We can't be racist

 I learned in my late 20's that race was a construct and not a biological marker.  This expanded my perplexed attitude towards my perception of dominant cultures and my own identifications.  I have to admit that it created a disappointment in me that inspired many life changing principles.  A hatred for my own contributions to the systematic bigotries.  The changes were disorienting.  I had new information that highlighted how I didn't belong to a race, how I have privilege despite having embraced a victim's mentality for so long, and how I learned how tainted my origin story is.  

I was socially indoctrinated to function believing that somehow I was socially ordered into an ethnic layer tied to the color of my skin.  And I had around 3 unspoken layers beneath me, a few complex layers around me and one championship layer above me.  And this system of layers was more about human capital than it was ever about superiority. I now find it impossible to participate in life the same way knowing these layers are dysfunctional.  

Today it seems like the world is coming to these same realization or maybe resistance to seeing it change.  Seems like these layers are being stirred by the complexities of our nations shortcuts, abuses, rule breaking, rule bending, and for sure rule escaping.  The Black Lives Matter movement, the Boogaloo movement, the Federalist Society, ANTIFA, Blue Lives Matter and the QAnon folks are all adjusting to the lower layers being informed and the new voices demanding participation where their views historically could be ignored when rule making.  We may not have equality but that is not suppressing assertion. 

I am as aware as ever of the emotions I still have when thinking about where I land in the eyes of my fellow citizens.  I find it challenging and hard to know that I have this information and the systems or eco-systems I live in are still functioning on the legacy caste like mentalities.  I find the pain that creates anger in me isn't as overwhelming.  I can still feel the injustice while also celebrating the change.  I still feel discriminated and I smile when I can't recognize if it is bigotry or because of me .  

At times I think some dominant cultures conceal their bigotry far easier now that we have a more ambiguous linguistics for prejudice.  I see the opportunities where I might have written off barriers to entry as racist, where earlier in my life I would have felt it wasn't my shortcomings but theirs.  I now take more responsibility for making it harder for the systems to exclude me, sometimes by assertion, more often by trusting the process, and when I fall short I let it motivate me to find a different route.  The system is going to make space, but not until I let it know I want it to make room. 

I am not as surprised or devastated when the Anglo world sees me through fear oriented lenses.  I accept the sadness that my culture has such delinquent parts.  I still get frustrated with how it seems at times I am catching up to all the other layers of people, whether it be in knowledge, lifestyle, or effectiveness.  I am grieving the ways I am not sufficient and can't close the gaps.  I seem to be between layers.  And I am grateful for the anger and tension because it might mean I am not the only one who has to begin the process of revisiting this looming concept called Race and how it has antagonized the darkest parts of our character.

I am proud of my Chicano heritage, my Spanish origins, Mexican adaptation, and New Mexican simplicity.  I am a complicated member of a brave experiment that at times didn't want to include me, found a way to, and is now providing a way to contribute that is safer than other peoples around the world can.  I will slowly eliminate my regard for race or speak to the invalidity of Race as a human trait. I will continue to let it draw out emotions working to orient them in way that helps me be more Christ-like and a spreader of dignity

.  All of this while hoping that I might create safety that rarely creates danger for the other layers.  

Graduate?

Finally feeling the emotions that come from my child graduating high school.  I cried this morning, not so much for her success, not so much out of sadness, not really understanding why, and absolutely knowing why.  She represents the newness in our culture.  She represents the progress in our sophistication.  She represents the persistent effort our family and ancestors have evolved to be.  She was never hoping to graduate, like my generation.  She appeared to be learning in ways rooted in her design.  She rarely seemed to feel obligated to learn.  I never felt she was a few decisions away from a life of delinquency.  And yet she had a father who had to learn how to parent like she was capable of doing anything. 

I cried because I didn't know how to teach her to believe in herself.

This is where I find our New Mexican culture, trying to develop a belief in ourselves.  Unknowing and yet learning how to believe in itself, she is a bloom from this, she is doing it.  I had to set aside all the toxic traditions that kept me alive.  The yelling, hitting, drinking, shortcuts, ambivalence, dogma, and toxic obedience.  She inspired me to trust in her.  She gave me every reason to have a little more patience.  She taught me to believe in me, as a father.  She let me fail.  She didn't let me fail.  She is moody like me, temperatures changing in moments, stubborn to the point of spite, and also expressing emotions as fragile as a snowflake.  She gave me fear that lured my selflessness out in ways I'd never experienced. 

Watching her grow was my lesson in belief.  She showed me that believing in her wasn't up to me.  She didn't need my permission to believe.  She taught me how to feel someone else's, the other's, worry without having any role in dealing with it.  For every time she hesitated, I felt inspired to show her how not to.  For each hasty attempt at some reckless response, she invoked in me a call to patience.  She still leaves her room a mess and each morning when I'm about to leave mine unkept, I pause, I lament, and I take the time to put things right, knowing I am asking her to endure "each thing has its place".  Not doing this mindful act will feed the habit of neglect.  She teaches me to feed my habit of care, diligence, and focus.  She is my exam!

Her beauty is not my success, but the success of every interaction, every lonely encounter polishing her perceptions, and every courageous exercise in believing she is greatness.  Then I accept that she will also be taught to doubt, and this scares me.  And then I trust how doubt might be the most important ingredient.  Without doubt belief does not have its beautiful nemesis.

The milestone is not a high school graduation, rather a realization that "wanting the best for her", has likely been the subtle wisdoms for how I learned to improve on my perception of me.  My tassel, as a father, is believing in me, not selfishly, but with the necessary application of knowledge and fearlessness, that will help me continue to be an example of refinement.  My daughter is not on a trajectory for grandiosity, but an extension of progress, sameness, and flavor.  And in that same thought I am full of shit, because I cannot know who my daughter fully is, nor can understand where she is going. It is what I hope for me.

Trust in Pride

With permission from Cecelia, here is her contribution on the subject of toxicity in the Chicano culture.  First a brief description about Cecelia.  Cecelia and I met at a writing workshop.  I was there with a living hero, Jimmy Santiago Baca.  He allowed me to participate despite never being published or credited as a writer.  Cecelia was there too.  She supported me during a really difficult moment during the conference.  I didn't believe myself to be a writer and I was among professional and aspiring writers.  I was challenged to share my work out loud.

I was asked to read aloud my novice writing.  With my voice trembling in my tentative tone, I read a poem.  It got rocked and I was told my writing wasn't passionate.  I was called out, and I remember it went something like this, "your writing seems to lack passion".  With that statement, woke the calloused part of my soul.

