So What's Up With This 'Blog's Name, Anyway?

If you've read much of this 'blog, you've already figured out that it isn't particularly humorous. Mostly, it's snapshots of my internal life or bits of my personal philosophy or occasionally rants and raves. Serious topics, in other words, so "One Foot On a Banana Peel" may strike you as a bit frivolous.

But "One Foot On a Banana Peel" is a pretty good metaphor for those topics. I write about life (as I know it), and life (as I know it) is uncertain and precarious.

I think that at least occasionally, all of us feel that unsteadiness. Maybe it's when we are waiting for a job interview, or we're proposing marriage to the love of our life. Maybe it's before we get on an airplane, or when we move to a new city. Maybe it's when we see a newborn baby, or when we say our final farewell to a beloved parent. In those moments we have our noses rubbed in the unknown country that is the future, and it can tip us off balance.

The thing is, the future is always unknowable, and we always stand with "one foot on a banana peel." I don't say this to scare anyone; I say it because it's true, and living with the truth is better—more realistic, more fulfilling, more rewarding, and ultimately more joyful—than living with a convenient and comfortable fiction.

Even as I make plans for the future—and I do, make no mistake about that—I try to be mindful of where I'm standing: one foot on a banana peel. I try not to focus too much on that nebulous future at the expense of the tangible present, because I am well aware that the present is all I've really got.

Take, for example, my current (somewhat embryonic) five year plan to move to Kaua'i. I'm planning for a future I cannot depend on—any number of circumstances could derail that plan, and many of those circumstances would be just fine with me. So the things I'm planning are things that don't trap me on that train and no other. They're things that enrich me now, as well as empower me to move if, when the time comes, that's still what I want to do.

The trick to standing with one foot on a banana peel is knowing that you are. If you know you're standing on a slippery service, you stand differently: weight forward, alert and aware, ready for shifting footing. And if you're ready, you can adapt to it when it happens.

A Father's Honor

I am glad there's a day to celebrate fathers. There should be. Fathers (and mothers) deserve celebration, at least if they've been parents (and so many have): made sacrifices and committed their time, attention, and treasure to their kids' well-being. I believe that days like Father's Day really, really matter.

That being said, the day itself has been bittersweet for almost as long as I can remember. A number of things contribute to that mixture, ranging from the... "difficult" relationship between Dad and me from adolescence until just before he died in February of 2009 to my own unrealized dream of being a dad. But despite the decidedly-mixed emotions I experience on Father's Day, I would never want anyone to think I disapproved of the day or its meaning.

Dad

Since Dad died, the day has had an added taste of bitter (and of sweet): bitter because he isn't here any more and sweet because he still lives in my memory.

No one is perfect, but when I was young my dad seemed perfect to me. I remember him playing with me in the snow when I was five years old, and making a marvelous fool of himself in a school talent show the same year. I remember fishing trips; getting up at some ridiculously early hour and riding down to Ventura with a boat following the truck all the way. I remember feeling safe and empowered and loved.

I put my poor dad through more than a fair share of anxiety, too. There was the time I fell against the sheet metal dashboard of his surplus mail truck: the sharp edge of the dash gashed open my forehead. Like any scalp wound, this one bled profusely, and the shock and pain of it caused my eyes to glaze over. When Dad looked over to see how I was, he thought I was dead. And there was the time when I knocked myself out goofing off on a boat launch dock at Ventura Harbor; I'm sure Dad had that "What if?" moment: "What if he'd rolled off the dock into the water? What if he'd been caught between the boat and the dock? What if..."

Then, just before I reached adolescence, Dad had a heart attack. After he recovered, he seemed different to me; more distant, sterner, less playful. In retrospect, and based on what Mom and other of his age peers have said, I think he pushed his family away after the heart attack because he thought his death was imminent. He was trying to prepare us to deal with his loss. From my perspective, he seemed demanding and unforgiving, expecting me to just get it right. I think he wanted me, as the oldest, to be ready to be "the man of the house" when he died.

I was too young to understand. All I really knew was that Dad wasn't the same any more; didn't play like he used to, was more serious and sober, was different. And I mourned then: it felt like I'd lost my dad, even though I saw him every day.

Dad didn't know that; I've always been pretty reserved, and once he changed I was even more reserved around him. And it may not have occurred to him that there was a problem that needed addressing; he sincerely believed he was not long for this earth, and the problem would resolve itself. We butted heads, a lot, because I resented the change and because I didn't want to be what he seemed to want me to be and because—I have to face it—we were a lot alike: intelligent, stubborn, independent, determined.

