Dancing Queen

        At around 5:30 this morning, on my way to train a client, my radio spit out “Dancing Queen” by Abba. It had been a long time since I heard that song. But it instantly transported me to a specific night in my life.
        It was early in 1977, right around this time of year. On this Saturday night, I was doing some homework in my father’s study. This room was my dad’s private sanctuary, decorated in Ornate European Testosterone. Lots of dark, heavy wood, some of it colored. A crest of swords over a marble fireplace. Hardwood floor. A desk covered in red and black leather. Masculine trinkets everywhere, like a replica of an 1800’s sailing ship, and an eighteen inch ceramic red bull with gold horns. Lots of old books. The room had a great energy, and I spent as much time in there as I could.
        So I’m doing some homework, and my mind is drifting towards girls, as is often the case with thirteen year old boys. The radio is on. I even remember the station: WRKO. At the time, the AM top forty hit machine of Boston. The one song they were playing to death was Abba’s “Dancing Queen”. They must have played it a half dozen times during the three hours I spent in that room. But it worked. Half way through the night, I was hooked on that friggin’ tune.
        What’s fascinating is not what happened that night, because let’s face it, it wasn’t terribly exciting. No, what’s fascinating is that through the connection of music, a memory is burned into my consciousness. Actually, more than a memory. A feeling. Not as in “sadness” or “joy”, but as in a way I felt. An atmosphere. An ambience. A Sunday Effect sort of thing. I remember exactly what it felt like to be me experiencing my life on that night. And because of my physical environment, namely my dad’s study, because of who I was in those moments, and because of the music, that night felt uniquely different than any other night of my life. There have been hundreds, if not thousands, of these little events. Where my experience feels similar to, but subtly unique from, any other experience of my life.
        This morning, I briefly got taken back to that night. And of course, it made me miss my dad. I remember him coming in to check on me a few times that night back in 1977. He would open the doors to his study, stand at the top of the three stairs leading down into it, and ask me how I was doing. He was probably very happy that his thirteen year old son was at home doing homework on a Saturday night instead of out causing trouble. It wouldn’t always be this way, and he probably knew that, so there might have more than a hint of gratitude in him about it.
        Education was very important to my dad, and he passed that onto me. More important than even education was an insatiable curiosity and unending desire to learn. My dad had those seeds in him, and he planted them in me. I grew those seeds into trees that still flourish within me today. And will until my last moment on this earth. Another gift from my father. Thanx dad. I love you. And thirteen-year-old-boy, do I miss you.


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and Dad’s study full of manly Wrongs) Reserved.

