My Godspell Sister

On Friday morning, I sent my siblings a group text, reminding them of their afternoon responsibilities: "It's Good Friday, everyone. Be home by 2 O'clock. There will be sardines and matzo crackers and vinegar. Meg will be reading from the Passion of the Christ. Don't expect to be out until after dinner." 

It was intended as a reminder of those distant Good Fridays, when my mother would insist that we gather at the kitchen table for a painfully long afternoon, reliving the Passion through New Testament readings and her own invented props, like tasting vinegar.

My mother would make us walk with Jesus across the pages. We'd read assigned passages and roll our eyes when she wasn't looking. The clock on our lime-green kitchen wall ticked with agonizing slowness on those afternoons.

They weren't good Fridays then - but they seem so now.  

And so, after sending that text, I began thinking about those afternoons. I searched YouTube for songs I remembered about Good Friday and Easter. I found a few from Jesus Christ Superstar and Godspell.  As I listened, they made me feel things I had long forgotten. I wondered how those feelings - and beautiful songs - had so slipped from my memories.

But I knew why. It was about Godspell.

In 1970, John-Michael Tebelak wrote Godspell as part of his Master's Thesis at Carnegie-Mellon. Stephen Schwartz, an alumni, re-wrote the musical score and it opened off Broadway. The rest is 70's pop and folk history.

My sister loved Godspell. It was so fitting. She was an artistic, creative, musical soul. She was the real-life version of the girl with flowers in her hair, singing and dancing with Jesus. I'm sure she had already envisioned Jesus in a Superman tee shirt and suspenders.

While many people could never see John baptizing followers in a New York City fountain, she could. Hers was a true soul; a cosmic karma destined to be loved - and to love.

In the 70's, I remember her in fringed gypsy shirts and bell bottoms. Her full blonde hair; enviously everywhere. She was always ready to dance and skip with John the Baptist in the fountain waters.

Her entourage of high school friends were inseparable and unstoppable from the 1970's until a just a few years ago.

On that gloomy January day when we said goodbye, her friends planned a secret farewell song. At the end of the ceremony, as the tears fell, the words, "Prepare Ye, the Way of the Lord," began. It was part sadness, part happiness.

An ending that we are taught, like Good Friday, was really a beginning in disguise. Listening to that song, it was impossible not to feel thankful for her. For her love and charisma. In the music, we could almost see her in her bell bottoms and flowers in her hair. Laughing and dancing with her friends.

My mind must place those memories protectively. But on Friday, I heard her music and I did remember.

It was Godspell.

And God spelled it C-A-T-H-Y.

This will never get old

"Young, all we ever think about is fun

All we ever want to be is twenty one
Hey, doesn't everyone want to sit on top of the world
R. Kelly on the radio, screaming out 
this will never get old..."

All we need is Batman.

At night, here on the 11th floor, Andrew and I sometimes feel like we're in Gotham City.

Out one window, the view is almost mysterious. Beyond the natural history museum and dinosaurs, there's a distant planetarium; then an endless stretch of dark Lake Michigan water. Looking north, the sky is filled with silhouettes, skyscrapers, and architectural chaos.

Here, high above the city, the floors are often strewn with workout clothes. Empty Gatorade bottles, wine bottles. Half eaten pizzas and pizza boxes. Half-wet towels tossed on beds. Skimpy clothes in the dryer that I don't recognize. Well-tuned guitars.

Sometimes, the lights never go out. The X-Box never gets turned off. Windows never close and the door is rarely locked.

I-phones are never, ever turned off. And the texters never stop texting. Because the nights are also long in Lincoln Park, Wicker Park and Pilsen. In Tallahassee and Gainesville.

Breakfast is often made at noon - then again at midnight. Or is that the opposite? I find friends and cousins on the couch as I sneak into the kitchen in the morning to make coffee. It's kind of a millennial mad scientist experiment on how to turn a lakefront condo into a dorm room.

But it's one I'm going to miss.

I've come to believe that what seems like sloppiness and recklessness; forgetfulness and foolishness - is really something altogether different. It's that these millennials seem to have a barrier the world hasn't broken yet. It gives them a kind of innocent sanity that we adults have lost as we've focused on the more mundane. It's a neurotic kind of courage to consume, experience and experiment.

