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

Principessa

       Columbus Day weekend. The quintessential fall getaway here in New England. Last year, I went to western Massachusetts to see the foliage. I went with...well, I shouldn’t use her real name. I could refer to her as “The Woman who changed my life”, as I have elsewhere on this website. But that moniker would get cumbersome after a while.  
       I used to call her “principessa”, which is Italian for “princess”. She actually turned me onto the word. She had gone to Italy when she was in college and picked it up there. I loved how the word sounded, and it fit her. She didn’t act like a princess. But she looked like one. Beautiful, with a casual elegance, and an earthy yet chic fashion sense that a modern princess might possess (not ever having met a “real” princess, I can only speculate on this). Think Princess Caroline of Monaco meets artsy, hip, urban yoga instructor .
       Whenever the word principessa left my lips, it vaporized like a mist, and made it’s way towards her. The mist then embraced her, like an aura, and she would wear that glow. That’s what I saw when I called her that.
       Sometimes she would say “I’m so not a princess”, wanting me to acknowledge that she wasn’t a prima donna. I knew that. What she didn’t know was how often I wanted to respond “You’re a princess to me”. But like so much of what I felt back then, those words got stuck in me and coagulated. Like I had swallowed a wad of glue. The toxic buildup of unexpressed emotions and words would just stay trapped inside and reek havoc. Trouble breathing. Trouble sleeping. Trouble being. I was choking on my own feelings.
       But that weekend was one of the best of my life. We drove out along scenic Route 2 and got lost. We always got lost when principessa had anything to do with directions. She was, by her own admission, “extremely directionally challenged”. The funniest part was that, when she gave directions, she always sounded like she knew what she was talking about. She would say “I’m sure we take a left here”, and there would be plenty of conviction behind it. So I would take the left, even after we had been together for a while, knowing that she was probably wrong. I wanted to believe, so I did. It was a rare case of a couple being in functional denial.
       I found this idiosyncrasy of hers absolutely fucking adorable. She knew that. I never got mad at her for not just saying “Look, I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about here.” She would apply her false bravado not just to directions, but to virtually everything that she had no idea about. As if admitting she was clueless about something was a crime. That part of her fascinated and intrigued me, and I always wanted to know more about it and where it came from.
       Anyway, after we got back on leaf peeping track, we went hiking, walking, talking, and soaking in one of those beautiful, picturesque, "Norman Rockwell painting" type autumn days. We stopped at the Red Lion Inn, in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, where old Norm lived. We had a drink on the porch. Actually a few drinks. Probably shouldn’t have driven. That one’s on me.
       We stayed at a bed and breakfast owned by a couple of gay guys from New York city who quit the rat race and decided to open up a B&B in South Barrington, Massachusetts, another absolutely gorgeous little town. Talk about a culture shock. But they seemed like they were adjusting fine and they were great hosts.
       There’s something else about that weekend that I will never forget. Saturday night, I dropped principessa off at a restaurant and went to park the car. On the walk back to the restaurant, I encountered a handicapped woman walking, with a metal walker, towards her apartment. She moved very slowly, each step requiring gargantuan effort. It was going to take her fifteen minutes just to get from the street to the elevator inside. I asked her if she needed any help, and she just shook her head. I stood there for but a moment and looked at her. The words “There but for the grace of god go I” flashed inside my mind. As soon as I heard those words, I started walking again. Because I had started to cry, and I didn’t want anybody to see me crying.
       When I got to the restaurant, I couldn’t hide the tears from my principessa. She could tell I was upset. She held my hands from across the table and we talked about what I had just experienced. Her gentle gaze, soft touch, and caring ways always comforted me. Gratitude filled me from deep within as I sat there with this beautiful woman, in a beautiful town, at the end of a beautiful day. I felt guilty that I had it so good.
       I can’t say that when I’m in my shit, I always think of that moment and it shifts me. But I am thinking about that moment right now. And I’m grateful. Grateful that I feel so much these days. Because for so long I could not.
       But that weekend, I did feel. Contentment. Happiness. Joy. Sadness. Love.
       I miss principessa.

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

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.