Discovery in the Desert

The universe is the language of God
~Lorenz Oken

Earlier this month I took a trip to Pam Springs. In addition to escaping the cold of the Northwest, I looked forward to seeing my friends Gil and Mike, a gay couple who three years ago left Seattle for the warmth of the desert. In 1991 I'd shared a house with Gil, then a 49 year old former priest. Two years later on my 30th birthday he and I cycled along the western coast of Ireland from Limerick through the Connemara National Park and beyond. Gil met Mike several years later. In 2000 they exchanged vows at a commitment ceremony at the University Congregational Church. I attended along with numerous other friends of ours. It was an honor to witness and support them.

When I arrived at Palm Springs International Airport, Gil happily greeted me with a hug. We drove to a local bakery for fresh bread and chocolate chip cookies. He told me the owner of the bakery, a Mormon man, had voted against Prop 8, the 2008 voter's initiative that banned gay marriages from continuing in California.

Later that afternoon we hiked up the mountain that borders their town home. The air was warm, the sky bright. We continued along the mountain ridge until we could look down on the city below. The area surrounding Palm Springs looked like a tinker toyland with miniature houses, streets, and cars. As the wind blew through our hair (mine at least, Gil is bald!) a feeling of serenity overcame me. October and November  served up a relentless schedule of rehearsals for holiday concerts with Seattle Mens Chorus, preparations for a monologue performance piece at the Erickson Theatre, and several job interviews I'd hoped would allow me to sever my unending relationship with the unemployment office.

On succeeding days Mike and Gil took me on other desert hikes. One morning we trekked through the Indian Canyons exploring Palm Canyon and its indigenous flora and fauna. The spacious land sat on an Indian reservation, sacred home of the Agua Caliente tribe.

We visited Joshua Tree National Park, a stunning oasis of desert trails and mountain vistas. The quiet of the open space, the jagged rock and cliffs, the plant life organic to the desert. Mike would point out various plant species and examine droppings to determine the animals that earlier crossed our same path.

I'd decided to call them my uncles because I would awake in the morning to generous breakfasts of oatmeal, toast, and eggs. We'd discuss the day's plans with NPR as backdrop, trumpeting the latest news of the international fiscal crisis. Sometimes conversations grew heated when the topic of politics or organized religion arose. Gil, the former priest, has negotiated a middle ground with Mike, who eschews religion as a hypocritical form of moral coercion. Republicans are personae non grata in Mike's universe. Even though both Gil's brothers are evangelical, conservative Christians.

After hiking we'd head for the backyard hot tub and swimming pool shared by the town home community. The hot water jets massaged our weary muscles as we watched the sun settle behind the mountain range. Giant palm trees swayed above my head as I swam the back stroke in the lap pool.
In the evenings we ate home cooked meals with a Mexican flair thanks to Mike's love of spices. When Gil headed to bed, Mike and I bonded over our I-Tunes music collection. One night we just sat reading in the quiet, while the wood crackled in the fireplace.

Learning to let go, that's one lesson I learned while visiting my friends. That's been my challenge the entire year as I journey through life focused on finding meaningful work while pursuing my artistic aspirations and dreams. In 2011 I continued to revise my book, started this blog, acted in a 7 man performance piece,  and sang with the chorus. Not to mention my continued culinary inventiveness! The art I made didn't pay the bills but it spoke to my spirit. Engaged, thoughtful, flirtatious, curious, unapologetic, and communal.

The final day of my visit Gil and I drove to a remote canyon, Mecca Hills, one hour south of Palm Springs and bordering the San Andreas Fault. It was the warmest day of my vacation, in the upper 60's. The stone cliffs in their rugged isolation and abrupt topography were stunning. The color, the quiet, reminded me of the desolate setting of the harrowing adventure film "27 Hours" about the hiker who caught his hand between two large rocks and endured the agony of making his way back to civilization with part of his body cut from the rest.

