Today is National Coming Out Day.  Robert Eichberg came up the idea in 1988.

In 1988, I had no idea there was such a day.  That’s because every day for me in 1988 was National Keep the Door Closed Tight on the Closet Day. And let me tell you this…holding the door closed was exhausting.

I decided when I was 15, that I would keep that part of me really secret. Because, I just knew, it was really horrible. Something you don’t talk about. That was the message I got growing up in the South.

I did finally come out, in 1992. 

I took a deep breath each time I was ready to tell someone, and braced myself for a potential backlash.  It never happened.  But I still braced myself.

In 1993 I went to the March on Washington for GLBT rights. 

There were 1 Million people there. 
It was a life-changing event. 
I remember calling my parents, and my dad saying, “We should be there with you.”  I could hear him choking back tears.

I was feeling really high when I got back to Jacksonville, FL.  All my co-workers wanted to know how it was, wanted details so they could share in the high. All but one.She walked by my office that afternoon and said, “I know where you went, and I’m praying for you.”

And in all the years since, she is the only person who had something potentially negative to say to me.  And in the end, I’ll take all the prayers that come my way.

Imagine my surprise

that in 2011, I found myself unconsciously bracing myself again.  Wondering what people that don’t even know me might think when they find out. 

That’s because I wrote a book. Which was a good idea, until I realized people would read it.  And in the book, I tell several stories, because it’s a part of who I am.  I had convinced myself that I’d sell a few books to friends and family, but had already written off any other sales.  All because I didn’t want to come out AGAIN! Hadn’t I already done that!

My amazing partner Sam asked me enough questions a couple of weeks ago on a vacation that I realized what I was doing. Holding on tight to the closet door, again.
When I realized that’s what I was doing, I got up from my beach chair, walked into the ocean and took a swim. 

I walked out a lot lighter.

I’ve told this story a few times now, and the same thing that happened years ago, happened again.  When I speak from the heart, it creates a sacred moment, and the person I am talking to always shares something heavy on their heart.

Today, I am so very grateful.

For the women who got me to that march in 1993 and for the women who prayed for me in 1993. 

For a man I never met, Robert Eichberg.

For Sam, who is just the most amazing person in the world.

And for my parents, who got on a train in 2000, at the age of 70, and marched with us in Washington DC.

Today is a good day.

 

Today, I decided to write 49 more letters.  Well, because, next week, I turn 49, and I’ve decided to embrace my age, much like my kids.

Because an entire year has gone by, and I’m running around my life with a list in my head, of all the people I am grateful for. Carrying it with me everywhere with good intent.

I’ve thought….tonight will be the night, when I put the kids to bed…I’ll write that letter. 
Then I lie in bed and think….. tomorrow will be the day, during lunch, I’ll just write the letter.
I blink and the week is gone…. so maybe Saturday morning will be a better time, I’ll get up before the kids, and just write the letter. But the kids get up before me, and we’re smack dab in the middle of it!
So, Sunday night. That’s it. That will work.  When everyone is getting ready for the week, I’ll tuck away in the office and write the letter in between making the family calendar, returning a few work emails and ordering that birthday present for….

The weeks have passed with good intention sweeping by like the second hand on a watch.

 
There is no letter. Only good intent.

Lucky for me, I still remember the words from a wise barista. Structure is important.  So I decide to write 49 more. 49more letters.  Structure is all I need.  However, there’s still a problem.

The paper is blank.
Blank.
Still Blank.

Wait, look who’s here?  Well hey there doubting Thomas!

I should be able to do this. Just write a letter. What is wrong with me. Excuses show up, reasons to just wait for later.  Maybe after yoga, then it will be the right time.

Yoga!  That’s it!

Practice.

It’s not yoga completion.  It’s a practice.

Writing letters is a practice. Gratitude is a practice, not a destination.

That small change in perspective, small shift was all it took to write my first letter, again!

One down, 48 to go.

