Eat, Pray, Whaah?! Part 1.

It all started on a cold windy night the first week of January 2014. As I peered out the window into the crisp dark air, I pulled the cotton blanket I received for Christmas closer to my skin…feeling the warmth of peace.

I felt gratitude: While I enjoyed a long winter break, I rested in the safety of a warm house far away from the normal stresses of life. But as blessed as I felt, I found myself still wanting. It wasn’t a material want, but a desire to manifest more. So I made a simple request: “Lord, I want to do something fun! Help me find something fun.”

The answer? Start a blog.

It was my first experience into the blogging world. What better way to get attention than hidden behind a screen in the safety of my own room. Even with all the layers of security, there was still a sense of vulnerability.

From a creative standpoint, I was able to express and design the blog exactly how I wanted. The layout of each post was simple: start with a bible quote (the Divine), write about a specific life experience (me), and end the post with a pop video (worldly). Very simple, very basic but it kept me inspired.

Throughout the journey, I blogged mostly about the past…processing it, crying over it, making fun of it…. Little did I know where an exercise in blind faith would lead.

In the summer of 2015, on a marine layered morning, having slept in way too long, I came across a Facebook post. Author Elizabeth Gilbert announced the upcoming 10th anniversary of her travel narrative Eat, Pray, Love. To commemorate the event, fans were asked to write on how the book impacted their life. The top fifty entries would win a place in a companion book entitled: Eat, Pray, Love Made Me Do It.

I didn’t hesitate. I’d done my own version of the retreat back in 2010. I submitted my version without a second thought. It was something fun and required minimal work. By August of 2015, I received an email confirming my place in the book. An editor from New York would soon contact me to begin the editing process.

I was floored.

Crank. Out. Content.

I reached a personal goal…content. I have no background experience as a writer or with professional blogging but I wanted to try something new. With a couple of short stories whirling around in my head, I decided to start with WordPress as a motivator.

My next step is to work with an editor to polish up each story for grammar, clarity and ideas. I’ll be using Fivver for the help. It’s fascinating what technology can help us create.

Here are the six stories I’d like to start with:

That Pink, Wavy, Elongated Tongue; The Grubb Twins; The Loneliness Cold; Mr. Patrone; The Ketchup Stain; That Boy; That Girl.

This part will take a bit of time, which is fine. Summer break is in about two months and I hope to have this project completed by then. All I can do now is open up my heart and allow the evolution process to begin.

Also a quick shout out to all the twenty – four followers who have taken the time to either follow or like my content…I really appreciate you.

I Feel. You.

Those days when I feel you nigh…I sit up-right…forearms resting on my inner thigh…

I Feel. You.

When the exact words I want to say…get caught up in the tumultuous fray…

I Feel. You.

They said you were a simple man…”One who would understand”…even if there were no master plan…

I Feel. You.

Our responsibilities were not the same…you married and chose the family frame…while I decided to go insane…

I Feel. You.

Now that I am you when I was just a kid…a midlife man with feelings hid… although no wife or child to do my bid…

I Feel. You.

Today I know what it’s like to be a man…a boy trapped inside who doesn’t understan’…the responsibility of being a leader…when the voices outside just wants to jeer and cheater.

I Feel. You

I feel you dad…I feel you dad…every second of every day…when times get tough and I’ve lost my way…I follow exactly what you say…

“Just kneel down son and pray.”

That Girl; That Boy

Oleander Elementary: 1981

Long natural golden hair…the kind that was allowed to grow since birth. Fresh-faced skin with tiny freckles scattered from the hill of her nose down to the sides of her cheeks.

“Carrie, can you take this to the office please?”

Her hair’s natural highlights allowed the eight year old into the most exclusive places on campus: the teacher’s lounge, where all previous and future teachers praised her graciousness. The principal’s office, along with his secretaries — the ones who couldn’t help how adorable she looked behind the desk.

“Carrie can you collect the test papers?”

She dominated the enviable classroom jobs. A responsibility handed over to the mini adult with organizational skills far beyond her years. Because of this, she was allowed to walk around the room without the slightest raise of a hand.

She was the smarty who gave extra special care and attention to those students who had no clue as to why they were in school to begin with.

“Carrie, can you reteach this small group? They don’t understand repeated addition.”

I was in that small group.

Carrie was that girl when I was enrolled in Ms. Kelly’s third-grade class at Oleander Elementary.


Spinning round and round and round…with the back of my left knee folded over the jungle gym bar. My right leg stretched out, guiding the number of rotations while my hands clasped together over my shin to keep the balance.

This was where I excelled the most…the jungle gym. Here was the place for everyone — girls as well as boys — whether you were smart or lazy, athletic or clumsy. All of us gathered here for one reason: to release the pent up energy from the struggles of sitting through a thirty minute lesson. There was no place for critiquing who did what, or how things were done…it was a race to complete as many activities as possible before it was time to go in.

