Tag: Compassion

Searching for Middle Ground. What would Frank Do?

My father, Frank, with just the shirt on his back, fled communist Hungary in 1956 after the failed revolt against the Russians. The Hungarian’s peaceful protest and message in opposition of the communist protocols was met with tanks and bullets.

On October 23,1956 the Hungarian Revolution was born.

At age 21, after 18 days of Russian supremacy and thousands of lost lives, my father abruptly left his country, family and the only life he knew in search of freedom and democracy. He spent 6 weeks in an Austrian refugee camp before being granted a visa to come to America.

statue of liberty
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The home of the free and land of the brave where all were embraced and welcomed. Liberty and justice for all.

It is extremely synchronistic that I was moved to write this on November 10, 2024. It turns out, November 10th was the 68th anniversary of the Hungarians claiming defeat to the Russians and 36th anniversary of when my father did. I was hours into my thoughts before I connected my writing motives with the dates.

I am still trying to reconcile my feelings. Today, yesterday, and the days before, I have been left wondering, What would Frank do?

Frank Kalapos circa 1958 in America

I am speechless, yet full of words. I feel betrayed yet embraced. I am terrified, sad, disappointed, worried, and extremely pensive. I am juggling the most consequential thoughts of my life and haven’t felt this disjointed since embracing the angst of my sexuality.

Clearly, Frank has moved me to these words despite my staunch resistance to speak to anything political or religious on this blog, yet here I go.

After sacrificing every last thing, my father immersed himself in America. He embraced freedom, patriotism, and democracy. He recognized what a gift it was and never took it for granted.

The lens through which he saw life, people, culture, and the differences that walked among them, was open and welcoming. His judgement-free, inclusive and open minded ways were the foundation of my early influences and enabled me to view the world through open eyes.

It was never explained, it just was.

My father’s best friend was a flamboyant German immigrant. He was gay. My brother and I shared our best friend, Tyrone. He was black. We didn’t know the German was gay and we didn’t know Tyrone’s blackness could be of consequence. It just didn’t matter.

Tyrone, Me and Steve circa 1972

He marched in the July 4th parade in Venice, CA.

He encouraged us at the Hare Krishna Festival on Venice Beach in the 70’s to learn and understand other’s religious perspectives.

He waived the American flag as the Olympic torch ran through the streets of L.A. in the summer of 1984.

He raised us to be open minded, inclusive, compassionate, and empathetic souls. He encouraged us to do the right thing even when it wasn’t popular. He guided us through his example and let us find our way.

He listened.

He challenged perspectives through the influence of understanding and respect. He knew it wasn’t a democracy if we were all on the same page. He believed opposites could find middle ground and he could bridge the gap of the largest crevasse with eloquence.

He was such a gift.

So here we are again, What would Frank do?

He would think we are making a Mockery Against Great America. He would be struggling to understand the callus, divisive, hateful, and misguided energy that so emboldens us against each other.

He definitely would not want us to relinquish freedoms we have earned and enjoyed for generations, rather ease up on our convoluted consequential convictions. He would want us to find middle ground, each conceding equally.  

He wouldn’t wallow in the mire. Frank would want me to hang on to hope even in the face of betrayal, hurt and disappointment. It doesn’t right the wrong through those from whom I feel betrayed, rather shifts my energy in a more positive light.

Clearly, his energy is turning over in his grave as it pushes my pen.

Trust me, I am trying to get my glass half full!

I am trying to step over the crevasse before it sucks me in!

I am squinting to find the light at the end of the tunnel!

To my far right friends, I know you, I see you and I love you. I knew what I was stepping into and I chose to stay. It is as innately who you are, as it is innately not who I am, but I chose to stay despite our differences. I see that your choice is for you and not against me.

I am trying to remain hopeful that the consequences of those beliefs do not haunt us for generations to come.

I guess time will tell.

Unfortunately, it is where hypocrisy thrives that my issues remain. Duplicity, talking out of both sides of your mouth, saying one thing then doing another. Spin it as you will… that is where I feel betrayed, hurt and gutted.

