Confessions Of A Topless Jackass

        The other day, I was biking to the beach. It was a sunny day, not particularly hot, probably in the low seventies. Less than a mile from the beach, a truck passed me, and as it did, the passenger stuck his head out of the window. A skinny teenager yelled “Put your fuckin’ shirt on you $@#*%!!”. I knew it was an insult, but I couldn’t make out the last phrase. Being a teenager, his articulation was less than stellar.
        I reacted instinctively by smiling broadly and flipping him the finger. It was a knee jerk reaction, because I was in a great mood, and I could have just as easily ignored him. On another day, at another time, maybe I would have. But that day, in that moment, I didn’t.
        There was a part of me that hoped the truck would stop and the kid would get out. Then I would pull a James Bond move on him by leaping off my bike and taking him down to the ground. Where I would make him eat my bicycle chain.
        The part of me that wanted to throttle the kid is not a very evolved or enlightened part of me, but he does exist. His metaphysical body is fueled by whatever unreleased anger is still inside of me. Some of it going back to when I was a little kid. This part of me is the garbage container for all the shit I’ve ever eaten and haven’t let go of. He’s an eye for an eye kind of guy, and sometimes his voice is loud and he has lots to say. That day, he flared up for a moment and then went away.
        What this incident brought up for me was how, occasionally, when I do something unconventional, express myself, or just simply be me, people have reactions that are less than positive. I’m not unusual or unique in that regards by any means. That happens to everybody. For those of us who are different, it happens more frequently. It goes with the territory.
        Making peace with that reality is a process that I sometimes struggle with. The primitive, neanderthal part of me that wants to settle everything mano a mano, and the inner garbage can of unreleased anger, want to scream at the other person; “What the fuck is wrong with you?! Do you have to actually insult me? Attack my character? Demean my actions? I’m not affecting you in the least. My not wearing a shirt doesn’t impact your life at all. So shut the fuck up.” These parts would love to do that. Or just bash their face in.
        Of course, those parts of me don’t get that, by not wearing a shirt, I am impacting those people who choose to insult me. If I wasn’t, they wouldn’t react like that. But what it’s affecting is something on their insides, not their outsides. And if those being affected don’t know that they are being triggered, if they aren’t self aware or introspective or somewhat enlightened to that process, then they lash out. They make it about me. It’s easy to do that. Much easier than going inside and trying to figure out what the hell is going on in there.
        The not wearing a shirt thing is just one example, but it’s a good one because I don’t like to wear a shirt in the summer. I mean not when I don’t have to. Obviously, for work and when I’m in buildings where going topless would be against policy or simply inappropriate, I wear a shirt. But in my home, or driving around, or whenever I’m outside, the chances are that I will be shirtless. So there’s plenty of opportunity for getting flack. I actually don’t get much. At least not that I know of. But who knows? Maybe more people inaudibly call me a topless jackass than I could possibly fathom.
        I do ask the question why I like to go topless. I’ve gone within, and keep going back, to discover more about myself. This is a good one to look at too. Because going shirtless is something I do frequently, something I like to do, something that some people don’t get but makes perfect sense to me, and it has to do directly with my body, which means it is intimately connected to my heart and mind. So I gain insights into what I think and what I feel by going through my body.
