I'M SLEEPING WITH DEXTER

Being alone in a foreign city can be daunting. Normally I have found this great sense of adventure, but that was my holiday visits not beginning a new life. There is this strange mix of new yet familair here. I get up, I shave, I shower, I dress in my business casual and go to work. Nothing new. But work is new, a new company, a new role, and people from over 25 countries mix with me. Familiar yet not.

I ride my bike to and from work. I've ridden a bike before, but never as my main transport. I think I have owned a car since right after my sophomore year in high school when I turned 16. And with the exception of a couple of years in college, have not been auto-wheel-less for even a day. I am more connected to my neighborhood and outdoors - familiar, but new.

Here in Munchen, the newness, the aloneness surrounds me, reminding me I am an "auslander" - a foreigner to my German neighbors whose language I cannot even begin to comprehend in any manner fitting a conversation. I yearn for the familiar and in this yearning turn to my pc for something that is in my language, my world - even if it sits in a tiny box in a tiny apartment in this foreign world.

And so over the weeks, I have been watching Dexter - a tv show about a loveable serial killer - yes I did say that correctly. Watch it yourself if you dont believe me. Before I left the USA I downloaded the entire season one onto my computer and in the absence of all that is familiar, I watch Dexter - pretty much every night. I must have seen season one so many times that I can act along with the characters.

One night it dawned on me that I had been sleeping with Dexter for about a month - falling asleep as an episode plays. And suddenly I realized how alike we were - Dexter and I, both living in a world yet in many ways disconnected.

Dexter says in the opening of episode four, "I find people around me are making some kind of connection, like friendship or romance. But human bonds always lead to messy complications; commitment, sharing, driving people to the airport. Besides if I let someone get that close, they'd see who I really am and I can't let that happen. So time to put on my mask."

Sometimes I feel this way too and not only in Munchen. I am not sure what this means, I just find it odd and interesting that this is who I choose to fall asleep with. Sure it may be coincidence, but I prefer to think the universe works in intentional ways, odd and interesting, but intentional.

At least I have not killed anyone.

AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH

Perspective - looking at things from a new angle, stepping away from something, giving yourself a larger view or maybe just a different one.

Moving to Germany is providing me the opportunity to gain perspective on many aspects of life in America. One of the things I needed to learn quickly here is that stores - grocery, clothing, stylists are not open late and all are closed on Sundays and holidays.

It was a quick lesson as I arrived on the last day of April and the first of May is a holiday, so if I wanted groceries or items I needed to move quickly. I also must be conscious at work of how late I work as most stores close in the early evening.

I found this to be annoying as I could not get what I wanted when I wanted it - the convenience I thought that America provides. "How quaint. How 1950's," I thought. And don't forget, "How annoying." I want my diet coke, or my groceries or even to go clothes shopping on a Sunday - hey it beats doing laundry. But no. Not here, this is just another of the many "rules" the Germans seem to love to live by.

So I adjust my schedule and like everyone, make sure I go to the market on Saturday to make it through Sunday, but with a little arrogant American chip on my shoulder.

Last weekend though I learned another interesting twist on this rule. A new work buddy of mine rebuilds old cars - American ones and races them. And he had a race on Sunday, but he had to take the car their early -- on Saturday, because in Germany it is illegal for trucks to be driven on Sundays. No deliveries, no trailers with race cars - all are grounded on Sundays, holidays and some full holiday weekends.

"What the f*#@?"

In the explanation, a shift in my perspective occurred. Many people like to go away on weekends, and especially long holiday ones, so taking trucks off the road limits the traffic, making it easier for travelers. Trucks are also generally forced off the road on all holidays and holiday weekends.

And it suddenly dawned on me that maybe business as a 24 hour convenience that we have become used to in America isn't really serving its intended purpose, to improve the quality of our lives. Of course that is my definition of business. Perhaps that quality is better served in having a day off every week - almost forcing me to stop moving for a day and who wouldn't rejoice in reducing the frustration of a congested holiday weekend.

Maybe, just maybe business and capitalism hasn't really been serving Americans at all, may we have been serving it.

Shopping on Saturday doesn't seem such a bad thing after all.

MOVING HURTS

AT LEAST AT FIRST...

Standing in line at airport security, I watched as the two most important people in my life walked away. A emptiness swelled up from my stomach overtaking my chest, my heart, my throat and forcing water to my eyes. How is it that being empty can fill me up so? I was leaving my sons behind as I moved onto begin a new life for me, for us in Germany.

Weeks earlier weighed down by my final list of things to do, I had no time to be sad. No time to miss friends, even as I bumped into them intentionally and not. Too much to think about. I think life is often like this, my head keeping me so busy, my head controlling all the internal conversation so that my heart hardly ever gets a word in edge-wise. (By the way what is "edge-wise"?).

Lucky for me two weeks before I left, I went on a weekend retreat where I could not do any of my do's. And in walking away from my do's and being close to some I love, my heart finally won out. All that I kept inside, all that was "real" - at least to my heart came bubbling out. No that really isn't true. It came spewing out, like a bad case of projectile vomit. An unlike vomit, it felt good, even amid the sad. My heart has a place in my life - one I want to honor more often, but I often find it easier to think than to feel.

