Becoming

Change

Comes with each moment

Each wave on the beach

Changes

The beach

The observer

Itself

Transforming all there is

In different ways

Renewing, reforming, recreating—

Over time, the difference obvious

A new reality, a new experience

And from that, comes change, again.

Change is in our nature – it is what we do,

Who we are, beings in motion

Observing, experiencing, adapting—

Becoming something new, an evolving

Seeking our light, becoming who we are meant to be

Meant to becoming, again and again.

Our destiny is in the moment, in the changing, in the becoming—

I am

Ever renewing, ever changing

Ever becoming.

—Neal Lemery, 10/7/2018

Listening, With Respect

—Neal Lemery

I’ve listened to a lot of stories, especially stories of pain, trauma, embarrassment, and horror; people telling me the deeply personal, intimate, and heart-wrenching tales of their lives, unburdening themselves, or just sharing so that I could understand their lives better.

When I became a lawyer, the judge swearing in all the new lawyers reminded us that we new attorneys were also counselors at law, that we were healers of social ills and menders of the social fabric.

A friend of mine, a priest, kept reminding me that I, too, wore a collar and people came to me to make confession, and receive absolution and a sense of peace and healing.

“Forgiveness,” he would say, “is what we both offer the world.”

My professional life has involved a great deal of truth seeking and pursuing justice. That work necessitates actively listening, involving more than wiling ears and a reasoning, analytical mind. There is also heavy lifting for the soul, and one’s gut and heart.

One’s life experiences and one’s very essences of humanity are also in play.

And just when I think I am old enough, experienced enough, to have mastered my listening and my truth detection, life throws me a new curve ball, renewing my challenge to be the consummate and empathetic discerner of reality – the knower of Truth.

Everyone’s story, everyone’s reality and truth, is different. Shaped by their experiences, their circumstances, their own truth is unique to them. And whether I judge their story as subjective, relative truth, or objective, absolute truth, it is still their story and their reality.

And I filter their story through my own lenses, my own experiences and reality, both good and bad, often flawed and more self-serving that I am inclined to confess. I’m a work in progress myself.

The wearing of the judge’s robe is too often only a symbol of the values of impartiality, truth seeking, and justice. Judging is, after all, an art and not a science. Bias, prejudice, and intolerance aren’t left at the courtroom door. Judges, after all, should see our own flaws.

Like the rest of America, I’ve been awash in the politics and story telling of seating our new justice of the Supreme Court. That process should call upon our highest and most sacred ideals as citizens. Lately, we’ve fallen far from that standard.

My senses have been flooded with profoundly emotional storytelling and speech making.

My own experiences, recollections and often buried memories of my own alcohol-infused youth have risen to the surface, adding intense anguish, empathy, and revulsion to what I am seeing on the TV news and reading in the media. The needed discussions and accountability work haven’t been at center stage.

The stories and the memories are disquieting, uncomfortable. But they need to be told. We as a society need to take on the traumas of sexual violence and over-indulgence of alcohol. The issues and questions are vital social concerns that affect all our lives and the well-being of our society.

Like other personal and societal secrets and tragedies, these stories need to be shared and understood in the bright sunshine of thoughtful and compassionate conversations and meaningful discussions.

In their telling, and in the presence of empathetic listening, there can finally be a release and an understanding, even acceptance, of history that can empower us and begin to heal us, so we are able to move ahead. Their story can no longer be locked away and buried.

Hopefully, in the telling, and the sharing, the darkness fades and fresh bright light can offer some cleansing. The festering wounds can drain and begin to heal. We all deserve to heal.

We can offer each other the gift of catharsis, the purging of infection and disease, the enlightenment of confession and forgiveness. The power of truth telling is an act of personal liberation, of empowerment.

Ending the silence is an act of disarming the abuser, a cutting of chains that have kept so much of our souls in captivity. It is an art of taking back our power and our human spirit.

In that work, that telling and sharing, there is liberation, an act of self-affirmation. When that work is being done, one gains a new sense of self-esteem and power over one’s life. It is a gift to yourself that does change your life. It is an act of self-kindness and self-respect.

It seems easy for us to recognize the truth in another person’s story. We are often quick to judge. In recent years, that rush to judgement often is skewed by labeling, blaming, categorizing, and simply being mean and vindictive. The polarizing, divisive lens of national politics artificially is shined on the story, encouraging us to quickly, and with little fact gathering or reason, qualify a tale as true or false. We have polarized compassion and patriotism.

