Remember that every day, every minute, every moment…

you are alive

you are well

you are in control

you have a choice

Remember to love, remember what you love.

Remember that you only get this life.

Remember to live it. Remember to live it to the full.

And remember to make a difference.

So Weird, a paranormal drama on the Disney Channel, was my favorite show in high school. I got hooked freshman year when Viola, the student from Germany living with us, and I watched an episode; we were instant fans.

In one episode, Fiona—the main character—enters a structure designed using the Fibonacci sequence and intended to serve as bridge between our world and ‘the spirit world.’ In it, Fi has a brief encounter with her deceased father through the thin veil in the structure.

“Thin places” is not unique to a cheesy Disney Channel original series. The idea of “thin places” is alive in many traditions.

But, as someone whose brain is math-science oriented, I like structure and reason. Ice floats because the molecular structure makes it less dense than water. Our bodies break down food into usable amino acids, vitamins, and minerals. The sun “rises” because our planet is rotating and revolving around it.

Where do I experience the thin places?

Last week, I attended a concert at Marble Collegiate Church in Manhattan and connected deeply to the gospel choir’s portion of the concert. There’s a thin place there. I don’t always know what I believe, but I do know that something came alive in the singers and the audience at that concert.

I know that something profound happened when 50 Equality Riders stepped on to Bethany Luterhan’s campus after being threatened with arrest and, in the wake of 8 arrests, students poured out of buildings to engage in conversation for hours.

I know that something stirred in me while performing in Andy Cofino’s play Out In The Open.

I know, even, that when my roommate and I sit on our couch eating Hagen-Daas and bearing our real selves to each other… that something is happening there.

Tapping In

Recognizing (and remembering) the thin places is a practice for me to cultivate. As much as I want to read explanations in an academic journals, I learn over and over again that there is power in trusting the mystery. In squeezing and then releasing. In letting it be.

My practice, if I can muster it, is to embrace the thin places, to honor them, and to tap into the potential they store.

I don’t know why or how, but so it is.

My friend Emily West was one of my many who shared the video (thanks to everyone else who did too!). One of her friends left a comment on the Facebook post that caught my eye. He wrote,

This was a unique argument I hadn’t heard before. I wonder about a couple things: “God is ready to play wingman,” and that God will “trust my decision.” I think if we extrapolate these, they start to sound a bit off. Is God a sidekick? Is God someone who wants us to ultimately take charge of our own destiny and to make our own decisions, regardless of what those choices are? Or does God demand self-emptying and, ultimately, to recognize that he is Creator and we are all his creatures, not in burdensome slavery but in joyful surrender?

I don’t think the video was trying to deny God’s sovereignty but I do think that that mentality somewhat informs the whole argument. Another question would be Was Adam’s choice a once-and-for-all choice for mankind? Or do we each get to choose anew? That’s the question that sticks with me after watching this.

Did you notice how he described the video? An argument. Does this seem like an argument to you?

(click here to view the video on YouTube)

I didn’t set out to craft an argument. I was sharing a mix of my own personal story and my understanding of the Creation story in Genesis.

I remember when the only way that I could talk about “homosexuality and the Bible” was in arguments. Exegesis, eisegesis, translation, original intent, extant literature, Biblical scholarship, centuries of tradition… Talking points, and facts, and arguments. Someone always had to win (ideally me).

With this video, I didn’t try to argue, certainly didn’t try to win anything, or  to even really persuade.

Here’s one way that I read this particular text. Does it resonate with you?

That’s really all I set out to share and ask. I remember being stuck in that box and I’m glad I’m not in it anymore.

I wonder then, to pay tribute to the Bible, if I’m not missing the plank in my own eye to point out the speck in another’s. What boxes am I stuck in? What boxes am I so stuck in that I don’t even know I’m stuck in.

That’s where the real work comes in, isn’t it? In constantly insepcting and exaiming myself. To be courageous and unrelenting. This is scary stuff. To question one’s self. One’s foundations. The things one holds dearly.

That is my challenge to myself: to find my own edges, the walls of my own boxes. And to then be willing to tear them down.

What’re some of the boxes you’ve escaped from?

I find that the untold stories are the ones most needing to be told.

How do we tell the hard stories, though?

The first step is to tell them to ourselves. To give ourselves permission to explore and experience them all over again. This part might bring up uncomfortable feelings. When that happens, I try to notice them and uncover what my feelings tell me about unmet needs. When I’m looking the discomfort square in the face, it’s less scary. In Everyday Activism, we develop a practice of journaling to tell our own story… to ourselves.

When I’ve rolled my own story around in my head and on paper, it’s time to set it free. To tell other people. Sometimes this is in a face-to-face conversation with another person, other times it’s on a stage to an audience, still other times it’s on video or written form… out to the public web.

This is where it gets tough, right?

In Everyday Activism, I write

I find that when I speak aloud to the intimate, scary parts of me, they become less scary. I’ve also found that people react positively, not negatively. They’re inspired by my courage and vulnerability. Sometimes they share something back with me.

