Tag Archives: God

The Letter I Wrote To Never Send

DSC_0543“A letter is always better than a phone call. People write things in letters they would never say in person. They permit themselves to write down feelings and observations using emotional syntax far more intimate and powerful than speech will allow.” –Alice Steinbach

Hello friend,

I love letters! You remember letters, right? They were written on paper and you got them in your mailbox. They came from people who thought enough of you to take the time to not just write to you but also to buy a stamp and put them in the mail. You could save them in a special shoebox under your bed and bring them out when you were in the mood to feel that person again. In that way, letters achieved something we all long for: timelessness.

I have only one problem: I never send them anymore. Email came along and brought a convenience and immediacy that letters couldn’t compete with. Then social media took that convenience and immediacy to a whole new level. Like Main Street small businesses when Wal-Mart comes to town, letters have withered and died on the vine in our digital age. One thing that instant messages will never have, however, is the thing that letters had in spades: timelessness.

On a picture perfect afternoon in Rome, eighteen Autumns ago, I emptied myself wholly onto several pages in blue ink. It was a letter to my brother, Jacques. He and I, quite frankly, hadn’t been very close for most of my life, but he was nonetheless a hero figure to me. He had a magnetic personality. He was always doing such cool things in the outdoors. And, he was a writer, which I highly romanticized. We had only just begun in recent months to connect in conversations, and I truly revered him. Quite simply, he was a mythic figure to me, and I fancied the idea that he might be interested in my journey, both on the map and in the landscape of my soul.

I was in the midst of my epic journey across Europe–my first and greatest–and my mind and spirit were absolutely on fire with growth and discovery. Although I had been journaling for a few years by then, it had been very sporadic. The start of that epic adventure with my backpack, however, marked the start of my daily practice that has continued all these years. And I was filling up the pages like a madman. It was almost as though I had opened up the top of my head and was simply pouring it all out in the white pages of my new best friend. I was the embodiment of “high on life,” in the midst of a full-blown spiritual revolution that had me nearly unable to catch my breath several times per day. It was a truly extraordinary time, as I was seemingly communing with God.

God, and no one else. I traveled alone through strange lands and languages, and I spoke to my parents only occasionally for a few brief moments as the phone card ran itself out like water down a drain. My outlet was my journal. But on that beautiful Italian afternoon eighteen Autumns ago, I wanted to write a letter. I wanted to share what I had been experiencing. I wanted to tell my story. But I also didn’t want to share my story. I wanted to keep it close to my heart, where the journey really was taking place.

So, I compromised. I wrote the letter to my brother, but I wrote it into my journal, where it would remain forever. I realized that I just wanted to write the letter to clear my mind, like the way a storyteller wants to unload the latest baby of his imagination, just to get it out there and let it go. And so, on a Tuesday in Rome, with my brother squarely in my thoughts, I opened my second journal to its last handful of pages, and I began:

3:54PM Tuesday October 21, 1997 Roma, Italia

Dearest Brother

I am sitting here on the Spanish Steps, and Bob Dylan is playing in my head: “Oh the streets of Rome are filled with rubble…From the Spanish Steps to the….” I have not and probably will not write a letter or postcard on this trip, but it seems like the one I am always talking to when I pretend to write one is you. For whatever that means, here is my letter. It cannot be put into words what an amazing adventure I am having. The feeling I have each day is really quite indescribable. I believe it is what is commonly referred to as “unreasonable happiness.” Honestly I do not know where to begin. I suppose a chronological trail might be best. After my excellent stay in New York, Amsterdam was where the plane dropped me first. It is said that the best trip to Amsterdam is the one you don’t remember, but it was still pretty cool in a sober state, though the smell from the coffee shops was enough for a bit of a buzz. I didn’t go so far as watching a “real live sex act,” but I did go to the Sex Museum and through the red light district , where all the whores lean out of the doors and their two-high glass apartments wearing only high heels, bra, and panties. I laughed my ass off. After less than a day in Minneapolis-like Hanover, I headed down to Munich and those crazy German stein-hoisters decked out in the full Clark Griswald get-up, as it was Oktoberfest. It was damn wild as both men and women slugged down massive amounts of beer in mugs that looked like they weighed 50 pounds, empty. Germany is a lot like Wisconsin in the north and central parts, while in the south it reminds me a bit more of the eastern states of New York, Pennsylvania, and Virginia. Itching to get down to the sea, but not wanting to miss anything, I took the rails down to Vienna. It is a majestic old city, with all evidence from its days as the capital of a great empire still intact. I walked the amazing lawns of a castle and took in an opera for two bucks. Salzburg was next. Set in a Bozeman-type landscape, check out “quaint” in Webster’s and you might find a picture of this beautiful city. Westward through the Tirol region and on to Switzerland I rode, through clearly the most beautiful landscape I have found here. It’s like the most beautiful part of Montana everywhere. Perhaps “Paradise Valley with steeper, more beautiful mountains” is a better description. Switzerland was beautiful and expensive, and the Great Sea was calling, so I ascended and descended the Alps into this amazing land called Italy. I was in love immediately and vowed to learn the language when I returned to the States. And the air was so thick, with the sea, the passion, the garlic, and the love. I was intoxicated. The boat landed me in Greece, and I was wondering if the correct spelling wasn’t actually Grease. It is essentially a desert, with only its history and the Great Sea as attributes. I was glad to see the ruins of Athens, but more happy to hop on that boat bound for the islands. If you have ever seen a postcard of Greece, with the brilliant blue sea as a backdrop for little whitewashed dwellings with blue shutters and doors, it was not the mainland. The islands are essentially deserts as well, but the villages are charming and that amazing water is all around. It is clear like the waters at Glacier, and the sun portrays your shadow on the bottom, even in deep water. The first night I got there, the surface was ripe for waterskiing and I just had to take a dive through the cool night air. I was whooping and howling at the moon, my version of whistling zippity-doo-da out of my asshole. It was a welcome relief from hauling my pack around and sleeping in a different bed every night. And I was a savage within a few days. Oh, was I peaceful. I laid on the black sand and listened to those light waves gently lapping at the shore. After my ten-day “vacation” on three islands, I spent three dreary nights on boats and trains to get me here to Roma. But what a reward for my troubles. It is a wonderful city. Though I believe Venice is the most beautiful city I have ever seen, I hear that my next two stops, Florence and Siena, give it a run for its money. That was a pretty superficial brush-over of it all, but it is not the places that are most important but rather the experiences and growth the journey offers. And I have had much of both. What I am most happy to report is that I have written an incredible amount. When I left I didn’t even conceive of finishing this book before the trip was done, but here I am with two pages to go and a month left of travels. I have written a minimum of two pages every single day since I left home, and it seems to increase with each day’s passing. I have put down my first three short stories, thanks to the inspiration of one Mr. Ernest Hemingway. They are so damn fun to write! One night in Vienna I was writing an essay on withdrawing from the world to draw closer to God, and some remarkable ideas came into my mind. It was an unbelievable experience. I was sweating. My heart was racing. I couldn’t get the pen to move fast enough. It was a true revelation. In the end I had the idea for my first book and a depleted supply of adrenaline. I have felt for some months now that I am growing closer and closer to God. I have really ceased using my mind for the intellectual, in the controlling manner I once did. I use it now as a channel to the higher world. I shut up and listen for the way. I find myself increasingly in tune with the Lord. There is no tension, no obstruction in the channel. Everything feels so very right at every moment in my life. All of the energy that flows is of the positive nature. The secrets are showing themselves to me more clearly with each passing day. The result of it all is that “unreasonable happiness” I spoke of earlier. But that’s the whole thing. I have realized this “unreasonable” thing is the one to which we are intended to feel always. This is the will of God. In our world we have made it seem so unreachable, but it is right there for us. All we need to do is change our minds! It’s not easy, but it is truly simple. Enough of the sermon, but I just want everyone to be feeling the way I do. My time is coming and is here now. The world will be a better place for my time here. This much I know. The guy I stayed with in New York said I could choose three paperbacks for the trip. On The Road, Hemingway’s Short Stories, and The Portable Emerson were the winners, and I because of them. In barely over two weeks I had finished the Kerouac and the Hemingway. I couldn’t put them down. I was so in love with Sal and Dean in the Kerouac. This is raw life. It was so romantic. And the Hemingway was simply brilliant. As soon as time permits I will be into his novels. Now my guidebook of Europe, the Emerson, and my 900-page History of Western Philosophy keep me fully occupied. Mostly I’m writing now though. I love it more than I can say. It feels like my avenue toward helping the world. Who can say? I am just so happy to be who I am and doing what I am. And I am so very happy for your presence in my life. I love you so much, Jacques. You may never physically see this land called Europe, but you will have been here, because you travel always with me. God bless. Always, Willy

