We all have so much to offer...

A large part of my underlying intent with the Men With Heart Project is a belief that we all have so much to offer each other.  It’s is my observation that there is incredible experience and wisdom in all people, and that often exactly what we need in life is right in front of us.  The problem comes when we are too timid to receive the gifts of others, and not confident enough to give the gifts innate within ourselves.  With our current economic situation and setting it is clear that it is of great value to turn to each other for support and direction.  It is not the case that there are only a few individuals with the magic gift of guidance and knowledge, quite the opposite.  We all have so much.

Farmer John

John was about sixty years old when I first met him.  He was from Iowa and he had a wife, I think he had some grown children—though I know very little about him in a biographical sense.  In a very different and wonderful way I do know something very simple and true about him because I spent hundreds of hours working by his side.  We didn’t talk a whole lot and we absolutely didn’t need to.

I met John when I was a 16-year-old kid with not a damn worry in my big thick head.  I played football and partied, had friends and girlfriends, drove a shitty grey T-bird with some big speakers in it.  It was good.  I balanced my time between lifting weights, drinking Mountain Dew, and driving around town pointlessly and endlessly with my buddies—typical pointless Midwest bliss.

In order to finance this rural bliss I worked for John.  When I was in high school he was my boss on two fronts, in the summers during the week I worked for him at a farm run by the local university.  There I worked on a crew with some good friends; we weeded plots of grain and threw millions of dirt chunks at each other.  John treated us well and invited a few of us to work for him personally on his hobby farm, a small hog operation that he built and ran alone.  Shoveling pig shit was his passion.  Ultimately I spent many, many evenings and weekends working for and with him on a little piece of land about a mile from the Red Lake River in northern Minnesota.

Let’s get a look at him.  John was short and wiry and had a slightly contradictory look about him—slack in stance and shuffling in gait, but incredibly firm and purposeful in action.  He had thinning hair and a sagging face, and was stumped at the shoulders from a lifetime of labor.  If I remember right there was a leg that dragged a little behind, the left one I think.  John was a harelip, or if that is incorrect or offensive he talked with a major nasal protrusion, as if his words were formed in the back of his throat but actually emerged from his nostrils.  I admit that I do a pretty amazing impression of him (with all love of course), and it is highly possible that this feature was completely due to his massive oral intake of tobacco.  Every day he would stash huge wads of Copenhagen into his lip while simultaneously sucking down Camels.  Two tins of chew and two packs of cigs a day, no joke—God was I impressed.  He was a diabetic, and his diet consisted of jelly donuts doled out at appropriate intervals.  He would drink Tab and Fresca, and these were always on offer, I’m not sure which one I ended up liking more. 

He drove a large pick-up, when I first worked with him it was an old silver and black Ford, and toward the end of my time with him he bought a big shiny new blue thing that never seemed to quite fit my sense of him.  He drove slowly, one summer he picked me up every morning and we would drive to the farm listening to am radio.  I always enjoyed these rides, cruising at exactly 55 miles an hour, not fearing the work ahead but certainly ok with not rushing toward it any faster than we needed to.

And work we did; real, hard, hand-tool swinging badass labor.  The very first time I went to work for him I arrived with a crew of 3 friends.  We rolled in about 7:30 am, dressed in dirty jeans and t-shirts and work gloves.  Within 2 minutes of getting out of the car we had crowbars, steel rods and chains all slamming away at some large boulders half-buried in the yard.  I’m not exactly sure why it was necessary to get those bastards out of the ground but I do know that it was a hell of a lot of fun.  John worked with us and we all grunted and strained and had a good time.  We broke for lunch and ate and joked around and then the real work began.

On a previous day my buddies had begun a big project of converting an old shed into a space designed for mama pigs to birth and raise their young, and this day they were hanging insulation in order to winterize the structure.  The project needed to be finished by the end of the day, so they got to work and John directed me to go with him to do chores.  Chores…what a great and maligned word that is, huh?  We headed to the barn. 

