Tag: One Monday Afternoon

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One Monday Afternoon by Phillip Hoyle

One Monday afternoon with a folder of
stories in hand, I made my way to The LGBT Center in the 1100 block on
Broadway, the place with the purple awning that I had visited often to borrow
books from the Terry Mangan Memorial Library. My friend Dianne had looked at
The Center’s website and called me to say they were offering art programs and a
weekly storytellers gathering. She thought I might be interested, and she was
right. For quite a few years I had been attending a writers group, a monthly
gathering of men and women in which I was the only gay, but now I thought I’d
like to read my gay-themed pieces to an LGBT audience to see what response I
would receive. Excited by the prospects I entered the building, climbed the
stairs, registered my presence, and made my way to the library where the group
was to meet.
I knew the storytelling was part of
SAGE, a seniors program, and wondered how I’d compare with other participants.
I was younger except for Jackie who was the group leader. She was quite a bit
younger than I, a graduate social work student at Denver University who had
started the group as part of her internship with SAGE. Jackie’s warm and
friendly personality attracted me, and she was just funky enough and humorous
enough for me to relate to her. Two or three other men attended my first Monday
afternoon with the group. We introduced ourselves to one another and the
storytelling began. Since I’d never attended before, I had no story about the
topic, but I did have a couple of stories about my experiences as an older man
who came to Denver some years earlier to live his life as an openly gay man. Two
participants told stories extemporaneously, sharing interesting events in their
lives. Jackie read her story, something about one of her boyfriends back in New
Jersey. The other participant read his story in a thick Alabama accent.
I knew I had come to the right place. Thus began my tenure with The Center’s
SAGE of the Rockies “Telling Your Story” group, a storytelling relationship
that has endured over three years.
The next Monday afternoon one of the
extemporaneous storytellers surprised us and himself by reading a story.
Somehow the experience of putting his feelings on paper moved him deeply,
reading them aloud nearly devastated him, and hearing them read nearly devastated
the rest of us. What was this group? I suspected our times together might
become more than any of us anticipated.
Over the ensuing weeks—April through
June—we told our stories to one another; sometimes asking questions for
clarification, sometimes responding with our own similar experiences and
feelings, and always appreciating the candor and depth of the sharing. But
Jackie broke into our satisfaction by announcing the end of her internship; she
had received an assignment at another setting for the final months of her
academic program. Michael piped up to say we already had our next leader. We
looked around the room and then a realization hit me. I felt like I was again
in church; I was being volunteered. When the truth of it was clarified, I
agreed only to consider convening the group. The Center would be closed for a
month while the programs moved into the new facility on East Colfax Avenue. I
suggested that on the first Monday afternoon of opening week we come together
with stories on the topic “Beginnings.” In the meantime I would confer with
Ken, the acting SAGE director, about the possibility of leading the group.
I did volunteer to lead the group, an
experience of great importance and meaning for me. Prior to accepting the
responsibility I had gone nearly twelve years without leading any kind of
group. In fact, I had rarely attended any meetings for over a decade. I
reasoned perhaps it was time I re-entered group life and asked the participants
to brainstorm several topics we could use for the next meetings. We did so and
since then have generated so many topics we’ll have to meet weekly for
several years to use them all. The LGBT makeup of the group has presented no
particular challenges because of the personalities of group members and their
dedication to building community that features a broad spectrum of human
experience. But the most important thing I discovered in assuming this
leadership was that the group barely required any leadership, barely needed it.
It’s the easiest group I ever led, and I had led many, many of them in a church
career that lasted thirty years. Also, I never before led a group with such a
high average IQ or so much creativity and talent, both raw and trained. And
still after many months I never can imagine what to expect each week. Such fun,
such humanity, such diversity, such community. It all began for me one Monday
afternoon.
© Denver,
2013
About the Author
  

 Phillip Hoyle
lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In
general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two
years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now
focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE
program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs
at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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One Monday Afternoon by Will Stanton

Ned and I were not that young but felt as though we were going on just sixteen. We were glad that we were old enough to drive, but I don’t think that either of us was ready to be any older. We each felt so repressed in our families that we really had not grown up; we felt more comfortable somehow as just mid-teens, to belatedly begin to explore the world and ourselves at a time when many already had several years of experience growing. I got to know him more briefly than I would have liked.

