The Musings of a Confused Man

I just talked to my father. Tomorrow afternoon sometime, we're going to take the canoe (yes, my parents own a canoe) down to one of the lakes and spend a few hours paddling around. I suggested the idea, since I haven't been canoeing in a few years, and my father was highly agreeable. Mom said he would be. And truth be told, I'm not surprised. I figure it'll be a nice change of pace for my exercise tomorrow. It'll break up the monotony and even work a different group of muscles. After all, I give my legs enough exercise. It'll be nice to put my arms and upper body to work.

I've always loved canoeing. I remember when my sister and I were both small enough that all four of us (my parents, my sister, and I) could fit into the canoe. Mom and Dad would paddle around for hours, and Stephanie and I would love it. Of course, we loved to put our hands and feet in the water, which made extra drag that Mom and Dad had to fight against. But they never seemed to mind.

When Mom and Dad were done, Dad would often tie the canoe to the dock with a small amount of slack in the rope. Then he'd let my sister and I sit in the canoe and paddle ourselves around. My parents were always standing right there watching us -- after all, they had to make sure that nothing happened to us, but I always enjoyed it. Being in the canoe and paddling it for myself (well, with Stephanie's help) gave me a good feeling. Oh, I should probably mention that my sister and I were as young as five when my parents started doing this. How many small children get to have that kind of experience? I loved it.

Of course, being safety minded, my father also made sure that we were very aware of the safety rules. I even remember the time that my father and my uncle took all of us kids (my sister, our uncle's kids, and me) out to the middle of the river. The water was about waste deep for the two men. They'd have a couple of us kids get in the canoe. Then, each man would grab an end of the canoe and flip it. As they flipped it, we had to make sure that we got out of the canoe and into the water without hurting ourselves, and then get to the canoe and grab hold so we'd stay afloat. My mother was mortified. She kept standing at the shore the entire time, fretting about the whole thing to my father. I personally thought it was just a fun game. Again, I was about five at the time. It was a long time before I really understood what my father was trying to teach us kids that day.

I think that's why I've always been comfortable with canoes and the water in general. I learned all of that stuff as a little kid. It was made into a game for me, so I always understood these things. It's why people who are afraid of the water confuse me. I simply don't understand it. I mean, when I went to scout camp at age twelve and took the canoeing course they offered, I knew 99% of what they taught. The only new things I learned were how to empty and right a flipped or swamped canoe if you're in a second canoe and how to paddle a swamped canoe back in to shore. The safety, paddling, and steering parts of the course were all second nature to me by then.

I'm really looking forward to taking the canoe out tomorrow.

Tonight, I was snooping through my old files that I pulled off my old computer just before I gave it away. And I found something that I had written quite a few years ago. I'm not sure whether I originally wrote it in 1997 or 1998. I figured I'd post it here for old times sake. Perhaps another time, I'll look through it and see how much my attituded have changed since writing this.

I think I took my last outdoor walk of 2004. I had my light, nylon jacket on, and until I got heated up and sweating, I was pretty darn cold. I suppose I could keep the outdoor walks going if I switched over to my winter coat, but I'm not sure I want to do that, yet. Besides, that's only a temporary fix, and the way that the weather is feeling, it wouldn't last long. Soon, it will be my face, hands, and feet getting too cool. And I can't forget that my jeans are still pretty loose. No, I think it'll be better to switch to indoor walking. I'll just have to start going to the Pyramid Mall during lunch so that I can walk there. Though that mall is almost too small for a real walk.

My other option is to wait until after work and go to the Arnot mall so I can walk there. It's a larger mall and better for walking. But I think I prefer to walk during the middle of the day. I found it's helping me some with my appetite problems in the middle of the afternoon. If I get a good walk in just before I eat lunch, I find lunch much more satisfying and it seems to keep me satisfied longer. I don't exactly get that, since walking should increase my metabolism, causing my body to burn through the calories of lunch even quicker. There must be a piece to the equation I'm missing. Probably several, if I think about it.

Well, I guess it's time to write about the time of year. I've been putting it off because I don't want to, but it's been on my mind too much to avoid it any longer. I knew I'd have to get it out there sometime, so I might as well get it over with. This week marks the six year anniversary since the nuclear explosion between Z, S, and myself. It's hard to narrow it down past "this week," since the whole thing strung out over a period of seven to ten days. I mark the time period from when S sent me the "I'm mad at you and I don't want to talk to you for at least six months" email on 9 October and she replied to my email telling her off on 17 October with a statement that she didn't care what "my side of the story" was and made death threats. In between, both she and Z told me that they never wanted to talk to me again and lots of other nasty things. I grant you, some of them were deserved. I was no innocent, and I don't want to give the impression that I was, or the impression that I think I am.

I don't know, but part of me wonders if this is why I've been a bit morose and on edge lately. I've been trying to deny that, as I really don't want to admit that this might still bother me. But then again, the fact that it's on my mind suggests that it might. But then I find myself wondering. Am I morose and on edge because the time of year has reminded me of these past events? Or has my mood simply caused my mind to dredge all this back up. I suppose it doesn't matter. I suppose all that matters is that it's on my mind and I have to write it out.

Damn, I really didn't want to write about this. I'm not entirely sure I want to think about it. At least not in this emotional context. It's been six years. I've made new friends. I've met a wonderful man and I'm in a relationship I enjoy. I'd rather just let all the past hurts slip gently away. But I guess they have to do that in their own time, don't they?

The funny thing is, the whole thing with Z himself doesn't really bother me anymore. It seems to me that I made peace with him, and that's all water under the bridge. Now, don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't feel a tinge of something -- sadness maybe? -- over how things went with him. But there's a certain peace there. If not perfect, it's been resolved. But I don't have that feeling with S. Isn't it strange that the person I was theoretically closer to -- the one I had a romantic relationship and the first person I ever had sex with -- causes less of an emotional reaction than the one I was just friends with?

I suppose part of that is because of the betrayal involved. It's because I thought she and I were good friends. I let myself be vulnerable to her -- possibly in ways I wouldn't let myself be vulnerable to Z. And she betrayed that. Not only did she betray that, but she practically declared me evil incarnate, and I think that's what really hurt. I mean sure, I was in the wrong in some ways. But evil incarnate was pushing it a bit far.

I think it also is because I took her crap onto myself. For a while, I believed her accusations. I let myself be crushed by her hurtful words. In effect, the hurt and anger towards her is also partly the hurt and anger towards myself for accepting that kind of wounding. Maybe even for making myself vulnerable in the first place.

But I'm not angry at her anymore. At least not as near as I can tell. Anger takes up too much energy. It has to be constantly kindled, and I've quit wasting that energy. Heck, I can't even say that I hold her in contempt any more. Contrary to what I've often thought, I'm finding that just takes too much effort and energy, too.