That letter was therapy for me somehow. It was therapy on the day that I wrote it, and it was therapy again this week, when I came across it while working on The Journal Project. I think all letters are therapy in a way. Like the quote at the top says, we allow ourselves to express things in letters that we would not—or could not—otherwise express. And so, whether I actually decide to send them or not, maybe it is time I sat down and wrote my words for someone specific. Maybe it will even be worthy of a shoebox under a bed far, far away, there basking in its most treasured state: timelessness.

How about you? Is there a letter inside of you, dying to get out? Open up your journal and think about the people you are compelled to share yourself with. Who is on your short list? Are they mostly people whom you have lost contact with? Or, rather, are they people currently in your life—perhaps family members—whom you would like to have a deeper relationship with? Is there someone you should write to strictly for therapeutic reasons, even if you never intend to send it? Perhaps it is someone who has hurt you deeply and who you need to forgive in order to find peace. Perhaps it is someone you have long needed to thank. Perhaps it is God. Why do you think we express ourselves so much more clearly—and daringly—in letters rather than conversation? Is it the time to prepare the words precisely? Maybe it is the distance away from the audience, knowing we are safe from the initial reaction? Is it the intimacy of immediate feedback that we fear? I know that I am much braver with the pen and keyboard than I am with my mouth. Do you save old letters? Whom would you most like to receive a letter from now? Imagine going to the mailbox tomorrow and finding a letter from that person: the warmth and gratitude you would feel knowing that you were deep in their thoughts and in their heart. Who might be the person whose day you could make by writing to them? Are you ready? Leave me a reply and let me know: Who will get your letter? 

Give your gift today,

William

P.S. If you were touched by this, I encourage you to share it. We need each other’s best!

Death and the Unfairness of Life

LukeKathyLynch“If you gave someone your heart and they died, did they take it with them? Did you spend the rest of forever with a hole inside you that couldn’t be filled? –Jodi Picoult, Nineteen Minutes

Hello friend,

I opened up Facebook on Monday morning, and I have been filled with sadness ever since. In any quiet moment, when I cannot use the distractions of my work or my kids to chase away my thoughts, my heart just feels so heavy. I feel hurt. It’s more than my heart, though. My mind, too has been shaken. I have not been able to make good sense of the whole thing, and that greatly disturbs me. All told, my entire system has been down, cloaked in sorrow. It is the kind of sorrow that can be summoned only by Death.

The note on Facebook was a simple one. It read, “Thank you for all your love. We are missing this great man.” Under it was a picture of my brother’s former fiancé—a woman I haven’t seen or heard from in twenty years—and her husband, looking happy and healthy on a snowy mountaintop. My heart immediately sunk. It couldn’t be what I thought! I combed through the comments, only to get confirmation of the worst, most empty feeling that had settled in my gut. He was dead. My heart just seemed to shatter, and everything inside me emptied out. I felt hollow, like an empty shell. I later learned that he was ski mountaineering with friends when a small avalanche swept him off his feet and down the mountain, killing him instantly.

His name was Luke, and he was, by all accounts, an amazing man of outstanding character and charisma, a wonderful father and friend. I read an article that he had recently written about balancing family and adventuring, and I read all of the comments and condolences. With all of that—and, just remembering how much I thought of his wife, Kathy, so many years ago, when I knew her and believed that the man to win her love would be a worthy one—I couldn’t help but wish I knew him. I sat at my desk that night and sobbed.

So, why was I so devastated by the death of a man I had never met, whose only connection to me was a woman I had only known briefly and so very long ago? Why have I grieved this loss so deeply, when I seem to have no stake in it? I have been doing my best all week to both get through my pain and to better understand its source.

