Looking for the Real Men

–—Neal Lemery

It is football season, but instead of team rankings and excited discussions about last night’s game, we are talking about domestic violence and criminal charges filed against macho guys who are supposed to be the big stars, the tough heroes of the very essence of he-man professional sports in this country.

There are public expressions of outrage and deep discussions are happening. Advertisers and sponsors are flexing their own muscles, not wanting to be seen as paying athletes who are violent, even criminal. How should we respond when the strong, he-men heroes of the gridiron are caught on tape beating their lovers unconscious with their fists, or leaving bloody wounds after beating their four year old sons with sticks and whips in the name of “family discipline”?

What does it mean to be a man in our society? Who should we look to for role models on how to be a healthy American man? For once, the answer to that doesn’t seem to come from the gridiron on a Sunday afternoon. It’s not about scoring the winning touchdown anymore, but how are you supposed to behave with your wife, how are you supposed to raise your child and guide them lovingly through childhood, teaching them about a father’s love?

But isn’t a man supposed to be strong, to be the winner, not showing any weakness, any sensitivity? Isn’t that the message we hear when we watch the “big game”? Aren’t those guys the heroes we seem to want to have to look up to?

“I have to remain strong,” a friend told me this week, as we talked about manhood and love, how we are supposed to act in this society.

Yet, strong isn’t necessarily tough. Strong isn’t what we need now in this country as the mantra of a good, healthy American man. At least, that kind of “strong” that we’ve been seeing in that videotape of the famous, and highly overpaid football player, punching his girlfriend into unconsciousness. And, it’s not the “strong” kind of abuse that another pro football player is trying to somehow explain to us, after he’s been indicted for assaulting his four year old son with a stick, bloodying the child as a way of expressing “discipline” and “love”.

“That’s how I was raised,” he says, as if that somehow makes violence and the teaching of fear acceptable parenting.

After all, it was a “good whupping”, about teaching his son to “behave”.

No, the “strong” man has other ways of expressing love, of raising a child, or supporting his girlfriend in their relationship, of truly being a partner, and not an abuser, a real domestic terrorist.

Isn’t the real domestic terrorism in this country the plague of domestic violence? Isn’t domestic violence and the terror it produces the real public health crisis in this country, the real warfare that is tearing apart families, and instilling fear and chaos?

Isn’t it time we said enough is enough, that we redefine what it means to be a real man in this country? To be a real hero?

It’s OK to cry, to cry about love and grief, and family. It’s OK to show love and emotion, to be open about how we feel, about how we care about the people we love, people that we hold close to ourselves, people who are family.

Maybe, just maybe, if good, big hearted men cried in public, and cried in front of their loved ones, we’d be better men; we’d have a gentler, safer world to live in.

In showing that compassion, that willingness to be honest and open about how we really are, how we really feel, we are truly being men, men who are healthy, men of integrity, men of moral character. Isn’t that part of being a good parent, being open and honest about how we feel, about how we care, about how we love? Don’t we want to teach our kids those values?

Yes, we can be good role models to our family, to our community. Maybe professional football players can be sensitive, caring, understanding men, men who model good child rearing, good partnering, good husband-ship. With all their money and prestige, and powerful influence on millions of people in this country who look up to their strength and athletic abilities as symbols of leadership and character, maybe these athletes can respond to the calling of being healthy, good men, true men who are the essence of healthy masculinity.

9/18/2014

Turning 21 and Going Out for a Beer

Turning 21 is a big deal. It is the traditional “coming of age” birthday, the day you really become an adult, and everyone knows it.

It’s the day you can go out for a beer with your buddies, and walk into a bar, legal for the first time.

It’s a rite of passage, one we all look forward to, one we all celebrate.

Back in the day, it was truly the day you became an adult. You got to vote, you could own property, you had all the legal rights of adulthood. Now, we’ve pushed all the legalities back to 18, or even earlier.

Still, turning 21 is still a big deal, a moving into adulthood, no questions asked.
When you’re in prison, the day is just another day. No going out to the neighborhood bar for a beer, no big party. No bartender checking your ID and giving you a thumbs up, as you order your first legal drink.

My young friend called me the other night, on his 21st birthday. It was about his bedtime, and the prison dorm was settling down. He didn’t have a party, and no one made a fuss over his big day. I’d sent him a card, the only one he got. Some of his friends were having a get together, but they couldn’t invite him. He doesn’t live in their “unit”, and he couldn’t be a part of their party of some snacks and a movie.

