THE MAN IN THE MIRROR

There is a man in the mirror looking back at me each time I take a glance. He’s gone through a lot, has a lot to look forward to, and has certainly grown a lot. But the man in the mirror is empty. He’s empty, he’s hungry, he’s searching. He’s searching for his soul. He’s searching for love and desperately trying to hang on to the things he already has. You see, the man in the mirror has gone through a great deal of self-awareness and awakening. Perhaps it’s the medication, the counseling or a combination of both, but the man looking back at me in the mirror, he’s found a sense of self, a shred of independence and aspirations for the future he would have never thought to fathom even as little as a year and a half or two years ago. It’s brought him a tremendous amount of freedom but also made him feel alone and alienated from others in his life. He has his stable friends. He has his friendships that have certainly seen their fair share of testing. He’s also got a relationship which is in a major rut, but no idea how to get out of it. He’s got a fine house, nice possessions. He has, by all accounts, everything going for him. He has a nice job, a few close friends who truly care about him. He is truly and completely blessed.

Here’s my confession: I am the man in the mirror. In spite of my many blessings, there are more questions than answers, more fear than peace, there are friendships that have certainly hit bumps in the road. One friend is jealous of another friend. I come home and the cats are chasing one another. And my partner and I just had a heavy discussion about where things are headed. Again, more questions than answers. So much uncertainty. There’s a man in the mirror looking back at me each time I take a glance. I’ve no doubt that man is going to get just a little bit better as time goes on and works out the plan for the future. However, in the waiting, it takes an enormous amount of energy-energy that is waning at best, and a mixed bag of excitement and anxiousness to see what the man in the mirror becomes.

ALGEBRA

I'd be willing to bet that most people don't know anyone who sits down and does Algebra just for fun. However, if you know me, you can say that you do. Now, let me give you some background. All my life, I've been very poor in my math skills. So poor, in fact, that in elementary school I was in the "special" classes because my test scores were so low. I failed Algebra I my sophomore year of high school (I did pass it the next year when I retook it). In college, I wasn't required to take an Algebra course, so I took a basic math course. It wasn't until 2003 when I was planning to go back to school to become a mortician that I was forced, once again, to confront my fears of Algebra. I enrolled in Intermediate College Algebra as a pre-requisite to enter the program. After the first class, I was nearly in tears because I didn't understand a thing that had just been said in the preceding 90 minutes. However, I stuck with it. I went to every class, studied and studied and studied and then studied a little bit more. I bombed almost every test and had a good, solid F going into the final. However, when I checked my grade the day after the final, much to my surprise, I had a "C" in the class. All I can figure is that I my professor had mercy on me. I had honestly learned more in the class than my grade had shown, but I was fully expecting to have to repeat the course the following semester. I ultimately decided that I didn't want go proceed with my plans (at least at this point) to become a mortician, but I still feel that semester I spent in Algebra was such an incredible investment for me.

Here's my confession: In my quest for self-improvement and thirst for knowledge, I have pulled out my algebra book and notes and am basically going through the course myself. Maybe I have too much time on my hands, maybe I have finally lost it, but I find the challenge it gives me to be stimulating. At any rate, I'm doing algebra just for the fun of it now. Maybe that makes me a nerd, and if so, I think I'm ok with that, because it's truly stimulating my brain and that can't be a bad thing, can it?

PRAYER IS...

On Sunday, my priest started his homily with "If I were to give you a homework assignment to fill in the blank to the phrase "Prayer is____." What would you say? He basically lost me at that point, but it did make me start thinking. How would I fill in that blank? It's a simple question, yet very complex, I thought.