Unlike many young, more fortunate gays these days, we had little understanding of ourselves, no sense of orientation. Even had we understood ourselves, we felt in our time that we would have had to hide our orientation from the world, let alone our families. That repression wounded our sense of self-esteem and hindered our courage to explore and to take new risks like many other teenagers. So, Ned and I were alike in many ways and naturally gravitated toward each other when we met.

With me, Ned was very open and honest. One day, he sat down with me and explained very simply that he wished to be my special friend, a long-term partner. This was all new to me, and I was confused. I was not quite sure what to do. After all, every lesson that I had learned growing up told me that normal was straight, normal was eventually getting married, normal was having kids. Having another guy as your special friend was not normal. I thought carefully about it and, at least, committed to our being very good friends; but I was not sure beyond that.

We began to spend time together. We often went to the countryside to take long hikes together. We explored remote roads, driving into the countryside on sunny days or cool June evenings. We would drive out to the lake, stopping along the way to buy popsicles. Like young kids, we had our favorites, cherry and grape. Then we would walk out onto the beach, spread out our blankets, and lie in the sun, talking with each other and watching the swimmers. When the sun became too hot, we also would swim out into the lake to cool off.

Ned was romantic. It also became clear that he truly loved me. One of the most wonderful things that I remember was during one of our hikes in the hills. We paused on a high bluff and quietly stood there, looking at the valley below. I felt him gently press his chest against my back and slip his arms around my chest in a loving hug. Then he rested his head on my shoulder. We stood there for some time, content, and in peace. That simple gesture meant so much. The memory, that sense, has remained with me ever since.

In town, I would find love notes on my car windshield. He also seemed to be extraordinarily in-tune with me. If I was quietly thinking about something and then suddenly changed what I was thinking about, he would say, “What?” This happened several times. I don’t know how. He also surprised me because he claimed to have a way with inanimate objects, too. When his old car refused to start, he would stand in front of the car, giving it a stern look, and give the car a good talking-to. Then, he would get back into the car and start it. I was amused by that, but don’t ask me what got the car going.

Ned and I spent as much time together as we could. Some straight friends quickly began to see us as a pair and invited us both to their picnic. Sometimes, he would come to my house when my parents were not around, we would lie in each other’s arms, listening to the rain outside the windows. Just the closeness seemed to be enough.

Then there came that one Monday afternoon when I informed him that I would be leaving town during the summer months to work in a place too far away to drive back very often. He burst into tears, truly distraught. He said that he was afraid that he would lose me forever. He said that he could not stand being without me.

Then, I made the worst mistake that I could have made. I thought that I was being reasonable and helpful, but it did not turn out that way. I suggested to him that, in the meantime, he needed to find more friends. I did not specify what kind of friends he should associate with. It never occurred to me that I needed to say so. That has haunted me ever since.

Shortly after that, I had a long-distance phone call from Ned. One evening, lonely, and in tiny apartment in a far-away town, I was thinking of a girl that I knew back home and what it might be like to get to know her better. Maybe that was the right thing for me to do; maybe that would work. Then my phone rang; it was Ned. Despite his being at a noisy party far away, something had alerted him. Without my saying anything at all about where I was at that moment or what I was thinking, he immediately stated, “I suddenly got the feeling that you were very lonely and that I better call you. I know that you were thinking about that girl. She is not the right person for you; I don’t think that she can give you the love that you need.” How did he know? How can that be just coincidence? He really was especially sensitive and in-tune with me.

By the time I came back, I found that things had changed. The substitute friends that Ned made were heavily into drugs, and Ned followed suit. When I finally returned and saw Ned again, he was not the same person. Every bit of that remarkable sensitivity was gone, completely. He could no longer sense or do what he once could do. His whole personality had changed. He used to be bright and cheerful; he had an innocent sense of humor. All that was gone, too. Instead, he was slow and dull, seemingly uninterested in the people around him, uninterested in life. It seemed that there was no love left in him. It did not occur to him to repay the two hundred dollars that I had lent him. He no longer was Ned. He was someone else. I was shocked and dismayed.

