Shiny, Red Apples

I want to share something with you today that may blow your mind, like, outta the park. You might want to sit down. Are you ready? Okay. Here it is.

Sin...is a choice.

Now, don't just say, "Well...of course it is, Tony." Nope. Let it percolate for a minute. Because, if you really mull it over, you realize that it's one of those things whose truth is obvious when observed but quite deceptive when being lived out. In other words, when we're busy doing the business of living. Because there are shiny red apples all around us. An orchard of them, really.

Most of us haven't stolen (except maybe on our taxes), or murdered anyone (except those times when we used our words to kill their self esteem or "put them in their place"), or committed adultery (except in our minds). Most of us think that we're free and clear of "the biggies" (with "think" being the operative word).

But did you know that worry is a sin? And fear? And doubt? How about anger? Judgement? Unforgiveness? Bitterness? Or, my favorite, pride? All choices. All with consequences. All constructs of willful misconduct. Yet still, all futile in the face of a Loving God who sits down to gently untie the knots that we tie ourselves up in every day and whispers, "Shhhh. Why, child? Why do you keep choosing these things?"

In this holiday season it's easy to get wrapped up in the garland and shiny lights and totally forget the reason for the season; namely that a little boy was born in a manger, cried out in the first pains of his humanity, and that through him God crept into the world to tap each one of us on the shoulder, and - through the life, love and sacrifice of his Son - remind us to choose wisely.

Because, without a doubt, it's our choice.

Ayla Wanted to Know

MEET AYLA :)

The other day I was at Carousel Ranch in Santa Clarita, CA, a place which provides equestrian therapy for special needs children. For many years my son went there, before he decided to stop. This month, out of nowhere, he asked to return. His mother and I gladly obliged his request, and as I was walking around the property noticing the amazing changes that had taken place in the three years of our absence (the arena is now covered, a play area had been constructed, landscaping was everywhere) my thoughts were interrupted by a voice.

“Hi. How are you?” a little girl near me asked, the question like a hug, because it was warm, and you could tell that she meant it.  I looked down. She was tiny, but she had a smile so big that it nearly tipped her over. 

“I’m fine. How are you?” I replied. 

“Good. It’s a nice day!” she marveled, nodding her head vigorously, as if her excitement alone could make it so, just in case I was having a bad day. 

We chatted. I learned that her name was Ayla. She learned that mine was Tony. She told me of the horses that she rode and I told her that my son went there, and loved the horses too. She wanted to tell me of her favorite instructor and a funny story about one of her lessons, and as she did, bit by bit, my heart began to swell, because that’s what genuine human interaction does: it opens the heart.

As she spoke, I wondered if this little girl who was supposedly “different” was not the most “normal” of all. I didn’t wonder this in any philosophical or altruistic way, not in a way that could be perceived as being patronizing or condescending. This is not a “puff-piece-feel-good-and-humble” sort of blog today. I’m serious. What if God means for all of us to care about each other with warmth, look at each other with love, smile at each other with genuine encouragement and talk to each other in  fellowship? If so, then the only ones that are really “disabled” in this world are the rest of us, you and me, the “normal” ones who are so good at creating labels and keeping safe distances.

So often I have noticed members of the special needs community (we’ve even given them their own "community") display raw and vulnerable human spirit that is mesmerizing. It reaches out and touches, but embraces as well. Ayla doesn't care about differences; she's in the business of similarities. She's there to remind us that it really is as simple as noticing something we all share, like the sun, and saying something we all know how to say, like “Hi”, and wondering something deeply and genuinely, like “How are you?”

MOMENTS LIKE THIS HAPPEN EVERYDAY AT CAROUSEL RANCH. THEIR ANNUAL "Carousel Wishes & Valentine Kisses" FUNDRAISER IS UNDERWAY. $5, $10...it ALL helps.
Please give: http://carouselwishesandvalentinekisses.causevox.com/anthony-faggioli

Beneath A Sycamore Tree

Yesterday a forty-eight year old man wandered the graveyard at Inglewood Cemetery, a bouquet of flowers hanging from one hand, a map of the plots in the other, unable to find his mother’s grave.  Back and forth he went, up and down the rows of markers, finding name after name, but not the name he was seeking. Already emotional at even being there, he stopped to take a deep breath. Wasn’t this how he’d spent most of his life with his mother: seeking and not finding? Yes. It was.

Out of nowhere came a soft, angelic voice. “Excuse me sir, do you need help?”