My most immediate connection is the parallel life situation, in terms of being a parent to young children. I look at Kathy, who is now left without her best friend and with three little boys to raise without their Dad. I simply cannot fathom it from her perspective. How do you shoulder the burden so suddenly of being mother and father-figure, and being without your life partner? The sudden and unexpected nature of it just puts it into a totally different stratosphere than, say, regular couples who divorce or people who have been single parents the entire time. It is just different with this shroud of LOSS hanging over. There will always be the “Your father would have loved to see you do this,” or “Your Dad would be so proud” with the kids. And there will always be the “This would have been our Xth anniversary,” or “I always thought we would do this together,” in a way that just isn’t there with other kinds of break-ups.

It is all just different. Sad. There is a sadness, an emptiness attached to even the happy moments. Even the best, most celebrated moments—the graduations, the weddings, the births—become necessarily tinged with the shroud of LOSS. It makes complicated what should be pure and simple. I hate that about LOSS. And I suppose that is my biggest beef with it. Of course, I know Kathy and her little boys will go on, tough though it may be. They will probably become happy, successful people. But they will always be tinged, will always wear some form of the shroud. I despise the unfairness of that. I hate it.

Life is not fair. That is a concept that I understand intellectually but still have a very difficult time accepting psychologically. It grates against the very fabric of my being. It is miserable to me, to the point that I had to sit at my desk on Monday night and sob about the damned unfairness of Death. It is my personal struggle.

This issue of unfairness is the one—other than my haunting fear that my wife could die suddenly and I would be faced with shepherding my kids through life alone and wearing the shroud of LOSS—that has resonated with me most in my week of grief. I have never been able to stomach unfairness done to me, and I have the worst time letting it go. I think of my repulsion to a neighbor kid cheating me on the tennis court when I was little. The thought of that kid still riles me up. More recently, I was dealt a gross injustice in a work situation, and I cannot let it go. It comes in my dreams to haunt me, waking me in outrage. Even worse, I catch myself daydreaming about it—every day—imagining conversations that would expose my betrayal and set things right. I chide myself every time for it, too, because I know it is unhealthy and unproductive.

I just don’t handle unfairness well. This situation with Luke’s untimely death–and leaving Kathy and her three young boys behind–is just an extension of that. Even though I can see the difference between an act of a petty human being against me and an “act of God” like the avalanche that killed Luke, I still find myself railing against both. I envision all of the wonderful family times Kathy and her boys were due to have with him, and I can’t help but feel they were robbed in the worst way. Interestingly, I don’t think about Luke being robbed of all of that. That is perhaps due to my views on the afterlife (a topic for another day). No, my focus seems to be entirely on the ones left behind, the ones who have to somehow carry on despite this gaping hole in their world. It just feels so darn unfair to me, and that really hurts. I ache for them with all of my being.

I also feel bad that unfairness of this sort is rampant in our world. I think I block it out most of the time because I am so sensitive about it. It is for self-protection (I can’t just sit at my desk and sob every night, right?). But when I let one slip past my defenses, my heart really breaks. I feel that way this week about this tragedy. Grief has been my constant companion. Grief for the loss felt by Kathy and those little boys. My heart is in pieces for them. They have been dealt an indescribable unfairness, and with no recourse. “March on,” says the world. “Draw that painful breath in, and exhale. Now repeat.” That is all there is to do. That is cold comfort to me. I still can’t wrap my mind around it.

How about you? How do you handle the many injustices of this thing called LIFE? Open up your journal and write about what shakes your core. Are there things you simply cannot stomach? Are they things that happen to you personally—being cheated somehow—or are they big events you see on the news, like earthquakes or terrorist attacks? Are you better able to accept the unfair things that humans do to each other (e.g. abuse or rape), or “acts of God,” such as accidents or weather events? Do you look to God for answers why, or do you just accept that we live in an unfair world? Are there injustices that have been done to you that you still cannot get over? How do you handle Death? Do you feel that the person who died was dealt an unfairness? Or, are you like me and focus only on the blow felt by the ones left behind and the hole in their lives? Does it make a difference if it was an “untimely” death, such as a child or the young father in this case? How sensitive are you to all of the examples of cruelty and unfairness in the world? For me, I cannot watch the news and must put on blinders to even the small stuff around me, because it hurts my heart so much to let it in. What is your strategy? Do you think that because examples of Death and Life’s unfairness are in our faces and all around us every day, we mostly become numb to them? Is that a bad thing, or perhaps necessary for self-preservation? All week long, I have been wondering if there are any wise and comforting words that I could say to Kathy right now, something to help her to make sense of her loss and move on in Peace. I cannot find those words. Can you?

Cherish every moment,

William

Taking a Moment to Say “Thanks!” Instead of “Please???”

IMG_2404“We should certainly count our blessings, but we should also make our blessings count.” –Neal A. Maxwell

Hello friend,

“DEAR GOD, I WANNA TAKE A MINUTE, NOT TO ASK FOR ANYTHING FROM YOU, BUT SIMPLY TO SAY THANK YOU FOR ALL I HAVE. –SHARE IF YOU ARE THANKFUL”

This was the first meme that popped up on my Facebook Home page this morning when I was laying in bed. For whatever reason, I instantly felt guilty. I suppose I am no different than most folks who have grown up with the concept—whether through our parents and grandparents, or, more likely, just too much television and movies—of God as wish-granter. We pray for our team to win, for our friends to travel safely, for our child to make the team, and for ourselves to get that new job. We ask our Higher Power for that stuff. We usually ask nicely, too, starting most requests with “Please God….” Even if we didn’t grow up in a very religious family, the God-as-wish-granter theme permeates our culture. If we really, really want something, we ask God. We call it prayer. 

I don’t pray a lot. Well, not in the traditional, down-on-my-knees-at-bedtime kind of praying. It is probably because my concept of God is a little different than the usual one (see my post “Who Is God?” from December 2015). I believe deeply in God as All There Is, including you and me. I believe that all of the Universe is Divine. This doesn’t mean that I am not allowed to pray; it just changes the context of the conversation a bit. You might even say it makes a prayer out of everything I think, say, or do. When I have my occasional direct words aimed at God as seemingly something outside of me—what most folks would recognize as my nearest thing to traditional prayer—it definitely is all about gratitude. I don’t make direct requests. I give direct thanks, usually for a simple but beautiful moment where the Divine just seems to permeate every bit of the moment. More often than not, it is when I am either observing Nature’s beauty or watching my kids be the miraculous little creatures that they are. Sometimes it simply overwhelms my heart, and I just whisper, “Thanks, God.” Those are my conversations with God.

