Close

Tag: #dancing

Seattle Part 10: Goodbye, My Lover

Snapshots of ChadLeave a comment

February, 2015

I was hopping up and down with excitement at the airport. Like literally hopping, bouncing up and down in the air. It was a private joke between Matt and I. When I asked him what he loved most about me, he said it was how I hopped when I saw him.

The joke had started a few years before. I’d gone to Las Vegas with friends for a weekend. One night, after a few drinks at a club, I’d danced with a beautiful blonde, blue-eyed man in a leather jacket. We’d flirted, made out, laughed a lot, and then traded phone numbers. After weeks of chatting, he’d come to see me in Salt Lake City. Before his arrival, I’d texted that I was so excited to see him that I couldn’t hold still, and as he’d pulled up, I’d been hopping in the yard, making him giggle. After that, I’d hopped every time we’d seen each other.

Prior to this, the last time I had seen Matt was nearly a year before. I met him in St. George, Utah, in the middle of an insane blizzard. He got out of the car, and I just seized him in a hug, and we stood there, holding each other for several minutes as the world blustered around us. After that, we went inside and made love and just held each other. He could light me on fire with his touch. After that, we’d had yet another passive argument about why our relationship wasn’t working, and why it couldn’t (the distance, the kids, he needed to finish college, he wasn’t ready, he cared too much, it hurt me too much to be so far away and have so little time with him), and he drove away, and I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again.

Matt got off the plane, and found me hopping, and we hugged and kissed and laughed. I always felt so perfectly complete when I was with him. I felt attractive, desired, loved, accepted, like everything would be okay.

Over the next three days in Seattle, we talked, drank coffee, hiked to waterfalls, window-shopped, danced, had drinks, and ate everything. We snuggled at night and kissed in the morning. And yet again, I realized how perfect life with him felt. He stopped to pet every puppy, he reached for my hand when we walked, he had this way of looking me right in the eyes and making me feel safe. But I knew he’d be gone again and that it would all fall apart. Again. We’d already done this perfect-weekend-only-to-say-goodbye thing so many times, so many times.

After our hike to the waterfall, we got a table overlooking the falls, and ordered coffee. He smiled at me. God, he was beautiful. He looked me in the eyes.

“You seem happy here. In Seattle.”

I looked down, sighing. “I wanted it to be perfect. I did. But I hate my job. I haven’t made friends like I had hoped. And I’m lonely, a lot. I miss the kids. I–” I looked back up. “I miss you.”

He nodded, understanding. “I hate Vegas. I hate living there. I hate who I am there.”

And I surprised myself. “We talked about you coming to Salt Lake to live, lots of times. And you never felt ready. You never were ready. But what about–”

“What about what?”

“What about Seattle? What if you came and gave things a try here? What if we started here together, with a blank slate?” My heart pounded in the silence.

He shook his head, quickly. Too quickly. “I can’t.”

“You haven’t even thought about it. Matt, why not?”

“I can’t. I’m not ready. And I have thought about it. Ever since you’ve moved here, I’ve thought about it. I miss you constantly.”

“I miss you too! This could be something! Why can’t you? Why can’t you give it a try?”

He sighed. Deeply. Painfully. “I wouldn’t be easy to be with.”

I rolled my eyes. “I can handle the challenge.”

“No. I’m not ready. You’re eleven years older than me. You’ve done so much with yourself. Your writing, your career. I haven’t done anything with my life. I work part-time. I have years of school left. I can’t.”

“Matt, it isn’t a competition! Aren’t we worth a try?”

“Of course we are. But not yet. I’m not ready.”

It was the same conversation we had had a hundred times. We would reach a stalemate, and then it would get too painful to stay in contact, knowing it couldn’t go anywhere. I had kids and responsibilities. He just wasn’t ready. So we would stop texting. Months of silence would follow, and then one of us would finally reach out, and we’d make plans to see each other again.

“I–I think I thought that you wouldn’t come to Utah, for whatever reason. But I think, deep down, I think I hoped you might come here.”

He looked surprised. “Am I why you moved to Seattle? That doesn’t make sense.”

“I–no. I moved here for me. I just think, subconsciously, I think I hoped you might want a fresh start with me. I think deep down I thought that maybe we could finally be together.”

“I’m not ready,” he repeated, and then the coffee came.