Over the years, I occasionally have thought back to that fateful Monday afternoon and my saying to him to find other friends. He found some guys to hang out with, but they were no true friends to him. They destroyed the Ned that I knew and cared for.

© 10 February 2013



About the Author

  

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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One Monday Afternoon by Betsy

When I retired I was quite elated that I would no longer have to do any work. That is work other than the menial chores of maintaining a household. The rest of the time I would play–perpetual play for the rest of my life. This attitude only lasted for about the first week of retirement. I soon found myself redefining what for me was work and what was play and just exactly what was rest and recreation anyway? Since I did quite a bit of writing in the last 10 years of my job, it seemed like writing was work.

I soon adjusted to retired life. The only writing I did was in our travel log as we journeyed here and there in our beloved VW camper van to many different parts of the U. S. “Mileage today was 350. Spent the night at Frigid Frosty Forest Service campground. Woke up to snow and froze our butts,” would be a typical entry into the journal.

Then one day about twelve years into retirement my partner Gill and I were presented with the opportunity to join a certain writing group at the LGBT Center. Currently I was told the group is made up of about 10-15 men–zero women, but surely more women would be joining the group. Well, that’s okay I said. I like men. But do I want to do the work of writing?

How often does the group meet, I ask? Every week. Surely, I say to myself, we don’t all write something every week. Probably we take turns so that each individual ends up writing something maybe once a month. I suppose I could try this out. When I learned that there is an assigned topic about which every one writes and shares with the group, it did seem for a moment like this would be burdensome. But Gill was enthused about doing it so why not give it a try. After all, I could pass or just not attend when I had nothing to share.

I must confess. The fact that this group was made up of men did get my attention. I had always had men in my life. I was close to my father and adored him. I was married for 25 years to my best friend, and I have a son and grandson whom I love very much. Life as a lesbian leaves little room for men and I had missed the contacts.

I made some close male friends years ago when I answered an announcement in the LGBT community for anyone interested in forming a tennis group. I showed up on the appointed day at Congress Park tennis courts with 20 men–no women. Our group maintained the same twenty-something to one gender ratio for several years. I became very good friends with some of these men and consider a couple of them still my friends although the group broke up several years ago after about 7-8 years of tennis and friendship.

But a writing group? Creating a piece of writing EVERY week. Telling my story. That sounds like work to me. I’ll have to exercise my brain and delve into memories and emotional stuff of the past and present. Do I really want to do that? Writing. Much harder than talking or thinking or imagining. After all, I thought, writing my story I will have to finish my dangling thoughts as well as correcting my dangling participles. Do I really want to get into that?

That was two years ago. Here I am cranking out the words to share just about every darn week. I feel deprived if I miss a week. I had no idea I would get so much out of being a part of this group when I was considering whether or not to join.

I have learned more than I can measure from the stories I hear from others on Monday afternoons. Sometimes funny and entertaining, sometimes heart-wrenching, sometimes informative, sometimes insightful, sometimes inspiring. I believe these Monday afternoons hone not only my writing skills, but also my listening skills. I don’t want to miss a word most of the time.

Furthermore, there is tremendous value to me in documenting experiences I have had, feelings I now have or have had in the past, beliefs I hold dear; ie, documenting who I am. The process of telling one’s story is not always easy, but with practice it gets easier. How much value the stories have for anyone else I will never know. But I find it oddly comforting knowing that I am leaving them behind when I depart this life.

Finally I believe this Monday afternoon activity of telling our stories gives a broader perspective on our own lives–a perspective perhaps not otherwise attained and certainly a perspective not easily attained.

March 3, 2013

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.
 

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One Monday Afternoon by Michael King

Almost every Monday afternoon I go to the GLBT Center for the “Telling Your Story” activity. There are from twelve to eighteen men and women who write or tell a story based on a topic. The topics may be very unusual or fairly mundane. I have been involved now for about three and a half years and have found that this program has been for me very therapeutic. When I first started attending it didn’t seem to make a difference what the topic was, some past suppressed painful memory would come to mind and It would be all I could do not to choke up and break down in front of the group. Most were of almost forgotten childhood traumas that I hadn’t thought about for 60 or more years. I wasn’t aware that I had so much baggage but afterwards I felt a relief and a freedom. This process continued for a couple of years but seldom occurs now.