I found an inner passion to describe the sadness I live with.  I told them about the parts of me that skirt around the big dogs because I don't feel I belong.  I have never been asked to read aloud.  I told the group how difficult it is to play passionately because what I am passionate about will provoke and confront their privileged metaphorical Anglo playgrounds.  I have to be somewhat abstract to conceal the sacredness of the moment and those involved.  But I let my educated, learned, and vetted understanding of myself and history propel my passionate, possibly disappointed, perspectives flow.

They came out in a voice that turned from trembling into a shaking near tears fountain of rawness. Out came my thoughts, from the depths of the cellars they have been kept quietly pacing.  Like bunched up New Mexicans at the labor lines waiting for the opportunity to contribute to my cause.  It felt like a petition, and quickly I realized I had spoken my truth.  At the end I found myself embarrassed and ashamed.  I felt like I had no right to be so passionate in someone else's passion playground.

But to sum it up, I described how I hold myself back because it feels like my place.  My place is modest and purpose centered.  I watched my grandmother prepare the best New Mexican food for the richest Anglos in New Mexico, and never ask to be called a chef.  I watched my grandpa build cabinets for several churches in the North Valley of Albuquerque never asking for recognition or profits.  I try to live the same way.

Here I was a wanna be writer among skilled writers just happy to be in the same room as Jimmy Baca.  I couldn't be passionate because I was scared that what I had to say would hurt feelings.  The source of my passion is in their ancestors injustice.  Especially the judgment, maybe jealousy,  I see in how free the Anglo culture is allowed to be proud and loud.  The passion I have is rooted in the paradox of being given opportunity to be great but only knowing how to be modest.

Cecelia and a few other strong Latin writers supported me and best of all shared the feelings.  I had skeena.  I have shared my passion with people who rarely understand and often call me disruptive, cynical, and harsh.  I have had to remind myself that I am a tender person who is a warrior.  I have to keep close the reminder that I was raised not to fight, and not to be afraid to protect myself.  Cecelia ratified my emotions, ideas, and passion.

We sat at dinner and she shared her story with me.  I knew after leaving that weekend that I must speak my passions modestly.  I will not be afraid to defend myself, my story, and my perspectives.  I will know that my truth is not necessarily offensive but can incense emotions in others.  It's not my responsibility any longer to wonder how my story will make others feel.

Thank you for the standing along side me.  It has felt for awhile as if my ideas are isolatingly antagonizing.  It is a joy and relief to be in the spirit of great people like Cecelia.

Cecelia  shared the following:

Ron,

This is a reflection on both Toxic Humility and Mistrust of Pride, as I see the two topics inextricably linked - at least in my experience as a Mexican-American woman growing up in southern California in the 50s and 60s.

My father was a strong man, with a humble spirit, and unspoken pride in his heritage, his work ethic and the accomplishments of his children.  He taught me "never draw attention to yourself" as that was arrogant and unnecessary.  He believed that "If you work hard and do what you have signed-on to do, people will notice and they will recognize you and reward you, as appropriate.  You don't need to promote yourself."

I have lived my 65 years of life believing this is true, acting in concert with it and seeing his prediction play out in my own life.  And yet, there have been moments when I too have been unable to take pride in the "magnificent" parts of myself and that has felt uncomfortable and (although I never would have come up with the term myself) "toxically humble."

These posts have shined a light on layers and layers of my being and my identity - for me to reexamine.  I will let you know where that road takes me.  Thank you, Ron.

Cecelia

Why so racial?

I wonder how being a divorced dad, raising 2 daughters with a cooperative mother, having 2 respectable careers, and being able bodied keeps me from living a typical or common life of contentment.  How am I not fulfilled by the American Dream?  Why am I critical about the dogmatic foolishness I believe thrives in Patriotism?  How come the privileged cultures allure me, light skinned women dazzle me, black struggle inspires me, my brown in between-ness excludes me, but Anglo authority antagonizes me.  I get asked how come I'm so critical or why can't I just have fun.  When I take another class at the university I get asked if I am getting another degree.  More personally I get asked about where the "old Ron is".  I have the same wonder.

I could easily afford a more comfortable and fun-filled life, or can I.  I wonder why I don't.  I have wrestled the ideas of cynicism and justice.  I have experienced barrio life, tasted New Mexico's Norteno culture, even immersed myself into corporate suburbia, excelled through a  masters academia, and now find myself content with just enough and culturally hovering.  So how come I still grieve?

Despite surviving through a collection of cultures I am still fearful of being taken advantage of, held back, or discriminated.  I am afraid and incited when others are too.  I am learning that racism is not as obvious as it's ever been. I am learning that ethnicity is less valuable as a generalize-er as it's ever been. I have to consider that holding on to diversity counter intuitively promotes division.  I have to hold the cognitive dissonance that is created when I encounter people who don't fit my stereotypes.  I have to work through the difficulty and subtlety that bias or ignorance isn't distinguishable or a visible trait, its often felt passively without certainty.  I have been called names before, and those times were easy to understand.  I knew why I was hated, targeted, or categorized.

But I have to sit back in my solitude and sift through the sadness in my history and present wondering if it's because of my heritage.  There are a lot of events in my life that hurt.  I cannot say that because I am Latino this happened to me.  At the same time I cannot help but wonder if some of what happened to me was because of generalizations, stereotypes, or prejudice.  And I cannot help but also worry that my actions or choices have been influenced by my own prejudice or ignorance.  I have to consider how my own hatred added to the complexity of distinction and discrepancy.

I am so racial because I have a desire to participate, contribute, and be valued in this lifetime.  There are a lot of circumstances that have helped me recognize that how I look, how I see, where I come from, where others come from, the way I sound, the way others sound, and the history that molded me impact the way I react and how people perceive me.  I have to believe that you are prejudice because I am.  I don't feel dangerous, violent, or menacing.  But I am not afraid to fight, I am not afraid of pain, and I will find a way to survive.  I strive to be loving, peaceful, and forgiving.  But I am also capable of rage, willing to be radical for change, and will hold you accountable before completely accepting you.  Maybe it is that you fear me too.

I am so racial because I am afraid of being eradicated, incarcerated, shot for no reason, censored, paid less for the same work, called lazy, called stupid, told I have work only because I'm brown, found guilty for a crime I didn't commit, charged for crime I didn't commit, punished worse than others,  treated different, pushed around, banished, neglected and left out.   I am so racial so that my daughters can be less racial.  I am so racial because I see too many people forgetting that people are still racial and cannot seem to understand how.

