those same thoughtful gestures, and make an effort to really learn about their partners wants and needs. I could see that to be true... She said that people like us (her and I), want so desperately for people to understand us, and really intuitively *know* us at our core. My friend explained that it makes perfect sense if I felt trapped in the misnomer of being raised as a girl, when I have always felt "other/alien" in my body, but wasn't able explore the definition, identity and physiological modifications of being transgender until decades later.

Having to "fake" my way through childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood, pretending to be okay with that fractured and dislocated sense of self obviously took its toll on me, in the form of debilitating anxiety and depression for much of my life. Things that only started to lessen once I truly faced the reality of being trans, and allowed myself to delve in head first to see what resonated with this formerly unresolved sense of self. It's getting there. I am understanding more and more about myself, not only through my trans identity, and how that channels my experiences in the world at large, but also the intrinsic elements beyond the surface level of gender paradigms.

What I want more than anything is for someone to *get* the fact that I have struggled, and that I have worked my ass off to let those challenges inform the healthier ways in which I choose to live. I don't want to be cast away simply because I'm "weird" or "freakish." And I don't want to be discounted because I have battled with the depression of denying my truest self. I want someone to *get* that I am trying my damnedest, and to give me the benefit of the doubt, when I might get stuck in an emotional loophole that I haven't figured out yet. I want to be understood, and to be appreciated for how much more I still want to decipher.

I want to change my approaches to love, and those of whom I love, to ensure that I'm not that screaming baby in the corner ironically begging for closeness. It's time for me to learn how to transparently talk about the intimacy I seek, rather than have it coded in actions that seemingly disprove all of my chattering on about wanting to be sweet in love. It's time to be an adult, and break the patterns that kept me being misunderstood. It's time to grow up – that's MIZZ Understood, from now on!

NewMan

So, I've been thinking a lot lately. I guess you could say it's kinda my schtick. (Not to mention that it's often exacerbated when my T levels are down, which they are – since I missed a dose when my grandmother died. Yes, I am saying that higher levels of testosterone actually make me *think* less. Make of it what you will...) But all of this to say, I've been figuring out some things that were leaving me feeling a bit frazzled.

Case in point: I started to understand how new I am to this whole manhood thing. This last relationship I had was my first attempt at love post transitioning. Sure, I was on again off again with another woman for years *while* I transitioned, and hooked up with an ex after that... But this was my first shot at refining the nuances for my version of masculinity. It was my first relationship as "Will," and took a bit more navigating than I anticipated.

Yes, it's easy to say: "Just be yourself! Why would you have to consciously *try* to be a man? Why put on false veneers, and self imposed rhetoric if the masculinity isn't organic?" And of course, I'd know what you mean, but it's complicated. I liken it to one of my good friends who recently became single after a long relationship. She was still herself, this consistent essence of herself, but she had to learn who she was *now* as her life had changed so much. Plus, she had to gain some experiential knowledge of how to approach and engage prospective suitors – a challenging feat after being "coupled" for so long. Ya, it's kinda like that. I am still myself, but have to fine tune the elements that may create the kind of life I want to be living as "Will." (And I promise not to talk about myself in the third person ever again!)

I had spent a long time on my own, hanging out with various women, learning the ropes of what I liked about them, and similarly, what I liked about myself. I listened so intently to their criticisms of former partners, or their romantic mishaps. It all seemed like one gigantic case study to craft the ideal man. Little did I know that not all women want the exact same thing, and that my obsessive study of wants and desires would leave me a tad befuddled at best. So, I'd have to summarize, and use a shot gun approach that might cover more ground, but might also miss the particular target altogether – as shotguns often do. It was risky, but the best I could manage.

When a good friend, whom I adored for years, sort of put the moves on me, I felt shy and reticent to put my theories to practice. I lost my mojo... Much of that shyness and paralysis came from roughly four years of massively crushing out on this gal, and pretty much telling myself that she was the ideal woman. No pressure, right?!??!?!? Guh! And even though I may have flubbed up that first initial night of more focused, intentional flirting, I tried to spin it in an endearing way to still "get the girl..."

What I wasn't expecting was that my intentionally lower doses of T at the time (due to a fear of injecting testosterone after I developed an infection from a shot), not only made me stuck in "paralysis by analysis," but I also was obsessively looking for cues from this lady-friend to see what qualities and attributes she preferred in her men. Theoretically it could have been a home run, but instead, it was like I was rounding the bases with my pants around my ankles (and not in the *fun* way!), tripping myself up the entire route.

I not only wanted to be a man, to be a good man, but I wanted to be the "perfect man" for this friend that I assumed to be the "perfect woman." What she said mattered, perhaps a bit too much when trying to define my own sense and interpretation of masculinity. I yearned to be *her* man, and decipher exactly what I needed to do to get the job, as if it was some "help wanted" sign I saw posted in her bed room window. (((I didn't mean that as dirtily as it sounds!!!))) But I failed to see that all of my cowering and pandering would leave me weakened and exhausted – and ultimately alone. No one wants to be with someone who doesn't know who they are... It's not sexy.

And therein lies my problem: this (gender) "do over" that I've willingly solicited meant that I would have to completely reinvent myself in my 30s, like 100% "complete." My body would change, but in dramatic, shape-shifting ways that one can never predict at the out set. Things like getting beefier and more muscular, losing my girlie curves, my voice dropping like 3 octaves, getting facial hair, chest hair, belly hair (wah wah wah), and acquiring a "male hairline" on my scalp. (Yes, that is code for "losing my hair." Read between the lines, dude!) My patterns of speech and intonation that formerly made me appear like an angry lesbian somehow now made me appear like a swishy fag. (How ironic is that?!?)

But the toughest part was trying to decipher how to be the "hunter" in relationships. As I've said before, I was socialized to be a woman, stereotypically erring more on the side of "people pleaser," rather than aggressor. (Don't worry, I'm not a misogynist! I've dated plenty of aggressive women, so I'm not saying women can't be more assertive!) I wanted to get over my shyness, and woo the pants off this gal. (Um... Figure of speech.) More than anything, I wanted to be the upstanding, charming, commanding, seductive dude to pique -and- sustain her interest. Alpha-central... I just had 32 years of missed opportunities to suddenly make up. Awesome!

After all this time, several years in to my transition, I am still fumbling around to figure out how the fuck to do this stuff! It's like a second puberty in every way. Who the hell is suave during that period of their lives? Certainly not me – either time. How long does this stage last? Shouldn't I be rounding the bend sometime soon? When can I outgrow this phase of being a "new man," and shift right into "old man" status? Arg – you know what I mean!

Love(N)in

"Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of withering, of tarnishing." - Anais Nin

A friend of mine posted this quote on Facebook yesterday. Seems fitting with all that's going through my head these days on the subject of love, and how it has been lost.

In college I studied Conflict Resolution: Mediation and Negotiation. We would examine all of the best methods to ensure that people would participate in their own collective resolution. I was taught to hate the word "compromise," as it instantly evokes a negative response: "Why should I have to give anything up when *s/he* did _____, to cause the problem in the first place."

We all believe in our righteous justifications for the ways in which we act negatively upon the world. We all struggle with trying to do the best we can muster in any given situation, and sometimes feel provoked beyond our comfort levels. At times, these provocations come directly from another individual, while other times they are more symbolic, as in expectations we either assume for ourselves, or those which are placed upon us externally. Confrontations rarely go well in the immediacy of the moment. Even with the best of intentions, confrontations frequently cue our most dramatic defense mechanisms, and skills of deflection. It is the job of the mediator/negotiator to understand these provocations and potential reactions, and to mindfully guide the parties through the often emotionally explosive process. For obvious reasons, it can be a challenge, at best.