Such a twenty second sound bite approach ill suits the truth seeking that we would want others to apply as they listen to our own stories. Don’t we want the listener of our own tale to be compassionate, wise, and a healer of our fellow human beings?

I’ve learned, as a lawyer and a judge, to be not so quick to judge, and to not rapidly label or categorize. Reality is complicated, and we can be inclined to edit and change our own stories. Each of our own viewpoints, our perspectives, are unique. Guilt, shame, self-protection, and ego all come into play so we can prepare to step out onto the stage and share our story, even if it will be told only to a trusted friend over a cup of coffee.

On the national political stage, where the stakes are higher, I think we often edit and rearrange and alter the story to attract a more receptive audience. We play the game of politics. Yet, the naked, raw truth can be brilliant and illuminated, shining through all the political and moral clutter. Bare truth can be frightening to the politicians, because of its purity and reality. Real, pure truth is not playing the game according to the rules.

For some time, I mentored a young man, holding him close as a son. He had a troubled, angry life, dealing with many problems and issues. He felt worthless and unloved. His soul pain bled all over his life.

One day, he and I took that pain on and explored his wound, looking for his truth. Years of shame, guilt and self-loathing stood in the way, but he persisted with profound courage and intestinal fortitude. In all that muck, he found his truth and spoke it out loud, so we could better hear it. It was awful, horrific, heart-wrenching. But, his truth was his and he spoke it.

And, I listened and I believed him. Believing someone’s story is so amazingly powerful and liberating. Much of his pain and anguish began to be released. And the healing began for him.

I was reminded that day of the power of unconditional love. And not the unconditional love of a listener, but that very special unconditional love he found that day for himself, that he really could speak and share his truth.

We have all hear true stories. Honest, open heart surgery kinds of experiences, unadorned by excuse making, window dressing, and self-glorification. We know it is true because our very being senses that. Our soul knows it is truth.

“You will know the Truth, and it shall set you free.” (John, 8:32)

I hope that we, as individuals, and as a country, can honor our respective truths, and in that recognition, find our common humanity.

–October 6, 2018

Painting

Painting Project

New over old

Fresh over stale

Bright over faded.

My brush, my roller, slippery wet

A little sloppy, drippy, noisy

Over faded dry, bright new color,

Fresh covering stale—

In the drying, turning even another color,

In the silence after I am gone—

Magic.

Second century of color

Of care

Old building

Repurposed

To be again

a place to come together — just be together–

Community

Fellowship, camaraderie

A gathering of like-minded, like purposed,

Common need.

Rebuilding, reforming

Refurbishing, renewing

One coat at a time,

One gathering at a time—-

More than fresh paint on a wall—

Renewal.

–Neal Lemery, October 4, 2018

Smelling the Petrichor

That afternoon, I watched the clouds start to move in, like soldiers in a parade. First the thin wisps, string like, faint white against the summer blue sky that was the hallmark of our warm and dry summer.

The grass crunched under my shoes as I made my way out to my favorite chair in the front yard, the place of lemonade sipping, book reading, and enjoying the bees, birds and summer afternoons. Even where we had watered, the leaves of shrubs and flowers looked thirsty, wilting and brittle.

I tried reading my book, but I was soon lost in watching the weather change, thin white streaks, then horsetail clouds, looking more like breaking surf at the beach. Popcorn clouds came next, all in a checkerboard, neatly separated by the blue border of sky.

Something deep inside of me, something primeval, told me to focus, and pay attention to this change, this moment in time.

White gave way to shades of gray, as the checkerboard thickened, and turned into ropey strands, making a basket weave pattern across the western sky. The bright summer sun dimmed, turning to silver, and then a platinum blue, behind the new curtain of clouds.

The wind stilled, then freshened, and changed direction, as the afternoon parade marched by. Faint odors of cut hay, newly harrowed dirt, and summer dried forest spiced up the air. Even a bit of salt from the ocean ten miles away caught my nose, reminding me the weather was changing, and rain was on its way.

The wind shifted again, and more open blue sky appeared above me, and then more of the checkerboard and then the ripples of an ever thickening cloud cover.

