At Summer's End, Discovering the Thin Places

How much shall I be changed before I am changed?

--John Donne

This summer I turned 50. Barring an unforeseen future wedding (I've not identified the unsuspecting groom), I decided to commemorate the occasion with a huge (and expensive) party and rented a rocking loft in Pioneer Square, entrusted my childhood friend R.J. to create a James Bond themed invitation, invited 50 plus friends asking them to dress in Bond-style fashion, and hired a sexy deejay and smooth bartender. I created the party of my dreams, and had the time of my life dancing with old friends I'd met when I first moved to Seattle in the late 1980's, chums from my graduate school days in the 90's, buddies from swim team, neighbors, and new friends from work and play. I really did have the time of my life.

Hammock Heaven, Sept 2013

The rest of this summer found me spending lots of time hiking in the mountains, swimming  in the open water of Lake Washington, and savoring a good paperback or a nap in my new favorite place: my backyard hammock. I dreamed a lot this summer. One favorite book I've read over and over is The Perks of Being a Wallflower. I've even begun to imagine myself a wallflower (in the most unconventional sense of the word!) even though most people who know me would say, "You're an extrovert, Jack. How could you think otherwise?"

Fact is I often feel like I don't fit anywhere. I'm an athlete and love to move my body, whether it's in the water, or on the tennis court. I'm also an artist, and whether I'm writing on this blog, revising a chapter of my memoir, singing, preparing a delicious meal for friends, or combing my hair, I love creation and finding new ways of greeting life.

I'm spiritual too and don't think I would have survived this long had it not been for the faith my parents passed on to me. I'm lucky I found a way to make it my own and discovered people a long the way who loved me for me--a guy who left his family and everything he knew back in the Midwest and ventured to a new megalopolis that embraced the entrepreneurial--software, coffee, aeronautics, and the next new thingamajig--and alternate ways of living--gay rights and legalized marijuana--while casting a suspicious eye on of all things, organized religion.

The Joy of Tennis, Summer 2009

I sometimes tell friends I have a harder time confiding to new acquaintances I'm a practicing Catholic compared with telling them I'm a gay man!

Back to transformations and fitting in. During my extended periods in the backyard hammock reading Wallflower I've found my heart lost in the feelings of the main character Charlie as he writes in episodic fashion to an unidentified pen pal about his freshman year in high school, his new friends Patrick and Sam, and the intimate world of his nuclear family. The story reminded me how in high school it feels like possibilities are endless, everything is at stake, and how easy it is in adulthood to fall into routines that turn us into sleepwalkers, zombies of life.

And I resolved that I didn't want to live that way. I'm reading another book called A New Way to Be Human written by Robert V. Taylor, an anti-apartheid activist and former dean of St. Mark's Episcopal Cathedral in Seattle, with a foreword by Desmond Tutu. Taylor talks about traveling to the "thin places" of our lives, often found in nature and on the edges of our own fear and resistance to being fully alive. There is a thin veil inherent in these places where if we pull it back we discover an invitation to see the world with a new perspective and get back in touch with ourselves, the Holy (or spiritual source), other people, and nature.

Over the summer I've wrestled with challenges in the workplace and in my love life, and sometimes in the hammock I was simply grateful to have a refuge to allow the weight of the world, and the weight of my heart, to dissipate. Through dialogue and patience I've found a way to reach out to a co-worker who criticized my work style and performance, which at times felt like a personal attack on my very existence. I've travelled a long road to get to a place of forgiveness, and I'm still working on mending that relationship.

Life, like Twister, can tie us up in knots
or present opportunities

Likewise in my personal life I've learned that choices, and timing, matter. Often I've selected sweethearts because they were there in front of me rather than really examining whether they engaged my heart and soul. Perhaps that's a tall order to ask for in this day and age. And with only ten percent of the population identifying as gay, I may be relegating myself to single-dom ad perpetuam.

Earlier this year I confided in a friend whom I dated that I want to feel something before I jump into a serious relationship. I learned later with the same friend that spending time together without any pressure or expectation allowed me to develop feelings for him in a way I hadn't before when we were officially "dating." And by that time sadly he was seeing someone else.

So at the end of the summer of my fiftieth year, I'm changing. I accept I'm imperfect, a fact I've avoided my whole life of trying to be "the best little boy." I recognize my fears are my greatest opportunities if I'm willing to lift the veil of those thin places, and be curious and explore them. Like my good friend Joe suggested during a lunch on Seattle's scenic, seagull-strewn waterfront. Throwing his arm around my shoulder, he egged me on: "Jack, lean in. Do me a favor and lean into your life."

