Looking into the eyes of courage: A life-changing reunion

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An intimate moment between Trish and Hakan, who traveled from Sweden

It’s not very compelling to read that I was indifferent about going somewhere.

My journalism professors would call this a “bad lead.” No hook to draw the reader in. “Indifferent” isn’t exactly a power word, more of a lame adjective where a good verb would coax the reader along.

But it fits. I’ve been a flimsy cliche. I recently agreed to go to a reunion but with the qualifier that “I’m not really a reunion sort of guy.” Like those people who boast that they don’t watch “Game of Thrones,” do I somehow think this makes me superior?

What it makes me is insufferable. And full of shit. Some friends from an adventure more than three decades ago showed me that.

I am a member of Up With People Cast C ’86 and we aren’t an indifferent group. One of our own is enduring a decade of suffering that should break the spirit. Instead, she has transformed it into spirited poetry, a lyrical lesson in whole-heartedness. Trish Wilson-Geyling and her family lost their youngest member, 8-year-old Rudy, in July 2017. He died suddenly from a congenital heart syndrome. Before he was born doctors said Rudy would not survive without utmost medical intervention. In a blog called “Rudy’s Beat” Trish chronicled the joy and exhaustion, beauty and terror, adventure and mystery of her family’s short time with the buoyant little boy who possessed the same bottomless supply of smiles as his mother.

 

 

The words of Trish and her husband Rolf invited us in as they savored every moment, every smile, every tear, every overwhelming fear. They asked for our prayers when holding on to hope demanded more hands. Trish’s writing expressed the heaviness of fragile hope, but it never outweighed mindfulness, faith and gratitude. Upon Rudy’s death Trish wrote, “The doctors would have counted it a victory to have him home for six weeks. We had him home for eight years.”

Two months after Rudy’s death, before they had time to unpack their grief, life ambushed the family again. Trish was diagnosed with ALS, the progressive and incurable attack on the body commonly known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease.

I gasped “Jesus!” when I heard. It was up to him if he took it as a prayer or a reprimand. What more could one family endure?

Although leveled by the news, Trish kept writing Rudy’s Beat, digging deep to balance twice the grief with her singular presence in the moment. As always, her posts were packed with photos of a family clearly in love with one another.

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Trish and her son Max

Updates on her treatment were stirred in with tales of daily life, celebrations, kids starting school and memories of Rudy. And gratitude, always gratitude. As the ALS progressed, word spread across social media. It was time for a reunion. More than fifty of us would meet in Santa Barbara for “TrishFest!” The rest of our cast would show up on FaceTime and cell phone speakers. Our mission was to be there for Trish, but I don’t think anyone was surprised that it was Trish who ended up being there for us.

I mistook cynicism for wisdom, or for keeping it real, when it was simply a disguise for insecurities. My take-it-or-leave-it coolness about attending the reunion was camouflage for the self-centered silliness of the 19-year-old in 1986. A reunion is a good place if you’re not careful to compare your insides to everyone else’s outsides.

However, I forgot a few things. My fellow cast members are among the kindest people I know, and it was ridiculous to think my dark thoughts would not be extinguished by the brightest smile in our cast, still at full power and untouched by illness.8C178468-E589-4FB2-98E6-722EE99F5FEA

When we returned from our year with Up With People we learned that our experience was inexplicable. Even those closest to us stared blankly, like we were telling them about a dream we had the night before. We were a 100 kids between 18 and 25 from more than 30 nations and states, who traveled the world performing music and dancing for crowds, even though many of us weren’t that talented at either. However, some were so gifted they made the rest of us better. We were our own roadies, merchandisers and PR. We lived with families in each town we visited, even if we didn’t speak the same language. All of this was a wedge. It opened our way into communities for the real work. Cast members served at schools and nursing homes and homeless shelters and soup kitchens. We visited prisoners and addicts, and felt the grace of people who were ill, stigmatized, disabled and dying.

One of our greatest accomplishments was showing people everywhere we went that a bunch of kids from different backgrounds, cultures, and nationalities, saturated in hormones and without the benefit of fully connected frontal cortexes, could get along and do some good.

Mostly, we learned to show up.

It is not hyperbole to say that TrishFest was life-changing.

My oldest daughter Annie came with us to the reunion and her sister Emily surprised us, showing up from Missouri. They finally experienced the rowdy hospitality of Cast C. Emily hung out with the cast drummer for whom she was named, and Annie mingled like she had traveled with us.