My chair was a good place to practice my guitar, serenading the hummingbirds and late summer robins and sparrows, and sometimes the neighbor’s dog, who comes by often to visit, and bark when I play Johnny Cash. Today, though, the guitar strings were fussy, needing to be retuned again and again, as the air pressure changed, making all my notes go flat. My wooden barometer was falling, and I had to readjust.

After dinner, I returned to my chair, to enjoy my book again in the falling light of the evening, and to savor perhaps what was the last dry evening of summer. I wanted the rain, yet I didn’t want to let the summer slip out of my hands.

When it was finally too dark to read, I abandoned my post as the weather watcher of the yard, disappointed that I hadn’t felt that first drop of rain on my arm and my face, alive, almost electric. The clouds had thickened, gray turning to black.

Just before bed, I checked again. Still no rain. The yard was silent in anticipation.

I awoke at two, stirred by a sound, something new. I felt called, a muted voice telling me to check it out. Something had changed. It was time to pay attention.

As I opened the door, my nose came alive with the smell I’d been yearning for. Alive, yet with some musk, something smelling dry but damp, both stale and fresh.

Petrichor. The name of that smell.

“…the term was coined in 1964 by two Australian scientists studying the smells of wet weather — is derived from a pair of chemical reactions.

“Some plants secrete oils during dry periods, and when it rains, these oils are released into the air. The second reaction that creates petrichor occurs when chemicals produced by soil-dwelling bacteria… are released. These aromatic compounds combine to create the pleasant petrichor scent when rain hits the ground.” (livescience.com, 2013)

The word petrichor is created from joining the Greek words for stone and the blood of the gods. It is a word that is conflicted, just like what it tries to describe. Inert, yet alive. Solid, yet flowing.

Deep in the lower reaches of my brain, the place where my ancestors’ voices can be heard, where I think ancient memories reside, there arose a sense of familiarity and comfort. Petrichor. My ancestors knew it well.

And it was raining and I was satisfied, relieved. The deck and the leaves of the roses were wet and shiny, even in the dim light of the night. Fresh and new, coming alive.

The arrival of the rains mark the new year for me. September is a time of great change. The cool, wet weather, the start of school, the approach of the fall Equinox, harvest time, historically the beginnings of war.

Now is the Jewish new year, Rosh Hashana. It literally means the head of the year. This is the beginning of the agricultural year in the Mideast. The tradition has been traced to the earliest times in Egypt.

The garden is alive again, leaves are full of moisture, the grapes are fattening and ripening in new found wetness. I’m coming alive, too. My creative juices are flowing, and I’m creating new art. The late summer doldrums are giving way to new energies and ideas.

It is time to grasp the possibilities of the new year. Have a good and sweet year!

–Neal Lemery, 9/13/2018

On Creativity

I’ve always felt that what I create isn’t really much about me. In what I do, the writing, painting, gardening, photography, and music, I feel that I am often only a conduit for what comes out of the word processor, the paint brush, the guitar, the camera lens, and the garden trowel.

I don’t “own” my creations; I just put them into a form for others to experience. And I certainly don’t want the responsibility for what people might think about my art, or how to react to it and apply it, or not, to their lives.

Elizabeth Gilbert has a wonderful way of expressing this idea:

“…my deep and lifelong conviction (is) that the results of my work don’t have much to do with me. I can only be in charge of producing the work itself. That a hard enough job. I refuse to take on additional jobs, such as trying to police what anybody thinks about my work once it leaves my desk.” Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear, (2015, p 123).

I’m just the curator, the presenter of an idea, a concept, perhaps a new way of looking and thinking about something. It passes through me, and goes on to others. They can do what they will with the idea, the experience. Or not. It is out of my hands.

Looking at my art this way takes a burden off of me. I’m really not responsible for what people do with my art, what they experience and where they go with it. My job is to respond to the creative spirit in and around me, and create.

As Elizabeth Gilbert says, “Just keep doing your own thing.”

–Neal Lemery, August 23, 2018

Renewal

Before me stood only a few–

Second step up, paint can and brush,

High above the entry way, up where no one would look,

Except we few painters, every generation or two.

I am a chosen one, honored to stand in this place, the air still, dusty with time —

adding a new color to the layers of time.

Those who came here before me —

Their paint splattered fingers on mine, gripping the brush,

whisper bits of history to me in the hot afternoon air.

Some sixty years ago, the painter before me dreamed with turquoise,

Covering up the brown of the Depression, and the

Burnt orange of origin, back in 1912.