Like, how could you?

I have a lot at stake as will many in our society. If making America great infringes on our inalienable rights, is it really that great?

RIP Dad, thank you for putting it in perspective for me.

Frank E. Kalapos – February 12, 1934 – November 10, 1988

Until You Walk in Someone Else’s Shoes

I was fortunate to be brought into this world by two non-conformists. My mother, the self-proclaimed black sheep of her family, and my free spirited, laisse-faire father and his judgement-free ways shared in the catalyst that formed the lens through which I see the world.

As a kid, my mother had the innate ability to steer a rudderless ship. Even with her eyes closed.

Her guidance provided the perfectly blended combination of suggestive influence and necessary discipline. I presented many challenges yet with the same honor and grace, she helped me find my way.

There is a fine balance between overbearing influence resulting in rebellion, and the subtlety of firm support that steers one down their own path. It was a guided path I felt like I found on my own.

Pure brilliance.

Most certainly a rebuff to his communist roots, my father was the epitome of a non-conformist.  He chose a life free of all encumberments – clothes, rules and boundaries among them.

When he moved to Venice, California in the 1970’s the atmosphere, community and countless wayward souls perfectly suited his non-conformist ways. If the antithesis of communist Hungary existed, it was the melting pot in Venice, CA.

My parents blended influence, both in commonality and difference, shaped my attitudes about the values of non-conformity, individuality, inclusion, compassion, respect, and kindness. Collectively, they paved the path to my open minded inclusive ways.

I’m not sure the exact moment in time I fully understood and appreciated the value of their example, I certainly lived it before I knew there was value to be found.

Growing up I didn’t know people thought differently. Our summers on Venice Beach leveled the playing field. So many layers of inequality seemingly equal.

If we are all clones of each other, it would truly suck being bombarded by mirror images all day, every day.

Surely, we agree on that.

Social media, the sensationalized news, and the will of the closed minded jeopardize the value of our collective uniqueness. It is difficult to move about the planet without feeling jaded or apathetic or indifferent when the distant purview = the same old shit.

But, if something has value, it is not an endless resource or the same old shit. Its significance doesn’t dilute rather represents a position or vision of importance. If the color gray is a blend of black and white it is still rooted in the specificity of the individual colors.

If inclusion and acceptance are a blend of you and me, it can still be rooted in our differences. It is subjective and fluid. If we are not clones, our shoes are worn and wear differently.

group of people standing on pavement
Photo by Tirachard Kumtanom on Pexels.com

The ability to walk in some else’s shoes with compassion, empathy and an open minded eye of inclusion is rooted in our differences but thrives in experiences we share in common.

So, what level of difference is accepted? Does that change when the shoes land at your doorstep?

If we are equally entitled to our freedom and independence then shan’t we be able to move about freely?

Respect given is respect gained.

Free to be you and free to be me.

Happy 248th birthday America.

Why Strong Women Don’t Need a Golden Lasso or Bionic Arm

When I was a kid, The Bionic Woman and Wonder Woman were the strongest women I knew. Lindsay Wagner was an athletic, coyly sophisticated badass that morphed into an image of power and strength, single handedly (she did only have 1 bionic arm 😊) taking out the bad guy.

While Lynda Carter, a glamourous model who won Miss World USA in 1972, portrayed a Princess from an island in the Bermuda Triangle.  She spun her way into her super powers, deflected bullets with her golden wrist bracelets and subdued her enemies with her golden lasso.

A LOT has changed.

women brain storming in a meeting
Photo by Yan Krukau on Pexels.com

Strength and power in women today abounds and surrounds us in everyday life. Everyday, everywhere.

Our power is neither artificially implanted nor theatrically elevated. It lives and breathes within us and among us.

Wisdom, age, experience, exposure, education, success, and failure line the halls of our collective super powers. I’m not talking about taking out the bad guy, deflecting bullets, dominance or control. I’m talking about empowerment, encouragement and support.