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Emily and Emily

After so much time apart our cast hugged like linebackers. Happy anxiety charged the air with impatient affection. The laughter was pyrotechnic. Trish entered in her wheelchair with a smile that I could swear made the lights flicker, and turned a rented house into a sanctuary where we could be both riotous and reflective. She liberated us to unleash the power of our vulnerability, to carve away all the emotional callouses of middle age.

Quiet conversations in corners, home-cooked food prepared by our children, raucous tequila shots on the patio, jam sessions with Trish and Rolf’s astounding children. Stories that justified gray hair, wrinkles and wisdom. One friend recalled that there were a few times on tour that he wanted to kick my ass; I grinned and nodded. “I remember, and you should have done it.”

We went to church with Trish and longed to have her faith.

 

 

 

 

 

 

We were a cast known in our day as trouble-makers. Sometimes it seemed like the rules were a disobedience to-do list. What we were doing was too important to be taken seriously. Last week we were almost as unrefined, crowded into a house, as we were long ago, cramped on a bus.

We surrounded Trish with stories, songs, photographs and prayers. We looked into the eyes of courage and felt braver for it.

Trish wrote that she wished Rudy didn’t have to live with such frailty and lamented that he left them so soon. She wished she didn’t have ALS and that her family didn’t have to walk through it with her. Her family has a deep capacity to love, she said, but of course that comes with a deep capacity to feel pain. It comforts her, though, that life has become “second nature” to them because of what they have come through. They have gained a certain “expertise.” She calls it “Rudy’s legacy.”

Being with Trish broke us open and renewed us. Her presence in our lives, even from great distances, is a gentle challenge to stay broken. Remain vulnerable. Don’t let the protective callouses grow back. Don’t allow fear to rule us.

Our “official” reunion is in two years. As she left, Trish beamed through exhaustion, and said “maybe I’ll be there to see you.”

I plan on showing up.

Check out Rudy’s Beat: https://rudysbeat.com/

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Saying goodbye: grief and gratitude

I have had an epiphany, a prickly bushwhack through my briar patch brain.

I attend a meditation class at work, not an easy endeavor for a person who tries to listen to song lyrics in the car, only to hit replay three minutes later because I saw a shiny object.

After each meditation session, the class leader asked what emotions came up.

Grief.

Heavy and sleepy, an ache deep down, and a gritty burn behind the eyes.  I had no idea where it came from.

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Allie and her younger daughter Addy

The instructor suggested I “have a conversation” with the feelings, a meditation technique he taught us. I never thought I would write the previous sentence, let alone practice it. I always talk to myself, but calling it a conversation is a stretch. Conversation sounded a little New Age for me, but I figured it might help me on my “journey.” I found a place alone, sheepishly made sure no one was watching and began talking with me.  I found myself to be quite insightful.

I grieve a close friend who died two years ago; I am selfishly sad about the independence of my children who no longer need Dad as much; I mourn the casualties of age. However, sitting right next to me, meditating, was my immediate source of grief.  My friend Allie was moving on to another job after nine years at Catholic Charities.

Obviously in more than fifty years of life I have seen countless co-workers come and go. I think we all have those special few to whom saying goodbye is painful. In my past, they were Tim and Peter, Barbara and Bruce, Cindy and Sandy, Mark and Maurice, Natalie and Neil.

Allie is strong, courageous and graceful. The beauty, though, is that she is strong because she is vulnerable, courageous because she is scared and graceful because she is a goofball.  Allie is beloved for her generosity and kindness. She spares the red pen for checking off her own imagined flaws.  I wish she would stop that.

There are stories (told by Allie with a mischievous grin) about “Allie Mac Attack,” an aggressive athlete and somewhat dark personality, bent on destroying opponents. That this gentle, self-effacing mother has a demon inside is hard to imagine.  However, sometimes when she is laughing, I swear I see a teetering glint of madness in her eyes.

I could gush about my matriculated co-worker and friend for thousands of words.

It is this eagerness to gush that gives me clarity.  All the mixed emotions reminded me that there is no grief without gratitude, nor gratitude without grief.

Khalil Gibran wrote, “…joy and sorrow are inseparable…together they come and when one sits alone with you…remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.”

I will miss the comfort of visiting with Allie in the middle of the day, conversations deep, humorous and occasionally inappropriate by HR standards.   I will miss her resilient warmth and obliviousness to pop culture. I asked her if she knew who Mick Jagger is. She cautiously replied, “Isn’t he a singer?”

I must remember to be grateful that I have all of this to miss. If there were no reason to be grateful there would be no reason to mourn.