It’s not all cheery. When I told my parents that I am gay, they were sad, confused, unhappy, and awkward (they’re wonderful and accepting now).

The first step is the simplest and the most difficult: simply start.

Photo from Out In The Open: Stories of Queer Oppression & Empowerment. Performed at The Barrow Group Theater.

Nicole. She lived around the corner from us.

In elementary school, my favorite subjects were math and science and I was good at them. Yet somehow, in the spring of fourth grade, every day while working on my homework, I would completely loose my ability to complete even the simplest equations. I would take forever to finish a single problem. Two time six is fifteen?

And then one day, the story goes, my parents figured it out: every afternoon Nicole and her family take a walk and they walk past our house. Mom, dad, brother, sister, dog, and her… Nicole.

And that was it. Goodbye critical thought for the next 45 minutes.

She was a friend: we rode the bus together, played together, invited each other for parties or swimming in her family pool or running around in my big backyard. But perhaps she was something more: my first crush?

One day, she wrote me a note “Do you like me? Circle yes or no.”

I didn’t know what to do. Of course I liked her. But did she mean something else? Something deeper? How did I feel about that? I didn’t know. I don’t know.

My parents, always helpful, suggested I not be bounded by either “yes” or “no” and write in my own answer (an early lesson in smashing binaries!). That’s what I did. We stayed friends until she moved away, always teetering on the edge between friends and something more.

//

Here’s a story that’s never been told.

In fourth grade, I met another friend: Paul. We met at Patrick’s birthday party. He was fun. I remember coming home and telling my mom I’d met someone new and wanted to be his friend. She coached me through setting up a playdate.  We became friends that year and stayed friends throughout the remainder of elementary school and into middle school (until he moved away too).

I remember one night we got into a “fight” during a sleepover spraying air freshener at each other. Dodging behind beds, and couches, and doorways. My room reeked for days. We sprayed so much that there was a spot on my wall next to the door where a shot had misfired. For what in my memory seems like months, I remember looking at that spot as I’d walk out of my room and smile—remembering Paul. Touching the spot as I walked past and smiling.

Did I make a new friend that day at Patrick’s birthday party or did I develop a crush? The thought never crossed my mind–I didn’t even know I had the option of liking Paul. Liking him in the same way that Nicole liked me. In the same way I was supposed to like Nicole back. I don’t know if he was just a friend or if I had a schoolboy crush on him.

//

Here’s the first crush I wish I had: I was able to get dumbstruck when Nicole rode her bike past my house and I was able to get excited about meeting Paul for the first time. Where the family story we tell could just as easily be about Paul as it is about Nicole.

I want a world where we don’t have to come out at all because we aren’t hidden away to begin with, I want a world where we just are.

Until then, I’m sharing stories and practicing activism.

I snapped on Sunday. The vintage red Giant bike I purchased from a thrift store for $99 in Boston and then refurbished had to go. For the past 10 months, it’s perched against the wall in the corner of my (tiny) bedroom.

For the past 10 months I’ve been deciding what to do with it. Refill the now-deflated front tire and ride it regularly? Hang it somewhere? Take the wheels off and attempt to store it under my bed or above my closet? Lock it up outside and hope for the best? Sell it?

For the past 10 months I’ve remained paralyzed by indecision and my trusty bike has remained tucked away in the corner, alternating as a towel rack and a these-clothes-need-to-go-to-the-dry-cleaners rack.

Until Sunday.

On Sunday, it all had to go. I dug through boxes of old papers, bank statements, receipts, and books. Save, toss, give away. I turned worn out t-shirts into rags. I removed one of the shelves to create more empty space on my bookshelf. And I hung bike on the wall.

I decided on Saturday I would hang the bike, but instead cleaned my entire room. I wanted to make sure I didn’t need anything else from the store before heading out.

On Sunday, I purchased the mounting hooks, I charged the drill, I called my dad for final advice, I got out the ladder. I started knocking on the wall to find the studs. The wall is plaster, which makes finding the studs extra hard. Drat. A friend texted and I climbed down from the ladder to check the message. 15 minutes I was still chatting with that friend. I’d gotten up a few times to knock on the wall some more. I was still unsure exactly where the studs were, but knocking felt like I was doing something.

My dad called back to see how it went. I hadn’t drilled yet.

“Just do it,” he said. “You can always patch up the hole if you mess up.”

I hung up. I knocked a few more times on the wall. I climbed up on the ladder and pressed the drill into the wall. I moved over a bit and drilled the second hole. This time, I hit something I couldn’t drill through. My roommate mentioned that. Crap.

Knock on the wall some more. Pick another spot. Drill.

The drill slowed to a stop. What now? How was the battery already dead?? Oh, I forgot to swap in the freshly charged battery.

Climb down from the ladder, change the batter, climb back up.

Start drilling again. This time, I got in again. The plaster/wire/wood mesh is thick so it’s difficult to determine if you hit a stud.

I put the hooks in anyway, set the bike on them, and it held easily.