They want to taste new IPA's and hear new music. To run the stairs, ride the train, brave the wind. Wear tee shirts even when it's cold. Buy everything at Trader Joe's and eat Jimmy John's for lunch. Share stories about spin classes and cross fit and UFC fights. Kiss. Hook up.

These Gotham days remind me that there are more important things in life then the ordered and mundane. That life can be bigger - and richer - if you submit to the experience. But if you've lost your sanity to cars and parking tickets and bureaucrats, forget it.

If you haven't, then be happy.  I'm so jealous. You're probably sitting high on your pile of pillows and blankets and dirty clothes on your bed, texting and laughing.

And you'll come to understand, later, that where you're sitting is on top of the world.

So, despite that initial OMG feeling I get waking up, seeing empty wine bottles and couch surfers, I'm really - really - going to miss this.

I remember the innocence of a different Gotham City long ago. There were Batman figurines and toys on almost every carpet in every room. I miss that, too.

That's why for me, in Gotham, this will never get old. Ever.

Above Lyrics from: Underage: Songwriters: Josh Osborne / Kelsea Nicole Ballerini / Scott B Stepakoff
Underage lyrics © Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd., Audiam, Inc

And in the End

And in the end
The love you take
Is equal to the love
You make

- The Beatles - credit

When asked about the line Paul McCartney wrote in the last verse of the final song the four Beatles would ever record together, John Lennon said, "That's Paul again ... He had a line in it, 'And in the end, the love you get is equal to the love you give,' which is a very cosmic, philosophical line. Which again proves that if he wants to, he can think."

Lennon got the actual lyrics wrong.  But the essence of it - he understood perfectly... The love you get is equal to the love you give.

Perhaps McCartney was being cosmic - connecting to another writer across time and space. Another "thinking" man, using quill and parchment and not piano and left-hand guitar.

He was Thomas Aquinas, writing in the 13th century, about the same thing. But in far greater depth. In his theological treatise, "Summa Theologiae," Thomas tells us about the need for poverty - that it would cause a kind of humble awareness of the world around us. That it would result in an existential goodness. That we'd become part of something greater than ourselves.

Aquinas believed that if we would only strip away the things that clouded our lives, that suppressed our souls, that altered and influenced our reality, we'd discover goodness - and the truly supernatural in ourselves. And that it was an even greater perfection in the eyes of God that we shared that goodness with others.

That we are called to cause goodness in others.

Aquinas writes, "…Now it is a greater perfection for a thing to be good in itself and also the cause of goodness in others, than only to be good in itself."  Summa Theologiae, I.103.6

Reflecting on how Aquinas's teachings changed her life, Maria Grizetti writes: "...it may follow from this also that one of the purposes of religion is instruction; instruction not simply on truths of belief and faith, but instruction relating to the human, the real, the natural in us, and leading us to discover the supernatural about us." http://bit.ly/1Tux0ML

In the West, many religions and Orders practice Aquinas's teachings today. In the East, we see the essence of the same concepts in practice, espoused by monks and priests from Malaysia to India to the mountains of Tibet.

And, while Aquinas's teachings were intended to be practiced in a very literal sense, they are difficult to follow today - living in a modern technological world. Despite that, their precepts illuminate the path to a profound insight: that within each of us is the supernatural soul - a soul that has a purpose.

Those that cannot part the clouds; cannot see to the core of their being; they will only receive the goodness that they can manage to share with others.

Those who have found this goodness, this supernatural self, have warm reflections on their life, "I am blessed by the love of my children. By my friends. My family." They are content.

In my own life, each day I feel closer to that goodness. More surrounded by love.

But I'm also increasingly saddened by the pain I see among those who have failed to follow Aquinas's 13th century theological map to happiness; his profound insight into the potential of goodness.

Yes, it's the same insight that Paul McCartney shared in that final verse. A punctuation to their final
song; their final act.

Just like a final punctuation in life.



