I dream and gaze into a Sonoran sky,
where flames no longer lap at my tired tail,
and concrete runs smooth and cool,
and trusting birds fly slow and low,
and spirits rise high above tall trees,
and the constant chase has ended,
and the kitchen door is always open,
and I finally realize I’ve found home.
In summer’s flurry of joyful singing, record-breaking heat, Covid resurgence, political revelations, and Olympics coverage, June is gone. July is close behind.
Until now, my Covid recovery, birthday revelry, and travels to and from Minneapolis for the 2024 GALA Festival prevented me from posting highlights from Encore, our Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus concert in late June.
Suffice it to say Encore was a musical review of favorite chorus moments and tunes (A Million Dreams, Some Nights, What Was I Made For?, Bridge Over Troubled Water, Proud, I’m Still Standing, For Me and ten more.)
Beyond that, it was also a reflective celebration of Marc Gaston’s twenty-two years as our artistic director–laced with storytelling vignettes (I wrote), LGBTQ anthems, and dazzling dance routines.
As a singer and one of several storytellers, I couldn’t be prouder of the program we created and performed for three exuberant audiences at Tempe Center for the Arts.
I will leave you with a snippet of dialogue … along with four images from the concert … that represents the joy, energy, rainbow colors, and love, which reverberated in the room away from the summer heat.
“When I sing with this chorus–these amazing people–and I absorb all the music and camaraderie, it feels like the sky is the limit. It feels like I could rule the world.” Mark Johnson, Storyteller #1, in Encore.
In January 2014, the fog of grief occupied my brain and body. My mother had been gone one year, but I hadn’t yet found a constructive way to heal and process my grief.
Along the way, my husband Tom and therapist Valerie encouraged me to embark on a new path that would help me recapture my creative spirit.
I decided to leave my communication consulting career. Soon after, I began to write personal stories that mattered to me. Vivid recollections inspired and spawned by grief. Observations about love and loss in my family that helped me chart a new course and publish my first book, From Fertile Ground.
With time and reflection, I wrote four more books about the tender and whimsical ups and downs of childhood, the poignancy of leaving one home and surviving to find another, the adventures of creating a new life in the Arizona desert, and the poetry that has stirred inside me for thirty years and finally escaped to land on a page.
In small and large ways, my mother is in every one of those books and numerous essays. Yet she didn’t live long enough to read any of it, except one poem I gave her on Christmas Eve 2009.
I know now that writing about her in new and different ways has kept her wisdom and generosity alive and accessible for me.
July 26, 2024, would have been Helen F. Johnson’s 101st birthday. I knew I wanted to write about that, but until my fingers hit the keyboard, I wasn’t sure what I would say … because I thought I’d said it all before.
Maybe I haven’t.
How I loved and admired–and still remember–her tenacity. Her legacy of letters. Her devotion to family, friends, and the power of nature.
She would have loved the artistic life Tom and I have created in Arizona among the buttes and cacti. Writing stories, screening movies, singing songs, feeding stray cats.
Making new friends, while remembering old ones. Doing our best to guide and encourage my sons–her beloved grandsons–as they make their way toward the middle of their lives.
Cherishing each moment of our retirement years, without ever knowing where it will lead. Never wanting to know how or when it will end.
On July 26, 2012, we celebrated my mother’s eighty-ninth birthday together. It was her last.
Twelve years have passed. I’m much older, more appreciative and impatient. But also, wiser. Healthier. Gayer. Grayer. More contented with my own life and legacy. More worried about the world’s plight.
Grief is no longer my catalyst, my nemesis, my companion. Of course, I see it in the rearview mirror. But, with the passage of time, I discovered higher ground without the ghost of grief.
I no longer think of my mother every day. But when I do, I am grateful for the moments she and I shared–the gifts of memories and photographs I treasure–and the propensity to write about it.
All of this runs through our DNA.
I’m back home. Inside the furnace, better known as the Valley of the Sun.
I have begun to reemerge from an affirming, magical, inspiring five days of LGBTQ bonding and music with my chosen family at the 2024 GALA Festival in Minneapolis.
From July 10-14, 7,000 singers (representing nearly 300 choruses and presenters from around the world) inhabited the Twin Cities.
We owned the stages. Occupied the hotels. Flooded the restaurants, bars, shops and streets with gaiety and glee.
But it was more than the magnitude of this quadrennial event that has left an indelible imprint on my creativity and identity. It was the sense of joy, kindness, support, and human possibilities that dazzled me most.
At a time in this country and our world where so much hatred abounds, I was reminded that when love is present–when people truly come together to care for one another and cheer each other on–we can be that Bridge Over Troubled Water (one of the songs my Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus mates and I performed) of hope for one another.