With that bit of advice this self-proclaimed wallflower is leaning into the wind and once again diving into the mysterious stream of existence, eager to participate.

Namaste to each one of you who chooses to do the same.

Adieu to a Summer Well-Lived, Colman Pool, West Seattle

In India, the Bicycle Rises Above the Din

Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance you must keep moving.

~ Albert Einstein, letter to his son Eduard, 1930

Earlier this year I took a much-anticipated trip to India, a place I’d never visited but dreamed of experiencing ever since seeing the film Passage to India in college. I boarded Air India with seven other friends and flew from New York’s JFK International to New Delhi where for the next 12 days we explored a region called the Golden Triangle, a popular tourist route that encompasses the bustling capital of New Delhi, Agra (home to the Taj Mahal), and Jaipur, also known as the Pink City and famous for its majestic forts, palaces, and arts and crafts.

Jack & his travel companion Jenny lei'd in India

We arrived in Delhi on Feb 20. Our tour guide Praveen welcomed us with marigold leis he placed around our necks with great ceremony. The sun shone bright as we emerged into a balmy and surprisingly arid eighty-degree day. We’d chosen to visit in February to avoid the monsoon season and paralyzing humidity that begins in April. My friends and I hoped the weather and our exotic surroundings would provide the antidote to our winter blues.

Our first day touring Embassy Row we were greeted by a dozen curious monkeys parading around the village green. The expected sacred cows dotted the side of the road as we further ventured from the city center into more rural landscapes. So did sleeping dogs, the mongrels stretched out so close to the side of the road I feared the mutts would get run over by the never-ending traffic careening every which way.

On our Friendly Planet tour bus I watched from high above the myriad modes of transport people use 

Outside the Taj Mahal, India on Wheels

to travel the roads of northern India. Rickshaws, mopeds and motor bikes, cars, buses and trucks all vie for a piece of the four--sometimes two--lane road. To further complicate traffic conditions there are also people walking and biking on the same road all the other vehicles use, along with the aforementioned sacred cows and sleeping dogs along the perimeter.

Here in Seattle I bike for pleasure, to do small errands, and in the warmer months I enjoy commuting back and forth to my job at Bicycle Alliance of Washington.  I will carry a change of clothes, my lunch, and books and papers in my pannier. When I rode down the coast of California and up the western coast of Ireland I loaded a tent and sleeping bag on my bike rack along with the requisite food, clothes, and maps necessary for my journey stuffed in my panniers.

Carrying a Load Plus, Uttar Pradesh

What amazed me about people cycling in India is the vast array of ways they chose to use a bicycle. I saw a man hauling a large load wrapped in burlap on the back of his bike. On top of the load sat a man and woman, who looked as if all their earthly possessions rode underneath them.

Another bike rider carried lumber boards and building materials on a slat with wheels attached to the back of a bicycle. One gentleman hauled gasoline cans. And a third pulled a platform of rugs behind his bike.

Amidst the honking of cars and careening of people and beasts along the side of the road I wondered how traffic moved at all. But is does. The beeping of horns are not to irritate or aggravate, but offer a reminder someone is passing or taking a piece of the road.

Hauling a load of carpets, Delhi

Of course there are also people riding bikes to get from one place to the next without any hauling or exchange of commerce. Sitting in my motorized Friendly Planet bus high above the rest of the crowd I often yearned to get closer to the ground. On the third day of our trip my wish came true. We toured Jama Masjid, India’s largest mosque completed in 1656, and then embarked on a bicycle rickshaw ride through an ancient New Delhi market.

The rickshaw driver veered through a narrow lane of bustling shops selling jewelry, silver, electronics, textiles, and clothing. A rat’s nest of wire hung from above like an electric cloud, one spark away from conflagration. Walkers, fellow rickshaw drivers, motorbikes, shopkeepers, and their customers shared this busy public space. The closeness of people forced to interact with one another and share the road brought a big smile to my face.

At my job with the Bicycle Alliance of Washington, I oversee the building of membership, connect people who want to do good with opportunities to grow bicycling, and market and promote the Share the Road license plate and philosophy.

Through the Back Window of the Bus, Jaipur

Across the world in India I learned first hand the intimate flowering of shared space, how people incorporate bicycling into their daily work lives, and how the bicycle continues to flourish in a rapidly industrializing society that is poised to grow and prosper in this new twenty first century.

Whether in Seattle or New Delhi, I learned that the bicycle is still relevant. 