And in the end
The love you take
Is equal to the love
You make

Make me forget about my sunburn

Let's go Flying
Take me anywhere the wind blows

Chasing fireworks flashing down the Carolina shore
Arms around me, you called me yours
That salty kiss made me forget about my sunburn

Sang with the birds
Every season has a turn turn turn
No use crying
We're not thinking about tomorrow

A chill in the air is just around the bend
You said, "we're never going to get this time back again."

- Lady Antebellum - credit

Tonight, in Chicago, it's going to be 20 below wind-chill. "Wind-chill" is winter weather-speak here; how people know what they'll find when they open the door and walk to the L stop.

With good reason. That chill wind sweeps across the slate-grey waves of Lake Michigan, gathers momentum and hurls itself against pedestrians, salt-covered cars, and dreary buildings. The frigid air creates floating planks of ice - and they are relentlessly added to the ever-growing glacier that stretches out across the lake.

This weather spares no one - even someone like me, who just moved from the tropical shores of the Gulf.

Understandably, I've had to undergo some winter survival training. "Put your scarf around your parka hood, like this," I was recently instructed by a pale and shivering expert. "And you have to wear layers, like two pairs of socks and at least two shirts."

I was mocked for my waist-high winter coat, which I reluctantly and naively bought upon my arrival. "Seriously, you need a much longer coat, one that goes to your knees. You're gonna freeze."

What a change a year makes. When I moved to St. Petersburg, I was warned to put sunscreen on every day, "no matter what you're doing." My dermatologist, wagging his finger at me, said, "With your complexion, you really need to wear long sleeves and pants on the beach."

Seriously?  Everyone else was wearing board shorts or bikinis.

Even though I lived 100 feet from a post card beach of white sand and turquoise waters, I was compliant - at least for a while. Which made me possibly the palest person ever to walk the beach every day.  Except for the white "V" on my feet, where my flip-flop straps crossed, I looked like I was already living in Chicago in February.

And what's so great about being pale? Nothing. At least with sunburn, it would eventually turn to tan - and happiness.

And so, I crossed the wooden sidewalk to the beach without my button-down oxford and jeans. As I did, the Florida sun must have been laughing at me. It wasn't even a fair fight - even with sunscreen. But it felt so good. The sun and my freckles and the smell of Coppertone. Freedom.

That night, no matter how much aloe I gingerly applied, it was disturbingly absorbed into my red skin and freckles. Yikes.

But I sense that was a kind of a turning point. I was ready for some risk. Some flying. Some happiness.

A few days later, I remember seeing my daughter in Sarasota.  When I met her at her door, she hugged me, stepped back and said, "Dad, you look so good."  She smiled and hugged me again. "Really, you look happy." I was.

Yes, I might regret it when I'm 75 and my dermatologist is shaking his finger at me again. But there's no use crying when you're not thinking about tomorrow. 

Long after arriving here in the frozen north, I still had tan lines, which made me smile. I'd look in the mirror and remember the Florida sun and sparkling turquoise water. The coconut smell of Coppertone on hot skin.

These days, in wind-chill land, I do wear my waist-high coat. I don't wear my hood - especially with my scarf wrapped around it. And while it's numbingly cold, it's worth it. There's an urban allure that's potent and overwhelming. I've met so many new, beautiful people. I see promise everywhere.

So like the poetic words above, I say, "Let's go flying." Life is short.

Make me forget about my sunburn.


Above - Long Teenage Goodbye - Lady Antebellum

The Symphony, the Soul, and Destiny

She turns to me sometimes and asks me what I'm dreaming 
And I realize I must have gone a million miles away 
And I ask her how she knew to reach out for me that moment
And she smiles because it's understood - there are no words to say
It's all about soul

Bernard Haisch, PhD, in his book, The God Theory, says, "It is not matter that creates an illusion of consciousness, but consciousness that creates an illusion of matter." 

And this is likely a fact known to very few people - except perhaps physicists and ultra-nerds. But it has been clearly demonstrated in both theory and experiment (Gröblacher rt al., Nature, 446, 871, 2007).

Haisch believes that our universe is fine tuned beyond anything imaginable. That the evidence of this is so vast and so complex as to be in itself empirical. In our own world, for example, the slightest variations in certain elemental forces, such as gravity and distance, would have either quickly frozen our planet or instantly vaporized it by the sun.