Self Actualized Christmas Tree

       The Christmas Tree. Nature with a twist of humankind. Part tree. Part machine. The cyborg of flora. One of the most beautiful creations on earth.
       With the creation of The Christmas Tree, humankind has added to, not taken from, the grandeur of the natural world. We actually improved on one of our planet’s most perfect specimens. How about that.
       We did this by bestowing one of nature’s greatest gifts with one of our greatest gifts: self expression. The Christmas Tree represents a divinely inspired combination of natural perfection and human creativity. An embellishment of our highest purpose upon that which does not need our embellishment, but welcomes it if our intent is the pursuit of beauty.
        Yeah, I know it’s just a Christmas tree. And yeah, I really feel it’s all of that.
        As you can imagine, I put lots of effort into my Christmas Tree. Once it’s up, lit, and trimmed, I make a habit of falling asleep in front of it. I lye on my couch and stare at it, sometimes for hours. I’m mesmerized by all the bright, shiny lights and iridescent garland. I see a self-contained world of magic, existing in it’s own space and time, right in the middle of my living room. And I listen. Because each one of my ornaments tells a story.
        Some of my ornaments were given to me by my parents. I remember when they hung on our tree when I was a kid. Many of them conjure up very specific memories. Like the little green shiny gift box that says “Harrods” on it that my folks brought back from London. Or the glass balls covered in orange silk that I’ve never seen on any other tree, ever.
        My Tree makes me think of my dad. He loved lighting and trimming our Christmas tree and decorating the house. I miss helping him light the huge holly tree in our back yard, and the two gorgeous cherry trees out front. I miss chopping down a fresh tree each year for him and my mom, and then delivering it to them with the truck I borrowed from his company. My dad and I would get the tree in the base, and then he would light it with more pink lights than I knew existed.
        My own collection of ornaments is fairly impressive. And like a woman who knows exactly where she got and what she paid for every piece of clothing she owns, I can recall similar information about every one of my Christmas ornaments. I can usually recall the store I bought them in, who I was with, how excited I was, and my general frame of mind, for every one. The data stays with me because that ornament is going to become an integral part of one of my great creations: My Christmas Tree.
        My Christmas Tree is a splendid example of maximized self expression. A nearly perfect extension of self. Of self fully realized. When I am fully me, I embody all the spectacular attributes of my Christmas Tree.
        My tree is real. It’s full. It’s unique and expressive. It makes a statement. People are drawn to it. It shines brightly, and it has a presence. It’s a beautiful work of art that uplifts people. It’s creative. Imaginative. Bold. Evocative. One of a kind. A many faceted jewel with a beautiful story to tell. Inspired by love, it gives off energy. It moves people. It’s wonderful just to be around. And man does it smell good.
        When any of us live at our full potential, we are just like the Christmas Tree. We become an ideal made real. A living work of art. The Christmas Tree represents what we can be when we completely show up for life, dare to be ourselves, and invite people to experience us.
        Every Christmas tree is like a fully self-actualized human being.
        No wonder they’re so damn beautiful.

©2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a self-actualized amount of Wrongs) Reserved.

Click on the picture above to see more photos of The Cyborg of Flora.

My Sparkly Belt

       I’ve got this sparkly belt. The kind you get at those teeny-bopper earring and accessory shops at the mall. In fact, that’s where I bought mine. It’s leather, has a simple silver buckle, and it’s covered in those highly reflective, prismatic sparkles. It was cheap too. I think it cost me about fourteen bucks.
        When I first saw the belt, I didn’t think of it in terms of masculine or feminine. To me, it was just shiny and bright and sparkling and colorful. I’m drawn to such items, whether it be clothing or cars or music equipment or whatever else. Bright, shiny, colorful things always grab my attention. They excite me, stir something in me, give me joy. Just because they’re shiny and colorful and bright. Very much like a child who finds a shiny marble. It’s an automatic, pre-cognitive, visceral response. I can’t help it. Nor do I want to.
        In one of my first blogs, I talked about wearing clothing that reflects who you are on the inside. If you do this, then you look good in those clothes, regardless of what the clothes are. There is nothing in my wardrobe that better exemplifies this point than this cheap, sparkly belt that was designed to be worn by teenage girls.
        I can pull this belt off. Because I like it. Because I’m not self conscious about it. Because I connect to things that are sparkly and bright. So therefore this silly little belt reflects something that’s alive in me. If any of that wasn’t true, I’d look uncomfortable wearing that belt, and I wouldn’t be able to get away with it, so to speak. If you put me in a pair of khakis with a sweater, you would see a man at odds with himself. The way somebody else might be if they wore that belt.
        It’s got nothing to do with masculinity or femininity. Those are subjective labels that vary from person to person. I don’t find the belt feminine. I don’t look at it and go “That’s girly”. Somebody else might, and that’s fine. I look at the belt and go “That’s cool. I like that belt”. And that’s all I need to buy it. And to wear it.
        I haven’t worn this belt in over two years. I wasn’t even aware of that until this morning when I looked at it, grabbed it, and decided to wear it. The moment I threaded it through my jeans, an epiphany revealed itself to me. The last time I wore the belt was just before my dad died. Then I realized that when he passed away, something bright and shiny and colorful inside of me went away too. Just like he did.
        That something has been missing from my life since then. This past summer, when I experienced a great opening of my heart, that something started to make it’s way back to me. Through the last several months, that bright and shiny and sparkly and colorful something inside of me has been rediscovered. A major reason for that is because I’ve finally allowed myself to grieve the death of my dad, feel that pain, and thus invite this bright and sparkly something back. Pain was blocking this shiny something, and most of the other light in my life, from reaching me. Letting go of the darkness has opened me up to light again. I’m wearing the belt now because of what’s inside me again. Something bright and shiny and colorful.
        Who would have ever thought that a cheap sparkly belt made for teenage girls could teach a man so much?