That night and again the following morning, we made love again. He was leaving in just a few hours. In the car outside my apartment, I felt my heart break. I turned to him, my eyes brimming with tears.

“I’ve never said this to you, not out loud, but I love you.” I meant it, and he knew it.

“I love you, too.” He said it softly, his eyes turned toward the floor. He reached over and took my hand.

I looked away. “You say that. But you’re going to leave me today, and I have a feeling I’m not going to see you again.”

“I’m just not ready,” he said. “I have to find me first. It’s Vegas for now. I can’t leave yet.”

I drove him to the airport and kissed him goodbye. And as I drove away, tears leaking down my face, I knew that it was time. There was nothing for me in Seattle. It was time to start planning my return to Utah.

A year later, while I was in Las Vegas for business, I stopped by the place where Matt worked. A tattooed girl with long black braids worked behind the counter. I explained I was there to see Matt. She responded with enthusiasm.

“Matt! Oh, I miss him! He moved two months ago. He met a guy last summer, and they just got a place in San Francisco together.”

And as I left, I realized that although I hadn’t been holding on tightly, it was finally, finally time to let go.

Seattle Part 7: Halloween in the Big Gay House

Snapshots of ChadLeave a comment

November, 2014

After a little over a month in my new city, I accepted an invitation to live with a couple of new friends in their large home. They had a spare room open, and the rent was affordable. It was a brand new beginning once again.

I moved in at the beginning of November, on a week end day, and as I unloaded boxes, I had this sense that I was being given another chance to do things right. This could be my college years, those I had missed out on the first time around. I’d been so caught up in Mormonism that I had drowned myself in church, missionary service, school, and work. In college, I had never dated, never sat around with friends on the couch getting high and laughing at movies, never cuddled with a guy who stayed over late. I’d had roommates, but I’d been deep in the closet then, inauthentic. And here, a house of young attractive professionals, who seemed to live the very life I’d been looking for. There was a hot tub, and a big kitchen, and everyone seemed confident and fun. They called it the Big Gay House.

I’d only been there for a few hours and was barely settling in when I learned the roommates planned to go out for the evening to the local gay bars to celebrate Halloween. It was a few days after the holiday, but they assured me everyone would be dressed up and ready for a very fun evening of drinking and dancing. I’d been out to the clubs a few times since I’d moved here, but never with a group of friends like this. I had very fond memories of dancing with my friends in Utah, and this sounded delightful.

So that evening, after it got dark, I put on my slightly scandalous boxer costume: red silky shorts, boxing gloves, a red cape over my shoulders, and a black stripe drawn over my nose. I was shirtless, and wore tennis shoes, and it was cold outside, but I was working hard at becoming more comfortable in my body, and this seemed like a nice chance to celebrate.

The roommates offered to drive to the club, knowing a good place to park, and as we headed outside I realized how briskly chilly it was, and how little I was wearing. We laughed together and soon arrived at the club. I reminded the guys that I didn’t have a house key yet, and asked how late they wanted to stay out, and they said they would play it by ear.

An hour later, I was on the dance floor, slowly sipping a vodka cranberry and dancing with a very cute guy, when I looked up and realized I couldn’t see my new friends anywhere. I kept dancing for another 30 minutes or so before excusing myself. I scanned the dance floor, the patio, the bar, and the sidewalk outside the club and couldn’t find them anywhere. I sent a text, asking where they were, and thirty minutes later I got the answer that they had decided to walk to another club, Neighbors, one about a half mile away. “Sorry we didn’t tell you! Must have forgot!”

Frustrated, I clutched my arms around myself in the cold and briskly walked to the next club, where I paid a cover fee to get in. This club was packed full, but mostly with straight couples, I realized. I saw the roommates out on the dance floor, dancing and drinking, clearly enjoying themselves. They saw me and gave me huge enthusiastic hugs, and the evening went on from there. I danced, had a second drink, and relaxed into the evening, as I watched the predatory behavior of a few straight college guys chasing girls around the dance floor, the girls pretending to be demure. I’d never been in a club like this, gays openly dancing among the straight guys, the music blaring, the drinks strong, and most of the room in costume. It was magical in its way. But as 2 am rolled around, this being much much later than I normally stay out, I began to get very tired. I looked around and realized that, once again, the roommates were gone.

Over the next 30 minutes, multiple text messages went unanswered. They were gone. I walked back to where we had parked the car, and it too was gone. They’d left me there. Simply forgotten me.