At John’s farm chores meant two things, feeding the huge bastard pigs and scraping and scooping their shit out of the massive barn.  I got really good at it.  I’ll never forget the sight of it the first afternoon; the floor was covered in a foot-thick layer of straw, slime, and squiggling maggots.  Smelled super good too.  J

We got to work.  That’s what this whole thing is about after all:  work.  I probably had a pretty good work ethic before this fateful day but I sure as shit did afterwards.  We started scraping and scooping at about 1:00 pm, we simply put our heads down and got to it.  Remember now—I was something of a meathead—I lifted weights daily and played football and was generally pretty strong and fit.  I outweighed John by maybe 100 pounds (I was close to 250) and was forty-some years his junior.  A half-hour after we started my arms were burning and I was pouring sweat.  I looked up and my heart sank as I realized we hadn’t even made a dent in the barn.  Vast fields of thick feces stretched as far as the eye could see, alive and wriggling with little white worms.  I took a peek at John out of the corner of my eye and was blown away to see that he was scooping maybe twice as much in each load than I was, and he was outpacing me almost 2-1.  Some deep inner fire kindled at that moment and I dug in—hard. 

The process was simple, we’d use big wide shovels to push enough shit to the front of the barn and then we’d use pitchforks to throw it up into a spreader that was hitched to his truck.  A spreader is an aptly named piece of equipment because it is used to spread things on fields.  When we filled the thing up we’d drive out to the neighbors bean-field and leave a trail of beautiful poop behind us.  Then we’d drive back and do it again.  If my memory is correct it probably took 40 minutes to do a full round; fill-drive-spread, fill-drive-spread, tab-smoke-donut, fill-drive-spread…on and on as only Sisyphus could appreciate.

Just the simple action of busting my ass for 6 hours (it took us 6 hours to clean the barn that day!) would have been an amazing learning experience in itself, but there was more.  Each time we drove back into the farmstead I would gaze into the smaller barn where my friends were hanging insulation, and I might be exaggerating a little bit but I think they literally fucked around alllllll day.  I walked over for a five-minute break and they were having a staple fight.  They looked and seemed like monkeys hanging from wooden ladders, big fat clown grins etched in their faces as I worked harder than I knew was possible.  There was some initial resentment, I own up to that.  It seemed a little out of proportion for just John and I to be shoveling all day and to have these jokers goof off for 10 bucks an hour.  Anyway I got over it really fast because I had no choice, and not long after that the real lesson sunk in. 

I learned a new mode of being that day, and I gained a major step in maturity.  Most people who know me would agree that I am a pretty eager guy.  I simply love to do stuff, and I like to act without much hesitation.  So when I first started shoveling with John I went at it with fervor, I gave it everything I had.  Then when I realized that this would take us all day I settled in to a place inside myself that I hadn’t previously known.  It was quiet and firm and very acutely pointed to the task at hand.  Maybe this was one of my first real meditative moments in my life, or at least the first one I truly recognized.  I made the Sisyphean leap and I smiled at the labor, and the smile was authentic and full of gratitude.  I knew how much I was gaining.

Now I look back on that day, it is so clear to me, and I imagine this gnarled old man looking at me out of the corner of his eye, full of approval and respect.  From that day on I was his go-to guy, the yahoos shooting staples worked for him intermittently but I had a new home.  A real bond was created.

Several years later I found myself leading packs of young men up and over mountains, through deserts, and over lakes and streams.  We carried very heavy loads and the physical effort needed was immense.  So many times in the toughest moments—the last 500 feet of a hill, a portage with a heavy boat—I would think of him and smile and go right back to that quiet happy place.  Then I would look out of the corner of my eye at the young man at my heels learning the same lesson.  At night we’d sit around the fire and sometimes I’d tell the John story and know that something very good was taking place. 

Again I’d like to end this with love and respect—quietly, with my head down and my heart up…

Announcing Men With Heart Writing Group NYC

Men With Heart Writing Group.

The Men With Heart Writing Group is dedicated to men telling their stories.  By coming together to create, share, and give direct and honest feedback we give ourselves, each other, and the world a gift of positive masculinity.

What is it?  The Two Trees Writing Group will meet bi-weekly to brainstorm, collaborate, critique, shape and share our stories.  The focus will be to create a space that fosters authentic expression in any genre of written work, with the connected thread of masculinity and heart-centered living.  The initial outlet for publication will be www.menwithheartproject.blogspot.com.

Why?  The Men With Heart Project is a space for connecting and sharing around the subject of male mentorship, and is dedicated to helping men of all ages open up and get moving.   The world can only benefit from a good dose of positive energy surrounding masculinity, and one incredibly powerful way to do this is to share our stories.  Plus—writing is fun, writing groups are great, and it certainly more real than another night of reality television.

Who?  Any man who can make it to Greenspaces NY, at 357 Broadway, NYC--twice a month.