He postulates that this fine tuning is to create a holography to be viewed by the quantum operations of our brains. Perhaps because its scope is so vast and complex that it cannot be rationally comprehended.  

In his review of Bernard Haisch's work, Professor Richard Conn Henry comments, "It took me decades to finally realize that this is not a joke, and that the universe is purely mental: that mind is fundamental; matter merely an illusion—and that this is physics, not philosophy (or religion)." 

So, if that's a physics fact, how can our minds - our brains - interpret reality? 

Elsevier’s published a peer reviewed study that proves the brain's quantum function. It describes warm temperature quantum vibrations in microtubules inside brain neurons. That EEG rhythms actually are derived from even deeper microtubule vibrations. And that "anesthesia, which selectively erases consciousness while sparing non-conscious brain activities, acts via microtubules in brain neurons."

The theory is called “orchestrated objective reduction” (“Orch OR”). It was first postulated by mathematical physicist Sir Roger Penrose, of Oxford, and anesthesiologist Stuart Hameroff from the University of Arizona.

They suggested that quantum vibrational computations in our brains are “orchestrated” by quantum activities in our microtubules.  In other words, the reality we experience in our brains and see with our eyes is orchestrated within the quantum realm.  It's the process which our consciousness, entangled in the quantum universe, orchestrates our reality. 

Of course, it sounds way too strange for science. Even Albert Einstein was disturbed by quantum physics.  He marginalized it as "spooky action at a distance."  But even Einstein was wrong. Today, quantum physics is one of the most proven mathematical principles in science.

So, according to Haisch, we live in a purposely designed and fine tuned universe. Perhaps created by God - but only a study of Haisch's book will offer his interpretation of "god." And, according to proven theoretical physics, how we interact and interpret this universe is via a quantum-driven orchestration of reality.

Before science knew of the quantum properties of our microtubules and the orchestration therein, the only explanations of how we viewed reality were associated with synapses, psychoses and neuroses. 

But Haisch, Penrose and Hameroff have shown something infinitely more complex. That, at the core of how how we interact with life - and reality - is a real, quantum soul. And that our souls see an orchestral view of a precisely designed multiverse.

And it's peer reviewed, proven physics. The soul.

And so, if our souls live within those microtubules, interconnected and entangled in the universe - which Haisch says says they do - then that explains a lot. 

Recently, I've been having lengthy philosophical discussions with my friend on love and destiny. We've been especially talking about why we haven't been seeing what we used to see - what we thought we'd see - in another soul. 

In other words, why isn't this lens working the way it used to? The way it did when we were able to see into another soul and feel the longing for a beautiful, connected future. The way we can feel moved by music? By the charisma and hope of youth. The innocence of a child.

And I think the answer is a quantum one. The way a gifted writer, artist or poet can reach the ideal creative state by achieving a higher - or different - level of consciousness. It evolves in the microtubules and is driven by the quantum soul that lives there. The artist's soul, the musician's soul.

And so, it kind of explains things. We are entangled and orchestrated. Will and determination won't change what we wish we'd see - and feel. We can talk and talk about when our reality will change and never find an answer. 

When will the orchestra play the symphony we so long to hear?  

It's all about soul. OMG.

Lyrics above - Billy Joel 

Silhouettes of the Past

Matt and I drove by my parent's old house last night. The one with the trees, the ghosts and the memories.

We stopped the car on Wood street and looked across Mrs. Jacob's yard on the corner.  The Chicago street lights threw their weak pink light a few feet into her vast property.

Beyond her front yard, we could see the historic Civil War era Victorian in the shadows, ringed by what remained of the ancient oaks that once guarded this sentinel of our past. The old house looked empty and unhappy.

It was silhouetted against the November sky, with just a few lonely lights shining somewhere inside. The front porch illuminated by a harsh, incongruous florescent bulb that was everything about light that would make an artist cringe.

Oh well, the artists are gone. As is the harpsichord music and Handel being played too loud. The sounds of brothers and sisters arguing. The smells of baking too much bread and too many unnecessary pies. The phone ringing and ringing. All vanished.

