Day Before Thanksgiving Day

       I love the island I’m on. Martha’s Vineyard, off the coast of Cape Cod. I love the little town around me. Edgartown, as quaint and picturesque as any place I’ve ever been. I love the hotel I’m in. The Harborview. I’ve spent over fifteen Thanksgivings here. I love my room. The one I’ve come to request and feel so at home in. Room four-twelve, tucked away on the top floor, decked out with Christmas lights, an aromatic candle that smells like a balsam fir, and a view of the ocean
        From my room to the chunk of earth I’m on to the very time and space that I inhabit, I am literally surrounded by what I love.
        And that’s causing me some anxiety.
        The kind of anxiety I’m talking about here is akin to the proverbial kid in a candy store. There is so much I want to do here. And I can’t do it all, nor will I have time to do enough of any of it. So I end up feeling overwhelmed by excitement, joy, and anticipation. All this good energy leaves me over-stimulated, like a little boy running around trying to play with every single toy in the store. I can pressure myself into wanting to experience it all, all at once, all of the time, and end up missing the moments as they pass me by while I’m whirling around in this over-zealous stupor.
        Sometimes I refer to myself as an “experience junkie” (making sure to leave off the “d” at the end of “experience”). Meaning that I want to have all these different experiences, spend plenty of time reveling in each one, and not have to choose which one’s I can’t do.
        Like the movie “Groundhog Day”, except I’m on Martha’s Vineyard, at The Harborview Hotel, the day before Thanksgiving. This movie could be called “Day Before Thanksgiving Day”. A pretty lame title, but you get the point. In it, I’m a character who loves where I am and when I am. I use each repeating day to do one thing I really love. That would be a slice of heaven. A month of the day before Thanksgiving. Ripe with all of the anticipation, unique ambience, good vibes, magic, love, joy, and peace.
        My day(s) would look something like this.
        I would make the twenty mile pilgrimage to Aquinnah, where the cliffs explode in vibrant colored clay. I’d meditate on the cliffs and talk to my friend Ron. I’d remember when him and I, along with a few other close friends, came here to bathe in the clay pits, swim in the pristine ocean, paint our naked bodies like crazed warriors with the colored clay, get stoned, and ogle all the naked women.
        I would ride my bike all over this quiet, peaceful island, getting in an entire day of cardiovascular exercise and sightseeing.
        The hotel I’m in is so beautiful, and the staff are so friendly, I would walk around it all day and just talk to people. Soaking in, and giving out, the positive holiday vibes. The next “day”, I’d sit in the lobby, in front of the fireplace, sip coffee, and read. And write. And read. And write. Repeat.
        I would go to South Beach and walk along the surf, having a conversation with my dad. He loved being on the Vineyard at Thanksgiving. Sometimes the memories of him here are so thick, I can feel him on my skin. His touch is beautiful, but it hurts. Because I miss him so much.
        My inspiration is so high, I would sit at my computer and write from sunrise to sunset.
        I would visit each and every little shop and boutique on the island, getting to know whoever worked there. I would ask them about their Thanksgiving plans, and make dozens of these precious little connections. I’d do lots of my Christmas shopping in these exclusive, unique stores, buying special one of a kind gifts for each of the special one of kind people in my life.
        My room is festive and cozy, so I would love to lie in bed all day and relax, watching every pre-Thanksgiving special on television. If I was with the woman I loved, we would order room service and fool around. A lot.
        Alas, I don’t have the ability to repeat this day ad infinitum. So I have to choose a small fraction of what I want to do, and only do it for a small fraction of the time I’d like to do it.
        Want, want, want. Love, love, love. Do, do, do.
        Maybe I need to just be.
        I hear that all the time, but I usually don’t know what the hell it means. I can try to just be, but I can’t try too hard, because then I’m not “being”. Then I’m “trying”. It gets very confusing.
        This scenario of wanting to do it all, and spend as much time as I want doing it, plays itself out whenever I’m assaulted with massive amounts of excitement, joy, and anticipation. For example, when I throw a party and want to spend every minute of the event with every person there. It happens on Christmas Eve. It happens on Christmas Day. It happens on...hell, there’s quite a few days like these.
        The ability to properly channel this delirious enthusiasm is something I still need help with. So I open up to it. I pray for it. I meditate around it. I talk about it. I write about. I share it. And I need to do all that. Because that’s how I want to move through life. That’s how I want to live.
        I have faith that I will get better at this just “being” thing without losing my maniacal, lovable, boyish enthusiasm. That I will learn how to relax into the moments of my life without losing my unique zest and personality. That I’ll learn to let go of the pressure I feel to do it all, all of the time, and surrender my resistance. I have faith that I will get better at living my life from the place I want to live it from. As I grow. As I practice spending less time in my head. As I learn to touch my soul. As I develop a more conscious contact to my higher power. And as I keep opening my positively over-flowing heart.