Do you know what I do feel for her? Pity. And maybe a little sympathy. But mostly pity, I think. She reacted the way she did not just because she didn't know everything and made assumptions, but because she let her own emotional demons rule her reaction. And unless things have changed for her in the last six years, she's still living with that, and may have to live with that for the rest of her life. She's built a cage for herself out of the past and her own bitterness and anger, and she doesn't even see that she's trapped in it. I hope I'm wrong. I hope she's moved on from that point in her life, breaking the bonds she helped strengthen. But I don't know if that's happened. All I know is what I saw. And it's that S of the past that I pity.

I hope I'm not doing the same thing. I want to be free of this past. And I think I've done my best to set myself right. I think I've broken many thigns that have held me from these betrayals and I hope I have the wisdom to recognize those that remain and the strength to break them as well when I do recognize them.

But I still find myself wondering why this is still coming to my mind.

Craig left me a comment about my experience as a clown. Particularly, he asked me if I told bad puns while I clown. The short answer to his question is no. But since he asked and stirred up the memories, I thought it might be fun to stroll down memory lane a bit.

I joined Acts 29 (my campus's travelling ministry project that involved puppeteering, clowning, and similar activities) when I was in my sophomore year at Susquehanna. Though I didn't really get all that involved with the group until my junior year. That's when the project moved into a house on University Avenue. I shared the one downstairs bedroom with my roommate, Gerry. I immediately got involved in puppeteering and clowning. I enjoyed both, but in some ways, I enjoyed clowning the most.

I inherited one of the four or five clown costumes the project had. My friend Merion had actually used it the year before I became an active member, and it fit me quite well. I also went out and got a rainbow-colored wig to go with it and started working on a design for my facepaint. Unfortunately, I don't remember everything I included, though I do remember I'd always draw a blue star on my one cheek. I always had such hard time with that, too. I was such a perfectionist, and I'd spend a few minutes trying to get the star "just right" before finally giving up and letting it go with however it looked. Don't get me wrong, it always looked fine, really. At least no one ever complained or asked "what's that blue splotch supposed to be?"

Acts 29 almost always did silent clowning. (The only time our clowns spoke was when they performed at the home for developmentally challenged individuals in Selinsgrove. We felt it was necessary to bend our rules of silence for the sake of being better able to get our message accross to our audience in those cases.) Our clowning mainly consisted of small skits with some sort of message. For example, we had this one skit called "Return to Sender." For this skit, one of the clowns would take a big red heart and tape i to their chest, over where their own heart would be. Then the skit would begin. Through a series of events, each of the other clowns would be mean or thoughtless to her (I say "her" because more often than not, Amanda's clown character, Rosy would play the part of the clown being hurt). For example, we might not let her join in a game we're playing. Or we might get mad at her for a mistake she made and push her away. And each time one of these things would happen, she would tear another little piece off her heart. Near the end of the skit, her paper heart would be nothing more than small shreds. At this point, she would be very sad until she got an idea. She would then grab an envelope, put the torn heart into it, and seal it up. Then she would write on the front of the envelope "To God" in big black letters so everyone in the audience to see. Then she'd give it to someone (usually one of the non-clown facilitators that was accompanying the group) to send to God. A bit later, the same person would come back with another sealed envelope. The clown would open it up and find a new, untorn paper heart in it. Of course, all the other clowns would see this and get excited and everyone would hug and make up and play together.

I think that my favorite experience as Bobo (my clown name) was when we decided to write our own Christmas skit. It was a particularly interesting skit because we integrated a number of our ministry forms together. In this skit, we involved clowns, puppets, and at least one "normal person" part. (That part was the poor narrator who had to try to keep the whole thing together. In that skit, Bobo ended up playing the part of Joseph (we were re-enacting the nativity scene after all). And things just weren't going well. The narrator would tell Rosy (playing the part of of Mary) and I to go to Bethlehem. Well, being two clowns, we immediately pulled out our map and started trying to find out how to get to Bethlehem. We would both sit there running our fingers over the map trying to find it (usually not looking in the same place). Usually, we'd end up turning the map as if we had it upside down for good measure. I loved that gag.

Needless to say, the whole experience didn't get any better. Not only could Rosy and Bobo not find Bethlehem, but our Shepherd (another clown) couldn't find her sheep (though she was able to find a cow and a duck, to the annoyance of the narrator), one of the wise men was sick and couldn't make it, and above all else, we ended up forgetting the baby Jesus. This last put the narrator into absolute hysterics until our lovely Shepherd (played by Amy's clown character, whose name escapes me at the moment) bring out one of her animals. Rosy immediately falls in love with it and decides it can stand in for the baby Jesus, and we ended the skit with a very sweet -- if unusual -- nativity scene.

I think the other thing I liked about clowning was the playtime. You see, before any service or event began, the clowns were given free reign. While people would be coming in, we had the honor of running around the place with our variou toys (after all, like any good clown troop, we had a suitcase full of them) playing and being silly. We'd be playing kazoos, blowing bubbles (which the children always loved to pop -- and so did the clowns), and finding all kinds of make believe games to be playing with a simple length of rope.

Ah, the memories. I haven't thought about my days as a clown in a long time. I enjoyed the stroll through the past.

A couple weeks ago, I was looking through my old diary entries. I ran across an "unsent letter" I wrote to my ex, Zech. In it, I talked about my relationship with Mike. I decided I wanted to go back and comment on what I said there, considering how things with Mike finally ended up. Excerpts from the original letter are in italics, while my new thoughts will be in normal text.

I'm dating a wonderful guy now. His name is Mike.

Ah yes. These were "the good old days" when I actually thought Mike was a catch. (Actually, I wrote the original letter almost a full year before I broke up with Mike.) My opinion has changed since then. Funny thing is, I probably am having more fond thoughts of Zech right now than of Mike. That's a scary thought, in some ways. Mike and I had our issues, but the "relationship" with Zech was just one huge mess. So you'd almost think that I'd have less fondness for Zech.

I suppose the fact that it's been over seven years since Zech and I broke up, time has healed those wounds. Compare that to the fact that it's only been six months since I told Mike I didn't want him in my life any more, and I suppose that's understandable. But I think there's more to it than that. Zech and I had real issues back then, both individually and as a couple. And in Zech's case, I can cut him some slack due to the fact that he was a lot younger -- not even twenty yet. In comparison, Mike's turning thirty in January. Being that old and still thinking it's perfectly reasonable to tell someone, "You mean the world to me, but I'm not going to do anything to meet your emotional needs because it'll require me to accept some personal discomfort" is unthinkable. So in that sense, I think he deserves my contempt.

But I'm slowly learning something. There's a huge difference between you and Mike.

Unfortunately, I'm also learning there were a lot of similarities between them, too. It's ironic that I spent so much time teaching myself to not react to Mike out of my issues with Zech, only to find out there really were some things they had in common. Don't get me wrong. I'm glad I went through that process anyway. I did need to learn that not everyone was exactly like Zech.

But in the end, both of my exes were wrapped up in their own little worlds. They were too busy trying to keep their worlds so perfectly balanced, that they were willing to sacrifice my needs and feelings if it came to it. Perhaps Mike wasn't as dastardly about it, but does that make it any better? And besides, he also should've known better.