Like spokes on a wheel, we all need to come together to keep rolling down the road.

My Grandparents – Imre and Maria Kalapos

My grandmother was one such woman. If only I had the capacity to recognize that while she was still alive. She endured 2 world wars, the Nazi’s, Russians, and the Hungarian Revolution before fleeing her country after 57 years.

She and my grandfather left everything behind.

They escaped from the worsening of continued oppressive control. Imagine a scale so out of balance it illuminated a dimly lit path that meant walking away from their lives, spirits, professions, and their material and nonmaterial possessions.

Everything they knew = the cost of freedom. A price so exponentially unimaginable, it is difficult to quantify.

The persevering resilience she exhibited empowers me. Pretty much hard to complain about anything when I think about all she endured and sacrificed to feel and be free. My life exists solely by virtue of her monumental sacrifices.

Takes my breath away every time.

So, I persist, I focus, I move forward, I endure, I give, I try, I speak, I sink, I swim, I float, I jump, I fall, I get back up.

Persevering resilience is my super power. It is time tested. If I persist, I prevail.

Or as Social Psychologist, Amy Cuddy likes to say, “Fake it until you become it.” I have faked my way through many things knowing and believing I will eventually prevail. I will become it. If you haven’t crossed paths with Cuddy’s 2012 Ted Talk on body language, linked above, it is a worthy 20 minutes of your day.

Artistry, insight, knowledge, compassion, connections, endurance, tolerance, inclusion… What is your super power? Your gift?

Do you give it away?

woman in black shirt holding red lipstick
Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com

Whatever super power you have, give it away. Share it often. Empower someone. Help them find the confidence to step into the magic slippers and discover their own super powers.

So many of us need it. We don’t need a golden lasso or bionic arm; we need each other’s strengths.

If you need a super power, look for it. Likely, it is standing right in front of you poised to encourage, enable and empower you.

A big thank you to Julie S. for my writing inspo. Congratulations on ‘becoming it.’ Now it’s time for you to go make some waves!

RIP to the Grandest of Grandmothers:

My Grandparents grave marker. They are buried just outside of Zuirch, Switzerland

Maria Vagho Kalapos 1905 – 1983 Imre Kalapos 1901 – 1985

It’s Time to Say the Hard Things

After sitting on my unpublished website for almost 2 years with a folder of random writing, I saw its purpose exclusively to promote my forthcoming memoir, Sailing Naked. When I finally launched it and hit ‘publish’ on my first blog post, What the ‘F’ is Wrong with People? I hoped it would bring traffic and exposure to my book. My entrepreneurial spirit in sales and marketing put to good use, I thought.

My ambition and direction with this blog found its way more by accident than intention.

concrete road
Photo by Maizal Najmi on Pexels.com

I write from and through my own personal experiences as well as things I bump into along the way. My perspective is not derived from a formal education rather the school of trials, tribulations, adversity and the angst, anxiety and depression that ensued in their wake.

I cringe each time I hit ‘publish’ knowing I am exposing more of me to all of you but publish I do.

I see the option to sink or swim in life as a choice while fully knowing others don’t have the ability to or chose not to. If my life lessons are akin to the burn of a Hot Stove then wallowing in my scars is a choice I avert with intention.

In my youth, I scaled mountains of adversity long before most of my friends knew what adversity meant. It affirmed the resilience and perseverance exhibited by my grandparents and showed me how to grow from the challenges.

While I had my share of depressive times, my darkest days appeared in the years (teens, 20’s and into my 30’s) long struggle with my sexuality (gulp, yep, I just said that, Publicly).

I suppressed much of it in an effort to be normal but felt mortified, ashamed and embarrassed to not be like everyone else. I had boyfriends, fell in love and hoped to marry to mask and repress who I knew myself to be.

By the time I was 30, I had stood up in 10 of my friends’ weddings and found a depression I didn’t know could exist in me. I was single, petrified of coming out, of crossing the line, of accepting who I was.

