Judahism

Bringing Out the Book

2009-11-11T11:44:00.002-05:00

Creating my new book--beyond the writing--has turned out to be a Herculean effort, far beyond anything I had imagined. Yesterday, the proof finally came from the printer, and it does look good--but there was, and is, a little let down, especially because there's so much work left to do: I have to promote it.

Meanwhile, I had overseen the process (sort of like a tennis match) of copy-editing and layout, once it became apparent to me that the original publisher wasn't up to the task. So, after paying her off, I took the book back. Since then, the process has flowed more smoothly, but still, it has taken longer than I imagined.

At least it looks good, and I was confident I'd caught any misspellings--ones often created by the original editor who dropped letters and words at an alarming rate. But this morning, while I was showing off the book, a friend noticed a misspelling on my Acknowledgments page. So now, I have to upload a new file and wait another week, all because of one missing letter.

Still, despite the fact that I'm going to miss most of the Xmas rush, I know it's more important to do it right than to do it fast, and that I'll soon have a book that reflects my work.

B-Side: Lost

2009-09-12T11:30:00.000-04:00

B-Side: Lost

My piece, "Echoes of Jerry" about losing some of my hearing and my connection to my deaf uncle, has just been broadcast on the latest edition of B-Side Radio. Check it out!

A Fine Line

2009-08-15T16:31:00.002-04:00

Here is my latest Bay Windows column, about one of my recent experiences in P'town--a reminder of how I don't fit the 'gay ideal.' As if I needed a reminder......

A Fine Line

Judah Leblang/2009

I’d been in Provincetown for two days, and it was clearly time for a makeover. It was late July, the height of the summer tourist season. Nothing had changed from my previous visits, except that many of the men seemed younger, a reminder that I had grown older. Meanwhile, the parade of handsome men rolled on through town, with their honey-brown tans and “surfboard haircuts” (as I think of them), the crest of the wave rising neatly over their bronzed foreheads.

I had come to P’town, ostensibly, to take a creative writing course at the Fine Arts Work Center. Since the course met for only 3 hours Monday-Friday, I also came to vacation, relax, chill out. But instead of unwinding, I began to feel stressed. I lacked the key characteristics of the well-dressed (or undressed) Provincetown man: perfect haircut, melon-shaped biceps, and tanned skin.

I conducted a mental inventory, whispering my version of the serenity prayer: “Lord, help me to accept my imperfections, and not to compare myself to the gymbots at the Boatslip or Herring Cove.” My reddish complexion and cancer-prone skin meant tanning was out. My lean genes keep me relatively fit, but building muscle is a painfully-slow process, and my life doesn’t revolve around the gym. So I settled on the one thing I could easily change –- my hairstyle.

One afternoon after class, I wandered through town toward a trendy salon I’ll call “Cut and Paste.” My stylist, Gregory, fit the P’town aesthetic to a T, with broad shoulders, bronzed skin, and short, neatly trimmed hair, which framed his face to best effect. After a few minutes, Greg commented on my receding hairline and the affliction of male pattern baldness, which was obviously stalking me.

A solution was at hand, he explained. Years earlier, my stylist had a receding hairline, too. But thanks to a talented physician and the miracle of plastic surgery, Greg had a new improved hairline, which allowed him to look a decade younger than his real (forty-something) age. I had to admit that Greg, along with his hair, looked great; my hair had never looked quite that good. Still, he said it took work –- vigilance, medication, the right hair products.

A half hour later I was back on Commercial, with the same basic haircut I typically get in Somerville, at twice the price. Tucked against my chest, below my trim but thinning mane, was an impressive pamphlet –- a booklet actually -- which outlined the wonders of microsurgery for hair loss.

Back in my steamy East End room, I examined the booklet. On the front cover was a large grayscale image of a bald man, bare head in hands, looking like Rodin’s “Thinker” with a migraine headache. Inside were a series of before and after pictures –- the former images of disheveled unsmiling men with patchy, flyaway hair –- while the after pics showed these same men smiling, their confidence restored. The surgeon, a Dr. Epstein, with offices conveniently located in both New York and Miami, had performed thousands of these procedures, assisted by a team of crack technicians, a line of women in front of microscopes, all outfitted in neat white jackets or surgical scrubs.

I turned the glossy pages of the booklet and considered this new “problem.” I’d always been the one in my family with the “good hair,” thick and plentiful, unlike the thin straw-like locks of my two brothers. Now I was using Propecia, an oral medication, to hold onto what remained.

I have problems in my life –- an awareness of the passage of time, which seems to go faster as the years pile up, hearing loss, and dry eyes -- but I’m not ready or willing to add hair loss to the list. Over the next few days, the brochure, shiny and silvery/white, lay on a chair, soon to be buried under beach towels and souvenir T-shirts.

The days of surfboard haircuts are behind me. Eventually, I sighed, tossed the booklet in the trash and headed outside, the setting sun reflecting off my high forehead.

Hello--Goodbye

2009-06-19T12:18:00.003-04:00

For the past few months, I've been dating a wonderful man. Initially, I was (as usual) ambivalent about him--not sure if I was really attracted. I've dated a lot of nice guys, but I thought that if the chemistry wasn't there, I couldn't force it, and those men usually went into my friendship category.

This time, I broke my usual pattern, or went beyond its limitations. As I got to know A, my feelings for him grew, and I found him more and more attractive. But just as my feelings were developing, A realized that he was in a difficult financial position,and needed to earn more money than he could get in Mass. Over the past month he's been preparing to move away from the area to work as a traveling nurse. To do that, he has to go where the jobs are--often in out of the way places.

Now, just as I'm getting used to being in relationship, I'm preparing to lose one. The whole process has been accelerated and surprisingly difficult.

Passover

2009-04-12T17:35:00.003-04:00

About 2 weeks ago,I came back from visiting a friend in Albany and found a mini-flood in my kitchen. It seems that literally when it rains it pours, and the water damage came the week after I discovered that my bike had been stolen out of the "secure" bike room on the first floor of my condo building. Also, I was in the middle of refinancing my condo and had just received my new appraisal--in the last few years the value of my condo has been shrinking incredibly fast--and seeing the new/low number brought me up short; I felt like I'd just been slapped like the men in those old Aqua Velva commercials.

Today, my unit is pieced back together and I've managed to pull myself together, too. But I was and am amazed at how quickly I felt ungrounded/of how I lost my composure as soon as I spotted a note on my door and then entered my unit to find peeling plaster, water-stained walls and a wet floor. Once again, I'm reminded that I need to practice yoga or meditation--to do something so that when the shit does hit the fan--as it inevitably will, especially when life seems to be going my way, I'll have something to fall back on.

Snow Day

2009-03-02T09:14:00.002-05:00

I'm officially sick of winter--no longer seeing the beauty of white on red brick or bare trees. I'm tired of being cold, of feeling the wind whip through my four or five layers of clothing. But on this Monday morning, I'm grateful for snow; for the first time this year, my college (work) is closed and we have a snow day.

I feel a bit like the kid I was, back in Cleveland, when we'd get a rare (about once a year) day off due to snow. In that lake-effect snow region, school would be canceled only if we got a foot or more. My friends and I would grab our fathers' shovels and head out, shoveling the neighbors driveways for $5 or $6, and earning $2 each for that numbingly cold work.

Still, it was exciting--an unexpected gift--to get that unplanned holiday. Today, my car is in my condo lot, which should be plowed out by this afternoon. Then I'll head down out and dig out my car....which beats shoveling a whole driveway. I'm hoping this will be the last major snowstorm of the season, but March can be a long month.

Still, the time changes next weekend and I'm going to pretend that spring is just around the corner instead of being a month away.

Coming Back to Earth

2009-02-04T21:44:00.002-05:00

The last few weeks have been a blur--after New Year's I was caught up in the count-down to Barack Obama's inauguration, and then on January 18th I flew down to DC and it was suddenly all happening. Of course, my own small plans, within the larger scope of events, didn't roll out the way I'd imagined. Boston got blasted with a snowstorm, which delayed our flight a bit. The bigger hassle was the ingrown toenail I discovered that morning, and the infection that had set in.

Sometime after our arrival, I went to a walk-in clinic and started taking an antibiotic to clear up the infection. While taking care of that issue, I missed the concert at the Lincoln Memorial. Then, on Monday night, (the medicine made me sick to my stomach) so that I got very little sleep and didn't think I'd make it down to Obama's swearing in. Still, I'd waited 8 years and traveled 500 miles, and so I made the trek, by Metro and foot, to the Mall.

There, I stood with my two friends and 1.8 million others, savoring the moment even while my stomach churned and gurgled. Even though we were far back in the crowd, in front of the Washington Monument, we could look out and see the Capitol, and watch the proceedings on a giant screen.

Knowing that I was a (tiny) part of history, caught up in the excitement, it was hard to get back to my humdrum life of work, errands, paying bills, etc. But part of me is still basking in a post-DC glow, and grateful for the time I took to make it happen.

Sliding into the New Year

2009-01-05T22:05:00.002-05:00

After a long break in my posting, I'm back to this blog. Naturally, I wonder if anyone is out there--if anyone reads these posts, especially when I've been an infrequent contributor. But during the months of November and December, I was, (as we'd say in Boston) wicked preoccupied with family issues. My mother's husband passed away in mid-December after a long illness. Now my mother has the time and ability to take care of herself, and to resume her own life. As I see her get on her feet, I'm getting back into my own life.

Now, once again, I have no (good) excuses not to write, to work on my one-man show (which I plan to perform next fall), or to plan my classes. I avoid formal new year's resolutions, but I am determined to write more, to practice my craft regularly, to use my precious time instead of frittering so much of it away in front of the TV.

The government is giving me a boost by doing what I lacked the will to do--essentially turning off my television. On February 17, when the remaining stations switch from analog to digital, my TV (complete with rabbit ears and no cable) will become a DVD player. This is one time I cut put my talent for procrastination and inertia to positive use....I'm not ordering cable or getting a conversion box--at least not yet.

The Same, and Different

2008-11-16T11:07:00.003-05:00

Now that George W Bush is (almost) history, I've spent the past few weeks in a daze. It's so hard for me to believe that I actually backed a winner, and that we, the American people, voted for the most qualified man, regardless of skin color--a man who had actually earned the right to compete at a national level, instead of someone who (a la Bush) arrived there as a scion of privilege and family connections.

Thinking about change, and what this country is capable of, is both humbling and exciting. Though sleep deprived, I was on a dreamy high for the rest of the week.

And then I came back to reality. My mother, who is 80 years old, is overwhelmed, watching over her very sick husband back in Cleveland. At times, I make myself ill worrying over her--how she doesn't take care of herself, tries to do too much, and doesn't listen to my heartfelt advice/pleas for her to slow down.

At times I feel powerless, unable to prevent the traffic accident, the inevitable collapse of my mother's body if she continues to go beyond her limits. Ironically, by fixating on my fears--of having to go back to Cleveland to 'pick up the pieces' of being saddled with her care, and of seeing her in a weakened condition--I do the same thing myself--not eating or sleeping well.

Recently I've been having difficulty sleeping for other reasons--noisy neighbors, and stress at work. I like to think of my 3 room apartment as a safe haven, but sometimes it isn't--the outside world intervenes and again, life doesn't go according to my plans.

This lesson, letting go and trusting that things will come together, seems to be the hardest--a life-long challenge. I seem to confront this lesson over and over. (I must be a slow learner). Meanwhile, I'm still trying to hold on, to not freak out when I get into a disagreement with a neighbor, or a co-worker, to not immediately fall into my fear-based 'fight or flight' response, as I did yesterday.

I am a slow-learner, but I'm also trying to accept life's ups and downs--and the fact that ultimately, life will not go according to my plans.

Obama-nation

2008-11-04T08:35:00.002-05:00

On the morning of election day, my stomach is rumbling. Not because I am hungry to eat, but because I--and just about everyone I know--is desperately hungry for change. After 8 endless years under the worst president and vice-president--(Spiro Agnew included--of my lifetime, I'm craving new leadership. I believe that Obama and Biden can provide what we/I need. Hell, he can hardly do worse.

Obama, like Bill Clinton, represents achievement based on merit, on ability, on intelligence. George W Bush represented, to me, the worst of America--nepotism, family connections, affirmative action for rich white men. Who honestly believe that GW would have come within sniffing distance of the White House, if he'd been born into an average American family, much less a poor one?

More than anything, I want to believe that my native state of Ohio will finally side with someone who could potentially benefit this country. Growing up there in the 1960's, I heard that Ohio was the "Mother of Presidents," basically tied with Virginia as the birthplace or residence of our supreme leaders. But later, I came to think of the Buckeye State as the "Mother of Bad Presidents," since we had birthed many corrupt and inept presidents--i.e. Harding and Grant,along with various mediocrities like Taft. Then there was William Henry Harrison, who was from (but not born in) Ohio, and who lasted all of one month before he caught pneumonia, and two who fell under assassins' bullets--James Garfield and William McKinley.

Lately, Ohio has helped to seal our nation's fate by sending GW Bush to Washington in both 2000 and 2004. In '04, the state vote was sealed by the machinations of Kenneth Blackwell, who was both Ohio Secretary of State and Bush's campaign co-chair. (A major conflict of interest).

Today, I want to hope that Ohio, and the nation as a whole, can finally begin to put the Bush years behind us and elect a leader who calls upon our better nature, rather than our xenophobia, our fear of the other, our narrow-mindedness. Will it happen?
I'm hoping that we'll know by midnight tonight, and that I'll wake up tomorrow in a new era of possibility, in which George W Bush is almost irrelevant, a footnote of history whom many of us are anxious to forget--like a nightmare that fades in the light of morning.

Dating in Middle Age

2008-10-19T19:48:00.002-04:00

I find myself wondering--what are the rules of dating? Who, if anyone, makes them up? In the gay male "community," (and I use that term loosely), there's a wide-ranging fear of aging. Now that I'm (just slightly) past 50, I've been splashing around in the dating pool, but the water isn't very inviting.

It's not like I was more successful back in the days when I fit the preferred demographic. When I was in my early-mid 30's I had little self-confidence and rarely seemed to get noticed. Now that my self-esteem is closer to sea-level, my prospects seem to have decreased. I notice this whenever I go to Provincetown, especially in summer. This past August I spent a week on the Cape, and saw literally hundreds of handsome men, none of whom seemed to be looking at me.

Of course, many of them were ten to fifteen years younger than me, but not all. But they were all fit, verging on buff. It's a weakness--I'm attracted to smooth muscular men, and yet those men seem to find me as interesting as yesterday's newspaper. Women seem to be much more forgiving; I often see good-looking women with out of shape, shlumpy straight men. (I also am drawn to men who are honest, creative and kind, but preferably in a worked-out physique).