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

Note: To see the pictures related to this entry, go here.

Ron Rays

Note: I posted this story and photograph as today’s “Photo Of The Moment” as well.

        Today, my last day on Martha's Vineyard, I made the twenty mile pilgrimage to Aquinnah at the tip of the island. Aquinnah. Land of colored clay cliffs, nude women, and the stoned, naked revelry of bygone days. Bygone days that used to include my best friend Ron. He died in a motorcycle accident on August 30, 2001.
        I went there to be with him today.
        And he showed up.
        I spent a total of five minutes at Aquinnah today, because it's very remote, and I had a ferry to catch. When I arrived, a hole in the foreboding sky was just starting to open up. As I stood there, thinking of my friend, the sky kept opening. The few people around me weren't paying any attention to what was happening above. They were looking at the beautifully colored cliffs. But I kept watching the sky.
        Within a few moments, light began streaking through the hole and illuminating the water below. As soon as that happened, I felt it.
        Nobody else on the beach was looking up. Nobody else saw what I saw. Or knew what I knew.
        My body started shaking, and I started crying.
        My old friend was communicating to me. In a way that only the two of us understood.
        Ron said to me several times that when he died, he wanted his ashes spread over Gay Head, now known as Aquinnah. We didn't end up cremating him, but his words have always stayed with me. He loved it so much there. We loved it so much there.
        And now, after all this time, here we were again. This time, just the two of us.
        But instead of me spreading Ron all over Gay Head, while I was at Gay Head, Ron spread himself all over me.
        The moment I had to leave, the hole in the sky closed up. And he was gone.
        But he left me another priceless gift. A gift that he gave to me thousands of times when he was alive. He gave me a memory. He gave me a piece of himself. Forever. And no matter what, those are gifts that can never be taken away. Ever.
        Once again, thank you Ron. I love you. I always have. And I always will.

©2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights Reserved.

New Turkey

       My last two Thanksgivings were...less than stellar.
       This year it’s different. Partly because I’m where I want to be. Martha’s Vineyard. And mostly because I’m where I want to be. Inside. Or at least closer than I ever have been.
        Two years ago, my father died a month before Thanksgiving. On the way up from cape cod to have dinner with the rest of my family, most of whom I didn’t want to be with, I had an anxiety attack and ended up at Jordan’s Hospital. Overnight. Alone. Pretty much a mess. As I said, less than stellar.
        Last year, I wasn’t with the one person I wanted to be with. I can’t get into particulars, but what’s important is how I dealt with what happened. Compared to where I’m at inside this year, it’s a great before and after picture, a very revealing then and now vignette.
        Last Thanksgiving, I was mad at principessa. I took it out on her by shutting down even more than I already was. I became removed, distant, and even cold. I punished her, and not in the fun way that sometimes happens in the bedroom.
        It was only after I had my awakening this summer that I realized what should have been obvious at the time. I was mad at her because she hurt me.
        That’s how I reacted to pain then. Any kind of pain was another reason to get mad. At her. At myself. At the world. And that’s what I did.
        I was a walking anger machine that needed very little raw material to produce the finished product. I didn’t waste any time thinking if I needed to be angry at this or that. I didn’t waste much emotional energy trying to get to what was really going on deep inside of me. I was very efficient.
        Rarely did I explode, however, and I was never violent towards anybody. Except myself. All the violence got turned inward, against me, as I mercilessly beat myself up twenty-four-seven-threee-sixty-five. I was like a smoldering, white hot, glowing coals type of fire that occasionally flared into a big flame. When I did let off heat, though, it was scary.
        Thanksgiving was the first time that principessa really hurt me. It was worse than hurt. I was crushed. Devastated. Consciously, and on the surface, I responded with anger. Unconsciously, and inside, I realized that I was in love with her and that...oh fuck...she...could...hurt...me. She could hurt me very badly.
        I couldn’t deal with that. Not then. In the past year, I had lost my dad, my previous girlfriend of four years, whatever connection was left with the rest of my family, my relationship with my twin brother, my band, and I had moved out of my home. There was no fuckin’ way I was going to risk losing my heart as well. Even though I had plenty of other tools, suddenly anger was the only one I knew how to use. Like a guy who learned how to build a house but could swing a hammer since birth, I defaulted to an old stand by.
       That was then. I’m not there anymore.
       This year, I’m still not with the one special person I want to be with. But I’m in one of my favorite places on earth, at one of my most favorite times of the year, and I’ll be joined by some people I love very much. Most importantly, I like myself so much better these days, and I’ll be spending lots of time with him. This year, I’m in touch with how I feel. I don’t shut out love, or joy, or sadness, or pain, or anything else. I’m open.
        There’s a wonderful freedom that comes with this openness that’s still new to me. As though I’m an explorer who can fly. Across this infinite continent of self. Across the unfathomably vast landscape of life. Fully realizing the limitlessness of experience. Discovering my own endless possibilities.
        And it's much simpler than all that too. I'm happy right now. For the first time in three years, I'm happy at Thanksgiving. It is from this newly discovered place of happiness, wonder, gratitude, passion, joy, and love, that I wish the entire planet...a Happy Thanksgiving.