Having said all of this, I tend to beat myself up when I can not put my own emotions in check while trying to communicate about my feelings having been hurt by a loved one. It leaves e wishing that I had a third neutral party present at all times to walk us through the active listening, mirroring, and so on... Oye! Or only surround myself with people that have this experiential knowledge base. Unrealistic!

Mediation can be both heartbreaking and an intensely healing process. A gifted mediator can squelch power plays, and redirect the parties' attention to the irreducible issues at hand. The mediator's role is to suss out all of the core problems, and understand the how's and why's of each members' actions and reactions related to those root issues. Then, and only then, that mediator has to prove her/his neutrality to all active participants to earn their trust, and hopefully calculate common denominators amongst group members. Once you can have everyone focus on these commonalities, it can be a smidge easier to work backwards from there, asking how we, collectively, can achieve these threads of a common goal.

The aim is to pull people out of their opposing corners, where they may have succumb to combative, defensive tactics in order to shield their vulnerabilities and Achilles' heel. (The image of a dog fight runs through my mind: two dogs facing each other, bracing themselves for the fight to ensue; as opposed to two dogs walking gleefully next to one another, embarking on a journey together... Yes, I am a dog walker...) But the same applies to people.

At what point to we stop joyously walking next to one another on our common path, and decide to rip our partners a new one?

Mediation is different from therapy in that it has specific goals, end points and structures to achieve those end points. All members at the table have to participate to achieve the very specific, plausible resolution. Where as, in therapy, the goal is usually more vague: "to feel better." But what does that mean? How does one get there from here? And how long will it take, 50 minutes intervals at a time?

I chose to study Conflict Resolution because the spectrum of human emotion fascinated me. To be able to closely examine the human psyche, but in a way that doesn't just quantify it, but rather, delve into those trenches with the hope of building a way out *collaboratively.* Maybe it's just the idealist in me. Or maybe having had my own fucked up childhood, I'm used to the chaos. I don't know.

But I experience the loss all the more when I am in love, and feel the love slipping away. Knowing that most divorced couples once felt like their former significant other was the answer to their dreams, it's a sobering realization. At one point, they were probably even smitten about this person whom they can no longer stand. It is perplexing to consider the loss and the fractures that settle in to the places where love use to reside. Reading so much philosophy, psychology, history, fiction, lyrics to pop songs, even screenplays – love is the single greatest motivator in existence. And conversely, the loss of love is the most crushing experience we can endure, testing our very fragile moral fibers. Even after thousands of years of writing on this universal topic, we are no closer to "solving" the mystery, and "curing" ourselves from our romantic ailments. (Well, at least I don't feel so alone...)

If Anais Nin's statement is true – how do we prevent the blindness, the errors and betrayals? How do we keep love healthy and self-healing? How can we protect it from the storms, nourish it again and again into infinity, and polish away the cloudiness that may appear from time to time? How do we love love itself???

"That Girl"

I spent about four days trying to rework a post entitled, "Great Expectations," all about the intricate line between hope and (perhaps) self-delusion. This post became my (nearly full length) autobiography, as I started charting and mapping out my thesis, supporting evidence, and even concocted an "anger flow-chart." (No, I'm totally serious! Now I wanna trademark that shit!)

What I found was a whole lot of sumpthin'... But I'm not quite sure what yet. So, let me step back, and try to fill you in on some of the back story:

My most recent ex started calling me again, after several months of no contact. She called for my birthday in early December, where we talked for a few hours and got caught up. I basically said that her decision to break up with me was one of the best things that's happened to me in years. (I didn't mean it rudely, I swear!) What I meant was that it was the catalyst I needed to get my shit together, and get back to my self-development. Basically, I was letting my anxiety drive my actions and reactions, which understandably was an uphill approach towards contentment. Like a county fair goldfish recently won by a highly "distractable" seven year old – projections for a healthy life did not look good.

During our several month hiatus from communicating, I started to understand just how much of myself I forfeited in order to be what I assumed she wanted. In the beginning she referenced several of her other boyfriends' traits and habits that confused her, or drove her crazy. Rather than let the potential jealousy set in, I tried to make it a positive and use those kernels of information as sign posts for which direction to plot in our new relationship. It seemed easy enough... Boyfriend A did this, Boyfriend B did that, and Boyfriend C would never do this other thing that totally became an issue. So, if I could chart a new course, I could ensure avoiding those metaphorical landmines that she was clearly, and decisively communicating would not work for her. The problem was that these men became ghosted images haunting my presence with her.

I think anyone might naturally feel a little uneasy when their current partner tends to talk about their pasts a bit too much, but for me it was double trouble, since this was my first "new" relationship post transitioning. I had been in a relationship on and off during the early stages of my old switch-a-roo, and then got together with a significant ex from college after that, but this was my first true attempt at making a go of it from scratch. I felt really nervous that I wouldn't be man enough, let alone all of the extraneous traits and circumstances that we all have to negotiate. I basically scared myself straight. Well...

While talking to my best friend about the matter, I realized that I'm "that girl," – the empty shell of a woman that Oprah warns us about becoming. The reason that fashion magazines print their personality quizzes, and their articles on why bad men dump great women... That little voice inside many sexy vixens' heads, prompting them to never let their guard down...

In my attempt to sidestep those manly traits that leave women furious and annoyed, I accidentally abandoned a whole slew of positive attributes that I took years to refine and hone – traits that landed me so many of the wonderful relationships I've had in my life. (The old adage of "Throwing the baby out with the bath water." I always wondered what douchebag came up with that saying. Apparently, that d-bag was just like me.)

I was so afraid of not being lovable in this first relationship out of the gate (of trans-hood ~ not to be confused with Transylvania...) that I reappropriated my old codependent ways, and tried to *only* be what this woman wanted. This is what I mean when I say "That Girl!" The woman who wreaks of clingy desperation, molding herself again and again, shaping shifting into each new dimension she assumingly thinks her partner wants. Holy smack! That's totally me! Ugh~ I want a cocktail! When did I become a character on Sex and the City?

This woman I dated was pretty great. She's gregarious, super funny, really charming, a colorful story teller, really ambitious and driven professionally, an adventurous world traveler, really sexy with impeccable style and the most incredible shoes I've ever seen. I've kind of adored her since we first met nearly four years ago. But what I wasn't expecting was for me to completely lose myself in order to satiate her prospective wants and desires. Bummer.

It's not like she outwardly complained about this or that in me. It was more that she would retreat, or withdraw, and tell me that she couldn't be with me. I found myself trying to go through the motions of being the perfect boyfriend: of being an active listener, asking a number of compelling questions when she'd tell me about her day, give amazingly thoughtful gifts, try to be really charismatic around her family and friends... The whole nine. But I tried so intently to be what she wanted, I think somewhere in there I forgot what I wanted to be for my own sake. I forgot who I was intrinsically, and organically. And it was there, in that place, that the anxiety took over, and filled in all of the gaps where my own ambition and playful curiosity used to reside. I wan an empty shell, the veneer of the perfect vapid boyfriend. So sad.

She's a great individual, but maybe not the most attentive of partners. I think she is better at answering the thoughtful questions, rather than asking them. She is used to be the belle of the ball, as opposed to the host, or the plus one. And perhaps she is more accustomed to leaving when her needs aren't being met, rather than asking for what she needs, and trying to negotiate from that point onwards. None of these things are horrible, or make her an awful person. But I did want there to be more balance in our relationship, for things to *feel* more equal between the two of us.