I remember my father explain the forest of giant oaks on our property. "John, those oaks love the underground sand bars here. They're from when Lake Michigan covered this area. Most of them are very old... Mrs. Platt's Oak tree - the Council Oak, is over 800 years old. The Indians used it as a central meeting place for tribes in this area." Dad made the oaks sound potent and poetic - mysterious and magical.

And I guess they were.

Until the destructive winds of a millennium arrived a few years ago. They came from nowhere, disturbing the Indian spirits and knocking over Mrs. Platt's Council oak. They also crashed many of my father's oaks into his coach house and power lines.

The unexpected winds blew other changes into our lives. The old house emptied. The trees and leaves and happiness - scattered South and East. And up.

These years later, things seem fuller. Brighter. And I've come to understand that it's an illumination that comes from all of these beautiful minds I see around me. Souls that were seeded among those giant oaks. Generations that heard too much loud harpsichord music, did way too many chores, fought, loved, and never answered the phone.  Because they were in the living room, looking out through the stained glass - out at the oaks.

And on this Thanksgiving, I am thankful for that brightness in my life.

Looking South, East, and Up.

Fear, bravery and infamy on a French Beach - June 6, 1944

This evening, I walked along the beach here, barefoot in the warm Florida sand. Despite the scarlet sun plunging into the Gulf, I was feeling sorry for myself. For my injured hand.

It cheered me, though, to see young groups of friends and families; tan and happy, gazing into the Gulf like me - or running and splashing into the tide.

Blonde hair, bikinis, tattoos. Ah, Florida beach-goers.

I eventually sat down in the sand and glanced at my phone. June 5th. And tomorrow is the 6th.

A powerful date, June 6th. On my wall is a framed purple heart with that date, with the name August William Diedesch.  My father's "Uncle Bill." On June 6, 1944 - 71 years ago - Bill was on Omaha beach.

Bill Diedesch was barely 21 years old in this photo, taken shortly before he enlisted in the Army Reserves. You can't help but notice his sleight frame and his obvious youth.  He belonged carrying a cooler on a Florida beach - not an M1 Garand in France.

Uncle Bill was among the historic group of 1400 soldiers to arrive in the first assault wave on Omaha Beach - the most deadly and dangerous of the Normandy beaches.

I wondered, as I always do, what Bill saw through his eyes - and felt in his heart - as his Higgins boat was tossed about in the cold, high waves heading toward the empty beach. Facing the sum of all fears, perhaps he thought about God. Or his mother.

In those final moments, I hope Bill had that same determined look on his face that he did in the picture here. As his company sailed toward their doom, they could surely begin seeing the destruction wrought by the 50-caliber German guns on the other boats. Through that squint, it must have been evident that many - if not all of them - were about to sacrifice their lives - and their future.

In my mind, uncle Bill's visage does not change.

As his landing craft plowed the waves, it heralded the bravery and courage of a nation intent upon liberation and freedom. Of the sacrifices willing to be made. The determination of a generation.

And yes, it's been said  many times - but it's still true. The bravery and sacrifice of those skinny kids in the cold waters of France - and their fellow soldiers, did change the future. Perhaps, even, they made our futures possible.  The ones in which students run in the surf in swim suits and not army boots.

Sadly, many of those who fought and died should have been sitting in classrooms or riding their bicycles. Or laughing on the beach with their girlfriend.

And thinking of my father's uncle as I sat on the sand, my problems seemed kind of small.

Of the 1400 soldiers that fought in the first wave of troops on Omaha beach, less than 400 would survive. Uncle Bill didn't, but his memory does.

It's a memory of this brave, squinting, skinny kid who thought he was signing up for the Army Reserves at the library - but was really signing up to make history.

@@@@

Note: Uncle Bill was part of the 116th Division, 29th regiment.

A look through the Arch - at Dred

In 1965, the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial, also known as the Gateway Arch, was built in St. Louis, Missouri, along the western shore of the Mississippi river.

It was designed to commemorate the Louisiana Purchase, the first civil government west of the Mississippi, and the debate over slavery raised by the Dred Scott case. In practical and political ways, it was also intended to provide jobs.