In fact my thinker is quite sneaky and often when I try to let my heart speak, he steps in like a ventriloquist and again takes over the conversation. I am worried (my heart is saying), but the words that come out are "I feel like I might be making a bad choice." Which if you look closer, there aren't any feelings in this statement.

I don't know about you, but for me, I have to be on guard for my thinker. He is a control freak. Don't get me wrong, I quite like him - he does a bit of good, but he doesn't like sharing the stage, so I must be on guard. Why is this important to me?

My heart tells me what is real? What is going on inside of me? My thinker, he is kind of like my press agent, putting good spin on it, explaining it, etc. etc. And so in all this reporting about what is going on, I don't get to quite touch the actual going on. Put it like this, I'd much rather eat the meal at a restaurant, than read the review. And I think (yes think) that most people are living in this world of reading reviews of their feelings than actually experiencing themselves. This makes me sad, too.

So anyway I digress, what all this taught me is that moving hurts. I lost the freedom and space to be with my friends. I lost the access to a home I love, a refuge. I lost the familiar rhythums of my life. This hurts and I am sad.

And I come to a new place, Munchen. Even in my sadness there is a kernel of hope a sense of adventure and pride in my courage. Wow that's a lot of feelings. Maybe this is why my thinker doesn't let my heart speak. My heart is messy, not black and white. He creates these images more like a big stew or ghoulash. Ever try to dissect a ghoulash.

My first week in Munchen I learned in more than one way how moving hurts. One of the things I love about being here is movement. I walked more in my first week here than I did I think in the past six months combined. WOW! I realized that the major part of my daily exercise was walking to and from my car, which was hardly ever parked more than a block away. In Munchen, I have no car, so I walked and walked and walked and walked. And my calves began to burn.

Another thing I love about here, about Europe is the bathtubs - big, deep and long. Good size for a tall dad. So that first week I also bathed alot. Saturday I took 2. And just as my calves were beginning to face the fact that they needed to quit whining and just deal with it, I bought a bike.

Now we're talking. I was suddenly rich as I my sphere of mobility and access greatly increased and my calves rejoiced...and my buttocks took over the whining.

Six weeks into my adventure, my calves and butt are fine. My waist has dropped a few inches from my daily 30 minute commute and moving hurts less. I still miss my friends, I still wish to see them, but just like my calves and my butt, the throbbing has diminished. And in just two more weeks, my family will be reunited.

"Heart, you can take it from here."

Heart: I am excited!

I Beat An Old Lady Today

Leaving Home

I wrote this about, well just read on and you will see... (April 28, 2008)

I began my morning pages today and only got two lines...
Today I leave for Munich.
Today I move to Munchen. Stop.

It feels as there is nothing there after this. I imagine a bunch of thoughts are swirling about that include timing and luggage details and driving and sons and friends and each fighting to come to the surface - sort of like the race of sperm to be "the one" to fertilise the egg and yet, they all seem to be pushing so hard, that not one concrete, specific thought is allowed to come through. So I am left with, "Today, I move to Munchen," and then a large pregnant pause.

I wonder if the analogy I had before of sperm racing is the origin of a "pregnant pause."
Interesting. Breathe. Nothing.Breathe. Nothing still. I breathe and search for the story that fits this blank, this pause, this emptyness.

A man comes to the edge of a cliff
or is it his life.And he peers
over the edge.
It is cloudy beneath him, yet
not completely.He can
see some details through
small breaks in the clouds.And
what he sees is not entirely
clear, but he thinks
it looks safe. Safe
enough.
He feels through the soul
s of his feet, Solid ground.
What appears to be
solid ground. He has
traveled far enough to know.
He knows this too
is illusion. Even
the ground he stands
upon is not solid, But
a swirling mass of chaos
But a chaos he is
comfortable with or
at least used to.
But peering over
the edge
This is a game
of concentration where only
bits of the puzzle are revealed
and who knows what lies behind
tile 17
Tile 17?
He remembers another
time similar to this
one, When a younger
version of himself stood
on a similar cliff,
Looking out into a world
he had so little experience at
at 17, he stood on the edge
at 17, with no one to guide him
he leapt off the cliff.
He forgot this brave version
of himself the one
that has walked with him
in him, ever since.
This version that leapt
without a push.
That leapt
without coaching
That leapt
without a self-help book
That leapt alone..
A tear, one
lonely tear appears
on the edge of his eye - holding
tightly to its place
not wanting to be spent,as he turns
and looks back across the landscape
of the climb that brought him
to this very spot
the tear rolls down his cheek
"Wow. What a hike?"
There have been many.
Many - too many to name.I
wonder is each struggling
to reach their own clif.
I wonder
does everyone feel this
same gnawing inside,
when they come to this door,
this edge
And do they know,
what I know right now
That leap or turn back
It matters not.
For me, I am this man
at this very moment,
And I am this boy of 17
A seeming lifetime ago.
And I am ready.
Knowing I will climb again
to another cliff
And today I leap.