It was tough because I really do adore her, and see so many attractive qualities in her, so many things that inspire me on a daily basis. But even though she's a great individual, it doesn't necessarily translate into being the perfect girlfriend. She wasn't bad, or mean, but there was just a disconnect between us. The two of us being so far opposed on opposite ends of the spectrum: she had a really strong sense of self and autonomy, but a resistance to "blending" in a relationship. And my impassioned readiness to be a thoughtful, intuitive partner, but sacrificing my own newly emerging sense of self post transition out of fear that being trans will nix me from prospective partners' lists. Objectively it was either a train wreck waiting to happen, or the most incredible opportunity for the two of us to learn that balance while in this dynamic. (Having read a few too many self help books myself, I was eager to give it a'go, and try to find some semblance of balance from working these outer poles inward. ((Not to be confused with Pollacks, or pole dancers...)))

But I can't make someone love me, or want to try to find balance in a way that might seem counter intuitive to them. What the hell do I know??? So, instead, I have to let it go, and continue to find myself, and truly get myself grounded again. I am ready for the undertaking, and the over-coming parts.

I think I needed our break up to wake up. But now that I'm awake, it'd sure be nice to feel like it doesn't have to be one or the other... And I am bummed that my attempts to try to explain some of this to her, and how I lost myself accidentally in our dynamic possibly came out in a way that made her feel like she needed to defend herself spontaneously. How do we tell those of whom we love about those little things they do that pinch us unintentionally, as we try to move forward together, whole heartedly from a place of compassion and sympathy?

In the past she accused me of always having to process everything, always wanting to talk everything out, like a broken record. Honestly no: I wanted to have the conversation *once* about something that hurt my feelings, and then ideally have it change, so it would never come up again. But when the same hurtful things kept happening over and over after I tried to address it in the least accusatory, provocative way possible – yes, I might have tried to bring it up again to try another approach to prevent future missteps. Isn't that how it works?

I'm wrestling with the ego-bruisers of idealizing a pretty great woman, and wanting to someone so great to want to be with me out of principle. She recently told a friend in common that she couldn't be with me because I am not ambitious enough. Secretly, I had succumb to my defenses when I heard that statement. Having spent the past several years overhauling my entire life so that I could live more genuinely in this trans identity that I had denied for decades ~ it feels like I was pretty fucking ambitious to radically change every single element within my identity, family dynamics, social circles – the whole gamut.

So, if one only equates personal success with professional aims, then yes, maybe right now I have been coasting to have one pleasantly consistent thread in my life while undergoing so many other changes. Not to mention how impulsive it would be to change careers in this rough economy, and the fact that I really love my job, and the riches it grants me, like being able to write for 2-4 hours everyday while getting paid my generous salary.

When I equate ambition with the holistic approach of the entirety of one's life, their contentment, and self-development, I am right on target. And I don't get bogged down in having to explain myself to anyone else. From that place, I also don't quiver when contemplating whether or not the hott girl likes me back. I return to the mantra that got me through my transition in the first place:

It's not about who may abandon me because I am trans, but rather, who is amazing enough to be invited in to this incredibly intimate process and rich life of mine.

I'm not saying this ex is no longer invited, but I do see that once I return to myself, return to my own rooted foundation, her interpretations of me matter less and less. I can find compassion for us both in those places, but exert my own time and energy to continuing to do my heart-full work in self-awareness and self-development, rather than trying to convince anyone else of anything.

It's time for me to simply trust that the right person will "get me," and that the right relationship will only encourage me to feel confident in myself, and foster a dynamic that helps us both grow as individuals while we simultaneously become more intimately connected.

I can let go of being "that girl," and just get back to being myself, free from that desperation and anxiety, and full of ambition to make this life as rich as possible. But I do hope someday to find "a girl" to go with me being "this trans-guy." Sigh~

Disaster

(This is a house in the ninth ward of New Orleans, badly struck by storm Katrina, and still hanging on by a thread several years later.)

My heart is kind of breaking right now. Thinking about all of the people in Haiti, and feeling so helpless, unsure of what more I can do beyond donating money or supplies. I woke up earlier than usual this morning, despite going to bed much later than usual, and was in a mild funk upon falling asleep. Something so trite pestering me away from the tranquility I was hoping to find while laying there, staring at my ceiling.

I had dragged some friends to a Haiti relief event yesterday to donate some funds and try to watch the film "The Agronomist." After we left, we were approached by a very eloquent homeless man asking for money for a fund to get more folks off the street as the cold weather will inevitably return in our fare city. I gave him some cash, as he chatted me up, and he thanked us for engaging with him, and treating him like a human being. There was something so compelling about the way he spoke with me, hearing the horrific stories of finding six homeless men that had frozen to death in the past two weeks.



















(This is the interior of one of the main churches in the Ninth Ward of New Orleans, completely gutted, and abandoned...)

Then this morning, I turned on the tv, while I got ready to begin my writing for the day. It is a rarity that I turn the tv on this early in the day, but as the picture came on, I saw that it was that documentary about the levees breaking in New Orleans during storm Katrina. I left the doc on quietly as I began to type away. Suddenly, I became transfixed, and my writing absorbed some of the images I was capturing on screen, recounting images that I had taken myself while in the ninth ward a year ago. These are all photos that I took while exploring all of New Orleans for the art Biennial there last year.

My heart is breaking as I reflect on all of the impossible traumas this world has suffered over the past ten years. It seems like at least once a year we collectively experience some terrifying "natural" disaster that kills infinite amounts of people innocently in the path of those tragedies. These storms and quakes, floods and fires appear to be of biblical proportions. Now, I'm not religious in the least, but it is making me wonder if that whole apocalyptic spin might have some truth to it. Or if the Mayans were on to something saying that the world was going to end in 2012.












(This was a shot I took of the interior view of the tread from a bulldozer. It was stripped from the machine, and left unraveled on the side of the road in the Ninth Ward, after many structures had been demolished. It felt like a skeletal carcass found in a desert, just a hint that some sort of life form once existed there...)

Here I sit, at my laptop, in my little well of anxieties or the minutia of my day. And I feel like such an asshole for being so privileged, for having so many opportunities, and yet I still fret over whether this woman or that woman may like me back. I want my life to be more than a summation of crushes, and relationships or rejections. I *need* this life to have more meaning, more weight, more relevance than just: "I'm a tranny, can I get a date?"

I am trying to shed my skin, peel back the layers of false veneers, and sift through the metaphysical wreckage to see what still exists in me, and how I can make that core essence truly radiate all of the fiery passion, compassion, and drive to actually make a difference in this world. Not like in a Miss American pageant sort of way, claiming to want world peace one pretty girl at a time – but in a radical, heart-full manifesto kind of way.

My heart is breaking for all of the people who are suffering right now, for all of the people that have suffered from Katrina, the huge tsunamis of the past few years, the insane forest fires, the inescapable earthquakes... Yes, it's been incredible to see how quickly some people are to step in and do whatever they can to aid people in need, but the apathy is also as heartbreaking as the traumas themselves.

How do we squelch the source apathy, and plant the seeds of compassion and true change? How can we all be fully realized human being, when we still have got our own shit to deal with...? You'd think with all of these disasters, we'd be faster to learn that by now...

Please do what you can to help, and let me know if you've got any insight about how to change the world.

Pick Up in Aisle 5

My best friend, Jen, is pretty hott. (No, this is not her pictured above...) The other day while she was picking up a few items at Whole Foods (in Denver), this young guy came over and asked her: "Huh, so how is that? Is that stuff good?" She looked down at the last item still affixed to her hand. It was a box of Raisin Bran her boyfriend asked her to pick up for him. "Raisin Bran? Uh, I guess it's good... Raisin Bran?!?" She replied in her most baffled tone.

The guy feeling a bit rejected, blandly responded with, "Well, I guess I should try it." Jen smiled, and then walked away. A few minutes later she called to tell me: "I think someone just hit on me. But it was *so* awkward, I'm not sure."

Jen told me this, not to brag, but to point out that people can use any excuse to hit on another person. Raisin Bran is a prime example because, as we all know, it's the least sensual of the breakfast cereals. (Frankly, I didn't know anyone under 57 ate it. I think my Polish Grandmother loved it. That and Grapenuts. Sexy.) But I digress.

