Nine Lives

I used to write letters late at night when I couldn't sleep, my insomnia born of feelings that were too big to fit inside the darkness of dreams.  I wrote to a number of friends and loved ones about different things.  Worries I had, things that reminded me of them -- I shared my hopes and dreams for their futures and mine.  I kept a book of stamps beside my lamp, and, more often than not, I'd send the letters the next morning.  Sometimes, though, I'd re-read them, find them to be too personally revealing, and hide them in the spines of my journals: I thought of these as letters to myself.  It's been a long time since I've written a letter like that, something to comfort myself when sleep is evasive; lately, I watch movies.

So, it was past my bedtime and I was flipping through the channels a couple of weeks ago, trying to find a good late-night film.  I settled on something called Nine Lives (directed by Rodrigo Garcia and starring, among others bright stars, Robin Wright Penn, Amy Brenneman, Sissy Spacek, Dakota Fanning and Glenn Close).  The film, composed of nine Steadicam, single-take shots, shares vignettes looking at singular events in the lives of nine very different women, how they manage their love, and (because of love) how they cope with their ultimate losses.

The film builds to a final scene in which we see Glenn Close and Dakota Fanning playing characters who walk through rows of well-groomed headstones.  Close is carrying a blanket and picnic basket while Fanning skips around.  Fanning's character asks, "Who waters the lawn here?"  Close answers: "There are sprinklers on timers."  "So nobody sees it, because they're all on timers and everybody's dead," comes Fanning's matter-of-fact reply.  You watch these two for about 8 minutes, and as they discuss the headstones and climb trees, it suddenly blossoms around you -- the knowledge that Close is at Fanning's grave.  She's visiting her daughter's grave, and this is all a tragic, poignant daydream.  The film ends, as Close quietly, peacefully, sadly rests her head in Fanning's lap.  "I'm tired, honey," she says, and that's all.

I wept.  Oh, how I wept.  For at least 45 minutes.  Love is loss, I kept thinking.  When I couldn't quit crying, I called Corey.  At 1:45 AM.  Dear friend that he is, he picked up the phone, "Nic, are you ok?"  He sat silently while I continued to cry, asking him if life ever stopped hurting,if we ever would find a place that felt safe and home.  "That's a good question," he pragmatically, yet sensitively answered.  And though he meant it to be, it wasn't enough to comfort me.  I calmed to say goodnight, close my phone and pull enough together to get up and walk into my room, where I emptied myself into my bed.

I pulled the nearest notepad and began writing the first late-night letter I've written in months.

It's 2:21 AM and I've honestly been considering walking up the stairs, filling a glass with cold water and drinking it to wet the dry ache in my throat and then going to your room to ask if I may sleep in your bed until I feel better like I did when I was a little boy.

Without meaning to, I had begun writing to my parents, musing about how they could always give me comfort.

I so want to come upstairs and feel safe because you'll tell me you love me and that life stops hurting sometimes.  You used to rub the ache out of my legs, and now I think I need you to massage it out of my heart.  But I'm not a little boy anymore -- I'm a young man, and I need to trust the truth that I can take care of myself.  Trust reveals Truth, right?

I haven't felt such a drive to seek out physical comfort in many years.  Loneliness and displacement had never taken me in their arms so powerfully.  Alarmingly so, actually.  You have to pull yourself together, Nic.  No one can give you the comfort you think you need, I told myself.  I finished composing the letter (which I never gave them), and somehow found an empty, hollow sleep.

I've thought a lot about lessons I learned that night.  Here are a few:


Love will Eventually Couple with Loss.

Loss is an inevitable price we pay in order to love some place, some thing, someone in the fullest way.   We leave home.  We lose track of childhood friends.  We grapple with the deaths of those we love.  Loss is hell, but once you realize it's a part of the deal, it makes Love all the more worthwhile and sweet. 

The Sun Always Rises.
I woke up the next morning, yes, with a bit of a night-of-depression hangover, but I woke up!   The sun was shining, my shower was lovely, and I could choose to see the bright lights in my life -- I could choose to focus on goodness. 

Part of Being an Adult is Taking Responsibility and Taking Care.
I so wanted my parents to fill their old role for me that night -- PROTECT ME!!!  But it just wasn't a possibility at 2 AM.  I found the whatwithal within myself to stop wallowing in self-pity that night, and I took care of taking care of myself.  I'm not writing this clearly, but I found I have what I need when no one else can give it to me. 

