July 31st, 2009:
Next Tuesday, Eileen Lemus and I will take a trip to Maitri to participate in a pre-intake interview. We will meet with Daniel Hill, the intake coordinator and Grace Molyneaux, the staff nurse who runs the medical side of the residence. I hope it's many months before I am ready to move into Maitri. However, I do have questions right now that will help me prepare for my final home. I last did regular bedside care at Maitri in 1995, back when the residence was located on Hartford St. and had six beds. Since moving to 410 Duboce St. the facility has grown to 15 beds.
Although I've been on the Maitri Board of Directors for the past thirteen years, I have spent little time in resident's rooms. Now that I'm going to become a resident myself, my curiosity is piqued. What will be in the room when I arrive? A bed, a chest of drawers, for sure. Maybe a chair and maybe a TV with DVD player. If they aren't there, I will bring them myself.
Also, I want Maitri's intake personnel to know about me. That will involve catching them up on my medical status, giving them access to my records, contact numbers of my doctors, etc. Again, I don't plan to move in anytime soon, but I do want Maitri to know that I am heading their way. Also, I know that Eileen has a lot of questions about how the facility operates and what I can expect. She has also served on the board, but still, board work and the daily life of a resident are at ends of a continuum of care.
My body will determine when it's time to move from my apartment into Maitri. The word from both doctors, Lisa and Dr. Jahan is to move in earlier rather than too late. I'd like that; meaning, I'd like to have time at Maitri when I'm still reasonably well. There's a daily and weekly rhythm in the residence that can be best appreciated by someone who's ambulatory and eats their meals in the communal dining room. The social life of the place is a big part of it's success. It's a healthy and safe place for residents to interact. And that is part of my plan. I'd really like to move there and step into the Maitri world.
My model in this is role is a terrific fellow named Percy who served as the chief Certified Nursing Associate (CNA) for many years. Unfortunately, Percy's advancing HIV illness compelled him to retire, but fortunately, after a few months in retirement, he moved into Maitri for end-of-life care. Wow, was he taken care of. The staff had never had the opportunity to take care of one of their own, and they were humbled by this opportunity to give back to Percy. Initially, there was concern that Percy would return to Maitri as a senior caregiver. But no. He totally changed. Rather than giving orders, he let himself be cared for by his peers. It was astonishing: all his knowledge about how to run the floor dropped and was replaced by his willingness to be loved and attended to. That's my model. I have no inclination to make board decisions from inside my bed. By the time I move into Maitri I will have left the board, and stepped into a brand new identity: resident-in-need-of-care. My task will be to let myself be cared for.
Prior to that new role from within a bed, I have my current identities which include the following. For another month or six weeks, I am still a consultant in Information Technology in the Financial District in San Francisco. I live alone in my apartment and happily cook, clean, and generally maintain myself. I'm a homeowner in Sonoma County who is selling his portion of the property to his land partner. I'm a 62 year old man with metastasized cancer to lungs, liver, bones. I'm a gay man with a well-developed aesthetic, special attention given to Baroque and 19th Century opera and Central Asian textiles. I'm a lucky guy with a lot of friends. I'm grieving the loss of my Mom who died in March of this year. I am on the board of Maitri Compassionate Care residence for people with HIV. I am an astrologer with a developing interest in other psychic teachings. Many identities, many of which will start falling by the wayside over the next months, only to be replaced by the new identies, some of which will jump aboard when I move to Maitri.
After the interview on Tuesday, I'll report in about the results.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
July 30th, 2009:
Today marked a major turn in my life: I announced that I'd be leaving the workplace. My first jobs where I did something defined and was paid for it started when I was 10 years old. I mowed lawns for neighbors, and then graduated to splitting cords of firewood and heavy-lifting yard work. In high school and college, I worked in a bakery where they made what we'd now call artesian french breads--no preservatives, wonderfully fresh--primarily for restaurants. Initially, I cleaned bread pans and swept the floors (flour everywhere, aughhh!), and I graduated to the packaging department and eventually becoming a baker while in college. Since that time, I have never baked a single loaf of bread. I still enjoy the aromas and variety of flavors in bread. But I was done with baking at a young age.
The occasion for this announcement was that my job administrator at PG&E where I consult asked when I would finish my current project and when I would be ready for my next assignment. I said that I'd be finishing up my current task shortly after Labor Day, and no, I would not be looking for more work. Typing those words: "no more assignments," raised some fear. After working all my life, employment has become a big part of my identity over time. Now, I'm setting aside that identity. I sat looking at my computer screen, thinking for a few moments: maybe I ought to consider this for a day or two. Then, I hit the button. My mind isn't going to change in the next few days.
This is a particularly fine time to leave. I will have completed my greatest and most accomplished effort. I will have written the book, as they say. So, what's the book? In this case, it's the "How To Guide" for Project Managers at PG&E. When I started consulting this time at PG&E, they were just recovering from bankruptcy and related confusion. They had agreed to play by industry rules of software development. They had adaped a new methodology of how to develop software. Also, they'd customized software for managing individual projects. The new development process and new management software had been dovetailed so that if a part of the project had not been completed, you couldn't move forward. This meant that each project became responsible for actually completing the many required tasks. I wrote the book that explained how to set up a project, assemble the team, use the project plan software to manage the effort and move forward through the life cycle into installation. Except. Except the financial management portion could not be written because it hadn't been clarified. Hard to manage a project without tight financial guidelines. Nevertheless, I finished the work I could do and went off into other regions for over a year.