This poor guy saw a woman he fancied, and desperately sought out the quickest way to start chatting her up. Unfortunately for him, his attempt bombed, but we have to give the guy credit. How many people have we seen across an aisle, or waiting for the metro, but we can't muster up the courage or the savvy to say something witty enough to capture their full attention?

I am the king of missed opportunities. Seriously. Having been freakishly shy as a kid, I have tried to force myself to be more social as I've aged, but it still seems like a feat at times to get back out there. Case in point: There is a woman that I fancy right now, that I met at an art auction a few months ago. I was assisting with the catering crew to butter up all of the patrons, and massage them into buying more art, raising funds for my friend's gallery downtown. There was one woman in particular who caught my eye. She looked like a younger, hotter version of Debbie Harry.

As I worked the crowd that night, I refilled folks' beverages, and found myself refilling this woman's champagne flute a few too many times. At one point, I remember leaning in, and boldly telling her how amazing she looked in her vibrant vintage gown, and flawless make up. She was a vision that night.

Every time I swept through the crowd, she caught my eye, and would send a coy grin my way. At the end of the evening, she came into the kitchen of the venue to thank us all. She saw me out of the corner of her eye, and turned to me at say: "And YOU... Heh. There you are..." As we were all leaving, pouring into the very busy streets of DC, she literally stormed out into traffic in her leopard print coat to shut down all traffic so that we could cross the street. Sadly, we didn't need to cross the street, but I so urgently wanted to go in whatever direction she was traveling at the moment.

Fearing I'd never see her again, I asked around and found out more about her. I sent her a friend request on Facebook (pathetic, I know!), stating that I was the "short guy in the tortoise shell Buddy Holly glasses that told (her that she) looked amazing that night." She accepted my request. Step one, down! And then most recently, I've run into her at some other art events in town. When I saw her, I nervously clammed up the first time. But instead, she came over to me and said: "Hey, I remember YOU! You were at that art auction! YOU got me drunk!!!" She exclaimed feverishly, while poking my shoulder with her firm index finger.

(I need to point out here: These are the moments that we wish for in life... Those fleeting moments when the hott girl not only looks your way, but comes over to *you* AND somewhat flirtatiously strikes up a conversation. Now, I need to further point out: These are the moments that fill me with such paralysis and awkward bumbling, nervousness, that I completely lose my cool and just seem dumb. God, I wish I could sedate myself into *only* having witty repartee. No dice!)

The next day, I ran into her at another event, where she and the friend I accompanied began chatting. She noticed me behind our friend in common, and said: "Hey, I'm seeing you two days in a row now." My friend reintroduced us, and then slyly snuck away to give the two of us some time to catch up, and find out more about each other. She's pretty fucking interesting. I have to admit, she's someone that I'd like to get to know better. Thinking of excuses to run into her again, or invite her to things that I hope may be of interest. Trying not to strike out like the Raisin Bran guy, but understanding more about that fleeting feeling of urgency when you don't want your curious enthusiasm to trip up the momentum.

I think I've realized that I was much better at flirting before I transitioned because all my cards were already on the table. I could be coy, because they knew what they were getting themselves into, even if they had only dated bio-guys before. Now that I pass as a guy 100% of the time, there is this weird reticence surfacing in me, like if I flirt, I run the risk of the other person taking me up on the offer, and then what?

The friend that accompanied me to this last art event (acting as my wingman) asked me, "So, when do you tell them you're trans? What rule of thumb do you use to know it's the right time?" Um, how about – I don't have one? How about – I have no fucking clue about how or when to tell people? How's that for an answer?

My last relationship seemed somewhat thwarted by my lack of flirtatious exchange. In the very beginning, she started telling me waaaay too many details about her last few boyfriends, and I felt seriously cock-blocked. It kind of shut me down emotionally, and I was a bit stuttery after that. I used to be pretty suave with this shit. I used to know how to make women swoon, and leave their boyfriends for me. Not that I want to be a home-wrecker, but it's just that I want to return to that smooth, Victorian sensibility – that sensuality that lies just beneath the surface, so close, but that might evaporate if exposed too quickly. That slow burning tension that drives everyone crazy in the most seductive of ways. That used to be my charm. And frankly, I miss it. I miss that tension, and my old ways.

Just like that guy in Aisle 5, I think I need more practice. (Practice makes perfect, right?) Balls to the wall with this learning curve shit! I just gotta start, and see what feels right. So, watch out ladies, we're gonna test this theory about tension!

Be Prepared...

I don't think I was prepared for the writer's block that would come after my grandmother's passing. It's not as though I am overwhelmed with grief, but moreso, I don't exactly know how to focus right now. When I am at work, it seems effortless for me to rattle off dozens of prospective topics and titles for posts and articles that I'd like to write. I even scribble down whole sentences that I tell myself I *must* include the next time I sit down to begin typing away prolifically. As if...

With all that is going on in the world right now, and all that has happened in my own tiny sphere as of late, I don't think it's the worst thing ever to have taken a few days off from the blog, but I don't want it to become a pattern.

I had a wonderfully charged conversation the other night with a dear friend who attends a 12 step program for spending. Every day she has to "check in" in her sponsor about what she sets out to do for the day, and then she receives calls from two other people checking in with her about their plans for the day. She spoke of the necessity of accountability, routine, and community. Because of the implicit responsibility of having to chart your course in very strategic and mindful ways when you have to consistently report back to a sponsor on a daily basis, it leaves less room for impulsivity and misguided detours if one truly participates.

Part of me envied my friend's approach, and then another part of me instantly realized that this blog has a similar affect on me. For all intents and purposes, this space is my haven, my confessional where I get to exorcise my demons, and baseless ponderings. (Man, can you tell I was raised Catholic?) And when I don't write, my mind feels more muddled, and I succumb to infinite distractions. Dare I say, I am a better person, a better friend, a better listener, a better producer in the world when I grant myself the time to sit in this isolation chamber of my home office, and just "write it out." (Kind of like "hugging it out," but with one less set of arms.)

So, now with dozens of ideas spooled around my metaphorical finger, like a string tied tightly in an act of remembrance, I am going to try to forge through the writer's block, and return to the daily missives. Before the holidays, I mentioned starting two new series of interviews on this blog, one called, "Men I Admire," and the other titled, "Women of Intrigue." I have some fascinating people already signed on, and I plan to do some of the interviews in a more conversational approach, to really get in there, and have some fun. My hope is that these chats, along with the many others I am having in my "real" life, may help me jump start my return to daily posts, and hold me accountable for launching several longer articles to submit by the end of February. I need deadlines, I need guidelines, I need clotheslines... Well... The first two, anyway.

I will be back later today, writing more, and getting myself prepared to start. I hope you can tune back in, and we'll see what I come up with... And we're off!

Whatcha looking for...?

It has come to my attention that we only see things that we are open to seeing. We will only recognize what may be blatantly in front of us if we willing acknowledge that form may exist in this world. What I mean is: if we don't believe something is possible, then in most cases, we won't allow ourselves to see it, even if it's blaringly obvious, right before our eyes.

Case in point: I have been covering for one of our walkers who has been out all week. Luckily, the weather has been relatively mild, and the route is in Georgetown, so I've had the luxury of getting paid to meander around some of the oldest parts of the city, taking in all of the gorgeous architecture, and having some time to think. At a few different points, I was taken aback when some sights caught me off guard. There had been a mammoth tree that had absorbed an antique wrought iron fence, making the tree appear to be molten lava slowing its pace after engulfing this nearby relic. It was amorphous, and viscus – something that never comes to mind when thinking about a tree.