Trust that Your Friends will Be There when You Need Them.
I didn't worry much over calling Corey at the witching hour.  Usually, gearing up for a late-late night phonecall takes me about 20 minutes -- They're probably sleeping.  I don't want to wake them.  It's nothing, and I can talk to the tomorrow, etc.  But I called him as soon as the thought entered my mind.  He picked up after two rings.  Corey was there when I needed him, and I know he always will be.  I know I have so many other friends who would come to my aid as quickly as I would go to theirs. 

Cats May have Nine Lives, but We've Only Got One.
Seek truth.  Gain wisdom.  Practice tolerance and and mete out grace.  You've been given only one go at this thing called living, so don't fuck it up.


I never want to feel so lonely again, but these kinds of experiences are the beams and supports which build and harbor the homes of our lives, if we choose to learn the lessons they teach.

Another character in Nine Lives and her estranged sister sing this song to keep time as they clap and clasp their hands together, searching each other's eyes for the love they used to share.  I think every word of it is true.

Row by row, I'm gonna make this garden grow.
All it takes is a rake and a hoe,
and a piece of fertile ground.
Pulling weeds, pickin' stones,
we are made from dreams and bones.
I need a place to call my home,
when rain comes tumblin' down.

Go well, my darlings.

My Christmas Carol

I locked my heart to the holiday spirit this year.  Yes, I played in holiday concerts and yes, I wished everyone holiday cheer, but I just didn't want to feel it.  But Christmas is insidious, winding and slithering its way into the heart of even the most stony Scrooge, and there were a few nights when I was caught up in the glimmering, hearty holiday and invited to ponder on the reasons why Christmas is so special.

Sam (my cellist), Katie (my violinist) and I (our pianist) were finishing finishing up a Tria Fata rehearsal last Monday.  It had been a great rehearsal -- we'd made some noticeable progress in the Mendelssohn C Minor, and the Babadjanian was just as exciting as ever; an added bonus: Sam's fiancee, Anna, had done a superb job of turning my pages.  As Sam was putting his cello back in its case, he said we'd been invited to play in "a living room concert" at the home of one of his students.  Katie wasn't too keen on the idea, and my only focus after a rehearsal is finding the nearest place to eat, but we decided we'd all go after, of course, finding Nic some food.  We needed the practice performing anyway, as we were preparing for an upcoming competition in Hawaii.

We giggled in the car on the ride over about Katie's newest crush and told her she should just go for it! I smiled as Anna scolded Sam over driving too fast around the icy corners of the twisty canyon.    And we all fawned over the loveliness of Anna's lemon-head-scented lotion while slathering it over our arms and hands.

We finally drove up to a beautifully lit, big and inviting house, its long front drive packed with minivans and SUV's.  It was a gorgeous house.  We're playing in there? I thought. We've played in mansions before, but this takes the cake.  A walkaround porch framed the perimeter, and large windows let their lights spill out on the snowy ground.  We knocked on the the heavy wooden door, soon to be ushered into a large foyer littered with shoes and coats and mittens of all sizes.  A brawling herd of five- and six-year olds ran, zipping around us to climb the stairs as we added own winter wear to the haphazard collection.  A big black lab sniffed at our instrument cases, and deciding we weren't a threat, wagged his tail and licked at our hands.  Paintings of a beautiful mother and each of her seven children smiled warmly, looked thoughtfully and embraced us quietly as we walked down a short hallway to the kitchen and music room  where everyone was gathered.

I was buzzing with the invisible, effervescent pillars of joy pulsating throughout the house full of adults and teenagers and children, all gathered to sample holiday treats and listen to a myriad of carols played by an array of performers.  I could not stop smiling.  Anna was standing next to me, "Can you feel the happiness?" I asked her.  She turned and looked at me, grinning that specifically elvish, Anna-grin.  "Yes," she whispered.  The mother-in-the-paintings came from the kitchen to greet us, welcoming us and telling us about the little girl who was at the piano, playing an Easy Note version of Jingle Bells.  She halted every time a new line of music began; she played a few bad notes; her rhythms weren't always perfect, but when she stood up, she was beaming.  So was everybody else, and we applauded like we'd just heard Krystian Zimmerman perform Beethoven's three last Sonatas at Carnegie Hall.  It was supreme, and it was delightful.