© 2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a colorful amount of Wrongs) Reserved.

A Letter To My Dad...

I came across this letter that I wrote to my dad in April of 2004. He had just suffered a bout of ill health due to his diabetes. The anniversary of his death is approaching, and he's been on my mind quite a bit.

Dad,

       I wanted to drop you a quick line because I really enjoy writing to you. You like to write letters too, and receiving one is always good reason to break out a pen and paper.
       I am very aware that I have been afforded a lifestyle and a freedom of choice that most people on the planet would envy. Some of that is because of who I am, but most of it is because you have been very successful and very generous to me (and in fact, very generous to all of your children). I try not to take that for granted. More accurately, I try to be grateful for that, each and every day. I do this by getting on my knees and thanking my higher power. I do it by attempting to be a generous person myself. I do it by respecting and loving my parents, who have given me so much. I do it by trying to live my life in a manner that is consistent with my values of truth, integrity, honesty, compassion, and love.
       If in your eyes I fail, at any time, to appear grateful, then I apologize. 
       You appear to have come face to face with your own mortality. For a man who has enjoyed such exceptional health and prosperity throughout most his life, this must be very difficult. I want the rest of your life to be full of joy and love and happiness. I know that I have no control over that, but I can pray for it. And I can treat you in a way that reflects that. I hope I do that dad. In any one moment, when emotions can run high, maybe you don’t always think I do. But in your private moments, when you have the time and the space and the luxury of personal reflection, I hope that you will know, without any doubt, how much I love you, how grateful I am for the life I have been blessed with, and how fortunate I feel to be your son. I love you dad.

Your loving son,

john

The Best & The Worst

      Two years ago today, my dad fell and broke his hip. Sixteen days later, he died.   
      My dad had fallen, of all places, outside of his lawyer’s office. None of my siblings who knew this called to tell me. That actually didn’t surprise me. I had been out of the family bullshit loop for a while. That also meant I was out of the information loop. I spoke to my nephew that night, and at the end of the conversation, he said “Papa fell and broke his hip. He’s in the Newton-Wellesley Hospital”. I love my nephew to death, and I don’t blame him for not telling me right away. At least he told me.
      My nephew was with my mother. Nobody had been to see my father yet. I called the hospital and spoke to my dad. He sounded terrible. Scared and confused, I could hear the panic in his voice. I told him I would be up to see him. I hung up the phone and called a friend. He offered to take the ninety minute drive up with me to see my dad. I'll never forget that.
      By the time we got to the hospital, my dad was on morphine and sounding much better. I, however, was still quite shaken. So I pulled the I.V. out of his arm and jammed it into mine, sending a nice jolt of the magic elixir coursing through my veins. Then two doctors came in and explained hip surgery to my dad and I. We followed them as best we could, both being doped up and all. The doctors asked me why I had the I.V. in my arm. I told them that was none of their business. They changed the subject. They were very optimistic about the up-coming surgery. So were my dad and I. Morphine does that to you.  
      A little later, my friend came into the hospital room to hang out with me and my dad. We watched the American League playoffs. The Yankees lost. That always made my dad very happy. At about 11:30 p.m. we left. I kissed my father good-by and told him he was going to be fine.
      I was the only person in my family who saw my dad that night. And that was the last time that he was ever close to being himself again.
      The next two weeks, he slipped in and out of paranoia, extreme agitation, delusion, and quasi-lucidity. I am grateful that I had the opportunity to see my dad before he started slipping away. I spent three overnights with him after that, including the night he died. They were the worst three nights he had. So I saw my dad at his best and at his worst during the last two weeks of his life.
      That’s the way it always was with him. I saw the best in him, and the worst in him. I loved him dearly for all of it.
      I miss you dad...     

 © 2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and Wrongs) Reserved   

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