But clearly, the "Jefferson National Expansion" moniker points to Jefferson's role in overseeing the purchase of the vast tract of land into which our nation would grow, starting right in St. Louis, where Lewis and Clark began their journey.

Another journey began in St. Louis - a caustic debate on slavery, which led to a rare Supreme Court ruling and - eventually - to civil war and staggering bloodshed for those on both sides of the argument. The debate was triggered by a slave - a man - named Dred Scott.

Dred had been traveling with his master, John Emerson. Scott had lived Illinois and Wisconsin - both
free states - after moving from Missouri (a slave state). When Emerson, an army surgeon, left Fort Snelling in Wisconsin, he left Dred behind and hired out his services to others. It was argued that, by selling slave services in a free state, Emerson initiated the act of slavery in that state, which violated the Missouri Compromise, the Northwest Ordinance, and the Wisconsin Enabling Act.

Emerson subsequently died, and for three years his widow continued to hire out Dred's services in Wisconsin. Dred first tried to buy his freedom from the widow but she refused. So Dred sued - in Missouri. The case went to the Supreme Court, where, in 1857, Judge Robert Taney's Majority Opinion rejected Dred's plea.

The language that Taney used in his Opinion (http://bit.ly/1GaHAA4), was, by today's standards, so inflammatory as to be hardly believable. He referred to blacks as "people of an inferior order." And that "Negroes in bondage are property and the Constitution protects property owners from deprivation.." and therefore "could be bought and sold and treated as an ordinary article of merchandise and traffic."

At that point, Abraham Lincoln, the presidential candidate, entered the fight. Lincoln characterized Taney's option as "a warped judicial interpretation of the (constitutional) framers' intent."

Taney's decision against Dred Scott fueled Lincoln's passionate oratories and helped define his political strategy during the Lincoln-Douglas debates. Historian Graham Peck wrote: “To Lincoln, the Taney and Douglas racial doctrine culminated a retreat from the idea of equality since the Revolution and provided an intellectual and legal capstone to the nation’s increasingly discriminatory racial practices..."

It can be argued that the the Lincoln-Douglas Debates decided the presidency. And the Dred Scott case helped Lincoln beat Douglas in those famous sessions. But by the time the debates - and the election - were over, war was imminent. It would be a war to define freedom. A war that would kill 620,000 Americans.

And now, back to St. Louis. Everyone knows of the social and racial unrest that have unfolded in nearby Ferguson. But not many Americans know that, just blocks away, in the Calvary Cemetery in Florissant, is Dred Scott's grave.

There, his gravestone is covered in pennies left by visitors. It's thought they link Dred's memory with Lincoln - and they attest to the heroic efforts of both men against slavery and social injustice.

Poverty, racism, and social injustice in America are widespread, complicated, and longstanding problems. They are neither socially unilateral nor can they be fixed with existing federal programs.

Dred's grave. Ferguson. The Arch. All part of St. Louis.

Looking through the gateway arch, out across the Mississippi River, are the vast tracts of land that Lewis and Clark explored. But, sadly, there are also new lands. Deserts. Deserts of jobs, of food, of affordable housing. Deserts of fairness and justice.

I've seen those deserts. Growing up on the South side of Chicago and subsequently working in places like Detroit and Flint, I've seen poor neighborhoods that stretch to the horizon. I've wondered about unemployment and despair in those places. And about whether the people living there can feel real, everyday hope for their future.

For those cities and others like Ferguson, perhaps their voices will eventually be heard. How and when change will unfold is unknown, but it's inevitable. For all of us, I hope the solution - this time - is one that can be peaceful, planned, and embraced.

Until then, when we look at the Arch, we should be reminded of the juggernaut of change that Dred Scott started in 1857.

And we should remember that in it's shadow, we'll find the troubled city of Ferguson ... and the paradox of Dred Scott's gravestone - a marble marker adorned with copper pennies and the eternal company of Abraham Lincoln.

The man I know in you

If I could only find a steam-punk time travel machine in a dusty attic somewhere, I'd spin the dials to take me back to the year 2000.

To a chilly fall day at a Chicago skate park.



I'd sneak up to the edge of the concrete track, lean on the chain- link fence and look for a familiar six-year-old among the tall, gangly teenagers.