It moved me enough to snap a quick photo with my cell, and keep walking, returning to the modest churnings of my morning. But then later the same day, I saw yet another prime example of this arborous envelopment – this time, a tree swallowed up a sign post still signaling away.

These sightings left me puzzled and quizzically wondering: if that is possible – if a tree can become almost liquid in its form, to grow ever so slowly, yet seemingly intentional in its overtaking of static objects – of what can I be capable if granted my own trajectory and a powerhouse of focused, willful force?

Clearly, when that tree was planted, no one had the forethought of wondering if this meager sapling would someday overtake the centuries old fencing that neighbored it. Nor did any of the civil workers assume that putting a "no parking sign" next to a young tree might later pose a threat to that post's fragility. But day after day, with effortless expansion and development, those trees became entities to reckon with... It's rare to perceive a tree as predatory, well unless your car may have been parked under one recently fallen in some sort of inexplicable extreme storm, or 'act of God," as they say. Here, it is not the sudden snap of a branch, the withering away of a rotted trunk that poses the threat. No, it is time elapsing, and the inevitability of growth and bourgeoning strength that secretly, and sneakily consume all that surround it.

I don't see myself as a predator, nor do I ever want to... But I think witnessing these anomalies helped me to understand that a mere obstacle need not stop our course. Obstructions can simply be assessed as we calculate our new bearings, and continue to navigate our way to our desired destinations. A tree doesn't *think*: "Grow this way! Go in that direction, there's something sharp over here!" No... Instead, it just grows, and modifies its form and path out of necessity – perhaps the path of least resistance.

Stumbling around these streets I've known for ten years suddenly woke me up to all that I may have been missing when I walked around so intent on one thing (like a golden parking spot – no, not a golden shower...). Concentrating on that one subject eclipsed everything else in the past, as if I lead myself astray, my eyes half closed. Having no specific focus yesterday helped me to truly immerse myself in my surroundings, and see all that has clearly existed for decades before my feet hit these cobblestone path ways. Things that have been there the hundreds of other times I had passed on by, yet I was too distracted to notice.

We only take in that of which we allow ourselves to see... (Which is also why people attest to seeing aliens, ghosts, their boyfriends flirting with other women at a club, or their wives with-holding affection.) We train our minds to seek out specific patterns. When we are in that computational mode, the answers can only be: "Yes, that flash of light appeared to be consistent with that of a UFO." Or: "No, your boyfriend has not emailed you back in three hours, and therefore it *feels* as though he is being distant and cold, like all the other times..." It can most often only be yay or nay, and very difficult to step outside of those predetermined catalogues of data our minds have filed away for us. (Maybe your boyfriend was busy planning a surprise birthday party for you while you assumed his unresponsiveness meant he was bored with you. Or that flash of light was a flare from a sailor in distress, not an alien space craft. But having never seen a flare, you'd only chalk it up to that 'other' category...)

So, my hope for today is that anyone who reads this can take a look around them, and really be open to simply witnessing their worlds objectively for even a few moments. Try to refrain from seeking out the specifics we already know, and just see what may be in there when we open ourselves up beyond our mind's eye. You never know what you might find.

And as for me, I'm off to work, and ready to contemplate all the ways I can expand, mature, and envelope this world around me, so that I can become a force with which to reckon! Ya, wish me luck out there!

All the best ~ Will

Imperfecto

Hello? (echo, echo, echo...) Is there anybody out there? Is there anyone left after my periods of repeated absences (or is that absynthe?) from this blog?

Things have gotten kind of busy for me since I returned from my trek up north, but it's been eerily still in DC, strangely peaceful. I've been hearing church bells chiming at random times, and witnessing spontaneous acts of kindness that are rare in these populated cities. And all of this was even before the Haitian earthquake. My poor brain working overtime to make some sense of it all. Good luck with that!

I've been having all of these intense conversations as of late; some regarding psychological development, friends talking about their old flames who always seemed just beyond reach, and what it means to truly grow up. How does it all work again?

Here I am, struggling to put words to these thoughts that keep circling around in my head. Since my grandmother died I have been thinking a great deal about substance – the marrow of our lives that make them all worth living. My grandmother made it to 99 years, and here I am at 34, wondering what kind of knowledge comes from that much living. I think I have this misconception that since I always think of myself as a "work in progress," at some point I'll hit my stride, achieve perfection, and then can coast from there on out. It probably doesn't really work like that, does it? Perfection is never reached, is it? Well, perfection in the strictest of terms...

It's been great to commiserate with friends to hear that I am not alone in my pondering, and striving towards something resembling goodness. (I'd say "greatness," but it feels very heavy-handed here.) Maybe that's been my problem all along... I want to believe that I am capable of greatness without it sounding too pretentious, or to have my ego get overly inflated.

But I want 2010 to be about settling in to myself – this sense of honestly accessing my strengths, and bringing the weaknesses up to code, so I don't get stuck in self-sabotaging modes. I think in the past, I've been afraid of success, and let myself stall out when amazing opportunities presented themselves to me. Without getting stuck in the trappings of regret, instead – I want to learn to keep moving forward productively. And I want to utilize this blog to push me in directions that will help me stay focused, and set up structures that require follow through and accountability.

I'm ready, 2010 ~ so bring it! (For now, I'm sleepy, and need to get some rest to recharge to launch a few new projects tomorrow. So, keep your eyes peeled! I promise to make it interesting!)

Rest in Peace

(How creepy is this image??? And why do I wrongfully suspect that it is simply a snapshot for some Will Ferrell trailer?)

Well, I went up to New England at the end of last week for my Polish grandmother's funeral. There were many things that really struck me while in attendance:

1. I was amazed that so many people came by the wake and the liturgical services to pay their respects. Family members that I haven't seen in years, previous neighbors of my grandmother who have since moved away, co-workers of my mother and my aunt, and so on... It was very touching.
2. Seeing so many people turn out for this kind of event really illustrated this concept of community, and "hometowns" with village charms. It is a sentiment that seems to be fleeting in this day and age, especially considering economic downturns that have left many homeless and jobless, needing to find shelter where ever they could. It made me appreciate and long for those kind of sustainable ties and friendships. Seeing that sense of community made me feel like I had stepped back in time, as if my grandmother's funeral was an episode of Lost, and time travel was now possible. (Was my grandmother John Locke?!?)
   
3. It was incredible to witness firsthand so many relatives' and distant acquaintances' reactions to the news of my gender transition. One second cousin, who is of my mother's generation, kept exclaiming: "Oh my god! Oh my god!" with wide eyes, and a glimmer of enthusiastic curiosity. (She has always been one of our favorite relatives, with her urbane sensibilities, after years of residing in the West Village.) I *knew* that her irrepressible reaction to my transformation, although shocked, was not one born out of malice or disgust.
   
4. Honestly, it was a relief to "come clean" about my evolution, and candidly share my experiential knowledge from both sides of the great gender divide. I feel liberated from that fear of wondering the ever-taunting "what if's" that seem to gnaw away at us when we try to divert ourselves from a head on collision. Phew! (And the best compliment of all was when this cousin said that she wished her own mother -- my grandmother's sister-- had still been alive to witness my changes. This cousin seemed to think that he mother would have found it a "hoot," and enjoyed the endless amounts of questions to toss my way. I would have enjoyed that volley back and forth, as she, too was also one of our favorite, more open-minded family members.)
5. I gave the eulogy at the Catholic church, and despite a few flubbed words, or spontaneously ad libbed lines that were probably redundant and wildly inappropriate – I feel really proud of myself for stepping up, and accepting the challenge. It's doubtful that anyone is ever "thrilled" to write eulogies, under the implied circumstances, but I was proud to override the requisite anxiety and self-consciousness to remember that it wasn't about *me* that day. It was about honoring this beloved, yet snarky, matriarch of my family. And from the consensus, my eulogy was able to capture that very balance between the two.
6. The priest (who looked like a more handsome versions of Brian Cox) overseeing my grandmother's services appeared to be flamboyantly gay. He made far too much eye contact with me, even winking at me at one point, when no one else was looking. Um... Really? (It's like that Will & Grace episode when Will hit on a guy who's grandmother just died, but thought he had a chance since the guy was wearing Prada shoes in Schenectady. Ya, kinda like that, 'cept I was the Prada shoe guy, and Will was THE PRIEST OVERSEEING THE SERVICES!!!) But anywho~
7. I saw many touching moments, observing the husbands trying to comfort the distraught women in my family. To see the energy those men exerted, and how consolation is a multi-tiered approach – it made me proud of these men, and also made me hope to someday find my own other half. Someone whom I can comfort in the most trying of times, and someone whom I hope could be there for me in those same gestures. Someday...