        Part of it is unbridled vanity. No question about that. I only go shirtless if I look the way I want to. If I think I’m too heavy, the shirt stays on. That’s telling me something. And I like how I look without a shirt. There is a part of me that is into looking good and attracting attention to myself. Going shirtless and exposing a lean, muscular torso is one way of doing that.
        But it’s certainly more complicated than that. I work very hard on my body, and it’s not all vanity. I feel so much different about myself, and about my life, when I’m really fit. Like I’m experiencing my life through a different lens. There’s definitely a je ne sais quoi to that part that I haven't figured out.
        When I work out religiously, the endorphins are really cranking every day, which definitely effects my mood. Looking the way I want means that I’ve set a goal and achieved it. Automatically, that sets me up for another goal, an ongoing one, of maintaining what I’ve achieved. That gives me satisfaction the same way the achievement of any goal does. And at the end of each day, if I’ve exercised and eaten right, I feel good about that. If I’ve had an otherwise difficult day, maybe a day where I didn’t get much done, or a day where I beat the shit out of myself, I can go to bed at least feeling that I did something good and positive for myself. And that helps me have better days ahead.
        I’m proud of the body I’ve been able to build, the same way you would be if you built a beautiful house, maybe with your own hands. I try not to be too proud, because I understand the pitfalls of pride. I work just as hard at keeping myself in check as I do keeping myself fit.
        If you designed and actually made your own line of clothing, and it fit you really well, made you look good, and you put lots of work into making it, wouldn’t you wear it all the time? Well that’s how I think about my body. If you wear your own line of kick ass clothing, nobody would fault you for it. I suppose going shirtless is my equivalent of that.
        Maybe because of all of the shame we attach to our bodies, not wearing a shirt just brings up so much stuff for people. I understand that. I used to be a chubby kid. I didn’t like how I looked, and I got lots of teasing from other kids. I know what it’s like to have a very poor self image. Which I’m sure is a major reason why I’m such a fanatic about it today. The scars go deep, and now that I have the ability to control, to a degree, certain aspects of how I look, I’m very driven to do so. It’s helped me heal. We’re not encouraged to love our bodies. Working out is one way of showing love for my body.
        But I’ll admit, it’s not unconditional love. That’s where I stumble. I don’t love my body no matter what. But I also know that there’s a center in me that doesn’t care how I look. My soul doesn’t care what my waistline is. The more I develop that center, the more in touch I get with my own soul, the more unconditionally I’ll be able to love my body. And if I always have this part of me that wants to look good and is willing to drive me to do so, that’s not a bad thing. That will help keep me fit. If I can keep that part in check, it can help me raise my quality of life. Getting and staying physically fit to me is just as important as getting and staying emotionally and mentally fit.
        David Lee Roth once said that every minute you’re up on stage, you’re flipping off everybody who ever tried to stomp on your dream, or told you that you’d never make it, or otherwise attempted to thwart your hopes of success. And let’s face it, there are plenty of people out there like that. People who are unconscious and hurtful and want to see you go down in flames so that they can feel better about themselves. They may be the same type of individual who would find perverse pleasure in insulting somebody or attacking their character because of what they were wearing. Or not wearing.
        Maybe going shirtless is one way of flipping off anybody who ever called me fat, or beat me up because I didn’t look right, or insulted me because I was different, or otherwise shamed me for being myself. Not the most mature attitude, but I'm aware of that. And I think we all need a little “Fuck You” in us. And not wearing a shirt is a pretty harmless way of saying that.