I couldn’t take him out for a beer, either, but that’s what he needs. He’s been in prison for five years, and has four more long years to go. I’m one of the few on his visitor’s list, one of the few normal ones who show up. Sometimes, his family comes, but that’s a tough day for my friend. Too much insanity, too much manipulation, too much of the old dysfunction. Like a lot of guys there tell me, he thinks prison is the best place he’s ever lived.

It’s a long, long time, his prison time, especially for something that happened when he was supposed to be in middle school, but his parents hadn’t bothered to make sure he went., The relationship he had with a girl was encouraged by all of the parents. Family dysfunction was the theme of his youth, and they kept him away from school and friends. What we like to think of as a normal life, and normal values was foreign to him, until he got to prison. It’s a too familiar story, dysfunction junction.

Not that he’s wasting his time now, though. He’s finished high school, earned an associates degree, and just now is starting on his second degree. He’s taking advantage of all of the on line education the system is offering him, and has a respectable 3.9 GPA.

He’s teaching a lot of the other young men in prison, as well. He’s a leader, and a tutor, and makes sure they are working hard and moving ahead. He’s the junior counselor, the mentor, the older brother a lot of the guys need.

We get together every couple of weeks, to talk about books we’ve read. We’re our own writing group, exchanging essays and poems we’ve written, offering each other some valuable critiques. He reads serious books, and I’ve been sending him some of the classics in philosophy, science, and history. He absorbs all of them, and is eager to have a discussion with me about what he thinks, and what the authors were trying to say.

If we were college roommates, he’d be the guy who lived at the library, and went on to grad school, just because it was fun to study, read books, and challenge the professors with his take on the tough subjects.

He’d still be the guy I’d like to go out and have a beer with, on Friday afternoon, after the last class of the week. He is serious about his guitar, and writes some thoughtful songs, lyrics with several layers of meanings, and chord progressions that please the ear. He laughs and jokes about life, and the dramas and politics in his life.

Yet, when he called that night, the night of his birthday, he was all alone. He reached out to me, making small talk about our writing, good books we’re reading, a bit of music. It was almost everything we wanted, in that phone call, talking as good friends, kindred spirits. All that was missing was the beer.

An Education Gives You Great Possibilities

by Neal Lemery

September is a time of new beginnings. Vacations are over, and we are back at our daily routines, our work, and, for many of us, our education. Kids wait for the school bus, excited, and eager for a new year of adventure. They feel the possibilities in the air.

Community college is part of that excitement, that feeling that dreams are possible, that each of us can keep growing and learning, becoming better equipped to live our lives, and make a difference in the world.

“Understand that the right to choose your own path is a sacred privilege. Use it. Dwell in possibility.” — Oprah Winfrey

We’ve all seen lives change when young people go on to college, and adults return to the classroom, to gain new skills, and, more importantly, a new perspective on what we can achieve when we learn new ideas and gain new skills.

I recently took a young man to college, helping him to walk through the door, enroll in classes, and chart his path to a promising career. His big smile told me that continuing his education and challenging himself to grow and apply his skills in college was the right move for him.

Because of the generosity and thoughtfulness of charitable people in the community, he received scholarships to help with his student loans. His dream became a reality, and he is now on his path to achieve his possibilities. He felt valued, knowing that his education and his future were something that generous people think is worthwhile.

Already, he is coming up with new ideas and fresh approaches to the challenges of his profession. He will continue to build a strong community, and to give back what he has been given, a chance for a new life.

When we help fund a scholarship, no matter what the amount we give, we give a helping hand to young people like my friend, giving then a chance to improve themselves, a chance to fully realize their dream. We make a better community. Indeed, as Oprah Winfrey says, this is sacred work, being able to help a person transform their life.

I see the fruits of such generosity everywhere in our county, people working hard, raising families, and making a difference, all because they had the chance to go to college, and improve their lives. When we make that dream possible, when we give of our time, our encouragement, and money for a scholarship, each of us changes the world, one person at a time.

September is an exciting time, and a chance to make a difference in a person’s life, offering all of us a lifetime of rewards, and possibilities.

For more information about the TBCC Foundation and planned giving, contact Jon Carnahan or Heidi Luquette at TBCC, (503)842-8222 x 1010. http://tbcc.or.us and click on “foundation”.