Thanks to everyone who offered up their condolences, and their eulogy pep talks – they were all a huge help!

I am glad that my 99 year old grandmother can finally rest in peace. And also relieved to know that after this whole experience, I can also rest more peacefully from here on out.


I hope this finds everyone well, and maybe even cherishing what they love all the more...

Circuit boy-

Tomorrow morning I am delivering my first ever eulogy - wish me luck!

I just told my bff that I'm ready, I have my speech written (which my entire family fears is too long-ha!), and I'm kind of excited. It feels like a big honor!

Despite the fact that I'm going a little more casual than my bro and pops, I'm even looking forward to the event. I take my job seriously, and always have. I've always been the one in the family who could make people laugh, and cut through the tension with a slick one liner to change the tone.

As much as I want to be respectful, I want this to be a memorial of her life-not a somber day only focusing on her death. And I think that I can help guide people back to the celebrating her life end of the spectrum. I'm ready!

And it is especially important to me as this will be the first time I am meeting some friends of the family, of at least the first time since my transition. And rather than panicking about the potential awkwardness of this endeavor, I want to face it head on-with courage, valore, and charm.

People can be freaked out that I used to be Lani, but it doesn't change the fact that I am now Will. And they will only be as freaked out as I let them be. What if my own self-assuredness and contentment could put everyone else at ease? What if I could dazzle them with the person I've become, rather than fear they will be disgusted by me, or embarrassed for me?

I want to be like the Dog Whisperer of funerals-or at least potentially uncomfortable family gatherings post-transitioning! I wanna be that alpha that sets the tone, and makes everyone else feel safe enough to follow suit. I'm ready. I'm ready to be *that guy* because I already am him...

I used to have a backwards fear of being in a crowd-not of speaking in front of people. I was terrified of being a peer at a conference or big special event, but I was fine being on stage or speaking in front of groups. Ass-backwards, I know. It must speak my both my former paralyzing insecurities AND my narcissism, simultaneously!

So, I actually feel fine about speaking in front of this congregation, these family members and strangers. It's the chatting and introductions part that I'd rather dodge. But I know I'll be fine. I'll be funny, charming, insightful, sentimental, and inclusive. I think I was born to write eulogies!

I was just joking with my bff that after this I wanna hit the funeral circuit writing impromptu eulogies off the cuff. I think it would help my writing and my character development immensely! Afterall- what's the point of a eulogy? Not only to honor the recently departed, but to remind us of the riches in life, and the marrow still present to nourish us into our own old ages...

It'd be like "Wedding Crashers," but a little more macabre!

But I think everyone should write at least one eulogy or obituary in their life. Maybe their own, and see how they would want to sum up their experiential knowledge.

So-what would you say in yours???

Well, god help me tomorrow-I think I'll be fine. My only fear is that I'll get a severe case of Frankenstein legs while walking up to the pulpit. Lord help me!!!

Wish me luck, yo- all the best, Willz

Eulogy

I was asked to write the eulogy for my grandmother's services on Friday. Whoa... Interesting. Trying to figure out what angle to take to ensure I won't take my funny stories too far. Where is that line??? Too soon...?

Wish me luck folks! Any pointers?

The Last Goodbye~

When I have been mentioning to my clients that I would be out later in the week to attend services for my 99 year old grandmother, these clients would exclaim, "Bless her heart!" or, "If only we could be so lucky to live to such a ripe old age!" And it's true: we want to live a long, healthy, vibrant life. But what's funny to me is that my clients' questions soon begin to paint a picture of a feeble, weathered, little woman, meekly tiptoeing away from life. For anyone who's ever met my grandmother – this was not the case!

Stella Warren was born Stephania Lech, on August 1, 1910; the daughter of two Polish immigrants from the Warsaw area, who settled in Cambridge, Massachussetts around the turn of the century. She was one of three daughters, all of whom remained very close throughout their lives, spent in the New England area still close to Boston.

To appear more Americanized, Stephania changed her name to "Stella,"perhaps around the time of the popularity of A Streetcar Named Desire. Stella left home, and rented a room in an apartment shared with a few other young women who all worked together. Around this time, in the mid 1930s, she met my grandfather, Harris "Speed" Warren, who was working as a cab driver to sustain himself through the Great Depression. (My grandfather acquired the nickname "Speed" while being the star quarterback at his local high school. It was a nickname that stuck with him until his death at 85, a decade and a half ago. It was the only name by which he went, and I used to love the fact that this wobbly old man still went by "Speed," despite walking with a cane later in life.)

If my memory serves me well, I believe my grandparents met at a coffee shop that they both used to frequent with their co-workers after they retired from the day's shift. They caught each other's fancy, and soon began to date. Unfortunately, I don't know the details of how long they dated before they got married, or many of the fun stories they might have shared from that period. I do know that after several years of marriage they had their first daughter, Diane, and then four years later, they had my mother, Jane. I also know that they bought they first and only house for $7,000, which still remains in the family today.

Back to my grandmother... I have been thinking about her so much over the past week, having a good chuckle here and there at what I will call her "Stella-isms." When I saw her last summer at a family reunion, she didn't recognize me at first. She stared at me with a squint and a grimace, and then broke into a mischievous grin. When I asked her what she was smiling at, she replied: "You look good – now that you got fat!" Feeling a little pinched by the comment, and taken-aback, I couldn't help but laugh. And I still laugh now, thinking of it. This was just her way...

And she truly meant it, every word. She *did* think I looked better with more weight on my frame. She had spent her life as a professional baker, so I think she subconsciously didn't trust people who were that thin, or who didn't partake in her heavenly, sugary concoctions. I, of course, have a pretty intense sweet tooth, and have inherited what I refer to as my grandmother's "Polish center of gravity." (aka: my "bubble butt," or "my ass that won't quit!")

But she was infamous for these kinds of Stella-witticisms. She also once told my sister-in-law that she looked good, now that she wasn't so "pinched and drawn." Um, thank you?!? (Why I outta...) Or like in the mid 1990s when I asked her which Presidential candidate she'd be voting for, since we never spoke of politics at her house, and I began to wonder on which side she would fall, she simply replied: "They're ALL schmoes!!!" Well, okay then! I'm still no closer to unraveling the mystery of her political leanings.

Even though she had this biting, snarky charm for quick witted one liners, this woman loved to laugh. She had a tough exterior, but once you got through it, she would roll with the punches, right along with you. So much of my childhood was spent around her enormous dinner table with my extended family sharing jokes and anecdotes that would get us all roaring. We were a family that loved to laugh, my grandmother included. Ironically, her tastes were perhaps a little more prudish than the rest of ours at the dinner table, as she was a teetotaler, who would only have a sip of Manichewitz wine at Easter, (how's that for some cultural identity confusion?!?). And although she didn't offer up her own boisterous hilarity like the rest of us in the pack, she certainly laughed right there along with us. Or at least "at" us!