Happily, a few months ago, I suddenly had a lot of time at work so I contacted my old boss on the Project Manager's Handbook and asked him if there was any work that could be done. He immediately replied that he had just been given the green light to finish the financial section, and if I was available.... So now I am writing up this rather complicated capitalization and expense arcana. It will go into the very center of the Handbook and the entire effort will be complete from pre-project speculation to post implementation maintenance.
During almost 30 years in data processing, a huge piece of work for me was to overcome my fear of being stupid, not smart enough, less useful than others. Especially in the beginning, much of information processing focused on coding. Programming. And that's something that I have never learned how to do. I have sat for hundreds of hours in meetings trying to understand what people are talking about. Of course, I learned much over time. I came to appreciate my role in a very complex dance of talent. I contributed clearly written prose. I translated from technical-ese into English. Whether I was tech writing, developing training, testing, or doing business analysis, my tasks involved writing. And I love to write. So I've had many years of doing work that I could appreciate, with a growing sense of worth. And a lessening sense of no worth.
In the next few weeks, I'll complete the heart of the "How To" manual for the business I've worked in for three decades. It's a lovely completion, and I am very glad to go out on this high. And then? What will I do with the time that's about to open for me? At this point, I'm not sure. My body willing, there's still the opportunity and time to travel. If I feel as good then as I do now, then a trip to Italy or China is definitely allowable. Right now, tonight, I am also content to not know what I'll do next. I have tomorrow to go to work and enjoy crafting of the last big project in my career. It's nice to have some huge unknowns to face. In my case, it's also very realistic. Stay tuned!
Today marked a major turn in my life: I announced that I'd be leaving the workplace. My first jobs where I did something defined and was paid for it started when I was 10 years old. I mowed lawns for neighbors, and then graduated to splitting cords of firewood and heavy-lifting yard work. In high school and college, I worked in a bakery where they made what we'd now call artesian french breads--no preservatives, wonderfully fresh--primarily for restaurants. Initially, I cleaned bread pans and swept the floors (flour everywhere, aughhh!), and I graduated to the packaging department and eventually becoming a baker while in college. Since that time, I have never baked a single loaf of bread. I still enjoy the aromas and variety of flavors in bread. But I was done with baking at a young age.
The occasion for this announcement was that my job administrator at PG&E where I consult asked when I would finish my current project and when I would be ready for my next assignment. I said that I'd be finishing up my current task shortly after Labor Day, and no, I would not be looking for more work. Typing those words: "no more assignments," raised some fear. After working all my life, employment has become a big part of my identity over time. Now, I'm setting aside that identity. I sat looking at my computer screen, thinking for a few moments: maybe I ought to consider this for a day or two. Then, I hit the
This is a particularly fine time to leave. I will have completed my greatest and most accomplished effort. I will have written the book, as they say. So, what's the book? In this case, it's the "How To Guide" for Project Managers at PG&E. When I started consulting this time at PG&E, they were just recovering from bankruptcy and related confusion. They had agreed to play by industry rules of software development. They had adaped a new methodology of how to develop software. Also, they'd customized software for managing individual projects. The new development process and new management software had been dovetailed so that if a part of the project had not been completed, you couldn't move forward. This meant that each project became responsible for actually completing the many required tasks. I wrote the book that explained how to set up a project, assemble the team, use the project plan software to manage the effort and move forward through the life cycle into installation. Except. Except the financial management portion could not be written because it hadn't been clarified. Hard to manage a project without tight financial guidelines. Nevertheless, I finished the work I could do and went off into other regions for over a year.
Happily, a few months ago, I suddenly had a lot of time at work so I contacted my old boss on the Project Manager's Handbook and asked him if there was any work that could be done. He immediately replied that he had just been given the green light to finish the financial section, and if I was available.... So now I am writing up this rather complicated capitalization and expense arcana. It will go into the very center of the Handbook and the entire effort will be complete from pre-project speculation to post implementation maintenance.
During almost 30 years in data processing, a huge piece of work for me was to overcome my fear of being stupid, not smart enough, less useful than others. Especially in the beginning, much of information processing focused on coding. Programming. And that's something that I have never learned how to do. I have sat for hundreds of hours in meetings trying to understand what people are talking about. Of course, I learned much over time. I came to appreciate my role in a very complex dance of talent. I contributed clearly written prose. I translated from technical-ese into English. Whether I was tech writing, developing training, testing, or doing business analysis, my tasks involved writing. And I love to write. So I've had many years of doing work that I could appreciate, with a growing sense of worth. And a lessening sense of no worth.
In the next few weeks, I'll complete the heart of the "How To" manual for the business I've worked in for three decades. It's a lovely completion, and I am very glad to go out on this high. And then? What will I do with the time that's about to open for me? At this point, I'm not sure. My body willing, there's still the opportunity and time to travel. If I feel as good then as I do now, then a trip to Italy or China is definitely allowable. Right now, tonight, I am also content to not know what I'll do next. I have tomorrow to go to work and enjoy crafting of the last big project in my career. It's nice to have some huge unknowns to face. In my case, it's also very realistic. Stay tuned!