Neal Lemery is president of the TBCC Foundation, and a returning TBCC student.

(published in the Tillamook, Oregon Headlight Herald September 3, 2014

Root Beer and Potato Chips

I see him every couple of weeks, our time 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, being 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 a bit 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 abandoned his mom and the kids when he was ten, and then died of a drug overdose.

Life went downhill for him, and he found himself in long term foster care, then an adoption. The family rejected him, and he was adopted again, and then 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 drink 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 its starting to fill in, and look like a real beard. It’s growing in with two colors, patches of brown and then patches of tan, almost white. His hair grows that way, too.

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

“Interesting that there’s two different colors,” I said, suddenly realizing I might be coming off as rude or obnoxious, tripping over my tongue.

“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 case worker finally caught on.”

“That’s why my hair grows in patches; two different colors. Malnutrition.”

No big deal.

He goes back to the game, intent on 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.

And, 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 up with 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, and missed the ceremony.

We’re planning a special ceremony for him, a day just for him to get his high school diploma, and get 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, wants them to see him get his diploma.

She’s only been back in his life now for 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 said, breaking into a chuckle, and giving me a wink.

“We’re just moving ahead.”
8/30/14

Fifteen Gratitudes

Several friends on Facebook have asked me to list three things I am grateful for, and to continue that for five days.

I’m a bit of a rebel, so I am not following that format, but still making my list of fifteen things I am grateful for:

Family. No, not the biological family, necessarily, but the people I am close to, those I feel a kinship with. They love me, without condition, but also with loving criticism and support. They speak up when they feel I need a lesson, or some encouragement, or need to, perhaps, change direction or reconsider my point of view.

Friends. Real friends. Friends who speak the truth, who are there for me and will sit with me, in silence, when times are hard. They are present in my life, and offer me unfiltered and true wisdom and fellowship.

Nature. A continual experience of beauty, simplicity, peace, and a constant reminder that I am part of the Universe, part of the cycle of life, part of a Plan that remains a mystery, but also a constancy in my life.

Growing older. I am continually reminded of the Cycle of Life, of seasons, of cycles and rhythms, and thus, a sense of order and place for myself in the Universe. “This too, shall pass” puts a lot of problems in perspective and helps me move on, not sweating the small stuff, and being able to handle the Big Stuff, as well. With age comes experience, and wisdom, as well as lessons that need to be relearned.

Community. In life, there are others there to help, to support me, to offer something as simple as friendship, a sense of place, a sense of belonging. I am part of a Greater Whole. And, in that, I have my own unique role to play. I am important, as well as being part of something bigger than myself.

A thirst for education. I am eager to learn, to take in new information, new ideas, new perspectives. In that, I grow, I expand my horizons, I gain a new perspective. In that, I give myself permission to discard old ideas, old viewpoints, and see the world as being in motion, being dynamic. When I learn, I change, and thus I find the change to not be so hard, because when I change, I grow.

Music. When I immerse myself in music, I find rhythm, cadence, and connection. I find voice, and I find ways to express myself, digging deep into emotions. Listening, playing, being caught up into the moment and the experience of music, I am connected, and I find a big part of myself. In that, I discover new ways of thinking, new approaches, and I grow.

Real, purposeful conversations. Real, honest, uninhibited conversations with others, exploring new ideas, learning of the experiences of others, and how they connect with the world, how they relate, and, in that, being challenged to look at my own ideas, my own experiences, my own purpose of being here. I often get this when I am mentoring young men, but I welcome such rich experiences anywhere, with anyone.

Getting out of my comfort zone. I find new energy when I move out of my easy chair, my usual way of looking at something, finding new ideas, and challenging the old ways. I don’t easily embrace change, but change makes me move on, makes me throw a few of my old ways, stale ideas, and old habits, out the window, making room for something new, and hopefully, something better.

Ancient ways. Be it the lighting of a candle on a dark evening, or telling stories around a campfire, or sharing the rhythm and fellowship of a drumming circle or a walk on the beach, or taking in a sunset, or kneading a loaf of bread, there is comfort and space to grow in doing something primeval, just like my ancestors did. I connect, and feel a peace, a comfort, away from the hectic craziness of modern society.

Art. Making art, experiencing art, letting those voices and those experiences spend time with my soul, letting that expression speak to me, and giving time to let that soak in, become part of my life, part of my experience. In that, I find peace and a sense of purpose that goes deep down into the core of my soul.