Gil told me how he loved hiking nude in remote parts of the desert. That day we stripped off our clothes and headed into the light filled canyons with our shirt and shorts tucked into a small pack on our waist and nothing but our boots, water bottles, and sunscreened bodies. The magnitude of the rocks, many of them swept away  and dislodged from a spring rainstorm, created a cathedral of fallen stone. Like plant life I'd seen on a previous hike near Mt. St. Helens, there'd been growth, destruction, and geological evolution. We strode deeper into a valley of rock with narrow corridors casting shadows  and light beaming from above. I felt a spiritual draw to this space of broken down boulders, along with soaring cliffs and stone buttresses like church spires.

Mike and Gil expressed earlier how amidst their hikes the desert had become like church for them. At one point I found a gorgeous enclave, like a stone altar, situated below a corridor of rock. I envisioned Christ on the cross occupying that hallowed space of beauty and starkness. I climbed to it, and as I leaned against the hard backdrop I lifted my arms and took my place on the parapet. I lifted my head and stared into the streaming light pouring through the canyon from above.

That day I too discovered the spirit in those deserts and canyons that my uncles and I spent four days exploring. At Christmas time we all become familiar with the play of light and darkness. We see how the holiday lights bring cheer just as our opening hearts bring greater joy and generosity to the world.  And yet we struggle with the disappointments of an imperfect democracy, dogmatic and intolerant religions, and families that may not always measure up to our expectations.

Each year Christmas comes with the hope and light of a newborn infant. Born in a straw manger and surrounded by barnyard animals, strangers visiting from faraway lands, and yes even a few rocks and animal droppings. And above this manger, like the desert at night, stars burst forth everywhere pointing the way to a miracle. Somewhere in the desert sky there is one brighter than the rest. Might that be our star?

Wishing you happy dreams and visions of hope on this Christmas Eve.

Finding Community in the Land of Nice

Sunday nights are challenging for me. After a busy week devoted to an ongoing job search, exercising my writing muscles while revising a second draft of my first book, and maintaining a healthy social life, there is all of a sudden quiet. Following my evening swim at Seattle University I stroll home alone with my thoughts. And despite the joy of a new boyfriend in my life, my attention turns to all the families out there sharing Sunday dinner and eagerly preparing for the week ahead. I feel a seeping sense of separateness.

As you've read I'm a transplant from the Midwest; my blood relations hail from Cleveland, Fort Wayne, Madison, and Appleton. While my parents are both deceased and I've no siblings, I've maintained close relationships with my cousins on both sides of the family. They are thoughtful, caring people who welcome me to join them for holidays, vacations, and ritual celebrations, and I often do.

But after college I left Cleveland for a bigger life adventure. Arriving in the Northwest I discovered the breathing room I needed to become my own man and come to terms with being gay. Seattle with its progressive attitudes became my home. In fact, I always tell my friends gay folks are Seattle's favorite minority. When I see the large number of straight spectators turn out for the annual Gay Pride Parade, I'm amazed and encouraged. People truly enjoy the spectacle and festivity. And there is a non-judgemental attitude I found missing during my formative years in Cleveland.

Despite the tolerant culture my queer and straight friends alike bemoan the challenge of making friends in such a polite, reserved, but frosty part of the country, the so-called "Seattle nice." Nobody's very friendly is the prevailing complaint.

I find the opposite is true. I think many folks in the Northwest, natives and transplants, crave connection. Many of us are shy. We rely on someone else to make the first move. My mother whose motto was "you can never have too many friends" coached me from an early age to "stick out your hand and introduce yourself."

From the get-go I followed her advice. The result for me? Seattle has proven fertile ground for friendship. We are a city of joiners so one valuable piece of advice I offer newcomers is find a group that shares your passions and join them.  I love to sing, run, and swim. After an initial period of one-on-one activities  in my twenties I decided the time was ripe to expand my social network in my thirties. The Seattle Mens Chorus, Seattle Frontrunners, and Orca Swim Club all enriched my life and introduced me to a wide variety of people. In times of trial and in times of celebration, they are my biggest cheerleaders!

Back to Sundays. Despite caring family, enduring friendships, and a new love in my life, I've discovered none of us can escape those moments I call the long dark midnight of the soul. Those times we feel disconnected from our family, our friends and neighbors, yes even our significant others. Sometimes there is only one person to face; that is I.