Even though traditional prayer is a rarity for me, because of my worldview that holds everything as fully God, it may be reasonable to conclude from that that all of my thoughts, words, and deeds are a form of communication with God. When I hear of a religious extremist’s story of withholding medical treatment from their suffering child, preferring instead to “leave it in God’s hands,” I usually find myself shouting at the screen, “But YOU are God, and so is the DOCTOR and the MEDICINE! Please pray, of course, but DO SOMETHING! To not try to save your child is actually taking it out of God’s hands, not the other way around! Your hands are God’s hands!!!” I know that is not how everyone sees things, but my view shapes my perceptions.

With that said, and if my thoughts and actions are my form of communication with God, then I am totally guilty of making my prayers into Wish Lists rather than Thank You Notes. Almost always I am in STRIVING mode. I am thinking about or doing something that is about me striving for something else. Something more. Something better. I am trying to get out of this situation and into one that speaks more truly to who I am and what my dreams are. I can be pretty single-minded about it, too. The translation of this—given my concept of God—is essentially that I am not grateful for where I am and I want to get out of here. In regular prayer terms: “Please God, rescue me and bring me the type of success I desire!”

That is the source of the quick jolt of guilt I received when I read that Facebook post this morning. It hits me on a parallel to the way it hits other people, even though we pray differently. I am just as guilty as making my prayer a request rather than a “Thank You.” Seeing that more clearly now is a great reminder for me to become more about the NOW. It means that I can, even in the midst of my striving for better and more, become more fully present and aware of all the wonderful gifts in my life as I now know it. I think of the health of my family, which has been really, amazingly good throughout my life (knocking on my desk right now!). I think of my convenient work schedule and the corresponding opportunity to spend so much time with my kids. I think of my ability to share my words with you and others all over the world. I think of all the freedoms I have because I live in America, and all the comforts I enjoy—clean water, safety, a warm home of my own, to name a few—as a middle-class member of this society. These are all things well worthy of my deep and abiding gratitude, and not just once in a while. To fail to become more aware of these fabulous gifts—and thus more consistently grateful—would be a show of immense disrespect to my beautiful life and the magnificence of the God I believe in.

It doesn’t have to mean that I must stop striving to improve my life and the world around me, however. Even in my haste to improve myself and my station, I can still acknowledge and honor the wonder of the gifts I am presently living with. The concepts of Striving and Gratitude do not have to be mutually exclusive. They don’t have to compete with each other. So, I can take time to step out of my actions—the bulk of which are Striving things—to say “THANK YOU,” which is a Being thing. I can be both grateful and ambitious. I can say prayers of thanks and do acts of ambition. Oh yeah, and I should probably take a few moments to just sit and BE. To stop thinking and striving. To just ENJOY. That sounds like it would be okay, too. I am pretty sure God is in that silence, too. I will meet Her there.

How about you? How do you pray? Open up your journal and think about your relationship with your Higher Power. What is the tone of most of your communication? Are you usually there to ask or to thank? What do you ask for? Big, general things, like world peace or an end to hunger? Or smaller, specific things, like your blind date to go well or the weather to be nice? Do you feel guilty asking for things for yourself? If everything you do is actually a prayer about how you want your world to be, what is your lifestyle saying about what you desire the most? Are your actions more grounded in the present, or are you like me and often focused on building your someday? How often do you consciously thank your Higher Power, for either your life in general or a specific stroke of good fortune? Do you believe in a God that picks and chooses which prayers to answer, which wishes to grant? Do you think that showing more gratitude would make God more likely to answer your prayers? On a spectrum from All Requests to All Thanks, where do you land regarding your conversations with God? Leave me a reply and let me know: What are you grateful for today?  

Personify abundance in all you do,

William

Who is God?

DSC_0880“God has no religion.” –Mahatma Gandhi

At Christmas dinner several years ago, in the course of conversation, I mentioned that I was no longer a Christian. The room went silent. All of the buzzing of different conversations stopped dead. There was a collective shutdown of communication, as no one seemed to know where to go with that thought. You might think that such a nugget might stir up a provocative discussion about some fascinating existential issues, such as religion, God, or the very nature of humankind’s place in the universe. NOPE! Crickets. No one asked what I believe in, why I had left the religion, or if I had found a new one.

WHY ARE WE LIKE THIS? Why do we have such difficulty communicating about an issue that speaks to not only our very essence as a species but also to the core beliefs that define our perspectives as individuals? Let’s face it: what you believe about God and religion colors your entire worldview. It is indisputably important. Even if you don’t care much for the topic, it is affecting you as the lens through which you see the world. So, why can’t we talk to each other about it? Why can’t we tell each other who God is to us?

I suppose the pat answer is that God and religion are in the same category as politics: there is just too much emotion tied up in them, that it only creates trouble to attempt a conversation on the topic. I can understand that. Because these feelings run so deep, it is only too easy to cross someone’s line, causing either the walls to go up or the fireworks to go off. Even though I appreciate a good, challenging conversation, I understand the hesitation to the idea of bringing God up at your holiday gathering in anything other than a prayer. However, I think one of the negative side effects in always taking a pass on this is that, over decades and generations, these issues are never raised at all. We learn what we learn from our religion or school or culture, but we also come to see by example that there is no room to converse and investigate the topic. We are receptacles only. Don’t think. Don’t question. Don’t explore. Accept blindly and silently.

It seems a shame to me, though, to miss out on some deep-diving conversation. It is such a rich, grand topic, after all. So, I will make a deal with you: I will give you a pass on attempting this conversation with your friends or family members today IF you take it to your journal. Yes, your journal: the safest, most accepting and affirming place to be your beautiful self. My journal is where I have processed my spiritual journey, from religious upheaval to deep, lasting Peace.

