The Boxer and the Theatre of the Mind

Normally, I feature a photo to illustrate the gist of my story. But, for reasons you’ll soon discover, I’m going to ask you to maximize your imagination, explore the theatre of the mind, and form your own visual conclusions.

***

Another warm Wednesday. Another morning at the gym. Another forty-five minute cardio workout–a climb on the treadmill, a circuit of light weights, and a ringside seat on a stationary bike.

I say ringside, because at Club SAR in Scottsdale the bikes are all clustered around a boxing ring in the center of the gym … with a few punching bags positioned on the floor just outside the ring.

Today, there was nothing happening in the ring, but something remarkable outside it captured my attention. Something heart-warming and inspiring too. Two gray-haired gentlemen–one likely in his sixties, the other in his eighties–entered the space. Conceivably, the younger man may have been a coach, a son, a younger brother, a partner to the older man. I’ll never know. I simply observed him helping his older cohort slip on a pair of boxing gloves.

He carefully guided the frail older man and positioned him in front of one of the punching bags. That’s when the older man–wearing an American-flag T-shirt, shin-length compression socks and black athletic shoes–proceeded to pound at the bag for the next minute or so. After he was through, he rested against the side of the ring for a minute or two. Then, his friend guided him back for round two.

Maybe you’ve already figured out the punch line (pun intended). The old, patriotic boxer is blind. I don’t know what he remembers seeing earlier in his life … or for that matter if he’s ever seen at all. But what I saw today–on the day before Independence Day in Scottsdale, Arizona–was love, strength, courage and tenacity. And I was grateful to have witnessed all of it.

As you were reading this story, what did you see?

 

 

 

July in Arizona’s Sonoran Desert

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It was about 90 degrees at 7 o’clock when I grabbed my broad-brimmed hat, a tall bottle of water, and a cool, damp towel to cover the back of my neck. My husband and I were heading to Vista del Camino Park for our early morning walk before the temperatures escalated past 100. Such is life in July in Arizona’s Sonoran Desert.

The elephant foot succulents on the north side of our condo don’t seem to mind. They are coping just fine. Under the eaves. Resting in the shade most of the day. We decided to move our container of gladiolas next to them. They were getting torched on the south side in the all-day sun. Maybe the American flags will help boost their spirits as Independence Day approaches.

I’ve learned to accept and adapt to July’s torrid temperatures here … since that day nearly two years ago when I survived to tell the story of An Unobstructed View. As long as you keep a ready supply of water nearby and stay indoors during the spike in the afternoon heat, it’s manageable.

This year we’ve planned a few strategic July escapes, as well.  One to the stunning red rocks of Sedona a few hours north. Another further up Interstate 17 into the fragrant, tall pines and mountains of Flagstaff, where the air is thinner and the temperatures are twenty-five degrees cooler.

Truly, life in Arizona is a story of extremes … and remarkable beauty.

 

A Trip Beyond a Sliver of the Moon

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A look skyward this morning carried me back. In an instant, I jettisoned one freshly trimmed Scottsdale palm and a barely-detectable sliver of the moon for an unscheduled trip to my 1969 St. Louis summer crew cut and pubescent, eleven-year-old body.

When I landed in a black-and-white TV world, it was three weeks before two men walked on the moon. To gather my wits, I twirled the knobs of my transistor radio. Past the dollar bleacher seats of my Cardinals’ baseball childhood. I searched frantically up and down the dial for an empty channel in the frequency.  For coverage of Dorothy’s fond farewell before she clicked her heels. For a flashpoint on Christopher Street that took us from Stonewall to somewhere over the rainbow. But it wasn’t meant to be. I left without finding them there.

Now, fifty years have passed. I’m nearly sixty two. I’m living in the Sonoran heat with a fresh summer haircut. I lead a full and open life with my husband. Together we share all the scars and joys of being gay. Every omission. Every discovery. Every hurt. Every realization. Every victory. Every monsoon. Every full moon. It’s as it should be. They are all a part of our journey.

Pride and Recognition

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A week ago, Julie Krupp, a kind and collaborative cohort in the blogosphere, sent me a note that made my heart skip. She surprised me with a Blogger Recognition Award for the efforts I put into my site.

Many thanks to Julie for this honor! I appreciate how frequently she stops by to read and comment on my latest posts. By the way, I also make it a regular practice to read and comment on what she has to say on her site. If you aren’t familiar with her site, https://juliekrupp.com/, I encourage you to check out Enhanced Perspective for meditation and mindfulness techniques.

In addition to thanking Julie, the award rules call for me to provide a brief story about how my blog started, offer two pieces of advice for new bloggers, and nominate 10-15 other bloggers for this award. (Honestly, 10-15 is way beyond my comfort zone. So I’m going to bend the rules and will nominate three bloggers at the end of this post.)

Here’s my brief (or not-so-brief) story. After writing and publishing three memoirs in the past five years, I wanted to try my hand at storytelling in real time. I also felt the need to share a mix of my more immediate observations about life with my husband in Arizona with vivid longer-term memories from my past in North Carolina, Missouri and Illinois. Occasionally, I’ve included my poetry here and stories about what it feels like to be gay in the United States in 2019 … living in a country that is deeply divided. That’s where the Pride button above enters the picture. Even as we commemorate the 50th anniversary of the Stonewall riots–and acknowledge the tremendous social strides and greater equality for LGBTQ people in the United States since 1969–we still live in a world where families, governments and communities don’t always recognize the rights of gay citizens to live full and open lives. The negative impact of that can leave people feeling undervalued and invisible. I find that disturbing and will continue to write about it.