This was my third GALA. I shared all of them with my husband Tom: 2012 and 2016 in Denver; 2024 in Minneapolis. Each one has nurtured me, deepened my sense of artistry and compassion, and reinforced the importance of rekindling/kindling old and new relationships.
In this 2024 installment, over a five-day period I was able to reconnect and celebrate with friends from Chicago (who perform with the Windy City Gay Chorus and the Chicago Gay Men’s Chorus), Washington, Seattle, and–of course–Phoenix.
A friend and ex-colleague (from my past consulting career) who lives in the Minneapolis area, also surprised and delighted me by attending our performance on July 12. It was a treat seeing her again.
If you follow my blog, you know I have written five books. One is a book of poetry; the other four are memoirs or creative nonfiction. I’ve also written lyrics and librettos for the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.
Already, I have begun to scribble ideas in a spiral notebook that were sparked by my latest GALA experience. Who knows? This may lead me to a stream of poems or lyrics I have yet to compose.
For now, I will leave you with an idea and image that captured my attention on Saturday as Tom and I watched a series of choruses perform inside the auditorium of the Minneapolis Convention Center.
A few rows in front of us, a couple neither of us knows relaxed and leaned in. Away from the heat and fire in the world, they rested their heads against one another. They held each other. They listened to beautiful music in a safe space.
Many of us in the LGBTQ community have spent large portions of our lives searching for answers, longing for love and understanding.
The beauty of the GALA Festival is that–through the power of music, relationships, and community–we can move from longing to belonging.
Moving beyond this amazing and affirming five days in the upper Midwest, we will continue to raise our voices inside our choruses and be our authentic selves outside in the everyday world.
Truly, we are much more than a large collection of singers. Together, we represent a movement of kind, talented, and diverse humans with the power to change hearts, minds, and attitudes.
The smaller one opened the door for me this morning … sometimes it’s the taller one. That made me happy … they were happy, too … I needed to feel the cool tile on my parched paws.
I was hungry … I didn’t catch a bird or a rat yesterday. Today I twirled around the taller one’s legs … the smaller one’s legs, too. They gave me something fishy and yummy … a little crunchy, too.
The taller one watched me as I ate … said something about a gold-framed mirror (I think) from his mom (I think)? He was happy he and the smaller one kept it when they came here 7 years ago … I guess, like me, they came from some other place.
They were opening lots of bottles … taking lots of pills … washing them down with water … their voices were scratchy … I think the smaller one and the taller one like each other.
I heard the taller one say that he was happy with the success (I think) of his concerts (I think) … but that it sucks (I think) that both of them (the taller one and smaller one) have to fight off Covid (I think) … again.
Hmmm, what is Covid?
The smaller one said it was like having a vacation (I think) at home together … that doesn’t sound so bad.
The smaller one and the taller one are nice to me every morning … and they keep feeding me. So, I want them to always be here when I stretch out on their mat … or under their bench while I eye the birds.
I want them … the smaller one and the taller one … to never go away.
I will keep coming back as long as they … the smaller one and the taller one … are here to rub my back and feed me.
Don’t look at me. It wasn’t my fault.
I have no idea what happened.
Sure, I’m a free spirit with time to kill
and now a better view of the butte,
but you wouldn’t dare blame me.
I’m not unhinged … not in this life.
June is the start of triple-digit season in the Sonoran Desert.
When it reaches 110 degrees–as it has for the past several days–it really feels like you’ve stepped inside an oven alongside that batch of chocolate chip cookies you crave. Or maybe, you imagine, there is a blaze approaching just over the next butte.
Tom and I escaped the oven for a few days to visit friends in the mile-high altitude and pines of Prescott, Arizona.
Watching the acrobatics and listening to the distinctive calls of a wide array of birds–bluebirds, woodpeckers, finches, tanagers, nuthatches, hummingbirds, etc.–while sipping morning coffee with John and Carolyn on their front patio, was as rejuvenating as a day at the spa.
Now we are back home. There is a quiet, reflective component tied to the intense Sonoran heat. Early swims. Late walks. More time to read. Fewer people to navigate.
We’ll be here seven years next month. In the heat and stillness of that realization, we’ve carved out a good, artistic, and whole life among Arizona friends, buttes, and dazzling sunsets.
It’s a warm (hot) life I never imagined at 30, 40 or 50 years old–but still a pleasant surprise beyond the constant push and responsibility of my Midwestern bread-winning years.
I don’t typically tackle social and political issues in my blog. I prefer to focus on the splendor of love, family, community, nature, and serendipity that runs through our lives.
But over the past weeks and months–years, really–I’ve been ruminating over what it feels like to live in the heaviness and post-Covid-social-upheaval of the United States in 2024.