Reading this, you might think I sound superficial (and to some extent) you might be right. But I am a man and I believe we--straight or gay--are wired to look for beauty. Still, some of my gay friends have more flexible standards, and are more willing to look beyond the surface to find the beauty within their prospective dates than I.

Over the last few years, as my youth receded over the far horizon, I've tried to do the same--widening my standards of who and what makes up an attractive man. But there are certain things I cannot give up--like a pulse--along with some element of attraction. Lately, I've learned that I don't need perfection or anything close to it. Instead, if I can find some physical attribute, like a tight chest or strong hands, I can focus on those other qualities I'm craving, like being with a man who can share his feelings, keep his word, and laugh at himself.

Recently I've had a near miss with a man who was single and seemingly available. In hindsight, a lot of the connection, on my part at least, was fantasy, my wish to have a handsome, somewhat younger man to spend time with.....

So now I'm starting over, wading in, and hoping I won't drown.

It is what it is......

2008-10-03T21:50:00.002-04:00

is my new mantra. I try to breathe, and just experience what's happening, even if it is not, in any form, what I would have ordered from the International Male catalog. Certainly, at the end of the old year (on the Jewish calendar) and the opening of a new one, life is not going according to my plans. During the summer, I met a wonderful man--kind, sensitive, cute, and initially involved with someone else. When that didn't work out (for him), and as we spent some time together, our "hanging out" turned into a few dates. Finally, I was able to express the feelings I'd kept carefully penned up inside me.

Until, over the past few weeks, it became clear that my friend has no time for relationship, and little time for me. Until it became obvious, when he did have time, that spending it with me wasn't a priority; (his former crush is coming down for a 3-day weekend). Finally, I thought I'd actually connected with an available man, where the attraction was mutual, where we could explore dating, and possibly a significant relationship together. Now, he just wants to be friends. I have a number of good friends and what I really want and need is a boyfriend/man-friend who is available, and why is that so hard to find?

If I just wanted someone--anyone--I could find 'him,' but with C the chemistry was there, along with many of the personal qualities I'm looking for: humor, kindness, sensuality, warmth, decency.

The rest of my life isn't going smoothly, either. On Wednesday morning, after spending a good three days in NYC over Rosh Hashanah, visiting with two friends, I was driving over to my office in Porter Square, Cambridge. As I was waiting at a light, a young man plowed into the back of my (new) car, pushing my Nissan Versa into the small Ford pick up in front of me.

The driver, who was piloting a Mazda SUV, must have been literally asleep at the wheel. He wanted to make a deal (and avoid reporting the accident to the police). But I declined his offer, and quickly learned he had only a Lebanese driver's license--and his insurance had expired. My car is at the body shop, I filled out the accident reports and filed a claim. This is my second accident (neither were my fault) in less that 4 months.

I'm starting to feel like there's a black cloud floating over my head. I guess the good news is that with all this tsuris, I have to write, or I'll lose what's left of my mind.

Reconnecting

2008-08-14T10:02:00.002-04:00

Having a column in Bay Windows has been an interesting experience--and has led to a number of unexpected connections. Occasionally, I get reaction (mostly positive) to my pieces, and my website is getting more traffic. Recently, someone asked me out (on a date)! after tracking my adventures through the column.

But my most surprising moment so far took place several weeks ago, when I skimmed my junk mail and opened a message from an old friend, who had not seen or spoken with in 11 years. Back in 1997, I lived with her and a mutual friend.....the three of us were all housemates in a communal house on Beacon Hill.

When I moved in, a month or two after they moved into our new house (an old Victorian in Brookline), I picked up a strange vibe/a weird energy. Some weeks later I found out that my good friend, whom I'll call Penny, had fallen in love with our other housemate, Paul. Suddenly I was the 'third wheel' living with a new couple.

The connection evidently just happened; there had been no attraction between them when we lived in our communal house. Based on the turn of events, and my feeling of being the outsider in the group, I decided to move out. But instead of being accepting/understanding, my friends became cold and distant.

I moved to Jamaica Plain and lived alone for the next year, hoping that I could rekindle my friendship with Penny, who during our time on Beacon Hill, seemed like the sister I never had. But when I called and left a message, there was no response, and evidently no interest in maintaining our connection.

The years went by, and I heard that my former friends had gotten married and started a family. Meanwhile, I focused on rebuilding my life, writing, and pulling myself out of a long history of depression. Even while I began to feel better, I held onto my sense of grievance, my resentment, of being misunderstood.

And then I got an email, out of the blue. We met for lunch yesterday, Penny and I, and I realized that she had missed me too, and that our friendship had enough value to her, to encourage her to reach out a decade beyond our last uncomfortable conversations.

When we actually got together, her voice, her laugh, her smile all seemed familiar. And underneath my sense of grievance was something deeper--a knowing that I had carried a story for ten years, a story that no longer had much energy. Instead, I chose to tap into the stories that came before, the adventures we had together, when we became good friends.

Now, Penny is a married woman in her late 30s, with 3 children. Now I am a writer with a different first name, past 50. And yet fundamentally, we're the same people who bonded as friends in 1994. It was interesting for me--one who often holds onto my stories for dear life and who doesn't yield my grudges easily--to discover that our bond was still there, still present, waiting to be rediscovered.

Be Careful What You Wish For

2008-07-27T11:16:00.002-04:00

After months of dreaming about it, I actually have a chunk (6 weeks) of time off work. Certainly it's a gift, and the reality/luxury of that time is sinking in....but now I have no excuses not to write, and to work on a book project with no end in sight. It reminds me of a cross-country drive I did the summer I was 20, driving from Chicago to San Francisco, and how the horizon in Nebraska seemed endless, a moving target.

The truth is I don't really know how to structure a book, so I'm just writing it piece by piece, and taking it on faith (i.e. wishing and hoping) that the story will come together in a coherent and interesting way. This week I'm participating in a writers' conference at Lesley U in Cambridge, where I work. Hopefully I'll get some guidance and some creative fuel for the next steps....'cuz right now it's so much easier to pick up a book or watch awful summer TV than to work on my book.

Going Home

2008-07-04T09:16:00.003-04:00

About two weeks ago I headed back to Cleveland for my mother's 80th birthday celebration. All in all, the weekend went well, and I was thankful that my Mom was able to enjoy the milestone in relatively good health. But I did get a taste of deja vu, when I rode with my older brother (who I hadn't seen in about 5 years), out to the cemetery where our father is buried. Somehow he made a wrong turn and we wound up taking a circuitous route before we eventually found the right exit. The highways and exits had changed in the 20+ years we'd been away, and when D asked me where he should get off the highway, I made an educated guess--which turned out to be wrong.

As my brother's frustration grew, I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Suddenly I was 8 or 10, trying not to piss him off, even though he generally seemed pissed off by my very existence. (He'd been an only child for 5 years, and never really got over the intrusion when I showed up on the scene). Fortunately, we did get there after a 10-minute detour, and the past receded into the background.

Still, I was reminded of how uncomfortable I often felt growing up in my family of origin...and how I can still revisit those feelings on occasion.

A Blast of Reality

2008-06-10T18:22:00.002-04:00

I've been feeling a bit swamped lately, especially with a series of writing workshops and teaching commitments. I enjoy the work, but sometimes I'm not very adept at schedule-juggling. I felt like I could see the light at the end of the tunnel when the "First Kiss" workshop Bob L and I had planned, which was scheduled for June, didn't run. Last Friday I was on my way to meet a friend for lunch, and then it was off to the massage therapist for some work on my sore lower back. All in all, a nice, self-indulgent day.

But life (again) didn't go according to my plans. On my way through Medford, something slammed into the front of my car. (At first, I had no idea what)....It turned out to be a huge Dodge 4x4 pickup truck, driven by a very nice firefighter, who just hadn't seen my car. I was shaken up but had no major injuries--though my shoulders and back were tighter than ever.

Then I got to go thru insurance company hell, waiting on hold to get help, until I finally got a rental car. Now I'm tooling around town in a PT Cruiser--a virtual tank--and waiting for my insurance company to tell me how much (how little) they'll pay me for my '97 Mercury Tracer.

Tomorrow night I'm off to look at cars and interact with car salesmen. Although I emerged from the accident relatively unscathed, I doubt I'll be as lucky with the car guys.

Pray for me......

Fitting In--and not

2008-05-25T10:50:00.003-04:00

Last week I spent a few days working in DC for my 'day job.' While I like Washington, I find travel, especially business travel, to be difficult. It seems that when I'm in between places, and when I get out of my daily life, that I start to examine/assess/evaluate how things (like my life) are going, which isn't good for my state of mind.

Waiting at Logan Airport for my flight to take off, I naturally looked around at the people (mostly men) who were sitting around, waiting for the US Air shuttle. Businessmen, some of them young, and most of them looking sharp in their corporate drag, tapped on their Palm Pilots, or Blackberrys. Suddenly I felt under dressed. After all, I was going to meet a contact at one of DC's museums, and I should look my professional than I did in my comfortable but frayed black jeans.

A few hours later, after checking in at the museum, I had a free afternoon in the nation's capital. And yet I found myself restless, lonely, disconnected. It's often when I travel that I feel the absence of having a significant other, a partner. It's then that I realize--or feel more deeply--the knowledge that there is no one back home missing me, no one waiting for my call.

And so I fell into a funk, the funk of not fitting in. As I walked around DC, everyone seemed to be on a mission, to know where they were going, and why. I walked aimlessly,
anxious to get back to Boston, not because someone was waiting, but because the loneliness I feel here--at times--is eased by the comfort of the familiar, the salve of the routine.

Do What I Say, Not What I (Don't) Do

2008-05-08T12:14:00.002-04:00

Lately I've been teaching a series of memoir and essay-writing workshops. Generally, I feel good about the fact that I'm actively writing, and finding ways to get my essays and stories published, (usually in small publications, but at least I'm getting them 'out there). But over the past few months, I've gotten away from my book project, and I haven't felt inspired to write much beyond my Bay Windows column, "Life in the Slow Lane." (See www.baywindows.com).

Last month I co-taught a 4-week course at the Cambridge Center for Adult Education, and the writers in the class were amazingly motivated. They wrote, refined and prepared to send out new material--good, polished essays. Meanwhile, I'm in a writing funk. I'd love to get some suggestions on how to get unstuck and re-fill my creative gas tank. Any suggestions??

Memoir-writing

2008-04-27T15:20:00.004-04:00

I went to the first day of a two-day writers' conference yesterday, here in Boston. The conference, "Muse and the Marketplace," featured a mass of professional writers of various levels and pedigrees. The invited guests--those speaking on panels and in the breakout sessions, had impressive credentials. Meanwhile, I'm still plugging along, trying to shape/shoehorn my essay collection into book form, and trying to figure out how to structure a memoir.

That process, of telling an interesting story in book form, which is not too monotonous, depressing or repetitious, has been elusive, slippery, like trying to pick up a fish with my bare hands. In a sense, I am using my hands to write, to remember, and to frame a story in a (hopefully) engaging way. But the pieces haven't come together yet. I've got vignettes that work, but divining how they fit together is another story.

I'd love to hear from writers who have shaped their own experiences into a book, and how they decided on a narrative frame and time sequence in their books. In the mean time, I'm slogging on, and looking forward to Lesley University's writers' conference in July, when I can get more help and advice.

Gratitude

2008-04-16T07:51:00.002-04:00

I managed to get through the stress test. It was aptly named; I was at the heart center for four hours, and the various phases of the test involved a lot of waiting. But I got through it, and the next day, I met with the cardiologist, who informed me that my heart function was "excellent," and that I have no evidence of heart disease. I felt, after seeing my father go through his heart dramas, that I was literally given a second chance to create my life in a way that's meaningful.

Time is precious, and who knows, ultimately, how long I have. As Pema Chodron, a wise Buddhist teacher and author has said, "Life is like getting into a boat that you know is going to sink." While my boat is floating, I want to make the most of my time here on the planet. That means more teaching, performing, writing--doing the things that add richness to my one precious life.

The Heart of the Matter

2008-04-07T19:21:00.002-04:00

Tomorrow I'm headed over to a heart center in Brookline for something called a "nuclear stress test." (Sounds sort of ominous, hmm)? The test involves receiving a radioactive dye, and then waiting about an hour before the actual test. It's something that was recommended to me, given my father's early heart attack--at 44, and his blocked arteries--he had a quadruple bypass at 60, and died a year later of a second heart attack. My older brother was diagnosed last fall with a blocked artery. So, I'm showing up to hopefully find my arteries are clear, but if not, to be proactive and not wait until something happens.

Ah, genetics!

Schadenfreude

2008-03-26T15:20:00.003-04:00

Schadenfruede, however you spell it, is an interesting concept. Taking pleasure in the misfortune of others. Last Sunday I saw Avenue Q, a wonderfully twisted musical, beautifully done and very creatively staged. The numbers included "Everyone's a little bit racist" and one that was something like "It's OK if you're gay," sung to a puppet named Rod, who is a closeted gay Republican. Another number, Shadenfruede, focused on the evil pleasure of looking at others' miseries and thinking, 'hey, my life isn't so bad....'

I feel a touch of that, at times, if I hear about a writer who is mired in writer's block--especially if that writer is more successful than me. It really comes up around book writing; despite what I say in my writing classes, I feel (when it comes to myself at least) that real writers write--and publish--books and therefore, I still have yet to arrive.

When I get into my competitive writer's head, and my inner critic is whispering into my inner ear, or shouting at full volumne, I drop headlong into another dark emotion--jealousy.

Still, I try to keep focused on doing my own work rather than worrying about what others are doing. Which is fine, as long as I don't hang out with too many successful writers....

Overdue

2008-03-17T22:36:00.002-04:00

So, I'm already late with this post. I could make excuses--I had a column due for Bay Windows, (which should be in this Thursday's paper), but that's lame. My plan is to post each Sunday or Monday, and do this weekly. Now, I need to figure out ways to keep writing and working on two book projects. The first one, a collection of essays called "Finding My Place," keeps coming together and falling apart. I just got feedback from another editor, (who I owe about $150), who doesn't think the collection works as a book.

Ugh! Putting together a book that does work is a lot more complicated than just organizing and writing a good essay. I'm used to writing in short stints and creating brief pieces. While I'm working on these projects, I could really use a writing buddy who would keep me honest (i.e. plugging away at my tasks). Writing date, anyone?