In retrospect, I think I've decided to re-make my rule against not dating guys who are still "in the closet" -- at least to their family. I made that rule after Zech and broke it when dating Mike. When Mike and I started going together, I told him about my reservations. But I went ahead on the grounds that he was otherwise wonderful and he promised me that he'd make sure that the fact that his friends and family didn't know about his sexual orientation wouldn't get in the way. He broke that promise. And I'm now convinced that when push comes to shove, most guys in the closet will break that promise. So if they're not ready to be honest with their family, they deserve a pass in the realm of relationships. They're just not ready.

I don't think I could rightfully say what my first memory of Juanita was. She was someone that has always been a part of my life. When my parents first started taking me to the small American Baptist Church after I was born, she was there. She played the organ almost every Sunday.

I do remember that when I was older, I'd walk to the front of the sanctuary after many Sunday morning services and sit in the front pew just behind the organ. Juanita and I would talk as she continued to play the organ as people mingled and slowly filed out of the church. I think I was mesmerized by the way her fingers glided across the keys and her feet transitioned from pedal to pedal, making beautiful music.

In my twenties, when I bought a small keyboard (I had neither the money nor the space for a full sized piano), I sought Juanita to help me learn how to play. I'd practice on my keyboard and dutifully go to her house for my lessons. Some weeks, I'd bring my keyboard while other weeks, I took my lessons using her upright. We had a great time, joking, talking, and enjoying both the company and the music. I regretted quitting my lessons, but we both agreed that I was having too much trouble making the time for both practice and lessons.

After quitting my lessons and then leaving the church a year later, I didn't see Juanita much. On occasion, our paths would cross as I'd go back to the little church to support family members who still attended. And the fact that her son, Tom, married one of my cousins gave rise to a few family occasions where we would see each other. On those occasions, we would greet one another with warm smiles and fond wishes.

Tomorrow, I'll see Juanita one more time. This time, I will be paying my final respects. You see, Juanita lost her fight with cancer and passed away this past week. And a good number of us will miss her greatly. We'll miss the music, love, and kindness she brought into this world on a regular basis.

But we will also remember her for these things. And we will remember that we are all better people for having known her. And hopefully, those memories will inspire us to emulate those traits we so admired in her. So in our sadness, we will also find warmth and joy.

After all, that's how Juanita would've wanted it.

The following is an excerpt from a special journaling project I've started:

It wasn't until Serenity and Zech came along that I received enough encouragement to truly develop my inner writer. I had written a little at the end of college -- mostly to help myself cope with my coming out struggles -- and those two eventually got me to share. They both loved it and encouraged me to push myself further. I became more confident and open to showing others my work.

Of course, I know that's not true now. My writing is something that comes from within me, and is therefore not something they could take from me -- nor can anyone else. They could only take away their support. But now, I know I don't need it (and never did). I only need to connect to the writer within. He's al I need. I'm all I need. I can be my own encouragement.

Coming to this realization tonight was liberating and empowering in a way that really surprised me. Suddenly, I found myself feeling a whole lot more inspired. In fact, I'm seriously considering starting a fiction project in the near future.

I'm not sure how many people read this blog any more. I know I've been silent for almost a month now. To be honest, I've logged in to write something several times since my last entry, but have never been able to get past the blank textbox.

This is one of those cases where many aspects of my life have caused me to turn inward, to work on projects and go through things that I'm not ready to post about yet. There's just so much going on that still needs to be worked out in the stillness of my own mind before broadcast to the world, and as such, I leave what readers I may have wondering what's going on.

What I can say is that my spiritual life is getting rather interesting right now. There are certain things that I need to work on and certain changes in my life that I'm making in order to prepare for the "next big step." At some point, I hope to talk about some of that. But for now, I must leave it at this simple teaser.

I'm also working on a writing project, which I have several guides telling me will eventually coalesce into a publishable book. However, I'm in the very early stages of that process. Currently, I'm at the point where the project involves me spending regular times with a separate journal (as opposed to my "everyday" one) and writing about past experiences, people, and choices that I can remember, and my emotional reactions to them. It's been both a rewarding and trying process, as not all of the memories or the realizations related to them are entirely comfortable. They're not exactly painful, either. But they take a bit of processing at times.

One of the interesting things is that as I continue with this project, I find myself remembering little things that I had completely forgotten about, things that I haven't thought about in a decade or more. That in itself can be a bit shocking. Of course, on the flip side, it's also nice to suddenly discover that I have more memories of my life before high school than I might've thought. They're just there waiting to be found.

Of course, a side effect of this process is that I find myself growing nostalgiac. I find myself wondering what ever happened to old friends, old school chums, and even an old lover or two. I find myself wondering what kind of people they are today. After all, it's been at least a decade since I've seen some of them.

You can't go home again. But at least you can visit. Even if only in your mind.

I've been keeping a copy of Harald's Story in a Word document. Tonight, I printed out a copy of it so I could share it with a couple of local friends. I'm amazed at how long it's getting. It already spilled onto page eighteen, and the hero and his associates haven't even set sail yet.

Of course, I also have to admit that I'm a bit nervous. I have no only the vaguest idea of how the story is going to proceed once Harald and company set sail. So I currently feel like I'm glibly writing my way off the edge of a cliff, so to speak. But I do take some comfort in the knowledge that when I originally started thinking about the story, I only had the first couple scenes planned and a very basic premise for the rest of the story. And since I've started writing, I've already developed that kernel into the seven "chapters" I've written so far, and I have a good grasp of the contents of at least three more chapters. So hopefully, the rest will come as I progress just like the current material has slowly developed.

But more importantly, I've rediscovered my love of writing fiction. I haven't felt this excited about a story I was working on since I tried to work on the series of stories surrounding my characters Keylar and Amira. That was back just before Zech and I broke up (the break up that influenced my choice to abandon that story). Here I am, eight years later, and I'm feeling quite accomplished. Who knows, maybe I'll eventually be able to "rediscover" Keylar's story and return to it. I've always felt sad that I could never get myself back to a point where I could continue it. But in the meantime, I'm happy with my current project. Here's to hoping things continue to go in such a positive direction.

Earlier tonight (before it became tomorrow), I took the time to write about the weekend I decided to come out and the emotional crisis that led up to it. It surprised me how easily much of the emotion I felt that weekend came back to me. In some ways, writing about it meant reliving it, and it was a strange experience.

Of course, this time around, the feelings weren't nearly as strong. Instead, they were more a ghost of events and feelings long gone. Back then, I was afraid that all of the feelings were going to consume and destroy me. Tonight, the worst they will do is chase a smile from my face until I get some much needed sleep.

And in some way, I find the return of these emotions comforting. Not because I have any desire to return to the constant torment I felt back then, but because it means that I'm still connected to that person I was. I can still identify so completely with my past that I can draw on it for strength, insight, an even wisdom without becoming lost in it or controlled by it. And that is a wonderful feeling.