The beautiful blonde one, his cheeks chapped and rosy-red. The one with the skinned knees and bruises. My son, timeless and innocent - fearless and confident.

Tommy.

Back then, at the skate park, 6-year-old Tommy was an epically unusual equal among those lanky, edgy, swearing teenagers. Because he didn't fear the fall or the challenge. And it was a place where he could be himself - and they loved the kid whose swagger made them feel cooler.

At night, he'd sit at our kitchen table and make his skinny friends custom tees using my old white Hanes t-shirts and indelible markers. Tommy's new clothing line, featuring skateboard company logos, was a must-have outfit for the skateboard clique.

Those shirts were genuine and pure - and thus, wondrously cool. Just like Tommy.

I think the junior-high skaters saw what I saw. And with my time travel machine, I want to see it again. I want to take pictures on my iPhone and show them to anyone who doubts the soul and the heart and destiny.

Because, like a reborn soul, it seemed that Tommy couldn't wait to get life started again. Pierre Corneille, a 17th-century dramatist, penned, "True, I am young, but for souls nobly born, valor doesn't await the passing of years." And what I saw in Tommy couldn't wait.

Tommy couldn't even wait 9 months. Couldn't wait to walk around the backyard, hunting bugs and trouble and the neighbor's dog while clutching a bottle of apple juice in his teeth like Churchill would a cigar.

He looked inexplicably cool in diapers and a baby t-shirt. He didn't have time for silly things like naps or toys. He wanted the keys to my car. He wanted my phone, my power tools, and my computer. My art supplies. My heart.

On the basketball court in our driveway, Tommy would whip off his shirt and challenge his older brother Andrew and me to a game. Him against us. He would crash into Andrew and make wild shots. He'd usually finish the game with a split lip.

But every game, Andrew and I would find ways to help him score.

Because we both knew winning meant nothing - and that Tommy's spirit meant everything.

In sixth grade, Tommy was an offensive lineman on the 7th-grade football team. He wore giant shoulder-pads and a recklessly fun attitude. More than once, I'd have to call a teammate's father and apologize for Tommy's idea of a sixth-grade football hit in practice.

In games, he would smile as the opposing 7th graders taunted and threatened him. Then he'd run to the sidelines inappropriately high-fiving his team as they helped the other kid off the field.  They just didn't know Tommy.

Vince Lombardi, a football guy, said: "Leaders are not born, they are made."

Well, Lombardi was wrong.

Leaders are born - as souls - and their lives flow toward that destiny. They are drawn to challenges and causes, purpose and justice. They are pulled, pointed and directed. Perhaps their journey takes them to an urban classroom. Perhaps to a law school in Baltimore or Washington, D.C. Or to a boardroom.

Sometimes these journeys take a sort of karmic detour. Before Marissa Meyer became the CEO at Yahoo, she was a grocery clerk. Michael Dell, of Dell Computers, was a dishwasher. Warren Buffet was a paperboy who claimed his bike as a deduction on his first tax return. Jeff Bezos, CEO of Amazon, was a summer camp leader.



Or, maybe your detour is to spend a summer as a busboy in a tourist town. To get ready take on bigger things. To see, to remember.

My 6-year-old skateboarder is now 21, and he sometimes forgets who he was - who he is - under the weight of the world.

Of course, he's still innocent, generous, and creative. His soul is still infused with leadership and fearlessness. With charisma.

You see, that's why I need the time machine. To snap some pictures from the chain link fence.

To tell him, "You need to remember who you are."

"I need to show you that - if you look at your past, Tommy - you can see your destiny."

To tell him again and again, "I love you for the man I know in you."

A place too high

I've been up here for a few years now.

Here in Appalachia, with its mountains of sadness and antiques and coal. In the hills of the high desert, climbing red rocks in Sedona. Looking for artifacts and aliens and God's voice.

Here, on the Sunshine Bridge, driving through slanting sunlight and lemon yellow pillars of wire. Top down, flying on the salty wind across the aquamarine whitecaps.

And here, at my window, looking at coral sunsets every night. Trying to understand a language that Whitman and Keats couldn't speak. Neither could Bob Dylan or Bob Marley, even after sitting in the sand sharing enlightenment.

