It would seem that my friend Burt is one of 113 souls in totality who walk the earth today having experienced the perfect childhood. Or so he claims. One of the fortunate few. No trauma, drama, disfunction junction, or the hot and steamy breath of complex PTSD on his neck. Yet who could gather such data, much less factor just how many of these pedigree exist? The parents of Burt were nonetheless spiritualists, kind souls and seekers of the greatest meaning of life. No voice-raisers or finger-pointers under that roof.
The remainder of our population’s parents? Perhaps not so much.
That would place me as a child of remainders, parents not on any sort of enlightened path. Stressed and over-extended is more in line, connecting difficult dots to money to keep us in groceries and olives in their martinis. Doing the best they could in the ways they knew how.
Yet I state without envy, good for Burt. For Uncle Luca dropped into my world, with no time to spare and no margin for error, I might add. Age fifteen found me in a logjam of disfunction and emotionally imprinted. But came he did. To finish the job of raising me, my father noted in an offhand comment one afternoon.
To be clear, he was not a brother to my father or my mother. But an uncle of sorts nonetheless, distant to the outer reaches of the family tree. An old soul from ages ago, landed to ease the burdens of a boy on the verge. One of his own was in need. He and I came to be connected in ways that transcended the shared blood that coursed through us.
He materialized under a diamond-hard azure Colorado sky, a warm fall afternoon of yellowing aspens, crunchy grass and burnt red scrub. Summer dying, awaiting a burial under winter months and deep snowfall.
Luca was both brash and still, a mystery and a master, a stylist, an alchemist, an observer and engager. Few who crossed his path in any sort of significant way felt unmoved by his presence, be it with a whisper or moonie howl. A reader of rooms who knew what was in my mind and on my tongue before I even yakked it.
And did he ever rock an ensemble. Color stacked on texture, nubby trousers and bright tees, starchy collared shirts and textured vests, a splash of scarf under fine overcoats over chunky boots and belts. A thin line of gold at a braided silver bracelet and one thick ring at a finger roped it all together. What he wore, he owned. Just beyond 6 feet he was lean and watchful.
And first laying eyes on me, he observed a boy concealed, cautious, very nearly feral. The whites of his eyes seen far back in the dark of a carve-out against a wooded slope.
In those thick woods shouldering the hillsides hard by our ski lodge that my parents built up out of the rich red-black soil, running brooks fed the meadows of lush grass and pop of flowers that carpeted the Colorado high country before feeding our big river. A river that tumbled and rounded once squared up rocks of quartz and granite. It scoured and defined our glacial valley and ran cold and clear all year long. Aspens and evergreens of white pine and red spruce presided over scrub oak and sage. An ecosystem watching over its own.
Luca discovering me remains a mystery that I question on occasion, and yet do not. As I peered out from my hillside in the deep woods, a zip-lock appeared, moving top to bottom. Luca stepped through the opening before turning back to slide the zip-lock back upward where it promptly faded from sight.
“What?!! How!?” A clump of questions crowding my young mind, fading soon after under his look of assessment, holding me with his eyes.
I blinked, fully perplexed, sensing in him curiosity and a welcoming, an adult who would show up for me in ways I would not fathom for some time. Apostle-like, a personal partisan that I had not experienced in any great measure.
My name? Arran. As a boy it felt odd and was spelled funny. Confirmed on the school yard when it prompted scorn from an older kid, “Hey ass-man, what’s with the goofy name!?”
Luca: “Goofy!? Tha’s not goofy boy. That is a fine Scottish title I’ll have you know. It’s meanin’ is ‘brave hero.’ Carry pride in it, revel in the history of it. There’s a fine lineage of Arrans that we spring from, including my own pa.”
Arran: “Your father’s name..?”
Luca: “That’s right. And his grandfather’s. My pa, now there was man who knew his way in the world.
Arran: “What’s that mean..?”
Luca: “It means that he served his people. He gave a hand to those in need, and gave others a kick in the can in need of the boot. Said it woke them from the trance that was holding them back. I believe you all call it ‘tough love.’ He was velvety, until he wasn’t. He led a village, loved many and was revered by more. He was the standard.” He paused to assess me. “Be ready first light tomorrow, I’ve got plans for us.”
That night in his bed, Arran is edgy, distressed. Shadows track across his room, following the moon’s path. Angst often visits him in the quiet of night. When activities cease and he is left with his many thoughts. Thoughts that have no business mucking around with a boy of fifteen.