The Warrior's Doctor

Can you see there is a warrior struggling to remain healed.  It is obvious to any mystic that the battles fought through ancestors have payed dividends yielded by your constitution.  The battles you have in your future are nicely filed in a floppy worn folder labeled "none of your business".  

You have worn paths of grief and regret that your feet packed firm.  The paths are wearing wider and branching closer to your heart.  The cave that it runs through is losing its advantages.  The shortcut it created leaves the mystery of the forests calling you.

There is a healer in you.  It has philosophical discussions about savagery while the wreckless warrior is shackled by traumatic victims of wars past.  The healer says there will come a time when you'll need to work together.  The treatment given to you in doses of strength, just enough, and with just enough vitality to unchain your wildness one link at a time...Healed!

- Ron Estrada

Official Video (It doesn't "fit", but fit is judgment and fuck judging, that's a divine operation)

A Reflection on Scripture

Matthew 7:3-5
Why do you see the speck that is in your brother's eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye?  Or how can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when there is the log in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother's eye.

 

The United States is responsible for its own September 11th.  Holding the 9/11 for American grief is not fair.  It interesting to discover that America has many Al Qaeda like episodes in our history.  We may not have conspired in caves but we did conspire.  We may not have believed in democracy that looked or functioned like ours.  We may have encourage dictatorship.  It appears to be likely that Chileans are saddened by America's role in the overthrow of their elected government.  They also might be grieving the death of thousands at the hand of Pinochet, the dictator inserted to lead.  Being a global leader for freedom should not come at the expense of other creative peoples.

I say we, but I really mean is more likely a small group of American business men hoping to keep leverage.  I cannot help but recognize the hypocrisy that my country seems to display.  As more of our past becomes declassified we will recognize our shortcomings. Americans who, like Bin Laden, manipulate with violence to get their way need to be held with compassion.  What kind of life have they lived.  What traumatic experiences have they lived.  What could build a conscience with so much greed, lust, disregard, and disrespect for others and their countries.

We have got to stop fearing communism, socialism, and equality and start learning about it.  We have got to trust that China has and is functioning as a communist state.  Some might argue that it is successfully adapting to modern economics favorably.  So much so that it is the refuge for American corporations.  With a majority of products being made in China, a communist country, how fearful are we of it.  Our dollars do not seem to fear China's communism.  This is not to say that communism is any better or worse than democracy, it is to talk to the fear some American's have for seeing socially oriented governments becoming one.

The speculation that our leaders believe as truth, the belief that socialism is absolutely a gateway to communism is minimizing to the human capacity to change.  It is disrespectful to social innovation and the idea of democratic socialism.  We have tendencies but we do adapt, adjust, and evolve for the greater good.  We have got to be the country that we want to see other countries be.  We are being the country that we fear will be created if we don't threaten every country that governs with risk.  We need to work with countries that we fear versus threatening their individuality and power.  We have to advocate for healthy governments by participating in international laws.  We have to remain seated when discussions are confrontational.  We have got to let dysfunctional countries find their way with guidance and intervention, not violence and punishment.  We have to learn while teaching.

America's fear for what might happen and what profits could be lost seems to motivate our delinquent tendencies.  We have our own September 11th to reconcile, we have our own tyrannical behaviors to correct.  We have our own apologies to make.  We have our own debt to grieving families to carry.  So in recognition of  September 11th for those we attacked and our lost lives, I hope to take the spec from my own eye, before asking my government to remove theirs.

Psychology of value

A few weeks ago I went to bar with some friends. It was actually a club. Yes I was a sore thumb in a room full of pinkies. Anyway, I was pretty much being courteous and tagging along. So I sit there in wonder with how wild, erotic, and liberating the folks on the dance floor appear, remembering my cool guy days. I am sitting in a VIP area. In Albuquerque this isn't really much except a small piece of real estate next to the dance floor that is quarantined off with red velvet rope, maybe the size of a closet. So anyway the group I am with welcomes me and says help myself to the table service. What goes through my mind is taking the bottle of premium vodka and selling drinks cheaper than the bar for my trip Guatemala. I have had my two drink maximum for the evening ;) (this night it was four, but I wasn't driving so we'll blog about this another time) so I just sat and observed the lifestyle.

What is most discouraging and frustrating is that the table service, as it is called, runs about $400.  The group I was with bought 2.  $800 for one night of fun.  Putting this into perspective, $400 dollars is a years salary for a teacher in Guatemala.  To make it worse something happened that upset the person that bought the service and this person tossed the drink tray shattering glass and bottles all over the dance floor.  I was blown away, embarrassed, and ashamed.  I was the bourgeoisie, I was with the group of people who felt obligated to entertain themselves with consumption.  Even worse was my lack of inspiration to say anything.

There was a disconnect from compassion as I  accented up the social classes.  I never made it very high up, but visited many events where the highest or elites made appearances.  I have had my share of evenings spoiled with overpriced luxuries.  I have convinced myself that my hard work is deserving of reward.  I have wanted to seem important, significant, glamorous, and valuable.  I hope as I hover below the average middle class lifestyle but beyond poverty that I seek value in information and understanding that builds efficient economies. 

Pursuite of happiness

Happy - Ness...the condition of believing one is happy.  I had a profound and cathartic conversation with a couple from Idaho over the weekend.  We discussed all the things that aren't supposed to be discussed.  We talked culture, religion, and failure.  We moved from encounter into discovery.  I realize how uncertain and undefinable happiness is.  We all have our own descriptions, qualifications, and beliefs around happiness.  There is not a single objectifiable truth to happiness other than those you and I can agree on.

There is also the beauty in the conditions and states that we won't agree on.  I can get caught in the void of meanings, but if I hover around the slippery slope I get a beautiful glimpse of a gradation that gets created in the transition between what we agree and disagree on.  It is like a happiness rainbow.  Light being the happiness.  The clouds representing the frustration and confusion left by pain or whatever might cloud out the sun.  The blue skies are representing the clarity and brightness that comes from our shared unobscured exposure to sun.  So when we accept that believing what happiness is can change like the weather, then it makes it easier for me to appreciate the liminal space created when the clouds roll in or out and the sun begins to reveal the spectrum of truths that we all see with unique intensities.  What a versatile metaphor!  I wish for you constant rays of sunshine, but if there are clouds in your sky, please believe that the light and warmth is working hard to change the weather so that it can reunite with you, once again revealing that special gradation of truths. 

Fuck...hear her ROAR!