Of course the joke was on him... he lived more than 40 years after that heart attack. And gradually, as he came to terms with the idea that maybe he wasn't going to die just yet, the funny, sarcastic, playful, delightful man he really was resurfaced. The birth of his granddaughter—my niece Madison—catalyzed... I sometimes think of it as a kind of resurrection.

And it was good to have him back.

Dad's motives were pure. He was doing the best he knew how to take care of the family he loved so much. And despite our conflicts and disagreements, I never stopped loving him, and I never doubted he loved me. He didn't always show it (and neither did I), but I think we both knew.

Still, we never actually reconciled until he got sick. I was living in his house—I'd sold my mobile home, and the deal for my new house hadn't closed yet—and for a while at least, I had time to spend with him. We didn't talk much, but we spent time together. Companionable time. Time just to be father and son. And I had the honor and privilege of helping care for him as cancer ravaged him. I had the privilege of being with him when he died. I got to say goodbye.

I can't tell you how important it was that I got to say goodbye. The time I had with Dad in the weeks before his death and the opportunity I had to say goodbye before he died, let me feel like he and I finally resolved our differences. It was among the finest gifts he ever gave me, with my life and my home growing up and my extended family and many wonderful memories.

Now, I miss him. Not more than anyone else does, but I miss him. That's one of the spices that flavor my emotions on Father's Day; I miss my dad.

Me

The other main spice is my unrealized dream of being a dad.

I can't remember the first time I dreamed of being a dad. I know I was pretty young—not older than 19 or 20, and maybe even younger—and from that first imagining, it has been a constant in my life. I love kids (truth of the matter is, I love just about everyone, but I especially love kids). Whether smelly infants or silly 'tweens or surly teenagers or whatever, I love 'em.

That isn't to say they can't annoy and aggravate me—they absolutely can—but even in those moments I'm committed to them and interested in their well-being. I find them irresistible and amazing and delightful. Even when I was myself a surly teenager, I still enjoyed being around kids younger than me; I don't remember ever being "too cool" for kids.

Because fatherhood was a dream for me (and is; this has never changed), I actually and deliberately worked to make myself better "Dad" material. I paid attention to what the dads I knew did. I paid attention to what kids responded to. I did what "Dadding" I could; when my cousins or their kids were around, I played at being dad to them as best I was able. And I looked forward to that day, surely imminent, when I'd get to be a dad in fact; when I and my (hypothetical) partner would begin raising a family.

And it kept not happening. There were lots of reasons why, most beginning and ending with the personal qualities that made it difficult for me to get into a relationship that might lead in that direction.

I am an introvert (see 10 Myths About Introverts for some insights). That can be an obstacle. I also suffer from craptastic self-esteem and precious little self-confidence (though I'm making progress dealing with those: intellectually, I get it, but emotionally, not yet). I'm shy, too. It takes a pretty special woman to get past all these barriers and overcome my defenses to the point where she can see that I'm worth it. And all that overcoming takes time... understandably, women generally find someone who doesn't make it so difficult.

So here I am, *mumble* years old, and still no partner and no kids. I haven't given up hope—I am optimistic despite all the reasons I have not to be—but here I am. I'm surrounded by great dads with great kids and I want to count myself among their number... but I'm not a member of the club.

I do not begrudge fathers their honors on Father's Day (or any other day). Far from it. I envy fathers on Father's Day (and pretty much every other day). I honor the spirit of Father's Day, and in my heart I celebrate it.

But I can't not taste the bitter mixed in with the sweet.

Fake It 'til You Make It

A friend of mine said that in his experience, there were three things that women looked for in a man: 1) gainful employment, 2) self-confidence, and 3) a good sense of humor. In his view, I'm all set with 1 and 3 (although what constitutes a "good" sense of humor is a subjective matter), and if I can address the self-confidence issue, a welcome change may follow.

That makes sense to me; I'm sure the "list" varies a little from person to person, but self-confidence is likely to make everyone's list. I like self-confidence in a woman, after all; it makes perfect sense that a woman would like it in a man.

The thing that makes self-confidence an issue for me is... Well, it doesn't really matter, does it? I know in my head that I should be confident, so I am justified in acting confident even if I don't "feel it." "Fake it 'til you make it," as they say (obvious, I know! But still a very recent epiphany for me).