After suppressing it for so many years, I couldn’t carry the weight anymore, and the darkness consumed me. It took me three more years to find the courage.

One friend, a constant through my 20’s and beyond, we’ll call her AB, was there.

Always there.

She asked the hard questions and said the hard things. She didn’t judge me, rather encouraged me to find me, and supported my future’s path which eventually, years later, enabled me to embrace who I was.

While the depression waned, outside of the obscurity that living in Chicago provided, the shame and embarrassment lived through my 30’s and 40’s.

Fortunately, today I don’t give a fuck so owning my space gives me pride. I’ve found patience and gratitude. Being frank and direct is my way. Objectivity, positivity, and optimism flow like rhythms of my favorite song, and wallowing in things I can’t control along with regret are things of the past.

Why does all of that matter?

Because what I didn’t see coming through all of this was the support, feedback, resonance, validation, and acceptance that has resulted. Hearing from others about their personal experiences, enables me to persist and step out of my comfort zone with my writing by exposing things I’ve previously hidden.

It may have even saved a life.

With permission, here is a condensed excerpt of what someone wrote to me,

“This past year has truly been the toughest… the deepest depression, anxiety, no sleep. I finally called my doctor and asked for help and told my spouse…. In January, I pulled up your latest blog about suicide, which hit me so very hard. Since I have read your blog, there has been something poking and tugging at me… I didn’t want to be another person you wrote about… You both have made an amazing impact on me. THANK YOU. If I am struggling, I will say something.”

A timely New York Times article hit my in box with some surprising stats, Suicide Science, written by Ellen Barry, published 2/21/24.  Excerpts below:

“Research has demonstrated that suicide is most often an impulsive act, with a period of acute risk that passes in hours, or even minutes. Contrary to what many assume, people who survive suicide attempts often go on to do well: Nine out of 10 of them do not die by suicide.

When an attempt fails, ‘these folks generally survive and go on to get past these thoughts, go on to live happy, full lives,’ said Dr. Paul Nestadt, a suicide researcher at Johns Hopkins.”

This isn’t about me or my blog, this is about the importance of vulnerability, bravery, connection, communication, compassion, and empathy through shared struggles and challenges where hope and the desire for positive outcomes CAN prevail. 

It is a long overdue time to say the hard things. Speak your truth! Bear the benefits and the consequences because somebody needs you now!

This may not be for everyone and that’s okay, otherwise if it is, shine your bright light where the darkness lives.

Suicide – It may be Closer than You Think

This post will be as difficult to read as it has been to write but we must prevail in the name of support for those struggling with their own mental health.

Please don’t shy away.

I recently compiled a list so troubling that I am having difficulty sleeping.

The recent loss of an acquaintance to suicide led me down this path. A path that ends with abrupt devastation.

On the outside, this person seemingly had everything. She was smart, savvy, humble and worthy. She was a spouse, mother, grandmother, friend, mentor, employer, and community advocate.

We breathed the same air. We walked in common space. We shared cheerful words. We bonded over barbells and burpees. We exchanged smiles and contact information. We looked down the same road but saw its end at a different intersection.

Sadly, what appeared on the outside is not what lived on the inside.

Where are the signs? How do we find them? What can we do?

I always say, “Perception is reality.” Is it in the realm of suicide?

When we lose someone famous, we gasp in despair while scratching our heads wondering why someone who couldn’t possibly want for anything, die at their own hand.

Clearly, perception is not reality when the turmoil on the inside can be disguised by accolades, fame, the perfect family, the perfect career, beautiful smiles, and warm hellos. The projection of normalcy keeps us at a distance that we can’t see or perceive.

How can we navigate the quagmire to extend a lifeline, offer support or help?

My beautiful friend was so close and yet so far.

She joins 6 other friends or family that I know personally who seemed to ‘have it all’ but could no longer face their internal torment. Imagine the vast magnitude of darkness, anguish and despair so broad and unmanageable that it extinguishes such brilliant lightness in all of them.