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
July 28th, 2009:
Every other Tuesday mid-afternoon, I call a number in Scottsdale AZ, and speak with Richelle, who teaches me about the body's chakras. She has a lesson plan that takes two weeks per chakra. The first week she identifies the characteristics of the chakra, what parts of the body it manages and its contribution to the rest of the body's psychic systems. Using guided imagery, she illustrates the functions of the chakra. This session ends with a request for a healing to re-balance and repair any damage to that part of the body. In the second week she talks about the gland in the chakra that sends its particular fluids into the rest of the organism. It's fascinating to be collecting this information at the end of my life. Never too late. We started with the first chakra several weeks ago, and today our work focused on the adrenal glands; the second session relating to the third chakra.
The cleansing for today involved understanding how I use and abuse stress with my body. Eyes closed, I heard her ask, "Getting started, is there anything that your body would like? Anything it isn't getting right now?" The immediate answer was: massage. I want more massage. Easy to do since I know and have worked with body workers over the years. For several months, I have been feeling untouched and haven't answered that request for attention. OK, line up massage.
Moving forward, she asked, "When you were born, what was the commitment of your spirit to your body?" Again the immediate knowing: 100%. I know that one of my most important tasks in this life was to learn as much as possible about the wisdom of my body. After many lives where I've turned away from respecting and learning from my flesh, this time it's been top of the list to figure out how to hear and support the knowledge of my physical self. I took some difficult turns in this path, including early childhood depression and physical molestation as ways to shut down my connection with my corporeal self. Once I was shut down, I had to figure out how to wake up.
It's taken decades of effort to feel comfortable, joyous, even ecstatic in my body. Thanks to my lovers, my erotic teachers, body work, dance, breath work, yoga, hours in the gym where all I had to do was move, stretch and let my suppleness lead the way. Smoking for thirty five years was another severe blow to my body; ten times a day I'd light up and pollute my home. I believe that one of my most important birthrights to nurture in this life is to deepen my appreciation of my physical self. Happily, there have been times when I sensed beyond knowing that my body (and all living organisms) is a cosmic gift. I have gotten to that place and hung out there for a while. Whew! Doesn't get better.
"And today?" she asked. "What is your spirit's commitment to your body today?" This time the answer is 70%, no longer the full 100%. Hummmm, has my spirit has grown weary over the past sixty years of unflagging effort? Why did I start at full commitment and drop my intention by 30%? I don't know the answer. I have this percentage to mull as I wish. "No judgement," Richelle reminded me. Still, this shift of intention has makes me curious. Am I giving more attention to other parts of the self?
I'm convinced that much of the important work I do between now and the end of my life will focus on how much I can be in my body. By "be" I mean be conscious. All my life I've flipping my ON / OFF switch. This is accelerating these days. I'm awake, numb, sensitive, unaware. I recall the work I did in therapy last week where I drew my pink happy body assaulted by thick black cancer color. In that session, the important breakthrough was to feel fear. I let myself open to the terror of being consumed by the cancer that lives in me. How could I not feel that? Answer: a lifetime of well-honed practice at compartmentalizing scary feelings. And now, in my final months, I have time and intention to bring some of these compartment walls down so that I can have the experience of living in a body that has the courage and support to express itself. What a fine and exciting aspiration!
Every other Tuesday mid-afternoon, I call a number in Scottsdale AZ, and speak with Richelle, who teaches me about the body's chakras. She has a lesson plan that takes two weeks per chakra. The first week she identifies the characteristics of the chakra, what parts of the body it manages and its contribution to the rest of the body's psychic systems. Using guided imagery, she illustrates the functions of the chakra. This session ends with a request for a healing to re-balance and repair any damage to that part of the body. In the second week she talks about the gland in the chakra that sends its particular fluids into the rest of the organism. It's fascinating to be collecting this information at the end of my life. Never too late. We started with the first chakra several weeks ago, and today our work focused on the adrenal glands; the second session relating to the third chakra.
The cleansing for today involved understanding how I use and abuse stress with my body. Eyes closed, I heard her ask, "Getting started, is there anything that your body would like? Anything it isn't getting right now?" The immediate answer was: massage. I want more massage. Easy to do since I know and have worked with body workers over the years. For several months, I have been feeling untouched and haven't answered that request for attention. OK, line up massage.
Moving forward, she asked, "When you were born, what was the commitment of your spirit to your body?" Again the immediate knowing: 100%. I know that one of my most important tasks in this life was to learn as much as possible about the wisdom of my body. After many lives where I've turned away from respecting and learning from my flesh, this time it's been top of the list to figure out how to hear and support the knowledge of my physical self. I took some difficult turns in this path, including early childhood depression and physical molestation as ways to shut down my connection with my corporeal self. Once I was shut down, I had to figure out how to wake up.
It's taken decades of effort to feel comfortable, joyous, even ecstatic in my body. Thanks to my lovers, my erotic teachers, body work, dance, breath work, yoga, hours in the gym where all I had to do was move, stretch and let my suppleness lead the way. Smoking for thirty five years was another severe blow to my body; ten times a day I'd light up and pollute my home. I believe that one of my most important birthrights to nurture in this life is to deepen my appreciation of my physical self. Happily, there have been times when I sensed beyond knowing that my body (and all living organisms) is a cosmic gift. I have gotten to that place and hung out there for a while. Whew! Doesn't get better.
"And today?" she asked. "What is your spirit's commitment to your body today?" This time the answer is 70%, no longer the full 100%. Hummmm, has my spirit has grown weary over the past sixty years of unflagging effort? Why did I start at full commitment and drop my intention by 30%? I don't know the answer. I have this percentage to mull as I wish. "No judgement," Richelle reminded me. Still, this shift of intention has makes me curious. Am I giving more attention to other parts of the self?