I'm beginning to realize that this writing project is meant to serve a dual purpose. So far, I've been focused on how it might help others who are going through many of the same things -- or even just similar things -- that I did. But now I also see that it's also a chance for me to again connect to my past, understand how it led me to the presence, and discover just how I've grown from it all. And perhaps that's something I need right now, too.

I think everyone has those people who came into their lives for the briefest of moments, yet touched them in a profound way despite how temporary their presense may have been. Darcy was one such person for me. I spoke with her a total of three times in my entire life, and I doubt I'll ever see her again. And yet, the first night we met, she left an impression I doubt I will ever forget.

That night took place several years ago. It was the night that I agreed to go out to a movie with my older brother -- the first and only time I ever went someplace with him since I became an adult. Terry wanted to go see a movie, but didn't have his license due to legal issues at the time. As such, he needed someone to go with him. Being the generous, if foolish, person I am, I agreed to go with him when he asked me. Both before and after the movie, we decided to hang out at the bar in Ruby Tuesday's, which was located in the same mall as the cinema complex we went to.

When we returned to the bar after the movie, I was seething. The entire outting had been a real eye opener to just what kind of person -- and let me just say that I'm being polite in using that word -- my brother was. At one point, I was sure he was going to get himself thrown out of the theater during the movie. (I had decided I was going to sit there pretending I didn't know him if that happened.) But I allowed him to convince me to return to the bar with him. By that time, Darcy was working behind the bar alone. Things had slowed down enough that Darcy had a lot of idle time, and she and Terry got talking.

Darcy was a sweet girl, a few years older than me at most. She was on the short side with long, blonde hair, but a real spitfire. She was the type of person that could say some incredibly cutting things, yet smile the entire time. I suspect that many of her customers were too drunk to realize she had actually said something biting until after the fact. Her personality struck me as admirable, and entirely conducive to the line of work she was in. And I have to admit that I was enjoying the process of watching her spar with my brother, who was too dumb to recognize all the jabs she got in despite the fact that he was perfectly sober at the time.

The incident that truly earned her my admiration, however, was when the topic turned to that of gay people. I forget what exactly came on the television to spark the conversation, but Terry made some sort of nasty remark on the topic. As I felt my heart sink and my stomach lurch, Darcy turns to Terry and asks him in a friendly, yet pointed manner, "What? Do you have something against gay people?" As soon as she asked the question, she gave me a quick wink. I'm not sure how she had managed to pick me out, but it was clear that like many other people in my life, she had immediately known I was gay. (Fortunately, my brother was clueless, and still is to the best of my knowledge.)

Terry stammered a bit and tried to make excuses. Of course, the first thing he did was played the typical male double standard, pointing out he had no problem with two women being "like that" -- and even found it somewhat alluring. However, he pointed out that he just didn't want any gay guys to hit on him, because that would not be okay.

Darcy's reaction was incredible in that she didn't pause, take a breath, or even blink. As soon as Terry said what he did, she just looked at him, smiled, and said in an even if somewhat patronizing voice, "Oh, hon, don't flatter yourself." And before either Terry or I had time to register what she said, she was off to serve another customer at the other end of the bar. I just about fell off my bar stool. (And for the record, I was sober, too!) Terry could only respond with a hurt and shocked "Hey!"

I was just totally amazed at how easily, gracefully, and politely Darcy had shot him down. Every time I find myself in a similar situation, I find myself thinking of her response that night. I can only hope I handle things half as well.

I went back two weeks later just to thank Darcy. I also left her a very big tip on my second trip, as an expression of my gratitude. We had a nice conversation, and she was shocked to discover that Terry was my brother. She couldn't believe we came from the same family.

I only returned one more time after the night I went in to thank Darcy. I'm not the bar type, and even hanging out with such a great gal as Darcy was sufficient reason for me to keep returning. As a result, she disappeared from my life as quickly as she entered it. But that brief encounter is something I still like telling people about several years later. I think I always will.

In my previous post, I encouraged people who supported the Breast Cancer Patient Protection Act to contact their Congressmen directly. That got me to thinking about my own experiences of contacting my Congressman. To be honest, I can't say as I blame people who choose not to do that, given my experiences.

Back in 2001, I subscribed to the ACLU's political action mailing list. Every so often (not quite once a week), I'd receive a note from them talking about some legislation that had come up and encouraged me to contact my representatives to voice my opinion. They even offered a service on their website where I could put in where I lived, and they would prepare a boilerplate message that I could edit (I usually didn't) and then submit to them. Their site would then email or fax it to the appropriate representatives based on my home address. It was all quite handy, and allowed me to do something without putting a lot of effort into it. (What can I say? I'm lazy.)

For the most part, I'd never hear another thing about it. Well, at least that was the case with my one Senator and the House member that represented my district. However, my other senator (or more likely, someone in his office) always made a point of sending me back a reply letter. That particular senator was none other than the recently ousted Rick Santorum.

Anyone who knows anything about Rick Santorum (and if you don't know anything about him, you must live even further under the rock than I do) shouldn't be surprised that the letter was invariably a nicely phrased missive to say, "Thanks for writing, but I'm going to do the exact opposite of what you want." This isn't entirely surprising, as it's a hazard of being a liberally minded individual who has the misfortune of being "represented" by a conservative -- and insane, as more recent events have shown -- senator. However, the experience was rather demoralizing for me. After receiving the third or fourth such letter, I began to wonder why I bothered even writing my senator. After all, it was clear that my little letters weren't going to change his mind. So I eventually gave up. And I haven't written a letter to any representative since.

Today, I sit here thinking about that. I find myself wondering if it's time to give it another try. After all, I'm now in a different state, and I could stand to get a little more involved in such things. Though if I do decide to do it again, I think I may actually try writing my letters for myself. One of the things I struggled with over my experiences with Senator Santorum was that I didn't feel I could complain too much about his obvious boilerplate response that practically ignored my concerns when I didn't even take the time to express those concerns in my own word. So that's something I feel I must address if I ever give the letter-writing process another try.

I lost my cell phone this morning. When I got to the customer site, I went to take it off my belt, only to find the belt clip was empty. I couldn't do anything about it, so I prayed that I somehow left it at home (not really a possibility, given the belt clip was with me) and went in to work. After work, I decided to run right home to check. My neighbor came out the front door as I got out of my car. It turns out that I had lucked out. Apparently, I knocked the silly thing off while dusting the snow off my car this morning. My neighbor had come home at lunch and found it. So I thanked him profusely and hopped back into my car to head for Equal Grounds.

I almost went to Jitters here in Henrietta instead. As of yesterday, the POC started having our weekly Meet and Greets there, and I found it an incredibly enjoyable place. However, I decided I wanted the slightly more cozy atmosphere of my old haunt, so I made the drive to the South Wedge. While there, I wrote some erotica and the next chapter of Journey.