Sleep and rest. Quiet time. Time to muse, reflect, slip into my Dream World, putting aside hectic activity and just Be. Away from the distractions and noise of modern life, I connect to being truly human, truly a child of the Universe.

Modern communications, the Internet. Yes, it can be and is distracting, noisy, interrupting of old rhythms of the day, but this is also an incredible source of knowledge and education, and connecting with people, despite geography. This can be a curse, but it is also a blessing, and a great means of being connected with others.

The kindnesses of strangers. Every day, I have experiences where others are kind, generous, helpful, appreciative, supportive. I try to acknowledge that with them, and also with myself. I am grateful for such kindness, and I hope to believe that being kind of part of our humanity, and part of our culture.

Being able to recognize that I am grateful for so many things, that I can express my thankfulness, and to be appreciative, and that others value gratitude and believe kindness, thankfulness, and gratitude are essential, and deserve to be recognized, and celebrated.

8/28/2014

The Spiritual Samaritan

“A spiritual Samaritan lives knowing that if we were to leave this world tomorrow, we were the best humans we could be and we touched the lives of as many souls as possible. We are not asked to be perfect. We are asked to make a difference.” —Molly Friedenfeld

“You mean I’m not perfect?”

Not by a long shot. But, then, maybe I’m too hard on myself, too self critical. I make mistakes. I don’t get it right the first time, or even the second or third.

After all these years, I’m still trying to accept my humanness, my continuing ability to not get things perfect the first time, or ever. I keep learning, I keep trying. I plug away, sometimes one step at a time.

My stubbornness gets in the way, too. Being wrong isn’t always the answer I accept willingly, so I don’t always learn very well, and stay on the wrong path. Perhaps smarter people would have figured it out long before I do, and change their approach, trying a different method, one that has a much better chance of success.

Or, I procrastinate, simply not taking on the task and doing the work.

“Later,” I tell myself. “I have other things to do now.”

But, later comes around and the task still sits there, at the top of my to do list, waiting for me to get around to it. I know waiting won’t make the task easier, but I still do my dance, avoiding what needs to be done.

Maybe it will go away. But, it usually doesn’t. What’s left undone still hangs over me, uncompleted, calling me to get it done. Just do it.

But, I often don’t.

Again, I realize I’m not perfect. The cycle repeats, and, once again, I beat myself up, thinking that I am a failure. I’m not perfect. But, I am pretty good about beating myself up, reinforcing my human trait of not getting it right, making more mistakes.

So how do I know when I’m moving forward in life, when I am actually getting something done? I look around me, seeing if things have changed, if I am making a difference.

And, in the end, that is the real question. Am I making a difference? Am I changing someone’s life?

When it comes to people, seeing if I’m making a difference isn’t always tangible. Helping others out, helping them move on in their lives, giving them the encouragement to see their own talents, and to go out and live their own dreams, isn’t easily measured.

Yet, there’s progress. People are moving ahead, taking charge of their lives, and finding the courage to live their dreams, and not be caught up in the past, not judging themselves, again and again for what they did a lifetime ago.

People change, and people find the courage inside of themselves to move ahead, embrace new values, and to live their dreams.

I hear many stories, many tales of success. Conquered fears, dreams realized, real change. People find their courage, and they are moving ahead.

I’m making a difference with myself, as well. I need to take stock of who I am, and who I am becoming. My task is to realize what I’m capable of, seeing that I have ambition to get something accomplished. Yes, I have my own fears and doubts, but I know I can face them, and use those challenges in order to move myself ahead, and make a difference, a difference with me.

I am a spiritual Samaritan, helping myself and helping others move ahead with life, accomplishing tasks, honing skills, and improving lives. To do that, each of us must believe in ourselves, our capacity to love and realize our dreams, and to help others along the way.

—Neal Lemery 8/26/2014

S’morefest

It didn’t seem like a big deal. Go to the store and bring the fixings for s’mores, enough for the guys at the prison camp, a couple of staff members, and me.

I was going to bring my guitar and sing some campfire songs, but time got away from me, the day turned hectic and I didn’t have time to go back home and get my guitar and songbook.

I shouldn’t have worried. The evening wasn’t about campfire songs and providing some entertainment. It was all about just getting together and doing something fun, about trying something new, and hanging out, just to hang out.