My Derriere in the Chair

2008-03-06T22:43:00.003-05:00

I'm a master procrastinator, especially when it comes to writing. The best way I can counter that, and get around the resistance in my body and mind, is to create deadlines and impose some sense of structure on myself. Discipline and a set schedule work well for me, though I resist them like the plague. So I'm recommitting to writing regularly, and posting at least once a week. If you check out my blog from time to time, please let me know; it's nice to know I'm not just throwing these thoughts out into the void.

Another Year Older

2008-03-06T22:38:00.002-05:00

Last week I bumped/crashed into my 51st birthday, or as my friend Philip would say, "my 52nd year." Just when I was (sort of) getting used to the idea of being 50, the year turned, February rolled around, and here I am. At least this past year, unlike the one before it, didn't involve any health crises or invasive procedures.

Obama-man

2008-02-10T22:23:00.000-05:00

I spent last Monday night at the World Trade Center, here in Boston. First I was standing in line, for 3 and a 1/2 hrs, waiting to get in to the meeting hall. Finally, after another two hours or so, Obama finally made his appearance.....the energy in the room was palpable, pulsing, electric. For me, at 50, I can only recall a few leaders who had the same charisma, inspirational qualities, and sense of vision. All together, I stood up for about 7 hours--and honestly, it was worth it.

Obama didn't win Massachusetts, but he is winning states and voters' hearts across the USA, from Maine to Washington State to Louisiana. I think--I know--that we need new leadership, and not the same two families--Bush and Clinton.

My guys don't usually seem to win, but I'm going with the Obama slogan: Yes, we can.....

What I want to be when I grow up

2008-02-03T15:27:00.001-05:00

I don't know about you all, but I thought I'd have my life figured out by the time I reached middle age. At least I hoped that would be the case. But I've learned that, for me at least, life is an ongoing experiment of mixing, matching and adapting to whatever fate or the gods throw at me. Right now I'm trying to figure out what kind of work to do. The writing is on the wall; I need to leave my day job sometime in the next year.

But what to do next? I have so many ideas, but, like Goldilocks, I'm having a hard time finding the work option that is just right. After working for 30 years, I'm pretty sure of what I don't want--but less clear about what I do.

My last column for Bay Windows, pasted in below, highlights my dilemma. Can anyone relate??

Growing Up

Judah Leblang/2008

When I was in my twenties, I held the naïve assumption that folks naturally grew wiser as they got older. I believed that the answers to life’s big questions naturally came to people as they spent more time on the planet; it was a trade off for losing one’s hair and making bad fashion choices, like wearing plaid.

But once I reached the age of thirty, and then forty, I realized that adding years doesn’t necessarily bring answers – or that the solutions change as time goes by. I’d heard other myths about aging, which didn’t necessarily come true either. At some point, my metabolism was supposed to slow down, and I would get a middle-aged paunch like my father had thirty years earlier. Today, at fifty, I’m still waiting for it to happen. Meanwhile, I actually struggle to put on weight, to avoid being skinny, to stay in lean or slender territory.

I’m fine with being thin, but not so fine with my confusion about one of my major dilemmas: What should I be when I grow up? Even though I used to be a career counselor, (I was quite good at helping other folks figure out what they wanted to be and do), I’m facing a career crisis of my own. My work history is somewhat checkered, or eclectic, as I like to say. I’ve done everything from managing a department of an ashram kitchen (overseeing daily vegetable preparation for 700), to teaching deaf children, working as a sign language interpreter, stacking books in a college library, and serving as an aide in a group home for developmentally-disabled adults.

After stints ranging from a few months to five years, I’ve moved on to something new, searching for something I couldn’t quite define. Now, after toiling in my current department at a local college for almost eight years -- a world record of staying power for me -- I’m itching to move on again.

I’m looking for balance, an elusive concept in my life. In the past, I’ve had jobs for which I was truly passionate – teacher of the deaf, sign language interpreter – and which sucked me dry, mentally and emotionally. I’ve had other jobs that were dull and boring, like my library work and my current position as a “program evaluator.”

Basically, I look at how grant-funded projects are being run, and write annual reports, examining their progress. A more detailed description invariably leads to yawns, eye-rolls, and attacks of narcolepsy on the part of my listeners. Therefore, at a party or when making small talk, I simply say that I’m a writer with a “day job.”

The truth is that I’m passionate about my writing, and about doing creative work in the world. My job enables me to do the other things that give my life meaning. For the past eight years, that was a compromise I was willing to make. Lately, though, I’ve hit the proverbial wall. And so I’m left feeling a bit like Little Red Riding Hood (if she were a middle-aged man), trying to find a job that’s “just right;” not too stressful, not too dull.

When I was 28 and considering my first career change, I spent almost a year plodding through “What Color is Your Parachute?” and doing informational interviews with airline ticket agents, public relations writers and other professionals, until I finally settled on working as a college staff person. I moved to Boston, earned a graduate degree from Northeastern University, and began working as a career counselor at Boston University.

Fast-forward twenty years. I’ve had two or three career changes since 1992, when I left BU. Once again, I’m facing a time of change; once again, I’m in transition. Today, I don’t have the time or energy to spend a year working through a career-planning handbook. Instead, I’m conducting my own self-inventory, outlining what I want – interesting work that involves direct contact with people, and what I don’t – lots of time sitting in a windowless office, staring at a computer screen.

Going through this process, I’m reminded that I have accumulated some wisdom over the past two decades. I have a better sense of myself than I did in my twenties – a better sense of my skills, interests and values. Like a medieval alchemist, (but hopefully with better odds of finding the right formula), I work to find the right mix of challenge, interest and flow, in my job and in my life.

Maybe, on reflection, age and experience do bring wisdom. This wisdom doesn’t bring easy answers, at least for me. Instead it allows me to seek a balanced life, and to know that, ultimately, what I do for work is not really who I am. Ultimately, I’m not a program evaluator, a teacher, or a counselor. Instead, I’m a complex human being who is simply trying to find his authentic place in the world.

And that – creating an authentic life -- feels like enough for now.

The Need for Structure

2008-01-07T19:09:00.000-05:00

My workload has been light lately, and I'm finding myself with a lot of unstructured time. As a writer, this should be a gift, but I'm feeling uninspired, with nothing much to write about. (Yes, this is an excuse). On the other side of this excuse, I'm face to face with my natural laziness and general sense of inertia. When I admit this to myself, I'm also faced with the need to find work that uses my skills, talents, and gifts out in the world--something that involves teaching, writing, performing, etc. So far, I'm not sure which direction to follow.

At 50, I"m still figuring out what, and who, I want to be when I grow up.

Gratitude in the New Year

2008-01-07T14:01:00.000-05:00

For the fourth year in a row, I spent New Year's at Easton Mountain,

Easton Mountain Retreat

....a center for gay men north of Albany. The center, in the foothills of the Adirondacks, has become a second home. This year the retreat was blanketed by half a foot of snow, which suited the holiday season and my mood. A group of about 70 men came together to celebrate the end of 2007 and the beginning of '08. Personally, I feel that I have a lot to celebrate, since my mother has recovered (mostly) from her fall, and my own health is good.

I wrote to a friend that we're already heading into the second week of January and I've had no crises. Praise the Lord for a bit of quiet and a lack of drama!

Writing for Radio

2007-12-14T10:45:00.000-05:00

I took an awesome workshop the weekend before last, offered through Grub Street, the wonderful non-profit writing center based in Boston. I've taken a bunch of workshops and seminars thru Grub, and gotten something useful out of all of them. I've also been impressed with my fellow students--they're serious writers, many of whom are already wonderful writers.

This was definitely true in the "Writing for Radio" workshop, which was led by Jennifer Mattson, a former radio producer at NPR and for "The Connection" at WBUR. Jenn had lots of good ideas and resources about creating radio essays and short vignettes. I got great feedback and tips on shaping an essay about turning fifty--and sent it on to "All Things Considered."

Unfortunately, it wasn't accepted, but I'm still happy to have the piece.

Holding the Posture (again)!

2007-12-14T10:39:00.000-05:00

It seems that every time my life gets quiet/serene, something comes along to knock me out of my complacency or boredom. This week it was drama at work, and my first significant argument with my boss, in my 7+ years of work at a local college. There's a lot of current turmoil in my department, and I feel pulled into power struggles and drama that I don't enjoy, to say the least.

I'm looking forward to almost two weeks off, starting next Thursday. I don't celebrate Xmas, but I do appreciate the time off!

Doing the Next Dumb Thing

2007-12-08T09:47:00.000-05:00

I've become a master procrastinator lately. When I have time to write, I've been coming up empty-handed, with no inspiration. My book project, writing about my deaf uncle, who died when he was only 44, and I was 18, he gotten mired down due to a lack of information, and my own laziness/inertia. I need a creative boost, and wish that was available in capsule form. Doing creative work, when no one may be interested in reading it, is challenging. Still, I'll never know if anyone is interested in my subject matter is I don't' get it down on paper.

Meanwhile, my columns kept getting bumped in Bay Windows, supposedly due to space constraints. But finally, a few weeks ago, I was back in the paper with this column, about doing the next thing.....

Lately my life seems to be zipping along at a faster pace than I would have chosen, if only I had a deciding vote in the process. I often feel like I’m riding a Japanese bullet train rather than the more relaxed Amtrak local that I’m used to. Sometimes, rapid change and variety – several things going on simultaneously – can make life richer and more interesting; it certainly beats boredom. If I were basking in the light of writing fame, if I were auditioning several handsome men for the role of my new boyfriend, then traveling at supersonic speed might be an adrenaline rush.

But that’s not the way my life is currently showing up. Instead, during the past six weeks, I’ve had a sick cat (now thankfully recovered), and a sick mother – who is also recovering, slowly, unsteadily, with lots of starts and stops along the way. (She’s currently still at a rehab center/nursing home back in Ohio, but will be getting out soon). Meanwhile, it seems my small family lurches from one crisis to another, with barely a day of rest in between. My older brother, 55 years old and thin as a rail, was just diagnosed with a blocked artery and significant heart disease.

I wonder how to focus on my life here in Boston, and to stay engaged, when my mind constantly drifts back to Cleveland and my mother’s latest crises. I’ve been back home twice since my mother’s accident, (she fell and fractured her left femur, requiring surgery and a long convalescence). Still, sometimes I feel like a bad seed/bad son, especially when she reminds me that she has no family in Cleveland, unlike most of her friends. My Mom is high-maintenance at the best of times – she sees the glass as half-empty even when it’s three-quarters full – and these are clearly not the best of times, for her, or for me.

The recent change of seasons is not helping my mental state. I love the months of September and October, especially when we’re graced by the sunny, unseasonably warm weather we’ve enjoyed this fall. But now, after the advent of seasonal November temperatures and our shift back to Standard Time– it’s fully dark by 5 PM – I’m seized by the desire to hibernate, to burrow into bed and sleep until light and warmth return, along about mid-April.

Since hibernation is not a realistic option, the only answer I’ve found is to do, as a good friend has suggested, “the next dumb thing.” Sometimes, that ‘dumb thing’ is to pick up the phone and check in on my mother. Sometimes, it means I should turn the phone off and go to the gym, to turn my jumpy edgy energy in a positive direction. I can release fear and frustration and improve my muscle tone at the same time!

As a long-single gay man, I’m used to having a lot of free time. The rhythms of my life have been set by years of doing what I want to do, when I want to do it. But as an aging Boomer with an aged parent, my time is not always my own. In this in-between state, caught between my own sometimes-selfish desires and routines and my need to be there for my mother, I struggle to find a sense of balance like the Flying Wallendas, the famous aerialists, as they carefully tiptoed their way across the high wire.

After a half-century of living, I’ve discovered, through trial and error, a few things I know to be true. One is that, ultimately, my life is not fully under my control. Everyone faces adversity at times; now it is my turn. Another truism is that no one gets out alive; the mortality rate is 100%. Therefore, it seems to me that, as much as possible, one should enjoy the ride, while being attentive to and taking care of our friends and loved ones.

My life today seems to run along too fast, and the days merge, one into another. Sometimes, I lurch to a stop at a destination not of my own choosing. Then, I steady myself, make a silent wish or prayer for myself and those I love, and do the next dumb thing.

Gratitude

2007-11-22T10:33:00.000-05:00

I'm feeling a sense of gratitude on this Thanksgiving Day--even though I am boyfriend-less, and even though I haven't been sleeping well. But not to kvetch, bitch, moan--instead I'm reminding myself to appreciate the fact that my Mom is back home, recovering from her fall--and my cat has recovered too, and is back to being her lovable and somewhat annoying self. And to top it all off, Bay Windows seems to be running my columns again.

I'm looking forward to a calm December, in spite of the holiday madness circling around me!

The First Kiss

2007-11-06T20:18:00.000-05:00

I was involved with a very cool project recently, in which a group of gay men, (including me) told our stories of our first kiss with another man as part of National Coming Out Day on October 11. The piece was scheduled to run in Bay Windows, but ultimately ended up just on their website, and here:

“When He Kissed Me”

By Judah Leblang/2007
Word count: 810

We stood in a half circle, 11 men, including me, facing an audience of 80-plus people in a rehearsal hall at the Boston Center for the Arts. It was the evening of Thursday, November 11 – National Coming Out Day – and we were performing our community theatre project, “When He Kissed Me,” a series of stories describing our first meaningful kiss with another man.

As we read the finale – each of us calling out several lines, describing the actual moment of that first momentous kiss – the atmosphere in the room was electric. It was obvious that many of the men and women in the room could relate to our experiences, and recall their own memories of a special kiss.

The First Kiss Project was the brainchild of Bob Linscott, outreach and education coordinator for the LGBT Aging Project in Boston. Bob was interested in promoting projects that bring our community together across generations. Back in late summer, he asked me to help him develop a series of writing workshops, so that a group of gay men could share their stories and prepare for a culminating performance on National Coming Out Day.

This first year, the project was a “pilot,” an experiment. Initially, we didn’t know if we would be able to find 10-15 men willing to devote serious time and effort into crafting their stories. If we did find the men, would we find a suitable performance space? Could we entice an audience to show up to listen to those stories?

On September 11, after putting out a call to various gay men’s groups, we held a meeting with 10 men who expressed interest in the project. A few others joined a week later, and soon we had a group of men committed to sharing their stories with the larger GLBT community. In the space of just four weeks, we pulled the show together. Each man shared their memories of a meaningful kiss with the group. Then we did some peer editing, finding the “gold,” the best aspects of the story, and helping each other shorten, tighten and strengthen the pieces.

On October 4th, we ran through the show; a week later we were doing it “for real,” in front of a full house at the BCA. The show began with the taped music of David Brown, a gay singer/songwriter, singing “Every Kiss is a Revolution.” The song opens with the following lines:

Every kiss is a revolution.
Everyday I walk thin ice.
Knowing what’s been given freely.
Knowing I might pay a price.
And every kiss is a revolution
Everyday I walk a line.
Knowing what’s been given freely.
Knowing what’s been sacrificed.