I'm convinced that much of the important work I do between now and the end of my life will focus on how much I can be in my body. By "be" I mean be conscious. All my life I've flipping my ON / OFF switch. This is accelerating these days. I'm awake, numb, sensitive, unaware. I recall the work I did in therapy last week where I drew my pink happy body assaulted by thick black cancer color. In that session, the important breakthrough was to feel fear. I let myself open to the terror of being consumed by the cancer that lives in me. How could I not feel that? Answer: a lifetime of well-honed practice at compartmentalizing scary feelings. And now, in my final months, I have time and intention to bring some of these compartment walls down so that I can have the experience of living in a body that has the courage and support to express itself. What a fine and exciting aspiration!
Monday, July 27, 2009
July 27, 2009:
Last Friday, my friend Betsy and I had our monthly Zuni restaurant lunch. Afterward, as I was about to get out of the car and head up to my apartment for a mid-afternoon nap, I gave Betsy a hug, told her that I loved her and started crying, saying, "I want more. I want more time with you. I don't want this to be over." A couple of days later, we were talking on the phone, and I told her how important it was for me to get in touch with those feelings of ending and loss. "It's not just you," she reminded me. "We feel that too. All of your friends are having to cope with losing you too." Whew, I needed to hear that. One of the murkier aspects of this cancer is that it can narrow me into narcissism. This must be all about me. Well, no. On the feeling level my terminal illness is happening for all of us. I was so grateful that Betsy was there to remind me of this collective fact.
Which caused me to start thinking about anticipatory grief. It's a term that was used a lot, and with good reason, during the height of dying during the AIDS epidemic. All of us had friends who were ill and not getting better, and all of us, PWAs and their friends, were in prolonged states of ongoing anticipatory grief. To refresh my memory about this topic, I googled it and found the following definition:
Anticipatory Grief: The normal mourning that occurs when a patient or family is expecting death. Anticipatory grief has many of the same symptoms as those experienced after a death has occurred. It includes all of the thinking, feeling, cultural, and social reactions to an expected death that are felt by by the patient and family.
Anticipatory grief includes depression, extreme concern for the dying person, preparing for the death, and adjusting to changes caused by the death. It gives the family and friends more time to slowly get used to the reality of the loss. People are able to complete unfinished business with the dying person (for example, saying "Goodbye," "I love you," or "I forgive you."
Anticipatory grief may not always occur. Also, it does not mean that the person feels the same kind of grief before the death as after the death. The grief experienced before a death does not make the grief after the death last a shorter amount of time.
The definition goes on to talk about the difference between anticipatory and unexpected grief. In the latter, dying is not expected and the mourner has to deal with levels of overwhelm and severed connection that are far more radical than the measured, interactive continuity of life with a person dying over time.
What Betsy reminded me of was that this is a communal event. Because there's time for process, reflection, conflict and resolution there's time to undo old patterns of behavior and find new ways to relate. That will certainly be the case with me. And as I hear from more of you about how you are coping, the feelings of stunned numbness, confusion about why I am approaching my illness in this way, fear, replaying other deaths, anger, etc. the group creates a field of feeling. At this point tonight, I'm most aware of how anticipation allows for an easing into more of this illness without clobbering me senseless. It's a stepping in and out. A trying on. Testing. The luxury of being tentative. Nothing final yet. But the need to start facing final.
Last Friday, my friend Betsy and I had our monthly Zuni restaurant lunch. Afterward, as I was about to get out of the car and head up to my apartment for a mid-afternoon nap, I gave Betsy a hug, told her that I loved her and started crying, saying, "I want more. I want more time with you. I don't want this to be over." A couple of days later, we were talking on the phone, and I told her how important it was for me to get in touch with those feelings of ending and loss. "It's not just you," she reminded me. "We feel that too. All of your friends are having to cope with losing you too." Whew, I needed to hear that. One of the murkier aspects of this cancer is that it can narrow me into narcissism. This must be all about me. Well, no. On the feeling level my terminal illness is happening for all of us. I was so grateful that Betsy was there to remind me of this collective fact.
Which caused me to start thinking about anticipatory grief. It's a term that was used a lot, and with good reason, during the height of dying during the AIDS epidemic. All of us had friends who were ill and not getting better, and all of us, PWAs and their friends, were in prolonged states of ongoing anticipatory grief. To refresh my memory about this topic, I googled it and found the following definition:
Anticipatory Grief: The normal mourning that occurs when a patient or family is expecting death. Anticipatory grief has many of the same symptoms as those experienced after a death has occurred. It includes all of the thinking, feeling, cultural, and social reactions to an expected death that are felt by by the patient and family.
Anticipatory grief includes depression, extreme concern for the dying person, preparing for the death, and adjusting to changes caused by the death. It gives the family and friends more time to slowly get used to the reality of the loss. People are able to complete unfinished business with the dying person (for example, saying "Goodbye," "I love you," or "I forgive you."
Anticipatory grief may not always occur. Also, it does not mean that the person feels the same kind of grief before the death as after the death. The grief experienced before a death does not make the grief after the death last a shorter amount of time.
The definition goes on to talk about the difference between anticipatory and unexpected grief. In the latter, dying is not expected and the mourner has to deal with levels of overwhelm and severed connection that are far more radical than the measured, interactive continuity of life with a person dying over time.