Prayer is the link between an Almighty God and the human race. It is how we make our needs known to God, yet, it is also the way we praise the same Almighty God. Prayer is not merely speaking, but also encompasses our thoughts and our actions. Singing is a form of prayer, as is simply being silent. Prayer is a two way form of communication with an inaudible voice. Prayer is so simple that a child can understand it, yet at the same time so complex that all the world's theologians together cannot even scratch the surface on what prayer truly is. I believe that all prayers are answered. I believe that prayer is powerful. Some people believe that if a prayer is not answered in the affirmative, then it has not been answered. On the contrary, I believe that a "no" may be just as legitimate answer as "yes". If you go to your earthly father and ask for something and he says "no", has not your "prayer" been answered? Indeed it has. Jesus told us to pray always. That certainly can't mean talk all the time. That's where the listening part comes in, for if we spend all our time talking, we may miss the answer. Prayer may take on many forms. Muslims, Jews, Buddhists and Christians all pray. These different spiritual traditions approach prayer quiet differently. In each, it would seem, that the common thread is that prayer is a communion with God. Even within Christianity, with which I have the most experience, prayer is viewed differently between denominations, sometimes even within the same denomination. Many protestants do not understand why Catholics would pray to a Saint. Many Catholics don't understand why a protestant wouldn't pray to a Saint. Something meant to unite us, it would seem, causes such division.

I've been Southern Baptist, United Methodist and Roman Catholic. I've always been intrigued by prayer. When I was confirmed Catholic, I chose David, a patron saint of Prayer, as my own saint. I've always viewed prayer as an important and essential part of life. I think that's common among the majority of people. Most of us, if we are truly being honest with ourselves and everyone else, only pray when we "need" something from God, as if God is some magic granter of wishes somewhere beyond the blue. It only takes one tragedy to get our prayer lives right back on track and how quickly afterwards it usually dissipates.

Prayer is a discipline. It takes practice. And, just like getting in the routine of going to the gym everyday, it takes time to get in the habit. I've experimented with "Centering Prayer", which I've found quiet effective, but never developed a regular routine of practicing. I even have two beautiful rosaries in my house, yet, seven and a half years after becoming Catholic, I still don't know how to pray the rosary.

Here's my confession: Prayer has not been a priority in my life of late. A number of years ago, I began writing letters to God as a way of expressing my prayers, rather than bumbling around talking, saying trite and meaningless phrases and getting nowhere with my prayer life. I must confess that while prayer is important to me, I don't do it nearly as often as I should. It has probably been a year or so since I've written anything in my prayer journal. I've said a few prayers here and there, but, far more often than not, prayer is an out of sight, out of mind activity for me. I pray that I might find the discipline to take a few moments each day to get back on track.

LOVE AND MARRIAGE

The song goes "Love and Marriage…you can't have one without the other..." Is this a true statement or just clever lyric writing? It seems the more I go through life and observe couples who have been together for an extended amount of time reach a state in their relationship of just being. It’s neither love nor marriage. It just is. It is just a co-coexistence of sorts. I don't know if this is an exception or a rule. I think of the people in my own life, my very own family, even. Both sets of my grandparents had separate bedrooms. I rarely, if ever, saw them being affectionate with one another. Does familiarity breed contempt? Yet, I sometimes see elderly couples who have been together for decades who appear to be more in love today than they were the day they married. What is their secret? What causes some couples to draw closer together as they age and some to drift apart like rafts caught in a rapid current? Certainly it can't be a generational thing, as my grandparents are evidence. Certainly relationships takes work, but have we as a people, young or old, lost the ability or desire to invest the time necessary? Or, would we rather just throw in the towel at the first sign of tension? Do love and marriage go hand in hand? Why do some couples live to love one another and some can't wait to be apart? Why do some couples love so much that when one of them dies the other immediatly follows, and yet others can bury their companion and go on like nothing ever happened?

Here's my confession: I've been in two long term relationships and at some point in both of them, there has come a time of indifference. Am I normal or do I just suck at relationships? Do opposites really attract? Am I a product of my life experiences? I don’t really know. What I do know is that I have a fear of failure. What I really desire is normalcy. Undoubtedly, “normal” is different for each individual and certainly each couple. Ultimately, it boils down to communication. It boils down to clearly defining the goals of the relationship. Whether the relationship is to last 5 months or 50 years, is, to a great deal, up to the couple, with a little bit of fate thrown in. So, Love and Marriage, Love and Marriage…you can’t have one without the other…or can you?