I grew up in a sometimes-churchgoing Catholic family. It was all of the traditional Christian representations of a Father God who had one son named Jesus, and the only way to return to God in Heaven was through Jesus. My Mom was more into it than my Dad was, and we went to church often enough to know the drill. I never liked it as a kid. Too much ritual, too much standing, too long, too boring. I respectfully challenged just about everything my Confirmation teacher said regarding the rules of getting to Heaven, because it just didn’t ring true to me.

From that introduction, you might think that I bolted from the church the moment I left home, but the opposite is true. When I went to college, I started going to Mass regularly. It was less formal, and I usually enjoyed the message of the sermon—which kept me going back—but never could quite get attached to all of the ritual and dogma. Even as I moved around the country in my wandering days in Minneapolis, Chicago, DC, New York, and Los Angeles, I always found a Catholic church to attend. I really just wanted to hear the sermon; I wanted to be moved and inspired by a good speech. I stomached the rest for the sake of the speech. And the Church was all I knew.

Until it wasn’t. When I was about 24 and living in California—and going to church weekly—I started finding wonderful books about other people’s experiences of God and spirituality. A seismic shift began inside of me. I was, at long last, connecting with stories of the Divine that rang true to me and my experiences. I was seeing in words for the first time the God I had always known. My soul began to bloom, and I was on fire with this new connection I was making to my God, the one I had always felt but never had the words or the support for. It was a God who permeated everything and didn’t have the jealous, vindictive streak from the stories I had learned growing up. And because God permeated everything completely, it meant that we were all one—connected, just like Quantum Physics tells us—and that we were all (not just Jesus) fully God. I liked this God. I liked him because I knew him. Somehow reading these books caused me to remember what I had somehow forgotten.

As you might have already guessed, my days as a Christian were over in a hurry with this new revelation. I was still fascinated and totally inspired by Jesus of Nazareth, but I was just as clear that he was not the one and only son of God and that I didn’t need to go directly through him to access God. (It was an amicable break-up; we’re still friends.) In the months and years that followed my awakening—nearly 20 years of uninterrupted Happiness, I believe it worth noting–I have been an avid student of God and religions. I have studied Philosophy of Religion both in and out of university. I have read the Bible from cover to cover, the Koran, Bhagavad Gita, and other traditional holy books. I enjoy them very much. I see pieces of each traditional religion that are appealing. I quite like certain aspects of Buddhism, particularly. Still, I have come to prefer books like Neale Donald Walsch’s Conversations With God series or Deepak Chopra’s How to Know God. I like to learn about Quantum Physics, because it tells me in scientific terms what the other spirituality books on my favorite shelf tell me: that we are all One, inextricably intertwined with All That Is. I actually feel as though I understand well, though, where atheists and agnostics are coming from, and I sympathize with their positions. The traditional ways that scientists have determined “proof” don’t tally well when it comes to verifying the existence of any God. We are left with philosophical arguments, leaps of faith, or trusting our guts, hoping to find, as I did, something that feels like Truth.

So, what do I call myself if someone asks? If I don’t see the conversation going very deep, I might just say, “I am spiritual but don’t subscribe to a particular religion” or “I believe in God but am not religious.” More specifically, I believe that God is pure Love and that God is All. That is, that there is nothing that is not fully God. A logical extension of this is that I am God, in the same way that Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha, or Krishna (or Jim Jones or David Choresh) is God. (Humorous side note: My four-year-old confirms his understanding of this concept by saying, “God’s in my ear, right, Dad? God’s in my butt, too, right?” Yes, son, God is in your butt.). In any dictionary, there is a term called pantheism. I like the way Alasdair MacIntyre explains it: “Pantheism essentially involves two assertions: that everything that exists constitutes a unity, and that this all-inclusive unity is divine.” To be even more specific about my belief, I actually prefer the term panentheism, which is found in only a few dictionaries. Essentially, it means that God is the universe in its entirety, but God is also more. God transcends the universe. “He” is both the universe and also the intelligence behind it. That works for me. All of this points me to two conclusions that I like to remind myself of regularly: 1)We are All One, and 2) The end is not in doubt. I travel happily through the world with those assurances.

How about you? Who is God to you? Open up your journal and your soul, and merge the two. How do you visualize your God? Is it an old man with a long white beard who lives in a cloud-like Heaven? Is it an invisible spirit? Does it have human-like characteristics, such as anger and judgment? Is your God found in Nature? What do you call your God (I use God, the Universe, the Divine, the All, the One, All That Is, and Life interchangeably)? How do you reach your God? Do you have to go to a house of worship? Is God found only when you bow and make a formal prayer, or do you see God in the most mundane of circumstances? Do you pray regularly? Are your prayers typically requests for things you want, or prayers of gratitude? Do you feel heard? Do you think God answers specific prayers? If so, how do you think God decides? How tolerant are you about other people’s idea of God? Do you find yourself more put-off by someone from a different religion or by an atheist? Do you think there is any way to prove God’s existence? Is the order in the universe enough to explain it, or the complexity of the human body, or perhaps “miracles”? If it is so difficult to prove, why do atheists get such a bad rap, and why is there so much killing and animosity in the name of God? How sure are you of your God? Sure enough to try to convert others to your belief? This is a delicate topic for conversation—I can attest to that—which makes it the perfect topic for a journal entry. Dive deep and find your Truth, uncertainties and all. I would love to know what you find. Leave me a reply and tell me: Who is God to you? 

Namaste,

William

Privilege & The Eyes of God

IMG_1072“When you see nothing but you wherever you look, you peer through the eyes of God.”

Hello friend,

I have never been one for keeping up on the news of the day. I don’t watch much television, and when I do, I really don’t want to hear about crime and death. I could certainly be accused of burying my head in the sand and ignoring certain things. It is not as though I don’t know bad things are happening; I just don’t like to dwell on them too much. I want to pick and choose my spots, not be flooded with it every day. I am grateful for the privilege of not having to deal with such constant negativity.

There are times, though, when either I come up for air after one of my mental hibernations to research a tough issue, or a story becomes so big that I can’t even hide from it with my head in the sand. The recent tragedy in Ferguson, Missouri and its aftermath seems to be one of those stories. While I haven’t followed it closely and certainly don’t claim to know all the facts, I think I know enough that it has seeped into my soul and really saddened me. Of course the death of Michael Brown is horrible in its own right, but what has been most on my mind is the way Black people in that area have been mistreated and disrespected by the White people—especially in positions of power (e.g., the police force)—since the beginning of the town itself. The message “Black lives don’t matter” seems to echo loudly from Ferguson. Unfortunately, it is not the only town in America sending that message.