I can't speak it either.  You gotta do more drugs than Dylan or Marley or me.

But I know who might. Tim Leary, Harvard psychologist and the sixties hippie of all hippies. While he probably walked around with mushrooms in his pockets, he claimed they were the source of shamanic power and deep metaphysical truth.

Leary once said that he learned more "in the five hours after taking ... mushrooms than ... in the preceding 15 years of studying and doing research in psychology." 

What did he learn? About eight levels, or circuits, of consciousness. He described the first four circuits as the basic psychological skills needed by human beings - such as survival, problem-solving, and socializing. That each circuit could be clearly and astonishingly sensed, and sometimes triggered, by specific types of chemicals - such as opiates, marijuana, alcohol and sexual hormones.

Leary also described the big leap to the higher circuits.  The ones that the shamans use. Four levels, progressively associated with sociosexual knowledge, telepathy, ESP, life extension, and immortality.

The final circuit, according to Leary, is that which is sensed in near-death experiences: it is a fusion to quantum consciousness.

This highest circuit can be found described in nearly all major religions.  It is the equivalent of a heaven, a paradise, a knowing of all things. A consciousness among all souls. It's what Leary really sought.

Levels five and higher can be reached with Iboga, a root used in West Africa, which leads to an eight hour metaphysical journey.

It can be reached with Peyote, a mushroom which brought native Americans intense transcendental experiences - some lasting up to 10 hours.

And with Ayahuasca, which means “vine of the souls.” Ayahuasca is such an intense hallucinogen that it seems to hurl the user into a dimension that often requires spiritual and clinical supervision.

I'm not going up to five. I can't get that high. I need to settle for healing and understanding and old-fashioned four level learning.

But the truth isn't in the mountains or among the red rocks or on the bridge, either.

I think it's written in the sunset.  There are streaks of meaning there, if I can lose myself in the colors and the salty breeze and in my stirred faith.  And in the quantum language of the sun's rays.

I can't understand the words - yet.

But it's my journey. John's journey. For now.

The Power of Secrets

Love needs secrets. 

We need to know that the person sitting next to us, sharing that glass of wine, also shares our humanness and vulnerability. That they've shared our dreams and our failures. That they wish what we wish. We need to hear these longings and desires and vision.

But sharing these views, learning these things about each other - is so incredibly difficult.  It's like learning Chinese - hard to understand, to express, to communicate. 

Maybe this is because we continually try to brand our lives on social media - curating ourselves on Facebook and Pinterest and Instagram. 

But we need more than that. We need secrets. A man needs a woman's secrets like he needs her tenderness. 

But, that's rarely what we get. And rarely what we give in kind. We're imperfect, afraid, sensitive, cautious and suspicious. We carry histories of hurt like stacks of broken hearts, teeteringly arranged on our backs like a Dr. Seuss drawing.   

Fortresses built of these fears and suspicions make for impenetrable hearts. A man won't waste a winter trying to tear down these battlements. 

No. 

He wants to meet the princess in the forest and hear her breathlessly whisper how she can sneak him into the tower. 

He wants to hear secrets.  They are an irresistible gesture of kindness, tenderness and shared longing.

In 1997, Arthur Aron, from the SUNY Stonybrook, published “The Experimental Generation of Interpersonal Closeness,” (http://bit.ly/1F60DLK), a study on how two strangers might develop interpersonal affections (love) through a process of discovery and sharing.

In other words, he developed a verbal Petri dish that can grow love. It's the foundation for the iPhone app "36 questions on the way to love." The app of learning secrets. Of sharing.

It is evidence that this longing for learning truths and secrets and feelings - dreams and vulnerabilities - is just the right kind of environment for something really good to happen.

The secrets are a kind of metaphysical power, like the 1.21 gigawatts that Dr. Brown’s Back to the Future Delorean needed to travel in time and space.

If we take Aron's questions - and our soul's desire to learn secrets - we are connecting cables from the lightning rod on the clock tower directly to our souls. Waiting for lightning to strike.

And we’ll either get electrocuted or the car will fly.

I say plug the cables in and whisper your secrets in my ear.