…until Carrie came along.

Just her presence alone would part the Red Sea of students clamouring for an opportunity to glide freely on the swings. Her energy, the deciding factor as to who was first in line at the tether ball court. All Carrie had to do was appear and things would magically change for the better…or in my case…the worse.

It only took one phrase, said out loud, in front of a bustling recess crowd to change the carefully chosen words etched on the early years of my tabula rasa.

“Eddie how come you play with girls and not boys?”

Before then, no one ever noticed or even cared that I was a jungle gym star. As far as I knew, no one else noticed that every single person in line behind me was a girl…until Carrie pointed it out.

“Yeah Eddie, why do you play with girls?” another observer judged.

One by one, each word took down every high kick, cart wheel and somersault I had mastered up to that point. While the crowd closed in, the birth of my passive/aggressive nature broke free as I racked my brain for an answer. There was no answer…at least not at the moment. All I could do was shrug my shoulders and walk away before the start of a scene.

Soon after, I couldn’t escape Carrie’s piercing observation. From that moment, if Carrie wanted to play, all she had to do was point out the obvious:

“Eddie, isn’t that a girls game?”


The taunts from Carrie had escalated to such a degree that I no longer sought out the calming effects of the gymnastic routines cultivated through hard work. I avoided the “girls” jungle gym at all cost. I couldn’t manage the judgemental looks as I approached the blood of my heart, the skin to my bone routines I had worked so hard to craft. Every time the sole of my shoe touched the sand filled playground, each third grade eyeball formed an invisible fence with a sign that read, “Get Out!”

In its place I found solitude and safety within the trees. After lunch I’d run to them as if they were huge soldiers ready to guard me from the politics of the afternoon playground. I’d hide behind them, protected, as I watched all the kids and Carrie from afar.

Every afternoon Carrie would sit idly on the lonely bar stationed between the classroom portables and playground. It was an arched shape piece of metal that really had no use except for the one or two stragglers who used it as a go-to when all the equipment was occupied. Carrie used it as her throne. She’d sit on top with her feet dangling close to the ground as the gleam in her eye carefully monitored the playground.

Nestled within the safety of the wooden soldiers, Carrie sat as an open target. A vulnerable, open target on which I could release all the pent up energy I had stuffed inside without any hope of release. That energy was a force. As I started to move past the trees and onto the grain filled sand dunes of Oleander Elementary’s primary playground, something inside of me snapped.

I, too, had become an open target. At any moment Carrie could jump off her throne and come at me with her giggles and highlights as she shamed me back into the trees. But that day, I wasn’t having it. I was determined.

As I approached the throne, I had no idea what to do next…her energy was powerful. I felt my determination weakening, melting away quickly as she came closer within sight. By the time I was in front of her, there were no words to describe how I felt; no language to communicate the hurt she had caused over the last couple of weeks.

So…I pushed her.

I pushed her off the bar…and down she went. The back of her head hitting the ground first. Luckily it was sand. Luckily, after the fall she cried immediately.

From that day on, I became that boy: the one who pushed Carrie off the jungle gym bar.

Ing. Ring. Pring. Spring.

Spring is almost here and it’s a gorgeous day in Southern California.

After spending countless hours at work all while moving into a new apartment, I’m definitely ready for the relaxing sounds of Spring Break.

I’d like to share with you — my 20+ followers — a couple of pictures snapped around the property earlier today.

I hope you enjoy them! See you soon.

Tear Droop
Being Flight
Copper the Line
Sun Soakers

What Is Gay Ghetto Rising?

Methodist Church; 2015

Week after week, as she nervously entered the room, Ginny would follow the same routine: a quick motion of hellos around the room with minimal eye contact; but with the intention of making a quick beeline towards the sofa. As she nestled into her own self-created womb, her confession would begin:

“Over the last twenty years, I’ve done everything I could for this marriage; I don’t think I can do much more.”

“I waited for him to be a better father to our kids.”

“Now that he’s sober, he’s dedicated his life to the program…when will it be time for me?”

“When is it going to be my turn?”

As I sat across the room, a breeze from her depleted soul wisped right past me. The air pocket of hope that stood the test of time, for better or worse, through thick and thin…was released and set free from pure exhaustion. All that was left was an emptiness that needed to be felt…and felt…and felt.


Although Ginny and I were two different people, we shared a connection. I remember what it’s like to hold onto something so tightly; unaware of an outside perspective. I’ve wrestled with the understanding that if I decided to stay in a situation, it was by choice and my responsibility to do the work. But I couldn’t expect the same in return from someone other than myself. I’ve sat with the frustration of knowing no matter what measures I took, I didn’t have the power to change an event or a person.

As I wait for the next step of inspiration, I’d like to set an intention for my blog: to make connections with those who’ve had to rise from the center of their own depleted soul.

Rising With a Pure Heart