That leads me to advice for new bloggers. Write about what you know and feel. Write about what you love. Write about what you’re passionate about. Also, don’t be afraid to try something new once in a while. (For instance, how my poetry began to seep onto these pages.) That may include a topic or format that doesn’t fit neatly into what you intended your blog to be. In my book, that’s okay.  After all, it is your blog. Not everyone will love that, but those who look forward to what you have to say will follow you.

Here are my three blogger recognition nominees. Each of these individuals has something important, creative or interesting to say on a regular basis on their sites. For that reason, they deserve a little recognition. Oh, and as selfish as it may sound, I also appreciate how frequently they visit my site and like what I write. That has to count for something.

https://kimmccrea.com/

https://purplestarastrology.home.blog/

https://mitchteemley.com/

Meanwhile, as we approach the midpoint in 2019, I’ll continue to take pride in the stories I share here. I also appreciate any recognition I can get for all three of my books: From Fertile Ground, Tales of a Rollercoaster Operator, and An Unobstructed View. If you have a little free time this summer, I hope you’ll check them out.

Happy blogging and reading everyone!

 

 

 

 

Let It Commence

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We’re a day away from the first day of summer in the Northern Hemisphere. But, based on the weather I experienced in Chicago this past week, you wouldn’t know summer is about to commence.

It was definitely a windbreaker week in the Windy City, where unpredictable weather abounds. Cool temperatures. Sporadic raindrops. Fog rolling in and out along the Lake Michigan shoreline. Just a fraction of the changeable weather I was familiar with when I lived in northern Illinois from 1980 to 2017.

The good news is none of it put a damper on my reason for being back in the “City of the Broad Shoulders” (thanks Carl Sandburg) for five days. I flew from Phoenix to Chicago with my husband for joyous reasons. We attended DePaul University’s 120th commencement. We celebrated my younger son’s latest achievement. Kirk can now add the designation Master of Education to his resume.

Last Saturday, the day before Father’s Day, I was one of several thousand proud family members and friends seated inside Wintrust Arena to share the moment with loved ones. The crowd included my older son Nick, who sat beside me. He and his girlfriend had also traveled back to Chicago to support his brother. It was a constant sea of smiles, cheers, blue caps and gowns as Kirk and the other beaming graduates crossed the stage one-by-one and accepted their diplomas during the commencement ceremony.

Incidentally, after this experience, I’ve decided I prefer the word “commencement” over “graduation”, because the former aptly describes the beginning of new opportunities … new doors opening in a person’s life that come with a significant achievement. (The latter feels more like an ending, a conclusion or a door closing after success.) At any rate, if you–or someone close to you–recently walked up to accept a diploma on any level, I wish you the greatest success in your next endeavor.

Summer is the perfect season for good things to commence. Warm breezes. Plenty of sun. A much-needed vacation. Perhaps even a little time to read a book just for the fun of it or explore a new degree or business venture you’ve been wanting to try. The one deep down inside you that keeps calling your name.

Go for it. Happy Summer. Let it commence.

 

 

 

 

A Father’s Wish List

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It was nearly two years ago that I found myself lying on a gurney at Barnes Jewish Hospital in St. Louis. It was July 6, 2017. My sixtieth birthday. I had just suffered a mild heart attack and entered the vast and unfamiliar world of emergency room doctors, cardiologists, attending nurses, and multi-syllabic medical procedures.

I had two wishes that day: to survive the ordeal with my husband; and to speak with both of my adult sons to let them know I was okay. Thankfully, both of my wishes came true.

Late in the afternoon of July 6, Jacob, an EKG technician in his early thirties, turned me on my left side. He applied a cooling gel and ran a device across my chest to record images of my heart.

At that moment, Jacob gave me an unexpected gift that carried me past the immediate task and my pain. He confided in me that he was a new father adjusting to a sleepless existence. Working to raise and protect his newborn son. Overwhelmed by the sudden changes in his life.

Strange as it was–with my health hanging in the balance–Jacob and I entered a new landscape.  We talked about something we had in common. We were both dads. It was something like staring into a painted desert of fatherhood (like what you see here in Arizona) where unexplored layers of possibilities abound.

As I spoke with Jacob, I conjured fleeting memories of my two sons as tumbling toddlers and testy teens. I told him to hang in there and relish the early years. To try to realize that the heavy lifting of fatherhood would fade over time.

I told him there would be meaningful moments ahead with his son. Moments I cherished with my sons. Moments he might cherish with his boy too when he looked back over his life.

Occasionally, over the past two years, I’ve thought of Jacob and wondered how he was coping … knowing we will likely never meet again.

Now, with Father’s Day upon us, I wish I could offer him more ideas on what it takes to be a good dad. To that end, I’ve composed the following list … friendly advice from a fellow father who’s looking out for all the Jacobs in the world who are striving to be the best dads they can be.

***

Love your son … and tell him you do.

Listen to and validate his dreams.

Provide him with an honest and safe home.

Buy him nutritious food and encourage him to exercise.

Cheer him on when he succeeds. Encourage him when he fails.

Don’t spend a lot of money buying him new things. Spend it on shared experiences instead.

Teach him the importance of lifelong learning and saving money for a rainy day.

Show him what it means to respect animals, nature and diverse people.

Explain to him that it’s a sign of strength to ask questions and show vulnerability.

Love your son no matter who he loves. Remind him you’ll always be his dad.

 

The Gym Reaper

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It was a wary Wednesday morning when she entered with the throbbing heat.

Sashaying in stark sleeveless midnight over skull-and-crossbone culottes.

Flipping the knot in her ponytail and mounting a stationary bike.

Surveying the room and speed cycling with no scythe.

Finishing her set and vanishing in silence.

Leaving without unsuspecting souls.

***

By Mark Johnson

June 13, 2019