There are things I do not like about my job. Inefficiency and poor communications, the occasional tensions with bosses and co-worker, paperwork, a thousand details that tax my ADD-addled brain.  It’s been said that one negative experience overshadows 10 positive ones.  Anecdotally, I know this to be true.

Allie helped build something. She opened hearts. Allie was central to an environment where, if I am vigilant, I can find joy. Her influence stays with me. I am in awe of the team of case managers I serve. They do extraordinary work with the most vulnerable people in the community. My friends, who I just happen to work with, are gentle and firm, compassionate and fierce, authentic and unselfish.

When the 12-steps are read at recovery meetings, I have always sighed at the 11th, which begins, “Sought through prayer and meditation…”  I chuckled at the unlikeness of that happening.  In fact, when I first started going to meetings, I repeatedly made the same Freudian slip when it was my turn to read the steps aloud. I kept saying, to stifled giggles,  “Sought through prayer and medication…” which was especially funny since that was the reason I was at the meetings in the first place.  I am reconsidering this mediation thing. I am a long way from doing it well, but I am not so bad at it.

Allie is gone. I am still texting her like a dumped boyfriend. Mostly, I want to say thank you.

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I am with JJ: Holding our miracles and conquests

I will be with JJ
In my innocence, before life became difficult, I daydreamed about you as I listened to Beach Boys 45s in my room. California was a distant land but I knew I would marry a girl from there.

Your smile danced like light on water Your golden hair touched my face. Your skin was of sun and sweat and mountain air. Your legs dangled, bumping against mine, as we sat on a wall laughing. You giggled with me when I tickled you in the back yard as fireflies winked at us. And you picked flowers and told me their stories.

We whispered to one another in the dark. In fantasies that I never told a soul, you smiled only for me, and you smelled lik summertime and warm kitchen smells  and breezes on the water. You would hold my hand and make funny things happen In my  heart. Of course I would never get the nerve to kiss you, but the thought of it was sweet torment.

I wish that I knew back then that dreams come true.

I would be with JJ.

Girls troubled me. Their hairspray, their makeup their smiles were never for me. My shoulders tanned in the sun, eyes shot red from swimming pool days, bugs bounced against baseball park lights on muggy nights. Desire for nameless you was swampy inside me. The Beach Boys record featured the bottom half of a girl in a polka dot bikini. You must have been on some other cover because in my elaborate daydreams you were uniquely lovely, beautiful as desert sandstone and  the turquoise we hunted on the mesas of New Mexico where my first childhood memories live.

You faded in my thoughts. How could someone so real be real? I pursued and mostly failed with girls close to home. Then I found you but I didn’t know it. My daydreams weren’t so vivid anymore and I had forgotten.

We rode silver buses together and shared moments of vague friendship. Mythical California, sun-kissed skin and that laugh.
But we were passing one another on the way to someone else. I stare at a photo from that time, my arm around your waist, your hand in mine, and wonder how I didn’t recognize you right in front of me, my childhood fantasy, my childhoood prophecy. What might have been can overwhelm me if I let it.

Today I remember an inexplicable pang of envy when you and another man entered the airport the last time I saw you, more than 25 years ago. Did I want you then? Then you were gone.

All these years later, water under so many broken bridges, each of us broken in our own way— scarred by shame, regret, and wounds we buried deep in secret places, somehow deluding ourselves that we deserved fear powerful enough to keep us from living wholehearted lives, to keep us from fully cherishing every moment of the short time we have together.

But the past is also my vivid daydreams. Those were beautiful not dark.

The past is the spectacular collision when we were given no choice but to be together. Within  48 hours I walked into the kitchen and my legs buckled. I sagged into a chair and whispered, “This is what love is supposed to be.” A crash of perfection, beautiful ruin
My heart still hammers in my chest. When you are near me.
The past is picking golden flowers on the hillside where you sat in childhood meditation.
Your eyes still dance for me in blue light of a darkened bedroom. Your beauty steals my breath like hiking at timberline. Your hair kisses my face as we make love. Your skin burns me like the sun. Your legs tangle with mine in the sheets and wrap around me when desire tries to carry me away. My long ago fantasy did not know your heart. You soothe me with kindness, your generous love makes me unworthy. You smile at me. I pray it will always be for me.

You saved my life despite the confusion of watching me fall into dark, dangerous places.