Assuming I have the will to 'fake it 'til I make it,' the question becomes how? Approaching it as an actor and playwright, I think I'm beginning to get an idea (feel free to add to the list in comment):

1. Pay attention to what you are doing and who you are with.
2. Think before you speak; don't talk nonsense (have less to apologize for).
3. Don't talk just to fill silence.
4. Make and hold eye contact (but don't let it become a competition).
5. Stand tall and speak your mind firmly but softly, without apology.
6. Don't fidget.
7. Be courteous and play fair; neither dominate the conversation nor opt out of it.
8. Avoid being drawn into arguments.
9. Never apologize for being who or how you are; apologize less in general.
10. The best defense is a good offense; if someone challenges you on something you believe, stand firm and say "Bite me!"

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Half the Battle...

Not to brag, but I have a lot going for me. I have a good job, a decent sense of humor, I'm intelligent and compassionate and talented and decent-looking and healthy and good. These things I know. I'm still a work in progress—I'm not done becoming, yet—but I know these good things about myself.

In the past I didn't know this; I didn't even think it. And as the old G.I. Joe public service announcements used to say, "Knowing is half the battle."

Half the battle.

I have to thank my friends and family for patiently striving with me on this. It was the work of years to persuade me of the truth that was so obvious to them, but so elusive to me. The credit for winning that skirmish goes to them; it wasn't easy to convince me. I'm stubborn.

But it's still only half the battle. I can't claim a win for my side until the other half is won, and I think that's up to me. I know in my head that I am all these wonderful things, but I don't feel it in my gut, and when it comes to self-confidence, feelings count.

I know I am intelligent and compassionate and talented and decent-looking and healthy and good. I just don't feel it. Instead I feel stupid and selfish and ugly. That's the other half of the battle: the half I'm fighting now, the half I don't have a strategy to win.

I know it's frustrating that I can't own, right down to my bones, the wonderful qualities I have. It frustrates me. I want to be as confident as I have a right to be. And I believe that self-confidence is justified.

My friends and family have given me great advice—"just be yourself," or "stop worrying about what others think," or even "man up!"—and I'm trying. I have not given up. I will win this battle eventually. So far success has eluded me, but as Thomas Edison said, "I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work." Someday I will be as confident as I ought to be.

In the meantime, please be patient with me. I get it, really; if you find me frustrating sometimes, imagine what it's like for me to live in this skin, knowing one thing and feeling another. I'm worth the frustration, as I think you know; you've stuck with me this long.

The battle is half won. One day, maybe soon, it'll be all won. That will be a day worth celebrating—call it V.E. (Victory of the Ego) Day.

Mahalo

Mahalo is a Hawaiian word that according to Wikipedia means "thanks, gratitude, admiration, praise, esteem, regards, respects." It is often used as a simple substitute for the English "Thank you," but as with "Aloha," that simple substitution isn't the whole story.

In fact, some sources suggest that the meanings "thanks" and "gratitude" were appended after contact; early visitors noted that while the Hawaiian people were generous and grateful, they had no word to express gratitude or say 'thank you.'

When you think about it, this is very cool. I remember reading somewhere (probably in a science fiction novel) that gratitude is a species of resentment, and that makes sense. In our culture it's good that we feel and express gratitude; our culture has a transactional basis, and when we give anything (even a gift), we expect a return (if only a "thank you"). We even exchange favors, and don't see that as particularly strange. But in Hawaiian culture (as I understand it), it's less about commerce and more about community.

The Hawaiian culture had a subsistence economy; there were enough resources to go around, but not so much that the accumulation of wealth was particularly practical or desirable. In order for the community to prosper, everyone had to contribute and everyone got to benefit. It was less about "Mine mine mine," and more about "Ours."

Wouldn't it be wonderful if we weren't so caught up in keeping score; in an economic model of human interaction? Do we truly "give" if we expect or require a return, even so intangible a one as thanks or gratitude?

What would it be like if the cultural expectation--the "norm," if you will--was thoughtless, automatic generosity and admiration for one another? What if we didn't need to say "Thank you," because our admiration, praise, esteem, and regard were part of the fabric of society: evident without any need to say it? What if the spirit of Mahalo infused our daily relationships? What would that look like?

I hope you've found reading what I've written here worthwhile.

Mahalo.

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Aloha

Aloha.

Most Americans have heard the word; many understand it to be a Hawaiian greeting, meaning roughly "Hello" or "Goodbye." "Aloha" is commonly used in just that way, so those people aren't wrong...

Their understanding is incomplete.

"Aloha" is much richer than "Hello" or "Goodbye." Wikipedia got it right: "Aloha in the Hawaiian language means affection, love, peace, compassion and mercy."