It was now past freezing outside, and I began to realize I didn’t have a key. I opened my phone up and got an Uber, barely remembering my  new address to get home. A few minutes later, I was at my new home, the roommate’s car in the driveway. The house was dark. I walked up to the front door, where I could see one of the roommates passed out on the couch. The other must be asleep in his room upstairs. It was nearly 3 am now.

I knocked. I rang the doorbell. I knocked again. Then on the window. I shouted through the window. More doorbell. I called both of their phones and could hear them ringing. More doorbell. More knocking. Finally, the roommate on the couch looked up, stumbled to the door to unlock it and let me in, and then walked, without a word, up the stairs to sleep.

I entered the house, shivering, and closed the door to my new home behind me. This was my first night here. I hadn’t even unpacked my suitcase. I’d been forgotten, left outside. I’d wanted the adventures of a college student, and, well, I guess this is what it was going to be like. Drunken dancing until 3 am? Left behind by friends? Shivering on a front porch in only a pair of shorts in the middle of the night? Is this what I had been after?

In my new room, I pulled the covers up over myself. I was simmering with self-shame, with anger. I was 35 years old. I’d given up most everything to come here, to find myself. A thousand miles away, my sons slept in their small beds. I missed them so much that I physically ached. And what had it all been for? This?

I closed my eyes, exhausted. But before I fell asleep, I vowed to myself anew that I would become healthy. Strong. I would do it on my terms. For me. For them.

 

high and proud

Snapshots of ChadLeave a comment

Still

I had almost forgotten about the pot caramel I ate when it finally kicked in, with a bit of a whoosh, and suddenly the world slowed down around me.

I had just purchased a hand-rolled corn dog, with thick crunchy batter on it and a little cup of ketchup to dip the hot dog in. I’m not usually a hot dog kind of guy, but something about that particular dish at this particular time sounded perfect. I had had a few bites, but when the pot started working, I sat down promptly in the grass and ate the corn dog, slowly, and it felt different on my tongue. It was delicious, and there was nothing in the world besides me and the corn dog.

Then I remembered I was at the Pride Festival in Seattle, Washington. I looked up from the empty corn dog stick in my hand and realized there were thousands of people around me, and I got a huge smile on my face. I closed my eyes and let it wash over me for a while. Deep bass from the speakers on the stage nearby, sounds of laughter and chatter, an entire sea of people making sounds, and I could feel those sounds in my ear canals, in my veins, in my toes, the echoes of them all vibrating within me. It was wonderful.
My fingers felt the blades of cool grass between them. There was a small patch of sun on my right forearm that resonated there. The air felt cool against my skin. I forgot the sounds as I focused on my skin and how it felt there, then, now.
I’ve only used pot a dozen times or so, and it’s always been at home, generally on a night after I haven’t been sleeping well for a few days. I’ve grown to enjoy the way it just relaxes the mind, makes the world still, and makes me sleepy and cuddly and smiley and relaxed. Usually I’m on my couch with some sort of show playing off in the background, and I just lay there smiling until I fall asleep.
But this time I’m in public. I ate the caramel on my walk over to the festival, where I had planned to be with friends. But I couldn’t find my friends, and they weren’t answering texts, and it took the caramel a full 90 minutes to kick in, and now here I was, on a Sunday at 3 pm, high in a park full of people. People were drunk and high all around me, but this was just me in my own relaxed little world.
After a half hour or so, I stood up, and just watched things for a while. Then I felt myself following one instinct at a time, focused on nothing but that instinct, with only a gentle awareness of the rest of the world around me. I wanted to be closer to the music, so I meandered my way through the crowd until I could be close to the stage. I didn’t want to dance, I just wanted to feel the bass up closer. So I did. Then I watched a group of men dancing, and I stood there smiling, enjoying their movements and the joy they were finding in being there. Then I wanted to be closer to the large fountain in the center of the park, so I worked my way there. I let the cool mist of the fountain blow against my skin and I watched the people playing in the water, many of them naked there in public. I remember thinking that took Pride to an entire new level. Then I wanted to be closer to the Space Needle itself, so I worked my way through the crowds and dogs and bikes and people to that direction, and I found a nice concrete step to sit on, and I looked up at the grey-blue sky and admired the massive structure, which had the Pride flag, six colors in a patterned rainbow, flying on the top of it. The whole city was celebrating Pride.
I let my brain travel back in time for a moment, losing itself in history, and I remembered all those LGBT people who came before me. Kicked out of the military, boarded up in mental institutions and given shock therapy and chemical castration tablets, being sent to reparative therapy, being kicked out of homes and churches and businesses and apartments, being told they weren’t normal and natural and that they needed to be cured, being put in prison and put to death. I thought of all those who grew up in shame, who grew up in pain, who learned to hide themselves in plain sight. Then I opened my eyes and saw the flag waving, and I scanned the crowd, seeing each person there individually in that vast swarm of people. Living, loving, celebrating, dancing, eating, laughing, smiling, proud to be alive.
And my smile grew even bigger somehow as I lay back on the steps, grateful to be alive.