©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a no shirt of Wrongs) Reserved.

A Filthy Combination (Part 3)

Before delving into this post, I recommend reading parts one and two, “A Filthy Combination”, and “Cleaning Up After A Filthy Combination".


         Shaming myself about feeling shame is one of the the highest forms of heart sabotage. There’s absolutely nowhere to go with myself if I don’t first accept how I feel. If I can’t do this, then I’m totally screwed before the gun goes off. I’ve lost the race before it begins.
        Right after an initial awareness, the first, crucial, all important, vitally necessary rung on this ladder of growth is some modicum of self acceptance. Just like climbing a physical ladder, I have to get some footing on this rung before I can climb any others. I can’t leap frog over this, or any other rung, for that matter. Just like walking before crawling, skipping that step will fuck you up later on. And it’s what so many of us do, because self acceptance can be so internally difficult that we say “Fuck it for now. I’ll accept myself later, when I’m healthier, when I get closer to the top of the ladder.” But it doesn’t work that way. We’ve got it backwards.
        We can’t even get near the top of the ladder until we at least begin the process of better accepting ourselves. In fact, we can’t really climb the ladder at all without a decent dose of self acceptance, even if it’s only fleeting. If we skip that step completely and keep climbing, it’s as tough the step gets removed from the ladder. And this step is crucial in holding the ladder steady and making it strong. The higher we climb, we may think that we’re seeing more, but the ladder itself is actually getting more shaky because the first step is gone, and we’re higher up the ladder, therefore putting more pressure on the whole structure.
        Just like with a physical ladder, the physics change completely if there’s no first rung. What should be a sturdy vehicle for growth is now a shaky apparatus that will eventually fail and send us crashing to the ground. Without that first rung of some self-acceptance, the whole ladder is different. The ladder is incomplete. Our growth is therefore incomplete. And somewhat unstable. We must cultivate self acceptance from the beginning. As we climb, as we grow, we can get better at it. We learn to be kinder to ourselves, and accept ourselves more and more. But we can’t just skip it entirely.
        Being with somebody who could accept the naked truth about me was a tremendous help. All of the work was, and is, mine, but having this woman in my corner was invaluable. She didn’t think less of me because I thought less of myself. When I admitted that I was jealous, thought she disappeared on me, and that I felt vulnerable and worthless, she didn’t run away. She didn’t find me less attractive. She didn’t get turned off. All the things I feared she would do, she didn’t do. All of the things I feared she would say that would hurt me, she didn’t say.
        In fact, opening up about this painful place inside me and sharing it with her brought us closer. And this is really my whole point about relationships. If we can dare to be ourselves and share all of that with the one we’re with; if we can risk doing that most terrifying of all human endeavors - being exactly who we are in the moment - and show the world nothing but that, we open up the endless possibilities that such a courageous act provides us. If we dare to show ourselves, we dare to heal. We can not heal if we hide. If we hide from ourselves, we will never heal. And we’re all hurting in some way, on some level. Take that to the bank. If we don’t hide from ourselves, but hide from the world, in other words, if we play it safe, we only heal somewhat. If we take the next step and show ourselves to the world, we open up possibilities in our lives that are not available any other way. We live a fuller, richer, more authentic life.
        If, however, we can go even deeper, and open up all of ourselves, even the painful, messy parts, to our partner; if we can cultivate a truly intimate relationship, then we have the potential for healing on the very deepest of levels. I have come to know this over the past year, after my heart got shattered.
        When I became willing to show all of myself to another, I began a unique process that can’t be done any other way. It doesn’t even matter if I ever got the chance to show her (I didn’t). I simply became willing. For the first time in my life, I wanted to show myself completely to a woman. That new found openness and desire is all I needed to start down the path of truly deep healing.
        I don’t have a special woman in my life to do that with right now, but that doesn’t matter. That will happen. Because I know that’s where I’m headed. What I have been able to do is share so much more of myself with my own life. Through this blog. Through being even more of myself out in the world than before (even though those who know me may say that wasn’t possible, because they saw me as so out there to begin with. Just goes to show how much I hid and how much more there is to me). I’ve shared so much more of myself through my words and actions with loved ones. Through digging deeper into myself. Through cultivating the kinds of relationships I want. And through letting go of relationships that I can’t make work, no matter what I do.


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a very tall ladder of Wrongs) Reserved.

Cleaning Up After A Filthy Combination

Note: To fully mine whatever you may from this post, please first read yesterday’s piece “A Filthy Combination”. This is part two.