What Betsy reminded me of was that this is a communal event. Because there's time for process, reflection, conflict and resolution there's time to undo old patterns of behavior and find new ways to relate. That will certainly be the case with me. And as I hear from more of you about how you are coping, the feelings of stunned numbness, confusion about why I am approaching my illness in this way, fear, replaying other deaths, anger, etc. the group creates a field of feeling. At this point tonight, I'm most aware of how anticipation allows for an easing into more of this illness without clobbering me senseless. It's a stepping in and out. A trying on. Testing. The luxury of being tentative. Nothing final yet. But the need to start facing final.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
July 26th, 2009:
How to summarize and express what I've learned over the course of my life? In the past weeks, this question has emerged in a couple of ways. First, I decided that I wanted to create a video for my memorial service where I would have a chance to speak to everyone present. This impulse told me that I want a memorial service. You can be sure that will be organized and presented in due time. Also, I realized that I am aware of what some of my core life work has been, and I'd like to talk about that. I'm not saying that I have a total wrap on all my life's purpose, but there are major themes that I certainly haven't been conscious of for most of my life. Now I can see those themes clearly, and I'm moved by their intentions and their results. This has been a lifetime of considerable growth for me. I say that with humility and gratitude.
So tomorrow afternoon, my friend Beth who is a filmmaker will come over to my apartment and look around for places to shoot the video. I'd like the resulting CD to include a tour through this apartment that has been such a supportive home for the past 16 years of my life. It's a beautiful place, and I have loved nurturing the energy here. There will be a stroll through the rooms and leading to the living room overlooking the park. Plan is to sit somewhere close to the window and deliver what I want to say. After the CD is played at my memorial service there will be copies available; a final giving and taking.
For the past three weeks, I've been drafting the script. Typically, I write narrative text, and that's very different from the spoken word. The first time I took an early draft out of the printer and tried to read it aloud, it was laughable. The words did not sound spoken, they were written words on the page for the page. Back to the draft. But underlying getting the sound right for a spoken recording, there was the more important matter of content. How do I express what I've learned in this life? Which events best carry the weight of how I learned my lessons? What were the pivots that made change possible? How did my heart crack open so that I could love? What's so exciting about these questions is that now I know many of the answers. I've lived them. I can remember them. So I've written out the basic architecture of my transformations. Now I'm refining the details of how my life's learnings have altered me. This information is simply available. What a gift!
The other direction of expression involves my godson Willem. In conversation with his Mom, Kris, she asked me to consider putting together something for Willem to have, some guide, some thoughts from me to him about...well, that's still an open question. What do I want to say to my godson who I won't be present for in mortal form? What can I say now that will have value in his future? In the second week of August, I plan to travel to Portland to see Willem. At that time I'll be with him, his parents and his godmother Christine. My plan is to do astrological readings that focus on Willem, but include input from the chart energy of his parents and godparents. Still, as much as I love reading astrological charts, the request to develop something for Willem remains just below the surface of my conscious mind. I feel like it's not time to go there yet. Might be my inner job manager wanting me to finish one project--the memorial service video--before starting off in another direction. I accept that.
What's fascinating to me is the clarity of these projects. The memorial service CD is simply writing itself. True, I take time to weigh in with considerations about sound, presentation and using the medium of delivery. But the content is quite available. We'll see if it's the same with the gift that emerges for Willem. In the time that I have in the immediate future, it's fascinating to feel this need for legacy emerge. Over the ages, people have taken such extraordinary flights with the legacy urge: monuments both grotesque and grand, eye contact at a time after speech has failed, a decision to withhold stories because they are too painful to relate. Many, many responses to the yearning to summarize and say, "This happened to me. This is what I've learned." For all of my life, I have received the gifts from the candy store of personal wisdom. I've absorbed what others have learned with some context of why and how they learned it. Now, it's my turn to add to this repository.
How to summarize and express what I've learned over the course of my life? In the past weeks, this question has emerged in a couple of ways. First, I decided that I wanted to create a video for my memorial service where I would have a chance to speak to everyone present. This impulse told me that I want a memorial service. You can be sure that will be organized and presented in due time. Also, I realized that I am aware of what some of my core life work has been, and I'd like to talk about that. I'm not saying that I have a total wrap on all my life's purpose, but there are major themes that I certainly haven't been conscious of for most of my life. Now I can see those themes clearly, and I'm moved by their intentions and their results. This has been a lifetime of considerable growth for me. I say that with humility and gratitude.
So tomorrow afternoon, my friend Beth who is a filmmaker will come over to my apartment and look around for places to shoot the video. I'd like the resulting CD to include a tour through this apartment that has been such a supportive home for the past 16 years of my life. It's a beautiful place, and I have loved nurturing the energy here. There will be a stroll through the rooms and leading to the living room overlooking the park. Plan is to sit somewhere close to the window and deliver what I want to say. After the CD is played at my memorial service there will be copies available; a final giving and taking.
For the past three weeks, I've been drafting the script. Typically, I write narrative text, and that's very different from the spoken word. The first time I took an early draft out of the printer and tried to read it aloud, it was laughable. The words did not sound spoken, they were written words on the page for the page. Back to the draft. But underlying getting the sound right for a spoken recording, there was the more important matter of content. How do I express what I've learned in this life? Which events best carry the weight of how I learned my lessons? What were the pivots that made change possible? How did my heart crack open so that I could love? What's so exciting about these questions is that now I know many of the answers. I've lived them. I can remember them. So I've written out the basic architecture of my transformations. Now I'm refining the details of how my life's learnings have altered me. This information is simply available. What a gift!