Even though I am in good health and am fortunate to have the companionship of my husband and a cozy home, I often feel a gnawing, low-level anxiety.
I attribute this to worry. What will happen to disenfranchised members of our community–non-white immigrants, people of color, minority women, all women, all children, elderly people, trans people, gay people (like me), etc.–who would be especially vulnerable if our past president (the one just found guilty on thirty-four felony counts by a jury of his peers) should be elected in November?
I should tell you this blogpost isn’t intended to sway your opinion. I don’t think that is possible. I can’t imagine any American being undecided–not in this us-versus-them world exacerbated by lies and constant media attention.
Yes, I will vote for Joe Biden. It’s pretty simple for me. I’m not naive. Of course, he’s made mistakes, but he’s done a lot of good for our country economically and otherwise. I see him as a decent man–the only decent man whose name will appear on the 2024 Presidential ballot. I think he has the best interests of Americans in mind and sees the presidency as a job designed to serve the people, not his personal agendas.
If you feel differently, you are entitled to that. Just know that the democratic values and rule of law that generations of American men and women have fought for will be flushed down the toilet if enough people in swing states like Arizona vote for the other guy. I won’t include his name here.
Why did I choose to write about this today? Because I suddenly have greater clarity concerning all of the weight, which I’ve been carrying around concerning the potential loss of a safe haven–something all of us are entitled to.
The remarkable thing is my clarity came from an incident outside my front door on Sunday morning … an incident involving a feral animal Tom and I have come to love.
If you follow my blog, you know I’m talking about Poly. For the past three years, on many mornings she has appeared at our front door. Poly lives a reckless life, but at the very least is the beneficiary of food on the cool tile of our entryway (and probably others).
Her visits are a brief escape from the heat of the Sonoran Desert. Maybe her visits are also an escape for Tom and me to leave behind the worries of the world, which I’ve outlined above.
Recently, Poly has moved closer to us. Winding her way around our ankles. Sleeping in our wicker chairs. She has even decided to sleep outside on the gravel underneath our loveseat on occasion… before she moves on to explore other places, porches, and hideaways. Such is the life of a lovable, but forever-feral feline.
Anyway, on Sunday morning one of our neighbors (someone we care about who owns a sweet dog) happened to approach our front door at the same time Poly was eating with our door ajar. Normally, the dog is on a leash, but she wasn’t yesterday–though she should have been.
Poly (and I) were freaked. She ran out our door and down the sidewalk as the dog chased in hot pursuit. I feared for her safety and gave my neighbor an angry earful for not leashing her dog.
As I swam laps this morning in Scottsdale, I realized that my rightful (but intense) anger had roots. Metaphorically, in my mind and heart at least, Poly represented the plight of thousands of vulnerable Americans who might be on the run … whose lives might be in danger if we lose our democracy.
I say that knowing that some of my LGBTQ friends–particularly those in the trans community–are considering alternative plans of where to live if Biden doesn’t win the election. That’s a daunting thought and potential reality, which you may not be aware of if you don’t have gay friends.
One thing I am certain of. It doesn’t have to be Pride month for me to remain authentic and visible. I will continue to care about those less fortunate (humans and animals) … no matter what happens in November and beyond … because we all deserve respect and kindness … no matter who we love … no matter our identity.
Meanwhile, back in our Polynesian Paradise community, my neighbor and I have repaired our relationship and regained our equilibrium. (She apologized for not having her dog on leash and told me she hoped it wouldn’t deter Poly from returning.)
Late yesterday, Poly reappeared–safe and sound–outside our front door. This morning, she had her breakfast on the cool tile of our Sonoran entryway.
An hour later, I found her tucked underneath the loveseat in her safe haven. Peeking through the cacti containers and elephant food succulent on our patio, she allowed me to take this photo.
I am thankful Poly (and I) survived our Sunday scare. I hope our nation and democracy are as fortunate in November.
May casts a quiet spell of desert sensibility.
Brief morning showers spawn feline revelry.
Lonely pomegranates hang ready to ripen.
Roses, hibiscus, and bougainvillea vie nearby.
Shiny lizards adorn loveseats and walkways.
Still waters wait for summer waves to come.
I heard him tell the other one that this is his sixth anniversary of blogging … or something.
I don’t really know what “anniversary” or “blogging” means, but they seem nice enough.
I don’t really care about any of that, as long as they keep feeding me.
I heard him tell the other one–again–that he is going to blog … or something.
It must be important to him, even though he doesn’t know what to say.
Oh, well, I guess it’s time for me to leave now.
I don’t really know when I’ll be back, but I’ll be on my way.
Mark Johnson Stories 