Blog 88 The Wall (Gary)

   I recently visited THE WALL in Washington DC.  I found some of the cabbies interesting and would occasionally strike up a conversation.  An obviously older black gentleman told my wife and me about being wounded in WWII.  He was at the Battle of the Bulge.  When I told him I was a Vietnam vet he chuckled and said, “That was a junior war.”  There it was again.  I let it go this time, and just decided to respect and honor this elder man for his sacrifices, and accepted that he would never understand my own.  Somehow I was okay.

            I made my way to the Vietnam Memorial.  I placed my hand on THE WALL, cried, and dragged my hand along the length of THE WALL.  I found not only tears but my body wanting to touch each person.  It was like I was trying to gather all of them and do something with them.  I wanted to take all of them with me and touch every one of them.  They are with me, and although Vietnam scarred me, it also brought me into consciousness, or better yet my grief has kept me awake.  Now much more fully awake, as I am in touch with the depth of my feelings, and gives me full permission to be where I am.

            Home.

            What does that really mean?  Two stories from my groups come to mind.

            In my 4:00 p.m. men's group last Monday a man shared that he visited his friend in the hospital who is dying of a brain tumor.  He saw his friend in an oxygen tent with tubes in him just lying there immobilized.  He asked his friend how he was doing, and his friend simply said, "I am here."  To me that is a partial definition of home.  He had surrendered to just being where he was.  Sometimes it takes a near death experience to get us here.  Something similar to my mother saying, “What does it matter?”  You are right, mother, it matters not.

            That certainly was true for me when I returned from Vietnam.  Like many of us I just wanted to kiss the ground when I returned.  I felt I had already faced death, and had a life again when I hit the ground at Travis Air Force Base.

            The second story is from the group that followed at 6:30 p.m.  We were talking about "home" and a man, just off the cuff, as he was leaving group that evening, happened to share this statement: "Home is just a place.  Being there is what matters.”  Yes, same lesson repeated twice within one evening.  Spirit is talking to me once again. 

            Do you listen?  I mean really listen to what is available to you as a teaching?  I find I am being informed constantly if I am quiet and listening.

            The Great Mystery again: Home is defined by my presence, not by the place.  By my kissing the ground, if you will.  I need to walk the grounds of my one-third acre and be present to where I am in order to make it "home."  The bottom line of course is to be present wherever you are.  I knew that, and preached it, but I knew it only on paper.

            My childhood fears have kept me wandering, fearful, defensive in some ways and protective in others.  It was what made me rip my classmate’s drawing to pieces.  I became a little animal, nose to the ground, sensing and rejecting, defending, protecting, evaluating and searching for someone or something to provide for me what my parents could not. 

            It has only been through my walks on The Hill that I have been brought full circle, home to myself, free from fear, fantasy, and to being present.  Maybe it brought me back to being an animal, and the assurance of finding my own way, and my own home.  The more I sniffed the trail the more I found my own scent, and the more I felt secure, much like an animal claiming his territory.

            But wait.  There is yet another piece.

            I ask my friend Walt at Friday Coffee, which is what I call the men’s group that Mark and I started by meeting at 10:00 a.m. every Friday, how his last trip was.  He says, “It was completely different this time.”  I ask him what he means.  Walt says that every trip has been an adventure for him but this time he was aware that he was looking for something.  What he profoundly realized on this trip (and I can witness the emotion in his eyes) is that he had traveled the world looking to “belong,” and that he now knows, “I belong here.”  “Here?”  I ask.  “Yes, here in Los Gatos.” 

            I am moved to emotion as I share that mine has been the same journey, and I had just concluded it, but I had used the word “home,” yet he has helped me see that it is not home I have sought as much as it is “belonging.”  I, also, belong here.  This is my home, but most importantly I belong, as the dictionary describes: in position, place, group, person.  My story is the long journey of longing for belonging.  Sigh, “Here.” 

            What does that word “belonging” mean to you?

            This has been my impetus in leading men’s groups.  To provide a safe place (home) where a man can do his work (express his feelings) find acceptance (a place without shame) receive confrontation (direction), and, most importantly, the welcoming hug of belonging (confirmation and validation).

            The vital feelings I received from The Hill brought me here.  Now, truly now, the cat sits on my lap, I write, I nap, I write: I am home.  Peace, love, and "Welcome Home" to me. 
I write to be free from an old pattern.  No longer CONTAINED and invisible.  Gary Hal Plep, LOVE the Men, Love Yourself, Be Seen, Acknowledge the Wisdom of the Mountain. 

            You’ll see.

Walk till you find your way home.

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