Note from Seattle: Making My Dreams Come True

"Resolve to be always beginning - to be a beginner." 
-Rainer Maria Rilke

Two years ago I started blogging On the Road with Jack and then when I began my new job at Bicycle Alliance of Washington I fell off the map, except for the occasional holiday post. I'm here to tell you I'm back in the saddle (all these bike analogies seem to work!) and will resume chronicling my journey as a single gay guy living in Seattle, now happily employed with a bicycle advocacy and education non-profit, who completed a trip to India last winter, and recently reached the mid-century mark. There is a lot to catch you up on. Today I want to focus on dreams and how it sometimes can take awhile to make them come true. The key is perseverance--with tenacity anything is possible.

India: Full of Inspiration, March 2013

One of the reasons for starting On the Road was to keep you--my readers--abreast of progress on my coming of age memoir, R.J., Farrah, and Me: A Young Man's Gay Odyssey from the Inside Out. After completing the original manuscript in the fall of 2010, and receiving constructive feedback from three people I respect and who understand my writing, I've spent the last 2-1/2 years crafting a second revision. Folks said they wanted more of me in the story, more emotion, more feeling, more "getting naked" as my professor and friend Hubert suggested. Scary!!

For the first time writer of any memoir, this task is not an easy one. When I first put pen to paper I found it easier to observe myself from the outside looking in rather than the inside looking out. I had to change and it took courage. Two plus years of it.

I know my determination to push forward was a sign that I really cared about my subject matter. The memoir is about teenage friendship and the importance of connection in a world where all of us sometimes feel like the misfit toys in Santa Claus is Coming to Town. But in 1976 I met my best friend R.J. in a children's acting class, and everything changed. I no longer felt odd-man out. We discovered we shared a mutual obsession over Charlie's Angel Farrah Fawcett-Majors and bought all the magazines she graced, cut out the covers and stories, and pasted them in our Farrah scrapbooks. Instead of baseball cards, we collected Farrah! R.J. also taught me three important life lessons: how to shave, how to disco dance, and how to...well, you'll have to buy the book to find out the third one!

Jack and R.J., Huntington Beach, Bay Village, OH July 1979

Over the weekend I attended the Pacific Northwest Writers Conference in my own backyard, Seattle! I decided after finishing my second revision on July 4 I needed to take the next step and find out how to get my book published. This conference held every year brings together writers from all over the Northwest and beyond to mingle with agents, editors, authors, and people working in the publishing industry. I arrived for four intense days of workshops on the craft of writing, whether to self-publish or pursue a deal with a traditional publishing house, presentations by publishing pros, and an opportunity to pitch my book to agents and editors.

Saturday morning my stomach was full of butterflies as I rode the light rail to the SeaTac Hilton, where I would make my pitch. Arriving early I visited the "pitching room," where people could practice with others and hone their delivery before attending the formal session with 32 agents and 8 editors. I met a gregarious woman from Montana who advised me to "keep it short, we've only got 4 minutes!" Thanks to Sandy, I whittled my delivery to the essence--setting is suburban Cleveland, 1976, thirteen year old Jack who can't throw a ball straight meets R.J. in children's theatre classes, everything changes, Farrah obsession, three life lessons, one sultry summer evening physical relationship ensues, Jack struggles with the implications of this night, his relationship with R.J., and his very identity over the course of a decade.

One half hour later along with over 100 other writers I entered the room where all those agents and editors sat in ordered desks at the very front. Thanks to Sandy I felt confident and prepared, I'd identified the four agents and one editor I wanted to meet. I got in a line for the first one, a bell rang, and the pitching began. After my first meeting I grew more confident when the agent gave me her card and said "send it to me." I collected two more cards from agents who wanted to see my manuscript. Two editors expressed interest and gave me their cards.

That day I felt exuberant. I reclined on a chaise near the outdoor pool in the warm sunshine and exhaled like I'd carried the world on my shoulders and now could release the pulleys. A big smile grew across my face. I'd started this project in February 2010 by daring to dream I could write a book, which I'd fantasized about since childhood. Regardless of what happens with the agents and editors who review the manuscript over the next few months, I'm on my way.

Farrah, The Muse of 1976
Click on the Poster to Learn the Story
of her Red Bathing Suit!

Smelling the Roses at Christmas

"Culture is the widening of the mind and the spirit."

--Jawaharlal Nehru, the first Prime Minister of independent India in 1947

Greetings from the Great Northwest! After returning from a glorious run to Volunteer Park and back home, I’m grateful for the break in the rain and the interlude of sunshine. My intuition tells me there’ll be no White Christmas this year, unlike 2008.  But adults (and big kids) can always hope.