While there, a couple other patrons watched Hide and Seek. I glanced up from time to time to watch the giant screen (it was less than four feet from me) for a few seconds, but I mainly focused on the writing. From what I saw, it was a pretty bizarre movie, and I never expected the ending.

The new chapter in Journey is about my longest relationship. It was a strange one to write. I'm finding that as the events I'm writing about get closer and closer to the modern day, it's a little harder to write. Of course, part of that is because the issues Ihave to write about are things I'm still working on in some sense. This became apparent as I wrote the last few paragraphs of this chapter. I realized that the end of that relationship was about realizing what I deserved and demanding it. That's something I'm still working on right now, and the need to continue insisting on the kind of love, affection, and attention I both want and deserve is a lesson that's getting driven home right now.

Today, I got looking through old diary entries from the time when I moved up here to Rochester. As I read through them, it amazed me to notice how things have progressed since then. Things simply didn't work out the way I expected them to. But that's okay, because I like the way things turned out better than I would've had they gone the way I'd originally planned.

I think one of the things that truly amuses me is the fact that I mentioned in two separate entries how close the mall was to my townhouse. I was quite excited about that fact when I moved in. That's understandable, as the closest mall to me back when I lived with my parents was more than thirty minutes away by car.

Today, I rarely go to the mall. (And when I do, I will often make the trip out to the Eastview Mall instead.) In reality, I'm just not a big shopper, and I realized that hanging out at the mall and people watching (one of my original goals) just wasn't my style. I'd much rather interact with people rather than watch them. So now, I'm finding myself preferring the coffee shops and other venues where conversation is more likely to pop up.

Of course, I still like that all the other stores that cropped up around the mall are still there. Being ten minutes from Best Buy, Borders, Target, and Wal-Mart is still a plus. But those are conveniences, whereas the closeness of a mall was a novelty that quickly wore off.

Shortly after I moved, I also started making plans to volunteer at Lollypop Farms. I've officially given that up. I quit going regularly back before Christmas and just decided that while I enjoyed working with the cats and chatting with the staff and volunteers as we worked side by side, I'd rather sleep in after doing things on Saturday nights. And any other shift would similarly interfere with other activities I've gotten into since coming to the area.

I also tried three classes through the Rush-Henrietta school district's continuing education program the first nine months I was here. I enjoyed every last one of them, but they weren't quite what I expected. I had joined to meet people, and I did exactly that. But I also found that most of them were older people. As I was and am trying to meet people in my own age bracket, I decided to give that a halt.

However, I will note that I'm toying with the idea of teaching a class. The blogging class I took through them was discontinued after the first quarter they tried it. This was because the instructor for the class took a new job and was no longer able to teach the class. I've considered talking to the continuing education office about teaching my own class of that sort. But I haven't committed yet.

While I didn't mention it in any of the diary entries back then, I would also note that I had originally checked out COAP. Back then, I decided not to join. Most of the events they described at the time were outings and trips, and I just couldn't see myself getting involved when I didn't know anyone. And yet, now, I'm becoming an increasingly active member in COAP. I've attended the last three game nights, and I'm off to a dinner this evening and eagerly anticipating the increased number activities that Woody says tend to start in the summer.

Learning about game night from Rob contributed greatly to my decision to reconsider my position on COAP. I wasn't prepared to go to Toronto with a bunch of strangers. But I could definitely see myself sitting around playing board games (actually, we have yet to play one) and card games with them. It was a setting that I could be relatively comfortable in, and it's proved quite rewarding.

But I also think it was a matter of me just not being ready until this past February. As I look back over the past twenty months, I realize that I've gone through a lot of growth and healing which have greatly boosted my self-confidence. This in turn has helped me learn to be more open to and even desire increased socialization. And I was able to see how much I needed it. So things changed, and now I'm ready to take those extra steps that I was only ready to talk about back when I moved here. In some ways, I guess you could say that moving here began a transitional period in my life that is only now drawing to a close. And as it does, I'm finding myself with a stronger foundation to reap the benefits of those changes.

Tonight, I held the first weekly meditation at Genesee Valley Park. After doing it, I realized that we should've moved these meditations outside last summer, too. It added a certain pleasantness to the whole experience. It certainly helped that I added the actual sensations of the outdoors to the imagery I was using.

And of course, the fresh air was good for me. I've been getting a lot of that with all of these trips to the park. I've made it one of my goals to get there at least twice a week, and spend at least an hour and a half each week walking there. I figure that this will not only give me a chance to rejuvenate my body with clean air, but it'll also get my blood pumping and release a few endorphins in the process.

After meditation, I went to dinner at Red Robin. When I got out of the restaurant, it was almost dark out, with just a few minutes left of dusk. Part of me didn't want to come home. Part of me wanted to find someplace to go and enjoy more of the great outdoors. If I knew of someplace I could go where I would've felt completely safe, I would've done exactly that, too.

When I came out of the restaurant and had these moods, I found myself thinking about the many nights that I and various friends would walk down to the Susquehanna River and spend some time walking along the riverbank. We'd spend a great deal of time talking and just enjoying the experience. The memory made me realize just how much I miss that sort of thing.

There's something about walking with a good friend or two after dark, speaking in semi-soft tones as you stroll along. It's a setting that allows you to share deep, intimate thoughts and even be a bit more vulnerable. In fact, it doesn't just allow it, it practically encourages it. And I could see myself doing that here along the canal if only someone like James or Tim was here.

Who knows, perhaps I will eventually find someone here I can share that kind of experience with.

Saturday night, a group of friends went to the Silver Lake Drive-In. We ended up watching Spiderman 3 and Ghost Rider, both of which were excellent movies. I ended up sitting in Belinda's car watching the shows with her. The experience that night brought back a few memories.

Of course, any trip to a drive-in theater always brings back childhood memories. My parents, being frugal people, never took my sister or I to the movie theater. However, they were perfectly happy to take my sister and I to the drive-in theater a couple times each summer. Each time we'd go, they'd bundle the two of us into our pajamas before taking us out to the small drive-in (I was amazed when I learned that some places had more than one screen and offered a selection of movies to watch). I don't remember many of the movies we saw, the only two that stick out vividly are The Fox and the Hound (which I cried at because of the ending) and Herbie Goes Bananas. I also remember that the one time we went, the second movie they showed was Canonball Run. I particularly my mother mentioning the next day that she was glad that my sister fell asleep during that movie. (We often fell asleep during the second movie, which is why we were always bundled in our pajamas.)

Back then, going to the Drive-In was a special treat. We didn't go often, but Mom and Dad always made sure we saw at least one movie each summer. They would usually tell my sister and me a couple days in advance, and we'd look forward to the "big night" from that moment on. I suppose that's why going to a drive-in is still a magical event to me over two decades later. There's a certain sense to the experience that I doubt even seeing a movie at an I-Max theater could compare to in my mind.