As Bob wrote in the program, “Every Kiss is a Revolution” emphasizes the social and political importance of a simple kiss between two people of the same sex.”
Then each performer read his story. The pieces were varied, and yet they touched on universal themes, each powerful in its’ own way. Many touched on our desire for more closeness, connection, self-acceptance, and love.

The group was truly intergenerational, including a high school senior, (all of 17 years old), and a senior citizen in his mid-60s. The specifics of each piece reflected the rich diversity of our community.

Topics included:
A high school student who had his first relationship with another boy at 15;

A young African-American man who, at 21, fell in love with a man of 71 via the Internet, and who subsequently became his husband;

A “trans-man,” who transitioned from female to male and had his first kiss with a man, as a man, at 36;

A middle-aged man who had an on-again, off-again relationship with “the love of his lives,” and who discovered a deep form of friendship and platonic love with his former lover after their physical/sexual relationship had ended.

As the tales spun out on a cold rainy night last week, as I looked out at the assembled audience and at these men who had taken the time out of their busy lives to write down and then speak their stories, I was reminded that, for gay people, every kiss is a revolution.

Each time we tell our stories and share excerpts of our life experience, we validate our identities as GLBT people.

Along the way, thanks to the generous donations of our audience, we raised more than $500 for future collaborations and projects between GLSTEN (the Gay Lesbian Straight Teachers’ Education Network) and the GLBT Aging Project.

Last week, a group of us created a deeper sense of community by “coming out” into the fullness of our experiences as gay men.

And isn’t that what National Coming Out Day is really about?

Postscript: If you would like to participate in next year’s project, which will be open to both men and women, please contact Judah Leblang through his website: www.judahleblang.com

Wake Me Up

2007-10-22T22:23:00.000-04:00

When the Series is over....we had so many chances, but the Red Sox and Yankees have the best teams money can buy. Ugh.....
OK, now I'm on to other pursuits!

A Bitter Taste

2007-10-20T23:07:00.001-04:00

I know, as a Cleveland fan, not to get my hopes up too high. So, even when we were leading the series 3-1, I knew that we had only a 50/50 chance of winning. After last night and tonight, the series is tied up, and it all comes down to Jake Westbrook, or Paul Byrd......now it seems like, again, we are the underdogs.

I'm not looking forward, if we lose, to being here in Red Sox nation, with all the World Series hype. Still, after 40+ years of following the Indians, and the Browns, nothing really surprises me.....(unless they win a championship!)....

OK, it's just a game....but coming from this place I love, it's hard not to see it as a metaphor for life.....and fate.

A Member of the Tribe

2007-10-20T08:30:00.000-04:00

Growing up in Cleveland, back in the 1960s and '70s, I developed a fierce love for the Cleveland Indians. The fact that the Indians stunk, year in and year out during my childhood, didn't lessen my attachment. In fact, their woes may have made me more loyal, so that even thought I've lived in Boston for almost 20 years, I remain a Cleveland fan.

Now, ten years after their last trip to the World Series, the Indians have a real chance to get there again. Things were looking promising until Thursday night, when the Red Sox ace, Josh Beckett, outpitched CC Sabathia. Now the Indians have to win one of two games at Fenway Park. If they make it to the World Series, if they do win one of these two games, I have a feeling the Tribe will beat the Rockies and win their first Series since 1948, their first in my fifty years of life.

Meanwhile, I'm too nervous to sit and watch the games. After coming so close in '97, after waiting so long, I want it too much. It's as if I believe my life would change if the Indians won championship. I know that Clevelanders' perceptions of themselves and their city would change--they'd no longer be the home of losing teams, teams that never win championships.

My friends remind me that this is just a game. I know that intellectually, but in my heart and mind this is more than a game; it's a reflection of my own identity.

Crazy, hmmm?

Dancing as fast as I can

2007-10-09T15:29:00.000-04:00

Last week, I published this column in Bay Windows. It has been a rough couple of weeks, and I'm not sure if I see any light at the end of tunnel....(or it may be an oncoming train)!

Lately I’ve been feeling stressed. Not in a small way, but in a full-throated, need to scream into a pillow for two hours sort of way. It seems that I’ve been “dancing as fast as I can,” getting involved in too many activities, running from event to event. Still, this engagement can be a good thing, I think, as it keeps me excited about my life, even when my “day job” is drier than the Gobi Desert.

I can manage multiple projects and stay reasonably sane, as long as my life is going along as planned. However, as the Yiddish proverb says, “Man plans and God laughs.” I’ve been reciting that expression like a mantra as I face a variety of crises, trying to maintain a sense of perspective, and still do what must be done.
For the past 10 years, I’ve been parenting an affectionate calico cat named Santosh. “Santosh” is a Sanskrit (Indian) name meaning peaceful or contentment, and my cat usually exemplifies her name. Unfortunately, both she and I are going through a difficult period, physically and emotionally.

The young vet who gave Santosh her last two checkups recommended a teeth-cleaning procedure upon our last visit. This led to a series of tests, expenses and now — complications. First there was the echocardiogram, along with various blood tests. (My cat has a heart murmur). Then there was the dental cleaning under general anesthesia, removal of two teeth and the aftermath.

A few days after the first surgery, I brought Santosh back to the vet, who determined that there had been “complications.” Suddenly my sick pet was facing another session under the knife. Currently, my cat is making slow progress, eating a bit more of her special canned food, and laying about the house with less zip than she had a pre-surgery. I haven’t fared so well, either. Twice a day I must dose Santosh with a small white pill, to stimulate her appetite, which has flagged after two procedures.
Trying to get that little tablet down my favorite feline’s throat involves a series of grunts, meows, groans, a string of swear words and finally, a sigh of exhaustion from me — and a sense of dread as we count down to the next round, the next dose.
As my cat has become ill, I’ve discovered just how dependent I’ve become on her, as she is on me. With the awareness of my responsibility as a pet-owner comes fear. What if I can’t get her to swallow that pill? What if she simply won’t eat? I’m assailed by ‘what if’ scenarios, all ending with the voice of doom/worst case vignettes in my brain — I killed my cat!

Now, looking back at the low-budget drama of earlier in the week, I realize that my stress level wasn’t quite as high as I’d imagined, at least from the heights I’ve reached today. After waking up from a half-sleepless night, I got a call from my mother, back in Cleveland.

“I’ve been moved,” she said. Still groggy, I wasn’t sure what she meant, though I didn’t like her tone. It turned out that my 79-year-old mother had fallen at home, and cracked her femur. She’d spent about 14 hours in the emergency room before landing at another Cleveland-area hospital.

She made it through surgery, and I’ll be heading back to Cleveland to check on her later this week, once she’s arrived at the rehab center where she’ll be spending several weeks. Now she faces months of physical therapy, rehabilitation, and hard work.

Just last week, as we celebrated the Jewish High Holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, my mother said, “I hope it will be a healthy year for all of us.” Certainly, she’s at the age where many of her friends have been suffering with declining health, and facing serious illness.

I find myself wishing — fervently — that I could go back to bed, wake up refreshed and relaxed, and find that my family, both my mother and my cat, were fully healthy. I’d also like to be able to relax with what is, and not create a lot of extra drama. As one of my friends says, I need to “do the next dumb thing,” and be there for the sentient beings I love.

Sometimes, I think of the people I admire most. Those men and women, like my godmother Doris — who had little formal education but lots of school of life wisdom — embody a sense of grace. Instead of living easy or stress-free lives, they face whatever circumstances come their way, both the bad and the good, with a conscious intention to do they best they can.

Today, I watch myself fumbling around, trying to figure out what to do next. I am neither wise nor graceful but unwieldy, like a thin man in a fat suit. I don’t know how to move through this crisis. And so I remind myself, over and over, that I’m trying my best.

And for now, that’s going to have to be good enough.

A Virtual Dim Sum

2007-09-24T22:28:00.000-04:00

My religious and spiritual path has been eclectic, twisting and curvy so far, a virtual dim sum of different traditions. I may just be an inch deep and mile wide since I'm not especially disciplined about regular spiritual practice. But being in all these different milieus keeps my life interesting. I described a typical week in my Bay Windows column, which was published last week:

Finding My Way

Judah Leblang/2007
Word count: 880

For me, September is a season of change, exploration, and renewal. Suddenly, the air is crisp, nights are cool, and daylight recedes before the encroaching night. My summer schedule, languid and laid-back, shifts into high gear. I find my spiritual life speeding up and shifting, too, as I search for a combination of places and practices that feel right and authentic.

Last Sunday I sat at Arlington Street Church, a Unitarian church in Boston. Being there, hanging out with my gay male friends, gives me a sense of coming home. I enjoy the church’s Sunday services, which are short, heartfelt and accessible, no complex liturgy or practice required.

I’ve been going to ASC for several years, and I though I identify myself as a Jew and not a Unitarian, I recently decided to join the church. Still, occasionally I have my doubts. When I looked at the beautiful stained glass windows of the church recently and noticed that many depicted Jesus in scenes (I presume) from the New Testament – which I do not know or believe in – I paused. At times, I wonder how I fit into this community, which comes from a primarily Christian tradition.

A few days later, I took a day off work and attended a Rosh Hashanah service sponsored by Am Tikvah, a local GLBT Jewish group. The Jewish New Year begins a time of reflection, leading up to Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, when we ask forgiveness both for ourselves and for our community/people. I’d been going to a mostly-straight synagogue in Brookline for the past seven years, but wanted more of a connection with other gay and lesbian Jews.

And so on this morning, I found myself in a small room at the Day’s Inn in Brighton, praying with about 25 other members of my tribe. Sitting in the cramped space, I scanned the prayer-book as the service rolled on. Various participants, men and women, rose to chant from the Torah in Hebrew and then read the English translations, while I fidgeted in my chair. I’d heard the story of Abraham and his near-sacrifice of his son, Isaac, many times before. As the readings went on and on, I wondered why I felt compelled to stay connected to the rituals of Judaism, which sometimes seemed outdated and ill-suite d to a modern-thinking man like me.

The next evening, I drove through a working-class suburban neighborhood on Boston’s North Shore. I’d been attending some healing sessions in Allston, led by an herbalist and doctor of Chinese medicine I’d come to know. I’d been trying to avoid surgery for removal of a benign tumor, located behind my left kidney. The herbalist hosted sessions for a healing technique called Tong-Ren, in which trained practitioners tap on plastic models of the human body, working with energy points – like acupuncture without the needles.

I walked into a modest storefront healing center in an unfamiliar town, with a group of about 20 folding chairs filling the small room. Instead of taking off for more familiar surroundings – I was consumed with a desire to bolt for home -- I found a seat near the back of the space and checked out my compatriots. Many of the participants were overweight. I noticed pastel colored sweatpants, bouffant hairdos, and rose-colored press-on nails. My inner snob was in full voice, whispering ugly nothings in my brain, judging those around me.

The head practitioner, a dark-haired, olive-skinned woman with a Brazilian accent, welcomed us. Then she went around the room, and one by one, asked us what we were trying to heal. One woman had a sore knee, another was recovering from lymphoma; a third had a tumor in her chest. A man, about my age, was in the early stages of MS. The woman offered each of us words of encouragement as she tapped on her small figure, working on the energy or healing points on her plastic model.

I sat there, half skeptic and half believer. One of my good friends had used Tong-Ren sessions to heal his shoulder after a car accident. I’d heard other stories of individuals who used the technique to supplement their “western” medical treatment. Now, even doctors and nurses were coming to explore this strange phenomenon. I didn’t care how it worked; I only hoped I could tap into a force or healing energy greater than myself.

Listening to the simple, matter of fact stories of the men and women around me, I no longer focused on our differences. Instead, I realized how my own health problems – hearing loss and a rare tumor – paled in comparison to some of the challenges faced by the men and women in that room.

In the space of one week, I found myself in a Unitarian Church, at a gay/lesbian Jewish service, and a Chinese-style healing session. In each situation, I felt out of place, a bit different from those around me. But once I dropped my initial resistance, I felt connected, too.

I’m still exploring my spiritual path. September, and the High Holidays of my Jewish tradition, seem like a good time to go a little further in my journey, even if I don’t know where the road will take me, or where it will end.

Batter Up!

2007-09-20T22:39:00.000-04:00

I am a long suffering Cleveland fan. I love the Indians--who are miraculously good this year, and the Browns--who stink. But the Browns pulled off a huge upset of the Cincinnati Bengals last Sunday and now the Indians are poised to enter the playoffs after sweeping their arch rivals, the Detroit Tigers.

I am thrilled. Yes, I know it's just a game. Yes, I know there are more important things in life. But I've also come to believe one should grab some happiness when one can and being a Cleveland fan--normally an exercise in self-flagellation and despair, I am excited at the prospect of seeing my beloved Tribe in the AL Championship and (G-d willing) the world series.....

I only wish my godmother Doris was still around to share the excitement. She passed away in December 2005, at the age of 90, an Indians fan to the end.

My Roommate

2007-09-09T19:22:00.000-04:00

My roommate is a beautiful, good-hearted and sometimes feisty cat named Santosh. Here she is, hanging out yesterday in the 95 degree heat of my un-airconditioned living room.

Procrastination station

2007-09-08T09:49:00.000-04:00

I've been back at work for two weeks, and it's becoming increasingly clear to me that my heart isn't in it, at least for now. Though my job is fairly easy, I'm engaged in a form of sleepwalking, or waking dreaming, which I find quite draining. Being bored at work sucks my energy and leaves me with little enthusiasm for my own creative writing or doing much else.

In the short run, I'm trying to schedule something else each day outside of work, something I can get 'juiced' about. I'm teaching several workshops this fall, and taking an intensive memoir-writing class, which will hopefully lead me to a published book. I've been dicking around for the past 8 years with two manuscripts--one a memoir and one a collection of essays--neither of which are likely to get published in book form, unless I publish them myself. I believe my current project has more potential and would appeal to a wider audience; I just have to park my butt in a chair and write it!

But lately, I've been in vacation mode, with less motivation to write than my cat, Santosh, who is currently perched on the back of my couch, snoozing away, content to be 'in the moment.' I've noticed that sometimes I'm most resistant to the things that give me the most joy or satisfaction. My inner teenager wants to veg in front of the TV or leaf through a magazine, and though I try to explain how doing the work leads to long-term satisfaction, my teenage brain just mutters 'humph' and flips another page of People magazine.

That's the nice thing about blogging. If anyone bothers to read this, I get the satisfaction of writing and being read, and yet it doesn't feel like work. At the same time, I'm warming myself up for a rewrite of a chapter of my book. And now, on to the work!