The man, startled a bit, looked up to see a young black girl in her early twenties, wearing a faded orange blouse, her prominent cheekbones set beneath dark eyes that were soft with concern. In her arms was a newborn baby, fast asleep, swaddled in a blanket. Clearing his throat, the man managed a reply, “I’m looking for my mother,” he said, “But I can’t find her. I have a map, but…”

She nodded politely. “Can I help?” And the man nodded back. “Sure.” 

The girl called over a girlfriend that was in a parked car nearby and the two of them went up and down the various rows, helping the man, looking for the same name he was. All to no avail. Sadness now began mixing with feelings of embarrassment and despair. Then, another voice called out to the man, this one in Spanish. “Which plot number are you looking for?” It was one of the groundskeepers, a look of pity on his face and a shovel in his hand. How does he know I speak Spanish, the man wondered. They talked. The man told the groundskeeper the number, and after a bit, at long last, the man was led with these three angels to the name he was looking for.

Then? Instantly, respectfully, they all left him alone. The man felt tired. He looked at the letters that made up half of his soul and dropped his head and cried, long and hard, the heavy kind of sobs that hurt your ribs when you try to hold them in. This had been a long time coming. Eleven months, sixteen days. But it was the right day, the day that would’ve been his mother’s 77^th birthday. The man placed the flowers; tulips, daisies, roses and his mother’s favorite, plumerias, on the headstone. Then he sat down and began to inventory his grief.

The man thought of all the hard times with his mother, all the moments of disconnect, misunderstanding, hurt and confusion. He plucked all the “why’s” out of the sky around his head and spread them out on the tall, cool grass before him, and was about to indulge in a garden of regrets, when, instead, he thought of the young girl and her baby. What a picture they were: a mother who had given life and was now continuing to give it, nursing that baby with coos and soft songs of sleep and peace. Hadn’t this been the man and his own mother once, forty eight years ago? Yes. It had. 

And that’s all that really mattered.

So, there beneath the wide spread arms of a sycamore tree, the man got on his knees and prayed. Then he knelt over and put his forehead to his mother’s tombstone and told her, one by one, every single thing that she’d done right in his life. He thanked her and told her how much he loved her, in soft, soft whispers. Like a lullaby. 

Then? He walked to his car and drove away.

Tail Lights

Last week I went back in time, to my high school days, when driving to the gym or work was a “hold your breath” moment every time I turned the key to my car’s ignition. My car's not new, but it’s not all that old either. But one morning I had a dead battery. Just like that. Either I had mistakenly left something on or the battery was due for a change. AAA jumped the car, I drove it to my mechanic and…wallah! No problem. Until three days later. Dead battery again, and another call to AAA, who jumped me again, ran a diagnostic on the alternator, pronounced it as fine and recommended I take it back to the mechanic. I did. Two days of expert detective work later and my mechanic was dumbfounded. Battery fine. Alternator fine. Starter fine. No shorts. Then he uttered the dreaded words no man wants to hear: “You’re.Gonna.Have.To.Take.It.To.The.Dealer”. Cue the Darth Vader music. 

Now….me? I barelllly got a C- in auto shop back in high school. But, still, all along, I’d been exasperating everyone with my complaining about the fact that one of my tail lights was out. Could that be the cause? The AAA tech, my mechanic, his junior mechanic…they all looked at me with that smile that all men share when one of them is ready to pull your Man Card for being a wussy and then give you a time out. It’s a look that says, “Silly man. You didn’t do very well in auto shop, did you?” Well. No. I was busy writing stories, dumb ass. How’d you do in English? Never mind. I can see that you misspelled three words on the invoice here, so let’s call it even. I didn’t really say that of course. I’m too kind. Okay. I didn’t really say it because I still wanted the car fixed. Otherwise,  I woulda been small enough to say it. I admit.

But when faced with the dealer as my next option? I wanted that tail light checked no matter how silly I sounded. Guess what we found? Not just a blown bulb, but an entirely melted fixture surrounding it. The junior mechanic gasped and said, “Damn! That could cause a short!” The senior mechanic glared at him. I shook my head at everyone and strutted around the car a few times like a rooster. Fixture and bulb changed. Problem solved. I had just dodged a $1,000 bill (because that’s where all dealers start, purveyors of human misery that they are) for $14. Since my children tell me that I’m the Italian Mr. Crabs, this made me weep with joy (when no one else was around of course).