My turn now, renewal, out of new dreams, an old building.

He, too, thought of this place, its stories, as he dipped his brush.

How it came to be, out of the dreams of farmers and loggers.

A place to dance on a Saturday night,

Seeing friends, and sharing a meal,

Simply being together, maybe falling in love,

Building lives.

Since then, only spiders and a few flies, and dust,

The still air and silence of the old hall, broken by the rumbling of log trucks,

Milk trucks, and cars on the road nearby —

Daily lives, generations lived, driving by the Grange.

The first one, a carpenter, and his helpers —

Farmers, loggers, maybe a store clerk —

Built this place with calloused hands.

Then the painters, each standing where I am, brush in hand.

Their voices now, in the stillness:

My turn now, to be its steward.

Standing on the second step, history in the layers,

I am number five,

Each one writing the same poem,

Hoping I’d show up

With fresh paint.

—Neal Lemery, August 6, 2018

Celebrating Fathers’ Day

Tomorrow is Fathers’ Day, and I know we are all expected to celebrate it. Fathers are special and should be honored on their special day. It is supposed to be a day of wholesomeness, warm feelings, sentimentality, and unbounded familial love. That’s what all the Fathers’ Day cards say, anyway.

But, there’s a lot of mixed emotions, and turmoil under the surface of having the barbeque, giving a card, and a nice present. Or, to be on the receiving end, and be thanked as a father in someone’s life.

There are so many strings attached, so many thoughts and memories that come to the surface, so many conflicting and unsettling experiences to sort through and try to make sense of. All the sentimentality and idealism can be a trap for the emotionally wounded, those of us who have other emotions and memories about fathers, the ones you can’t find in a Hallmark card.

And if Dad has passed away, or is otherwise absent in one’s life, there’s grief and the psychological jungle of things left unsaid, words that we regret, or words that we are desperate to hear or speak. Those children have no place and no role to play in a day of a sentimental card, a barbeque, or a gift of golf balls.

We don’t talk about that emptiness, that pain, but we should.

What is a good father? Even our cultural heroes and role models aren’t really what we had imagined, or thought of as solid, stable figures in our lives. When my wife and I were raising my stepson, we watched Bill Cosby’s show, and I thought he was the good dad — sensitive, kind, compassionate, the kind of dad I wanted my son to emulate in his life. Yet, that image of wholesomeness and stability has been dashed on the rocks of reality, and a conviction for predatory abuse and exploitation.

In my own life, I have seen stories and accepted history and experiences being altered by unsettling revelations, confessions, and recovered memories. The charming and comfortable portrayals of healthy and good parents have shifted, from the fall of Dr. Huxtable as the all wise and kind father figure to the realization that real life isn’t always the story of Leave It To Beaver or Father Knows Best.

One thing that is absent in our society’s Fathers’ Day celebrations is a conversation about what is good fathering, and how we can strive to be better fathers, and better sons and daughters. We need to look at new gifts to give on dad’s special day, other than a new tie, tools for the barbeque, or golf balls.

Good parenting is a skill, and we need a day to ponder that, and have a real conversation about being the great dad, and how we can build healthier families.

In reality, living in the world of truth really is better for me than fiction, the fantasized and idealized “perfect world” created by Hollywood and our society’s desire to sugarcoat our historical reality.

Though, part of me longs for the dream world of the idealized childhood, and the warm and fuzzy images of the ideal Fathers’ Day experience. Part of me wants the nice sweetness of Dr. Huxtable, Ward Cleaver, and Sheriff Andy Griffith to be part of my Fathers’ Day party. But, those icons of healthy fathering aren’t in my reality, and I’ve hopefully learned how to separate the television fantasies from truth.

If fatherhood had a god, it would probably be Janus, looking both forward and back, showing us how those two perspectives can often be contradictory. Life is messy.

My experiences as a father always involves looking back as my experience as the son, and realizing that much of my fathering work is shaped by how I saw my father parented me. I’ve had other men who parented me, too, sometimes in momentary blips of insight, compassion, and correction. And, I’ve become increasingly grateful for those fathers who took it upon themselves to get my attention and offer some kindly, and often needed, direction and counsel.

Like Janus, I’ve looked back on that work and hopefully used that wisdom in my own work as a father.

I’ve mentored a number of young men who have needed some fathering and attention to the tough business of growing up in this world. I’ve drawn upon my own experiences as a son, and as a father, and helped guide them through their own storms and battles.