Surprises

2007-08-27T11:46:00.000-04:00

I recently got back from a week at Easton Mountain, a retreat center for Gay men in the foothills of the Adirondacks. I had ideas--or fantasies--of how the week was going to go, but as usual, life had other plans. I didn't have a hot and heavy romance, or sex. But I did find some sweet connections with several of the men there, and I surprised myself.

I made a conscious choice to talk with some men whom I would've normally avoided. Typically, at gay men's gatherings, I scan the crowd for handsome men who might be potential "connections," for physical touch and (hopefully) romance. By mid-week, it seemed unlikely--the man I was most attracted to wasn't interested in me--a familiar story.

Instead of focusing on that, I took the time to chat with some of the older men who attended the retreat, including one who was struggling with recurrent skin cancer. I also hung out with another tall, thin, sad-looking man who looked like he could use a friend. With his skinny frame and scraggly gray beard, he was far from my type. But over the course of a few days, I found myself drawn to him. It didn't feel physical or sexual; I simply wanted to be around him, to talk with him, to enjoy his dark and somewhat sick sense of humor.

On the last evening of the retreat, we danced to a mix of disco music, more recent tunes, and a few slow oldies. We stood outside and watched an amazing light show--about two hours of intermittent lightening--which illuminated the sky in shocking bursts of white light against the darkness. And I found myself--gently, not wildly--attracted to this man whom I normally wouldn't even have noticed.

I know that I, like many gay men, have a physical "type." But sometimes I can get beyond that, at least for a little while. And that gives me hope that just maybe I can meet a man and develop a relationship with someone who is actually available, and who will accept my (many) imperfections, as I will accept his.

Having a Voice.....

2007-08-13T21:48:00.000-04:00

It's been such a gift to have the time to write, even though I haven't written as much as I could have (so far). I'm still in the early stages of a book project about my Uncle Jerry--who was born deaf--and my own experiences in the Deaf community. I'm also thankful for having my Bay Windows column, and getting the chance to actually finish some short pieces--and to know that some folks are actually reading them!

Here's my latest piece, about Jerry and my connection with him.

The Cost of Silence

By Judah Leblang/2007
Word count: 895

A few months ago, I went to an all-day workshop at Northeastern University in Boston. The workshop was offered as part of the university’s annual ASL Festival, and focused on storytelling in American Sign Language. As a writer, I’ve always been interested in stories. I’d spent many years studying sign language; now after a gap of seven years, I was back.

The workshop was taught by a deaf professor from Gallaudet University, and was conducted in ASL, without English “voicing, ” or translation. As I watched the beauty of the professor’s signs, I was reminded of my only uncle, Jerry, who was also deaf. Today, from my own perch in middle age, I realize that my connection with deaf people wasn’t just a coincidence, but a legacy of my uncle’s life, and my own sense of being different.

I’ve spent about half my adult life working in the Deaf Community, as a dorm counselor at the Tennessee School for the Deaf, a teacher of deaf children, and a sign language interpreter. By working with deaf people, I’ve come to understand the challenges my uncle faced in a less enlightened era.

Jerry was born in Cleveland, Ohio, in December 1930. By the time he was a year old, my grandparents suspected he was deaf; visits to several doctors confirmed the diagnosis. Because my grandparents wanted a “normal” son who would be successful in the world, they enrolled my uncle in an oral program for deaf children. For the next 15 years, my uncle would undergo intensive training, so that he eventually developed intelligible speech. At the same time, he was isolated from other deaf people, and though he picked up a bit of sign language, he rarely used it. In fact, I never saw my uncle sign.

Eventually, Jerry went to a public high school with no program for deaf children. (His education there was spotty, at best.) He played varsity basketball, went to school dances, and by all accounts, had lots of friends. It seemed that high school was the high point of his life; everything that followed was a downhill ride. Still, given the constraints of living in a hearing world, without interpreters, without much connection to other deaf people, it seemed that Jerry did quite well. He graduated from high school, and with my grandfather’s help, found a job as an assistant draftsman, working for a local architect in Cleveland.

And yet, it never seemed like enough for my grandfather. I can remember Papa Ben explaining something to my uncle, a vein in his forehead throbbing in frustration, and saying in a familiar refrain, “How many times have I told you…” as if Jerry were stupid or mildly retarded. (My grandfather had a scruffy moustache, which would have made lip-reading him almost impossible).

Growing up, I felt a special sense of connection with my uncle. As a gay boy, struggling with feelings I couldn’t and wouldn’t name, I felt like an outsider. Jerry was an outsider, too. No matter how hard he tried, my uncle couldn’t live as a hearing person — his jarring, flat speech marking him as fundamentally different than those around him.

Jerry married a deaf woman and had a hearing daughter. But my uncle, who had been taught that sign language wasn’t a “real language,” refused to sign to his deaf wife. Instead, he used his speech and gestures, both with his wife and on his visits to the local deaf club. After high school, my uncle’s hearing friends married and moved away, occupied with their own families, and Jerry found himself without close friends, marooned between the hearing and deaf worlds.

Many years later, as I worked with deaf people, I discovered the parallels between the deaf and gay experiences. Ninety percent of deaf children are born into hearing families. Like my uncle, they must find their community — people who sign, people who view them as whole rather than simply as folks who can’t hear — outside of their families and immediate neighborhoods. In a similar vein, I had to search beyond my family and friends to discover a community of gay men in which I finally came out in my late 20s. Fortunately, I’ve had the time and resources to find a sense of community in my life here in Boston, and to claim my identity as a gay man.

Sitting in that workshop, watching a deaf professor — a linguist—teaching a room full of hearing students in ASL, I wondered how my uncle would react to this scene. Unfortunately, I couldn’t ask him. Jerry, a slim, athletic man with a natural physical grace, died of a massive heart attack in June of 1975, at the age of 44.

My uncle learned to speak, and yet, ironically, his true voice -- using his large, expressive hands to “sign ASL” -- was suppressed. I believe this suppression led to his heart attack and early death. Today, when I see ads for “straight-acting” gay men, I think of my uncle, and the price he paid for trying to be something he was not.

When each of us lives authentically -- finding our communities, using our voices -- we empower others. My uncle’s experience has empowered me to use my voice as an “out” gay man in the broader world. The cost of silence is too high.

The Craft of Writing

2007-07-31T22:16:00.000-04:00

I'm participating in a week-long writing conference at Lesley University this week. It's been nice to be on campus, but not be in work mode. One thing that has been coming up for me this week is my "ego stuff." I sit in my writing workshop and listen to other folks' writing and get caught up in comparisons. I feel somewhat envious of the published/renowned writers who serve as the faculty for the conference. "Real writers have published books" my inner critic mutters and I know that I haven't passed the bar yet.

And yet, despite the insecure, needy ego-monster who is currently inhabiting my brain, I'm enjoying hanging out with other wirters--yes, I am one--and learning from teachers/writers who are further along on the path than I am. At times, I'm even enjoying the process of writing a book and exploring my themes and topics. Maybe it's not about just getting to the finish line.

Man Plans and God laughs

2007-07-15T12:06:00.000-04:00

And I thought my health issues would be "cleaned up" in time for my current sabbatical. But the tumor grew (a little). I don't have to undergo surgery (yet) but I will have to do so if it continues to grow. In the mean time, I'm trying to stay in the present moment and appreciate my overall good health. The older I get, the more I realize life is not black and white, but rather many shades of gray. Over time, I'm learning to live with inconsistency, uncertainty, and the inevitable ups and downs that seem to make up life. But sometimes, it's not easy to ride those waves!

Waiting and Hoping (again)

2007-07-01T22:15:00.000-04:00

I spent this past Friday running a medical circuit, first to the Pigmented Lesion Center at Mass General, and then on to Mt Auburn Hospital for an MRI. I passed my body scan--it's 7 months until my next visit--and always a relief to know I don't have another malignant mole. Now I'm waiting for the MRI results; if my tumor (located behind the left kidney) has grown in the past 5 months, I'll need to have surgery later this year.

I know the tumor is not malignant, which is the main thing, but I'm not anxious to have fairly major surgery and then go through the recovery. So I'm sitting with the uncertainty of now knowing, expecting to find out tomorrow, and hoping with all my heart that I can let the tumor be....at least for a while.

Stretching Myself

2007-06-09T10:40:00.000-04:00

I have been opening up to new adventures, and looking for ways of connecting--and expanding my social life. After years of being involved in my synagogue, I've drifted away, but I haven't really replaced that spiritual home with something else. I do go to Arlington Street Church--Unitarian/Universalist Church on Sundays, but I'm still longing for a Jewish connection, too. It looks like I'll continue to be a hybrid, when it comes to my spiritual life!

Fifteen years ago, when I lived at the Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health (a yoga ashram, which is now, sans guru, a retreat center) I called myself a Reform HinJew. Today, I'm not sure exactly what, or who, I am......

You can read about my latest adventures in the following column, which I wrote for Bay Windows (www.baywindows.com)

Holding the posture
I hung suspended, draped over my partner’s back in a modified firemen’s carry, trying to breathe. He was bent forward, supporting my weight, and as he straightened his legs, I rose higher, my arms splayed out for balance. Arrayed around the room, other men were paired up, doing the same thing, with various degrees of assurance.
How had I gotten myself into this situation? What was I, a reasonably sane man of 50, doing hanging out, literally, in this yoga class?

I’d decided to consciously push my limits, to get out of my everyday rut, by signing up for a special yoga workshop at Easton Mountain, a retreat center for gay men in the foothills of the Adirondacks, in upstate New York. I’d been to Easton before, but never for a program quite like this — three days of yoga in the nude, with 60 men I’d never met.
Initially, driving west toward the retreat center, I wondered how I’d fit in the group. A decade earlier, in the 90s, I’d been in fine yoga shape. I’d even lived at the Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health, a yoga ashram out in the Berkshires, complete with an Indian guru, back in 1992 and 93, and then returned for yoga-teacher training a year later. But in recent years, my natural laziness, along with a sense of inertia, had set in, and my practice faded from a vigorous sequence to mild stretching at the gym. Soon my primary yoga posture became the couch potato pose as I lay back and practiced mastery of my television’s remote control.

Arriving at Easton, I watched the other participants troop in. It was obvious, even clothed, that there was a range of ages and fitness levels in the group, from the 20s to about 60, from toned, lean yogis to somewhat overweight “bears,” and everything in between.

Gradually, on the first Saturday morning of the workshop, we’d gotten undressed — some of us shyly, others fully at ease. (I was one of the shy ones). Soon I was focused primarily on the yoga itself, trying to breathe and open up my tight hamstrings, than on some of the admittedly “hot bodies” nearby as we sweated through a series of asanas (postures) on our yoga mats.

Later on that first afternoon, hanging out on my partner’s back, I felt blood rush to my head. I asked my partner to “put me down now,” anxious to be released from the fireman’s carry. We went on to practice assisted headstands, handstands and a series of “flying postures” that left me sweaty, gasping and grateful to land back on terra firma in one piece.

Just as I stretched my body during the weekend, I also stretched my mind. I’ve always been drawn to the toned and buff; though typically, those men have rarely been drawn to me. Over the course of three days, I met several men who were like me — middle aged, somewhat hairy and not especially muscular. As I got to know those men, I found my attention wandering from the most conventionally handsome, the ones who could potentially fuel my fantasies and self-esteem, to others who I could share myself with, and who I could talk to.

One man, whom I’ll call Jay, stood out. I’d met him early in the weekend. A nice guy, a doctor, who was raising two young children. Initially, I wasn’t impressed; he was just another decent, boring guy. Later, I was stationed near him during our afternoon yoga session. I watched him work on his mat, a short, slightly stocky man who was clearly dedicated to his yoga practice. After class, as we talked, I learned more about him. He’d survived a difficult childhood, had immigrated to the U.S. as a young boy, leaving much of his family behind, and had come out in his 20’s.

Several years ago, he’d decided he would no longer wait to share his love with others. Instead, he adopted two young girls and was now raising them, giving them the secure childhood he’d never had. On that last night of the retreat, we talked for hours. I shared some of my struggles — of living with depression in my young adult years, of changing my name and becoming a writer. He held me close and we passed the time, talking, far past midnight.

The next morning, the whole group came back together to do yoga one last time, and to say goodbye. Looking around the room, I wasn’t focused on bodies, but on the faces of the men I’d come to know in such a short time. As I scanned the room, I saw lots to appreciate. My gaze rested on Jay’s face as he stood across the space from me. His brown eyes glowed with warmth.

Maybe, finally, I’m learning to slow down and notice beauty that radiates from within. Growing older doesn’t have to be about tightening up and shutting down; it can mean opening up to new adventures, like my time at Easton Mountain.

Hearing--and other--losses

2007-05-25T11:49:00.000-04:00

I've found the process of adjusting to my hearing aid, and having an ear that doesn't 'work' right to be a major adjustment. I wrote about the experience in my Bay Windows column:

Life in the slow lane
by Judah Leblang | www.JudahLeblang.com
In March of 2006, at the end of a mild but dreary winter, I lost most of the hearing in my left ear. “Lost” is a strange word — not quite what I’m looking for — as if I’d just misplaced my ability to hear, like my ski gloves or blue cashmere coat.

I didn’t think much about it at the time. It was another gray late-winter morning, and I rolled out of bed, groggily, and answered the phone. I had to shift the receiver to my right ear to hear the caller; my left felt plugged up, as if I’d been in a plane, as if my ear wouldn’t or couldn’t pop. Days went by, and then weeks. I waited for things to return to normal. When they didn’t, I finally emailed my doctor. He suggested ear-drops and nose spray, assuming that my sinuses were merely congested.

In the mean time, I had more pressing issues. I went to the dermatologist to check a lump in my low back. While that turned out to be nothing, the doctor removed a small mole on my chest, sending it out for a biopsy. A week later, I discovered I had melanoma, and I forgot all about my hearing problem. Fortunately, the mole was caught very early, and after a quick excision, I was declared cancer-free.

In late summer, I finally went to an ear specialist. I’d been waiting all those months for my hearing to return to normal. In the mean time, I found it difficult to understand conversations in a crowded restaurant or bar; I was always a step late, trying to fill in the missing pieces. Before I saw the “ENT” (ear, nose and throat) doctor, I was given a hearing test. Sitting in a soundproof glass booth, I raised my hand whenever I could hear one in a series of beeping tones. There were long periods of silence, periods in which I strained to discern those faint beeps, knowing that despite my best efforts, I couldn’t catch them.