There were some nice coals and a bit of a flame going in the half barrel barbecue outside by the picnic table. Several young men laughingly grabbed my grocery bags out of my hands and began ripping open the bags of marshmallows, shoving them onto the willow roasting sticks.

My buddy, the staff member, was there, tending the fire, and teaching S’mores Making 101. He was the organizer of this festival, wanting to show these young men a bit about relaxing and having a good time, how to just hang out and be themselves.

Soon, a dozen sticks were thrust over the coals and the flames, and young faces focused on the miracle of marshmallows turning from white to toasty brown, and, sometimes, into small torches of sugary crunchy blackness.

Gooey marshmallows soon melted chocolate onto graham crackers, and were stuffed into eager young mouths. There was more laughter, young men slipping back into boyhood, with big smiles and eyes bright with the excitement of s’mores making. Some boys looked around, not quite sure what to do, how they should act.

After all, this wasn’t organized, like lining up for chow, or going to school, or even going out on the work crew, or off to wood shop or the garden. There weren’t any rules here, any protocol or prison regimen. The only expectation was to just hang out, have a good time, and roast a marshmallow on a willow stick.

“How do you do this?”

“I’ve never made s’mores before.”

“What do we do?” a young man asked, looking lost, unsettled.

I handed him a willow stick, and asked him to stick a fresh marshmallow on it.

“Here. Now hold it over the coals, and let it slowly turn brown.”

He looked at me, a bit puzzled.

“Really?”

“Yeah, then when it gets brown, we’ll take a graham cracker, and smash it all together, with a piece of chocolate. The marshmallow will melt the chocolate, and it will turn into a sweet, gooey mess. You’ll love it,” I said.

“I’ve never done this before,” he said.

“So, how’s your day been?” I asked, drawing him into some small talk. We were supposed to just hang out, after all, and just have a good time.

The tension in the group eased off a bit when the first s’mores were made, and popped into questioning, suspicious mouths.

“Oh, man. That’s good!” the guy first in line at the fire said, his words muffled by his first bite into his sweet chocolate, marshmallow, and graham cracker sandwich.

“Yeah, told you so,” a staff member said, chuckling at the sight of the first of the Doubting Thomases at the s’mores roast.

Some guys still hung out at the edge, not sure what to do, not sure of what was expected of them at this new event in their lives.

“What do we do now?” one guy asked me, a look of worry crossing his face, a bit of melted chocolate daubed on his chin.

“Just hang out, have a good time,” I said. “Just have fun.”

“Oh. Uh, OK,” he answered, hesitant, still a bit antsy about this new activity in his life.

“So, what are you working on in the wood shop?” I asked.

He eased up, and began describing his project, and how he’d figured out the design, and found the right kind of wood, how the teacher showed him a new way of joining the pieces together, so that his box would be stronger, and complement his design.

Other conversations filled the air, as the guys mingled with each other, and went back for seconds and thirds on their desserts. One guy talked about a camping trip he’d had when he was a kid. A few guys just shook their heads.

“Never did that,” one guys said. “But, I will. Some day.”

Other guys talked about the deer they saw the other day back behind the tree farm, and the eagles that would soar overhead some days, high above them as they worked in the trees, or mowed the lawn.

The last of the graham crackers and marshmallows soon disappeared, and the chocolate was ancient history. A few guys were browning up the remnants of marshmallows off of the willow sticks, playing in the last of the coals. They picked up the last of the night’s gooey mess from the sticks with sticky fingers, murmuring their contentment with tonight’s dessert.

The evening light began to fade a bit, and the young men began to wander back inside, getting ready for their showers and bed time. It was time for me to go, too, my mission accomplished.

“That was a blast,” one young man said to me, as he helped me clean up the wrappings and stack the willow sticks by the barbecue.

“I never knew what s’mores were,” he said. “And just hanging out, having a good time around the fire. That was really fun.”

“Can we do this again?”

8/17/2014

A Letter to My Son

Dear Son:

It was a good visit yesterday!

I’d like to give a bit of fatherly advice.

You are now of an age and in a place where you can truly be your own man, your own boss.

Write down your short term goals and your long term goals and dreams.

Then, each day, make a list of tasks you want to accomplish today. One of those tasks should be something that advances one of your long term goals. Several of those tasks should be something that advances some of your short term goals.

If you work ten minutes a day towards a long term goal, then you will ensure that you achieve that goal.