After a messy breakup three years ago my friend Matthew invited me to a recurring Sunday dinner hosted in Montlake. Our host Marty and his partner Dave provided the main course while the rest of us brought a side dish, salad, dessert, or bottle of wine. Happy people mingled in the kitchen with steaming plates of food and appetizers. Others congregated in a small study and around the dining room table. Sometimes a pair of inspired hands played the piano. The guests were diverse in age, younger mixed with older, many loosely affiliated with the Seattle Frontrunners.

Over the last six months my new boyfriend took first priority, but last night I joined the Montlake group for a smaller than usual dinner gathering. The familiar, fragrant pork roast wafted through the house. Men I hadn't seen since May stood around the kitchen island exchanging stories. Welcoming smiles, greetings of hello, and embraces chased away whatever blues permeated my earlier rainy day mood.

I'm proud to say I've watched several of these men advance from immature, uncertain and headstrong to motivated, fulfilled, kind individuals. I've cheered their successes, listened to their failures, and received the same treatment in return.

One fellow celebrated a milestone birthday, a fact the group wouldn't let him ignore. Marty baked his favorite desert, a German chocolate cake, while another buddy surprised him with a homemade peach layered sponge cake. The group broke into a chorus of Happy Birthday while he lamented another year passed.

After downing dessert some of us gathered in the family room to indulge in another guilty pleasure, a new episode of "Desperate Housewives." Others retired back to the study to visit over liquid spirits.

I found a spot on the couch and settled in. I'd brought my mozzarella and tomato salad and a genuine desire to connect with these men. In a town I often call "the city of misfits," all of us have found a way to make Seattle our own and scrape off the "nice" to get underneath, unearthing something deeper.

Despite the continuing job search and absence of immediate family ties, I'm not as alone as I think in my adopted home. I can love as I please without fear of retribution. I've discovered a kinship with people who share my values, interests, and hopes for personal growth. We are a brotherhood with an occasional sister thrown in for good measure. And I'm lucky to occupy a place at the table.

Robert Kennedy, the Seattle World's Fair and the Winds of Change

Nothing endures but change
~Heraclitus, 540-480 B.C. from Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers

Last week the first day of autumn arrived. The change of seasons, especially fall, transports me back to childhood. I remember the thrill of returning to school with brand new notebooks and folders, school clothes, and shoes.  The anticipation of reuniting with  classmates I'd lost touch with over the summer. The curiosity about new classes and teachers and subjects I would study. As I entered high school there were awkward autumns too. Struggling with teenage acne, gawky glasses eventually replaced by contact lenses, and a disastrous home perm given me by Mom in August 1978 resulting in a hairstyle reminiscent of Michael Jackson!

Greeting fall and a new school year also meant saying goodbye to summer. The reality of the seasonal flux always made me sad, as if the warm weather, long days and uninterrupted summertime adventures would never return. Growing up in Cleveland with definitive seasons, I expected in several short months the weather would change again from falling leaves to falling snow! More anticipation, change a constant.

As summer made its graceful exit last week several errands took me to downtown Seattle. My buddy C.R. asked me to volunteer for a HistoryLink benefit marking the upcoming 50th Anniversary of the Seattle World's Fair. A whole host of famous politicians, personalities and entertainers attended the 1962 celebration, including Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, Elvis Presley, Richard Nixon, Joan Baez, John Glenn, and Robert F. Kennedy. For the benefit luncheon, C.R. convinced several of his posse to come dressed as special guests from the original fair. Happy to oblige I donned my khaki suit and rep tie to channel one of my heroes, Robert Kennedy, for the special occasion. That morning I made a trip to the hair salon for a quick trim; the stylist slicked back my hair a la the Mad Men era of the early 60's.

As I walked from Pioneer Square north on Western Avenue more recent events occupied my thoughts. That morning NPR announced the end of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell," which banned gay service men and women from serving openly in the United States military. One gay Marine interviewed on the radio program expressed relief "to no longer have to hide who I am." This year he looks forward to bringing a same sex date to the U.S. Marine Corps Ball!

Eighteen years earlier I remembered viewing the televised hearings of a somber-faced Colin Powell and his Joint Chiefs of Staff who testified keeping men and women in the closet was the only way to preserve military cohesion and morale. The enactment of DADT led to the discharge of 13,000 soldiers destroying countless lives and relationships. Now the misguided policy lays on the trash heap of history.