That was much easier than I imagined.

With a clear floor, an uncluttered bookshelf, and the space previously occupied by the bike now free, my room feels like a completely different room. It feels spacious, it feels HUGE.

Something about my mind changed too.

I feel different when I’m in the room.

Open,

spacious,

free.

My mind is no longer occupied with stepping over the clothes on the floor, sneaking around the bike handle, reaching between the wheels to plug in my phone.

I can even dance around in my room now, something I haven’t done since childhood.

I am reminded that there is an intimate connection between my mind and my body. What I eat matters, how I hold my body, and the environment in which my body resides all make a difference.

I’m a process person. To create space in my life, my impulse is to reflect and meditate, then to think, then to plan, probably to create some sort of list of action items. I want to solve everything in my own head.

The answer, it seems, is much simpler: Pick up the drill, press it to the wall, and go for it even when I’m scared.

There is order in science. Mix this much baking soda with that much vinegar and your volcano will overflow with lava. A process.

I am constantly attempting to develop processes for my life. An exercise schedule to train for a race, a meal plan to prepare for the week, a publishing calendar for my writing.

If I want to notice my feelings and needs, I need a process for that. If I want to uncover the power behind my shame and vulnerability, I need to first notice it. I need a process for that too.

Here are some of the tools I use as I develop a process of Notice.

Journaling. I write in a journal, only for myself to read, every morning. That’s the plan at least. In practice, it’s more like 4-5 times per week.

Meditating. I sit in silence on a pillow on my floor for 10 minutes each morning (in reality, this is more like once or twice per week). I notice my breath going out. I notice the cricks and creaks and pops in my body. I notice the thoughts that come to my mind (without judging them) and then I let them slip away.

Back exercises. My chiropractor recommends I lay on rolled up towels for 15 minutes twice a day. I do this on my living room floor. It’s good for my back and also a good time time to allow myself to be still. To detox. To just be still. I don’t often “notice” anything while I’m laying on my back, but the “reset” helps me to better notice after.

Feelings and needs. I read through a list of feelings and needs and identify what I’m feeling and what I’m needing. This is hard work for me, still. Sometimes it feels like I’m guessing. I notice when it’s hard, too. That tells me something. Can I dig deeper?

Conversation with a trusted friend. I have a few friends I’m comfortable sharing the scary stuff with. I hide some feelings from myself for as long as possible. Then I roll out them around in my head. Finally, I tell a trusted friend. It feels scary before I say it out loud. Once I do, it feels less scary (but still too scary to tell anyone else). As I share my feelings, they become more real. I can look at them. Then I can decide what to do with them.

Rinse and repeat.

I find that as I notice what is going on inside of me, I am able to more clearly communicate with those around me. Not only that, I am able to tap inside to deep, personal places of who I am and bring those out to share with the others. First, I must notice.

Do you notice what you’re feeling? If so, what has that taught you? If not, can you think about what it might be like to practice noticing?

I’ve spent most of the rest of the today (when I wasn’t mounting my bike to the wall) thinking about the ways shame is part of my life.

For many years I was ashamed of my attraction to men. Eventually I came out, and later began practicing activism. My shame fuels my activism. My story is my most powerful tool.

Coming out didn’t magically heal my shame, neither did taking up activism. Dealing with shame is an on-going process. I’m not sure if it is ever “finished.”

Today, I am trying to notice the areas in my life where I experience shame. In those places reside a powerful potential for connection, creativity, and healing. If I can summon the bravery to take a look at my shame, and then to expose it, what might happen?

Do you feel shame? You’re not alone.

It was everything I wanted my Saturday to be.

//

When life goes “right,” I’m practicing noticing it and appreciating it. Every day, every moment, I have the opportunity to be fulfilled. What do you cherish from today?

• Wake up
• Drink a glass of water
• Sitting meditation (currently 12 minutes)
• Eat breakfast (homemade cereal, green smoothie, or granola & fruit)
• Journal (currently in Scrivener, previously in 750words.com)
• Write for others (here, recently Everyday Activism, soon other projects)

On days when I’m exercising, I prepare a raw smoothie and then walk to the gym. Otherwise, I walk to the Lexington Avenue line and take the subway to work.

My morning ritual is usually the same on weekends too, which surprised me. Growing up, I always slept until afternoon on the weekends. And the last time I worked in an office, I struggled in the morning to get up with the alarm. Now, I wake up around the same time (between 6:15 and 7:30) every morning, without an alarm, even on weekends.

My morning routine can (and does) get thrown off. When I travel. If I stop exercising. When I don’t eat what my body needs.

I find that my morning routine, when I follow it, sets my day up. I feel focused, refreshed, and energized. When I skip my morning routine (“I don’t have time,” “I am tired,” “Just this once”) my day suffers. It’s in the times when I am most stressed that I most need my morning routine (and most want to skip it). When I can get back on it, I notice my disposition change. And that improves my ability to do my job and to create change in the world.

Do you have a morning routine? Will you share it with me?