I have two daughters who I think about daily, interact with as often as I can, criticize more than I would like, I don't hold enough, but I have told them I love them and that they are beautiful despite my ugliness. Mother's day passed but everyday is women's day. This is intense and raw. Hats off to the courage necessary to express herself in such a profound way. Even as a man I can appreciate the hardship and it will help me amplify a dignified perspective on culture.

Recovery

Recovery, is something I've been experiencing over the last several months.  Regaining what has been lost, getting back to a condition of health, and patiently letting go of regret for what will never be again.  Recovery is hard.  It has been a test of my will that never really gets used.  Its the part of my will that might be described like resistance training.  The actions I take that have helped me into recovery are the patience to do nothing.  That is difficult for me.  This has led me into the realm of being helped.

I am recovering both in spirit and health.  I have grown addicted to sacrifice and justice.  I have depended on exercise to relieve stress and build self concept.  Both of these have escaped me in some form.  My shoulder has been injured due to overuse and lack of care.  My prayer life has suffered from a loss of sympathy for injustice.  My ability to admire sacrifice has suffered from the growth of my optimism.  I have felt detached, restless, and somewhat carefree with my prayers.  I have grown irritable with my fitness.  Not being able to exhaust myself has brought me to point of laziness.  I am physically discouraged.  I still run, swim, and bike but I am humbled by my perceived loss of strength and power.  My inner soldier is worried about never finding our way back to the intensity and efficiency.  I am recovering!

I have some soul recovery to talk about soon, but when in recovery, it is said to take my time and make small progressions.  Peace and improvement find me!  Passion keep your eyes on me.

Father goodbyes...

make today's a hurdle

My father and I have had a distant or maybe hovering relationship.  It has been a challenging relationship to feel, think through, and come to terms with.  I love him deeply, but at times have realized that love doesn't always come in shinny, joyful, or tender ways.  I have at times believed that if I had not been born he would have lived his dreams of playing professional basketball in Mexico.  Why I have these thoughts are possibly a reflection of my love for him, but I know he wouldn't trade me for that dream. I felt like he might have had the time and concentration to practice, train, and study the game more if I wasn't in the equation.  It is a hard story to tell myself.  It is hard to undo the feeling that I am an accident.  It is partly the truth.  I had to share my dad in space described as loneliness. 

My childhood has some memories of hard good byes with my dad.  I am from a divorced family and I didn't get to spend a lot of time with my dad as a child.  The reasons are probably reasonable but regardless unfortunate.  It was always a tragically sad event when I had a short visit with my dad and then had to say goodbye.  I can still remember he smelled of cologne.  I remember his aviator glasses and tight fitting T-shirts.  I would sometimes kiss is smooth shaven, stern, strong and warm jaw.  My dad was a hero to me.  I would hug my dad as tight as I could every time he'd pick me up for a visit.  I loved hugging him.  I would follow his footsteps literally trying to mimic his gate.  There are so many of these memories.

I anticipated visits with my dad.  He would often take me to his practices.  This is where I learned to love the smell of the gym.  I loved the sound of the leather slapping hands, the rip of net, the bounce off the hardwood, and the screech of sneakers gripping the floor.  I had to visit my dad, when the typical story includes a dad day in and day out.  Well not my story.  It doesn't sound or seem right, and I am barely now trying to reconcile the tragedy of having to experience the longing for my father at a young age and without explanation.  Longing leaves the spirit vulnerable to the shock of goodbye.

For many years I dealt with the pain of these goodbyes with resentment and confusion.  It was difficult because a big part of me admired, longed for, and desired my dad.  I grew up watching my dad workout.  I have my ethic from seeing this.  I remember how he would sweat, zone out, and breathe each breath with agony.  I loved it.  I knew that it meant progress and it taught me that not all pain was bitter. I learned to be a hustler, he never took things lightly and he expected the same from me.  I only could watch, but really wanted to participate.  These are the parts of my dad that built my admiration.  These interests keep me appreciating my father, despite learning reasons for my dads absence.

Along with these memories are the painful memories of weekends that came to an end.  When I was a little boy, I had to say goodbye on a Sunday evening.  It was one of the first times I remember feeling that huge knot that swells in the throat when withholding a good cry.  I don't know why but I always felt ashamed for crying when I had to say goodbye.  I remember being overwhelmed by that knot in my throat as we turned onto my mom's street, and wondering why life was the way it was.  In my mind nobody else had to visit their dad.  I remember the tears being so strong that I would lose my breathe and have the hick ups for hours afterwards.  I would cry myself to sleep, head berried in my pillow.  I am remembering this pain now, maybe cherishing it for what it can teach me about saying goodbye today.

In reflecting on why it is so difficult for me to say goodbye today, I recalled the memory of my dad.  I have never really shared this pain nor given it the focus I have here.  I recalled crying together, me maybe 7 years old, him young and strong, both stretching out biter moments before that dreaded farewell, in my mom's gravel driveway.  Today this memory flooded my chest with sadness and caused me to ball like if I were still sitting meekly in his lap.  Why do I have to always say good bye?  I longed for my dad always.  The pain I am feeling right now is tiring.  I feel like a boy, but wiping my tears from my beard reminds me that so much time has passed, years, decades, since those south valley good byes and I still have not overcome the sadness felt then.  

So several weeks ago, on the morning I am having these thoughts about my fatherly goodbyes, coincidentally, i see my dad randomly on the freeway.  What are the chances?  Driving into work, I looked up ahead on the interstate and saw a little green Toyota truck that looks like my dad's.  In a prayerful like way I said, "I love you dad".  As I got closer to my exit, I came up on that truck and it was my dad.  I honked and there he was looking as handsome as i remember.  He gave me the stoic and typical one arm up, hand open, salute, no smile, one glance, and off our separate ways.  We are both men now, yet I feel the boyish desire to be held and told things are going to be alright.  I am still processing the pain, and by the grace of God I get a chance to work with my dad.  I get to be closer to him.  I'll be interning at his school this spring.

This semester for my group counseling internship I will be facilitating men's groups at the school he is working. I have had a spectrum of attitudes towards my dad, all loving but not all have been peaceful.  I look at this opportunity as a chance for me to see his gold.  I get to see him passionate, again.  I get to try and mimic his gate, again.  All those years of watching other kids with their dads and wishing I had mine, are being rewarded by having the opportunity to be next to him in the service trenches.  I love him.  I have failed him.  He has failed me.  We are a lot alike and we have grown so different.  All of this has helped me understand what it means to feel like a boy, be in a mans body, but be in a father's role.  

