People & Powers. Guides & Ghosts. Sages & Spirits.

        Once I launched this website, and it became “real”, my mind shifted into overdrive and ran right over my heart. Now I’m back in my head more than I have been in months. I don’t like it. It’s like a bad neighborhood, my mind. I shouldn’t go there alone. And I should get in and out as quick as I can.
        When I drop out of my heart, I drop out of faith. I tumble into anxiety, pain, and worry. Then I fall some more. Into self judgement. Self criticism. If I don’t break my fall, I hit the bottom of the pit. Hard. Self Hate. I look up and see how far I’ve fallen, and I can’t see any light at the top. It’s all dark. The walls of the pit are as smooth as glass, so I can’t crawl out. It’s pitch black, and I’m alone with my thoughts.
        This is where I traditionally get and stay stuck. Can’t crawl out, can’t see out, and I’m mind fucking everything to death. I know that place well. You probably do too. Keeping it all inside is the default solution. Which is actually no solution.   
        If I ask for help, though, I don’t have to go through this alone. If I ask for faith, then I’m asking for a way out. So now, that’s what I do.
        I talk to people about where I’m at. Get some support. Choose the people who get me, who know me, who love me. But discussing this isn’t easy.
        Talking to people about how I feel deep down can be excruciating. Especially for a man. Even one, like myself, who has experienced a great opening. There’s a stigma attached to a guy sharing too much of what’s inside of him. In fact, there’s a stigma attached to a guy having too much inside of him. As if the the volume and the depth of a man’s feelings are inversely proportionate to his masculinity. I know that’s bullshit, but the river of that belief runs long and deep. Those waters carry a great deal of force. And they run right through that bad neighborhood. My mind.
        If I push through that, then I talk about how I feel. I write about how I feel. And now, as you know, I blog about how I feel. A few months ago, I never would have considered being that vulnerable. Even to those close to me. Never mind anybody on earth with access to the web. But doing all of that is what helps me move through the darkness and into the light. It’s what helps me deal and heal. It opens me up to the support that’s out there. I’m not accustomed to doing this. I’m used to more or less flying solo. Now it’s more like the Blue Angels. And it’s so much better.  
        At the same time, I ask for faith. And I get it.
        Then something amazing happens. I start to levitate out from the bottom of the pit. I’m not climbing out. I’m floating to the top. But I’m not providing the lift.
        It’s not a completely passive process though. Because I have to keep talking to people. I have to keep writing. I have to stay open. I have to actively cultivate the faith I’m asking for. I have to believe. All of which, for me at least, takes effort. So even though I’m not performing the miracle of levitation, I’m actively doing things to get better. To get out of the hole.
        Light starts to stream in from above, and it’s not so dark anymore. Sometimes I float all the way to the top and into the wide open spaces. When I’m in my heart, that’s where I get to. That’s where I hang. But sometimes I don’t make it all the way up. Because sometimes, at some point up out of the pit, I step out of faith. Not completely. It’s like I flirt with it, but don’t commit to a relationship. And that just doesn’t work.
        When that happens, I stop believing. I grab onto some crag on the side of the pit and try to muscle my way up the hole. It’s hard to do, and exhausting, and I usually don’t make it very far until I crap out and start falling again.
        Since I launched this site, I’ve been floating and falling and muscling and falling and floating again. Sometimes all in the same day. Sometimes all in the same hour.
        But those much wiser than myself tell me that this is normal. “It’s the same way with any new venture”, they tell me. So I listen. And I learn. And I work my way back into faith. And when I start to fall, like I know I will, I’m not alone. Not anymore. People and Powers. Guides and Ghosts. Sages and Spirits. They are all with me. I don’t have to do it all by myself. What a relief.

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

Lights. Colors. Action.

        Autumn in New England, where I live, is spectacularly beautiful. It’s not just the colors that explode as the leaves change. It’s the lighting. Like a gigantic stage production that gets a new lighting director and set designer, the look and feel of the fall changes everything. Cyndi Lauper only had it part right. Money does change everything. But so does lighting and scenery.
       I actually feel differently in the fall. By “feel”, I don’t mean in terms of emotions like happy or sad. I mean as in how I experience life. It’s not just the external change of seasons. It’s an internal shift of experience. The world feels different.
       I call it “The Sunday Effect”. You know how Sunday feels different than any other day of the week? The minute you wake up, you know it. No matter where you are or what you’re doing. You just know it’s Sunday. The same is true for Christmas, or Thanksgiving, or even Saturday. The atmosphere, the vibe, the ambience, the way life feels, is fundamentally altered on certain days. And during different seasons. I experience this viscerally. Vividly. In emotional technicolor. Does anyone else share this sensation?  
        Color has always been very important to me. After all, I painted my house purple. Some of my clothes are very colorful. When I look at certain colors, I actually get excited and happy just from looking at them. So it’s no wonder that when the canvas of my world changes color in the fall, I go through an internal change as well. Looking at all the reds and yellows and oranges, all of which used to be green just a little while ago...well I’m off and running.
       Scent is also very evocative, maybe the most of all the senses. And fall smells much different than summer. Who can’t instantly recall the scent of fallen leaves? Just thinking about that smell takes you away quicker than a Calgon bath. Takes you to someplace else. Not only in your mind, but in your heart.  And actually smelling all those fallen leaves is like going to a different planet. Mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually. Magic.
       The sun plays a major role, actually the starring role, in this epic transformation. The trajectory of The Great Light In The Sky significantly changes as we progress from summer to fall. It’s not only that the sun is lower in the sky during autumn, but it follows an entirely different path. So the world is lit in a dramatically new way. The sun’s new trajectory alters the mood and the atmosphere of the world. Indeed, of my life. It’s all new and different.
       You can’t beat June, July, and August for fun, but autumn has it all over summer romantically. What’s better on a crisp Saturday afternoon in October than walking through leaves with someone you love, going home, lighting a fire, making dinner, and then jumping each other’s bones in front of the fire place all night?
       What is your experience of fall that touches your heart? How does fall feel differently to you? Let me hear you. I’m listening.   

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

I encourage Comments. So let me hear you.

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   

 I encourage Comments. So let me hear you.