One Picture Imperfect

"We are young
Wandering the face of the Earth

Wondering what our dreams might be worth
Learning that we're only immortal
For a limited time..."

—Rush, Dreamline

There's one picture from my past that crystallizes our fragile mortality and constant change. It was a one from our sophomore year in high school when six of us dressed up as cheerleaders to cheer on the girls' "powderpuff football" team. It was goofy and fun and we really enjoyed it. 

Decades later, two of the six have died (one had been my best friend in junior high), one vanished from social media shortly after the 2016 election (which I don't blame him), one had parents who were concerned about his life choices that very same sophomore year and had him taken away to one of those "therapy" camps in the wilderness (but he ended up doing well with a family of his own), and one who used to be one of my best friends (another story for another time) who didn't take care of himself, losing both his feet. 

And then there was me. I was telling our kids about the picture and what happened to all the guys and they both said that it was sad. But that was all. Beatrice is at the age that we were at in that picture and Bryce isn't far behind. They have their own friends, their own fun, and their own teen angst, and to them, life is boundless and seemingly endless.

But for only a limited time. Because then the decades go by, and the reality of immortality slips away, even when you'd be willing to do it all again, as I would. As I stare into the face of turning 60 next year, I have no regrets after hitting 59. I'm grateful for all joy and sadness, for all the failure and success, and for all the grace throughout the journey. 

When I think about those friends from that sophomore picture dressed as cheerleaders, I'm grateful to be alive and healthy and wish blessings upon those who aren't. When I think about the friends I have today, friends from high school, college, and friends whose kids have gone to school with ours for years, I'm grateful I actually have them, especially being a man in a super-polarized and very lonely male world today. It doesn't have to be that way and I've ensured it's not for me. 

The picture of me today after turning 59 in one of my favorite places in the world is one picture imperfect. A mere mortal who still dreams big for himself, his wife, and his children. And I'd do it all again to be here today. 

Sweet Miracles

 "Oh, sweet miracle, love's sweet miracle of life..."

—Rush, Sweet Miracle

One of my dear friends usually teases me when I post them. My regular posts about my beach workout on Natural Bridges State Beach I do throughout the year (sometimes my wife Amy joins me now). One that I've been doing for many years now. He teases me because it's seemingly the same picture of the remaining Natural Bridge. 

But it's really not the same picture each time. The geological changes may be imperceptible to us humans in the near team, but in the long term, these rock formations have been changing for decades. Hundreds of years. Thousands of years. Hundreds of thousands of years. Millions of years. Mercy me. 

Back in 2015, it didn't look much different than today.

But take a look at it in 1970. The bridge extended from what's left now to the main rock cliff. 

And now there's a new bridge forming to the left of the current one. 

These incremental changes can be nearly unnoticeable, until they're seen. When I'm on the Natural Bridges beach, I'm very mindful one moment, then daydreaming the next, working through things in my head as I listen to my music and do my workout. Not running anymore, just hiking across the sand and up and down the small hill to the upper parking lot and back down again. I'm very aware of how I'm feeling, physically and emotionally, and very aware of my surroundings. I may not see the continuous Natural Bridge erosion from sea and weather, and from humans too, except for the new bridge that's now forming, but I do see the sea and weather changes that impact the beach itself.

We usually don't put value judgements on geological erosion over time; it is what it is, and was. But for our own human erosion, we do. The life weathering we experience can be good, bad, or indifferent. It can beat us down or lift us up, constantly changing us physically and psychologically and spiritually. From our own childhood, to adolescence, to young adulthood, Amy and I survived and were transformed, and then we met one day at the beach. We were so much younger when we met, and now we're not. Our own kids were kids for years, and now they're not. Every day they inspire us to be better; we inspire each other to be better. 

And it's these little bits of breakthrough better that are the best, our BhivePower. These are the sweet miracles that transform us into what we become next, and there's nowhere on earth I'd rather be right now than right here. When you embrace what you live, it really can be as easy as 123123.

Blessings and Happy New Year. 

I Am Me

"Any life is made up of a single moment, the moment in which a man finds out, once and for all, who he is."

—Jorge Luis Borges

The first time we landscaped our small backyard, I didn't really know who I was. The yard was nothing but rocks, weeds, and ground that was as hard as cement. It was back-breaking work, but my wife Amy and I did it all ourselves, grass, flagstone, and all. We also planted the Japanese maple Amy had given me when we were first dating. The only exception to the backyard work was the installation of sprinklers that a friend of ours helped us with, which was way above our pay grade. That yard lasted as is for years, through the birth of both our children, Beatrice and Bryce. 

The second time we landscaped it, I was learning more about who I was. We replaced the old, dying grass with new sod, and added more flagstone. Some plants were replaced and we created an outdoor enclosure for our rabbit. Although it wasn't as back-breaking as the first time, it was still a lot of hard, sweaty work.

This past year we've been doing a series of home upgrades from floors to rooms, most of which wasn't our handiwork (again, above our pay grade and expertise). We're so grateful to have lived in this house for over 17 years, the house our children were literally born in (well, at least Bryce was -- Beatrice was another story). We've lived fully in every square foot of this house, including our backyard. I can't imagine living anywhere else.