The other memory that Saturday night brought back to me was the last time I went to a drive-in. That was during college. A group of us went to see Pocahontas with our friends Dennis and Mary and their three small children. There was a second movie we saw that night, but I forget what it was. I do remember that neither James nor I were impressed with it and spent most of the movie whispering snide comments about it between ourselves.

That was the night that I learned that some of the larger drive-in theaters have more than one screen, a fact that totally surprised me. I also remember my surprise at discovering that some drive-in theaters also broadcast the sound for their movies using a very small range FM radio transmitter. During my childhood, the theater we went to only had the small speakers that you hung on the edge of your car window.

That was also the first time that I didn't stay in the car. Dennis backed his mini van up into the spot so that the rear of the van was facing the screen. We then all climbed out and opened the back doors on the van. Some sat in the back of the van while the rest of us lined up in front in our lawn chairs. It was a different experience for me, and quite a pleasant one.

Saturday night, we stayed in our cars (though one of the girls did go sit outside in a chair). We hadn't brought chairs or blankets (well, the others hadn't brought blankets, but I had one). As it was quite chilly this weekend, we decided to stay in the cars for the most part. However, a great many people did choose to go sit or lay out on the lawn in front of all of the cars. We particularly admired the family who had the foresight to bring not only sleeping bags, but bean bags to lay on and a tarp to put down and keep everything else dry with.

It was a truly magical evening, and I look forward to repeating it again. Who knows, with any luck, I might get a chance to share the experience with someone special before the summer is out.

While driving to Applebee's tonight, Aerosmith's song, I Don't Want to Miss a Thing, came on the radio. There are many songs that are deeply connected to memories of people and events in my life, and this is one such song. In fact, it's probably one of the most strongly connected songs I can think of.

Tonight, this song took me back to my relationship with my first boyfriend. At the time Chris (not his real name) and I were dating, this song was relatively new and seeing a lot of airtime across the nation. And every time I heard it, I became more deeply convinced that it was the perfect song to describe how I felt about our relationship. In fact, I think I pointed this out to Chris at the time.

Thinking about the relationship now, I can still understand why I felt this way. Chris and I seldom saw each other (we probably spent barely over a week total together throughout the six months we were "involved"), and it was perfectly reasonable for me to want to make as much of that precious rare time as I could. On more than one occasion, I ended up taking a sick or personal day off work just so I could have those eight more hours with him.

Of course, there were other reasons for feeling like this, too. The relationship wasn't healthy, and I knew it. And that made me want to cling to it even tighter, holding it together out of my own desparation. Aerosmith's song spoke to me powerfully and romantically about that desparation I was feeling. In many ways, I used that song to validate my sense of desperation.

As I listened to that song this evening and allowed these memories and thoughts to play through my mind, I began to ask myself many questions. The first question was whether there was any pain associated with this song or the memories that it evoked. There wasn't, and I have to admit that I'm a little surprised by that. Certainly, there's a certain morose feel to the whole thing as I think of mistakes made and lessons learned. And there's the memory of the pain that used to be there. There's the knowledge that years ago, hearing this song would've driven me to tears almost instantly. But not this evening. This evening, there was merely a sense of familiarity and a knowledge of what has passed. And while I find it somewhat strange, I also find it rather comforting.

Of course, I also asked myself how I felt about the message of the song today. If I were with someone, would this song still reflect how I would feel about a new relationship? And I think that for the most part, I can say that it doesn't. Because now, my love relationships aren't about desperation, they're about something else.

The underlying premise of the song is about a relationship that would consume my whole life, an that's not what I'm lookin fo at all. Certainly, I want a lover I can share my life with, and I'd prefer to spend the rest of my life with him. And there are certainly those moments I will want to get lost in, but only for a time. Because there are other things in my life that are equally important. And I do not wish to give up those things completely just so I can make sure I "don't miss a thing" with my lover. That just isn't healthy.

It's strange to think of the thought processes a song can initiate. Of course, I also find it interesting that this all started on the same day that I had a dream about Chris (sadly, I don't remember any details) while napping.

Char decided to have a sidewalk sale¹ outside of Psychic's Thyme today. I ended up spending the first half of my time there sitting outside and helping keep an eye on the merchandise. I would've helped with customers, but all but two or three of them ended up paying inside the store because they wanted to see what was for sale there, too. It was a fun time, however. And I got lots of sun and fresh air.

I also realized something about myself. I like being outdoors. I like the idea of getting a tan. This is totally bizarre, because it's something I completely disliked while growing up. My sister would often go outdoors in the afternoon during summer vacation and spend a couple of hours lying in the old lounge chair my parents owned. I thought she was nuts and found the idea of just lying out in the sun insane.

Of course, it was probably the act of lying around that struck me as inside as the fact that such immobility was being enacted out doors. I was a rather hyper kid, even through my teenage years. Unless I was reading (and even that required frequent breaks unless it was a book I absolutely loved) or on the computer, I had to be on the move. No grass could grow under my feet and no moss would ever get the chance to grow on me.

Yet, as I get older I'm finding myself more inclined to be less active. This is especially true if I'm doing it someplace where I get sunlight and fresh air. So I suspect I'll be looking at my weekly schedule to figure out when and where I can pencil in some more outdoor tanning time. And I figure it'll be napping time, too. But that's okay.

¹ No actual sidewalks were sold at this sale. Isn't that strange? I mean, you sell books at a book sale, right?

While going through my computer, I found a file in which I wrote about my old dog, Trixie. According to the comptuer, I originally created the file back on 27 December 2005. I don't remember why I wrote it, but I decided I liked it well enough to publish it here.

I can't remember exactly how old I was when my sister and I used to play with Trixie at my grandparents' trailer. All I know for sure is that it was back when my paternal grandmother was alive, back when Trixie was still her dog rather than ours. I had to be either in preschool or the first couple years of elementary school. My family would go to visit her and my grandfather every week. Each visit would require that one of the adults take my sister and me down to the pen where they kept Trixie.

She was an adorably plain dog. To this day, I don't think I could even begin to guess at the breeds that made up her muttly heritage. She was about the size of a Pomeranian, with brown and white fur and a curly tail. Her lower jaw stuck out just enough so that her four front-most lower teeth were visible when she closed her mouth. Under other circumstances, this would have made her look constantly ferocious. But to me, it just made her all that more adorable.

Being small children, we loved to play with Trixie. Often, we would pester my grandfather (often, with the help of our grandmother, who loved nothing more than to see her grandchildren having fun) to let us let the dog loose. Then she would run around with us and we'd have a great time.

On some occasions, we'd even convince the adults (again, usually with Grandma helping us to persuade the others) to let us bring Trixie into the trailer with us for a half hour or so. On these occasions, we got to play our favorite game. My sister and I would lie on our stomachs and bury our faces in our arms. Trixie would run around us excitedly, trying to get at our faces and lick us. We'd laugh and giggle.