Happy day, I thought, my suit coat billowing in the wind as I ambled up the Harbor Steps on University Street en route to the Olympic Fairmont Hotel. Looking west I caught glimpses of a Washington State ferry crossing Elliott Bay, sparkling in the morning sun. The ugly Seattle Viaduct with its gray cement finish sullied my view. Built in the early 1950's and damaged in the 2001 Nisqually earthquake, the highway is crumbling, living on borrowed time. The city will soon begin tearing it down and replacing it with an underground tunnel. More change, good change, this time closer to home.

While not every Seattle voter agreed on the viaduct replacement, enough agreed it was time to move forward. I hope the resulting cityscape will bring greater public access to the waterfront, open space, and liberation from the constant drone of freeway noise. Time to dream and listen to the murmur of seagulls. Time to be.

Change, despite our desire to contain it and fend it off, marches on. Whether we view it as progress or an assault on the established order matters not. Agents of change meet with resistance. But I know there is a desire in the human heart for fairness, greater equality, and dignity for all. Whether guaranteeing equal treatment under the law or preserving and enhancing our natural bounty, we answer a higher call.

Entering the Olympic Fairmont in my khaki suit and sunglasses I dove into character for my Robert Kennedy moment. Minutes later I'd begin greeting civic leaders and philanthropists arriving to mark the historic vision of Century 21 and the Seattle World's Fair.

Fifty years ago in a faraway place called Seattle the promise of culture, science, and technology inspired a people to reach for the stars. With the help of a halting but earnest Boston accent (thank you Mom for acting classes),  my RFK slowly emerged, smiling and shaking hands and welcoming people to a New Century, looking forward and reflecting back.

Little by little this emerald green metropolis and the rest of the country changed. Happy day!

Thrift and the Lost Decade

Let us all be happy and live within our means, even if we have to borrow money to do it.
~Artemis Ward


My father died in 2000. During the last 15 years of his life ATM machines and debit cards took the world by storm. The era of the neighborhood bank teller was slowly coming to an end. One Christmas I remember visiting my 80-something year old Dad. He insisted we go to the bank since he needed to withdraw some cash. "I don't trust those bank machines," he mumbled. "I want to see a real, live person." And so we ambled up to the counter, my father with his cane and me with a big, fat smile. The person on the other side greeted dear old Dad by name.

My father, born in 1913, was a child of the Great Depression while I, born in 1963, grew up during the period of stagflation, the Nixon-Ford-Carter years. Both my parents taught me the importance of saving because thrift was a respected virtue for the WWII Generation.

My freshman year in college I remember receiving my first introductory credit card in the mail. I called home, confused about why any lender would offer a jobless college kid license to charge his expenses.

"Awww, geez, that's crazy," Dad barked over the phone. "Cut it up. You don't need a credit card to spend money you don't have." For a moment I thought about how I might redecorate my new dorm room or splurge on clothes but I'd already arrived with new sheets, towels, a comforter, clock radio, and beanbag chair. I took scissors to plastic and threw the jagged pieces of the Mastercard in the garbage.

In 1997 when I bought my Seattle condo on Capitol Hill the mortgage broker, an honest and forthright chap from an old line savings and loan, quoted me the maximum I could spend on my home purchase. My real estate agent encouraged me to buy at the upper limit because my future earnings would surely exceed my current salary. I appreciated the realtor's vote of confidence but chose a less costly home to avoid mortgaging myself to the hilt. What if at a later time I wanted to take a lesser-paying job with a non-profit or arts organization, the right side of my brain asked my left? An expensive mortgage might hinder my options.

Lately I've thought about my father's thrifty habits, and how they influenced me. I've maintained bank accounts both at a large, traditional bank and a community credit union. Last week the large bank informed me to expect a $25 per month maintenance fee if I didn't keep a $300 minimum balance in my savings account. A day earlier my friend, a university professor in his 70's , complained about receiving a similar alert in the mail. He maintains a checking account where his monthly Social Security check is deposited;  the bank also administers the mortgage on a small Florida property where he winters.

Incredulous that the recently bailed out bank, one of those "too big to fail" behemoths rescued by our tax dollars, wanted to leverage more fees on his accounts, my friend decided to withdraw his money and take his business elsewhere.