Which leads me to that old saying, the third time's the charm. Back in January of this year, our backyard was a mound of muddy dirt after we had new drainage put in; we were starting from ground zero again. That was the beginning of the latest backyard refresh. One I didn't want to do ourselves this time. Too much back-breaking work, and as I inch toward 60 years of age, my back doesn't want to break anymore. 

But that's not what's happening. No, what's happening is that we are doing it again ourselves, because I wanted to do it again ourselves. Amy and I both did. We're repurposing the flagstone we had installed the first and second times, creating a new path around the back of the house to our main gate, will eventually add gravel and more plants and presto! A life renewed.

From rocky hard ground to mud pit to repurposed path, discovering who I am has definitely been an amazing journey, especially the past 26 years since I've been with Amy and starting a family. As I dig once again in the hard-packed backyard dirt, the slow-burn self-realization where I am today has inspired me. From the face of seemingly unending chaos at times to mindful moments of spiritual alignment, I really do control my own path.

Because the moment has finally come for me to know who I am: I am me. Amen.

A Renaissance of Pure Potentiality

We've always told our kids that it's not about the school grades, it's about doing their personal best and learning. Our oldest Beatrice would argue that we do care about grades, especially now that she's been in middle school for the past two-plus years. She's not completely wrong nor is she completely right on that one. For me, someone who grew up constantly striving to excel in school with the payoff being the grades, and the parental and peer recognition and social acceptance that came from that. What I didn't consciously realize then was that it wasn't so much about the learning; it was about being esteemed, even envied. 

It's different now. I'm different now. My wife Amy has definitely been more about pure potential and willingness to do our best, whatever the outcome, and I'm there now, too. Because the outcomes literally should be learning and growth as humans trying to traverse a lifetime of inevitable challenges and failures. Some self-imposed and many others brought on by others as well as circumstance. 

Our youngest Bryce has an easier time with her schoolwork overall than her big sister does. Don't get me wrong, even with Beatrice who struggles with math and reading, they both are thriving in school (Bea has an A+ in English -- and there's the grade pride thing again). Their grades reflect that, yes, but their entire daily exercise of living has translated to else their abilities to learn, adapt, and apply new insights to how they approach life as teens and beyond.

However, a lifetime of inevitable challenges and failures, whether self-imposed or not, isn't how life should be viewed exclusively. Yes, they will make decisions that won't be in their best interest. Yes, there may also come a time when they are discriminated against and opportunities withdrawn because of their gender, of who they are, of what they do.

But we want them to believe and breathe the Law of Pure Potentiality, that they can create anything, anytime, anywhere. This was one of our latest meditations and one that really resonated with me. It's based on the fact that we are, in our essential state, pure consciousness. Pure consciousness is pure potentiality; it is the field of all possibilities and infinite creativity. Pure consciousness is our spiritual essence.

Maybe we're not so far off when we tell our children they can be whoever they want to be and do whatever they want to do -- their spiritual essence is pure potential. The fact is that the challenges, limitations, and discrimination that can and will happen to them are all transitory -- they will still be able to create anything, anytime, anywhere. That includes creating love, empathy, happiness, and peace. 'Cause every little thing gonna be all right. Although I grew up a Christian, only now do I understand why others react so negatively when someone talks about their spirituality, their faith, and how God (our pure consciousness) provides. 

Our family's faith today is a renaissance of pure potentiality. Already both of our girls have started developing the ability to adapt, overcome, and to keep creating a positive vision of what's next. The latter being the biggest life differentiator of all. Grades may measure academic progress, while what we manifest measures the rest. 

This Hopeful Romantic I Am

"If only I don't bend and break
I'll meet you on the other side
I'll meet you in the light
If only I don't suffocate
I'll meet you in the morning when you wait..."

-Keane, Bend and Break

It was just another game of Life with our girls. We got the game for them at Christmas and it was an instant hit, something the Mama (what I lovingly call my wife) and I played as children.

This time I was the yellow car and I took the college route and became a secret agent, making $100,000 per year. And when I landed on buying my first house, I bought a houseboat. Super cool.

The Mama arrived at the get-married "stop" first.

"I'm going to marry a girl this time," she said.

"You can marry a girl?" our oldest Beatrice asked.

"Yes," I said. "And boys can marry boys."

"Yes, I knew that," said Bryce, always wanting to be the one in the know.

When I arrived at the get-married "stop", I said, "And I'll marry another man, please."

"You can marry a boy?" Bea asked.

"Yes, he can," answered Bryce before I could.

We went on with Life, spinning the wheel and moving our cars forward. When it came time to have a family or not, we all chose having children.

"How can you have children?" Bea asked us both, having a basic understanding of biology since the Mama had already had an early "talk" with her because she had asked specifically where babies came from.

"Because we can adopt children," the Mama said.

"Yes, you can adopt them," Bryce echoed.

