Apples and Young Men


I was there to teach, to demonstrate how to care for apple trees, getting them ready for a season of growth, of new fruit. The young men gathered around me, curious about the sprayer I had brought, my long plastic gloves, my eye goggles.
Usually when I come to the youth prison, I bring coffee and food, and visit with one of two young men, listening to their stories, giving them a bit of direction and encouragement, trying to help them move on with their lives. Sometimes, I bring my guitar or a book. Sometimes, I bring my drum and listen to their worries and hope in a drumming circle, connecting with them in a deep, intimate way, the drum beats opening all of us up to our spiritual paths.

Today, though, I am the gardener, and so are they. They gather around a big work table in their greenhouse, all the shelves and plant tables filled to the brim with trays of their seedlings and cuttings. Eagerly, they show me what they’ve done, what they’ve planted, techniques they’ve learned to bring forth new life.

The chickens they’ve raised from eggs are now about to lay their own eggs. They tell me the stories of each of the hens, and how they’ve grown. The chickens are now a big part of their garden, eating scraps of lettuce, decimating slugs, and adding their nutrients back into the garden soil.

The circle of life is vibrant here, everyone involved in the daily routine of new life, hands on experiences with dirt, manure, sunlight, new plants, harvest, decay, renewal.

Their lives, too, nourished, weeded, fertilized, pruned and guided into healthy new growth, strengthened by the sunlight they are now letting into their lives, becoming strong, healthy men. I see smiles and bright eyes, as they tell me about their plants, their chickens, this place in the world they have made their own, a place of beauty and growth, of new life.

I talk about apples, how humans have tended them for thousands of years, continually improving them, new varieties, new techniques. There are stories of grafting, pruning, thinning, making living things thrive because of a person taking a little time to care.

I talk about disease and blight, of the need to prune out the parts of the plant that were harming the health of the rest of the tree, of adding lime to the soil, to help the tree thrive, to yield juicier fruit, growing stronger. Today, I’m attacking fungus and bugs, things that are hard to see, but still harm the tree. There were nods of understanding when I weave the care of apple trees into our lives and our dreams.

Eagerly, they watch me spray their trees, explaining each step, why I’m doing what I’m doing, helping to grow healthy trees, bring forth a bigger harvest, make this part of the world just a bit better.

Their questions are thoughtful, to the point, raising issues I hadn’t thought about. Together, we explore new questions, new solutions. We are all students here.

They’re orchardists of their own lives, and the concepts of opening something up to more sunshine and fresh air. Thinning out disease and refocusing energy are familiar ideas.

These men are gardeners of their own lives. Their questions and our discussions about apples teach me about the real agriculture that is going on here, behind the fence that surrounds their home.

“I learned to take care of a garden. Now I can take care of my life,” a young man said not long ago to one of the teachers there.

That wisdom helped him in the weeding and pruning of his life.

His story, told while we are snacking on some of the vegetables they had grown, brings nods of understanding from the young men there, gathered around the table. It is a lesson they know well, a way of thinking that is part of the routine, part of what they do every day when they water and tend their plants, feed their chickens, and make plans for how their garden would grow in the coming summer, and the summer of their own precious lives.

Just As, a Review


A friend of mine, Julius Jortner, just published his first book of poetry.  It is a treasure!  Just As is available at Amazon.com.

 

Here is my review I posted on Amazon:

 

Julius’ poems invite me into the moment, to be with what I might have thought as ordinary, simple, not compelling. Yet, his poet’s eye sees a gem, something of great and simple value, causing me to pause, and be caught up in what he has noticed. I linger, and learn to savor the moment. He takes his photographer’s eye, and his engineering mind, and lures me into what I never would have noticed, never would have experienced, but for his invitation.

Those who know Julius and have heard him read his poetry will find even more new riches here. And, for those who don’t yet know the voice of this quiet, thoughtful, and gifted poet, you will find a feast of delight, and experiences inviting you to linger, to see, for the first time, magnificence in seemingly ordinary life.

I find myself lingering on a poem, savoring it, and then, reading again, finding new treasures. I keep coming back, and heeding his invitation to pause, to hear his voice, and look through his eyes, discovering his fresh, bright world.

 

Some Thoughts on Pruning


“Everything has seasons, and we have to be able to move into the next season. Everything that is alive requires pruning as well, which is a great metaphor for endings.”
—Henry Cloud, psychologist, author

I’ve been pruning a lot lately. The garden is now better because of my thinning, shaping, redirecting. When you prune a fruit tree, the energy is redirected, refocused. Good pruning cuts out those parts that are diseased, dead, misdirected, helping the plant grow better, have a more bountiful harvest.

When I take my pruning shears into the garden, I am reminded to look again at my life, and apply those lessons inward.