This is also our past, a past of love and trust and passion, and no one or no sorrow can fade it. I simply must—we simply must— remember to go back to these memories and give them the weight of an anchor and the invincibility of armor. The longing of absence even when we are in the same house. The pain of watching each other grieve and stare into dark alleys of trauma. The temptation to hide from pain and each other. We will find our way through no doubt, by remembering where we’ve been.

Life is harder right now. It’s harder to give our miracles and conquest their proper place.  We had no choice but to fall in love and we have no choice but to stay there.
If only I had known through all the dark times? if only I had known so long ago?  Useless questions.

I do know now. I am with JJ.

A letter to my daughters — and my sons — about sexual assault

My beloved,

You are precious to me. My girls, you are vulnerable souls and fierce warriors. My boys, you are strong and protective, loyal and kind.

You are not however perfect. I would never place that burden on you. You are afraid, sometimes too concerned with the opinions of others, and you are prideful— you want to think you are unbreakable and invulnerable, that you got this life thing down.

photo by Chip Somodevilla/Getty Images

photo by Chip Smodevilla/Getty Images

These imperfections are part of what I love about you, but they are also dangerous vulnerabilities.

Men and women you know, friends, family members, have in the past two weeks cheered a national shaming of rape survivors. They shame for the same reason rapists rape, because they believe it gives them power.

They have blamed rape victims for the way they dress, for being drunk, for “putting themselves in a situation” to be raped. These people have even said they deserved it. I can’t convey to you how evil this is.

There is no “situation you put yourself in” that will ever make it ok for you to be harmed.

God, I hope you never have or ever will be sexually assaulted.

My daughters, I have given you practical advice. Don’t set your drink down. Be aware of your surroundings, never be alone with someone you don’t know and trust. Be alert to men plying you with alcohol and to their motives.

I have not suggest where to go if you need help, or stressed enough that you can trust my unconditional love, that there are people everywhere who will not judge you, or that you never have to be ashamed. You are beautiful spirits, the lights of my life. My hope is that you find people who light your life in the same way. It’s a father’s job to show his daughters what they deserve from a partner. I hope I have shown that you deserve respect, tenderness, love and safety.

My sons, I’m not sure I told you the most important thing.

Dont rape!

I don’t believe you would ever do anything so horrendous, but as I see people whom I thought I knew and loved joining the frenzy against survivors, I realize this is a more complicated command than you might think.

You may find yourself in a situation where a drunk girl seems compliant, it may even be your girlfriend—or wife—and suddenly what was black and white becomes gray. Or you may need to stand up and refuse to be a passive if unwilling accomplice to others.

You may have heard the expression, “No means no” as a standard for consent.

I call you to more.

“Yes means yes!”

That must be your code. An absolute, clear and uncoerced “Yes!”

But here is where it gets even trickier. You cannot stand by and watch other men do anything beneath your own code. Don’t turn your back on a woman in danger. Don’t let the repugnant stories and jokes about women go unchallenged, or tolerate the shaming  by shameless people.

It is often harder to stand up to your friends—and family— than your enemies.

But you must. Losing a friend or angering a family member is a small sacrifice for demanding respect for someone who could be your sister, your mother or step-mother, a cousin, friend or the love of your life. I have not been a perfect father. I have put you in harms away. I have been selfish. And most of your life I have not demonstrated the warmth and intimacy a man should show a woman. I have been given a second chance with your stepmother and I hope you are paying attention.

560DDB79-C7CC-4F33-B240-EDAFC2F7743FAround 35 years ago I was at a lake outside Maryville, Mo., I was 17, drunk, and staring in disbelief as a group of Northwest Missouri State University students tried to coerce an extremely inebriated girl into a “train,” a word that is supposed to make gang rape sound like it isn’t gang rape. I recall waiting for the right moment to step in and say stop, but the girl wasn’t giving in and I was scared. I like to believe I would have done the right thing.  But it was a long time ago. I’m not sure.

Make no mistake, if I did not ultimately  step in and stop them, I would have been party to rape.  The responsibility for that would not go away because “it was a long time ago” as we constantly hear from rape apologists. It would be a permanent blight on my character.

I was rescued from potential cowardice by a young lady, the girl’s friend, who waded into the pack of drooling men, and yelled, “Leave her the fuck alone!”

She gently spoke to her friend, helped her off the ground and took her away.

The circle of  men, and I use that only in the biological sense, flung up their arms and stomped away like petulant boys.

My dear sons, don’t lose your moral compass in  a moment that could devastate a woman’s life and define yours. Train each day by choosing to respect every woman you encounter. Make amends when you falter.

My dear daughters, surround yourselves with friends like that young lady at the lake—both male and female—who won’t hesitate like I did to wade in and protect you.