Devastating.

Why can’t we see such dark despair on the outside when it pervades so powerfully on the inside?

Suicide prevention must be congruent with mental wellness and human connection. As our society continues to isolate itself in the name of absolutes, we exacerbate the turmoil and disconnect from those who feel different or troubled or wounded or lacking in some perceived way by the global masses.

988 The Suicide and Crisis Lifeline (formerly The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline), receives over 2 million calls a year. It’s difficult for me to quantify that number. Imagine how many struggling souls don’t make that call.

Everyone should be entitled to be free of the encumberments of judgement and angst and the perceived isolation that it generates. If we didn’t stigmatize depression or other mental crisis’s just maybe the 7 people in my life would be living and breathing today.

It troubles me greatly when I hear others lament about suicide as thoughtless and selfish or short sighted and feeble, that they didn’t try hard enough to be happy or hopeful.

We all need to be accountable to those around us by embracing their individuality and engaging in supportive wellness, not only for the others in our lives but for ourselves.  

Until you walk in someone else’s shoes. Leave the judgment behind because those shoes just might end up on your door step.

Loss survivors of suicide live in their own torment. In the cross hairs of shame, guilt, grief, sorrow, helplessness, and an insurmountable anguish. The list of questions we carry will never be answered and the abrupt loss remains with us indefinitely.

It changed me forever. Now I see things others don’t and say things they shy from.

I don’t have the answers, I live in the wake of the ship as it sinks to the bottom grasping for reasons why it sank in the first place. If only there was a telling sign or symbol that could indicate crisis and distress alerting those close enough to make a difference.

I imagine compassion, courtesy, kindness, empathy, understanding, inclusion, acceptance, expression, forgiveness, vulnerability, and trust, just might be the olive branch, the extension of peace, the bridge that narrows the gap, the love and connection that heals and ultimately suffocates the demons.

They are all cherished souls whose lives we need. Suicide may be closer than you think, we must band together to suffocate the demons.

BeThe1To.com outlines 5 steps we can all take if we encounter someone who may be suicidal.

You just might save a life.

#BeThe1To Ask, Be There, Keep Them Safe, Help Them Connect, Follow Up.

Obituary: RIP Literally. Gone and Hopefully Forgotten

Literally, passed away peacefully on December 3, 2023 as a welcomed and long overdue gift to its number one critic. An adverb born to the English language from its literal origin, Literally regarded itself as an emphasis to facts in intelligent conversation.

Photo by Charles Parker on Pexels.com

Before arriving in great excess in daily conversations as a filler word, Literally struggled for years working its way into the minds of the masses as slang in the English language lurking around every corner of conversation patiently waiting to trounce on a perfect and proper figurative sentence.

After diligent and focused work, Literally made a name for itself literally everywhere from random conversations with friends and family to life on the big screen in news broadcasts, TV shows and blockbuster movies.

Best known for standing out in crowd in both figurative and factual statements, Literally shared the stage while stealing the limelight from the likes of Actually and Totally. Literally, left an indelible mark on our language. It was one hell of a life lived.

Literally expressed gratitude to Actually and Totally, thanking them for assisting in their contribution to the English language and carving out a viable place for Literally to steel the stage.

Before Literally fell ill, it was seen signing autographs literally everywhere.

Photo by Willian Justen de Vasconcellos on Pexels.com

Whispered quietly in the waning moments of life, Literally expressed thanks to literally everyone for bringing such bright and vibrant life into being, and appreciated the mention in every sentence to which it was ever referred.

Literally is grateful for its legacy, the hashtags, mentions, and chronic misuse.

Literally apologized for the undue duress it may have caused the literal thinker and hoped we can resume normal conversation and spare the literal thinker the constant reminder of their literalness.

Literally, was surrounded by those regaling in its peaceful passing, Actually and Totally, among them. They shared equal dread for the contribution Literally made to the demise of proper, common conversation while grateful to welcome the future with hope for a day free from Literally imposing itself everywhere.