When I called the bank a very helpful woman by the name of Renee answered the phone. My savings account balance was relatively meager so we decided it made sense for me to close the account but I would need to make a personal visit. I walked to the Capitol Hill branch. My typical habit is to pay off my monthly credit card balance at this bank (in person, like Dad). Renee assured me I could continue to do the same without incurring a charge after closing my savings account.

When I arrived for my appointment, the customer service rep indicated Renee would see me next. I peered over to see her engrossed in conversation with a young Chinese student dressed in sweater and tennis shoes. She led him through the steps of opening an account, choosing a pin number, and assigning him his ATM card.

I thought back to when I first arrived in Seattle, fresh out of college. I opened a checking and savings account at the Broadway branch of this locally-owned bank soon after my arrival. A year later I decided I was financially responsible enough to obtain my first credit card.

I reflected on the resentment so many Americans now feel towards banks and other financial institutions who took unnecessary risks with investor money during the course of what many are calling "The Lost Decade." The leveraged mortgages sold to people who couldn't afford them, the real estate speculation, the depleted 401K accounts, the disappearing jobs and falling incomes of the American middle class, and the crushing debt of many young college graduates with limited job prospects due to a prolonged downturn.  The public feels outrage that we bailed out the banks, only to get further penalized by their reluctance to lend and their fat bonuses to business executives who created the crisis.

Finally Renee finished setting up the accounts for the young Chinese man. She invited me to her desk and said "I'm sorry we'll be losing your business, Mr. Hilovsky." Sitting across from her I smiled and said "Well, I still have a credit card with you."

She nodded and began the process of closing my account. When I asked what she studied in school, she replied, "Business administration, though I wanted to work in the retailing industry. This is a good job." I liked her and told her she had a gift with people.

As we completed the transaction I signed the final paperwork closing the account. The memory of patronizing this local bank in my twenties and the rite of passage it entailed left me a little sad. Renee introduced me to her branch manager who gave me his business card and encouraged me to come back if I ever wanted to reestablish an account. I thanked him, nodded and walked through the revolving door of the bank.

I'll be fine with my one account at the credit union, I thought to myself, peering outside at the falling leaves in the parking lot.  And I thought of my father nodding in approval.

When Donnie Darko Met 9/11

"Life is Suffering"
~The Four Noble Truths, Buddha

The other night I gathered with a group of friends for a monthly movie night. After a few rounds of voting on our film of choice (everybody brought a favorite to share), the group settled on Donnie Darko-The Director's Cut. The film, originally released a month after the Sept 11 attacks, was re-released in a longer version in 2004 debuting at the Seattle International Film Festival. Starring Jake Gyllenhaal in one of his earliest roles, I'd remembered The Stranger singing the movie's praises, but had never seen it. At the time the title disturbed me; the film looked dark. I thought the main character was a drug dealer. But as we hit the play button, and the group settled in for a viewing, the story captured my imagination, its themes as relevant today as a decade ago.

I grew up in a Catholic household in a traditional two parent family. My father, a former builder and real estate agent, worked as a building inspector for the city of Cleveland the last 15 years of his professional life. My mother, a homemaker, volunteered in my school, the church and our community. Both of my parents encouraged me to follow the rules and respect authority figures, ranging from the police to the priests and nuns at my Catholic grade school. Fortunately my high school and college education with the Jesuit priests, along with assorted like-minded lay teachers, inculcated in me a healthy dose of skepticism when the subject of authority arose.  "Believe none of what you hear and half of what you see," a Benjamin Franklin adage, found its way to my impressionable ears.

Donnie Darko explores the notion of time travel and fate. A teenager under the care of a psychiatrist begins seeing disturbing visions of the end of the world. He is visited by Frank, a menacing supernatural creature in a rabbit suit, who calls him out of his bedroom one night. That evening a jet engine crashes through the roof of his family's house and into Donnie's bedroom.

From then on Donnie is on a course of no return, wrestling with his beliefs, challenging his parents and teachers, asking questions about love, fear, and death. He struggles with the notion of the existence of God. By film's end he chooses a brave course of action that saves those he loves at a great cost.