She had her own brand of humor, which resided more on the one on one basis of communicating. Like when I was a young child and eagerly asked her what we were having for dinner that night, she responded in Polish: "Goobna na potico." (Pardon my spelling, and pardon my French, as I believe it loosely translates into: "shit on a shingle.") She wasn't angry at me, and didn't even intend for her statement to be mean – it was just her brand of humor and wit. Her snappy come backs, and pursed lip, squinty eyed glints from the across the room; these were her charms. And I mean it!

Even though she could be a bit brash at times, it was clear that she loved us, and only wanted the best for us. I honestly think that much of it was simply a cultural road block. My brother, cousin and I, as third generation Americans, might not have been privy to her Eastern European sensibilities and sentiments. Somehow, her seemingly staccato quips revealed her tender, adoring sentimentality. Like the boys of yesteryear who only dunked the pigtails of the girls they had crushes on into those inkwell, my grandmother would only metaphorically pinch those of whom had already been let in to her heart-full inner-circle.

My favorite memories of her where from my earliest parts of childhood. We would visit our grandparents nearly every weekend, as my dad's career relocated my parents from the Boston area, to the Connecticut suburbs before I was born. My grandmother would eagerly welcome us with every visit. Since she had been a professional baker before she retired, we often spent weekends rolling out some age old recipe, or cutting out my favorite shaped cookies. She was infinitely patient with me, as it was often just the two of us in her kitchen, crouching over her salmon colored counter tops, with me inevitably dusted in flour from head to toe. She would quietly spell out every step of the process, and grant me enough latitude to perform my assigned duties with skillful precision, making her smile with each step completed.

Or while we had "down time" after baking, I'd beg her to teach me words in Polish, or we would play a few rounds of this unique card game she taught me as a child, seemingly related to a version of two people solitaire ("Steal the Old Woman's Bundle," or something like that?). She'd always be so patient with me, and we'd have so much fun, just the two of us. But my favorite thing of all time as a kid was trying to trick her into thinking that I had been awake for hours...

While staying at her house as a child, anytime I'd wake up and come downstairs to find her sitting at her kitchen table, she'd always say: "Good morning, Sunshine!" Something about it would kind of drive me crazy, I don't know why... It was just so funny. So, I concocted these schemes, where I'd sneak downstairs, and slip into the kitchen, pretending like I had simply been there the whole time, as if she just failed to notice me for three and a half hours. Without skipping a beat, she'd always catch me, have me figured out, and would still pipe up with: "Good morning, Sunshine!" She was on to me...

When I step back and think of her objectively, she was kind of amazing! She could whittle a sheet cake down to looking like an open bible for a baby's christening, or would frost the most heavenly multi-tiered wedding cakes that would make every woman in the room want to get married just for the sweets. Her niece Laura wrote a children's book about my grandmother and her two sisters – how fun that she was not only a character in real life, but now she will live on into eternity as a character in this book as well!

But there are other things, more subtle things that come to mind, that perhaps not everyone would know about her. Like: She had incredible taste in wallpaper. Her house had this gorgeous powdery silver wallpaper, with ivory toned patterns in nearly every room. Not only did she have great taste, but she also used to apply all of the wallpaper herself – an impressive feat, considering that it still was intact, nearly 70 years later. And that's what I remember about my grandmother – her impeccably clean house, despite her later years, when her mobility became more of an issue. Everything always had its place, and if you put your cup down for more than five minutes, she'd do a "sweep through" and it ended up being washed and back in the cabinet before you even had time to want a refill.

And the day bed our family bought for her was always precisely made and decorated with every stuffed animal we ever got her during our lifetimes. What a trooper – I mean, who really needed the commemorative Kermit the Frog, Missy Piggy in her Christmas stole, sad puppy dog with a puffy heart in his mouth, white teddy bear holding a bouquet of flowers, and the tiny kitten curled up, which was possibly made out of real fur? But she proudly displayed them as not only our tokens of love for her, but her love for us as well, as she moved them on and off her bed daily with each bedtime routine. A woman who was, for all intents and purposes, a minimalist – kept every gift we ever gave her, ridiculous or not. She appreciated every single thing. Sure, there were some holidays where she cried and said that we shouldn't have, but she never once asked to return or exchange whatever we got her – she was grateful that we thought of her at all.

But there was something almost queen-like about her. Because of her years of baking, she completely wore out the cartilage in her knees, and as she aged, she often sat with her feet up to help with circulation. Whenever we'd come in to see her, we'd all gather around her, and lean over to kiss her on the cheek, as her hair was always done perfectly, her nails polished and shaped, and a nice throw draped over her legs to keep her warm. And most recently, she had been in a nursing home, and was wheeled everywhere in a wheel chair, with a procession of family and staff following right behind. Very queen-like, indeed.

I'm happy that she had such a close knit family, who– through everything, loved to laugh. I'm thrilled that she got to see my cousin get married, that we were all together for a family reunion last summer, and this past Christmas. I *love* that she got to witness a Polish Pope – a score for the mother land...

Whether you knew her as the fabulous baker, the sassy sayer of quick witted one liners, the paper-er of walls, the one who spoke Polish with her sisters as their secret language (we all suspected they used to talk about us unknowingly); whether she was your mother, your sister, your aunt, your grandmother, your neighbor, or just the funny little grinning granny at the table next to you at the wedding – she definitely had a presence. She was one tough old bird, and one that I was proud to know, and call my grandmother.

I hope for her sake that heaven does exist, and that it reunites her with my grandfather, her parents, her sister, and Pope John Paul II. Rock that party, Gram! Love you ~

The Old News...

Well, sad to report that my 99 year old Polish grandmother passed away yesterday. Luckily, my mother and her sister were there by my grandmother's side, holding her hands as she passed. They both said that it was incredibly peaceful, and serene, as my grandmother appeared to drift off to sleep – and then it was over. Not to be too somber or macabre...

I have spent the past few days thinking a great deal, while meandering around my city. I kept hearing church bells at random times throughout the day, and would look up to catch glimpses of incredible scenic views right before me. It has been bitterly cold, but sunny in that way that illuminates everything with that orange sherbet glow.

Despite feeling sad over the loss, there are many things that make me feel grateful as I reflect on the general state of things.

1. I feel grateful that my mom and aunt were notified when my grandmother's health started to fail, so that they could rush to her side to say their goodbyes.
2. I feel relieved to know that my grandmother died while surrounded by her adoring children, and that she wasn't in any pain as she drifted off to sleep.
3. I am happy that we all got to spend the holidays together a few weeks ago – the first time since my childhood that my extended family celebrated Christmas all together on the holiday itself. Everyone got along perfectly, and my grandmother was in a chipper mood, which was somewhat rare for her.
4. I love the fact that she got to see my cousin get married last spring.
   
5. After feeling guilty for not spending more time with her as of late, I felt some consolation yesterday when my mom told me how much my grandmother gushed about how sweet I was to her at Christmas. Apparently she told my aunt how nice I was to her, and when my aunt responded by saying that I've always been nice to her, she then said, "Yes, but even nicer than usual!" Awe...
6. I'm incredibly appreciative to all of my friends and family that have called, texted, emailed, sent me posts on Facebook, sending their condolences and well wishes.
   

There are many more, but I'm starting to get tired, having not been able to get much restful sleep as of late. My best friend suggested that I try to write a kind of funny eulogy for my grandmother; one that encapsulates that snappy, sometimes biting wit of hers.

I'll take a stab at it tomorrow, but I think I need to crash and recharge. Thanks for tuning in and reading this stuff. I promise I'll get back to the funny, dopey stories again soon!

Take good care ~

Grandmother ~

I just got a call from my Mom that my 99 year old Polish Grandmother's health is failing somewhat spontaneously. (Several months ago she was diagnosed with Congestive Heart Failure, but her kidneys were too weak to sustain the treatment for her heart. The doctors have kept her comfortable, but said that it was unfortunately a matter of time...) The other day, my Grandmother's oxygen levels were off, causing all sorts of issues, which they were able to rectify. But today a new slew of problems related to the oxygen levels came up, and my Mom just called in tears saying it doesn't look good.