Literally, is survived by its siblings Actually and Totally, cousins Um, and Like, as well as its equally annoying step brother, Right?, formally known as Right.

At the request of Literally, in lieu of donations or flowers, an indefinite moratorium will be imposed effective in the new year for literally everyone.

RIP Literally.

Breaking Bread with Dead People

When you think of the commonalities you share with another person, what comes to mind? Most likely, things like interests, hobbies and passions.

Can we bridge the gap in areas of emotional distress? Why can’t we talk about death or tragedy without people feeling sorry for us or reluctant to welcome a difficult conversation?

Common tragedies bring people together from a sense of knowing. Compassion, empathy and patience are automatic.

The more we talk, the more we gather, the more we grow.

I would be remiss without referencing the inspirational, M. Scott Peck’s poignant words from The Road Less Traveled,  “…we must live with the knowledge that death is our constant companion traveling on our left shoulder.” Important words for the future whether you have lived through a significant death or not.

I originally wrote this in the summer of 2021 after lunch with two former high school classmates. I was so troubled and moved by their shared tragedy, I went home to write this for them.

Sadly, in the time since that day, there are other friends who, tragically and with great despair, have reluctantly joined the club.

This is for anyone who has lost a child.

I recently shared a meal with some high school mates among whom time and distance has put a few decades of space between. Life happens and so does death. How did we move from the bleachers of our high school gym to a table in a restaurant discussing the death of each of their sons?

Catching up on our years since takes a vastly different direction when one has lost a child. I only know this from afar because not only have I never lost a child, I do not have one to lose. In the reminiscent realm of these gatherings, ‘yea, me too’ is not something one might consider hoping to share.

I do know death intimately, though. We are old acquaintances. I have felt the air sucking deflation of every ounce of purpose and faith.  When I met death, disguised as hope and a glimmering light, it felt like falling off a cliff waiting for the bone crushing end that continued in perpetuity.

A bone crushing crash that never ends. Yes, can you imagine?

This is a path where second guessing intersects why me. A winding path full of questions that offer no answers and ends in a place where the entrance to the club requires a secret handshake.

They know the nature of fragility. They met at a dead end road.

They remain in turmoil while they stumble towards peace. They seem to rationalize the absence but not the loss.

How does one even reconcile the loss of a child?

How does one not say, ‘God should have taken me?’

They have asked those questions but find no answers. They choose to live despite them. They know time fleets, wanes and is a gift wrapped in a constantly unraveling bow. 

As an empathetic spectator, it moved me to witness the grace with which they each shared their grief and pain, and ultimate compassion for the other’s loss. A sense of knowing that doesn’t emerge until you walk in another’s shoes.

Interestingly, they both attended the Catholic elementary school together but admittedly struggled finding solace in their faith. I imagine a loss so great cannot be reconciled in any form intended to comfort.

It is there that we break bread with dead people. Where shared tragedy bridges decades long gaps instantly exchanging what truly matters, for what truly does not. Tomorrow isn’t what it will be without yesterday. Forward our only choice.

My old acquaintance taught me this, and apparently, it taught my friends the same.

Perhaps, this club is not for everyone. It requires great strength, resilience and fortitude to enter and stay, but true unwavering perseverance to leave, to seek and find peace, to hope and breathe again, and ultimately, to find the parachute’s cord before the bone crushing end.

If you know someone who has lost a child, meet them at the dead end road. Welcome a difficult conversation. Check in, be present, listen and support.

If you are the surviving parent, keep them close. Live within, through and beyond their absence and loss, ‘always traveling on your left shoulder.’

Peace and love for a memorable, reflective and joyous Thanksgiving to all.

What the ‘F’ is Wrong with People?!? 2.0

When I wrote my first blog post ‘What the ‘F’ is Wrong with People?’, it was in the aftermath of one of our country’s mass shootings. I was doing the dishes and became so distraught that I found a pen and a piece of paper to release my worried mind. I had no intention of conceiving a series around it.