The film is subversive in its quest to reveal the underside of conventional life in the comfort-laden splendor of American suburbia. None of us are safe from these overriding questions of choosing love over fear, truth over hypocrisy, or selflessness over selfishness.

The tragedy of 9/11 brought these issues to the fore as each of us grappled with how to move forward as a community and a nation. Many of us found comfort in a church or synagogue. Others sought security in the arms of  a family member, lover or spouse. For a short while we grew gentler and more patient with one another. And as a country we looked for common ground to reassure ourselves in a time of deep uncertainty, trauma, and fear.

Ten years have passed since that bright September morning when the U.S. suffered the most deadly attack in its history. In the 9/11 era we've relinquished our civil liberties to airport screeners and tolerate pat downs, surveillance of our phone calls and e-mails, and the continued existence of Guantanamo. Perhaps we're resigned to these infractions on our liberty; we see no other way to combat the threat of terrorist attacks. We're a nation numbed down.

But like the teenage Donnie Darko, psychosis and all, we must continue living the questions. What's truth? What's artifice? What do I need to feel secure? And what's worth sacrificing to maintain that security? Scaremongers and hucksters in business, religion, or government tell us we must depend on their product, their church, or their orthodoxy to feel certain. Don't leave home without it. Don't question authority. Trust me.

We live in uncertain times. That's scary to many people. But by clarifying, perhaps even redefining our values and what's most important, we can rid ourselves of the superfluous. Donnie Darko, and 9/11, took us to the dark side. But if we are brave enough to persevere beyond the numbness, beyond paranoia and fear, my hope is we'll discover a new way.  We as a people are "sleeping giants" ready to be roused. The cost of maintaining our comfort and complacency is too great.

September Reflections

“Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.” 
― Jack Kerouac, On the Road

First Blog Entry Re-posted from Sept 11, 2011

Summer finally has arrived in Seattle, except in the traditional calendar we're heading toward Fall. No matter, I'll take the eighty degree temperatures, thank you. It's nothing short of blissful for me, an outdoor enthusiast, to continue swimming in Lake Washington and running on Capitol Hill with the sun warming my face and back. Soon enough the weather will change, but for this moment I'm enjoying every single ray of light.

This moment. I guess that's why I've decided to follow the advice of my friend Sandeep and begin this blog with a focus on the here and now. As a kid, and then an impatient teenager, I remember dreaming about my future and how it would look. I was in such a hurry to get there. Would I be married by 25? (No, I'm gay, but same-sex marriage might be possible by 50). Would I make a lot of money? (No, I'm currently in search of a day job, but grateful for unemployment benefits). Would I be a writer and get published? (Yes, and yes; I've written monthly columns for both the Capitol Hill Times and the LGBT periodical 'mo magazine. Now I'm working on my first book--a memoir about coming of age in Cleveland during the late 1970's when posters of Farrah Fawcett-Majors in her red, clinging bathing suit decorated every teenage boy's closet door and disco ruled the top of the music charts.

Jack on Laughing Buddha, Vancouver, B.C., August 2011

In coming posts I'll be exploring my chosen home, Seattle, reflecting on the city, its foibles, its fanaticisms, its funkiness, and its fabulousness. I also hope to touch on themes I examined when writing previous columns for the newspaper and magazine. Reflections on family, identity, living as a gay man in the early twenty first century, and spiritual growth.

As we approach the anniversary of 9/11 and the attacks on the Twin Towers in New York City, much has changed in our country and in our lives. We are less free in many ways to do as we please. The financial crisis of 2008 has constricted many of us in terms of our livelihoods and how we view success. I'd like to explore the glimmers of hope that still abound in my community. And redefine, or at least examine, what makes a life truly successful.

I hope you'll join me for the adventure as I start a new journey in the blogosphere. I'd appreciate your readership. And if you care to add a comment, I encourage it! One of the greatest compliments I received writing for the Capitol Hill Times and 'mo occurred when people would stop me on the street and say, "Hey, I read your column. Sometimes I agree with you, sometimes I don't." We'd then have a conversation. I felt connected.

One promise I'll make right now--I'll do my best to stay honest with you--my audience--and with myself. Let's begin the journey!