Morning breaks and in the graveled drive, Luca sits in a fine MG two-seater, charcoal in color with seats of worn red leather, a soft top folded away reveals the little convertible. Chrome wire wheels glint the sun. Arran appears and Luca grins big, “Load up boy, we’re burnin’ daylight!” Arran hesitantly gets in the car, the tires spit gravel as Luca drops the clutch. And they are in the wind. Eyes on the road with nary a side-eye glace, Luca sees that Arran is troubled.
And then his lilt that lives forever on in me:
“Ay, boy.
The monsters of the mind will come with a tap on your shoulder,
they will whisper, then screech and beseech until heard
provoke a fit, revoke a joy
evoke a wobble, a buckle, a funk
they need you to join and shore up their numbers
What then does it all represent? Coded messages heaven sent to never relent, a rejoinder I say that though today you be green and fresh to it all, you are mighty in heart with a powerful call
For you are of the clan!”
Luca, I came to learn later, in Scottish annals was known as the “bringer of light.”
Turns out as well that he’d reached some acclaim for a small advice column he wrote under the pen name of Gentleman Jim. One day appearing in a toss of small-town mountain newspapers. Newspapers so inconsequential and lacking in meaningful content that my father referred to them as “seed catalogues,” or “fish wrappers.” Soon enough however, his words stacked up in the likes of the Miami Herald, the Mercury News and Kansas City Star. And worlds beyond.
And so it went.
That day we motored along back country roads that wound through our mountainous valleys. The wind through the convertible tempered the warm sun on our faces. The burst of fall color around breathtaking beyond accounting. A grand day indeed.
The glove box contained several of the folded and worn newspapers carrying “Gentleman Jim.” His response to a query in one such paper on personal power prompted a question of mine that somehow felt small. Was he really helping anyone?
Luca: “You must do the work boy. I know of no shortcut to greater consciousness. Navigating out of inner struggle demands degrees of wisdom. And then staying true to that wisdom when the world tests you. Read the examiners, the Eckhart Tolles, the John Bradshaw’s, the Scott Peck’s. Seek out the wiser ones in our world, those with mileage on their tires who will give you their time. Never stop learning, be endlessly curious, know when to defer, trust the small, still voice that speaks to you always. Come to know well your ego and your defenses to prevent them from running away with you. All of this will get you on your way.
Arran: “And what’s the deal with personal power… what is that even about?
Luca: “A fine question! Nothing short of a mighty liberation, that’s what. An unleashing from the plow we’re harnessed to. And start with accountability to your choices. Did you misstep, over step, step out? Look first within and not at the other. What is mine and what is yours? Take ownership of your behavior, cease with the blaming of others for an outcome of your own making.
Be financially independent. Earn your own coin, and don’t overspend the balance. Simple enough, right? I hope the women of the world hear me as well. Financial dependence on a man breeds a blood-red resentment in both parties. A hard road of self-recrimination, it is.”
I considered the density of all he spoke. Trying to hold onto the nuggets..
Luca: “Pledge your intention and do it! When your window opens, step through, do not equivocate, sedate nor prevaricate. Be the constant, make an oath of your word and good sleep will come to you. Conscience clear.
The wind ruffles Arran’s hair as he looks straight on, the broken yellow stripes of the road and hum of the tires a metronome to his contemplation.
Luca: “Speak your truth as you know it to be. And do it with care, rather than nattering on with no consideration that your words be tainted by some personal agenda, some need to please, or a hidden hurt blockin’ you. Think it through boy, then trust that your angels will bring you your talkin’ points.”
Luca: “When you act out, spew vitriol, utter an indignity, be disreputable, then take ownership of it by god and clean it up sooner than later I say. Spare yourself the heartburn of defiance and denial.
I saw where Distressed wrote in the Flagstaff Bee:
“I want to do big things in my life, but I try stuff and get bogged down and discouraged, and ultimately quit when nothing good seems to happen for me. What’s wrong with me?”
Luca: “Dear Distressed: ‘Aye, I get it. A common refrain, this zeal for some fantasy of a gilded short cut. It does not however define you as wrong. Rather, better to change course and embrace the 10,000 hour rule of excellence, and revel in the micro-advances along the way with whatever passionate pursuit you choose. Just ensure that this pursuit does indeed hold your passion. If not, move on. Process, process, Distressed, give of yourself fully to the process. Be mindful as well of attachment to an outcome, some imagined and trumpeted arrival at glory. It’s a thinking that usually will not serve you.”
‘I say to you Distressed, do not falter
Know that grit is writ in your soul,
knit in your brow, never to quit
through the opaque ache of doubt, the wax and the wane of purpose
trust your grit to carry the day
when bloodied and beaten, spit the taste away for to get back in the fray!’”