Can you imagine having enough material for a blog series titled, ‘What the ‘F’ is Wrong with People?’?

Sadly, in our culture of late, it’s the gift that keeps on giving. I couldn’t possibly speculate the source of the malicious angst and venom that some people feel free to spew relentlessly but there is a definitive shift in how we treat each other.

Recently, I had a troubling conversation with a friend who works in education. She has encountered something so distressing that she has taken medical leave and is considering stepping aside from her career for her last two years as an educator.

Really?!?! Are you frickin kidding me? This is what we do to people?

What can you imagine is so egregious that it might result in such an outcome? What could push someone to the brink who has spent her career in education as a principal, teacher, mentor, and tutor?

She has two master’s degrees in education: one in literacy as a reading specialist and the other in administration. She has an endorsement to teach English as a second language and currently works in the private sector educating educators.  Need I go on?

Any guesses? We have a winner… bullying!

What the ‘F’ is Wrong with People?!?

These are not children on a playground (an equally hideous ritual) but grown frickin adults! How does a bully move through their career and remain in a position of authority?

My dear troubled friend is on leave in support of her mental health. This disturbs me so greatly, especially because she is on the other side of the country out of my supportive reach. Ultimately, if she steps away, the bully wins and the students lose. Or do they?

Let’s peel this back for a moment, shall we?

Bullies are weak, insecure, narcissistic a-holes that find their odd twisted insidious power belittling, demeaning, undermining, berating, shaming, and embarrassing others to feel superior. Did I overlook anything?

Their moral void so vast, the victims are cast aside at every corner.

Eleanor Roosevelt said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” Does that mean we give bullies consent, or do they prey on those who are sensitive, empathetic, compassionate, and emotionally curious? The precise type of person we want to educate our children!!

Sadly, by nature, educators’ gifts of emotional curiosity, concern and care are fodder for bullies.

Their gifts = their detriments.

Can’t we have a 12 step program for the bullying narcissistic a-holes of the world? Or perhaps, there is a small plot of land in Siberia suitable for the venom oozing a-holes.

Typically, I do not wish ill of others, even the a-holes of the world because their due shall come, but when the circumstance extenuates beyond the realm of reason it is time for drastic measures.

Since Siberia is likely off the table, we all need to stand in support of the next victim as the bully rounds the corner. Help them regain their power and not concede to inferiority. Their gifts should not be to their detriment but rather to their, and everyone else’s, benefit.

My friend may step aside, she may not. Hopefully, either way she gets her power back and protects her mental health. If she does step away, she leaves an accomplished and successful career in the name of her wellbeing a mere two years early.

Her legacy is worthy. Time to share her gifts where she can shine.

Peace out mother-fing bullies!

Balance met Harmony and Lived Happily Ever After

When I think of balance the first image that pops in my head is a seesaw at the playground when I was a child. Its fluid motion lands you at the top or bottom quite abruptly, or ever so carefully in perfect parallel with the earth and the sky. These actions are not independently exclusive, but rather together in harmony with the movement.

Up, down and balanced harmoniously together. Brilliant! The challenge is putting this into action. How do we realize balance in all things we do? I have learned to rationalize many things in my life and balance brings needed equilibrium into focus.

Mark Twain said, “What is joy without sorrow? What is success without failure? What is a win without a loss? What is health without illness? You have to experience each if you are to appreciate the other. There is always going to be suffering. It’s how you look at your suffering, how you deal with it, that will define you.” (Thank you, Deb H. for the Twain inspo.)

When you trip and fall down you don’t crawl on the ground indefinitely because that is where you landed. You leap to your feet, look around to make sure no one saw you fall, then you move about as if nothing happened. Balance delivers light in the dark. It gets you back on your feet! It is capable of offsetting spite, revenge, anger, and blame by empowering forgiveness, acceptance, appreciation, accountability, and gratitude. 