         When I came clean with my girlfriend, I felt anything but. Admitting that I got triggered by her comment about being checked out by a group of guys didn’t make me feel better. It made me feel worse. After I opened my mouth about it, there was no catharsis. There was shame. More of the shit that I didn’t want. I immediately got exactly what I feared. By telling her I was in this place, I headed even deeper into that very dark alley.
        This had nothing to do with her. She just listened. But there was something about saying the words aloud. By speaking up, as opposed to having a conversation within the confines of my mind, it made my emotional predicament more real. Which means it made it more scary. It was out there now. It was no longer a secret.
        There’s a saying that goes “We’re only as sick as our secrets”. But at that moment, keeping this a secret felt like a life preserver that I had just given away while I was drowning. Exposing this felt like nothing more than a new anchor tied to my ankle. And this one was going to sink me.
        This is all because of the insane amount of very toxic shame that I had attached to feeling this way. Not only that night, but throughout the course of my life, I learned to be ashamed of how I felt. Ashamed of what I thought. Years and years of that will corrupt you at the deepest inconceivable level. Shame infests your very cells, and then poisons your being on a sub-atomic scale. It’s not just in your body. It’s not just in your cells. It’s not just in the atoms that make up those cells. It’s the fuckin’ raw material that the atoms are made of: the protons, neutrons, and electrons. When it’s that deep, it feels like I AM shame. The very stuff that I am made of is shame itself. There is not a lower feeling on the planet.
        I admitted to her that, after she said that she was being stared at, I felt completely worthless. When she uttered the words, “Did you see the looks I got when I walked by those guys?”, I left the present, and traveled back in time. Who’s says there’s no such thing as time travel? We do it all the time. We experience something in the now and immediately link it to painful memories that we haven’t yet released. We emotionally and mentally travel to different points in time where similar events happened, where the consequences were excruciating. We forget who we are now, who the people we are with are, where we are, and the particular circumstances of the current moment. It is exactly as if we just jumped into the way-back machine and went to another moment in time.
        When we travel back in time, we change. Therefore our perception changes. Therefore our very reality changes. And it all happens in an instant, often before we even realize it. We’re suddenly there, and we don’t even know we ever left. Because magically everything looks the same. Feels the same. Is the same. Even though none of that is true, it’s true to the person we’ve suddenly become. Because they’re still trapped in the past. And now so are we.
        There have been enough times in my life where the woman that I was with, and in love with, enjoyed the attention of other men to the point where she emotionally and mentally left me, even though physically, she was still right there. No longer with me, she basically abandoned me. Ever perceptive, I could tell when a woman did this, but I could never articulate it. If I did, rarely was the woman self-aware enough to deal with it, so instead, it became an argument over me making up stuff that wasn’t happening.
        There were plenty of times, however, when my judgement was off and all I was doing was acting out my own insecurities. But I could almost always make the distinction between when I was acting out and when I was sensing something she was doing that really hurt me. Maybe not always right then and there, but always after some introspection. The problem was that I usually couldn’t do anything about it, because I didn’t have the tools to take that distinction and act on it. But I usually knew when I was bullshitting myself, and when I was being bullshitted. Acting on that takes courage, openness, and lots of self trust. And those three internal commodities were in much shorter supply when I was younger. Especially openness and self trust.
        When I knew that a woman emotionally and mentally left me, I suffered abandonment, my worst nightmare. Once I went there, all bets were off. I suffered the worst feelings of worthlessness that I’ve ever been conscious of. The trauma of those moments, that go all the way back to my core wound of abandonment, all the way back to birth, was a pain that I kept re-living, and therefore reinforcing. It just got heavier and heavier. But this was the first time I was able to articulate this to the woman I was in love with. I told her where I went and what happened to me when she said what she said. I traveled back in time, and felt like she left me at that moment. And I was devastated. Even though that wasn’t her. Even though she wasn’t like that. It felt the same, because I couldn’t stop myself from time traveling.
        For the first time, the genie was out of the bottle, and it was a huge fuckin’ genie. He overpowered me. He overpowered both of us. The pain around this was so big that we couldn’t deal with it right away. Neither of us really understood what we were dealing with. I felt shame, and she felt horrible for hurting me. I didn’t mean to, but I was partially dumping years of abandonment on her within the course of a few minutes, and there was no way she could carry it all. It wasn’t even hers. But she wanted to help. She wanted to understand. But the weight was too big, even for the both of us to carry. So all it did was crush us that night and the next morning. For about twenty-four hours or so, this was between us, and neither of us could figure out what to do with it. A house call relationship therapist on speed dial would have been extremely helpful.
        But, with some time and lots of talk, we started sorting it out. I became aware that she was not the type of person who would just suddenly take off on me. She wasn’t going to bolt on me emotionally and mentally if she got attention from other men. She was just going to feel flattered by it. I was projecting others’ behavior onto her. I got that. She reassured me that she wasn’t like that, and I could feel her sincerity and her caring. Once all that sunk in, I started to heal, and it felt safe to bring this up to her if it ever happened again. I was grateful that I was with a woman who I could say this to, in the moment it was happening, and she would walk me through it, holding my hand, instead of mentally and emotionally taking off on me. That had never happened before. For either of us.