I have lately been reading some articles and papers about being an ally to members of disadvantaged groups, whether that be a racial or ethnic minority, members of the Lesbian-Gay-Bisexual-Transgender (LGBT) community, non-Christians, poor people, women, the mentally or physically handicapped, overweight people, and many more. I have tried to become increasingly aware of how wildly privileged I am as a White, straight, able-bodied, middle-class, American male, and how easy it can be to ignore the unearned advantages I have over others not in my categories (this blissful ignorance of my privilege is, of course, just one of the privileges of my station—scary how that works!).

With all of these thoughts in my head lately, I have still been a bit unclear where my voice is, what my role needs to look like. I went to bed last night wondering fruitlessly about that. When I woke up this morning, I turned to what has become my version of “reading the news.” Its name is Facebook. Yes, I count on those articles and videos that people share to keep myself marginally informed. There I found an article called “5 Things You Should Never Do (or Say) to a Little Person”, which featured a 22-year-old man who lives in New York City and the awful treatment he receives on a daily basis just going about his normal business as a dwarf/little person. He made a six-minute documentary called “Don’t Look Down on Me” (I highly encourage you to look it up), in which he wore a hidden camera to detail his experiences. It made me very sad to watch.

As the film came to a close and the young man’s cold reality had dug out an aching hole in my heart, his honest voice came over the images:

“I don’t want to TELL anyone what to do or what to think or how to feel, but instead what I’ll do is I’ll ASK. I’ll ASK that the next time you see someone who is different than you, think about what their day might be like. Think about all of the events of their life leading up to that point. Then think about their day, and think about what part of their day do you want to be?”

It hit me like a ton of bricks. Stopped me dead in my tracks. His question seemed directed right at me. Its probing depth is absolutely brilliant, and my daily response to it could be the only thing I might do to make my heart feel whole. It is an obvious question that must be addressed by people of privilege, but the lesson is a universal one. What part of someone’s day do you want to be?

It is so easy to be mean, even easier to be insensitive. But gosh, when you look at all of the travails that we have put so many people of the world through—see the seemingly endless list of disadvantaged groups I mentioned above—don’t you think we could all make the effort to do better, to show up for one another just because each one of us MATTERS?

As a White, heterosexual, middle class, able-bodied male, the world shows up for me every day; it rolls the red carpet out. It is time for me to not only become more aware of how much easier and better it is for me than for others, but also for me to do what I can—every day and in every interaction—to share with others the privileges I get for free. It is more than that, though. It is not just about not harassing, not looking down upon, not being insensitive. It is NOT about inaction nor about ignoring others and just “letting them live.” It is not about neutral.

It is up to all of us—but especially those of us with privilege—to become a positive part of everyone else’s day. In gestures big and small, interpersonal and political. It is time to stir the compassion from our souls, to look into the other’s eye and see ourselves. When we do that, we can begin to act from Love. When we act from Love, we find ways to be the positive part of someone’s day. We help them rise rather than tear them down. We joke with them, not about them. We share with them rather than horde for ourselves. We see them. We hear them. We seek to understand their experience of the world. We sympathize with them, and we do our best to empathize as well. We know them to be—just like ourselves—valuable simply because they were gifted life on Earth and are thus of Divine heritage. We are family.

So, the next time I see someone who looks or acts different from me, I am going to do my best to remember that Truth. I will ask myself, “What part of their day do I want to be?” Armed with that Truth—that they are me and we are One—and emboldened by my multi-layered privilege, I will answer with certainty, “The most LOVING part!” 

If I can walk that walk of Love every day—if I can “see through the eyes of God” and live accordingly—I can make change. Now just imagine if we could all show up for each other and live this way. We could make serious change! Positive, world-shaking change. So, what do you say: Wanna take a walk with me??? 

How about you? How can you leverage your privilege to make the world better for everyone? Open up your journal and examine your place in the world. In which of your many statuses are you privileged? On a day-to-day basis, are you aware of that privilege—most people are not, so don’t feel bad admitting it—and how it affects your interactions? Where do you feel it the most? Now look at the other side of the coin. Which of your statuses are definitely NOT privileged? What are some examples of how that plays out in your daily life? How does it feel to be treated that way? Does lack of privilege in one area give you more empathy toward people who are mistreated due to their lack of privilege in another area (e.g., does being Black make you more likely to feel the pain of someone who is overweight or transgendered?)? Are we all inherently valuable? If so, why don’t we treat each other that way? More specifically, why are Black lives in Ferguson (and so many other places) not valued the way White lives are? Why do we slip so quickly and so badly when it comes to our treatment of people who are different from us? Is it evolutionary, in our genes? Do you think that if we believed there was enough of everything to go around—love, opportunity, money, etc.—that we would not fight so desperately to keep our spot in the pecking order? Do you think you can do better? Can you show up for EVERYONE, no matter how unpopular that might make you with your own group? Leave me a reply and let me know: Are you ready to see through the eyes of God?

Be a light today,

William

A Moment of Beautiful Clarity

DSC_0055“And in that moment, I swear we were infinite.” –Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Hello friend,

Have you ever had that one little moment when it hits you how absolutely wonderful your life is? It comes like a tidal wave of gratitude in one visual image. Time stops, your heart swells, and in that magic moment you are completely intertwined with the Universe—and you know it.

It happened to me the other day. I was out for a walk around the block with my wife and kids on a placid early evening. Well, to be precise, the adults were walking, and the kids were roaring around on their Big Wheels (perhaps the greatest instrument of fun ever invented!). We turned the corner into the home stretch, and the kids charged ahead, pedaling feverishly in all their youthful glory. My wife was several steps ahead of me, striding briskly in a futile attempt to catch up to them as they made it toward home.

There it was: my life, right in front of my eyes. It was my street, my comfortable neighborhood, and my kind of evening in my favorite season. Here were these three people who I love more than anything, full of health and vitality, going happily before me.

“And for a moment, everything was perfect,” says the narrator (a la “Tangled”).