The reward in that is to hopefully give them a better experience that I’ve had as a son, giving direction and guidance, without a lot of the harsh judgment and anger that can easily derail a young man in his journey.

I’m not the perfect father. And, I certainly wasn’t the perfect son. I’m content with that, but I also know that this work of fathering is really never completed, that there are always going to be opportunities to be fatherly, and to give to others what I have needed in my past.

If we are mindful of that work, and those challenges, perhaps that is what we should be thinking about on Fathers’ Day.

6/20/2018

Getting Distracted

Some of the best conversations I’ve had occur in the aisles of the local grocery store. There, in those spontaneous and seemingly random encounters, I find the greatest wisdom, coming from longtime friends who speak profound wisdom and solid Truth.

We nearly ran into each other, grocery lists in hand, and quickly caught up on the successes of a mutual friend. Our similar political views led us to some hand wringing about one of the current scandals on what I’ve been calling our collective national news feed.

“But, it’s really all a distraction,” my friend says. “Keeping us from talking about and taking action on the really important stuff.”

My friend is right. I am distracted, feeling like I’m jumping from one outrageous story to another, never having the time to be fully morally outraged about an event or a trend, when another absurd or unsettling story blips on my radar screen, stirring up my indignation, and leading me down another rabbit hole in the political and cultural scene.

Some of my angst comes from not feeling I’m taking action myself, righting some injustice through my own actions, or simply not speaking out at all, because I’m distracted.

I’ve been finding some direction and camaraderie with a wise person from the nineteenth century, Ralph Waldo Emerson. Politics and culture in his time weren’t tranquil and serene, and, in his writing, he spoke out against injustice, hypocrisy, and what one of my social worker friends calls “stinking thinking”.

“At times the whole world seems to be in conspiracy to importune you with emphatic trifles. Friend, client, child, sickness, fear, want, charity, all knock at once at thy closet door and say,—’Come out unto us.’ But keep thy state; come not into their confusion. The power men possess to annoy me I give them by a weak curiosity. No man can come near me but through my act.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson.

I’ve been distracted from being purposeful, intentional, and acting against the intolerance and injustice of our times.

“The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived, and lived well.”

_Ralph Waldo Emerson

Am I living well, am I living to be useful and compassionate, and making a difference? Like all of us, I suspect, I want to be living in the here and now, to be productive.

My grocery store conversation stirred me up, and I’m motivated to keep at it, keep doing my life work, and making a difference.

I’ve long believed that social ills and “stinking thinking” are best addressed by a good public airing, so people can truly see a thought or an attitude for what it really is. One of my missions in life has been to seek the truth, and bring it to light.

My friends in the medical community often talk about the curative properties of sunlight and fresh air, and how infections often respond to a change in the environment, and the need for a thorough examination under a bright light, bringing in fresh air, and creating a place where healing can begin.

I’ve long enjoyed the idea of clearly identifying the elephant in the living room, so people can begin to talk about the real problem, take ownership and responsibility, and move towards finding solutions. Such clarity and directness gets us “down to brass tacks”, as my grandmother used to say.

Then, another news story, and a flurry of unreasoned opinions, rants, and personal attacks. Distractions, again.

Uncivil discourse, a sign of the times.

Blindsiding and personal attacks; not having meaningful, purposeful conversation about the issue at hand — it all reminded me of what our national political conversations have turned into, a lot of noise taking away our need to focus on productive discussions and the elephant in the living room. We are being distracted from expressing and sharing, not having well thought out and articulated debates on issues vital to our national health and direction, and respecting people’s views, even if we might disagree with them.

My grocery store encounter with my good friend reminded me that distractions are simply that. They get in the way, and keep me from my purpose in life and in my community. I need to keep focused on the task at hand, the issues we are facing, and carry on, “to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived, and lived well.”

–Neal Lemery, 6/1/2018

Letter to a Graduate

May 22, 2018

It is almost that time, so Congratulations on Graduation!!!!

Earning a bachelor’s degree is a very big deal and a huge accomplishment. There is a great deal of work involved, and persistence and determination.

I believe that you have truly applied yourself and gained much from this experience. I hope that you have learned how to learn, and how to think analytically, and that you have been exposed to a great amount of ideas, viewpoints, and opinions, and have had to develop your own thinking and analysis to issues and situations.