Check off your accomplishments. At the end of the day, update your list, mark off your accomplishments. Even doing something that is part of a task is an accomplishment. Be proud of moving forward. Be proud of the direction you are moving in.

You are a man now. You get to decide who your friends are and who is your family. You get to decide what kind of relationship you have with family. You define who is family.

Just because someone is biologically related to you doesn’t mean you need to keep them in your family. Family is how you define it.

You will always have some sort of relationship with your mother. But, you are the guy who decides what that looks like and how that works. That is pretty much what you do about your relationship with your dad. You have decided how that is, and you make sure you protect yourself and work through all those feelings about your dad.

Same with your mom. Your job is to protect yourself and to make sure you have a healthy relationship with your mom, whatever that is. You decide. You set the boundaries. Don’t let yourself get hurt, or let her run your life. You are in charge of running your life. You are the boss, the manager.

Figuring out our relationships with our parents is tough stuff. I am still doing that, and both my parents are dead. Yet, I hear the old voices, the old ways. But, I am the one who decides what I listen to, and how I respond. I am the boss. I have the power.

You are smart about relationships and about feelings. You have the power, and you have the brains about all that. Put your learning to work. Do what is best for you. Only you get to decide what is in your best interest.

You are the only one who really knows what is best for you. Practice self love and self care. Protect yourself from giving other people permission to hurt you and to make you feel bad.

You have done very well as you have grown up. You have new skills and new power. You have self confidence, and self esteem. Keep up that good work. Move ahead, and go in the direction you want to go in. Be proud.

No one else gets to run your life. You are in charge. Do what is good for you. Go live your dreams.

Take those hard steps, and move in the direction you want to go. Don’t try to please other people. But, please yourself. Do what is good for you.

You are surrounded by people who care about you and who support you in all of this. Use that energy and that support.

Believe in yourself.

You are finding your power in what you are writing. Be proud of what you know and what you are feeling, and what you are dreaming. Go where you need to go.

My job is to be a cheerleader, and to believe in your dreams, and to support you in the direction you want to go. I don’t get to run your life, and no one else does, either. Don’t worry about what I think. What really matters is what you think, and where you want to go. What really matters is what is best for you.

If you need a tool, ask for it. You live in a place where there are lots of tools. You live in a place where people believe in you and support you.

Anything is possible.

All my love,

Neal

Healing, Listening, a Morning’s Task

“As healers we have to receive the story of our fellow human beings with a compassionate heart, a heart that does not judge or condemn but recognizes how the stranger’s story connects with our own…. Our most important question as healers is not, “What to say or to do?” but, “How to develop enough inner space where the story can be received?”
—Henri J. M. Nouwen

A Morning’s Task

He overflows, and I try to empty my self, making space,
opening to the geyser of his soul,
him sharing, his story, his
lifetime of pain, terror, loneliness,
now becoming words spoken,
feelings finally heard, honored
through his voice, my listening.

Listening, without judgement, without my views,
my biases, my edits, just
listening, letting him share his story,
and all its agonies, twists, and turns.

Him, finding his voice, now, sorting it out,
making some sense to it, seeing himself
the hero in this tale,
the good soul he really is
becoming.

An hour, then another, and into the third,
and he speaks on, now finding the words,
and the order in the telling, seeing his life
as his own story, of survival, achievement,
yes, even success and good coming from all that chaos and pain.

I listen, hard not to judge, not to be the commentator,
just simply being there, ears and heart
open
accepting, present in his life.

And, in that, a gift to him,
in my humanity, my soul’s journey, Everyman’s
need for someone to listen, to hear
for the very first time—
this becoming my gift to him, his first time
being heard, hearing his
truth.

—Neal Lemery, July, 2014

Gratitude…

This is excellent. I am proud to know Dean as a friend.

Dean's Footprints

I’ve often wondered when we experience those moments of what we think are feelings of completeness if we truly embrace and live in that moment. Those times are such a blessing, and I often wondered if I let my heart guide me through out that day.

I think about all that I’ve been given and have experienced. I am truly blessed. There have been times when I’ve been the luckiest man on earth (at least that’s how I felt at the time), and then there were those times that my heart was hurting so bad that I thought I was closing my tear drenched eyes for the last time. In retrospect, although there were some emotional highs that tainted my physical vision, I wouldn’t change a dang thing. The experience(s) made me who I am, and I embrace those lessons. Never forgetting to take into account that history will “always”…

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