Please come back tomorrow for part three. Same bat time. Same bat
channel...


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and enough Wrongs to cause a warp in the space-time continuum and thus enable time travel) Reserved. 

A Filthy Combination

        About five years ago, my girlfriend came to one of my gigs with a few of her friends. During one of my band breaks, we were standing near the bar talking when my girlfriend walked over to another table to get something. A group of guys stood between her and the table, and when she walked by them, they all checked her out. Rather thoroughly. When she came back, she mentioned that she was aware that the guys were gawking at her. She was smiling as she said this, and why not? It’s nice to be noticed, and she was noticed.
        I smiled too, because she was going home with me, and let’s face it, virtually every man likes it when other men think their babe is hot. Even men who are pretty evolved will admit, if they dig deep enough, that it’s flattering if other men desire the woman you’re with. Some of it has to do with hundreds of thousands of years of evolution still stuck in our DNA. The alpha male got his pick of the women, and that was a bragging right of the highest order.
        This dynamic can also lead to trouble, as we all know. More than a few fights have broken out precluded by the line “Are you checkin’ out my girlfriend?”, especially when alcohol is involved. Throw in some inappropriate male behavior, some jealousy, and a woman who likes stirring up the testosterone pot, and you have the makings of all out mayhem.
        This was not one of those nights. But something big got triggered in me. Immediately after my girlfriend made the comment “Did you see the looks I got when I walked by those guys?” with a smile on her face, I took off. Not physically, but emotionally and mentally. Instantly, without a thought to act as a torpedo, my heart sank. I didn’t know why at the time, but I knew the feeling. My throat and my heart took a header into the middle of my stomach. My voice, and my love for this woman, suddenly got buried beneath years of internal emotional garbage that I was still holding onto. Spread throughout my metaphysical body, this amalgamation of old pain instantly collected itself into one massive heap and dropped itself right into the center of my being. Chicken Little was right. The sky had fallen.
        For the rest of the night, I was off my game, and my playing suffered. Nobody else noticed, and the band sounded great, but I knew I was off.
        Instead of taking a personal time out when I felt my heart plummet, I just acted like nothing was wrong. I pretended that I wasn’t suffering a sudden attack of heartache that I couldn’t explain. To be honest, I was ashamed of myself. I was the drummer in this band that was kicking ass in front of a large, rowdy crowd. I was going home with the best looking woman in the room, I loved her, and I knew she loved me. I looked pretty good myself, was getting more than my share of looks from females, and my playing was solid and fluid and fun. I should feel like the king of the world. Or at least the king of the room. Certainly in contention for the role of alpha male, at least in this narrow context.
        But all I felt was pain. Heartache. Anxiety. Confusion. Anger. Shame. What the fuck?
        For the rest of the night, these emotions got stirred and heated inside of me like a simmering stew while I just soldiered on. If I was crumbling on the outside, though, nobody, repeat nobody, was going to know about it. Here was a skill that I had gotten very good at. Looking peachy on the outside while I was rotting away on the inside, like a piece of fruit that looks great until you bite into it and all the brown, mushy crap comes dripping out of it. Well nobody was going to bite into me that night. Not even the woman I loved. In fact, especially not the woman I loved.
        In my temporarily distorted frame of mind, she was the one who had injected the flesh eating bacteria into me in the first place. But on a deeper level, I was aware that this had nothing to do with her; I knew that this was my stuff. Yet I was in so much pain that I could justify being mad at her. I know now that, at that point in my life, I needed that anger to keep my wall up. Without the anger to energize this emotional electric fence I had put around myself, I would have broken down and cried like a baby in the bathroom behind closed doors. And damn it that wasn’t going to happen.
        By the time I got back to her place after the gig, I was a mess. She had come separately, so I drove just myself and my equipment back to the cape. In my car, I started to cry, and I had no friggin’ idea why. When I arrived at her home, she was on the couch, waiting for me, looking as inviting as a woman possibly could. Wrapped under a blanket with her blond hair pulled back in a pony tail, wearing her usual sleeping attire: skimpy cotton boy shorts and snug workout tank top that stopped just under her breasts, exposing her trim midriff. She looked good enough to eat, but I wasn’t hungry. I was hurt. And I was behind my wall.
        So when she asked me what was wrong, I said the only thing I could, which was, “Nothing. I’m just tired.” Eventually, though, I knew I had to tell her, because I wanted to. I wanted to feel better. But I didn’t even know what was wrong. And I was completely ashamed that I even felt this way.
        The filthy combination of shame and fear is like a horrible long, dark alley infested with vermin. You can’t see anything, and you’re getting attacked by these toxic thoughts. The only way out is to start walking through the alley; that is, own where you’re at and starting talking about it. But if you’re ashamed you’re even there, you’d rather hide out in that alley than move through it and therefore expose yourself. Because then, somebody else will know what a shit-head I am for being in this fuckin’ alley in the first place. At least right now, I’m the only one who knows I’m here. So all the judgement and hatred is coming from me. The last thing I need is to pile somebody else’s judgement and hatred of me on top of that. That’s not a solution. That’s just another problem.
        That’s really how I thought then. Opening up was so difficult for me because I was so sure that whoever saw this would be horrified and bolt on me, triggering the mother-load of all fears: Abandonment. As horrible as the current pain inside me was, I knew that it was nothing compared to the ten million needles of viscous, toxic, agony and shame that would befall me should I ever be abandoned. I was choosing the lesser of two evils. But as a wise friend has repeatedly quoted: “Choosing the lesser of two evils is still choosing evil.” But I didn’t know of any other way. To me, it was a lose-lose scenario no matter how I sliced it. I really didn’t know I could do it differently. I didn’t know that I had the key in my hand the whole time and could have begun the process of healing by just opening the jail and walking out. Or if I did know, I was just too scared shitless to do it.
        Tune in tomorrow for part two, where I spill my guts to my girlfriend, take a plunge into the emotional unknown, and pass along what I discovered.