That wave of gratitude and wonder swept over me. I knew I was living the dream. “This is what it’s all about,” I said aloud. The tingle I felt in my soul as the words came out told me that I had just spoken the Truth, which felt amazing in its own right. So, with the most serene, ear-to-ear grin on my face, I nodded my approval and said softly, “Yeah, this is what it’s all about………….Thanks, God.” 

It was a transcendent moment, yet also small and plainly intimate. For that moment, the curtain was pulled back, and I got an up-close-and-personal look at the sheer, unadulterated Beauty that is my world. Stripped away were the worries and stresses about finances or schedules or someone misbehaving or my next career move. It was simply a moment in its purest form.

I used to think theoretically about being in the moment, especially as it pertained to people having problems and stresses. I pictured them sitting down on a park bench, and I said, “In this moment, unless you have hemorrhoids hurting your rear end, you don’t have a problem in the world. All of that stuff that you are holding onto about yesterday and all of those worries you have been feeling about your future—they are irrelevant in this moment. In this moment, with the sun on your face and fresh air in your lungs, everything is just fine. Do you choose to be present, to see it that way?”

In that moment, when I seemed to feel so intimate with the Mystery, it was as though that was not me but God herself nodding affirmatively and whispering, “Yeah, this is what it’s all about.” I wish I could bottle that moment, that feeling. It was nothing short of magical. Encapsulated Bliss. Even remembering it now leaves me in a state of deep Peace and Gratitude. This is how I can say with such complete conviction: Life is beautiful.

How about you? Have you had that magical moment? Open your journal and write about it. Describe the scene. What kind of a day was it? Who was with you, if anyone? Did you feel, like me, that moment of calm, almost as though time was standing still and the outside noises were muted while the Divine whispered in your ear? Were you able to pause in that moment and recognize it for what it was? For me, the best way to describe the feeling would be an overwhelming sense of Gratitude. Is that the word that best matches your moment? Have you had this special feeling more than once? If so, is there a common thread running through your moments? Mine is family. I can tell you that you are very lucky if you are overwhelmed like this frequently. You must be doing something right. Leave me a reply and let me know what your secret is. I want to know: Has the beauty of your life ever crystallized in a single moment?

Be present to the miracle that is Now,

William

Clinging to Life on Earth

IMG_1029Hello friend,

I used to feel really prepared to die. I did. I didn’t have a death wish, and I wasn’t necessarily eager to go, but I definitely felt ready. Lately, though, I have swung completely the other way. I obsess over the possibility of my death. And it is not only mine; it goes for my wife and children as well. I think about it way too much. Worry. Fear. Dread. They are all part of the package. But why? How did I go from welcoming death to obsessively dreading it? How did I get this way?

When I was a kid and young adult, I didn’t think much about death. Like most people at that age, I felt pretty bulletproof. It simply didn’t occur to me that I might die at any moment. In my mid-20s, I went through a spiritual overhaul. I spent a lot of time contemplating God and my place in the Universe, and I became much more clear about what I believed. I felt intimately connected—united–with everything. It was a beautiful way to live, really. During those years of blissful union with the Divine, in particularly rapturous moments, I found myself saying out loud, “You can take me now, God, if you want. I am ready any time.” I guess I was just really solid in my belief that, no matter what form we are in, it is All God and will never be otherwise. The end is not in doubt.

With that thought as my foundation, it really just didn’t seem to matter to me whether I was “alive” or “dead”. The difference was only a superficial one. I loved the life I was living here on Earth, but I figured the next part was at least as good, so why not? I could go either way. When I heard of people dying, I thought two things: 1) Good for them; and 2)Bless their loved ones. I went along that way for a lot of years, loving life but welcoming death. The Grim Reaper was certainly not my enemy, nothing to fear.

That all changed suddenly on a hot Friday night in August of 2008. It was not a car accident, terminal diagnosis, or some other brush with death. No, it was, in fact, a brush with LIFE. My daughter was born. My whole world changed in a flash. The sun rose and set in her eyes. I hung on every breath, and the slightest smile from her could carry me through the day. But it was not this immense joy that she—and later her brother, too—brought to my world that completely turned my relationship with death. Rather, it was the responsibility. Yes, suddenly I was completely in charge of raising and nurturing this magical little creature to adulthood, and it needed to be the most loving, joyous upbringing ever. In order for me to insure that she had her greatest friend and protector, I needed to stay alive.

In that instant, death became my sworn enemy and greatest threat. It is true that my spiritual foundation did not suddenly fall to shambles. I still believed that All is God and that the end is not in doubt. I still believed it was going to be beautiful on the other side. And I knew that everyone on Earth figures out a way to carry on no matter what the circumstances, so they would make it without me. But I couldn’t have that. The idea of leaving them behind is a torturous one for me. Everyone always says that the worst thing imaginable is having your child die. I can see that so clearly at this point, which is why I have come to obsess in my dread of my children’s deaths. I have been reading and re-reading John Green’s novel, The Fault In Our Stars, lately. Its leading characters are kids with cancer, and I am just sick the entire time, not just in imagining my own children suffering from something so awful, but also in thinking about their parents.   What an awful, helpless feeling!

But I think that not so far down the ladder from that pain must be the idea of dying yourself and leaving your kids without you to raise them. Talk about helpless! A couple of years ago, my cousin Heide died of cancer. She was the mother of two amazing little girls. I have thought about her and her family a million times, both during her battle and, of course, after it ended. I can’t stop imagining how helpless she must have felt, knowing that she was not going to be there to nurture and watch her girls grow up and become women. I would be absolutely shredded by it. Just thinking about it knocks me into a state of shock. Unselfishly, I want to be of the utmost service to my kids every step of the way. Selfishly, it would absolutely eviscerate me to miss out on their daily magic. I want to be the shepherd, but I also want to be the witness.

It is also for these reasons that the thought of my wife’s potential death haunts me as well. As I said, I need my children’s upbringing to be the absolute best, most loving experience, and she is a crucial part of that. The kids need their mother, and she needs to be their mother. We have a vested interest in living this earthly life for a while.