Aren't those wonderful sentiments to include when saying "Hello" or "Goodby?"

From the first moment of the first time I set foot on the island of Kauai, I could feel the aloha. That's how locals often talk about it; as if "Aloha" were something tangible you could breathe in. It's a spiritual thing, but oh, so real. When the people (and maybe even the land itself) feels affection, love, peace, compassion, and mercy, you can feel it.

Aloha has a powerful effect on people. It doesn't leave us alone. It changes us.

Of course it does; one of the things Aloha is is love.

I started this post because every time I come to the Islands I notice how many more beautiful women there are. It isn't that they are more physically beautiful than their counterparts elsewhere--they run the usual gamut of tiny to big, shapely to shapeless, in all the colors of humanity--but there's Aloha. And Aloha makes people beautiful.

It makes sense, if you think about it. We've all known someone whose features were perhaps rather ordinary, but whose animation, liveliness, happiness, joy, whatever, make them amazing and beautiful. They're unselfconscious and satisfied with who they are, they are content with their lot in life, they are fulfilled... and that makes them maybe not pretty, but beautiful.

I think that's why so many Hawaiians (whether Native or transplant) are beautiful. It's the Aloha. When Aloha infuses you and your environment--when you are bathed in affection, love, peace, compassion, and mercy--you are far more likely to be unselfconscious and satisfied with who you are, content with your lot in life, fulfilled...

And if you're all those things, how could you help being beautiful?

In the culture of my daily existence, people too seldom experience affection, love, peace, compassion, and mercy. Without Aloha, people tend to be self-conscious, dissatisfied with who they are, discontented, unfulfilled... and that leaves them completely dependent on their physical charms. And if that's all you've got and you aren't perfect, you're going to be unhappy and friends, being unhappy doesn't make you more beautiful.

One of the great gifts Hawaii has to offer the world is Aloha. The world needs it--we all need it--and Hawaii's got it. But it isn't something that can be taken from Hawaii; rather, Hawaii must give it as a gift. But Aloha is one of those wonderful gifts that, no matter how much you give away, your own supply will never be diminished; the act of sharing Aloha multiplies it.

And you don't have to be Hawaiian to give and live Aloha. Anyone can share affection, love, peace, compassion, and mercy. Anyone can make the world a better, more beautiful place.

Live the Aloha.

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Location:Hoohu Rd,Koloa,United States

Kryptonite

We all know that a character (whether heroic or villainous) can't be truly invulnerable; an invulnerable character is one we have difficulty sympathizing with. Superman has his kryptonite, and without it we wouldn't care much about what happened to him.

Similarly, real human beings have their vulnerabilities, whether physical or emotional. Those who pretend to be faultless and invulnerable don't engage our sympathies even though we know they have faults and vulnerabilities because the act they put on strikes us as unrealistic and disingenuous. If they won't admit that they even have human vulnerabilities, they seem less "real."

My kryptonite is my poor self-image. I have other vulnerabilities, some of them quite significant, but that's the one that (metaphorically) "kills" me.

I cannot remember a time when I felt that I was attractive to women. Recently I've come to an intellectual understanding that I probably am more attractive than I imagine; I can say to myself, "You've got even features, you're not too overweight, your skin is good, you've got nice hair, you're intelligent and 'nice' and somewhat successful..." but my heart is not convinced by intellectual arguments. I think I'm attractive(ish), but I feel unattractive.

I have spent a lifetime trying to "fix" this. I am (deservedly?) proud of how well I know myself (after years of mostly-fearless self reflection and discovery) and how well I've been able to redefine myself so that I am more the man I want to be. Yet this particular trait has stubbornly resisted all positive self-talk and all rationality; emotionally, I remain as doubtful of my attractiveness as I was in high school.

Because of this persistent visceral doubt, I have never trusted my perceptions when it came to women. I would find myself thinking She likes me," or "She's flirting with me!" but my heart would squelch such thoughts as 'wishful thinking' or self-deception. I might think a woman was interested in me, but I felt that it just wasn't possible. And in me, those feelings always trumped thought.

I do not believe that I am the only man who struggles with this. Surely many have overcome it. I often wonder how; wonder if it's even something I can fix on my own initiative, or if it's going to require in addition some external influence.

How can a guy learn to trust those intuitions, at least enough to act on them?

Maybe it takes a specific kind of experience. Maybe it requires first the intuition that "She likes me," or "She's flirting with me," followed by clear evidence that the intuition is right. Maybe it takes just one experience, or maybe it takes several, but maybe that's what it takes.

Maybe...

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