Dance Dad

Snapshots of ChadLeave a comment

13310510_10157026631835061_4189461457881780489_n

“These girls think they are good.” I leaned over to Cole, my friend, and muttered. “Here’s the problem. They are going to spend all these years in dance classes and then graduate high school thinking they are really good. But those that want to be dancers, man, it’s a cutthroat world. They go to college and realize there are a million other dancers out there and most of them are better.”

The girls on the stage swirled around in obnoxious pink and sparkles, swirling and pointing and flexing and bending to various musical arrangements blared loudly over the speaker. They all, every one of them, seemed unsure of themselves, and kept looking off-stage to where their teacher was giving them cues to their next moves. None of them seemed to be having fun or smiling, and they were completely out of sync. Somehow it was forgivable for little tiny children, but for the adolescents I was much less patient.

Then again, my bad attitude probably had a lot to do with the fact that there were 33 dance routines in a row. 33! For an audience filled with family members of the children performing on the stage, the minutes ticked by excruciatingly slow. Number after number, all poorly executed. Tap, jazz, ballet, modern, tap, ballet, country western, jazz, modern, ballet, and on and on and on. 3 year old girls, 5 year old girls, 7, 9, 12, 15 year old girls.

They all rushed on to the stage in their obnoxious get-ups, sparkly pink tu-tus and ruffled tops, pink jean jackets and cowgirl hats, pink evening gowns with fairy princess hats. Pink on pink with pink accessories.

I scanned the girls, looking for some talent and conviction. There were a half dozen solo routines, girls who had clearly worked their keisters off for hours at a time with their solo instructors. A few of them had decent technical skill, their bodies going through the right motions, but they had no conviction, no smiles on their faces. They were moving their bodies, but they weren’t dancing.

One girl wore thick glasses. She clearly loved to dance, but she was clumsy and awkward in her movements, and her face kept getting ‘whoops’ looks on it. I immediately found myself rooting for her.

“Cole!” I whispered. “She’s like Anne Hathaway’s character on the Princess Diaries, when she is all nerdy and endearing.”

“Oh my god,” she is!” We chuckled, but in a nice way, suddenly wanting this girl to be as amazing as she believed she was.

I thought about the little dance studio I dropped my boys off every Monday for 45 minutes. They had fun learning little routines, then came home. It cost about $80 per month. I had no idea there were this many students. I gave up trying to add up how much the teacher was making, but it was clearly an ample amount given her small town dancing skill. I wondered how many of these girls thought they were getting a good dance education, then I realized it wasn’t about that at all, not for most of them. For most the kids, it was just an opportunity to dance with other kids, and suddenly this all seemed okay. These kids were dancing for their parents and I needed to smile instead of rolling my eyes.

Throughout the concert, the sweet grandmother next to me kept narrating loudly to me about her six grandchildren up on the stage, every time they came one, which ones were most talented, which ones were working the hardest, which ones had been dancing for the longest. I must have responded with 75 “mm-hmm”‘s and “that’s nice”‘s as she talked and talked.

About halfway through the numbers, it was finally time for my sons to dance in their two small routines. I counted only five boys total in all of the age groups, and my sons were two of them. J, my seven year old, looked adorable in his little bow tie and dance shoes, and A, my four year old, somehow even cuter in his sailor hat. J moved with perceived grace, long arms and legs, conviction behind his movements, a large smile on his face, radiating pure joy, as he stumbled around the stage. The girls behind him were subtle, barely moving at times, always several notes behind. I cheered from behind my cell phone recording of his every move.