When?  Either Tuesday or Thursday nights, twice a month, starting in mid-April.

Next steps:   Please forward this opportunity to anyone that you think might be interested.  If you yourself are interested please send a note of interest to Dan Doty @ doty.dan@gmail.com.

Dan’s quick bio:  Dan started the Men With Heart Project in October of 2009.  He has extensive group facilitation skills, degrees in English, Philosophy and teaching writing, tons of creative experience, and no lack of passion.  He wants to help you share your story.

The meaning of life.

“It’s not so much the meaning of life we are seeking but our aliveness.  When we have that the meaning of life is obvious.”

               
                            -Anodea Judith

In my early twenties I went through a period of heavy existential crisis.  Living often felt like slogging through a waist-deep marsh—slow, thick and murky.  It took a lot of energy to get anywhere.  I spent my time studying and reading and doing all of the things you are supposed to do when you are in college.  I was intellectually engaged and somewhat productive creatively but I was very disconnected from life itself.  I took up the task of dwelling on the Big Questions.  What does it all mean?  Who am I?  What the hell am I supposed to do in this life?  You know these, right?  A few weeks ago I stumbled upon the quote above and it blew me away with its simplicity and its truth.  It puts a deep and sharp perspective on my entire course of life as a twenty-something.  It simply nails a notion I have learned and experienced countless times in the past five years, that sitting around thinking about living sucks and actually living is really great.

After I finished college I began an intense period of reconnection.  I travelled and had adventures in beautiful places and lived in cultures with fundamentally different outlooks than my own.  To finance this I worked as a wilderness guide and leader for therapeutically oriented programs.  I spent the better part of 3 years sleeping on the ground and waking with the sun.  I can think of no more direct way to get out of your head and into your body.  You know those moments in life where the little voices go away for a chunk of time, and when they come back you feel “wow that was living”?  I had lots of those.  Even better, it’s possible to catch these moments as they happen, to be aware of them as you live them.  I remember waking up on a bus in the Amazon one time and simply knowing how alive I was.  There was a blue stream blasting under a bridge and there was green life dancing in the sun.  There were cows… 

Anyway you get it, I woke up.  The sun and the wind and the drastic variation of life all over the place made thinking and worrying and pondering impossible.  I never knew such bliss existed.  I semi-knowingly adopted this sense of feeling as an overarching approach to life.  I did not chase money, success or affirmation; I hunted experience.  Somehow I had the sense and the balance to do this while building a career and a long-term relationship as well as a continually deepening sense of self.  It was a good time.  It still is.

It is very important to highlight how important the concept of meaning is to young men in the period of time between high school and full independence.  Here it is necessary to construct or adopt a sense of direction and a sense of purpose.  This sense doesn’t need to be set in stone and helps to hold it with healthy flexibility, but without guidance there is room for wandering.  Wandering is probably good to a certain degree but it can also turn into floundering, wallowing, even drowning.  My mom’s simple wisdom has always been that one needs a reason to get out of bed in the morning.  I couldn’t agree with her more, and I know that right now in our society there are countless young men without a reason to get out of bed. 

I don’t want to spend too much time on societal diagnosis but I want to offer one quick hypothesis: that many of these lost young men have been presented with possible futures that simply aren’t acceptable.  If the life of your parents isn’t desired or sufficient and there is no other adult guide to turn to, these young men having nothing to go on.  There is no example, no blueprint.  It is here that I think a conscious look at the concept of mentoring can be incredibly powerful.  The best evidence I can give you for this is my own life.  At each critical stage in my life I can give you the man that gave me the structural presence to know how to move ahead.  Mike, John, Jim, Ben; these are the men that I learned and benefited from immensely.  They were my teachers, professors, bosses, and coworkers; but more importantly they gave me living examples of what being a wonderful man looks like.  Never with any of these men did we sit down and talk about any of this, rather the fundamental and natural process of mentoring did what it does the way it is supposed to.

The greatest commonality I can see between my impressive cast of mentors is that they were incredibly alive.  Working alongside John at the farm was pure experience. Hiking down an ancient path with Jim was unadulterated expression.  A cup of coffee with Ben in the morning was quiet and simple and good.  All of these men had lives and struggles and so much beyond what I knew of them, but so I was able to share moments of living with them that impacted me directly and beautifully.

