Tree

        Scared. Anxious. And lonely.
        These feelings go deep. These feelings go old.
        I know this, because they don’t require any conscious thought to surface. Like a big old maple tree in the back yard of my mind, they have been present for as long as I’ve drawn breath.
        Fear, anxiety, and loneliness took root right out of the womb, when I was separated from my twin brother and stuck in an incubator for he first three weeks of life. Like the maple tree in the yard that’s always been there, those feelings have created a formidable presence. They show up in the corner of my emotional eye even when I’m not looking at them. Like the tree, they can feel omnipresent, even when I’m not playing in them. Even when I’m not near them. They cast a long shadow. It sometimes feels as though no matter what I do, or where I go, or who I become, I can not get out of that shadow.
        If I look closer at that tree of fear, anxiety, and loneliness, I understand that it has a consciousness. And just like a real maple tree, we’re not always aware of this consciousness because, as humans, we can’t understand it. Or we don’t believe it exists.
        But It does. Just like a real maple is saying something to me when I look at it, my tree is communicating to me as well.
        What he’s saying to me is that, more than anything, he needs something. He wants something.
        He wants Connection. Community. Love.
        But he is deathly afraid that he will never get it.
        So the tree grows himself bigger and stronger and more beautiful. Because he wants to attract people. But at the same time, because he doesn’t believe he will ever get true connection or community or love, he’s trying to prove to himself, and to everybody else, that he’s so big and strong and beautiful that he doesn’t need or want any of that from anybody else. He can give it to himself just fine, thank you.
        That tree is the part of me that never knew what I wanted because to know what I wanted was synonymous with not getting it.
        As long as I kept myself in the fog of not knowing what I wanted, or as long as I consciously just didn’t want it, there was nothing to worry about. You can’t worry about not getting something if you don’t want it. That was me, my whole life.
        But by finally acknowledging that I don’t want to play life as a game of solitaire, that I don’t want to be a lone warrior anymore, I become vulnerable.
        No shit.
        Excluding material possessions, which were always plentiful, as a kid I learned not to want or need anything that I couldn’t give to myself. Perpetually lonely, anxious, and sad, at some point I stopped asking for what I needed and wanted because I wasn’t getting it. Unconsciously, I decided it was better not to want or need much of anything. I also decided that I better learn to give to myself, because nobody else was going to.
        So I set myself up for a troubled existence. I was created to give love, to receive love. To connect to others and build those connections into all types of intimate relationships. I was created to share what was inside of me, and to welcome what was inside of others. I was made to be part of communities that serve their members.
        When I was a kid, that’s all I wanted. That’s all I needed. And quite frankly, I didn’t get much of any of it. So I went the other way. Not socially, but emotionally. Not on the outside. On the inside. I blocked off all those precious things I wanted because I didn’t believe I could ever have them.
        And those walls came tumblin’ down this summer. So now, what I’ve always needed and wanted is staring me right in the face saying “It’s about time you saw us, and heard us, and recognized us. We didn’t go anywhere. You did. You’re back. Welcome.”
        But now I’m petrified because I want again. I need again. And I’ve spent most of my life running from that and denying it. And at the same time, a part of me doesn’t believe I can ever have what I really want or need. That part screams to me, in a voice so loud sometimes it’s all I hear; “You’ve been that route before! It didn’t work then! It won’t work now!”
        But now I can’t do what I used to. I can’t fight what my heart truly wants anymore. I can’t fight that part of who I am anymore. Not because I’m not strong enough. I’m stronger than ever. Emotionally. Physically. Mentally. No. It’s because I’ve experienced the most profound shift of my life. The shift to fully embrace what I feel. To live from my heart and not my head. I don’t want to run away anymore. I want to run towards.
        And maybe it takes even more strength to embrace all of who you are, what you want, and that which you were made for, than it takes to fight it. Fighting it certainly takes strength. In fact, it’s exhausting. But embracing it takes strength and courage and faith and trust and belief. And it gives me energy, rather than suck it from me. Embracing takes a true warrior spirit. It takes more. So I have to be more. And I am more.
        And if I can own that I am more, I can speak to the tree in my mind. The one who’s scared and anxious and lonely. I can connect to that kid in me who’s cynical about ever getting what he really wants. What he really needs. I can connect to them and say “Trust me. I won’t let you down.”
        And I won’t.
        Because my heart knows better. My soul knows better. And that’s what I try to listen to now.

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

Jordan Kelley

       My body has always been my last bastion of strength. Metaphorically, I used to hold it as a fortress that protected what was inside of me. Now, I see it as the sturdy vehicle which carries precious cargo. Nevertheless, when my body hurts and needs to heal, it leaves me in a supreme place of vulnerability. Because if all else failed, I could always turn to my body to take care of me.
        But not today, because my back is temporarily not cooperating with the rest of me. I’m lying down, resting, icing, and heating it. So I feel particularly vulnerable right now. And I need to share something.
        I just got back from a funeral service.
        A woman who I have come to know, respect, and love lost her son in a car accident last Friday. Karen Kelley is one of the most beautiful, caring, loving, warm, accepting, healing souls I have ever known. I didn’t know her son Jordan. But from knowing Karen, and from what I heard and saw today, it’s clear to me that her son’s short life impacted many people in profound ways.
        Because he was loved. Deeply, and by many. Because he made a difference in countless people’s lives by being himself. He gave his unique gift of self to anyone who wanted it. And it showed.
        So forgive me if I sound preachy. I don’t mean to be. But at this moment, the only piece of anything I can glean from where I’m at and what I’ve experienced is this: if you love someone, let them know it. If they can’t hear you, say it a little louder until they do. If they can’t see it, make it a little clearer until they can. If they can’t feel it, find ways to touch them so that they will.
        If you feel it, deal it. If you know it, show it. If you know it’s in you but you can’t find it, look harder. Find it if it’s there. No matter what.
        That’s it.

Love to all,

Clint

©2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights Reserved

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.