My dad is not openly a sentimental person and does not publicly express his love, but when he is in a trusted place he lets me know how much I mean to him.  It reminds me today that the hurt caused by a goodbye is not a bad thing but evidence of strong love cleaved.  I can also trust that it led to new hellos and deeper understandings of sadness.  I am proud to remember how much it hurts to say good bye to him.  It makes this new hello so much more meaningful.  He has loved me in his own way and often from a distance, not necessarily how we would prefer, but the way it is.  I am cherishing how life taught us both the sadness of letting go.

Love gone....right!

As an advocate for wellness and seeking out the good in people to remedy sickness and dysfunction, pity has overtaken my triage room.  This post will have a lot of metaphors so apologies for the abstraction.  I am gaining the space, clarity, and companionship to realize I am a pretty good lover.  I may not be the best partner, but until I remedy my own restless heartaches, I will continue to need to get up, walk away, and drift around the proverbial relationship dinner table.  It is like if I cannot complete a meal.  It is as if I'd rather reach out and pick from the buffet of desserts, resisting the necessity to sit down have some fresh greens and patiently sip from a scolding cup of chicken noodle soup.  I with respect realize that the chef has plenty to contribute to this dinner, I have unfairly  to myself induced unnecessary suffering for experiences that really have been reasons to celebrate.

I am dreaming again, and my dreams remind me of my romantic heart, my compassionate ears, my courteous ethic to entertain, and my commitment to forgiveness.  As I have been asked to leave the relationship table or chosen to excuse myself, I forget to dignify the goodness that was shared while sitting, in favor of painfully and pitifully ruminating on the dysfunction and spoilage.  It does not take very long to get up from the relationship table, but it has taken me awhile to realize the time i spent grieving the separation isn't proportionate to the time celebrating the joy created during these relationships.  It has been cathartic and difficult to remind myself that the good outweighs infection.  The sickness is what I grieve and regret but clouds or cut short the celebration of what was enjoyed.

I can be a selfish lover.  I can be a delinquent lover.  I can be a misunderstood lover.  What I am slowly realizing is that each failure is helping me to discover my gifts.  I started loving genuinely and with a trust that was vulnerable.  This was many years ago as a young innocent young man.  That was tarnished and exploited.  I was emotionally abused, toyed with, and my love was disregarded by another restless young heart.

She is not to blame, but she did introduce me to the skills needed to protect myself from the pain, jealousy, disappointment, unfulfilled longing, loneliness, and vulnerability.  She helped me build a habit of leaving early from the dinner table, because her soup burned my lips, and her greens were bitter, possibly poisonous.  I have yet to come to a dinner setting with the commitment to eat what is served and learn to trust its sustenance.  I see my cycle and venturing into the past with Donald over the last couple of years has helped both of understand why we grew to have restless hearts.  We have been hurt too, but I realize the memory of the pain has stifled my ability to trust that the next setting can be different.  I am preparing myself to joyfully be willing to trust, risk being lonely, long restlessly, struggle with disappointment, overcome jealousy, and be hurt.

Crafty Caring Critic

The critic is a quality that has tormented me, motivated me, and polished me.  It brings great suffering to my learning, loving and interpreting.  This facade is the most interesting because it is the part of me that helps me improve.  My critic is necessary. It is not a part of me that can be excluded.  I'm seeing a change, a softening of my critic.  I think this means approaching my critic not with criticism but with feedback wrapped in compassion.

Shadow & Ego Lense

Early on in my childhood the shame and worry of failure conceived the critic.  I think I began to judge myself, push myself, and fear mistakes out of trying to succeed and behave.  The irony is that the fear created shame and the shame caused hesitation.  In learning hesitation only delays the absorption and experiences needed to build confidence and trust.  Punishment also plays a significant role in the development of my critic.  Because aptitude was measured with achievement I began to protect myself from the harsh effects of criticism by creating an internal judge who could be more critical than societal judges.  Societal judges being parents, teachers, peers, and coaches.  The critic grew to be more and more severe as I encountered more and more insecurities.

What inspired my critic to be so harsh and severe?  I grew up in a culture with shame and embarrassment.  Being latino, was at times, seen as a disadvantage or unfortunate burden, especially identifying as lower middle class.  This bread insecurity and comparison into my personality.  I had disciplined and punishing parenting, although loving I would consider it conservative.  My family often focused on improving mistakes and not breaking the rules.  I felt pushed, punished, and expected to fit systems.  This environment motivated me to criticize myself, discourage myself from experimenting, and hate losing.

I learned to only do the the things I excelled at.  As I got older the critic grew darker and more committed to helping me be the best.  It helped me to adapt to systems, feed off of scarcity, and take advantage without appearing to do so.  I know being little, underdeveloped, and poor didn't help.  I think my critic never had the chance to fail gracefully and in contrast tortured myself into competency.

I learned to lie to myself as a strategy for motivation.  When I say lie to myself, I like to think of the worst possible friend, and that was my subconscious.  In adolescents, sports were my go to activities.  I started working out in my 6th to 7th grade summer.  I put to bed the child and introduced the professional.  My dad and I created a workout schedule that I followed loosely.  Regardless I was training.  The most difficult realization I have made this round of introspection is body image.  I can now remember beginning to compare and observe my progress around this time.  I was always little and the younger athlete on my teams because of my August birthdate.  I always felt like I had to work harder and convince myself I wasn't ready, good enough, and there was more to practice.

Remember the worst possible friend I mentioned earlier.  Well he stuck around despite my aging.  That little voice in the back of my head that feeds me shitty thoughts, believing he is just trying to prepare me for the worst so I'm not surprised and let down, is alive and thriving in my psyche.  This is the part of me I am working to change.  When I would practice this voice would invoke the worst possible names it could to motivate me with anger.  When in love he would convince me that I wasn't good enough or remind me of the little I had to offer.  In learning he would start me off with how lazy I was with reading, continue with how forgetful I was, and finish it off with a few shortcuts and pity parties.

My ego has been a functional and effective motivator, but not very graceful.  I have created self suffering in the form of pity, shame, guilt and regret.  I have punished myself continually for my failures. I work diligently on being better and improving.  As a result I can say I made it a long way with dysfunctional sidekick.  My ego along with my shadow have left a legacy of torment, and surprisingly currently not disrupting my direction change towards a more graceful perspective.

True Self

What does it look like to fail gracefully?  I think it would include more encouragement than dissapointment.  I think had my family put an emphasis on what I was doing well could have helped me feel more confident with approaching the challenges causing me to fail.  Failing gracefully looks more like the measurement of progress versus collection of errors.  