Now as I work with young men I carefully bring my awareness to these unspoken, wildly important aspects of the work.  We can set goals and get motivated and gain tools and skills and all of this is necessary and wonderful but I can’t help but think that the real work is done in a more direct and unspoken fashion.  It may have everything to do with simply being there and being alive, authentically addressing the moment as a man, as another human being.  By giving intention and attention to these young men, something big and real and so necessary happens. 

If you have words to describe this please bring them on.  Plenty more on this to come…

Tall Tree: A story by Michael

This piece was submitted to the Men With Heart Project this week and simply must be shared.  Mentors, fathers, trees--great stuff...

It is inspiring me to ask the question, 'who were my mentors?'  Strangely, I think I come from a generation that mentored themselves.  My parents were nuts.  Herman Hesse, the TV show Kung Fu, my best friend and hitch-hiking companion Jerry- these were my mentors.  Still, all that said, my real mentor was my father.  Did we have the best relationship?  No.  Did i receive a lot from him?  Everything. 

When I look at the world today, or back at the world when I was a kid it seems designed, conspiring to keep young men from being what they could be- Thank god for the martial arts-  Aikido.  It was amazing- I flew through the air and came up ready to take the energy of the world and redirect it.  But that came later, at around 13-16, but the story Two Trees inspired me to tell is about my Father and takes place way before then.  When I was just a boy, I guess around 8, my Dad took me, for a weekend or two, to something called Indian Guides.  I don't remember much, I remember my Dad being mainly interested in the other adults, but your name, 'Two Trees" makes me remember my Dad and I choosing our Indian names.  I was a bit of a spaz and about the only thing I could almost do well was run.  I was, like, the fourth fastest kid on the block.  That was all I had.  I had lost a lot.  Anyway, because of my imagined speed I chose the name, 'Galloping Wind.'  I made my Name Necklace and drew a picture of a multi tailed sperm- my idea of what the wind looked like.

My Dad chose the name, 'Tall Tree.'  I remember his quiet, methodical hand drawing a beautiful tall tree on his necklace.  And he was, he is actually, a Tall Tree of a man.  6'4'. Height is a blessing in this world and he passed it on to me.  My father and I have always looked down on the world from our lofty stances.  We have taken comfort and safety from removing ourselves from the dance of life.  For me, it has been a great journey back down to the ground, back down to feeling the gifts of the earth, and touch and love.  I still have anger at my father, I wish I did not.  I wish I could discard it, and I know I will soon, but it is still there.  Why am I angry at him?  I guess because he was not Tall Tree.  I needed Tall Tree.  He did not stand strong against the winds.  He was not strong or smart enough with his choices; he led me smack into a lot of pain.  Inside of me, I think Tall Tree would have shielded me more, with more love. 

I am trying to be Tall Tree right now, to my Son, to my world.  So, I wish I could forgive my Dad completely.  I need to.  It is a sign for me, that I am still angry at him- it says to me, 'the past is still alive.'  I need to put the past to sleep.  What do I need from him, what would help me do that?   I wish he could just say to me, 'Son, I am sorry my choices brought you so much pain, I really am.'  Actually, I probably don't even need that.  I just need to stop running from the pain that is in my heart.  I wish I could share it with him in a way that would not terrify him.

Now don't get me wrong, my Dad is a good man.  Tall, smart, witty, a good teacher, a loving man in his way, but wise, I can not call him wise.  Tall Tree wise, now that is Wisdom.  If I am honest with myself, that is what I wanted him to be.  That is what I want to be.  I believe I am becoming a Tall Tree, maybe I am 'Tree of a Medium Height' now.  If I am it is because of all the secret mentoring he did give me.  The mentoring in the quiet moments, in smiles, in movement, in the touches, in the constancy, in crispness of mind.  I thank him for all the times I looked up and saw the Sun shining down between his branches.


-Michael
serious.mrb@gmail.com

The power of asking for help.

One of the very first things I discuss with my clients and students is the basic skill of asking for help.  At my wilderness home in Northern Minnesota we always begin a 3-week course by running a powerful initiative highlighting the great and simple benefit of asking for help.  Our culture has an ingrained tendency toward needing to do everything on one’s own.  We ignore or forget that we are all in this together and that people are not only willing to help out, but we actively want to support each other.  We cannot do everything in life on our own, we just can’t, and really why should we want to? 