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a long, dark, nasty alley full of Wrongs) Reserved.

Mental Necrophilia

       I spent the better part of yesterday afternoon mind-fucking something to death. Mental Necrophilia. And I can’t even say what it’s about, because that wouldn’t be fair to certain people. So forgive my vagueness.
       Ultimately, obsessive thinking is about me, not about whatever or whoever I’m obsessively thinking about. As always, the lesson in this situation is mine.
       If what I suspect is happening is actually happening, and I have strong circumstantial evidence that it is, then I’m hurt. And paradoxically, I’m also pleased. But if this certain something isn’t happening, I’m still hurt. And also somewhat relieved.
       So either way, yes or no, there’s a world of hurt attached to this. What that means is there’s still a world of hurt inside of me that I haven’t released yet. And therein lies my lesson.
       Mind screwing this thing sends me down a road I’ve traveled often. A road of self flagellation, fear, doubt, pain, and intense self hatred. My mind beats myself to a pulp because it, the mind, is obsessing. That’s like being with an alcoholic who drinks and then blames me for her drinking. It’s insane. But it’s where I go sometimes.
       It’s because I’m back in my head. It’s because my mind is a tool that sometimes uses me. When it comes to affairs of the heart, my mind is a terrible leader. When I hurt, or love, or feel, coming from my head leads to one result. Pain. But my heart leads me to my truth, every time. I have to be able to to quiet my mind and come from my heart. For the longest time, I couldn’t do that. I can now. I just sometimes forget, and I slip into an old bad habit.
       The integration of my mind, body, heart, and soul is my key to making decisions that serve me best. If those elements can communicate and integrate, then they serve me. Instead of me serving them. My whole self is thus the fluid and harmonious integration of what I feel, what I think, what I know, and what inspiration and intuition are telling me. Heart. Mind. Body. Soul.
       In this recent bout of mental necrophilia, my mind is not helping me. Because my mind is telling me how weak and foolish and worthless I am for feeling something. For wanting something.
       My heart knows that no matter what the truth is in this situation, the only solution is love. Self love first. Love for another second.
       When I lead with my heart, I quiet my mind. I stop mind-fucking, and my head can get back to constructive, not destructive, pursuits. Instead of telling me how bad I am, my mind can focus on how to get published. I need my mind for that. Strategic planning, research, analyzation - all things I’m very good at. All things I like to do. All functions where my mind takes the lead and guides me. So I put it to work where it’s needed. I focus it on what it’s good at. I keep it out of the emotional cookie jar, where it tells me that to feel is absurd. Where it tells me that following my heart is foolhardy.
       The first draft of this post was written freehand in a Barnes & Noble bookstore. On my way back to Cape Cod from Boston, I felt so compelled to write that I had to stop and set up shop there. On the shelf next to me is a mug that says:
              Dance as though no one is watching
              Sing as though no one is listening
              Love as though you’ve never been hurt
              Live as though heaven is on earth
       In the middle of reading it, I have to choke back the tears, so poignant are these words. Especially at this moment. People much wiser than I have said that there are no coincidences.