We heard all sorts of performances that night, all of them accompanied by the racket of boys chasing each other on the floors above us.  Some performers were beginners.  Others were a bit more experienced.  Some played classically rendered holiday favorites, others were a bit more down-home and twangy.  We heard fathers playing violin duets with their young daughters; middle-school girls singing sweet hymns penned by Christina Rosetti; and we watched young mothers directing their toddling youngsters  in dances about Santa Claus and sugar-plum fairies.

We were announced, and we went to the front of the room.   As Sam and Katie set up their chairs and stands, I stood up to say a few words.

"Oh, you guys," I said to the room full of happy people sitting on folding chairs from the nearest ward building, "We have had so much fun watching and listening to all of you who've performed!  As a trio, we play a lot of music over and over and over, trying to get it just perfect.  Sometimes we forget that music can be just a lot of fun.  Each of you has had so much fun!  Sometimes we classical musicians need reminding that music can bring people together, like it's done for all of us tonight.  Thanks so much of reminding us of that."

And then we played parts of our Mendelssohn and Babadajanian.  It wasn't seasonal music by any means.  We couldn't really hear each other.  We couldn't really see each other.  But we played, and we loved it.  And our audience loved it.  And it didn't matter that babies were crying or that dogs were barking or that the dishwasher was running on its highest cycle.  We were making music in a house that was brimming with love and merriness and cheer, and that was what we all needed.

The holidays are special because they do give us what we need -- Christmas invites us to take time to reflect upon the love in our lives.  It gives us means to recognize the need we have to share love with others.  As my best friend, Corey, put it in his blog,

"No matter who you are, how you were made (or how you believe you were made), or how people treat you, there are good people out there that love you in this world. There is no greater Christmas lesson than that."

I'm so glad I was reminded of this lesson in time to appreciate spending my Christmas with the people I love most.  I hope you had Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, too.

The Guilty Question: A Response to "You're Beyond Feeling" (II)

I didn't know how to answer the man sitting across from me.  I felt attacked.  I hurt.  And then I fumed.

I sat in my hardbacked chair for what was probably only 30 seconds, calling on any god who would give me some fortitude and patience, along with the affirmation that I wasn't spiritually dead or numb.  I found myself looking down at my hands -- they were resting open-faced on my lap, and the words "the kingdom of heaven is now close at hand" came to mind.  And then, I remembered this time when I was a little kid, romping in the lawn at my grandma's house because she had asked my cousins and me to go out and snap the heads off the dandelions.  It was such a glee, bending down and ripping the yellow flowers, smearing their heads down our arms and on our cheeks, pretending the jocund streaks were war-painted stripes; but my favorite part of that afternoon was picking up the dead, dry-tufted heads of seed, and blowing the white petals at each other.  I turned and turned in those dandelion seeds, relishing the soft, kissing heaven of them as they landed on my lips and lids and legs and fingertips.  I knew when I recognized the feelings from that vivid memory that I was still capable of feelings immense things, even if (for now) they were only recorded in a memory.

I also knew I had every right to be angry.  And I was exceptionally upset.  I may have dammed certain of my emotions for my own defensive purposes, but I was still a feeling person.  Goddammit, I thought, I'm a musician!  I create beauty!  How dare you tell me I'm beyond feeling, even in a religious context?  You deny my ability to feel and create, and you deny me, bishop!  And I will not have it!  He read a scripture, drawing a comparison between the pure and humble and obedient character of Nephi and the proud, obstinate and doubting portrayals we have of Laman and Lemuel. He then begged the question, "Which do you want to be, Nic?"  I didn't offer him any answers.  I was too angry, and I knew I would say ultimately divisive things.  He said a prayer, and I left, sharing little more than a cold goodbye.

I drove up the gravel road to my parents' house, but didn't pull into the driveway.  I kept driving up the hill until I reached the gate my dad and I had spray-painted with the words, "No Trespassing."  I turned my car off, stepped outside, climbed over the gate and walked westward.  I have always gone to the mountains when I've been profoundly furied or sad or grateful or happy.  My mountains seem to have the only places large enough to root soul, and I needed a place to plant down before I lost myself on the wind of my anger.

"Where the hell are you, God?" I yelled.  "What do I do?  How do I live and find happiness?"  I didn't hear any instant answers, but as I kept walking and ranting, the clouds darkened like a scar across the face of the summer sky and I could feel myself becoming a sort of sieve.  I reflected on how I had decided to come out; on why I had told my family and a few friends, but had elected to keep "those in the know" a small group; on silent lies I had created in an attempted relationship with a certain young woman who would have been my wife.  Grief filtered out of those thoughts and other memories, and I keened and moaned and cried.