Please pay attention right now to what is happening in our country. Women, rape survivors, with the same decency and resilience I see in you, are rising up, casting off shame for the armor of purpose, righteousness, and power. Become swept up in this wave.

People who ignore and scoff at them,  who don’t listen and believe them, people who shame them,  do so at their peril.

I love you.

Dad

RAINN operates the National Sexual Assault Telephone Hotline: 800-656-HOPE

https://www.rainn.org/about-national-sexual-assault-telephone-hotline

The hotline offers:

  • Confidential support from a trained staff member
  • Support finding a local health facility that is trained to care for survivors of sexual assault and offers services like sexual assault forensic exams
  • Someone to help you talk through what happened
  • Local resources that can assist with your next steps toward healing and recovery
  • Referrals for long term support in your area
  • Information about the laws in your community
  • Basic information about medical concerns

Also visit the Website of Planned Parenthood

https://www.plannedparenthood.org

My friend isn’t gone; she’s still setting me straight

Over the past couple weeks I have felt a frightening loneliness. I was angry for digging myself into a hole that felt catastrophic.

I take that back, wrong metaphor. There was no digging; that would imply effort. Rather, I invited the loneliness in, a charming bully that posed as solitude.

I needed someone to help me make my oppressor leave. I couldn’t tell my friends at work, even when they noticed a change in me.  I couldn’t bear the way they would look at me. I said I was tired, hadn’t been sleeping, which was true. I talked to my wife, vaguely, and she gave me answers. I got angry. Strangely, I wasn’t sure I wanted an answer.

I instantly knew who to call. My friend Carol. As sudden as the thought evaporated, I wept. IMG_0734

The same day that the loneliness moved in, I received a photo of Carol’s newly completed grave stone.  Her family had gracefully designed it with the words “I love you more than bunnies,” chiseled in script beneath the names of her children.

It has been two weeks since I received the photo. Carol died a year ago yesterday. I’m not sure how I didn’t see the connection.

When Carol died, I had the word “surrender” tattooed onto my forearm in her memory. It’s situated so that I see it continually throughout my day. Each time, I think of her. Surrender is central to recovery and most daunting. It’s scary to admit that one’s life is unmanageable and to trust people who say that giving up control promises freedom. Carol and I talked about surrender a lot. She had moments of clarity, but then someone or something would descend and fill her with fear. She grabbed control with both hands and tied a knot.

I believe Carol did ultimately surrender, in her last days, while in a coma. She held on with all her might but after nearly two weeks a change came over her. She found someone to trust. The children she had raised—she was often astonished by how much she loved them—would be alright. It might take time and suffering, but she trusted them. Then she surrendered her life.

Surrender has  transformed my life. Accepting life on life’s terms, finding comfort in mystery, learning  to loosen my grip on life, not asking too many questions about what disturbs me, these practices have not always made life better but they have certainly kept it from getting worse.  However, I confess, I have not accepted that compulsion and fear loosened their grip on me but took  Carol. I am not comfortable with that mystery. I have too many questions and no one to ask. I am angry at this disease.

When I stood in my bedroom on that day when  I received the photo of Carol’s gravestone, it felt  like she was standing next to me, gushing about her children. Our friendship was an adventure of unbearable pain and intense joy, deep truths and shallow deceptions. I did a lot of talking–too much–trying to reach my dying friend. But then, Carol would come back with a gush of wisdom. When I was insecure, overwhelmed, afraid she set aside her greater suffering, even hid it, to point out my foolishness and hubris.

We listened, argued, talked over one another, then she would silence me with a cheap shot, using my own words against me.  Or she would blurt out something snarky that made me laugh and and touched my heart at the same time.

I felt Carol in the room with me again earlier this week. She told me to get off my ass, stop blaming lack of sleep, my introversion, my “disconnected” feelings and go out and make friends. Stop feeling sorry for myself.

I did what she told me. I talked to a friend with one of the most generous hearts I have ever encountered. She makes my days better simply by being in the same building. Like Carol she minimizes her own hardships to lift my spirits. She thinks I don’t notice.

I talked to another friend who is working so very hard to recognize those moments of clarity in her own unmanageable life. We are tight. Our conversations are profane and profound, hilarious and honest, and filled with much love.

At the end of a rough day yesterday, I stopped on the way home to get something to drink. I walked past the beer section and grabbed a Coke.

As I opened the cooler, I saw the word “surrender” on my arm.

Thank you, Carol, for being there for me.