Life moved on and we played as long as our attention spans held out, just like we do every time we play the game, and each time our lives having their own unique experiences and nuance along the way.

Then we were off outside in between the rain, letting the girls ride their bike (Bryce) and scooter (Beatrice) down the small hill above us super fast to the street below, of course watching out for cars coming down our one way street, because we're good parents like that, and because life moves pretty fast, a Ferris Bueller reference that will be lost to future generations (unless they watch the movie, which our girls will someday).

I looked at the Mama and loved her more in that moment than ever before. I've found that, over time, I fall in love with her over and over again, something that continuously reinforces the spiritual connection we share, and the expanding interconnected growth we've experienced for over 20 years now.

We both share a greater belief in a spiritual plane that interconnects everyone and every other living thing -- me believing more in a benevolent God (force) than her, but she's coming around. We've been talking a lot more about God of late, listening to Oprah's Super Soul Sundays and taking the non-traditional Christian path to our "two halves make two wholes" spiritual truths.

I grew up an evangelical Christian, the Mama did not, and even though we've never seen eye-to-eye on how to approach the subject, we are now talking about what God means to us with the girls, and the concepts of love, gratitude, acceptance, forgiveness, mindfulness and much more. Certainly not my mother and father's conservative Christianity, but it still conveys the essence of that progressive New Testament love, the one where we are all each other's brothers and sisters, regardless of race or gender or social status.

We also believe we've been proverbial soulmates for many lifetimes, something that's not everyone's cup of relationship tea. It's our cup of tea though, and we've come and gone out of each other lives over a millennium (or more), sometimes as husband and wife, and maybe other times in different relationships as different races, genders and having varying social statuses, helping each other and empowering our spiritual growth.

Shake your skeptical head if you must, but mercy me, I've had a lot of crap to work through life after life (maybe I was really a secret agent, too). We've made it this far...and sometimes I daydream about what may happen later in our lives this time...

There's a song by a band named Keane called "Bend and Break" that was released in 2004, the same year the movie The Notebook was released (we did read the book first). While the song isn't a traditional love song, not like the many others the Mama and I share, the movie is heart-wrenching love story about a husband reading their life journals to his wife who suffers from dementia.

Ever since then, and every time I hear that Keane song, I have this recurring daydream about 30 years from now when the Mama suffers from dementia (just a fantastical daydream folks), and the spiritual visions I have, that if I get her to the place we met that one day on the beach 50 years earlier, where she came up to me and said, "So, do you always come here alone?" -- that she would remember the first moment of us (this time) and all that we've shared together, and only then could we move on to the next life together.

Our girls in this fantasy future, now women, one married to another woman and the other to a man, and both with children of their own (it doesn't matter who is who in the daydream; the iteration changes every time) -- they both believe that I'm losing my own mind the more I rant about taking the Mama to the beach, that I can save her and the memory of us.

Then a rare but fierce October storm makes landfall on the anniversary of the day we met (and the same day when we were married in 2003), and the storm surge has swamped the beach where we met. I sneak out from my eldest daughter's house, who I live with at that point, and I get the Mama from her assisted-care facility. I then bring her to the cliff above where we met on the beach all those years ago. The sky is bruised with heavy clouds and the wind howls and the rain pelts us like water bullets. The Mama looks at me for the first time in years and smiles. I start down the rickety stairs to the beach below.

Our girls discover what I've done and call the police and there's a climatic scene of sirens and flashing lights atop the cliff along West Cliff Drive. Someone is shouting from a bullhorn.

"Dad! Come back here! Don't go down there! You'll drown!"

It's our daughters. We can barely hear them now that I'm near the bottom of stairs and the wind and rain are so loud. The beach is being washed away over and over again with crashing waves. I struggle to stand straight while carrying the Mama.

"Dad! Don't! Please stop!"

"Mr. Grossman, please stop where you are and we will come get you!" shouts someone else from the bullhorn.

I hesitate, but I have to move on, because I know it's the only way she'll remember it all; all our lives together and our future that relies on this one seemingly suicidal action; this redemptive baptism I'm compelled to give us both to keep our love alive; this hopeful romantic I am.

A wave washes back from the spot on the cold sand where we met and it begins to glow gold like the banished sun above. The Mama hold me tighter and smiles again. The glowing gold spot grows bigger and bigger, swamping us like us like the frigid sea, but it's more warm and inviting, almost hot like the day we met.

"So, do you always come here alone?" the Mama asks, her voice again vibrant and young.

"Yes, yes I do," I answer. "Except this time I brought a bunch of people with me." I nodded my head to the cliff above.

Her eyes fill with tears and then the rain washes them away. "Damn, Sweetie, you're supposed to be the crier."

"I know. I still am."

"What about the girls?"

"They'll be fine, Mama. You did good."

"So did you."

"Yeah, but I certainly wasn't perfect."

"No, you weren't."

"Hey, c'mon."

"Just kidding, neither was I."

"Well, what do you say -- let's do it again."

"Yes, let's do it."

And with that, I step into the light with the love of my life.

Happy Birthday, Mama! I love you!