The other direction of expression involves my godson Willem. In conversation with his Mom, Kris, she asked me to consider putting together something for Willem to have, some guide, some thoughts from me to him about...well, that's still an open question. What do I want to say to my godson who I won't be present for in mortal form? What can I say now that will have value in his future? In the second week of August, I plan to travel to Portland to see Willem. At that time I'll be with him, his parents and his godmother Christine. My plan is to do astrological readings that focus on Willem, but include input from the chart energy of his parents and godparents. Still, as much as I love reading astrological charts, the request to develop something for Willem remains just below the surface of my conscious mind. I feel like it's not time to go there yet. Might be my inner job manager wanting me to finish one project--the memorial service video--before starting off in another direction. I accept that.
What's fascinating to me is the clarity of these projects. The memorial service CD is simply writing itself. True, I take time to weigh in with considerations about sound, presentation and using the medium of delivery. But the content is quite available. We'll see if it's the same with the gift that emerges for Willem. In the time that I have in the immediate future, it's fascinating to feel this need for legacy emerge. Over the ages, people have taken such extraordinary flights with the legacy urge: monuments both grotesque and grand, eye contact at a time after speech has failed, a decision to withhold stories because they are too painful to relate. Many, many responses to the yearning to summarize and say, "This happened to me. This is what I've learned." For all of my life, I have received the gifts from the candy store of personal wisdom. I've absorbed what others have learned with some context of why and how they learned it. Now, it's my turn to add to this repository.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
July 23rd, 2009:
During the past several months, my relationship with my Dad has undergone a profound and unexpected change. For most of my life, we were stuck in power struggle and unhappiness. I spent a great deal of effort trying to grow away from him, yet our force field held both of us in serious bondage. My dreams of moving away from home, my pleasure at living in San Francisco and creating life on my terms was done knowing that I'd get little if any support from him. He didn't like my gayness, didn't appreciate that I had avoided getting drafted, and it seemed from my perspective that he seriously didn't like me.
In the past couple of years, as my Dad's mental acuity has softened and shortened, he's become sweeter and more loving. I now think that his childhood and adulthood were very hard for him. The responsibility of maintaining a family was not only challenging, it was often terrifying. He felt fear and resentment. Having an effete son traipsing off to Europe and grand dining and the opera wasn't part of his life plan. But now, with deep retirement and old age, his sense of responsibility has evaporated. He is taken care of. His job is to get to his meals, visit with his neighbors, grieve the death of my mom. So that prickly edge and trigger-happy anger has given way to a much more relaxed guy. His inner sweetness is out and functional. His new contract with the world is, "I'll be nice and you'll love me." And it works.
I would say that my Dad has called me on the phone maybe eight or nine times in my life. Half of those times have been in the past couple of months. Clearly, I do most of the initiating when it comes to telephoning. And no matter. I now enjoy reaching for the phone to check in with him. As soon as he recognizes my voice, he says with heartfelt warmth, "It is so GOOD to hear you!" Followed by his questions about how I am and his concern for my health, my job, my daily life. I am still getting used to his concern and empathy after a lifetime of blame and not good enough. It is a very healing shift. Very healing. As I listen to his voice, I can feel the father that was always there, but eclipsed by anger and confusion. Now, he's completely exposed as someone who loves his family. It's his greatest joy to talk about my sister, myself, and my departed mom.
After decades of struggling in this most troubled and unhappy relationship of my life, I am enjoying a totally different experience. "I am so proud of you," my Dad will say. "You've been such a wonderful son," he claims. "It means so much to me that you call." Loving, caring warmth that I have been waiting for all my life. Now it's happening. And yes, it was worth waiting for.
During the past several months, my relationship with my Dad has undergone a profound and unexpected change. For most of my life, we were stuck in power struggle and unhappiness. I spent a great deal of effort trying to grow away from him, yet our force field held both of us in serious bondage. My dreams of moving away from home, my pleasure at living in San Francisco and creating life on my terms was done knowing that I'd get little if any support from him. He didn't like my gayness, didn't appreciate that I had avoided getting drafted, and it seemed from my perspective that he seriously didn't like me.
In the past couple of years, as my Dad's mental acuity has softened and shortened, he's become sweeter and more loving. I now think that his childhood and adulthood were very hard for him. The responsibility of maintaining a family was not only challenging, it was often terrifying. He felt fear and resentment. Having an effete son traipsing off to Europe and grand dining and the opera wasn't part of his life plan. But now, with deep retirement and old age, his sense of responsibility has evaporated. He is taken care of. His job is to get to his meals, visit with his neighbors, grieve the death of my mom. So that prickly edge and trigger-happy anger has given way to a much more relaxed guy. His inner sweetness is out and functional. His new contract with the world is, "I'll be nice and you'll love me." And it works.
I would say that my Dad has called me on the phone maybe eight or nine times in my life. Half of those times have been in the past couple of months. Clearly, I do most of the initiating when it comes to telephoning. And no matter. I now enjoy reaching for the phone to check in with him. As soon as he recognizes my voice, he says with heartfelt warmth, "It is so GOOD to hear you!" Followed by his questions about how I am and his concern for my health, my job, my daily life. I am still getting used to his concern and empathy after a lifetime of blame and not good enough. It is a very healing shift. Very healing. As I listen to his voice, I can feel the father that was always there, but eclipsed by anger and confusion. Now, he's completely exposed as someone who loves his family. It's his greatest joy to talk about my sister, myself, and my departed mom.