The inability to ask for help is often seen as quality related to stubbornness/laziness/etc, but it can also be seen as a simple skill, or tool.  Many young men I have worked with over the years simply do not know how, where, or when to present their vulnerability and need, and this can lead to a long running situation of paralysis.  There is a sense that we are all expected to simply know how to do things, how to go to college, how to take care of ourselves, and how to get things done.  In reality many of these life skills are not communicated clearly, expectations are not defined, and a confused situation is created that fosters shame and self-doubt. 

I have recently been taking my own advice to heart.  In the process of building a mentoring business and becoming viable and independent I have been asking for help at every turn.  It is not always an easy thing to do but the results have been phenomenal.  A long time ago I was presented with the idea of operating on a mutually beneficial basis, and when this is truly adopted into one’s life many wonderful results are found.  It truly is one of the first basic steps or assertions in the process of moving forward.  We all need help.

I propose today we all make a move and ask for help.  Be honest, be open, it is worth it—so worth it.

Master Mike

I do not think many people in my life are aware of how absolutely dorky I was as a child. My grade school years (late 80’s-early 90’s) were spent in a small town called Drayton, North Dakota. This little city sits about 30 miles from the Canadian border and has a population of 800. The heavy smell of rotten socks emanates from the giant sugarbeet factory north of town, and there is a sign proclaiming the title of “Catfish Capital of the North”. It is incredibly unique.

I fit in very well. I was fully equipped with red hair and freckles, a wobbly double chin, and each day I squeezed into an uncomfortable pair of jeans designed for “husky” boys. I was nearly blind and I wore a pair of extra thick, large-framed glasses. I sported a flattop haircut for 5 years. Yep, a flattop. Each month my dad would take out the razor and a giant comb from a skinny cardboard box and buzz my hair into a perfect rectangle. It was super weird.

Let’s see. . . I was a book worm. In the second grade I had paper ice cream scoops all the way up the wall and across the ceiling marking all of the books I had read. I read all the time. On our annual trip to watch the Minnesota Twins play baseball I spent the game reading and eating nachos. I liked other stuff too, I liked to golf and curl (the world’s dorkiest sport), ride my bike and shoot a bb gun—these kinds of things. I had friends and a great little brother and we played with firecrackers and went fishing. It was a really great childhood.

I was also a momma’s boy. I suppose I still am, but as a youngster I was extremely shy, reserved, nice, gentle, sensitive, and perhaps a bit meek. You get it. If you knew my mom you’d understand, she’s phenomenal. She loved my brother and I without hesitation or condition and has never faltered. However, she was a catalyst for dorkiness-she started a Cub Scout group in the town and ran it for several years while my brother and I were of the right age. She took me on “hikes” along little shelter belts and she read to us every night. But maybe that’s not so dorky.

This story is not about a kid with huge problems, nor is it all that dramatic. Plainly stated it is about a shy kid having a set of experiences in which he had success and was given the support and space to truly thrive and grow. It is a story about a quiet little guy who was offered an opportunity to kick ass at a really young age, and it is about a man who busted down a bunch of doors in order to facilitate some really wonderful growth. My gratitude and love go super deep here.

So where does a young, meek boy go to find strength and confidence? To be honest there weren’t many places to go, and it turns out that I didn’t need to go anywhere. One day a dude that went by the name of Master Mike rolled into town in a little red sports car, bringing with him some pajama-like clothes and a shitload of confidence. Martial Arts, right? Absolutely—that is exactly where this young meek boy went to find strength and confidence.

I don’t remember exactly how or when I started Tae Kwon Do, I must have been about nine or ten. Classes were three times a week and they were held at a mental hospital (no joke) in a town called Grafton about 20 miles from home. There was one other kid from Drayton who took classes with me, Davey, and his family and mine would take turns driving us to class. Davey was a year younger than me and was a great kid. He chewed gum with his mouth open, ordered his cheeseburgers plain, and made me vomit many, many times by forcing me to smell his shoes. Oh yeah, I went through several years of puking daily-I was super sensitive to strong smells.

When Davey’s dad drove us we cruised in an old white and orange Pinto. I am not sure if you know how phenomenally cold it gets in that part of the world, but it can be wicked. In the winter the Pinto often vacillated between freezing cold and dripping hot, dangerous to a little dude and his little balls-which would get super sweaty and consequently freeze directly onto the ancient orange vinyl. Many times I had to pry and chip them off the seat to the soundtrack of some crappy nineties love song.