A didn’t really dance the steps at all, but boy could he move. He put his hands on his shoulders and shimmied and shook his hips, threw his arms in the air, shook his butt at the audience, down to his knees and back up. He had looks on his face like the guys at the guy who lift weights that are a bit too heavy. In fact, A flexed his little arms a few times, jumping and shaking around. He got just as many cheers, mixed with my laughs.

During the final number, two and one half hours after it had started, they announced the final number. Every student gathered on the stage in one mass and were told to freestyle. A got a little scared and looked around the room in confusion, seeing me in the audience. He found the stairs to the stage and came rushing down them to me.

“Dad! Dad!” I gathered him in my arms and asked what was wrong. He thought for a moment, getting creative. “Um, my thumb hurts. Kiss it better.”

I kissed his thumb and he went rushing back up on the stage, where J took his hand and the two boys jumped all over the stage, having a blast while most of the girls just kind of stood around, shimmying in place.

“Boy, your boys sure do have fun!” said the grandmother next to me.

I smiled, ear to ear. “Yeah, they definitely make life fun. Even events like this.”

She and I both laughed.

Resolute

Snapshots of ChadLeave a comment

Resolute

Seven hours remain in 2015, and I sit, engaged in my favorite pass-time: writing. And I realize at this moment, I am resolute (defined as admirably purposeful, determined, and unwavering).

I began 2015 in Seattle, Washington, where I had moved in a grand gesture to find myself. I had been there since September the year before, three months of intense personal growth where I dated, found new employment, and explored every corner of a new city. Now far away from my children, I found new ways to stay connected to them, through drawn comic strips, nightly webcam calls, monthly visits, and little mailed gifts and postcards.

In January and February, I found myself with new friends and new support systems, yet working in a difficult job with high stress and low satisfaction. I spread my exploration of Washington to varying corners, looking at rainforests, islands, mountains, and beaches, and I grew to love the climate, the people and the area, and to hate the traffic, the parking, and the cost of living.

As March approached, I came to a few powerful realizations. 1. That in Seattle, I was the same me that I had been in Utah, just a lot farther away from my children. That sounds like such a simple realization now, but it was a powerful one toward my journey. 2. That I was losing all interest in dating, and that I no longer wanted to put my energy toward it. I learned to spend time with myself, and had dinners, saw independent films, and went to plays and movies on my own. 3. That I had all the building blocks for a powerful life already in place: a love of history and books, a kind and strong heart, a curious and careful spirit, a great smile, talents for helping and understanding others, and a consistently developing skill of writing.

And once I knew all of those things about myself, I was able to return to Utah, stronger than before, and ready for the change. I left the difficult job behind, and seized a new life in an old place. I moved into a downtown apartment, renewed old friendships, and started brand new life initiatives.

In June, I opened up an Airbnb in my home, welcoming guests from around the world, and had some great and some not-so-great experiences. I began doing therapy part-time, and crisis work on the side, and I made the decision to work only for myself from now on, for as long as possible, so that I can love what I do and give it my all. I taught a few college classes again, and realized that I didn’t enjoy it like I used to, and I was peaceful with the change in myself.

I spent every waking moment with my sons. We drew, we played, we swam, we explored, we read and wrote, we laughed and screamed, we wrestled and snuggled and lived, and one night, one of my sons looked up at me and said “I’m so glad your back” and tears came to my eyes, and I knew that even though I had had to leave, I also had to return. I began volunteering in their school classrooms, and I learned how to be friends with their mom again.

I stayed in Utah for several months without leaving, and I tried my hand at dating a few times, though I didn’t really mean to. And against my better judgment, I fell just a little bit in love a few times, and I had my heart broken just a little bit a few times. And I learned that I was stronger than ever, better at taking care of myself, and independent, all qualities I had wanted for myself for so long.

In September, I made a surprise connection with someone from far away, forming a new and binding friendship, and it gave me foundation, hope, and strength, and I realized my own potential as a writer, a father, a counselor, and a man once loneliness was gone from my heart. I learned how wonderful it was to have someone care about my day-to-day life.

I went to my family reunion and found peace. I attended my sister’s wedding to her lovely wife in Massachusetts. I went on a wonderful weekend trip to New Orleans and awakened my wanderlust. I spent Thanksgiving with my mother and sister. And I ended the year with a surprise trip to Palm Springs. I realized again that my world is more full when I travel.

When gay marriage passed, I celebrated. When reparative therapy was shut down in courts, I rejoiced. And when the Mormon church put policies in place that called gay couples ‘apostates’ and turned children against their gay parents, I grieved.