3/6/2015

A Review from Tom Bender


This review is from: Mentoring Boys to Men:: Climbing Their Own Mountains (Paperback)
“Neal is amazing, and his story is a wonderful and important gift to us all. I’d never thought of jail as a safe and secure place for healing and growing, but his stories of what these young men had lived through as children – wow.

“And here is a guy – a judge – who doesn’t close the door and go home at 5pm. He goes and visits those kids in jail – giving them support, a birthday party (something they’ve NEVER had), giving them someone who believes in them and their possibilities, someone who can help heal hearts from the heart. He shows, and lives, the power of GIVING to change our world and heal the pain passed on from generation to generation.

“He shows the power of living with an open heart, willing to share, question, listen to all without reservation. What he offers in this book is simple, but incredibly powerful.”

A Chapter From My Book


Chapter Four

Root Beer and Potato Chips

 

(#Mentoring Boys to Men: Climbing Their Own Walls)

 

It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.

 

— E. E. Cummings

 

I see Steve every couple of weeks. Our time is spent playing a game and talking about his accomplishments. Tonight he’s got on his best shirt and a pair of khakis.

“I dressed up for you,” he says as we shake hands and sit down at the table.

He takes the games seriously: focused, attentive, a big smile showing up when he wins or when he makes a good play. He smiles when I win too, just enjoying the company and having a good time.

“I played with my dad, too,” he says. “We had a good time.”

I nod and talk briefly about having fun playing games when I was a kid. I make light of it, not wanting to linger. A few visits back, he talked about how his dad had abandoned his mom and the kids when he was ten, then died of a drug overdose.

Life went downhill for Steve and he found himself in long-term foster care. He was adopted. The family rejected him, and he was adopted again. That family rejected him too. He ended up in some program for lost and abandoned teens, and then he ended up here, in prison.

I make sure I show up when I say I will, and I’ll play any game with him he wants to play. I buy him a coffee from the prison canteen and sometimes a cookie or a hamburger. I try to be one of the few who stick around for him, who show up and are willing to spend time with him.

I’ve known him well enough now that we can talk about most anything. He’s growing a goatee now, and it’s starting to fill in and look like a real beard. It’s growing in in two colors: patches of brown and then patches of tan, almost white. His hair grows that way too.

I say something nice about the addition to his face, trying to send a compliment his way, to notice his new manliness.

“Interesting that there’s two different colors,” I say, suddenly realizing I might be coming off as rude or obnoxious.

“Yeah, just like my hair,” he says.

“I was a failure-to-thrive baby,” he adds. “I was in the hospital for my first three months, and then my mom got special formula for me. But she sold that for drugs and fed me root beer and potato chips for six months before the caseworker finally caught on. That’s why my hair grows in patches, in two different colors: malnutrition.”

No big deal.

He goes back to the game, studying the cards in his hand. He lays down some cards, making a brilliant play in the game, racking up a bunch of points. He laughs, telling me he’s going to beat me on this hand.

Root beer and potato chips. I’m still back on that, still trying to wrap my head around a mom who would sell her baby’s formula for drug money. It’s no big deal. Just a fact in his life, just part of the craziness he’s gone through, just his story. Another matter-of-fact anecdote to tell over a game of cards.

He’s finished high school, and he’s ready to graduate. He was going to go through the graduation ceremony, the one the high school has here every June, but he got sick and had to go to the hospital for three days. He missed the ceremony.

We’re planning a special ceremony for him—a day just for him to get his high school diploma and a round of applause. He thinks his mom is coming in a couple of weeks—and his brother too. He wants them here for his graduation; he wants them to see him get his diploma.

She’s been back in his life for only the last six months. They talk on the phone, and she’s come to see him a couple of times. He says it’s a good thing, and they are starting to have a real relationship.

“But when she comes to visit, I don’t get any root beer or potato chips,” he says, breaking into a chuckle and giving me a wink. “We’re just moving ahead.

Another comment on my book


Am thoroughly enjoying (through a few tears) your book. Thank you. Perhaps enjoying isn’t the appropriate word, I am appreciating your ability to not only help these young men, but allowing us all to glimpse at the possibility of changing and enhancing any young person’s life through mentoring and listening to their stories. (And giving them the opportunity to write their own stories.

–Shannon Rouse

Denise Porter, on my book


A nice review of my book from Denise Porter, photographer, writer,  and a strong voice in our community.  She is Ruralite Magazine’s Writer of the Year for 2014.

“What can I say about this author?
“He lives here, in our town. He strives every day to make a difference in the lives of each person he knows.
I am honored to know him, to have interviewed him, to read his first book.

“Don’t read it if you want to feel comfortable. You won’t. You’ll squirm and feel horrible about the things that happen everyday in our little town to people you know and see everyday.

“You’ll also feel empowered—by Neal’s honesty and integrity and love of his fellow human beings.