©2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a 24 pound turkey full of Wrongs) Reserved.

My Way

       I don’t do karaoke very often. Even less frequent is my appearance as guest lead singer for a band. When I do either, however, I usually sing the song “My Way”.
       It brings the house down.
       Not because I have a good voice. But because when I sing “My Way”, I do it “my way”. In front of an audience of strangers, I show up for life as myself, just the way I want to. I completely embrace the song’s message by bringing all of myself to it. I quite literally talk the talk and walk the walk.
        Here’s a smidgen of what that looks like.
        My voice is powerful and dynamic, but untrained and sometimes flat. I can’t hit all the notes, no matter what key they put the song in.
        I sing it anyway.
        I use the fact that I miss notes to my advantage by lampooning myself while it’s happening. And I’ll editorialize the lyrics too, adding quick comments or short quips here and there.
        Using lots of over-dramatic movements and poses, I breath my own life into the already poignant, prophetic words. Remember when Elvis would go down on one knee, raise a clenched fist to the sky, and hold it for effect? That’s one of my favorite moves.
        I make lots of what Eddie Murphy calls “fuck faces”: very expressive, exaggerated, evocative, facial contortions.
        By bringing as much of “Clint” into the performance as possible, I connect to the song’s vision. I engage in what I call "precise reckless abandonment". That is, throwing myself completely into the moment, with precious little regard for pretense or outcome, and by doing that, simultaneously communicating a message and making a connection with others. It’s what happens when musicians are in their zone. Actually, it’s usually what happens when anybody is in their zone. It’s a beautiful place to be. It’s where I want to live most of my life.
        Which brings me to a particular passage in “My Way”:

        For what is a man? What has he got?
        If not himself, then he has not
        To say the things he truly feels
        And not the words of one who kneels

        Saying what I truly feel is the essence of MuscleHeart. For many years, just knowing what I felt was a struggle, because I had constructed so many road blocks to my own heart. Getting to what I truly feel is still sometimes a challenge. But now I’m aware that it’s because somewhere inside of me, I’m judging and criticizing what I’m feeling.
       Connecting to my own heart has been the most painful process of my adult life. It’s also been the most absolutely wondrous.
        Part of this connection to my heart is owning the fact that I love a woman who doesn’t love me. This is, without question, the hardest truth I have ever had to accept. It is the nightmare that I’ve avoided since I was a teenager. But I know that whatever pain I’m in carries with it the lessons that I most need to learn. I hate that reality, but I know it’s the truth. Fuck.
        If I examine the aforementioned phrase from “My Way”, it occurs to me that some may interpret my admission of unrequited love as “the words of one who kneels”. To them, this admission is a sign of weakness. I used to believe the same thing. Sometimes, I still do.
        But I more often embrace the idea that, if it’s how I truly feel, no matter what that is, then to own it takes strength. To own it takes courage. And to express it takes even more.
        Because owning how I feel, and letting others know that, through words and actions, is very risky. When I expose my feelings like that, I risk much. I risk rejection. I risk acceptance. I risk shame, and the possible withdrawal of love. When I risk expressing how I feel, I risk my most precious gift: myself. Because who I am is intrinsically bound to how I feel.
        “The words of one who kneels”, therefore, are not the deep, sometimes painful truths that I own and express. “The words of one who kneels” are the lies I tell myself. They are the words of denial. Of how I feel. And therefore, of who I am.
        “To say the things I truly feel” is how I stay connected to my heart. As long as I do that, I have the unique gift of self. That I can give to everyone I love. That I can give to one special woman. That I can give to the rest of humankind.