I discovered more than ever my love of expressing myself through writing. I wrote about social justice, politics, zombies, dating, and my children. I wrote my observations on the world, on people around me, on ego, on courage, on the social work profession, on parenting, and on provocative and titillating professions and mindsets. I began a daily post on LGBT history that quickly became a personal quest with future potential.

I joined a Men’s Choir and began singing again.

More than ever, I began dreaming of the future, and realized that at 37, I am now just beginning to realize my potential.

In 2015, I danced, drank coffee, laughed until I cried, cried until I slept, and slept until I awoke with new hope. I set boundaries, made new friends, and grew closer than ever to some of the most important people in my life. I learned to say I’m sorry when I need it, and to ask for an apology when I need it. I learned to forgive. I learned how strong I am, and how things that I once perceived as weak are really just parts of my overall strength. I learned to relax, to work hard, to put myself first. I learned that the world has a long history, and I am only part of it for a brief time, and that I want to live that part as powerfully and authentically as I can.

And as I approach 2016, I vow to take care of myself in every category: physically, spiritually, emotionally, and mentally. I vow to feed and foster the important relationships in my life. I vow to get out of debt. I vow to push my limits professionally and to learn just what it is I’m capable of. I vow to travel. I vow to let myself believe that love is possible so long as I love myself. I vow to embrace every emotion in its entirety, in safe and healthy ways: gratitude, fear, anger, sadness, peace, security, guilt, happiness. I vow to live, more than I ever have before, with my life and the lives of my sons as my primary priority.

And thus I enter the New Year not with resolutions, instead I enter the New Year… Resolute.

Stepping on Cracks

Snapshots of ChadLeave a comment

crack in pavement

As a child, I carefully measured my sidewalk steps, making sure to avoid the cracks,

Knowing inwardly that the cracks were there to test me,

And that a single misstep would break my mother’s back, or worse.

I focused so closely on each crack that I lost track of the world around me.

As a child, I knew nothing of concrete cohesion or molecular expansion, the very reasons the cracks were set down in the first place.

Now, when I walk or run or skip or dance, I don’t notice the cracks,

For who would choose to stare at the sidewalk while missing trees and sun and birdsong, love and laughter, lungs full to bursting then empty of breath?

And despite all my worry of years gone by, my mother’s back is fine, and I realize I had little to do with it.

A Few of My Favorite Things

Snapshots of ChadLeave a comment

Summer_trees_and_sunshine_sky_JA130_photo

I love tree branch picture frames, when the view from my back is a dusky sky surrounded by jagged leafy edges.

I love the empty space in my arms on nights with no kids, where I can almost feel them cuddling into me, invisible heads nestled into the spot between my chin and my shoulders, a pellucid invisible hand on my cheek.

autumn leaves new_0

I love the one hundred different colors the leaves think to turn themselves as the heat of summer retires into shorter days and longer, colder nights.

I love words that arrest my brain with sound and rhyme, poetry and deeper meaning. Fervor. Cadence. Alacrity. Pulchritude. Profundity. Lackluster. Brouhaha. Cacophony. Conundrum. Detriment.

flakes

I love the shining crystals that stand on freshly fallen snow, undisturbed by the ugliness of footprints and human destruction.

0dd60d32c84fa10720b4122e0316a554

I love the helpless peeping sounds ducklings make as they boldly forage across the pond.

I love the deeply textured and billowed skyscrapers, canyons, valleys, and cities of clouds I only see from airplane windows.

I love the all-encompassing warmth in my heart when I hear my children call out to me in the mornings, the feelings of genuineness, unworthiness, love, patience, dedication, strength, and fear they bring.

I love savory salty crunches.

I love that two people could have ten thousand children, and each one would be a new combination, a unique and unpredictable miracle of life.

I love sunlight on my skin through the window, and how it can warm my whole body.

peanut_butter__89211.1402349674.500.750

I love the bizarre combination of peanut butter spread on toast and dipped in orange juice, the sweet, soggy, earthy flavor that coats my tongue with each bite.

I love the deep muscle ache that sets in the day after a great workout.

I love taking the last product out of the box, the sense of finality and accomplishment in disposing of the container, and the fresh feeling of birth and newness of replacing it with a new package.