       I think about the words for a moment, and I break it down line by line.
       Dance as though no one is watching. I can honestly say that when I dance, I do it as though no one is watching. And I can dance. So when I let go, people end up watching. What a great paradox.
       Sing as though no one is listening. I sing all the time. In fact, I’m singing right now. “Sweet Baby James” by James Taylor. It’s on the P.A. system here, and I know the words, I love the song, and I’m singing it. Audibly. I sing in the car. I sing at home. I sing in line at the store. I even sing in the gym. I know people are sometimes listening, but I sing as if nobody is. I just love to sing. So I do. You should hear me at a rock concert.
       Love as though you’ve never been hurt. For the first time in my life, I’m loving as though I’ve never been hurt. For twenty-five years, I loved with the memory of pain. I know what that feels like. Now I’m loving somebody who isn’t with me, says she doesn’t want me, and has hurt me worse than anybody ever has. And I still love her. I’ve thrown my heart on the table for her, more than once. I’ve written about her here, on numerous occasions. I share whatever is in my heart with anybody who reads my blog. I do it because it’s how I feel. I do it because it’s my truth. I do it because, regardless of how she feels about me, I love her. That’s loving like I’ve never been hurt.
       The last phrase on the mug, Live as though heaven is on earth, is the perpetually tricky one. But three out of four isn’t bad.
       When my mind gets in the way, when it tries to lead when it should follow, I can’t do any of what it says on the mug. I can’t dance, or sing, or love, or live, the way I want to. The way I need to.
       Obviously, I need my mind to write. But my mind takes direction from my heart. I write from my heart. My head simply assists. My mind and my body are tools that my heart and soul use to express themselves. This is the type of integration and communication I alluded to earlier. The type where my whole self participates in the creation of my life. This is one reason writing is so special to me.
       When my mind was causing me pain and turmoil, I followed my heart into this bookstore. I followed my heart to write this piece. I have followed my heart on this journey that began when it got broken. Shattered beyond my recognition. And following my broken heart, that from all “reasonable” accounts wasn’t working very well, has allowed me to create this blog and finally share all of myself. Following my broken heart has allowed me to get in touch with a life time of pain, and allowed me to finally start to release it. Following my broken heart has opened up my life in ways that my mind never could. Following my broken heart has allowed me to know, on a level previously foreign to me, that self love is the key to my being. Following my broken heart has, ironically, allowed me to love like I’ve never been hurt.
       My heart continues to lead me. For sure, that is a road less traveled. Especially for a man. But that is my path. Looking back, though, I’m not surprised. Because on virtually every level, at virtually every turn, I’ve taken a path less worn. Listened to a different drummer. However you want to put it.
       Sometimes, it takes painful, frustrating situations like these to remind me to follow my heart and not my head. Someday, I hope to know that so deep within me that I don’t have to go to that dreadfully painful place in order to get back to where I need to be. When that happens, I will be living as though heaven is here on earth. And then I will truly be free...

©2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a head full of Wrongs) Reserved.