Now I am challenged to write whatever comes to mind without preplanning and I just let the story unfold. I’m getting to know myself more each week and sometimes have fun just being silly with the story. Other times I am exposing myself in ways I wouldn’t have even weeks ago. I’m seldom concerned what other people think which could never have been the case up until a couple of years ago.

There have been Mondays that I recall the dynamics of the group when someone’s story particularly stood out. Cecil’s stories often are very captivating as are numerous others. I think that Cecil with his accent and Donald with his shy approach, Ray’s theatrical voice, numerous others with wit and humor along with the incredible variety that always happens every week makes for one of the best programs I have ever experienced.

For me one Monday afternoon stands out more than all the others. I wrote about an experience that had occurred during the week before. I was told later that stories shouldn’t have a surprise ending. The story was particularly emotional and personal. The topic for that week was “The Interview.” I wrote it in July and later submitted it for the blog. It was put on the blog on November 7th. I have reread it several times and not only do I still get choked up, but I also think it’s the best story I have written. I can still feel the electricity (for lack of a better term) that went through my body and soul as well as the effect on the others in the room when I read the last sentence one Monday afternoon.

Denver, March 2013

About the Author

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities,” Telling your Story,” “Men’s Coffee” and the “Open Art Studio.” I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.

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One Monday Afternoon by Merlyn

I like to go on vacation the week after Labor Day; the kids are back in school and most of the places we liked to go to would still be open without all the people. We moved into a new place three years earlier and had been busy repairing and remodeled our new home. The only thing left to do was update the laundry room. I had redone the pumping, wiring and replaced the flooring. The only thing left to do on Monday was put the new washer and dryer in place. Load the old ones in the trailer and take them to be recycled. Then get out of town. The weather was supposed to be nice in southern Nevada and Arizona so we were planning on heading that way.

We were still in bed sleeping when the phone started ringing; my girlfriend’s son called to tell to turn on the TV, a plane had crashed into the world trade center. We were lying in bed watching the news when the second tower was hit.

I had been reading stories on line about possible terrorist attacks against us but I had dismissed them.

We spend the morning watching the TV and finishing the laundry room. The news was reporting that all of the planes that were flying were ordered to land at the nearest airport. I had the computer on a site that showed all of the planes in the air anywhere in the country, within an hour there were only a few planes left as one by one they landed and the sky was empty.

Around noon I went outside and was loading the old washer and dryer on the trailer when I realized how quiet everything was. We lived about a mile from the flight path to PDX airport and could always see and hear planes going over. I looked at the sky and realized our country would never be the same.

I went back inside and we watched the TV as we ate lunch and talked about what might happen next. Since no one knew what was going to happen we decided we did not want to be 1000 + miles from home and not be able to get back if the attacks continued.

We spent a week on the Oregon coast and spent the rest of our vacation just hanging around home.

After twenty years we never made a big trip together again after September 11, 2001

P.S. After I finished this story I was thinking about it and realized 911 was on a Tuesday. We were planning on leaving on Monday but the washer was not available to be picked up until Monday afternoon.

© 5
March 2013 



About the Author



I’m a retired gay man now living in Denver Colorado with my partner Michael. I grew up in the Detroit area. Through the various kinds of work I have done I have seen most of the United States. I have been involved in technical and mechanical areas my whole life, all kinds of motors and computer systems. I like travel, searching for the unusual and enjoying life each day.

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One Monday Afternoon by Ray S

Yes, it is Monday afternoon, but not your ordinary Monday afternoon.

This is the appointed day and time that all of Ornithology Under the Sun had been ominously anticipating with great foreboding and some thinly veiled anger. Questions abounded, rancor and suspicion prevailed under a facade of collegiality.

As the procession ascended to the locked and sealed grand steel door of the upper room, which would be their aviary for an untold length of time, or at the least, until it became critical to replace the newspaper on the floor.

The space was tastefully designed to be semi-grand, suitable for such occasions as this one today. The forest green walls were quite high meeting a spectacle or frescoed ceiling blackened by a depiction of the final scene from Hitchcock’s “The Birds.” There was even an ever so realistic representation in the northeast corner of Tippy Hedron in state of shock and awe.