Ironically, I’d earned my undergraduate degree, 25-plus years before, in education of the deaf. After graduation, I taught deaf children for eight years, and later, in the mid- to late-1990s, worked as a sign language interpreter. I’d seen a thousand hearing aids, but had never paid them much attention; the aids belonged to some of my students and my hard of hearing friends, not to someone like me.

Now, after a quick glance at my audiogram, I knew that something was seriously wrong. The lines, which indicated my degree of loss, sloped downward and straight across the lower quadrant of the graph, deep in “severe” territory. I waited impatiently for the doctor to come in and tell me how he could fix my problem. But the doctor, it turned out, had nothing to offer me.

“Hmm,” he said. “This is unusual. You’ve got a severe loss in one ear, while your other ear is almost normal.”
“Do you know what caused it? Is there anything you can do?” I asked, my stomach tightening.

The doctor, loose and unhurried, didn’t seem particularly concerned. Nothing seemed to disturb his mellow mood, and his air of disinterest.

“Nope, and not really. I’d just say come back in about a year, and we’ll fit you with a hearing aid.”

I walked out of his office feeling dizzy, light-headed. Something I’d taken for granted, my ability to hear, was now fundamentally changed. I felt older, flawed, a bit like Rosey, the robot-maid on the 1960s show, The Jetsons, who was always in danger of being replaced by a newer, sleeker model.

I went to second doctor who was a bit kinder, more sympathetic. He sent me to another audiologist, who fit me with one hearing aid, then another, and now a third. From time to time, I sit in the white fluorescence of her office as she tweaks my aid. I respond to a series of beeps, and now, even in my left ear, I can hear normal conversations.

Still, it takes getting used to. During the day, I turn my “false ear” on and off, and remove it in the rain, wind or at the gym. As the audiologist, a sweet-voiced Southern blonde, informed me on my last office visit, “Not a day will go by when you don’t think about your hearing, for the rest of your life.”

I’m enrolled in a club I never wanted to join, the ranks of the hard of hearing. Suddenly I’m reminded of the periodic letters I receive from the AARP, inviting me to enjoy the wonderful “benefits” of being a member of their 50-plus club. And then I hold the hearing aid in my hand, its oblong shape like a miniature 3-D map of South America. This tool, about one-quarter of the length of my little finger, allows me to have most of what I once had, with a few adjustments.

And that’s what getting older is about, it seems to me, from this vantage point in middle age: adjusting to those necessary losses, and making peace with them.

Caution: Boomer Aging Gracelessly

2007-05-07T09:13:00.000-04:00

I've always been youthful for my age/immature, and even today, most folks guess I'm much closer to 40 than to 50 (my real age). But internally, after the adventures of this past year, I feel like I've caught up with my contemporaries, and I have the scars--and hearing loss--to prove it. Although I've been very fortunate--my melanoma was caught early due to the eagle eye of my dermatologist--I now have a four-inch-long scar in the center of my chest. I now wear a hearing aid in my left ear. (When it's not whistling or annoying the hell out of me). I now experience that sensation of being stuck in a narrow tube several times a year, when I go in for my MRI.

Basically, I've become a human version of my 1997 Mercury Tracer, which has over 100K miles and needs frequent upkeep. Like the Tracer, I've accumulated five decades of wear and tear and need upkeep, too. It seems I'm spending more and more time in the medical "shop," going to see various specialists/mechanics.

Unfortunately, I can't trade myself in for a new model, and I don't come with a 50+ year warranty.

Finding Our Tribes

2007-05-01T09:01:00.000-04:00

We're all inherently tribal; it's part of human nature and not inherently good or bad. Here's a piece I published recently in Bay Windows. My columns are also on-line at http://www.baywindows.com.

Finding Our Tribes

Judah Leblang/2007
Word count: 855

Finally, blessedly, after a month or six weeks of “false spring,” it seems that Mother Nature is smiling on us here in New England. Hardy daffodils are swaying in the warm breezes, and the sun—that wonderful golden orb—is sending temperatures into the 60s and 70s. For me, spring means longer days, better moods, and major league baseball.

Though I’m not, and never was, a real athlete, I grew up with the ritual of going to baseball games in a cold cavernous Lakefront Stadium on the shores of Lake Erie, and of rooting for my hometown team. In short, I’m a little league dropout, possessed of a weak arm and a strong fear of getting hit by one of those baseballs I couldn’t catch. Still, I’m an excellent fan and enjoy watching the pros, not only because they fill out their uniforms. Growing up, I actually cared, and still care, about the outcome of the games. Unfortunately, my team was the hapless Cleveland Indians, who missed the playoffs for 41 consecutive years, all during my childhood, youth, young adulthood, etc.

Most of my gay friends don’t get it; they respond to the opening of baseball season with a muffled yawn or a rousing chorus of “ho-hum.” I have to call my cousin back home, or meet another displaced Clevelander here in the Northeast to “talk Cleveland” and share my pain. Why do I hold on, especially when the Red Sox are an excellent team with a large payroll and my Indians are mediocre and cash-strapped?

I’m cursed with a strong sense of loyalty. Even after a span of 20 years, I’ve been unable to transfer my allegiance to the Red Sox; I still follow “the Tribe.” The Indians remain my crush, holding me in their grip like a bad boyfriend with good intentions, unable to follow through and give me the thrill of a World Series Championship, (though they were only two outs away in 1997).

I was reflecting on the concept of tribes this past week, as I sat in my synagogue at Friday night services after months away, and as I watched the awful news from Virginia Tech on TV. We all have multiple identities---some of them more serious or weighted—others light or silly. I am, among others, a Jew, a gay man, a Clevelander, middle-aged, a writer, and so on. Human beings are inherently tribal; we long for association and connection, and as I looked around the synagogue I used to attend regularly, I felt both related to and disconnected from the people around me.

I’m not an especially observant Jew, and given my life circumstances over the past year, I’m somewhat skeptical of an all-powerful Higher Power. Sitting in the sanctuary, I felt my difference as a single gay man in a room full of straight couples and families. At the same time, some of these people are my friends, and we share our common Jewish background, history, and culture.

Similarly, on Sunday mornings I often go to Arlington Street Church in Boston. There, I connect with other gays and lesbians, with people who understand that central part of me, and who I can relate to in a different way than the folks at temple. And yet, sometimes I feel like a foreigner there, too, the proverbial wandering Jew, as I sit in my pew and sing the Christian-themed hymns, as the minister speaks of Easter and Christmas.

We all face choices, I believe, in looking for ways of connecting or disconnecting with the people around us. I’m guilty of labeling those who disagree with me—Republicans, foes of same-sex marriage, Yankee fans—as bad people. I’ve personally driven by the Catholic Church near my home and harbored evil thoughts toward this institution that seeks to take away my rights, which judges me and all gays as “less than” and undeserving. In the days after the Constitutional Conventions, I noticed this sense of ill will churning in my stomach, tightening my solar plexus. Carrying that level of rage and frustration wasn’t hurting “them;” I was actually harming myself. I felt some of that same rage after the “stolen” presidential election of 2000, when I lost all faith in the Supreme Court and the fairness of our national elections.

And yet, some of those folks—conservatives, Christians, and others—may be writers, Indians fans, gay or lesbian. Potentially, one on one, I could find common ground with some of them. During these turbulent times, when so many things are done in the name of hate, self-righteousness, and fear of the “other,” we could all benefit from a little compassion, a little understanding for those who are different from us.

Maybe someday we can truly celebrate our differences and acknowledge that underneath, we’re all part of the human family. Ultimately, I have to start with myself, and work on my own self-righteousness, and the way I create separation from others.

I hope that someday, though all of our tribes will not meld into oneness, we will learn to respect each other and get along. Unfortunately, we’re not there yet.

The Joy of Teaching

2007-04-29T14:23:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I co-led another session of "Shaping and Taping," a workshop on writing essays and vignettes for radio. The four-hour workshop seemed to fly by, my co-presenter Leslie and I worked smoothly together, and everyone got a copy of their recordings--thanks to Robert Smyth--our audio expert. Doing these workshops reminds me of how much I get from teaching, and from connecting with other writers who are also "doing the work." Sometimes, when I put out a lot of energy doing something I love, I find that I'm less tired/more invigorated, even though I've generally felt depleted lately.

For me, teaching and writing, and being around other creative people, speeds/encourages my healing. Now, if only my hearing would return to normal, so that I could ditch this damn hearing aid!

I'm dancing as fast as I can

2007-04-09T20:30:00.000-04:00

or so it seems. After literally dancing upon turning '50,' I "crashed." During the last few weeks I've been dragging along, my energy low, my ability to concentrate at work almost nil. It took awhile, but I finally realized that carrying around the tumor behind my kidney is draining my energy--not because the tumor is causing obvious symptoms--but because of the uncertainty of now knowing what comes next.

Soon I'll find out what, if anything, needs to happen. I may need surgery, I may not. I'll know soon enough.......

Becoming Interesting

2007-03-30T09:02:00.000-04:00

I've been meaning to post but have been busy, exhausted, lazy, and/or all of the above. I wrote this piece for Bay Windows, our local gay paper. More to come:

Becoming Interesting

Judah Leblang/2007
Word count: 770

I’ve reached the age, and the stage (of growth? decay?), in which I’ve become interesting to medical professionals. But this hasn’t always been the case. Back in my thirties, I was consumed with fear that I would follow in my father’s footsteps and have an early heart attack. At the time, I was dismissed as a hypochondriac, “overly concerned,” according to my long-suffering internist, “with the functions of your own body.” Now, that I’m no longer obsessed with my heart, other systems have taken over, so that I’m no longer classed as a member of the “worried well.”
Today, though I do my best to avoid the folks in white coats, I’m suddenly in demand. The physicians’ fascination with my maladies is inversely proportional to the interest shown by available men and prospective dates. This thought (I may be a slow learner), occurred to me as I sat in another generic waiting room, as my solo tour of Greater Boston hospitals rolled on; this time it was Beth Israel, before that, Mount Auburn, Mass General, Emerson, etc, etc.
The upside, if there is one, is that I’m getting almost blasé at the thought of undergoing medical procedures, especially if they’re non-invasive. Last summer, which feels like eons ago, I seized up at the thought of an MRI, of thirty or forty minutes marooned in a buzzing plastic tube. I was able to plead mild claustrophobia, and had an open scan instead of a closed one. Last August, after a week of nervous waiting, I learned that I didn’t have a tumor at the base of my brain, and that my dramatic hearing loss just “happened,” for no discernable reason.
But six months later, after a CAT scan, another doctor discovered I did have a tumor behind my left kidney. An MRI was needed—the next step before the doctors went in for a look/see, but an open MRI wasn’t an option. Instead, I had to submit to a closed tube for an abdominal scan. So I did, and other than the grating noises and the need to hold my breath off and on for 45 minutes, the procedure wasn’t bad. (The half tab of Lorazepam, a mild sedative, which I popped before arriving at the hospital didn’t hurt).
As I suspected, the MRI didn’t reveal the exact nature of the growth, but did give me hope that I didn’t have cancer. A week later I was laid out on my stomach, sliding in and out of another cylinder, so that the “intervening radiologist” could pinpoint my tumor and stick a long slim needle into its center. I felt a jolt, and heard the sound of a staple gun as he flicked off four or five samples of this latest reminder of my mortality.
Another week, another set of waiting and praying to the god I don’t fully believe in. Then, thankfully, deliverance arrived in the form of an email from my doctor, and the gift of a benign tumor. Still, I face more tests, more uncertainty, as to what the surgeons will want to do or not do, cut or not cut out of my ever more interesting physique.
Despite my ongoing doctor visits, (which feel much like a part-time job and are equally time-consuming), I’m uncovering another benefit of coming through illness, combined with the hard-earned wisdom of middle age. The name Judah, I discovered a year after adopting the name in my early 40s, means “gratitude” in Hebrew. Lately I’ve been connecting with that emotion, as I look around and realize that my life is full of choices, and if I’m open to it, full of wonder.
Celebrating my birthday last week, surrounded by friends from different chapters of my life, reminded me of how fortunate I am. My apartment filled with warmth, literally and figuratively, from bodies eating, talking, dancing. Somehow, while I wasn’t paying attention, someone turned the speed dial of time from medium to high. But my friends were with me to mark my rite of passage, and some, based on their own experiences, could report that, “Fifty is not so bad.”
Strangely enough, I’m starting to believe them. It’s true that I don’t hear, in one ear, as well as I used to. It’s also true that I carry a collection of scars on my body, reminders of a childhood accident and the “accident” of skin cancer, scars that have healed. Their pink snaky lines attest to the strength of my physical form, as well as to its weakness.

Isn’t that what being human is all about—perfection in our imperfection?

Life is what happens.....

2007-03-08T21:59:00.000-05:00

This has been a year of unexpected events, some happy, others difficult. I summed it up in the following column, which was published in Bay Windows, Boston's gay newspaper, on March 1. Here goes:

by Judah Leblang/2007
word count: 855

My father often said, “Life is what happens while you’re making other plans.” I’m reminded of him as I listen to the doctor’s message on my voicemail, informing me that I have a tumor behind my left kidney. I’d just been through a year of life happening, or as Lemony Snicket might say, “a series of unfortunate events.”

Within the span of twelve months, I’d lost two-thirds of the hearing in my left ear, birthed a kidney stone, and found a tiny spot on my chest, which turned out to be skin cancer. I knew what it felt like to get one of those phone calls—often depicted in Hallmark specials and films on the Lifetime channel—in which the doctor says, “You have a cancerous mole: it’s irregular, it’s malignant and it’s melanoma.” In that moment, I felt the reality of my life change, the ground shifting under my feet. Fortunately the cancer was caught early, and after a small excision, I was declared disease-free. Still, I felt drained, unready for another round of testing and waiting.

As I clutched the phone and told myself to breathe, I realized I had no choice but to follow the doctor’s orders. I scheduled an MRI, and soon found myself laid out in a long white tube, the machine snorting and crackling around me. In the space of a few days, I’d gone from person to patient, and been sucked up by the health care establishment.

It seemed like a good time to talk to my higher power, to use my faith to get me through trying times. At various periods in my life, I’ve had a feeling that there is a force for good in the world, and that maybe, possibly, that force could help me. Unfortunately, She and I hadn’t been on speaking terms for a while. I’d seen too many bad things happen to good people to believe in a conventional God, one who could and would intervene to protect/save me. Still, I thought of going back to synagogue, and lit several candles of hope at Arlington Street Church’s Sunday morning services. (I tend to cover my spiritual bases, especially when I’m in panic mode).