I also hope that you are an avid “lifelong learner” and this is only a step in your continuing education and development.

In my experience, college and being devoted to learning and education and development of the mind is one of the most worthwhile activities in one’s life.

Which leads me to the topic of “patience”, and change making. I have had a lifetime of struggle with being patient. My mentors continually counseled me about being patient. My grandmother and mother taught me a lot about gardening, with the ever present message of being patient. Time can be on my side and can be an asset, very useful tool.

And, over time, one can observe and see patterns and trends that otherwise would not be observable or discernable.

I see the benefit of patience in my art and music, too. Time is actually a very good teacher, and it takes the passage of time for the body and brain to fully learn and develop. And, probably why I am attracted to Zen Buddhism, as a spiritual practice and source of wisdom, letting time move and being in the moment.

Yet, the tension for me is that I know I am often ready to move on, that I have learned my life lessons in a place and the experience, and enough is enough. Let’s get it on! I’m really a “get it done, now, already” kind of guy. I don’t suffer fools well, and when the lessons are learned, why wait around?

Yet, when I have to wait, I observe more, and I think more, and I probably learn the lessons of the experience better, and then able to teach those lessons better to others. And, to remember and “do” something with the experience in a better way. My “product” is better because it has more time to ripen, to come into its true form. And, I guess, to confirm my hypotheses and conclusions. A period of testing, refining, perfecting.

Intellectually, I have come to peace about that waiting process. I’m not sure if I have come to peace about that spiritually, though. I’ve concluded that karma is real and comes about over time, sometimes a really long time. But, if I can wait it out, then karma is sweet and is to be savored. I try not to be a revengeful person, but there is a proverb that says that revenge is a dish best served cold.

Perhaps the better, more Zenlike approach, is to be the actor for positive action and change, going around the roadblock and the evil, and building a better road for others. And, if good actions are stymied, then being satisfied with being the example, the exception that proves the rule, and thereby the force for change and new thinking.

There’s another saying about good people doing what others are saying can’t be done. I’ll look that up, because that is probably a good motto for my life. Over time, I’ve noticed that what I thought has been revolutionary is seen by others new to the scene as an existing, functioning phenomenon that is accepted as “always being there”. Truly a successful revolution.

Often, what I’ve found, is that real change occurs in seemingly random, spontaneous conversations. The grocery store, at a gathering, maybe lunch with a friend. Those little conversations are really the gems, the gold to be mined, to engage and enliven people and give them permission to have the good, the deep conversations and searches. Other tools, other works, such as writing and music and art, are more the examples, the stimulators of those conversations and experiences. They provide the metaphors, so one can talk about scary things in a safe way.

Can I suggest that this time is gold for you? You have climbed the mountaintop, and you see things now for what they really are. And, in not too long of a time, you will leave the undergraduate world and not have the current struggle, the current experience. That impending end can be liberating in its own way. You see the truth and know it. Others may find the truth to be too scary, too real, and thus avoid it.

Thus, a teaching moment for you, space and time to plant some seeds of thought and ideas, and of encouragement to others in their work.

The revolution for you has already begun, and you are planting those seeds of change right now, where you are at. Not flashy or noisy. Education takes many forms. Others find that scary, something that needs to be limited, constrained, and yes, imprisoned.

It will be exciting to see how your journey unfolds. I hope you are open to what will come your way, and that you will take risks, and opportunities, and plunge into the unknown and uncertain. And, anything you attempt in good faith will not be a dead end or a “wasted” opportunity. Gold is where you find it.

Respectfully,

Neal C. Lemery

Resilience

I live in resilient times. Examples of being tough, flexible, and determined to move on with one’s life are all around me, and I am heartened by their courage, their stubbornness, and their ability to realize their dreams.

I’ve only known one man through a mutual friend, and we’ve exchanged letters for several years now, talking about books and sharing our writing, and our lives. He’s been in prison for 21 years in another state, so we’ve never met face to face. Yet, we’ve connected and I’ve been a cheerleader for him, as he’s been preparing himself for a challenging parole hearing.

It was an uphill battle for him, and he’s had to work through feelings of worthlessness and lack of confidence in his talents and how he’s grown in prison, that he’s not the enraged, frustrated teenager living on city streets, acting out, in a drug induced haze. Others have supported him, too, yet the real work was his to do. Meeting the parole board, it came down to what he had to say for himself. It was about how he presented the work that he’s done to change his thinking and to demonstrate that he’s ready for life on the “outside”, ready to make some contributions to society.