And as hackneyed as this image is, rain honestly began falling.  Walk back to your car, a thought directed.  Feel the rain falling.  Go home.  Clean up.  And then the big moment, I am in you and you are in me.   I hadn't heard those words since I had been in Sunday School, but they rang with such power.  I quit crying.  I walked back to my car, and I felt how the rain fell, landed on my head and followed the course of its falling down my face.  I walked in the door to my parents' house, and I felt the first breath of "I'm Home" I'd felt in way too long.   I knew I had been created by Love, and that, should I look after it, I'd always be in Love.

I called Corey, my best bud, later that night and we had a long talk about the events of the day.  "I'm not going to visit with him again," I affirmed.  Corey agreed, "No.  No one should ever have to 'visit' like that.  You don't need to be broken down."

Emily Dickinson wrote,

Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door.

I haven't been in the bishop's office since that day, but I have been on the search for times when "the Spirit" moves me, opening "every door," I guess to prove to myself that I am not, nor will I ever be, beyond feeling.  And so many feelings and memories followed in these past few months, landing like soft dandelion tufts in the places where my soul is hungry and aching.  I let them come.  I gather them in.  They break their heavens upon me, filling my open hands and guiding my healing heart.  I post some of those experiences here, on my blog, just to remind myself, and any readers I may or may not have, that the Spirit always speaks to those who want to listen.

The Guilty Question: A Response to "You're Beyond Feeling"

My bishop called me the day before my birthday in 2009 and made a pressing invitation for me to go to his office for a little visit.  I had just moved back into my parents' house from a couple of prodigal years on my own, I wasn't "actively engaged" in the good cause of The Church, and I was angry at what I felt was the shit life had thrown at me.  I didn't know exactly what he wanted to discuss with me, but I suspected the bishop wanted to explore the reasons I chose not to maintain a high level of activity in the ward.

So, I took a deep breath, rolled up my white-shirt-sleeves, buttoned my black slacks and, wearing a fabulous pink tie, I met him one evening at the church meeting house.  He welcomed me into his office, where he had conspicuously placed two chairs in front of his desk, one for him and one for me.  We sat across from each other, and (after the obligatory, everyday salutations) he suggested I offer a prayer.  I hadn't prayed aloud for quite some time, and the words "Dear Heavenly Father..." felt like an old, forgotten language in my mouth, while at the same time, I found a starchy, hard kind of comfort in talking to God again.  We said our amens and then the bishop gave me a tender, pained looked and quietly asked, "What's wrong, Nic?"

I didn't want to be there.  I remember asking myself why I was there in the first place.  Because he called you in and you don't know how to graciously say no to authority figures, I thought. I don't feel like I've done anything which would merit the help of a bishop in repenting.  I don't want to repent.  He thinks I need to change something.  I shouldn't ever have agreed to come here.  But he looked so sincerely concerned and -- with the pictures of Jesus were staring me down -- I decided I'd just be as honest with him as I felt I could trust him.

Over a series of visits, we discussed what, for years, I had called my "guilty question" : I told him I was gay.  I told him I didn't know how to make that work in The Only True and Living Church on the Face of the Earth Today.  I told him how I had tried to ignore it away, to pray it away, how I had tried to serve it away (as an LDS missionary), how I had tried to date and engage and marry it away.  I told him how it had never gone away.  I told him I was tired of hearing I was fighting a "tendency," a "weakness," that I needed to be fixed.  I don't need to be fixed, I gritted my teeth many times. I silently testified, Homosexuality is not an illness.  There isn't a cure, and we won't find one here.  Jesus loves me as I AM.

He was as empathetic as any married, Melchezidek Priesthood bearing, rural, straight man could be about it.  He cried over my heartaches when I wouldn't.  He offered me hugs and blessings I didn't accept.  I prickled every time he said he just wanted me to talk with him about what I felt.  I didn't believe him when he said he wouldn't judge me.  My emotions were becoming raw when all I wanted to be was callous.  I admit, I looked for reasons to quit meeting with him. 

I found that reason in our last meeting before I left for a midsummer music festival taking place in WI.  We had been making progress in understanding why I had felt the need to ignore all emotions except anger, and he blurted out, "Nic, I think you're beyond feeling.  When was the last time you really felt a prompting of the Spirit?"

I was so shocked I couldn't think or hear or speak.

(End  Part I)