Like many gay men, I’ve been afraid of growing older, of becoming one of the invisible—those over forty, those who’ve fallen off the cliff of youth into the abyss of middle age. (In truth, I never matched the images of smooth, buff men featured in the gay media, even in my twenties, though I was closer then than I am now). As a child, my fears were fueled by my father’s struggle with heart disease. Dad had his first heart attack at forty-four, a quadruple bypass at sixty, and died of a second attack the following year. Today, at age forty-nine, my dread of falling apart seemed to be coming true, as if I were following in my father’s footsteps.

The only solution, the best answer I could find, was to keep busy. Six days felt like sixty as I occupied myself with work and chores, preparing myself for the biopsy results. One friend suggested that I “hope for the best but prepare myself for the worst.” Rather than dwelling on the worst, I fought to live in the moment, to distract myself from the ‘what if’ voices in my head.

Surprisingly, my senses seemed to sharpen during this time; life came into focus like high-definition TV. Meeting with my artist friend at the Diesel Café in Davis Square to people-watch, going to dinner with another friend at my favorite deli in Coolidge Corner, I was reminded of my safety net, a group of people who surround me with their support—my family of choice. At other times, I forced myself to slow down enough and used the meager tools I had—my sporadic yoga practice, the gym, spiritual reading, writing in my journal—to keep a sense of balance, and to appreciate my life.

Something about the danger made life feel sweeter. Maybe I was storing up memories of the time before what was to come, and trying to savor what might be lost.

Finally, after almost a week of waiting, obsessively checking my voicemail and email, I got my answer: the tumor was benign. Since I got the good news about two weeks ago, my perspective on other things has shifted. I’ve often heard people say, “Don’t sweat the small stuff,” but now I understand the phrase on a deeper, practical level.

When co-workers fume about work, I shrug. If I don’t catch the eye of a handsome man because I’m too old and he’s not interested, I just move on. In a few weeks, I’ll be celebrating my 50th birthday.

Instead of whining that my life is over, I feel like it’s just begun. Instead of dwelling on what I’ve lost over this past year, I’m focusing on what I’ve gained: a reminder of the richness of life and the value of time, more precious than gold.

I’m very happy to be facing fifty. As a wise friend once said, “It sure beats the alternative.”

Gratitude and Relief

2007-02-18T09:30:00.000-05:00

After six days--which felt like 60-- I got the good news. I have some sort of rare tumor which is almost always benign, and the actual biopsy was also benign. Since finding out, I've been walking around with a sense of gratitude--along with a sense, at times, of emotional exhaustion. It has been a difficult year; I picked up my new hearing aid this week and am now adjusting to that. But compared to a possible cancer diagnosis, most of the other challenges in my life seem like child's play!

Starting on Friday 2/23, I start a ten day vacation, with short trips to NYC and Dallas. In between, I have three days to catch my breath and write. After living in fight or flight mode for the past four weeks--and much of the past year--it's a relief to just BE, to just relax a bit......though relaxation and slowing down is not my forte, I'm learning--life is teaching me. I may be slow, in terms of learning some of these life lessons, but I'm not stupid, (just stubborn!)

Waiting Part Two

2007-02-04T22:01:00.000-05:00

I had the biopsy last Wednesday. The nurses at Mt. Auburn Hospital were great. The doctor, a radiologist, scared me a bit when he told me that "there was nothing to hang my hat on," and that I shouldn't assume the tumor is benign. He told me this as they were preparing to take me into the CAT scan/operating room. Thanks a lot.....that was one time when I would've preferred a little more positive talk, and/or a better bedside manner. But after the procedure, he did tell me that he didn't think I had melanoma, which was a major concern......I'm still sitting with shpilkes---I'm on pins and needles!

Waiting

2007-01-23T19:13:00.000-05:00

How much of my life--how much does the average human--spend waiting? For the bus, the T, to grow up, to reach puberty, to get one's driver's license, to graduate high school, college, grad school, get a better job, etc, etc. It seems I've often/almost always been focused on some future goal, while avoiding the present. And yet, the present moment (as corny as this sounds) is where life happens....

This past weekend was STRESSFUL. After a year full of physical challenges, I was informed that a tumor, hopefully benign, had been detected on a CAT scan, which I had done in late December. I spent the last 10 days waiting to find out the prognosis, and finally heard yesterday that the tumor (after last Friday's MRI) does look benign. The next step is going in for a needle biopsy and confirming this diagnosis, and finding out if the growth can stay, or if it should be removed.

Meanwhile, in the midst of this, I'd committed to do a reading for a group of senior citizens in Brookline. About 50 showed up for Sunday morning brunch, and then gathered in the community room to watch/listen to me read and perform my stories. The gay themes in my work didn't bother them; the Jewish themes they clearly enjoyed. Despite my fear and the ever-present knot in my stomach, I was able to enjoy sharing my pieces, being (mostly) in the present moment, and meeting these unflappable "old folks." I even got an invitation to speak at the local senior citizens center. It could be a whole new market for me....

We Deserve Better.....than we got

2007-01-10T21:08:00.000-05:00

I wrote a column, which will run in this week's Medford Transcript. Here it is.....

The Lowest Common Denominator

By Judah Leblang/2007
Word count: 700

Just two days before Deval Patrick’s inauguration as our first African-American governor, a shameful event took place, orchestrated by the outgoing Governor Romney, as he positioned himself for his presidential run. After numerous delays, chiding from the Supreme Judicial Court, and extreme pressure from our outgoing governor, our legislators finally voted on the anti-gay marriage amendment to the Massachusetts Constitution, an amendment that would “protect” the sanctity of marriage by forbidding 10% of the population from taking part. Though more than two-thirds of legislators voted against advancing the amendment to the ballot, a sizable minority voted to move it along, including Paul Donato, our local representative.

Unlike other states, same-sex couples in Massachusetts currently have the right to marry, and more than 8,500 couples have already tied the knot in state-sanctioned ceremonies. Unlike in other states, we have come to see that these committed couples are strengthening family ties, rather than weakening them. Has one “traditional” (straight) couple been truly threatened because some gay men and lesbians wed their partners? Has the social order truly been disturbed?

As some commentators have suggested, the biggest threat to “straight” marriage comes from divorce, since almost half of these couples eventually split up. Perhaps the Catholic Church and other foes of gay marriage should be focusing on that issue.

Divorce will never be outlawed; too many citizens have taken advantage of that civil right. It’s much easier to target a small, traditionally marginalized group—gays and lesbians—and foment fear of the “other.” It’s also a good way for politicians to score political points, especially among conservative and older voters.

And so, while Governor Patrick speaks of inclusion and his vision of Massachusetts as a great “city on a hill,” many of us live with the threat of exclusion, of a loss of our rights. While he reminds us of our great constitution, which has long been a symbol of freedom, 62 of our legislators decided to open the door to discrimination, by advancing the anti-gay amendment. If the amendment can garner just 50 votes next year (out of 200), it will appear on the November 2008 ballot, and my neighbors—the popular majority—can decide whether folks like me can maintain our right to marry, or whether we will lose that right, and be consigned to separate and unequal relationships in the eyes of the state.

Last summer, I spoke with Representative Donato about the amendment. At the time, Mr. Donato stated that he was undecided on the issue, but that he didn’t like the idea of “putting discrimination in the constitution.” And yet that’s just what he and others like him have done—made it more likely that, for the first time, our constitution, one of the first to outlaw slavery and provide civil rights to African-Americans, will be used to diminish the rights of another minority group.

The representatives who voted in favor of advancing the amendment have little to lose. After all, they’ll argue, they’re just allowing “the people” to weigh in on this issue. But the people, as we all know, need time in order to discover acceptance and tolerance. Imagine if civil rights legislation in states like Alabama or Mississippi had been subject to a popular vote in the 1960’s. Imagine if “the people,” (white people, who formed the majority), had been able to subvert the will of the courts. Finally, imagine if the rights of other groups were put to a popular vote today. Perhaps Muslims, Jehovah’s Witnesses, or the disabled should be allowed to vote, or marry, or own property. Perhaps not. Maybe their neighbors should decide.

We have representative democracy in this country, not one person, one vote. Our elected representatives are called to use their wisdom to benefit us all, and to protect minorities from the “tyranny of the majority.”

Thanks to our ex-governor and our state representative, the majority has been “protected” from the “threat” of gay marriage. Governor Romney and Representative Donato, (and 61 others) have carried on their tradition of appealing to the lowest common denominator by building on ignorance and fear. Way to go, Mitt. Way to go, Paul. Let’s see how the history books judge your actions.

Back of the bus

2007-01-02T17:35:00.000-05:00

So the Massachusetts legislators "did their duty" according to the directive of the Supreme Judicial Court, and 61 (out of 200) legislators voted to advance the proposed amendment to ban gay marriage. If opponents of gay marriage can hold 50 of those legislators next year, they can put the amendment on the ballot in November 2008, and my neighbors will have a chance to vote on whether gay men and lesbians should keep the right to marry. The only silver lining in this outcome is that 139 legislators voted against advancing the amendment; it's clearly the sense of the legislature that gay marriage is not a bad thing, and that gay people deserve to keep the right to marry.

Still, I worry that my neighbors may not agree.

Stepping into the void

2007-01-02T09:24:00.000-05:00

I just spent three-plus days--mostly wonderful--at Easton Mountain, a spiritual retreat center for gay men in upstate New York, about 45 minutes north of Albany. (You can check them out at www.eastonmountain.org). Their annual new year's retreat brings together about 90 gay men to let go of the old year and welcome the new one. I've gone to Easton for the past 3 celebrations and find that I now have an answer to the rhetorical question, (which used to bother me)--'what am I doing for New Year's?'

The energy of the weekend was very positive and accepting, with less focus on having the perfect body, youth, etc than in most gay settings. In place of that was a sense of kindness and acceptance. After the past year and my medical issues--I was very conscious of struggling to hear on many occasions, since there was usually a lot of background noise--I took advantage of the weekend to have some fun, (play games like Scrabble), and collect a lot of hugs. In fact, I got more touch and affection, in a safe respectfull way, than I'd normally receive in six months or one year, all in the space of this long weekend.

And yet, I have a few regrets, too. The weekend offered a wide variety of workshops, including several that pushed the boundaries, (or would have pushed mine)--erotic touch, sexual mentoring--looking at gay men's roles and assumptions about sex-- and others. I erred on the side of caution and didn't take those workshops; after hearing about them from several friends, I feel I made a mistake and missed an opportunity to let go of shame and stretch myself.

Of course, it's easy to see clearly with 20/20 hindsight.

Creative Avoidance

2006-12-26T13:58:00.000-05:00

I have the luxury of almost two weeks off--counting weekends-- and I had ambitious goals of how much I was going to write. So far, while I have done a lot of organizing, filing, and writing-related "stuff," I haven't actually sat down and written much. Maybe I'm just out of ideas. Maybe I'm lazy. Or both.....Meanwhile I have this essay collection and the pieces have been edited, tweaked, refined and re-edited countless times. Now I simply have to commit, to make a final decision as to what goes where, and send the manuscript off to two small publishers who may be interested in publishing my book.

Any yet I delay, surf the net, run errands. Maybe my family will not like some of the pieces. (This is almost a given). Maybe the publishers will yawn. So in the short run, it's easier to delay, avoid, fritter away my time. Now that I've "fessed up," I'm heading back to finish organizing the book.

2006-12-26T13:54:00.000-05:00

This is me, or was me, about a year ago!

A Jew in Church

2006-12-19T21:27:00.000-05:00

On Sunday mornings, I often go to Arlington Street Church in Boston, where I can connect with many of my gay male friends and get a dose of ecumenical spirituality, along with a healthy helping of community and companionship. Though I went to temple, at least 2 or 3 Fridays a month for most of the past 7 years, recently I've grown restless, and my shul doesn't offer the sense of gay community that I have at ASC.

But I've found the past 2 Sundays, with their focus on Christmas, and more specifically on Jesus C, have been difficult. I'm certainly not a traditional Jew--I've lived in a yoga ashram, a Quaker communal house, and have friends from a variety of backgrounds--but I didn't expect a heavy dose of the "miracle" of Jesus' birth from the Unitarians.

Over the past few years, I've been searching again, wondering why Judaism (or my experience of it) is so hard, and wondering if ASC could be my spiritual home. But standing in my pew, mouthing the words to "Little Town of Bethlehem" and "Come all ye faithful" reminded me of my own (shaky) faith, and the fact that I remain a Jew--not only culturally, but spiritually as well. I'm not always sure what that means--to be Jewish in a way that works for me, from the inside out--but I'm searching.

And now I know one thing--I doubt I'll find my answer in church.

Fitting in--or not

2006-12-12T20:00:00.000-05:00

This is the time of year when I'm most reminded of who--or what I am not: coupled, straight, Christian, a parent, etc. Especially as this year comes to a close, a year of loss as well as some celebration, a year in which I've been reminded, over and over again, of the passing of time--and who adjusted the speed dial to "high?" Still, I guess the flip side of that notion that life is brief is a tendency to cherish the good days and close friendships I do have, and to know that the more difficult times will pass as well.

And so, even though I'm currently pining for the idea of a boyfriend, (the real thing might not match the images dancing in my brain), and I'm ever so conscious of being single during this holiday season, I'm reminding myself to not rush through it, to make the most of the days leading up to Xmas and Chanukah. I will use my 10 day break to write and read. I will visit friends and, most of all, I'll remind myself to be thankul for my life, my generally good health, and my friends.

Middle Ages/Dark Ages

2006-12-07T10:14:00.000-05:00

Up until recently--this year, in fact--I'd been feeling pretty good about my aging process. Though I was technically well into middle age--the clock said I was pushing 50--folks usually assumed I was 7 to 10 years younger, say 40 or 42. Maybe they were just being kind, but I don't think so. And when I took an on-line quiz that measured actual (physiological) age vs. chronological age, I checked in at 44 years, more than five years younger than my real age, and this was after my brush with skin cancer in April.

But there was more to come-and it's still coming. In January, I'm slated to get a small, sleek (but not youthful), over the ear hearing aid, to compensate for the loss of 3/4 of the hearing in my left ear. Back in the spring, I'd woken up one morning and noticed that my hearing seemed muffled, but put off a visit to the doctor, and after my dermatologist discovered a small melanoma on my chest, my hearing problem went to the far back burner. (Yes, everything is relative).

In September, I started getting radiating pain on my lower right side and discovered, after a trip to the emergency room, that I was carrying a kidney stone, (and which I still have 4 months later, despite a lithotripsy procedure). I'm slated for another litho next Tuesday, and am hoping I won't have to have general anesthesia as I did the first time.

As I look back on the past year, one filled with medical procedures and the loss of two close friends/relations, I can't help but wonder what next year will bring. And then I remind myself to try to live in the current moment--or week or month--and just do "the next dumb thing."