Mournful from the Rocky Mtn Gazette wrote:
“I feel like hugging someone and crying, but I don’t have anyone. What should I do?”
Lucas: “Now that’s a right shame in’ it? This has become such a thing that a cottage industry was born. Paid cuddlers. They show up to your house to hold you. In turn you Venmo over hug-money. A stranger no less, but hey I get it. It is human contact that we speak of, and that is not to be underestimated. And if you’re feelin’ the lack of it, trust me you’re not alone. So try exploring it with friends or a relative. Be brave and state ‘I would like a hug, how do you feel about that?’ They’ll fess up if it feels right and off you go. Do it, feel it, talk about it.
If you don’t have that person, then your mission is to find them. Your hugger. Take the time to build the trust and the want-to, because we can hug anyone, but is it a pleasurable and connective experience in the end? Many times, no. The long game is nothing short of intimacy. Where a deep hug, and perhaps tears and gratitude for this person flowing both ways is mighty. It is one of our finest treasures, and a mystery to many as it resides at the deep end of the heart. It is shared history, trust, love and respect for the other. It gets no bigger. But it requires effort, honesty and vulnerability. I hope that harmonizes wit’ you, Mournful!”
From the Boise Beacon, Chelsea writes: “I feel weak as a person so much of the time. I wish I knew how to be my own advocate and build inner strength. Any advice?
Luca: “It’s a heroic and rigorous mountain Chelsea, this inner strength. With many routes up. But here is some down and dirty:
Listen more and speak less. That a challenge, without question, as we do love the sound of our own voice, do we not? Not a bad thing though if our words have purpose, color and purity of good intent. The alternative however belongs in the basement on bread and water. Moralizing an issue to within an inch of its life in order to sustain a lack of clarity, to remain muddled and stuck will not serve you.”
“Manage your anger. It’s only a feeling, though deep-seated, and more to do with what’s rooted in our past than what’s in this moment. Notice its passing. Better to breath it in and let it out than act on it, inflicting injury on your person by uttering the unfair and shitty thing. Do that, and now you are in the business of clean up, genuflecting and uttering mea culpas and apologies. Save ‘ur knees, I say!”
“And then try this one on for size: In that teetering moment of anger, the insult welling up and just there on your tongue, bite down on the offense, and then speak to it. Narrate it out..
Me: ‘Ooohhh! I was thisclose to saying the meanest thing to you.
Her: ‘What was it?”
Me: ‘Let’s just say that it was deeply personal and would cut you. And I would regret saying it. And it’s so interesting that as I speak of the urge and the energy of it, I feel a release of pressure from our tiff, my anger fades and I am clear. Not like five minutes ago when I wanted to scratch you and pull your hair! (punctuated by a smile and a wink), and yet, why? And for what, to convince you that I am right?’
Luca: “That, dear Chelsea, is consciousness up close and granular. Zoom out to space and you’re witnessing human evolution. You’ve test-driven a fresh skill to now build on and that can serve you well.”
“Know your strengths. Regard your weaknesses. And alter your perception of what you term a weakness, which carries a negative connotation: ‘I fucked up again, I’m bad at this, shitty at that.’ Inner dialogues running on a loop undermine every last one of us (excepting Burt and the other 112 it would seem). Defeatist tapes that have a forceable horsepower and do immeasurable damage. Recognize the negative ego at work and wean yourself of it for all you’re worth. Override the inner critic with whatever affirmations happen to agree with you. Do this and you build muscle. What was once puny within you now becomes a great capacity! Each episode you make a conscious choice not to succumb to the dark, you become your own creator, fashioning fine new grooves of reasoning and aptitude.
“And be there for your people. Peak health and heightened states of emotional well-being ebb and flow, so count on the universe knocking on your door to be of service when you are surely suffering, be it impacted ear wax, cat scratch fever, bloating, nettling, tooth decay or panic. We feel spent and absolute that there’s nothing left to give, yet it is exactly here when we are called on to rise above our own tribulations. To be muscle-minded, an acquired and hard-earned mental toughness that sees us fully present for others, and for the critical tasks. The whiny, weak narrative of ourselves is too often the one we spin. On occasion it’s true, mostly it is not. Rise above the rendering and we are on our way to an exquisite state of being. Call on this fortitude time and again, experience what it is to ‘get to the other side’ and you will come to know righteous personal power. You establish new history with yourself, a potent way of being and doing.
Be attuned to opportunities to be of service. When low in a state of struggle and questioning your significance, doubts sounding inside your head, one simple act of service can alter your brain chemistry, your outlook, your priorities.