I am softening my critic.  I have grace and appreciation for the progress it has made.  With the use of trust my critic is softening.  I am resisting the urge to judge myself in favor of understanding myself.  When I fail I first recognize that I made an attempt and that is something to reward.  This has allowed myself to forgive my shortcomings and recognize the opportunity to learn from them.  This has allowed me to finally see progress after so long being forced to focus on failure.  I think for this process it is important to note that writing this paragraph brought me to tears, big crocodile ones, and with them peace.  This is a young transition I'm in but so much more efficient.  Donald and I talked about not being fast, be fluid, and fluid is fast.  Well being graceful is being fluid and the changes in me may not be fast but they will be fluid.

The difficult with my critic is that it is the framework for how how I treat those I love.  It has been the default response mechanism for me.  It has been the part of me that people grow to despise avoid and even divorce.  I won't quit on my critic.  If my critic has taught anything it has been that quitting is the trophy for failure.  It might be an internal enemy but it is my greatest asset.  It is what has always woke me up in the morning and it is the part of me that tells my hands to wipe the tears.  It is the part of me that convinces me the pain is just weakness leaving the body.  I love you critic, I just can't continue to function without giving you an overhaul. 

If my true self had a love song to my critic's ego and shadow it would sound like this.

The egotistical father

When dealing with my daughters, I notice myself forgetting the "both and" in preference of dualism.  I forget that they have insight more powerful than mine.  They have the child's guide, a wisdom needless of teaching.  I think my teaching might be undoing precious lessons already engrained.  Getting it right might need to be replaced with getting to know them.  How do I teach those important qualities in life that are hard to get across like fearlessness, audaciousness, and daringness?  How do I help them understand themselves?  What ends up happening is me teaching them what I think they should know, or worse me teaching them what I wished I would have learned.

I asked my daughters to dance with me to a fun song that came on while we were cleaning.  I started dancing and called them over.  They looked at me like if I was nuts.  I wanted them to join me.  I see them dancing all the time, I thought this would be easy for them.  It wasn't.  I came to the conclusion they already have in their mind and behaviors fear, displayed through shyness.  I know they can dance, so what was it about dancing with me that made them shy away? Well I asked my little one.  I got the response "I just didn't feel like it".  But this was not until later in the evening after a much more disappointing and tragic set of events.
There is a tragic part of this story that scares me to share.  But I am trying to be as genuine as I can with bringing my shadow into the light so I've decided to share.  This is embarrassing, it shows my vulnerability, insecurity, and weakness.  When I saw my daughters look at me like if I was a fool, an overwhelming defense came rushing from my stomach to my head.  I got full on angry.  Something loving and fun turned into a moment of defeat and disappointment.  I turned into a 4th grader in about ten seconds.  I raised my voice at my littlest daughter and said something as follows.  "How come you're looking at me as if I'm stupid.  I'm not afraid to be silly, but the way you look at makes me feel like an idiot. At least I have the courage to dance.  Look at you you're scared."  She turned white as a ghost and had that nervousness that I remember as child where the only thing to do was look off to side wearing a timid smirk.  I defended myself against my 10 year old daughter's shyness revealed as a condescending look.  She shut down quick and my understanding of the situation didn't get any better. 
After witnessing her sadness and even possibly fear, I continued.  I satisfied my ego's desire to be this movie like dad.  You know, the dad that can dance silly with his daughters, teaching them the cathartic value of rhythm and flow.  The motivation being more about me feeling like a good dad than me just wanting to dance with my daughters.  So I took it to an egotistical fiasco that might scar for life.  I started  investigating why I got the look and why they refused to dance.  I obviously got nothing from either daughter. This moved me from investigator to victim.  
I took the victim route.  I persisted, following my daughters into their room.  At this point my intentions to dance had morphed into this tragic flare up of my ego to protect the rejected and insecure father facade.  I broke out into an emotional expression of how important it is for them to learn to dance.  It became about how much I wanted them to be liberated from judgment.  It became about me wanting them to cherish their childhood moments with me.  It became about me wanting to have memorable silly moments to compliment the rough and stressful ones.  All of us in tears by now, my last guilt filled request was that if something happened to me that they would promise me to always try and dance with their children, even if they laugh at them.  I am far from the movie dad, far from the patient man I feel I need to be, but being a born again optimist, I realize that seeing me passionate about being a father might reveal the complexity and hazards of wanting what is best but not really knowing what that is. 
So what this means for me is that there is so much going on in my head, so much concerned analyzing, sometimes I use too many moments to mold them into the courageous women I'd like them to become.  I lose sight of what they are willing to accept. The key piece to this is the use of "I".  I rarely ask them what they'd like to learn.  It's what I think they need to learn.  I rarely ask them what they already know.  I spend so much of my time trying to teach, that I lose touch with the importance of learning.  I think I have learned that opportunities to teach have intruded my willingness to learn.  It is ironic that my love for them distorts my ability to empower them.  I wanted to dance with my daughters, but forgot the most important step of asking them if they felt like dancing.  I call myself an egotistical teacher because when my love is grounded in fear, I impose my lessons.  I look for what scares me and my ego moves to teach solutions.  My daughters might never know the importance of being liberated by dance, but if I push it on them they definitely will never know the true meaning of empowerment.
Elena and Veronica please forgive me.  There is no manual for being your dad, just this broken and fumbling boy who finds himself now a father.
Through him, with him, and in him.

Deployed

The act of deployment is to arrange in a position of readiness, or to move strategically or appropriately.  I had the fortunate opportunity to prepare for a deployment in tiny naive ways.  I also fulfilled a life long dream of visiting the special forces ecosystem.  I have read a lot of literature on the elite services and now I have an inside peek into some of the social structures that facilitate an elite military team.  I shared New Years with a brother.  A life long baseball teammate successfully achieved the ranks of the army's special forces.  I spent New Years with him before his first deployment as a green beret.  Deployment is a series of stressful transitions, inventories, letting go, and logistics all camouflaged in confidence, improvisation, and systematic habits.  

I admire this lifestyle and the dignity, devotion, and passion required to participate in these teams.  The men on these teams are experts in efficiency, productivity, stamina, creativity, and disguising fear.  The men are highly disciplined athletes who have detached themselves from complacency.  They are athletes who cannot lose because losing is death.  Mediocrity is only seen in their civilian clothes so they can blend in and also because their vanity is not in their appearance but in their ability.