I love seeing a sight, be it a squirrel, a spoonful of soup, or a sad sequined stranger, and inherently injecting emotion, drama, motive, incentive, denouement, plot, and climax in a split second, my writer’s brain operating undisciplined and unrestrained in even the most mundane.

I love seeing a person recognize their potential, forgive themselves, and choose to step forward with strength.

I love in late September when the air coats my lungs with cold and feels like Halloween.

thumbs_massage-1024x682

I love using my strong thumbs to find the tense spot and feeling the pain intensify with pressure before it oozes out of the body like toothpaste from the tube, leaving only the impression of a bruise behind.

I love the rare occasions when the deep percussion of my heartbeat sets in my bones with rhythm, celebration, alcohol, and friendship taking over, and I dance without limits.

I love walking the streets of an unfamiliar place and, without agenda, awaiting the next experience.

BLOGWriting
Notebook and pencil

I love the thrill of a blank sheet of paper.

I love how each vertebra pops and expands and releases in the shift from downward dog to upward, and the newness each small stretch brings with it.

I love finding just the right angle in the mirror where I can think, “Damn, you look awesome”, for just a moment before I turn.

I love the unseen smile I get in my throat where no one can see when someone surprises me with just the right counterpoint in a bantering session, and the challenge I have to quip back.

314040

I love dark chocolate on my tongue, slowly melting.

I love the sound of woods, all rustling leaves and birdsong and pine.

I love the majesty, and the inevitability, of waterfalls.

I love the altering shades of blue in the eyes on my children, never quite the same, each containing their own universes.

I love the threat of the bathwater as it slowly rises around me, promising to cook me from outside in.

I love hot water down the spine.

I love the splashing colorful grandeur of fireworks.

apple-fresh-apples

I love the smell of fresh apples.

I love earth, dirt, and grass beneath bare feet, knowing that billions of life forms exist below as they do here, and above.

I love thunderstorms, majestic, black, powerful, fill-the-entire-sky thunder and lightning extravaganzas.

I love choosing water by the cup, the glass, the gallon, and washing away all the unwanted with each sip, gulp, and drowning.

I love that there is no truth except my own, and that my truth is not your truth, and that your truth is not mine, and that my truth can change with age, and understanding, and experience.

I love shaking the boat, violently and willfully, or gently and rocking, so the water laps over and threatens the security of those who hold the oars, those who have forgotten other passengers are on board.

coffeecream

I love the color coffee turns with just a touch of cream, and the soft bitter taste against my tongue with that first sip.

I love finding random knowledge, from a callously selected biography, an unexpected conversation, a dense nonfiction on an unfamiliar topic, a news article.

I love what I know to be challenged.

I love to have my awe inspired.

I love the pressure and anticipation I feel when finishing the last chapters of a book.

I love the slow painful realization that I’m not doing as well as I thought I was.

I love how many ways there are to make music.

I love my animal urges, and knowing that the animal is every bit as big a part of me as all the rest.

I love the feeling of a pair of eyes following me across the room.

I love losing myself in a role, in a character, in a line of lyric, in a song; becoming someone, something, somehow different from and more than myself, like all of us in one but still just me.

I love sticking it out, despite my most rational reasoning telling me I should go, and finding myself having a wonderful time.

I love learning that taking care of my own needs makes me better equipped as a father.

I love seeing myself on a long timeline, knowing each moment of my life was faced with all the authenticity I was equipped with at that moment.

meteor-crash-140616-1

I love that everyone I have ever known leaves an impact on me, like a crashing meteor, or just a pebble, but enough to alter my lunar landscape for the rest of my days.

I love the other world I enter just before I fall asleep.

I love laying out small portions of my vulnerable self and finding out who will match me, pound for pound. I lay one down, then he does, I, then he, until trust and safety are there, or they aren’t. I love knowing that when I am not met in the middle, my sacredness, my self, will come back to me wiser and stronger through the pain and understanding.

I love that initial eye contact, then the gentle touch, then the kiss.

I love that line on the male form that extends over the stomach and into the hips on each side, the solidity and the core from which all else builds, and I love the strength when I feel place my hand there.

I love that no matter how far we fall as humans, physically or spiritually, we can always rise again in love and potential.

I love setting out to teach, and in turn learning more than I ever thought possible, over and over again.

SONY DSC
SONY DSC

I love the assurance of the sunrise tomorrow, and the certainty of the moonrise tonight.

Back to top