But later I began to wonder: how many of our problems, mental, emotional, spiritual or otherwise…these massive, all-encompassing issues that weigh us down and beg for all sorts of human diagnostics (meds, therapists, etc.)…are really just “tail light” issues? Depressed a lot? How many times a week are you downing a glass of wine or a few beers (aka “depressants”)? Lost and disillusioned? How’s your prayer life going? Are you talking to God? Are you listening for the answers? Feeling unloved? Have you learned to love yourself? Because no one else can truly love you until you do. Instead they'll be loving the person they think you are, instead of the person you know yourself to be.

I’m not saying that some issues aren’t very, very serious. Some surely are.  But some just aren’t as complicated as we think. Sometimes it's just that a small light in you has gone out, and if you're insistent enough to check it out? You can shine bright again.

Taking Selfies with Judy Garland

In the world of dream journaling I am, for all intents and purposes, a mute. I can rarely remember any of my dreams, and if I do at all, it’s usually a scattered fragment here or there. But last night was different; last night I dreamed of taking selfies with Judy Garland. 

I was at the Universal Studios Theme Park, modern day, so it couldn’t have been the real Judy Garland (may she rest in peace), it was a character actor that was playing her, though I must say, she was a dead ringer. Judy wore bright red lipstick and that trademark white and blue checkered dress, with her hair in pigtails. As she was making her way to the center of the park, I intercepted her and asked for a selfie. A look of mild concern came over her face. My wife wasn’t with me, nor were either of my kids, so I must’ve looked like a middle aged perv or something. But she agreed, and as I put my arm around her and noticed how tiny she was, I did a Cowardly Lion impression, which made her laugh, and instead of one selfie I got three. Then? I thanked her and she skipped away.

So, what was that all about? I can only guess. But I’m sure my grief therapist will have a field day with it. To therapists dreams are like coffee; they’re all about awakening, coming alive and breathing deep. In case you don’t read my blogs, my mother died recently. Well, last December. But death is no respecter of persons and grief has no expiration date, so though I’m doing better, I’m still not well, and December might as well be June. But I don’t think it’s a coincidence that in my dream I didn't see myself as the Tin Man looking for a heart, nor the Scarecrow looking for a brain. No. I was the Cowardly Lion, looking for his courage. 

We could go further, of course. We could talk about how The Wizard of Oz was one of my Mom’s favorite movies. We could ask why Dorothy wasn’t carrying her basket, and why Toto was nowhere to be seen. Or…why was it that Dorothy was afraid of me when I first approached? In the last selfie she pressed her cheek hard against mine and gave the biggest smile of all, so at least she left happy. Yeah. I think so. And...did I mention that Dorothy was my mother's name?

No dream remembered is one that’s meant to be forgotten. Keep that in mind the next time you awaken with images and impressions still fresh in your eyes. And, oh yeah, I know that some of you that read this blog are in mourning as well. If so, I cannot recommend short term grief therapy more. If for no other reason than that it has helped me to dream again.

Tell Me A Story

Stories. We each have one. When you were born, how you were raised, who you fell in love with for the first time, how you learned this, or forgot that, or were hurt. From my perspective, as a writer, everyone I look at doesn’t really have a story. They are a story. Prior scenes and chapters in their lives have led to the person now before me, chatting about a broken heart over coffee or rejoicing in their child’s 4 for 4 at bats in a little league game. It is no different when I look in the mirror; one moment sad, the next happy. We vacillate wildly, don’t we, you and I and everyone else? Yes. We do indeed. 

Every part of our story is a journey, documented and retained. Some stories tell of long stretches of glorious victory and, oh, how we must savor those, and remember of how we pushed on, and reveled in that magical state called “peace”. Other journeys were treks across vast wastelands of darkness, pain and sorrow. The feet carried, and the knees bent, all in an effort to get through, before the soul broke.

I've blogged in the past about how we're not alone, that we should lean; on family, on friends, and most of all, on God. The truth of the matter, though, is that some journeys are meant to be taken solo. I’ve been on one for seven months now.  I’ve finally exhausted my intellect and spent my will, which is a good thing. It means now, at last, I’m ready to listen and be loved again. I’m ready to reach out and grab hold, instead of avoid and push away. It’s a bit of a mystery, no? That God brings us to places, sometimes the deepest caverns within ourselves, often more than once, to show us that we can make it out, that we can indeed close one chapter in our lives, which helps us begin another. All in the context of an overall theme of "I Am". All in a character arc that reads beneath the stars.