Every now and then, Trixie would start to wander off. My sister or I would immediately raise our heads up and call to her with a little chant. "Trixie, Trixie, try and kiss me." At hearing this, the dog would become excited again and the game would start all over, making both my sister and I squeal with laughter. Grandma would watch all of this with a smile on her face. Grandpa wasn't always as impressed, but she managed to keep him from getting too upset.

Eventually, Grandma succumbed to the cancer that had been trying to claim her life ever since I knew her. Just before she went into the hospital the final time, she asked my sister and me to take care of Trixie for her. That's how that adorable little dog with the constantly bared teeth eventually came to be my dog. We had her until my second year in college. And while I never plaid the "try and kiss me" game with her after Grandma died, I loved her that entire time. Some days, I still miss her.

Last night, I met Rick at Equal Grounds to play a couple of games. We often do this on a Wednesday night. Since we both had other plans for tonight, he suggested we get together yesterday instead.

This time, he asked me to look over the games there at the shop and select three for him to choose from. (Normally, he gives me three options and I make the final choice.) So I recommended Scrabble, Monopoly (which we had played last Wednesday), and Yahtzee. To my surprise and delight, Rick chose the third game. This was great because I'm actually a big fan of Yahtzee, though I actually prefer the related game from my childhood, Kismet.

The two games are similar enough that playing with Rick last night reminded me of the numerous times my sister, my parents, and I sat with my grandfather at his dining room table playing Kismet. (That is, when the grown-ups weren't playing Euchre.) It particularly reminded me of the one game when I somehow managed to roll three or four different Kismets. (Of course, that memory was probably particularly triggered by my first game with Rick, wherein I rolled two Yahtzees within the first five or ten minutes of the game. I consider myself lucky he consented to play a second an third game with me after that.)

I found these particular memories warming because it's one of the rare pleasant memories I have of spending time at my grandfather's house (at least after my grandmother passed away). To be honest, my sister and I were often bored during our weekly visits, as it was far more common for my parents and my grandfather to play cards, leaving the two of us to either do homework or find something on television to watch once we had finished with the Sunday comics (the other exciting gem of every visit to Grandpa's house). So the bulk of these visits were often endured rather than enjoyed, making the times when we played Kismet a fun change of pace.

It's been several years since my grandfather passed away, and I find myself now wondering what ever became of his Kismet game. In retrospect, I almost wish I would've had the insight to ask my parents if they could set it aside for me when they and my aunts and uncles went through Grandpa's belongings. But alas, I didn't think of it now.

However, today I did confirm that Kismet is still for sale, and I expect to pick up my own set in the near future. The memories from last night just makes it all the more tempting. I wonder if I'll ever get Rick to indulge me in a couple games sometime.

As someone who started out this life as a rather conservative fundamentalist Christian attending a Baptist Church and has since become a rather liberal, goddess-worshipping Vanic witch with a fancy for other guys, I know first-hand just how much a person can change over time. Fortunately for me, I've met some precious people in this world who also understood that and could embrace those changes. After all, had everyone simply chosen to look at my origins, I would be rather lonely right now.

To explore the memory that I'd like to write about, I first need to set up some background. In college, I was an active member in both my campus's chapter of InterVarsity Christian Fellowship and an "alternative ministry" program specific to my college called Acts 29. In fact, 99% of my non-academic life revolved around these two groups.

Of course, this meant I was very Christian and quite conservative in my outlook at this time, too. I felt that Christianity was the One True Religion(tm) and that homosexuality was a horrible sin. (Yes, I suspect I even uttered the baleful "love the sinner, hate the sin" phrase at least once during my college career.) Now, I wasn't particularly antagonistic in my opinion (and a few of the gay students I've talked to since would even agree). I didn't organize or stage protests. I didn't stand outside of BGLASS (my college's version of a gay student union) meetings and harass its members or any such thing. For the most part, I basically ignored the very existence of gay and bisexual students on campus. (Of course, I might argue that this is even worse than the things I didn't do.) But if you asked anyone on campus who knew me, I guarantee you they knew my views.

So when my own prison-closet cracked open and I began to accept and come to terms with my own gayness, I found myself in a bit of a sticky situation. Most of my friends were of the "homosexuality is a sin" mentality, and the group that was best equipped to help me at this point in my life was filled with people I had managed to alienate, even if only indirectly. So I spent the last couple of months of my college career in a sort of limbo, only finding support from a small group of friends involved with the computer consultants (another on-campus project dedicated to helping fellow students resolve their computer problems).

And then of course, there was ISCA BBS. I had been introduced to the Telnet-based BBS (if you don't know what any of that means, think of it as a sort of precursor to message forums that litter the Word Wide Web today) back when I was a freshman. It included discussion forums for discussing gay issues and even had an invite-only support group for LGBT-folk. I found a lot of support and helpful information there, which was boon for me. Not only that, it was something I managed to stick with after college, when living in rural PA.

Well, my worlds did collide to some degree. An old member of BGLASS (who graduated at least a year before I did), Rob, was also on ISCA BBS. What's more, he knew my username. Well, needless to say, Rob remembered who I was and my beliefs and attitudes prior to coming out. And while he didn't make too big of an issue of my past (in fact, he only ever mentioned it twice and was even one of the people to admit I wasn't "too bad" when it came to stuff like harassing people), it was also pretty clear that he wasn't exactly ready to think of it as water long passed under the bridge either.

What amazed me, however, was the reaction he received from other users of the BBS on the second time he brought up my past. I forget what exactly Rob said. To be honest, I didn't find it all that objectionable, as he simply brought the subject up. Granted, it did give me pause to feel a twinge of guilt due to such memories, but I took it in stride. However, at least one of the long-standing members of the discussion group was not so willing to just let thing be. This individual instead chose to very pointedly remind Rob that my past was not relevant and that who I am today (or that day, as I've further changed since even then) was what was relevant. Indeed, this person seemed quite incensed that Rob would even bring up such distasteful skeletons.

Now, I've never been one to try and hide or even deny my past. I won't beat myself up for them either, instead choosing simply to acknowledge that I made some bad choices in the past. But I was and still am grateful that there were those people who were willing to let those bad choices go and instead embrace the person I had become. I think some times, we all need people like that. May the gods bless those who accept that we may not be the same person today as we were yesterday. It grants us the freedom to continue that transformation tomorrow.

Pam over at Willful Grace created a wonderful post in which she describes the major events in her life in each of the last twelve months as well as the lessons she learned from those events. It's a fantastic post and I encourage everyone to read it.

More importantly, Pam inspired me to do something similar. Sadly, my post won't be nearly as organized or well thought out as Pam's is. To be honest, I don't think I could come up with a single even for every month since last January. And besides, there are a couple of months that I doubt I could boil down into a single event or a single lesson learned from the events of some months.

The good news is that I'm not in a competition with Pam, so I'm under neither obligation nor pressure to match her excellent post. This gives me the freedom to simply allow her to inspire me and see where the inspiration takes me. So for that, I'd like to say thank you to her. And without further ado, I devote this post to the highlights of the previous year of my life.