RAINY DAYS AND MONDAYS...

If there is one thing I dislike about living in Alabama, it is that it just doesn't rain enough here. I've always loved the rain. There is nothing more peaceful than a rainy day...just lying in the bed, watching TV, covered with a blanket, just me and a cat or two. That doesn't happen very often around here. It's always sunny here...and on those rare occasions that it does rain, it's a passing shower and the sun is right back out in 15 minutes. What a bummer. What a waste of a good rain shower. When those rain clouds dissipate, it brings back memories of when I was a child and it would snow (something else we don't get here in Alabama), when the sun would come out and start the melting process...and you knew it was just a matter of days until we'd be back in school. The fact that we are in the midst of a drought here doesn't help matters. I don't know why, but I've always loved rainy days. Something about a rainy day makes me feel safe, protected, secure. It regulates my mood.

Here's my confession: I've never understood the phrase "Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down." Ok, so I can understand the Monday thing, but Rainy Days? Come on! I would love a month of rainy days. Rainy days somehow, someway regulate my moods. Flowers need the rain to grow. Perhaps I'm just like a flower...I need rain to grow. It is in those moments of solitude and rain that the most inner peace is found. I'm not talking about a damaging, tornadic, storm. I'm talking about a peaceful, steady rain, dark skies and the gentle sound of thunder in the distance. I absolutely cannot think of a better way to spend a day. I could really use one of those days. The energy that comes from a good, steady rain is unparalleled. Let's pray for rain.

WHAT YOUR PIANO TEACHER DOESN'T TEACH YOU

While years of piano lessons can prepare you for many possibilities, hours upon hours of playing scales can increase your agility and Hanon Studies can get you just a little closer to carpal tunnel syndrome, there's something piano teachers don't teach you in piano lessons. It's a trade secret called "faking". Faking is a skill that is used by all levels of musicians, from the novice beginner to the seasoned professional. The skill involves interpreting the Chord Symbol and creating the accompaniment. A working knowledge of music theory is helpful, and the ability to read simple musical notation in the treble clef and where those notes are on the keyboard are essential.

Here's my confession: After years of playing piano as well as completing a music degree, I recently became a faker. I'm totally sold on the concept. Quite often, one ends up playing more notes than the original accompaniment might have written. It usually even sounds better! I've learned more about chord construction as a faker than I ever learned in Music Theory I, II, III or IV. My only regret is that I wish I had known about his earlier. Just a little practice goes a long way—and there are even a couple of good books that teach the concept. Scott the Piano Guy (http://www.scotthepianoguy.com/) (from PBS) has even made a career of teaching this technique to the multitudes. Maybe that's how I'll make my next million!

REMINISCENCES

Driving this morning, the air was different, the scenery changing. It dawned upon me that it is October. Although the thermometer may not have gotten the memo here in Alabama, it is fall. Fall has always been one of my favorite times of the year because it conjures up fond memories of times spent with my grandparents as a child. I had the great fortune to know all of my grandparents and three of my four great grandparents. I have already written about the relationship I had with my maternal grandmother. I wouldn't be where I am today without that relationship. But it was my time with Doskie, my maternal great grandmother, which had such a profound impact on my life. As a child, it was Doskie who was perhaps my best friend and confidant. She and I would take long walks in the woods together. Those long walks were such an adventure for me and I think it helped keep her young, too. We were peas in a pod. She shared with me so many family secrets...many which I'll never repeat.

I would spend as much time with her as possible. Weekends, school holidays, summer vacations. I suppose she was a "cheap" babysitter. Yet, I'm not sure who was there to babysit. I think we were there for one another. She was 63 years my senior, but we were there, in essence, to watch one another. I was always given instructions of what I was to do if she was in need of medical attention. I think we identified with one another so well. She was an only child, too. I think she knew the loneliness I felt.

Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall. I have memories of them all. But, as I go through life, it will be the memories of long nature walks and family chats with Doskie which I will carry with me. It is the taste her cornbread (made the old-fashioned way, with lard), her fried potatoes, her beef roast that I'll cherish. It is the memory of locking her out of her house while I sent her to get the mail and decorated her house for her birthday—after, of course, I had her make her own birthday cake. It is the carolers from the local churches who would serenade us at Christmas and deliver a fresh basket of fruits and nuts that will resonate in my head. It is falling asleep well before midnight on New Year's Eve, but having a celebration, just the two of us. It is the sound of her nightly gossip sessions on the telephone with her friends from yesteryear, her profound faith in God, though she didn't really go to church, her example, that helped mold me. It is my first Bible that I will forever cherish, for it came from her. It is making preparations for our large family (and extended family) Christmases, Thanksgivings and other gatherings that still linger in my mind.

Here's my confession: I didn't see my great grandmother the last few years of her life. She was moved to a nursing home. I couldn't bear the thought of seeing her in that environment. I did write a letter to her about a year or so before she died, and she wrote me back. While I didn't visit her in person, I think I visited her in her dreams, for in her mind, it seemed that I had just been for a visit. That brings me some comfort. I wonder, was I "there" with her as she peacefully went to sleep that night and woke up in the presence of her Lord? In so many ways, she knew me best, but in others, she never had the chance. I wonder, would she be proud of me today? Would she accept the person that I am? I have to believe that she knew certain things about me long before I did. I have to believe that she's somewhere out there, looking down on me, with a smile.

GOING TO THE GYM

It started out in 2002 as my "Lenten Sacrifice". I decided rather than going with the traditional "giving something up" for Lent, that I would work on my body. After all, the whole idea of Lent is to do something positive that will make a change in your life, right? So, I joined my local YMCA.

So, to the gym I went religiously, as it were, for about a year and a half. It was a positive experience and something I really enjoyed doing, and even looked forward to. Things changed in my life and I dropped the gym membership. I continued to work out from time to time, and even joined another gym for about a year, however, I view that period of time as a colossal waste of time and money because I didn't go enough to make it worth it.

So, about two years ago, I returned to the YMCA. The YMCA is convenient, as it is just a few blocks away from me during the day. I have to be a member of a gym because I'll never work out at home. I'm just not that motivated, even though we have a full gym in our house, with nice equipment. It works for my significant other, not me.

Here's my confession: Even though I returned to the gym two years ago, I'm finding it difficult to be motivated. I'm not exactly suffering from obesity. In fact, a lot of people tell me that I look the best I've ever looked. Still, I know that I need to go to the gym. It's essential for my physical well-being, not to mention my mental well-being. I don't anticipate my ever having a six pack or appearing on the cover of Men's Health. I do a minimal amount of exercise while I'm there, but I guess the fact that I'm going is good, if only I would go consistently. I try to motive myself by saying that it is costing me $11+ per week. That doesn't even work like it used to. I've considered hiring a personal trainer to motivate me, but that would cost a little more money than I can really spare right now and I would like to go to the group Yoga classes, but I've never done it before and don't want to make a fool of myself.

How do I get myself out of this quagmire? My priorities are not about having the finest body on the block. I'm far more interested in stretching myself intellectually these days than I am physically. Besides, if you stretch your mind, you're not going to be in pain. If you stretch a muscle, you could tear it or injure yourself. Who wants that? Until then I get out of this rut, I'll just keep chanting my mantra: "I'll start back at the gym on Monday. I'll go everyday."

But today, I'm just going for a chicken tender meal at Milo's.

THIRST FOR KNOWLEDGE

All of my life, I've viewed myself as nothing more than average. Growing up, I was (or at least I felt like I was) always average or slightly below. Elementary school was one of the most boring experiences of my life, I believe. When I got to Junior High school, I once made the A/B honor roll. Wow! In high school, I had a goal to be a member of the Beta club. I was always just a few points away from being able to be a member. It wasn't for lack of trying, that's for sure. I tried and tried so hard. Maybe I tried too hard. Then comes college. College wasn't too bad. I admit I didn't choose a college to challenge me academically. My college was, in fact, a glorified high school with college courses in some regards. I was an average student. Yet, I came out of college not with a lot of classroom knowledge, but rather a lot of interpersonal experiences. Now, nearly 10 years after college I finished college and armed with a Bachelor of Arts degree, I find myself asking...what did I learn in college?