After decades of struggling in this most troubled and unhappy relationship of my life, I am enjoying a totally different experience. "I am so proud of you," my Dad will say. "You've been such a wonderful son," he claims. "It means so much to me that you call." Loving, caring warmth that I have been waiting for all my life. Now it's happening. And yes, it was worth waiting for.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
July 22, 2009:
Last week, my friends Goel and Philp brought dinner to my house so that we could visit over food. Since these guys enjoy wine, I decided to open up one of my four bottles, a Syrah from a vineyard that doesn't commercially market its products and has a great reputation. I thought that I might even have a glass myself for the first time in a long time. As I twisted the corkscrew, the cork pulverized. But being determined, I got a screwdriver and pried out the remaining cork. For the final removal, I tapped the cork into the bottle and was suddenly sprayed with red wine, all over my mint green shirt, my face, my glasses, my hair. Loud expletives as I reached for a towel, wiped it across my face and saw that my microfiber shirt had absorbed the wine and could not be cleaned. I hurled the towel into the sink and in a reasonably controlled voice said to my guests, "Back in a flash. Costume change." Going into my bedroom closet to get a new shirt, I furiously ripped the stained shirt off my body, buttons flying, fabric shredding. And then, as if everything was somewhat normal, I put on a new shirt and rejoined Philip and Goel for dinner. "Wow, you were pissed," said Philip. "You bet," I muttered. "That wine in my face really startled me." Then, I strained the rest of the cork from the Syrah, poured two glasses and served it. "I'll pass tonight," I explained. "My attitude is really bad toward this wine. You enjoy" Which they did.
Today in therapy, my counselor was asking me about how I was dealing with the ambiguity of not knowing what would happen next with my health. I gave a few explanations and she directed my attention toward the anger I'd felt a few weeks ago when I bashed the cancer cells into bloody bits. "Anger?" I asked. Then I remembered and narrated the incident from dinner the prior week. "Why did you get so angry?" she asked. Slowly, I replayed the scene of opening the wine, feeling the corkscrew break the cork, gently tapping the remaining cork into the pressurized bottle and my alarm at being sprayed suddenly. That was it, I realized, the unexpected wine in my face; that's what infuriated me. "Why were you infuriated?" she asked. "Well," I replied, I felt like I was being attacked." It sounded odd to confess that a bottle of wine could attack me, but there was something tugging under that strange perception. So I said it again. "I felt like I was being attacked." Then I associated the sudden wine in the face with having a big, growing tumor in my pelvis, "I feel like I'm being attacked. I'm being attacked. I'm being attacked."
"So what's it like to be attacked?" she asked. I probably gave her the deer-in-the-headlights look, because reached over and pulled out a pad of art paper and a big basket of crayons. Draw, George. Sure, I can do that. And I did, reaching for the pink crayon and easily looping circles that became healthy zones of organs and connective tissue, vital and smooth and integrated in a whole architecture of related shapes. I looked at the pink health resting on the paper. Putting the pink crayon back, I found a thick waxy black crayon. I held the crayon without thinking. And then, faster than my mind, like a Japanese calligrapher, I pushed the black color hard against the paper, jerking the crayon back and forth in an attack of dark jagged black against healthy pink. It was a furious assault and when a knot of black was packed against the pink tissue, I stopped just as suddenly.
I looked at my picture, at both the supporting pink home and the thick black invasion. After many months of living with this pelvic tumor and other "spots" and "sites" and "places" that I've seen on CT and MRI scans, I finally felt the terror and fear of having this cancer growing in my body. I feel like I am under attack, and I don't know how to ward off the attack. Of course, I have done many things: chemo, diet, meditation, therapy, some study, lots of talk. But in all of this, my body has been under siege without being directly acknowledged. It's been months since I've talked to the tumors. I have never set up a formal dialog with my body to give it comfort or care. My most direct contact with my body happens via food. I give my body great food. But like a well fed child that is otherwise neglected, I realized today that my body has been unspeakably lonely and deserted. I don't hear it. I let it know that I don't want to hear it. And meantime, it is feeling attacked. Many tears to let these feelings pass through me.
Then as therapists will do, my counselor asked, "Have you felt your body being neglected before?" I angled my head as if tilting it would shake loose a memory. "Well," she wondered, "What about when you were being molested and your Mother did nothing. Perhaps that's when you learned how to neglect your body?" That suggestion opened major floodgates.
There I was in my therapist's office overlooking Castro St., realizing that I had spent much of my life using a template for neglect with my body. And such a fine body, so undeserving of being ignored and dismissed. I really felt flattened. I had been given this beautiful home to live in, and I had proceeded to ignore it's needs and yearnings. I had told it what I wanted it to do. I had judged it harshly if it got too fat or tired or wrinkled. But I had not listened to it. I had taught myself not to listen. When I was a young child being molested, I had told my body to shut up. And to stay shut up. And, having accomplished that bit of harsh parenting, I'd moved forward into my life. Ouch. Ouch.
"So," my therapist wondered, "How do you care for someone who needs to be heard and is in pain and fear?" "How do I do that?" I asked. "Yes, how do you care for someone who's hurting?" she repeated. "Well, I tell them that I love them. Sometimes I hold them. I tell them that they are more than their pain. But mostly I give them love."