I think that the first major highlight of the year came in February, when I met Rob. I didn't talk about Rob much in this blog, and there's a good reason for it. Rob represented the first time that a potential (and real, however temporary) love interest actually read my blog. As such, I struggled with finding the balance of what I could say, knowing that I didn't want to reveal anything I hadn't already discussed with him. After all, reading about what another person is feeling about you in his blog rather than firsthand strikes me as a horrible thing.

Rob found me online -- on Valentine's Day no less -- and contacted me to express a desire to get to know me and explore the possibility of a relationship. In many ways, we hit it off quite well. And I have to admit that I was swept off my feet. Rob was the first guy to actually pursue me. (Usually, I've had to chase after the other guy.) I learned just how much I could enjoy being the object of pursuit. In fact, I'd say that one of the things I learned about myself due to my encounter with Rob is that I like a slightly aggressive guy.

Sadly, things with Rob were fast-paced and terribly short lived. After a few dates and immediately after our first night together, Rob decided I wasn't what he was looking for after all. I have to admit that after being pursued that hard and dropped just as quickly, I was stinging. Though I did learn an important lesson in that respect, too. My guides tried to tell me things were going too fast and I should slow things back down. But I allowed myself to get carried away in the heat of the moment.

Of course, I don't think things would've ended any differently. After much time, I realize that Rob and I just weren't right for each other. And that would've been the case no matter how slowly we took things. Though I do admit that I wonder if slowing down would've enabled us to realize this before we took things as far as we did, saving at least some heartache. So the lesson I learned from that is that when spirit says slow down, it's best to listen, even if you are enjoying the heat of the moment.

March and April brought new choices with them. After the events of February, I realized that I needed to get out more and put myself in positions where I could meet more people. Before then, I had a small group of great friends, and I'm still thankful for them. But I realized that if I wanted more out of life (especially in the realms of socializing and dating), it was time to expand my circles even farther. So I began to join various groups and look for other ways to get out in the wider community. I would say I've seen some mixed results from those efforts, but I'd say they were positive overall. And it's still a work in progress. And I've made some great friendships (especially one in particular) as a result that I think I will always cherish.

The summer months, starting with June, brought unexpected changes in me. In June, I started walking more. In fact, the weekend before my birthday, I took my first ever seven mile walk along the Erie canal. That first walks was both exciting and draining. I came away with a sunburn and some pretty serious blisters on my feet, but I also developed a passion for the trek. In fact, I loved it so much, that I repeated the walk once a month through September and am even counting down the days until the warm weather returns and I can resume the little tradition.

In addition to the canal walk, I began taking a walk after my weekly dinner with friends on Monday nights. Those walks began when I got ready to leave the restaurant one Monday night and decided it was too gorgeous an evening to just go home. So a second walking tradition was born. By the end of summer, I was up to three one-hour walks a week (except on the weekend I'd take the canal walk, in which case that trek would replace one of the regular walks). I began to see this as something I did for enjoyment.

As an aside, this is also the summer that I began to enjoy sunbathing. This is something I had considered a waste of time while growing up and would often shake my head at my sister in disgust during summer vacations when she'd sunbathe daily. In fact, when I confessed to my sister this summer that I'd started enjoying the practice myself, she immediately asked, "Who are you and what have you done with my brother?"

In August, I went with friends the Northeast Naturist Festival. I had a pleasant time while there (though I will note that I kept my clothes on 99.9% of the time I was there) and enjoyed my first real vacation (i.e. a prolonged period off where I did something other than visit family) in years. I came to appreciate again the importance of pampering myself.

The naturist retreat also marked the point in time where I'd say I really began to start coming into my own in terms of spirituality. I had a few moving experiences while there, and they initiated changes in myself that continued over the next several months, and will likely continue into the coming year.

At this point, I will also note that I started really "coming into my own" in general around this time. Or at least I began to notice it. I began building much more self-confidence and a willingness to take risks and make myself more vulnerable. In some ways, I'd say my transformation into a minor social butterfly started to become more noticeable at this point.

In September and October, I had more spiritual awakenings. It is at this time when my patroness, Freyja, began to make it more clear that the nature of our relationship was going to change significantly. (I'm still not ready to publicly discuss the nature of that change, however.) Again, I found myself in situations where my comfort zones were pushed and I was encouraged (not quite at knifepoint) to stretch as a person.

Also in October, I went to a cousin's wedding. While making the trip with my parents and members from my father's side of the family, Freyja also impressed upon me the fact that I've cut myself off from my family. She began to impress upon me the fact that I need to get closer to them. She says it's because there are ways in which I can help various people in my family. Of course, I'm not sure how that's going to work, considering that the kind of help I can best offer is something most of them would be opposed to. But I guess time will tell.

Then in December, the bombshell dropped. About two weeks before Yule, Freyja suggested (again, not quite at knifepoint) that I should plan the Yule ritual for a small group of friends. So I placed the necessary calls, made the commitment, and moved forward. I have to admit, I was rather nervous, especially after becoming sick for the week prior to the ritual, which I had originally hoped to better use for planning. But things turned out beautifully and everyone had a pleasant time. And fortunately, I have much more advanced noticed for the next ritual I'm expected to plan, which isn't until the Spring Equinox.

I'd say it's been an interesting, profound, and profitable year. Hopefully the coming one will continue in that trend.

Earlier this week, Adam tagged me with a meme. I decided to spend the week thinking about it. But now I'm ready to give it a whirl.

The Rules
1. Answer the question, If you could spend one more day with someone who would it be? Why? What would you want to talk to this person about? This can be someone you know or someone from history.

2. Tag as many as you want or as little as you want. Participate even if your are not tagged!!

3. (Optional) Include a link back to the original post if you were tagged with the person who tagged you. Invite others to comment back to the original post.

I think I would choose to spend one more day with my father's mother, Grandma Harris. She passed away when I was still quite young, and all of my memories are from after she started chemotherapy and the rest of her battle with cancer.

I would spend the day with her in the kitchen, helping her bake. One of the things I do know about Grandma Harris is that she loved to bake. While we worked to turn out delicious goodies, I'd just spend the time talking to her and finding out more about what her life was like before I knew her. I'd find out things like what it was like to raise six children. Most particularly, I'd like to find out more about what my own father was like growing up. And I'd find out what kinds of things concerned her before her life was consumed by cancer.

Also, I'd ask her about my grandfather, who survived well into my twenties. But I have to believe that he was a much different man when they were together. The grandfather I knew was something of a bastard. He was old, cranky, and very bitter. But when I think of my sweet, caring grandmother, I have to believe he wasn't always that way. I figure there had to be something which drew them together. (I often think my younger cousin was right when she so thoughtfully opined that the best part of Grandpa Harris died with Grandma.) So I would love to find out what their relationship was like, as well of what kind of man he was before he had to endure the failing health and inevitable death of his beloved wife.

I'm not going to specifically tag anyone, given the intensely personal nature of this meme. But I would invite any reader who is willing to take us for a stroll down memory lane to partake.