“When I sit down and am honest with myself, THIS is what I am striving for in my life. I want to positively impact people. I am not interested in status, bank account tallies or having the “right” connections, clothing or car.

“I AM interested in living a life that is beyond mine. I want to make people feel valuable and I work to capture that through my writing and photography.

“If these are your life goals, may I suggest you read this book?
And then, would you please go one step further and ACT?”

Struggling With Forgiveness


 

“Forgiving people doesn’t mean you necessarily want to meet them for lunch. It means you try to undo the Velcro hook. Lewis Smedes said it best: ‘To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner is you.’

‘I wish there’d been a shortcut, but the would had to be revealed in order to heal. Lack of forgiveness seemed like a friend, the engine that drove my life, with a hot little motor that was weirdly invigorating. It had helped me survive.”

“…

“Forgiveness is release from me; somehow, finally. I am returned to my better, dopier self, so much lighter when I don’t have to drag the toxic chatter, wrangle, and pinch around with me anymore. Not that I don’t get it out every so often, for old time’s sake. But the trapped cloud is no longer so dark or dense. It was blown into wisps, of smoke, of snow, of ocean spray.”
—Anne Lamott, Small Victories, p 117-118
“Forgiveness means it is finally unimportant for you to hit back.” pp 141-142

The journey with forgiveness, and all of my anger and rage, and general unsettledness, depression, and “not know what to do about it” feelings, is long and tough. Answers aren’t easy, and I practice all of my avoidance, not wanting to really deal with it.
But, I must. I must take it on and get into it. It is always time to deal with my anger, my resentment, and sort it out. Now.

New stuff raises up the old stuff, the stuff long buried, ignored, almost forgotten. It is still there; all of it. Until I deal with it and let it go, it will be around, nagging at me, eating away, and keeping me from moving on and letting go.

I am good at mortaring my brick walls and erecting barriers, keeping my monsters hidden in the basement of my life. But, I am a lousy housekeeper, and now might be a good time for some deep cleaning, and breaking down of the walls I have built over the years.

Desmond and Mpho Tutu’s book on forgiveness is a rich discussion, inviting me to take all of this on, and really deal with it. Their 30 day exercises and discussions on the subject via e-mail are excellent, cleaning out my puss filled wounds and giving me permission to heal.

I have all the tools. I have the time. I have the motivation. And, yes, I do this work. I take it on, and I see the benefits of being truly and fully engaged in the process of forgiveness. I feel lighter, freer, happier. I can move on now, on many levels.

Yet, there are some things I haven’t really dug into, to really work on forgiveness, with some people, some experiences. It is too painful, I say to myself. Yet, there is something else. Perhaps I really enjoy the struggle, the tension, yes, even the hurt. I don’t want to let that go. If I forgive, truly forgive, then I don’t have that anger inside of me, that energy of hatred and distrust.

It is, perhaps, an addiction, a need I have to feel that way. Being pissed off at someone or some experience has become a deep part of myself. If that goes away, if I release that, then what is left? Will I become a lesser person?

That releasing is scary to me. I am not ready, I tell myself. The real answer, however, is that I am afraid of who I might really be once those toxins are flushed away, and I truly heal inside. I hold on to the hate and the hurt, just in case I am not strong enough to live a full, whole life without that flame of rage that still has a place next to my heart.

This is the dilemma I wrestle with, the feelings I must explore, the doubts I must address and really deal with.

Perhaps I need to reframe the question, and look to forgive myself for who I am now, who I have become, and deal with the hurt I have let burn inside of me. Yes, I need to let it go, and be who I really am deep inside. I might even like him, a lot.

—Neal Lemery, 1/3/2015

Gratitude


What must it be like, to get a gift, for the first time in four years?

Four years in prison, after a childhood of hell, of being beaten and abused, and drunk and high, and then doing what someone did to you, to others, and then told by the cops that what you’d been taught was wrong, and you were going to prison.

And, then, for four years, no one in your family comes to see you, or write to you. You are in classes to learn about what you did, and who you are, and how you might want to deal with all of that, and actually be healthy and strong, and become a real man.

Manhood, what a confusing thought.

And, deep inside, you are a kind and sensitive soul, and spend your time being an artist, and creating some beauty in your world. All that is new, to be good to yourself, and to be an artist, to create.

How strange is that, after so many people have told you that you are a beast, and a pervert, and need to be locked up, and punished, for all the bad things you have done.

Yet, someone new in your life gives you a gift of a book, a book that honors art and creativity. And the giver of the book writes you a letter inviting you to explore your creativity, your gifts of beauty, and reminds you that you are a good person, an artist, and a creator of wonderful and beautiful things in this world.

No wonder you are confused. No wonder you find it hard to make sense of this world, and who you are, and what is expected of you.