One by one the cardinals approached the conference table and took their assumed perches. There was much chirping, screeching, and clatter until the entrance of Super Card occurred. As he ordered silence he recognized Herr Cardinal on his left. He brought up the matter that all of these birds hadn’t had enough time to get familiar with each other and how that could color the selection of the new Supreme White Cardinal, you know, the one with the largest top knot and blackest feet–as if all of them hadn’t been preening for this moment ever since “Its Supremest” had resigned and flown the coop, so to say.

Then there was a lengthy discussion about modernizing the office allowing genderization of the highest perch to others, the brightest colored cardinals. This matter reached fever pitch when the U.K. Cardinal brought it to the groups’ attention of what a besmirchment the Scot Cardinal had made of his office. And should the possibility of other-than-male cardinals fly to the exalted throne, we wouldn’t have to concern ourselves with big cardinals fooling around with fledgling red birds.

The astounding thought that a non-male Cardinal could get elected sent the birdy-conclave into total standstill. Then Super Card reminded the males that they were no longer in the majority inasmuch as some of them were somewhat diversified in their mating habits and that this college already included five or six discriminating non male cardinals. End of subject!

A knock, or should I say, a secret peck on the Great Steel Door announced the semi-cardinals arrival to install the traditional birds’ nest under a newly drilled ceiling hole. Upon the election of the new S.W.C. (Supreme White Cardinal) the ancient custom designating the completion of its selection was signaled by “one if by land and two if by sea.” Oops! Wrong story. The signal actually is “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” A special Black Forest Cuckoo flew in for the procedure.

As the hour of decision drew nigh, anguish was rampant among the cardinals. The newspaper on the floor was almost indiscernible. Something had to happen and suddenly it did.

The black bird-obscured ceiling fresco split open to reveal a large white wing guiding a beautiful white pink-eyed dove into the room. It fluttered and glided above the cardinals’ top knots, from one to another. Then as plain as the beak on your face it lighted on the shoulder, or to be anatomically correct, the right wing of the one cardinal in the room with the greatest degree of understanding when it came to matters of cardinal-gender and wisdom.

Here was the new and revolutionary S.W.C. (Supreme White Cardinal) that would lead all of birddom into an enlightened era of “Birds of a Feather All Flock Together.”

© 10 March 2013

About the Author














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One Monday Afternoon by Carlos

     The great spiritual leader Paramabhansa Yogananda wrote, “Every day and minute and hour is a window through which you may see eternity.” The message is quite profound: you have to know yourself in order to see eternity, to come into the kingdom. Although it would have been very convenient if I could have embraced my God-given gift of being a gay man by sequestering myself from the world, I required the guidance of a mentor to goad me into the eternity of my self-awareness. In an act of synchronicity one Monday morning, my mentor made his appearance, providing the inspiration that was to coalesce within my life. He became my Prometheus as I prepared to pummel off a promontory and soar through uncharted currents on my journey toward self-empowerment.

     When I was but a child, maybe 8, my uncle grabbed me by the testicles and drew out a pocket knife threatening to castrate me. After all, I wasn’t an overly masculine child, and that offended his sensibilities. I preferred the quietness of solitude, and I believed and I knew that if I were quiet enough, I could understand the chanting of the cicadas as they raised their incantations like Gregorian chants up to the sun. I knew that if I lay down upon the earth, I could feel the sunflower seeds shaking off winter’s darkness as spring rains caressed them out of slumber. Later, when I was a naive but sexually germinating boy in high school, I landed my first job as a dishwasher at a greasy spoon in my hometown in west Texas. Clearly, others already suspected what I was so fearful to recognize, that I was destined to venture after the passion that at that point in my life had no name. On the first day of the job, the cook and I were alone, cleaning up the back kitchen. He approached with what at the time was a sinfully wondrous sight, his massive dick upraised and pulsing in his hand, pointed in my direction, clearly inviting me to touch, to savor, to worship. With some hesitation, I touched it and loved it…that is until my Catholic guilt compelled me to run out like Little Miss Muffett distracted from her dripping curds her creamy whey upon discovering the forbidden and potentially dangerous spider within reach. I walked to a nearby church, prostrated myself before a statue of a crucified Christ festooned in a scanty white loin cloth, daring not to entertain ill thoughts, and I asked for redemption, for penance, for a sign. In spite of the absurdity of the situation, He did not descend from that cross in rage nor did bolts of lightening strike me dead as I had half expected. He simply peered into my soul with his all-knowing unconditionally loving glass eyes, and in that moment of incomprehensible insight and compassion, I still felt stained]. If only I had known then what I know now…that God always answers my prayers with a yes, a not yet, or an I-have-something-better-in-mind-for-you. After all, my redemption was still out of reach.