I found myself feeling the awe of warrior energy.  I felt the courage spilling out of the lockers.  I smelt the grime of fears faced.  I saw the sparkle of diamonds in the sky.  I childishly drifted through the facilities with giddiness admiration.  I got to workout at their combat readiness training facility.  It was equal to taking cuts in the underground cages at Chavez Ravine.  There is no comparison to the professionalism exhibited by this environment.  It was fitness heaven.  I got to see the team room, cages of lockers for high tech devices, bags, gear, equipment, and personal items that resembled a real team locker room minus the pretty boy shit.  I was in heaven.  I forgot how invigorating it is to be part of a team of men.  The culture felt like home.  The facilities were an integrated storage space, fitness playground, and warrior living room.  The space felt like nothing else before.  I jokingly walked through and said this place could use an interior decorator.  Most of everything is purely functional.  Everything had character and if it didn't  it was new in packaging.  I mean everything had been used, was dirty, was marked, or was worn.  There were decorations that held only sentiment, no glamor or pomp.  There isn't room for cologne, mirrors, or luxury.  Each man had their style of storage, organization and preparedness.  It was inspiration to my desire to be simple yet character rich with strength. 

Deployment is acceptance of readiness.  This concept is rich with analogy.  The human experience is the soul on deployment.  The body a vehicle for patrolling the jungles and enemy streets of life's struggle.  Passionate people who live in principle and discipline are Gorilla soldiers of the soul.  Scowling the body for targets that influence terrorism, hate, and doubt.  Deployment is being placed in harms way so you can get even closer to it.

Most inspiring was my time with my brother.  I've seen him grow from a boy, to an adolescent, a young man, and now a man.  I watched him be silly with innocence pitching game winning performances throughout little league.  I hitched rides in early adolescence all around town, never driving the speed limit, and finding destinations that had us chasing excitement.  I filled with him many nights of dedicated hope, mentally preparing for high school baseball games, committing to state championships won, and dreaming dreams accomplished and still lingering.  We have always worked out together, we have always competed, and now we carry each other again into fatherhood.  He and I are diamonds in the sky of hope, possibly courage, and definitely risk. 

My brother from another mother and I haven't always been the stand up men we are destined to becoming.  Over the last couple decades our drunken binges, filled with tail chasing and dick measuring, have matured into intoxicating discussions about morality and manhood, sometimes politics.  This has been one of the most incredible shifts we have made.  We sit and discuss our hopes more, still eventually finding ourselves wrestling with insecurity and longing for trust and love.  I am fortunate to have companions on my path of manhood.  They drift in and out of my life with timely grace.

We opened our chest revealing our hearts.  I see myself in the brightness of his heart.  I see my fear in the shadows.  His fear for the well being of his wife, daughter and son reveal a concern I have never seen in him.  He describes the comfort found in is wife in a way he has never revealed about a woman.  I can now share my most vulnerable impasse because he has found the patience to withhold judgment.  I can see his dilemmas.  Dilemmas that in times past would have been hidden behind an arrogant handsome smile.  I can see a man who held so many insecurities transforming into a lion with scars once hidden.  I am excited to witness him love a woman truer than my judgement of him would have ever allowed me to believe.  We are wild ones.  He wilder ten fold, but cut from the same cloth, who are being harnessed by wisdom.  The reckless charisma and dexterity we have exploited over our early manhood is being saddled and ridden by angels.  We sit together now, still appreciating a few good drinks, still turning our heads at a beautiful woman, and still trying shake off the stigma we've earned by being a couple of arrogant shitheads.  We have spent most of our lives wanting to be seen and admired, now we both sneak away into solitude, without the overwhelming need to be seen by anyone, except maybe each other. This is creating space for us to reveal our souls, without shame.

We are soldiers in different armies but fighting the same battle against our own understandings of injustice.  I love this man and am grateful for his influence.  He has been deployed many times before but this weekend he helped me taste the angst that starts the process of warfare, for my first time.  I will take away from this special week an appreciation that despite the tenderness and encouragement released by each of us, he's still able to focus and orient to the calculated poised mindset needed to lead the worlds greatest warriors into battle.  

I have perspective!  Now, lets see how it inspires me.  I came alive and realized that living with devotion to minimal, yet strategic and functional necessities, feeds my soul.

 

A candle in a brown paper bag

Surrounded with optimism.  This Christmas has been a flash, it sprinkled itself throughout days of winter.  There has not been the strong anticipation for Christmas day like I once had when I was a boy.   This year I didn't realize it was the most wonderful time of the year, until now.  This year, the Christmas season was opened on a beach, saying a long over due good bye to some lingering memories of marriage sentiment, tucked alongside a senior trip encounter with a special woman who became my wife for a little bit.  In Cancun for lovely wedding I got to stitch tightly the history between my ex-wife and I, closing the circle symbolically.  The Christmas season creeped up on me during a play called a farolito Christmas.  It was here where I was warmed up to the importance of tradition.  I spent this Christmas not as a preparation for a day but a indulgence of a season.  I am optimistic again.

I am faithful with hope.  I understand Christmas not so much for a savior's birth but for the importance of the new beginning, being born in humility, born in a manger.  Time is the Christmas currency.  This Christmas time was on my side.  This Christmas I used my time for the people and events that presented themselves to me, versus Christmas past where most my time was spent doing was what I felt I should be doing.  This Christmas has been a lesson in sincerity.  

I have a small burning candle in my heart that trusts the dim little yellow glow will be enough to guide my thoughts, harness my fears, and sustain my dreams.  This year was trying, and it feels like a lonely, cold, dark night perfectly challenging the weak but untiring flame still lit in my soul. 

 A flame needs oxygen and my flame has found pockets of oxygen in this Christmas season.  The pockets of oxygen are like optimism ignoring the darkness, riding the frigid wind, and circling my flame.  The family and friendships encountered have been like the luminaria bag, taming the threats that can putout my flame.  My flame of faith is flickering.  Each day this Christmas was inspirational, not because it was in anticipation but because I was surprised by what revealed itself in the practice of patience. Patience allowed for oxygen to feed my flame.

"Let my heart become a manger that Christ may find his way and be born again"

Feliz Navidad

Bon Vayage!