Does this mean I will stop freaking out about death and return to my “Take me any time, God!” mode when they reach adulthood and no longer need the shepherd? I imagine the dread will diminish some, but not entirely, because the witness will still want to witness. I have no doubt that thoughts of missing out on their lives (and potentially the lives of their children) will keep me wanting to stick around to a ripe old age. Still, I think I won’t be as clingy to this life as I am now. My seeming desperation to live right now will more likely become a mere preference for life over death. Hopefully I can always maintain my focus on the present, secure in the knowledge that the best way to make the most of my time here is to stay in the moment rather than obsessing over the past or future, a future which certainly will include all of our deaths.

How about you? How desperate are you to keep living? Grab your journal and pen, and dig in. How do you react when you hear of someone dying? On a scale of one to ten, how peacefully do you think you would accept the news that you have only a year to live? How much does your family situation play into that rating? How much do your spiritual/religious beliefs affect your feelings regarding your acceptance of death? Has your acceptance of your mortality changed over the years? Do you think you would accept a terminal diagnosis better for yourself or for a family member? Obviously this topic is a deep and challenging one, but I believe it is very revealing and thus highly worth your while. So write! Then, leave me a reply. I want to know: Are you clinging to life on Earth?

Live like you mean it,

William

The Books That Have Touched Me Deepest

DSC_0522“I cannot live without books” –Thomas Jefferson

Hello friend,

My Mom once got me an old-style book bag with that Jefferson quote on it, and I hung it from a lamp in my room for years and years.  It doesn’t just say something about me; it speaks to me.  I can hardly recite it without my voice cracking and my hair standing on end.  It goes right to my core.  I cannot live without books.

I have always loved to read.   When I was in my mid-20s, for one year I kept track of all the books I read.  I averaged more than one per week and was gloriously happy in the process.  The only problem: each book I read suggested several more, so I ended up with a Wish List that was hundreds of titles long.  There is just so much to know!  Whenever I want to wander away in my mind, I just spin my desk chair around and gaze at my enormous bookshelf.  I easily drift away into the many favorites that have become so much a part of me over the years.  They are like old friends, the shelves like a photo album of fond memories.  However, there are also so many there that remain untouched, unopened.  Those are the ones that hound me, begging for my attention.  I vow to get to them all one day.  But how can I keep up?  A sane person would realize that he is too busy to get to the ones he already has and be wise enough to not add to the collection.  I, however, am insane.  Every year my Christmas list is full of more titles to fill the shelves.  What can I say?  I love books.

Last night as I wrote, I found myself needing a mental break.  I swung my chair around to look at my dear old friends on the shelves.  As I pondered my long list of favorites, I found my eyes and my memory drawn to the same titles over and over.  These were the books that burned right into my soul the first time I read them and have remained a genuine piece of who I am over the years.  My honorable mention list is enormous, but these four have certainly touched me the deepest:

  • Walden—Henry David Thoreau.  This book rocked my world and set me on my course probably more than any other.  I had always been drawn to it and finally read it when I was about 24.  Honestly, it felt like Thoreau was writing right out of my own mind.  I completely identified with his desire for solitude and simplicity, and I was similarly disenchanted with society.  But mostly I loved how he wanted to live authentically, to be fully himself and pay no mind to what others expected of him nor thought of him.  I loved that he “wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.”  Those words shake me even as I type them.  This book shook me.  It truly set me on the psychological and spiritual path that I still live on.  I have adopted it as my own.
  • Into the Wild—Jon Krakauer.  The true story of Christopher McCandless’ (a.k.a. Alexander Supertramp) walk out of society and into his Truth—and ultimate death—in the wilderness has been out for nearly twenty years, yet I have never been able to shake him from my system.  He haunts me.  As with Thoreau, I very much identified with McCandless’ ideals and longings.  I believe that Krakauer did as well, and that bleeds into the telling of the story.  I have always enjoyed this type of book that reveals the tragic outcome at the beginning of the account and then goes back to dive into the lives of the characters and traces the timeline leading to the tragedy (e.g. The Perfect Storm, Finding Everett Ruess, and Krakauer’s Into Thin Air), but this is by far the one that still lives in me.  If I opened it right now, I wouldn’t put it down until I finished the last page.
  • Conversations With God—Neale Donald Walsch.  I am actually cheating with this one, because I am including the entire …With God series–some of which I actually like better than the first book–in my sentiment.  Like Walden, this series is a cornerstone in my entire spiritual/psychological foundation.  It came to me at a time, not long after Thoreau, when I had shed the religious teachings of my youth but had not yet found anyone talking specifically about the God I knew.  Enter Walsch and his “conversation” with God.  I found myself saying out loud, “Yes” or “Exactly!” frequently as I read.  I knew I wasn’t alone.  Having read the Bible, Koran, Bhagavad-Gita, and other sacred texts, I found some relief, too, in the idea that holy books did not have to be 2,000 years old.
  • On The Road—Jack Kerouac.  This is pure romance for me.  I was absolutely taken by these mad characters, all based on real people—including himself—in Kerouac’s life.  The “spontaneous prose” that he writes in completely swept me away.  Much like the others, this book gained its place in my heart based on its appearance on my life’s timeline.  You see, just as I was about to embark on the biggest “roadtrip” of my life—wandering around Europe alone for a few months with my backpack—I grabbed a couple of paperbacks at a New York bookstore to be my companions for the trip.  As fate would have it, On The Road was first.  I read it as I sat along the canals in Amsterdam, fantasizing about Jack’s beatific world and the mysterious road ahead of me.  My soul was absolutely on fire!  This was an instant classic for me.

I find myself so happy and grateful as I think about these books.  They have done so much for me, and I feel completely humbled by their magnitude.  As someone who likes to share through the written word, I am, of course, jealous of the astounding ability of these authors.  What I see as the common thread running through the four works is a wonderful execution by the authors in reaching the very core elements of humanity, allowing us to see ourselves bare and real, in all our beautiful Truth.  That is why they make my list, and why they make me.

How about you?  Which books are on your list?  Which ones penetrate right to your core?  Are yours more fiction than mine?  Probably so, as even my fiction title is based on real people!  Can you find a common thread running through your books?  Do yours more often make you laugh, cry, or ponder?  I would LOVE to hear about your list and anything else book-related—this is such a pet topic for me—so please leave a reply.  Let’s talk books!  Tell me: which ones have touched you the deepest?

ALL of you is magnificent,

William