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

My Internal Beloved

       Having pulled my finger out of an emotional dam yesterday, and admitted on this website that I still love my ex-girlfriend, I’m now awash in very murky, turbulent water that randomly vacillates between bitter cold and boiling hot. It’s so uncomfortable and frightening, that I’m periodically reverting to an old standby to protect myself: numbness. One moment I’m crying. The next I’m angry. The next I’m joyful. The next I’m numb. I’m all over the fuckin’ place.
        Let me tell you something about this blogging thing. It doesn’t matter how many people read yesterday’s post. It’s out there. The act of posting it was the symbolic removal of my finger from the levee. Unleashing that truth produced a movement and a direction, like a river cutting through a canyon. I initiated that flow, and at the same time have no idea where it’s taking me. I just know how I feel. I know my truth. That’s why I said it. What life gives me after that is out of my hands. And that’s scary.
        Part of me doesn’t want anybody on earth to read what I wrote yesterday, because of the judgment I’ve attached to it. The voice of judgment comes from my inner Judge. And he’s a monster. A brutal monster.
        He’s 400 feet tall and built like The Hulk. He breathes atomic fire like Godzilla, and has a PhD in psychology from Harvard Medical School. His IQ is so high that it can’t be measured by conventional methods, and he’s constantly pissed off. He doesn’t sleep, and I know this because some mornings, he’s on me a few seconds before I even open my eyes. His voice is loud enough to drown out the sound of all life. He can bludgeon me to pieces, or he can subtly undermine me with the skill and precision of a Machiavellian master. And he’s all over me today.
        “What the fuck is wrong with you?”, I hear the Judge say. “You weak, stupid, fool. No wonder you’re alone. Your feelings are WRONG. Never love anybody who doesn’t love you back. In fact, loving anybody at all is a mistake. You are a mistake. Your life is a mistake. All the working out or writing or attention or ANYTHING on earth will not change the fact that YOU ARE A LOSER. Do you hear me? Loser.” I told you he was brutal.
        The Judge hasn’t been this angry in months. He’s been relatively fine as long as I’ve written around the truth of my still loving someone who doesn’t love me back. But I didn’t write around it yesterday. I simply wrote it. I wrote it again today. And he’s going nuts.
        But I know something about the Judge that he doesn’t think I know. As much as he sounds like he hates me, I know he’s just trying to protect me. He honestly believes that assassinating my character actually helps me toughen up. He judges me because he believes that he’s helping me. We all know people like that. They’re called family.
        So how do I deal with this inner maniac who’s convinced that he’s actually helping me by calling me a mistake?
        I used to hate him right back. After all, it sounds like this jackass is trying to kill me. I have every right to defend myself and try to kill him. But I can’t kill him. Because he’s a part of me. So the more I hate him, the more I hate myself. The more I try to destroy him, the more I destroy my own life. I tried that. It doesn’t work. It doesn’t lead to happiness.
        It’s actually easy for me to hate myself. I have lots of practice. What’s insanely difficult for me is to love myself. But that’s the only thing that’s going to save me. I know that. I can’t always do it. But I know it. Somewhere deep inside.
        What if I take all of this love that I want to give to someone else and gave it to myself? What if I look at myself as My Beloved? My Internal Beloved.
        If someone I loved came to me in tears, feeling that their life, that their very being, was a mistake, I would treat them vastly different than I’m treating myself today. I would give them all the love, support, and care that I had in me. I would dig as far into myself as I could go and offer them whatever they needed. I would hold their hand, or hug them into my body, and not let go. I would carry them, on my back or in my arms, until they could walk again. Why can’t I do that for myself?
        That’s my lesson here. One of them anyway. While it’s true that, since my heart opened up, I’ve experienced periods of self-love on levels previously unknown to me, it’s obvious I have a long way to go. All that I want to give to her, she does not want from me. Sounds like a great opportunity to give it to myself. I don’t always know how. In fact, there are times when I don’t have a clue. But I can learn. As my father used to love to say, “When you’re through learning, you’re through.” Right on dad.

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