    On a spring Monday afternoon in late March, just before Easter, I left the hallowed halls of my classes at the University of Texas thinking about poetry and philosophy, logic and art. The air was thick with the aroma of sweet chaparral and sagebrush; the sky was a rapturous vault of blue. I walked oblivious to my bus stop when he caught my eye, a chiseled, blue-eyed, stud-of-a-man wearing a loose-fitting jumpsuit, conveniently unzipped down to his chest as well as a twirled mustache that only made his beguiling smile that much more delicious. He winked at me behind his black sunglasses and signaled me with his head to follow. Being aroused by possibilities of the unknown, I gave chase. I don’t know if I was shaking in trepidation of eternal banishment, imagining my neighbors’ wrath or whether I shook in anticipation of finally giving in to my temptations…probably both. I was determined that the intoxicating melody played out by the musician’s panpipes would envelop me, and that I would discover the joy of forbidden fruit even if it resulted in a fiery descent into pandemonium. I walked dutifully beside my satyr, enticed by the sensory and sensual testosterone emanating from our pores. We found a quiet place and chatted briefly, being circumspect lest we compromise too much. Our brief conversation enveloped in euphemisms culminated with my agreement to broach my inner sanctum. On that Monday afternoon my infatuations found new heights; we limited our passions to shy touching and ever-so-gentle brushing of the lips rather than torrid love-making since I was so obviously inexperienced; however, I knew deep within the core of my being that this man would in time pull me out of the quagmire of my fears. Over the next few weeks, our quiet interludes metamorphosed into a passion no longer cloaked in the aura of strawberry candles glowing from ruby-red globes or passionate crescendos from Tchaikovsky’s tragic, but romantic orchestrations. He became my mentor, my safety net, the one man who embodied all men. That afternoon was the beginning of a new life for me, and I understood the mysterious spirit that compels the barren-looking tree to bud with intoxicating liqueur every spring, thus enticing the bee to the sacred calyx of its blooms on their synchronized quest toward eternity. I started to awaken out of my blissful ignorance, and more importantly, I started to look at my accusers, daring them to threaten to castrate me again. In spite of the fact that I preferred to practice my violin rather than play war games with olive-hued plastic soldiers, I learned I was a man that March afternoon. I learned that what we call chance, may, in fact, be the logic of God. No one, not my uncle, not the fathers of the Church, and not the sanctimonious bullies within any arena or playground would ever again scapegoat me for their own failures. I recognized on that Monday afternoon that if I intuitively longed to touch a man’s engorged penis or enraptured heart and feel their strength, it was my destiny, my legacy.

     God, that mischievous trickster, smiled upon me for no longer denying the gift He had bestowed upon me. And on that Monday afternoon, I recognized why only I had understood the chant of the cicadas or been moved to tears by the gyrating dance of sunflower seeds beneath my feet. And from that day forward, I re-birthed myself enfolded in a sublime awareness that I would always look with anticipation for the next adventure, for the next ride, prepared to turn my world around.

© 3/1/2013

About the Author

Cervantes
wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.”  In spite of my constant quest to live up to
this proposition, I often falter.  I am a
man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have
also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic.  Something I know to be true. I am a survivor,
a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite
charming.  Nevertheless, I often ask
Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth.  My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to
Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the
Tuscan Sun.  I am a pragmatic
romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time.  My beloved husband and our three rambunctious
cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of
my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under
coconut palms on tropical sands.  I
believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s
mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty.  I am always on the look-out for friends,
people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread
together and finding humor in the world around us.