 

 

 

Words and Centuries

Letter to the Widow Bixby, November 21, 1864

Executive Mansion,
Washington, November 21, 1864.
Dear Madam,
I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant General of Massachusetts that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle.
I feel how weak and fruitless must be any word of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save.
I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.
Yours, very sincerely and respectfully,
A. Lincoln

Many people ask the question, “Why write a letter? Why not tell the person?”  Maybe it is because “…writing a letter creates an intimacy that’s hard to achieve with spoken word.” one participant recently said as he covered is heart with his hand.  Words on a page are everlasting, a testimony of an experience and somehow have the ability to reveal details of the heart. 

Abe Lincoln wrote this letter to the Widow Bixby in 1864 to express his gratitude and sympathy for the death of her sons during the civil war.  His choices for communication at the time were in person or a handwritten letter.  Over a century later, in the one hundred thirty-seven words he penned, we still feel the deepness and are moved by the emotion he was trying to convey.  And even though we did not know him, when we read the words, it’s as if his voice and tone live on in the letter.

Letters have that power.

Sometimes events happen in our lives that are big. So big, it’s hard to make sense, because there is no sense to make. I imagine there were moments, when President Lincoln questioned his faith, questioned if this horrific war, a war full of bigger meaning and impact, was worth all the individual lives that were being taken. It was a war within a nation that had brothers fighting brothers, tearing families apart.  In times like these when events of this magnitude can paralyze even the strongest, finding a way to connect to something small, in this case writing a letter to a mother of fallen soldiers likely created a way to keep moving forward.  It provides a way to re-engage and feel a connection to something bigger.

Every one of us wants to know that our life mattered, that there was a reason or a purpose we are here.  I imagine, President Lincoln knew this when he both expressed his sympathy for the Widow Bixby’s loss and acknowledged that their death was not in vain. ”But I cannot refrain from tendering you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save.” In these words live a legacy, a written account and reminder that each of our existence on this earth does matter.  And while the act of writing a letter may seem dated, a time consuming task when the options for communicating are many, words on a page have withstood the test of time as a way to convey what we think and how we feel. The page has a way of absorbing the pace of life, and creates a genuine presence and intimacy lost in other forms of communication.  It has a way of connecting our head and our heart, exposing something real, a naked vulnerability.

Letters have power…

“Our Father who art in heaven….”
Every day in Uganda, fourteen hundred mothers pass HIV on to their newborns.
“Hallowed be they name…..”
Fourteen hundred deaths.
“They Kingdom Come….”
Fourteen hundred graves.
“Thy will be done…”
Red earth drummed onto fourteen hundred coffins.
“On earth as it is in heaven.”
If only I could do more.
      ~Twesigye Jackson Kaguri from his book The Price of Stones

Rather than get lost in his grief, Twesigye founded a school, Nyaka AIDS Orphans School.  He did it one brick at a time, turning hope into action.  It’s an amazing story, a must read, a great holiday gift.  Buy one for you and give one away!

Twesigye, you are a gift to the world.  Webale~

Today Ginger, Michelle, Sarah, Sami, Oliver’s life changed forever. Last night they recieved the news that the plane that carried Luke, Nate, Nick & Noah was found with no survivors.

Their live changed in an instant. 

I don’t understand it and it leaves me with more questions than answers when it comes to god. 

A very good friend of mine stopped by my house last Tuesday when I called her with the news. Here is the conversation I continue to play over and over in my head.

“Is there really a god?  Then why and the hell do bad things happen to good people….” me.

“I don’t know. It’s the 54M dollar question. Not sure any of us will really know.” my wise friend Jenny.

“That doesn’t help.” me

“Everyone wants the answer to the big question in times like these….and when they don’t get it, they want the answer to all the little questions….it’s just natural.” my really wise friend Jenny.

Big sigh…“That makes sense…” me.

Today, when the time between seconds seem to turn into hours, I have a lot of little questions I want answered.  And each time, I stop and remember what my friend Jenny said, I take a deep breath, and let go wanting answers to the little things. And when I do the space between the seconds seems to return to normal for a while. 

I’ve repeated that process a lot today.  Because life really is precious.