"Good," she nodded. "You can do that for your body too. You can tell it that you love it. And you may not be able to overcome the attack of the tumors, but you can overcome the neglect of not listening to your body. You can definitely overcome neglect. Especially you." End of session.
Last week, my friends Goel and Philp brought dinner to my house so that we could visit over food. Since these guys enjoy wine, I decided to open up one of my four bottles, a Syrah from a vineyard that doesn't commercially market its products and has a great reputation. I thought that I might even have a glass myself for the first time in a long time. As I twisted the corkscrew, the cork pulverized. But being determined, I got a screwdriver and pried out the remaining cork. For the final removal, I tapped the cork into the bottle and was suddenly sprayed with red wine, all over my mint green shirt, my face, my glasses, my hair. Loud expletives as I reached for a towel, wiped it across my face and saw that my microfiber shirt had absorbed the wine and could not be cleaned. I hurled the towel into the sink and in a reasonably controlled voice said to my guests, "Back in a flash. Costume change." Going into my bedroom closet to get a new shirt, I furiously ripped the stained shirt off my body, buttons flying, fabric shredding. And then, as if everything was somewhat normal, I put on a new shirt and rejoined Philip and Goel for dinner. "Wow, you were pissed," said Philip. "You bet," I muttered. "That wine in my face really startled me." Then, I strained the rest of the cork from the Syrah, poured two glasses and served it. "I'll pass tonight," I explained. "My attitude is really bad toward this wine. You enjoy" Which they did.
Today in therapy, my counselor was asking me about how I was dealing with the ambiguity of not knowing what would happen next with my health. I gave a few explanations and she directed my attention toward the anger I'd felt a few weeks ago when I bashed the cancer cells into bloody bits. "Anger?" I asked. Then I remembered and narrated the incident from dinner the prior week. "Why did you get so angry?" she asked. Slowly, I replayed the scene of opening the wine, feeling the corkscrew break the cork, gently tapping the remaining cork into the pressurized bottle and my alarm at being sprayed suddenly. That was it, I realized, the unexpected wine in my face; that's what infuriated me. "Why were you infuriated?" she asked. "Well," I replied, I felt like I was being attacked." It sounded odd to confess that a bottle of wine could attack me, but there was something tugging under that strange perception. So I said it again. "I felt like I was being attacked." Then I associated the sudden wine in the face with having a big, growing tumor in my pelvis, "I feel like I'm being attacked. I'm being attacked. I'm being attacked."
"So what's it like to be attacked?" she asked. I probably gave her the deer-in-the-headlights look, because reached over and pulled out a pad of art paper and a big basket of crayons. Draw, George. Sure, I can do that. And I did, reaching for the pink crayon and easily looping circles that became healthy zones of organs and connective tissue, vital and smooth and integrated in a whole architecture of related shapes. I looked at the pink health resting on the paper. Putting the pink crayon back, I found a thick waxy black crayon. I held the crayon without thinking. And then, faster than my mind, like a Japanese calligrapher, I pushed the black color hard against the paper, jerking the crayon back and forth in an attack of dark jagged black against healthy pink. It was a furious assault and when a knot of black was packed against the pink tissue, I stopped just as suddenly.
I looked at my picture, at both the supporting pink home and the thick black invasion. After many months of living with this pelvic tumor and other "spots" and "sites" and "places" that I've seen on CT and MRI scans, I finally felt the terror and fear of having this cancer growing in my body. I feel like I am under attack, and I don't know how to ward off the attack. Of course, I have done many things: chemo, diet, meditation, therapy, some study, lots of talk. But in all of this, my body has been under siege without being directly acknowledged. It's been months since I've talked to the tumors. I have never set up a formal dialog with my body to give it comfort or care. My most direct contact with my body happens via food. I give my body great food. But like a well fed child that is otherwise neglected, I realized today that my body has been unspeakably lonely and deserted. I don't hear it. I let it know that I don't want to hear it. And meantime, it is feeling attacked. Many tears to let these feelings pass through me.
Then as therapists will do, my counselor asked, "Have you felt your body being neglected before?" I angled my head as if tilting it would shake loose a memory. "Well," she wondered, "What about when you were being molested and your Mother did nothing. Perhaps that's when you learned how to neglect your body?" That suggestion opened major floodgates.
There I was in my therapist's office overlooking Castro St., realizing that I had spent much of my life using a template for neglect with my body. And such a fine body, so undeserving of being ignored and dismissed. I really felt flattened. I had been given this beautiful home to live in, and I had proceeded to ignore it's needs and yearnings. I had told it what I wanted it to do. I had judged it harshly if it got too fat or tired or wrinkled. But I had not listened to it. I had taught myself not to listen. When I was a young child being molested, I had told my body to shut up. And to stay shut up. And, having accomplished that bit of harsh parenting, I'd moved forward into my life. Ouch. Ouch.
"So," my therapist wondered, "How do you care for someone who needs to be heard and is in pain and fear?" "How do I do that?" I asked. "Yes, how do you care for someone who's hurting?" she repeated. "Well, I tell them that I love them. Sometimes I hold them. I tell them that they are more than their pain. But mostly I give them love."
"Good," she nodded. "You can do that for your body too. You can tell it that you love it. And you may not be able to overcome the attack of the tumors, but you can overcome the neglect of not listening to your body. You can definitely overcome neglect. Especially you." End of session.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
.jpg)