The big news in 2012 is I got a job! Not just any job, but one I really enjoy. In March I began work as a fundraiser and membership manager for Bicycle Alliance of Washington, a statewide non-profit focused on safety, education, and advocacy. We work with the state legislature, city, and businesses to pass bicycle-friendly policies that protect riders, invest in infrastructure, and make Washington a more bicycle friendly place.

Co-workers Louise and Josh with Jack outside our office, Spring 2012

I feel blessed to have a job that makes good use of my people skills and reflects my values. Most of my time in Seattle I’ve not owned a car and have traveled by foot, bike, or bus. I love that my work involves societal change—for me bicycling has the potential to mitigate so many vexing challenges we face—childhood obesity, CO 2 emissions, traffic congestion, dependence on foreign oil, and the isolation many experience in the car. I often ride my bike the two miles to my office in Pioneer Square in downtown Seattle and love the feeling of freedom it gives me. My seven member team and I are housed in a former art gallery. It’s great to work collaboratively, and feel engaged in the community.

Jack and friend Chip on the shores of La Jolla, Jan 2012

2012 was a year of travel. After New Years I joined my friend Chip for several days in La Jolla, California. We dove into the frigid Pacific in our wetsuits, strolled the beach, and visited Balboa Park.  We returned again in April for a weekend men’s retreat at Esalen located on the rugged bluffs of Big Sur several hours south of San Francisco. We made some new friendships and returned with a heightened awareness of living in the moment. In July I traveled with Seattle Mens Chorus to Denver for a 5 day choral gathering. LGBT Choruses from around the U.S. sang from morning until night at the Denver Performing Arts Center, a complex of three adjoining theatres with a glass atrium courtyard to protect against the rain, which finally arrived after the early summer wildfires.

In late July I travelled to Cleveland to spend one week near Marblehead with my Bazur cousins from my mother’s side of the family. We took afternoon and moonlight swims in eighty-degree Lake Erie, jogged around the Lakeside complex where we stayed, played kickball after dinner, and engaged in late night rap sessions on everything from health care reform to feminism. I also spent a glorious afternoon sailing, one of the fondest memories of my year.

Herb with beautiful grandson Josh, April 2010

On a sad note, my godfather Herb, whose last gift was treating us to this wonderful vacation on Lake Erie, could not be there due to an earlier hospitalization. Herbie passed away on August 20, a great loss for our family. He taught me how to live with a generous heart and to each day “smell the roses.” I loved him dearly.

In early February we also lost my father’s youngest, last surviving sister. My beloved Aunt Virginia suffered a stroke just short of her 89^th birthday.  I returned to Cleveland to celebrate her life with my large extended Hilovsky family and Kaps cousins. Many of them I hadn’t seen in 25 years. I’d resolved after my Dad’s death in 2000 that I’d stay in close touch with my aunt. 

With a portion of the Hilovsky/Kaps clan at Aunt V's Memorial, Feb 2012

She welcomed my calls and visits, always encouraging my involvement in politics, the arts, and culture. She, like my dad, had a lovely singing voice. She was also a gifted pianist.

As I bid farewell to relatives who played an important and loving role in my upbringing and young adulthood, I look toward milestones to come. Next year on June 6, I will turn 50 years old. I can hardly believe it! You might ask what I’m doing to prepare or celebrate? Well, in February I accepted my friend Jenny’s invitation to travel to India with six other friends from our days working in Washington, D.C. We will visit New Delhi, Agra (to gaze on the Taj Majal), Jaipur, and some other attractions in northern India. In early January I’ll fly to L.A. to see my cousin James Hilovsky and his new wife Carey. I missed their September wedding in Ohio but am excited to spend time with them in the City of Angels before they return to the Midwest.

In June I’m planning a big celebration to mark my half-century. The theme is Bond, James Bond. I’ve already signed my deejay, a hip social media guy with a Mohawk and four year old daughter, and am setting my sites on a small warehouse space near Pike Place Market. I’ve even chosen the date: Sat, June 8. Consider yourself invited to Seattle for the celebration, but Bond fashion is a must—a dressy suit or playful tux for men, and heels and Bond girl allure for the ladies.  There’s room for a few guests in my condo so call and let me know, if you plan to land!

Moi in Oahu, Summer 2011

Looking back on the past year I’m grateful for the many blessings in my life, including you. Good health, good job, good family, and friends all are mine. May this Christmas bring new spirit and renewed dreams into your life. May the next year usher in continued health, happiness, and plenty of fresh roses to smell.

 Love,

Jack

P.S. For those of you shivering in the Midwest, or enduring the rain here in the Pacific Northwest, I hope you like the tropical shot from a swim competition I attended last year  in Hawaii with my Masters swim group. My love of the beach continues, and my mother’s and father’s good genes live onJ

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!