There was a time in my life when I used to think about marriage as an end to freedom.  How foolish I once was.  What a tarnished perspective on union.  I've changed, progressed, and matured.  This past weekend I watched a brother take the woman of his dreams into marriage.  I was a passenger, figuratively and literally, on the boat ride out of friendship into fusion.  I watched the fusion of two souls becoming one.  I watched a brother raise his glass in celebration of a long hard road of ups and downs.  I watched tears fall because of sadness and joy.  Over the years and through the engagement I watch this man cry tears of hurt, smile smiles of pure infatuation, and toss and turn through nights of wonder and hope.  I sat on this boat believing in love's ability to answer prayers because I watch the calm in his eyes and the eagerness in hers.  Marriage might be an end to freedom but I recognize that it is also paradoxically the beginning of loving servitude, the most beautiful of all contradictions.

Richard just finished making room for a woman. We use to stay up some nights in our adolescents describing the women of our dreams.  We would share his twin bed, crammed and sometimes head spinning from a few beers.  We would share complaints  and wishes about that one, her, yeah that other one, and her too.  We would make our lists of who we wanted to be with most.  I watched this unfold for real, in one of the most beautiful places in the world, on a boat, the beach, and among family.  When you want the best for people you love it looks like a fantasy.  I couldn't have painted this experience for my brother, only participate, but the love that pours from his heart is so deserving of the perfect experience her father was able to create for them, and it was a fantasy come true, a fairy tail with an ending that doesn't matter.  I watched how to make room for a woman.

Good bye to a companion.  His priority is now his wife, and I have come to terms with having to face the rest of my journey without my compa.  He is now a soldier in her army, helping fight their battles.  He is obviously not gone but in a way he is completely gone.  I am so happy for him, so proud of the man he has learned to be for himself and for her, and I am grateful for the influence he has in my life.  Tanya is a lucky woman because Richard is an advocate for happiness and he has a special way of finding the blessings in situations, people, and mistakes.  Richard I love you, and it has been an honor sailing these waters with you by my side.  Go and get your new coordinates and sail that vessel with the peace and prosperity you've shared with me.  Vaya con Dios, mi amigo!

It's only a name or is it?

My name is Ron, after my dad, but I'm not a junior because I don't think I was born entirely in love.  My middle name is Valerio because my maternal grandparents wanted me to remember the traditions that should be carried on. My father was 18 and my mother was 17, so I was more likely born in the passions of infatuation, with a pinch of shame,  hints of lust, likely an accident, but completely in the bonds of whole wheat compassion.  I've told my mom I would have forgiven her if she aborted me.  Sounds awkward, but I love her that much and would have sacrificed my existence to have given her a better chance at understanding family.  We struggled right out of the gate.  Some nights I cry knowing I cut short some of my parents dreams.  Sometimes I see a young mother alone in a grocery store and recognize the fatigue that shortens tempers and suffocates patience.  Despite the difficulty that I was born in, love was given a chance, and it was nurtured often enough to sustain me.

My last name isn't important.  It doesn't do much but link me to a list of people who will be a branch on someone's family tree.  It aligns me with my father's glory and his families story.  It ties me to people past and never met  Though it is not important to me I respect it, knowing it will identify me and carry the essence of my actions.  It reminds me of my family distanced and branched.  Some say, I come from a broken home, and broken isn't a fair term.  It assumes that there is a home out there that isn't broken.  I am a master piece that comes from the workshop of serendipity.  I am a reminder of how serendipity isn't always recognizable.  I am the remnants of a blossoming romance who's time was not meant to last forever.  I am the artwork of my mother and father who gave me the greatest gift a child can receive, a chance.  Thank you Ron Estrada and Francesca Garcia, I am making the most with the tools, attitudes, and time you've shared with me.

Act of forgiveness

I would never have been able to think of both my parents in the same sentence using the word forgiving.  But as life continues to grant me time, I now can.  When I went through my divorce I accepted how much more responsible I felt for the deterioration of my marriage.  It gave me the courage and context to look critically on my parents relationship during my childhood.  What I found was so many misunderstandings and misinterpretations that left me having to chose sides, defending, and feeling caught in between.   I knew I couldn't let this be recreated for my daughters.  So I confronted the scariest of unknowns,  the details of my fathers reasons, the worries of a young mother, and my own unwanted memories.  Forgiveness and confronting seem to go hand in hand.  I have described forgiveness synthesis and with it comes the encountering of the wound.

What answers I found were sacred understandings  of who my parents were.  I was able to see myself in their sadness, because I was in my own divorce, I was dividing my own family.  I could not hold onto the discomfort, created by years of avoiding my pain, any longer.  I saw my dad as a young arrogant but eager boy trying to live in a world of accolades while being asked to humble himself in order to be a father.  He only had training in one area... basketball.  He never spent endless hours practicing how to be a top notch husband or father.  My mother was a young naive girl seeming to be dazzled by attention.  She was caring, selfless, and exhausted by the realities that come with being a mother responsible for holding together an adolescent family.  This is what I can share, there is a depth that i cannot share but it is a hard look into the suffering of two people torn apart by immaturity, mishandled love, and the fatigue of disregard. 

How does this fit with forgiveness.  I have moved past the need to understand my parents.  I have gradually accepted how they treated each other.  My expectations are no longer sticky.  My hope for happy reunions no longer were a distraction.  My fears for witnessing resentment and animosity have become dull.  And to be clear it wasn't the expectations of them to "get back together" but for the simple experience of having two parents who could value time shared and the creation they made.  That is hard to say and it makes me cry happy tears.  I accepted their pain for the obstacle it was.

This is leads me to yesterday.  My mom and dad shared a happy moment.  For the first time I watched as they both shared a smile and joked.  I watched as they both were genuinely delighted.  There was no agenda, nothing to be gained for being pleasant, just a sunny day and a giggle that brought two people who once loved each other deeply enough to hate, into a joyful instance.  A simple 2 minutes of nervous excitement helped me forget a lifetime of endured resentment and tension.  Forgiveness had broken through.  Un Milagro!

The Arrogance shield

Arrogance has not only been an alerting system for my extreme self concept, it has been a safeguard against vulnerability.  It keeps me from being seen as incompetent, weak, sad, scared, lonely, wounded, inadequate, offended, embarrassing, and poor.  I realize I am all of these in some form.  Being perceived as one of these is enough to activate arrogance, creating a shield to conceal my vulnerability.  This fear of being seen for who I am is enough to short circuit my genuineness and compassion.  My heart is a source of thoughts, not physiologically but metaphorically.  My heart holds my most genuine expressions.  When my arrogance is alive and functioning it not only protects me from being seen as lessor, but also blocks my hearts expressions.  There is a quality to vulnerability that I must investigate further to trust that negative perceptions and interpretations, both external and internal,  are not worth deteriorating my dignity with arrogance.