And, at the end of the day, he was found “worthy of parole”. After all that time, he can now move on, into a first-class drug rehab facility, where he will also learn the skills to be a drug and alcohol counselor. He’s overcome his fears, or at least has been able to use that energy to fuel his rehabilitation and self-actualization of who he really is, inside. He’s open to learn more about himself and the demons that have shaped his life, and to build himself into an even healthier, balanced man.

He’s changed, and it’s not because of those who have supported him, but because of his own work, and his own determination and self-esteem.

Another friend gets out of prison this summer, nearly finishing his graduate degree on line. He’s done his undergrad and grad school work on line from a cubicle in prison, diligently studying, writing, and even doing group projects with other students. Prison isn’t the ideal college campus, yet he has persisted. Already, the college has employed him to improve the program and help other students.

Even more astonishing, he has grown and matured into a well-adjusted socially delightful young man, who knows the importance of a well-rounded and balanced life with others. His attitude and his intentions are the total opposite of his childhood life, and he has made the transition with a great deal of grit and determination.

Yet another man has navigated a tough childhood and several years of incarceration, to getting off parole and moving into the work force. No job was beneath him, and he worked hard, always moving ahead, improving his skills and not being afraid of hard work, long hours, and changing himself into a healthy, cheerful young man with solid values and meaningful dreams.

Today, he’s transitioning into yet another job, with more responsibility, better pay, and stability. He knows where he is going and knows who he is and wants to be.

Some of what I’ve gained in these friendships is to experience their honesty and forthrightness. They are open to who they are, where they’ve come from, what they’ve experienced, and the mistakes they’ve made. They freely share their lessons and their wisdom. They have taught me that one’s intentions and one’s determination makes all the difference in the world. And, with that drive in their gut, there is no stopping them in what they want to accomplish.

They’ve made mistakes, but then, haven’t we all? Regrets, even shame and guilt are there, but when one decides to learn from that experience, and to change what needs to be changed, and focus on where one needs to go, the past becomes a teacher, and not a label.

They remind me to examine my own life, the experiences I have had, the choices I’ve made, and the directions I have taken in my life. They have taught me to accept the lessons to be taught, and to move forward, gathering my skills and my ambition, and to move ahead. It is hard work, and challenging. Yet, if one wants to change and to realize one’s dreams, you have to step forward and do the hard work.

In that process, you have to also love yourself, and to respect yourself for who you are, and who you are becoming. Labels don’t really matter, and one’s past is simply that. It doesn’t compel you to repeat poor choices, or to accept the situation you are in, and simply feel that you are doomed to a certain direction or destiny.

What others may think of you doesn’t really matter, unless you think it does.

These men are speakers of Truth, an increasingly scarce commodity in our society. They don’t dance around the facts, the reality of life. Instead, they focus themselves, grab onto their dreams and the direction they have decided to take, and then put their heart and soul into working towards their goals and dreams. They are honest, and don’t pull any punches when it comes to being real and direct.

They get real, and they keep me real, and focused on doing something meaningful and productive in my life.

Our conversations are deep and purposeful. And, I wish I had more friends like them, and more conversations with substance and depth.

Game playing, lying, manipulating others, and not dealing with the elephant in the living room aren’t who they are about. They know what they want and they know how to get there. They are brutally honest with themselves, and can spot the old “stinking thinking” a mile away.

They don’t suffer fools easily, and steer away from the naysayers and the idlers they come across in their lives. Their BS meters are finely tuned and always powered up. Their respect is not easily earned, yet they are fiercely loyal to their own dreams, and to those in their lives who have become their close friends and family.

Others in our lives can easily dance around the truth, and are prone to manipulate us with propaganda, half-truths, fake news, and false thinking. They waste my time and clutter up my thinking with their blather. I find myself repulsed by their disrespect for the truth and for their own warped values. I resent how they waste my time, and detract all of us from improving our world and enriching lives.

The better society is being built by the likes of these men who are self-actualized truth seekers. They are constructing decent, purposeful lives, and are worthy role models for the rest of us.

I’d rather hang out with the likes of these men, who are straightforward and focused. I have much to learn from them, the resilient ones.

–Neal Lemery 5/9/2018