If we balance negative with positive, the seesaw lands in the middle. Painful lessons may appear as more evident and obvious because they are not the hopeful outcome. Conversely, joyous lessons can slip under the radar because they are our expectation.

If joy eventually results from pain, then it washes over us like a revelation. If joy results from joy, it is often our expectation and lacks some of the revelationary qualities that joy from pain exhibits. They are both equally pertinent because if we distinguish the value and power in either lesson then growth prevails, and we find balance.

I have learned that painful lessons illuminate a path to a big ass gold framed mirror… Back so soon? Time for some self-reflection. Sometimes the mirror is foggy when I arrive, but as it clears, I can see the tools shining in the background poised for battle.

For us to thrive, balance needs to be in everything we do and everywhere we look. We can’t lose sight of the choice, the choice to balance joy with pain, good with bad, freedom with struggle, strength with weakness, gain with loss, right with wrong, compassion with abstinence, acceptance with rejection, empathy with apathy.

Balance is the calm in the storm.

It is not about choosing one direction over the other per se, it is about seeing the counter balance inherent in both directions. In the moment, it is hard to not see pain as pain but if the glass is half full then there is nothing negative that does not find its way to positive.

Ultimately, it is the harmonious fluid movement of the seesaw, up, down and balanced, that heals and empowers my choices and the direction they lead me.

Frank and Bill – The Tale of Two Fathers

If you have been a young child of divorce, you know the agonizing feeling of loss buried deeply under glimmering hope, wishful thinking and a blatant aversion to reality. Pretending, escaping and willing it away with every breath, longing for the return to normalcy are efforts in futility.

If you have been a young child of divorce lucky enough to be blessed with a second father, then you know the peace and joy that can emerge out such a devastating scenario. I am grateful that one of the most unfortunate situations in my young life grew to be one of the most fortunate.

As I say in nearly every post, I am where I am because of where I have been. As such and without doubt, my two fathers have been the most influential men in my life, albeit through vastly different examples.

Frank was a non-conformist Hungarian refugee who colored outside of the lines in every aspect of his life. He was sophisticated, worldly, cultured, artistic, philosophical, conversational, passionate, carefree, and wounded. He loved the Mamas and the Papas and Picasso, the Pacific Ocean and sailing.

He lived a minimalist laissez-faire life and believed rules were meant to be eradicated.

Frank was into vinyl records.

Bill was an Irish Catholic career military pilot who, before becoming a corporate pilot, retired after 28 years of service as a Lieutenant Colonel. He was disciplined, focused, strict, organized, loyal, humble, stoic, and soft spoken. He loved flying planes, fishing, skiing and tinkering in the garage or yard.

He believed rules were meant to be followed.

Bill was into encyclopedias.

By virtue of their differences, I am the best part of both. Frank, through his influence and struggles taught me resilience, perseverance and compassion. How to be aware and mindful, how to overcome adversity, what inclusion looks like and why it matters. We share the same passions for music, art, the ocean and sailing.

Bill, through his regimented influence and example taught me discipline, order, organization, humility, and loyalty. His favorite saying… ‘it’s water under the bridge,’ through which I learned not to hold a grudge, or wallow in things I couldn’t control. After hearing it so much, it got me thinking why I couldn’t push it back up stream to make it come down differently, something I reference to this day. I ski because of him. I teach skiing to others because of him.

I have five step brothers and sisters, nieces, nephews, and a vast extended family I would not know and love otherwise.

These traits were realized through time and maturity. In fact, many took years, even decades, for me to recognize and embrace. Like a diamond in the rough, time fortified the inherent truths of my traits and the source of such wisdom. With hindsight and reflection, I see that now. The tale of two fathers, their influence and infinite presence always traveling on my left shoulder!

RIP Frank E. Kalapos – February 12, 1935 – November 10, 1988

RIP Lt. Colonel, William J. McElroy III – September 5, 1927 – June 7, 2022

Forever in my heart and on my left shoulder!