Writing Reality

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  Right here. Right now. In my office nearly two decades ago, a blue-collar man and I were speaking about gratefulness. He stated, “Many times I think about how amazing it is that I landed in the time period and the place where I am now.” He continued, “Like we could’ve been born in a different country. We could’ve been born in Europe during World War II. But for some reason we landed in New Jersey. Born after that war. Now that’s lucky.” I concurred. “I think about that a lot. Like what are the chances that you and I weren’t born in Haiti, in the 1950’s?   We could’ve landed anywhere, anytime, any place. We could’ve been poorer. We could’ve been the wrong religion for the time period. Anything, could’ve been. Right?” He acquiesced, “Yeah. It all still fascinates me.” As this conversation had taken place all those years ago, I still think like this every day of my life. It brings me to a point, where I know that I must acknowledge what I have. What possibilities there are in th

                                                                                  It’s Hard to be Brave… As I wake our children up before work, before writing, before training and before their school, it’s hard to be brave. I’ve learned in life most people aren’t brave.   I learned it early in life, and I’ve learned why it is hard to be brave. I knew it instinctively. As if I were born to reckon with it. I can recall the very first memory of visual fear, it was on a sunny, summer, late afternoon July 1966. I wasn’t quite four years old yet, but I had a sudden sense of fear. I looked on as two of my family members in front of another family member who appeared to have no fear presented. An act he thought was presenting bravery.   Yet, his act was nearing a point of bullying. And to anyone else, it may not have been seen this way. But I knew it even at that young age of not quite four. As I recall this particular day then; I realize his appearance of bravery arrived out of thinking he

                                                                      Not Happy in My Work...I Guess In the animated, Christmas movie, “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”, one of the elves named Hermey no longer wants to make toys. Hermey has found a new passion.    He has begun studying dentistry. The head elf his boss, questions him.    He announces to the other elves working, “Hermey doesn’t want to make toys!” All the elves present repeat the line to each other in sequence, as they wonder why Hermey doesn’t like to make toys.    The query from his boss and the other elves, is inspired as they think all elves, especially Santa’s elves are born just to make toys, and do chores referring to Santa Claus and Christmas celebrations. However, it’s not what they think. It is not that Hermey despises making toys for children.    Nor is it that he despises being one of Santa’s elves. Neither is it that he doesn’t love Christmas.    It is because he has found a book of interest to him on dentist

                                                                                                                          Chiclets Many, many years ago, my Mom would let us buy some candy here and there. But when we only had a nickel my Mom would suggest either that rolled up red licorice by Broadway or Chiclets. You know the little square gum pieces? It was so, my brother and I could share the candy. Those were the days when my Mom was fortunate enough to have a used car for a month or so, and she’d pull up to the gas pump and hold out a dollar or two fifty cent pieces and say to the attendant, “I’d like a dollar’s worth of gas, please. These flashes of my childhood came to me as I ran today in the early afternoon I wondered which direction to run. I wondered how much energy I had. I couldn’t gage it. I hadn’t able to gage my energy now for about the past few years. Pure exhaustion and pushing through it for the better part of over twenty-eight years of my therapy business had taken i

                                                                           Where’s the Brass Ring?      When you are used to touching death, you need to touch life. If you had asked me when I was eighteen would I have become a person that works with people in pain, some dying.    I would have said emphatically,  ‘No Way! ’ Not because I didn’t want to help people. Oh. I did. It was that my thought process of thinking of a way to helping people was saving them from abuse.    Saving them from war.    Saving them from crime.    Or fixing them after crime or war.    Basically, being there for them. Not in any medical format.    Yet, with a fist, a technique, a bayonet or a format of a firing arm or perhaps even a shovel.         Every night as a young child I went to bed and played a type of movie film in my head. I’d see the  bad guys . They would try to wreck me; I’d fight back.    They were always bigger, stronger and had the capacity to kill me.    Yet, I’d envisioned I would fight to