Mining for new material

2006-11-28T19:33:00.000-05:00

When I teach writing workshops, I always tell students to "mine for gold," and to search their rich lives for interesting material. Meanwhile, I've been avoiding my blog, since I'm tired of writing about the subject of ME. I feel tapped out; my veins are exhausted. Some of this stems, I'm sure, from my uncertainty around my book. A month ago, I thought it was almost done; now, it's back under construction--or more truthfully--collecting dust motes as I wonder what to do with it, as I decide if it's worthy of further revision. It's like the Seinfeld episode in which Mr. Peterman decides to purchase some of Kramer's stories, and pass them off as his own. If only I'd led a more heroic, fascinating life......

Hmm...I guess that's what James Frey did (write fiction and call it memoir), and it got him all the way to the best seller lists. But I don't write fiction (very often or very well) and I can't go back and relive my life so far. I just need to find a new vein, a new 'mother lode,' which right now feels a bit like less likely than stumbling on Mr. Right at the Medford Square CVS, (or stumbling on Mr. Right at all!)

Still, on some level I'm hopeful that inspiration will strike, or that I'll find a really gripping show on TV.

The Pathetic, Whiny Narrator

2006-11-22T10:45:00.000-05:00

There's nothing like getting feedback (i.e. rejection) as a writer. I recently received two missives--one from an agent, who said that, while my work was well-written, she didn't feel passionate enough about it to represent me. The other note came from an editor who agreed to critique my work, and described my narrator (i.e. me) as "both pathetic and naricissistic...and yet likeable."
Hmm.....the narcissism was based on the fact that there's little in the first 50 pages about my two brothers. In terms of my older brother, I want to tell her to read on. In terms of my younger, it was easier not to disturb the family harmony, and there are few if any skeletons to uncover in that corner of the family closet anyway.

It appears I'm getting a mite defensive. I've been working on this collection, slowly, sputteringly, for about 8 years, and now that I've arrived--or thought I had--my ego is twisting and turning, wanting to shake off the negative vibes and the basic truth in the feedback I've been getting. And that begs the question--will my book ever see the light of day? Is it, am I good enough?
I guess time, and several more drafts, will tell.

Gay Marriage 1, Homophobes 0

2006-11-15T07:44:00.000-05:00

Here in Massachusetts, gay marriage is protected--and safe for the time being--thanks to a lot of hard work by lobbyists and activists. The Republicans' use of same-sex couples as a bogeyman to scare our neighbors isn't working like it once did. (Though that was the only bad news in the recent election; 7 of 8 ballot initiatives to outlaw gay marriage/civil unions passed. Only Arizona rejected a ban).

This piece is running in my local paper, and will hopefully be picked up by some other papers in the Boston area. Think about it!

Thanks for Not Voting

By Judah Leblang/2006

I’d personally like to thank each of the 109 state legislators who voted to recess last week’s constitutional convention, and who prevented a vote on the proposed ballot initiative that would outlaw same-sex marriage and civil unions in Massachusetts. While Howie Carr and Mitt Romney howl that these legislators “disgraced” their office by not voting on the initiative—which only needed 50 votes out of 200 in two consecutive legislative sessions to pass—I believe that these officials did us a service by not prolonging the agony, and by not wasting a lot of taxpayer’s time and money to continue the debate as to whether gay marriage should be legal in Massachusetts.

Whether the Catholic Church and the Focus on the Family types like it or not, the train has left the station; the horse has left the barn. The Supreme Judicial Court of Massachusetts—and the courts of several other states, along with those of Canada, Spain, Holland, etc, have declared that gay people are worthy of the same rights as heterosexuals, and that same-sex marriage is a civil rights issue. Here in Massachusetts, more than 8,000 gays and lesbians have “tied the knot,” and despite the dire warnings of Governor Romney, George W. Bush and the hierarchy of the Catholic Church, the sky has not fallen.

Other politicians and officials have argued for an up or down vote, to “let the people decide.” I strongly disagree. As a gay man, as a member of a traditionally oppressed group, I do not want my civil rights (or lack thereof) to be determined by our governor, my neighbors, or by religious officials. Our founding fathers wisely established our republic as a representative democracy, to protect minorities from “the tyranny of the majority.” These same fathers established a system of civil marriage and emphasized the separation of church and state, principles I heartily endorse.

Some of these same self-righteous folks decry the “activist judges” in places like Massachusetts and New Jersey. Again, they argue that the local populace should decide, that the definition of marriage should be determined by popular vote. There’s a clear parallel here to the arguments put forth by the advocates of Jim Crow laws in the South. Without “activist” federal judges, black folks might not have earned their place at the table for many years; their dreams might have been deferred even longer.

Today we look upon the old miscegenation laws, which forbade the mixing of the races, and were overturned by a Supreme Court decision in 1967 as a relic of another time—an era of ignorance and fear. In a similar vein, in a generation or less, people will look back on the “defense of marriage laws” recently passed in 20+ states and shake their heads in wonder. They will look back at the fear and hate of the “other” and wonder how heterosexual marriages were “threatened” by same-sex couples who simply wanted to make similar commitments to each other.

Those 109 legislators ensured that discrimination would not be written into the constitution of our commonwealth. Instead, Massachusetts stands out as the only state in which folks like me can marry, and have our marriages declared equal in the eyes of the state. Soon, another state, and then another will join us. And that is something to celebrate. As Martin Luther King said, “The arc of the moral universe bends at the elbow of justice.”

Justice was done at the State House last week. And I’m thankful for it.

Doing the next dumb thing

2006-11-06T20:10:00.000-05:00

I have a wise friend, a visual artist, who is my sounding board and my reality check when things get tough. I might be overwhelmed at the idea of starting a new essay, putting my manuscript together and revising it (again!), or just dealing with my next doctor appointment or "procedure"--and this year I've had a lot of them.

"Just do the next dumb thing," he'll say.

Even though I've heard the words before, many times, it always helps to be reminded. It's as if he's grabbed me, and shaken me--gently--but firmly enough to slow down my hamster-in a cage-mind, and snapped me back to a deeper, or firmer reality. I might sigh, or take a deep breath, or just realize that, though it may not solve anything, I might want to lie down or write a little, even if it's just thoughts in my journal.

When I feel overwhelmed with the idea of writing, I know that creating one small thing, like this blog entry, will make me feel better.

So here I am, doing something, writing something but not much, and still, it's better than doing nothing.

Putting my derriere in a chair

2006-10-31T19:21:00.000-05:00

A writer friend of mine used this phrase in describing her greatest initial challenge. I can relate; it seems I've already missed my self-imposed Monday deadline. Back in the years when I wrote a bi-monthly column for the Somerville Journal, I never missed a deadline--having that external commitment kept me honest and motivated--scared of losing my gig, or both.

I'd like to find another chance to work as a columnist, even for a small paper, but so far no luck...so in the mean time, here goes.

I woke up this morning in a fog. Actually, I was half awake since about 5 am, tossing and turning. As the mid-term elections draw near, I'm getting mildly obsessed, praying for a Democratic victory and a partial end to the nightmare of the past 6 yrs. (Wake me when the George W. Bush administration is over). Lately I've been cruising over to Slate.com, listening to Air America (liberal lefty) radio, and even googling newspaper websites like the Nashville Tennessean and the St. Louis Post-Dispatch to see how things are in a few key battleground states. From what I can discover, it looks like the Dems are ahead in Ohio, RI, Montana, NJ, Maryland and PA. I'll be delighted to see Rick Santorum (a member of the far right who has equated homosexuality with beastiality) consigned to the sidelines, along with a bunch of his Republican bretheren.

But in Tennessee, things don't look so good. (Why am I not surprised?). Harold Ford, a moderate, light-skinned, "non-threatening," born-again Christian is trying to become the first African-American senator elected from a Southern state since Reconstruction. According to the Tennessean, (http://www.tennessean.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20061031/NEWS0206/61030052) Ford is now 8 points behind. Though I lived in Tennessee--as a student at UT/Knoxville 25+ years ago, I know the Southern darkness, the bigotry and fear which is the legacy of slavery, still remains. Witness the Republicans' use of a commercial that featured a comely blonde beckoning Harold Ford to "call me." It's the oldest trick in the book, playing on Southern whites' fear of miscegenation and the power of black men, to go along with one of their new tricks, accusing Ford of being soft on gay marriage and raising a cry that the institution of marriage must be "defended" from gay people.

Racism, homophobia--fears of race-mixing and gay marriage--the Republicans stir a witches' brew of hatred, fear and ignorance. In some parts of the country, like Massachusetts, their strategy is backfiring. In others, like in the great state of Tennessee, it appears to be working just fine.

Eventually, enough people will reject this tired thinking. In ten years or twenty, a black man will get elected to the Senate from a Southern state, and the miasma of racism will recede just a bit. Perhaps ten years beyond that, gay men and lesbians will be able to marry in all 50 states. It will happen. It just may not happen in my lifetime.

The Year of Living Dangerously

2006-10-21T15:02:00.000-04:00

I've been reminded this year, by the passing of my godmother Doris, and of my friend and teacher Deborah--and by a variety of physical maladies--of the fragility of life, and its brevity. I'm still dealing with a kidney stone that appears reluctant to leave my kidney, and a sudden hearing loss in my left ear, which has wiped out about 2/3 of my hearing on that side.

Still, growing older has its benefits, as I've expressed in the piece below. On my good days, I actually believe it.

Today I have a voice, a rhythm, a flow-
which I didn't have at 20 or 35.
It was a tune I could not hear,
until Middle Age.

This year my hearing began to fade,
to wilt and disappear,
like my snapshots of New Zealand mountains
taken in my twenties.

But my inner voice-
internal rather than external,
which won't show up on an audiogram,
its frequency too high to be heard, even by dogs-
is coming in loud and clear.

It's a voice that only I-
with my weak left ear and fair right one-
can decipher,
a language meant only for me.

Is this a fair trade-
to hear less of the outside world,
and more of the inside one?
I'll be the judge of that,
and say 'Yes.'

2006-10-13T11:01:00.000-04:00

And now for a political screed.......

In order to motivate myself to write something (since I finished my memoir collection), I wrote this Op-ed piece and sent it to the Globe. It may not get published there, but you can read it here and now....

“What Goes Around”

Judah Leblang/2006
Word count: 440

When I was 8 or 10, I remember hearing the expression, “What goes around comes around.” It took me a few years to learn what that meant, to watch folks acting out of spite or hypocrisy, and to see how slowly, eventually, that meanness seemed to roost on their own doorsteps.

In the last few weeks, I’ve been watching a textbook case of something going around, of a drama played out in Washington, DC.

Once again, the leaders of the “Grand Old Party” are demonstrating their hubris. One of their own, Mark Foley, (a semi-closeted gay man who worked to deny rights to his brethren), was caught, belatedly, sending inappropriate sexual emails to teenage pages. A multi-term congressman in a “safe” seat, he was arrogant enough to take foolish risks.

The party of “moral values” has been unmasked as the party of hypocrisy and abuse of power. Congressman Foley used his power to intimidate the young pages who had been entrusted to his care. Meanwhile, it’s become apparent that Dennis Hastert and other key Republicans were aware of Foley’s behavior, months if not years ago, and chose to keep that behavior under wraps to retain their control of Congress.

From the growing civil war in Iraq (yes, George, that’s what even your generals are calling it) to our huge federal deficit, our failed attempts at diplomacy, and our pathetic response to Hurricane Katrina and the people of New Orleans, our government has fallen short; our leadership and institutions have failed us.

In response to a stream of bad news, President Bush and Company have done their best to bring the public’s focus back to 9/11, to their claim that Dubya has kept us free from terror. Essentially, they have politicized the greatest American tragedy of recent years, using it as they couldn’t use Katrina, given their weak and shameful lack of response to that particular nightmare.

George W. Bush used his office to convince the American people that they were under threat from Saddam Hussein and his weapons of mass destruction. He used that same pulpit to stir fears of gays and lesbians, picking on a historically weak group to snag votes at the polls.

Until recently, the Republican’s strategy has worked like a charm. Until this month, when the lurid details hit the fan. Now, according to the opinion polls, voters are likely to turn the US House over to the Democrats in November. God willing, they’ll win the Senate, too. Finally, it appears the arrogance, mismanagement and cover-ups of Bush, Chaney, Foley and company have hit the fan.

Even our powerful president and his advisors can’t outrun the laws of karma.

2006-10-08T10:22:00.000-04:00

Remembering Deborah

I've known Deborah Rose, my acupuncturist and friend, since 1988. Coming back from Ohio on September 8, I discovered (via email) that she had passed away on Labor Day...a great loss. Deborah was a true healer, a generous soul with a great sense of humor, a great capacity for listening, living in the present moment and drinking in life, and just being her wonderful self. She had been treated for breast cancer about 6 yrs earlier, had recovered, and then the cancer came back in May of this year.

Deborah touched hundreds, if not thousands of people during her too brief life. I am grateful to have spent time with her on this journey. At her memorial service, at the Cambridge MultiCultural Arts Center, there were about 150 people. Many spoke of their love for Deborah, of her good humor and great appetite for life. We will miss her. I miss her. May her spirit live on through her good works, and all the lives she touched.

2006-10-08T10:03:00.000-04:00

Leave no stone unturned.....

The past month has been an adventure--a "rug pulled out from under me" experience, a series of life events I would not have chosen, if I could have influenced the master in the sky, or whoever is pulling the strings. Coming back from a trip to Ohio, on my first day back at work, I discovered an series of bumps or bites running up my left arm. Within a few days, the rash had spread along the tops of my shoulders, down my right arm, up my neck, etc, and the bumps had turned into welts. Meanwhile, I ended up in the emergency room at nearby Lawrence Hospital. It turned out that, after a 7 year break, I had another kidney stone...ugh! A few hours later, pumped up with pain meds, I was released and sent home with my strainer and an order to drink fluids, to move the stone through.

The rash continued to get worse. After a visit to a dermatologist at MGH, I got some steroid cream and some allergy medication, and fortunately, the rash disappeared. (It seemed I had an allergic reaction to work, and to the recirculated air and construction going on in our "sick" building).

2006-09-30T14:35:00.000-04:00

2006-09-30T13:48:00.000-04:00

Welcome to my new blog: I started the blog for several reasons:
1) To encourage/force myself to write regularly. I've just finished a memoir which is now at the editor's, and I've had trouble motivating myself to start something new.
2) Hopefully, this will be a good way to keep in touch with scattered friends.
3) I hope to take ideas from the blog and develop them into radio pieces, published essays, etc.

My commitment (to regular readers and to myself) is to post at least once a week, usually on Monday.