Anyway, I was in Tae Kwon Do and I loved it. Furthermore I was good at it. I was not an especially physically gifted kid but enough so. Damn I took it seriously. I worked hard… really hard. I pushed myself every day; I became flexible and strong and learned early on the ability to endure physical discomfort. I was dedicated and it paid off quickly. I rose through the ranks and was naturally placed into a leadership role within the classes. By the age of 12 I led workouts and classes, was chosen for a traveling demonstration team, and made my way into the inner circle of the organization. I broke boards and busted bricks, spoke clearly and confidently, and loved every minute of it. I won a box full of trophies and I learned to use the nunchucks. I was told I had cool hair by a Korean Grand Master who had been a world champion. There's a very small chance that he was right.

The system and culture of Tae Kwon Do itself had a lot to offer. I still frequently recall the 5 Tenets, which we often had to repeat over and over while holding uncomfortable squat-like positions. It worked—I have kept them in mind ever since. They are:

Courtesy
Integrity
Perseverance
Self-Control
Indomitable Spirit

Good stuff right? The structure, the philosophy, and the practice of Tae Kwon Do provided an incredibly positive platform to boogie down on. All of this is good and great but was absolutely predicated on and exploded by my relationship with the man running the show. Master Mike. The dude himself. As a 3rd degree black belt and reeking of confidence, he was a young boy’s idol.

Until very recently I assumed Mike was in his mid-thirties when I knew him, possibly in his forties even. My mom assures me now that he was in his mid-twenties, twenty-seven, max. He was about 6’0” tall, had brown hair, and walked with a smooth confidence—chest out and not in a hurry. He looked at you when he spoke to you. He was kind and understanding but threw out boundaries and challenges and locked them in with ease. He created safety for his students but pushed them consistently. He did this and I accepted it, I embraced it and I loved it. I had found my first mentor.

I became a black-belt at some point and was given more privileges and responsibility. I began teaching my own classes and began to attend higher-level trainings, mostly alongside adults. Mike trusted me, he showed me consistent respect, and in class he pushed me hard for continuous growth. Now here comes some magic, he began pushing me outside of class as well.

One day he asked me to help him teach a class in a nearby town. He picked me up at my house on his ridiculously big motorcycle and told me how the week before he had broke 165 mph with a girl on the back. He assessed my weight and said he didn’t think we’d hit that mark, and asked me not to tell my mom. North Dakota highways are straight and flat and as we maxed out he ducked his head so I could read the speedometer. Yeesh.

He liked guns and had a bunch of them. One Saturday afternoon he picked me up and took me to an old gravel pit. We set up cans and frozen chunks of water and all kinds of things to shoot at. I shot a bunch of guns, pistols and rifles and something that seemed very close to what you would call a machine gun. Hmm….

He took me skiing for the first time. I giggle as I write this because North Dakota’s skiing terrain is definitely worth a giggle. There is a place called Frost Fire way up north and it is about 300 feet from top to bottom. We went as a small group; there were probably eight of us. I was the youngest and the only one who had never skied before. It was well below zero. I spent the day riding the lift up with someone and shuffling to the top of the slope, then I would watch as my friends would gracefully fly down before me. I did the only thing I could; I braced my chunky self with wide feet and let it rip. I quickly learned not to turn, and could only bomb the hill in terrified ecstasy. Stopping came naturally—I learned to fall. Did I follow Mike up the black-diamond runs? Of course! Did I fly off ledges and fall on my head and probably cause life-long injury? It’s possible. Was it the greatest day of my life up to that point? Without a doubt.

What hits my gut right now is that this man, this twenty-something man (I am now about the age he was then) took the time and care to open doors for me. Physical, tangible doors that led to fun and excitement and letting loose. He did what real teachers do, he provided a safe space for an experience. I have an unadulterated love for personal growth and the experiences that push this growth. Mike gave me a hell of an introduction.

I am a confident man and I do not doubt myself. I am still a 13 year old kid in front of 200 people, barking out orders and orchestrating a big beautiful dance of flying feet and flailing arms. I am a sweaty little kid feeling brilliant after being handed a cheap plastic trophy. I am an almost six foot man who walks with his chest forward and I try not to hurry. I look people in the eyes…

I want to end this with gratitude. In reality I don’t know who this man was, but I know and feel the massive gifts that his attention has given me. I don’t know where he is now and have had no contact with him at all. The only thing I can do and care to do is simply send him my love and thanks. So here it is,

Love, and thanks.