Here's my confession: I have an insatiable thirst for knowledge these days. It's something I've rarely, if ever, experienced before. I want so badly to be able to go to school and study something. I can't really afford to go back to school at this point. But, someday, I shall return for another degree. I really want those little letters before my name "Dr." before I die.

In the meantime, I'm doing some self-studies online. I'm focusing on brushing up on and expanding my knowledge of French. After that, I am going to focus on Spanish. I have a goal of achieving fluency in both languages by the time I reach 40, so I have a little more than half a decade left to achieve that goal. Maybe by that time, I will have decided what I want to study when I head back to college for a Master's, and ultimately, a doctorate.

Why do I want to go back to school so badly? I suppose it's multi-faceted. It's a self-esteem thing, to prove to myself that I can; It's to perhaps have greater opportunities in my life; and, now that I am older, I feel that I would be more focused than I was in college for my Bachelor's degree. While attaining my Bachelor's degree, I gained a lot of knowledge about who I am and where I fit in. Now, I feel, it's time to grow more intellectually. With age has come maturity and with maturity has come the desire to succeed beyond my wildest expectations.

A LOVE FOR MUSIC IS BORN

I suppose in some ways I have been a student of music all my life, having been so delighted each time I would go to church with my grandmother. She would make sure I had a good view of the organ, so I could watch the organist play that old electric drawbar organ. How I wanted to be just like her. The organist could make such celestial sounds come from that old organ. It was then and there, in that old Baptist church, that my love for music was born. I would go home and try my best to recreate on my grandmother's tiny, tiny Casio keyboard what I had just seen at church. It never happened, but it sure was fun trying. I must have been around 8 or 9 when I first experienced that majestic sound. I began begging my parents to let me take piano lessons. I had a piano at home, a Kimball Whitney, it had been given to me by my grandmother when she and my grandfather moved out of town. There it was, in bad need of a tuning and someone (namely me) to be trained to play it. Instead, it was just another piece of furniture that needed to be dusted in the living room. For years I begged my parents to let me take lessons. Grandmother taught me as much as she could-where the keys were located , how to read time and key signatures and how to read the treble clef. However, this was the extent of her knowledge. This went on until I was 14. That's when my grandmother stepped in. She paid to have the piano tuned and found me a piano teacher. I was very clear with my teacher that I wanted to learn to play in church. He started me with a series of repertoire books designed for the church musician. None of that Bach, Beethoven & The Boys for me. It was only the fine works of Fanny Crosby, William Kirkpatrick, and Bill and Gloria Gaither for me! Armed with my 1975 Baptist Hymnal, I was ready to establish a hymn repertoire others would envy! Many parents have to force their children to practice the piano. Not mine. Mine were having to tell me to stop...that it was time to go to bed. I'd practice from the time I got home from school to the time I went to bed! I progressed very quickly and a little over a year after that first lesson, I was filling in for the pianist and organist at church. I had arrived. Shortly after that I began accompanying my high school chorus, substituting as pianist at other churches in the area and was even elected "Most Talented" in my senior class. I then went off to college, majored in vocal music and picked up a few classical pieces here and there.

Here's my confession: I've always wondered what a difference it would have made if I had started piano five or six years earlier, when I first began asking. I've wondered what a difference it would have made if I had actually studied the fine works of Bach, Beethoven & The Boys! Would I have a different technique? Would I be a professional concert pianist? A recital accompanist? Would I be another Jim Brickman? Or, did my progression of my largely self-taught musical knowledge mold me into the musician I am today? I guess those are impossible questions to answer. Of this, however, I am certain. Each week when I sit down on that piano or organ bench to accompany the choir or congregation, I am totally in my element. I'm living a dream that began so many years ago. And that, my friend, is a priceless feeling!