My heart breaks for my Mom, as no one is ever prepared to lose their parents, at any age. Every time I see my parents calling my cell phone I fear it's "that call," as of late. I can't even begin to imagine how it feels to be on my Mom's side of it.

All of this to say, whether you are 99 like my Grandmother, (who lies and says she's 98, and not out of senility!), or you are my age – please take today to reach out to those you love, and not take life for granted...

Wishing you all the best, as always... ~ Will

In with the New...

Hello dear friends,
It's been several days since I last posted something on this here blog, and I've missed writing. Things had gotten somewhat hectic with work, and to be honest, I didn't have the mind-space to write much of late. I think I left off with that friend of mine screwing up royally, and to be honest, that has really been weighing on me. My heart has really been heavy with stress from that situation, and every spare moment has been spent trying to distract myself with a healthier focus. It's been a challenge. Not wanting to write from that place of internalized heaviness, I simply haven't been writing. So, today I return in hopes that writing can once again be my catharsis, and stop putting off what I enjoy doing just because my heart still feels a bit of the sting of remorse and regret. (Not how I wanted to bring in the New Year!)

I have to use this as an opportunity to learn more about myself, and my reactions to things. With every new year comes the flurry of *wishes* we imbibe, praying that we can be more resolute just because we flipped a new date on our calendars and day planners. What if day planners were less about the minutia of literal appointments, and we actually could constructively set a daily course for our own intentional, and hyper-mindful self-improvement? What would that look like, and how would we go about creating that system?

My dear friend from high school and I have been commiserating about the lack of romance in our lives these days, and keep stating that the lack of a solid wingman in our geographical locales makes branching out all the more intimidating. I texted back a snarky response stating that we should "dare each other into the lives we want to be living" in 2010. There are so many elements that we wish we could change, but if we only knew how... Our friends are often our biggest cheerleaders, piping up with much needed pep rallies when the going gets tough. So what if we not only declare our personal resolutions for 2010, but we go even further with setting up structures that foster those necessary doses of encouragement when our own peters out, *and* have a forum of accountability and fortitude?

I just read a great article from The Art of Manliness all about the necessity of *discipline* (which I will post shortly), and how it is the root to all success. Here is an excerpt from their site that ignited that fire under my arse:

The Kingship of Self-Control

from Self control, its Kingship and Majesty by William George Jordan, 1905

When a man fails in life he usually says, ” I am as God made me.” When he succeeds he proudly proclaims himself a ” self-made man.” Man is placed into this world not as a finality,— but as a possibility. Man’s greatest enemy is,—himself. Man in his weakness is the creature of circumstances; man in his strength is the creator of circumstances. Whether he be victim or victor depends largely on himself.

Man is never truly great merely for what he is, but ever for what he may become. Until man be truly filled with the knowledge of the majesty of his possibility, until there come to him the glow of realization of his privilege to live the life committed to him, as an individual life for which he is individually responsible, he is merely groping through the years…

It was reading that first part about our "natural" state of being versus our self determination that really kicked my butt. (As many people know my email "handle" is "selfmadewill," and I even chose my name Will to be a directive from here on out. So, it goes without saying that this passage really resonated with me. Lord knows I have failed enough for the bunch of us, and that changing that course of self-defeat will be its own success.)

Back to my two friends. I have the one friend from high school with whom I share my biggest hopes and fears, and the newer friend that just disappointed me more than any other human being in decades. This second friend labels herself "the fuck up," where the longer standing friend from my hometown seems to say: "I keep trying, but I haven't yet found the desired results..." Both of these women have lived and traveled extensively in the Middle East, had amazing global adventures I am too nervous to endure, and are both generally funny, approachable, interesting individuals. But it is this friend my past that keeps me inspired, and ready to steady myself for the next unknown, impending challenge because of her own quiet hope that her life may someday *realized* in that big, profound way. She meekly *wants* to succeed, even if she feels teetered by minor set backs and pinched by not yet knowing the "right" course.

This is the kind of person that I want to be. This is the kind of friend that I wish to have. A friend that can commiserate, but also help me regroup to launch myself again, heading out after that long desired skill, quality, or experience that will broaden my chances of true success and fulfillment in this lifetime. Even though her modesty can sometimes jokingly come across as insecurity, I truly believe that in her heart of hearts she wants to find and *earn* that sense of achievement and contentment.

The second, newer friend of mine always rails against the rich, spouting off all of the advantages they have, and still take for granted. She bitches about "spoiled rich kids" being unable to do anything for themselves, and how hard she's had to work being poor, and lacking in nepotistic connections to catapult her artistic career. I finally had to explain to her A) if you're an artist, you can't hate the rich – they're the ones who can afford to buy your art; B) connections alone don't create success – fortitude and talent can drive anyone to success, regardless of their parents' financial status, and on and on...

She has so many grudges to hold against the world, and yet simultaneously sees herself as the fuck up. And it's true, she fucked up pretty royally with me, where I am now at a point where I may not ever be able to return to a friendship with her, after she toxically contaminated professional and residential situations I sent her way. There is a residual strain I feel in my body having had to deal with her over the past week, reviving this same sensation I have felt dealing with her at multiple points in the previous summer. When an individual makes my body feel ill due to the stress and strain they cause me repeatedly, it is a pretty clear indication that they are not healthy for me, and I need to steer clear. Her mixed internalized messages of simultaneously being "the fuck up," while having to work exponentially harder than those "rich kids with their advantages" leaves her in this self-prophetic, exhaustive stance of eternally crashing and burning.

My older friend from high school may also secretly share some of those same sentiments about the privileged, as she and I grew up working class in a suburb of Connecticut where the line between the "have and the have not's" seemed infinitely huge. But when I speak to this friend, even as sheepish as she may feel at times, she never implies that the world is inherently set against her. Sure, there are times when both she and I *wish* that we had more love, more friends, more financial security in this economy, but she says it in a way that is relatable, where I end up rooting for us both. And yes, I think she and I could use a healthy dose of more self-confidence, and bravery at times, but who couldn't?!? Witnessing these two friends earnestly wanting a better life has taught me on which side of that metaphorical fence I'd prefer to land.

With my high school friend and I consistently bolstering the others' confidence and courage to maker bolder steps into these potential lives we could be leading, I see that I want more of that. I want that prodding to live more heart-fully, more coaxing to go beyond the scary places that might have formerly elicited knee-jerk, kick-stop reaction. To be blunt: I want to muster all the requisite facilities to forge ahead into the life of riches, of which I hope to be deserving. I am willing to do all the work to get there, to *earn* it, but sometimes, I need a little external voicely reminder that I will be okay, despite the fears and insecurities potentially telling me otherwise. Space isn't the final frontier, it's the life still yet to be lived fully that is the final frontier for all of us.

So, while distancing myself from this newer toxic friend, I have joyfully embraced this older friendship, seeing that its riches will help me unlock the mystery of my own future self, and the life that I will create for myself there. I feel lucky to have it, and have requested that she and I set up a series of "dares" to safely, and intentionally broaden our daily scopes, until the point where we can make more mindful leaps of faith, delivering us in that hallowed place that for now is still just a day dream away. It will require follow through, stick-to-it-iveness, drive, and accountability. All the good stuff...

I believe with each other's encouraging prods, and our abilities to self-improve from our insightful ways, that we can find love, more friends, more creative career opportunities to supplement our incomes, and enrich our lives. It comes down to ingenuity, hope, discipline, faith, and openness. We're both ready! Are you? Wanna join us for "Self Made Men/Women 2010???"