I’m back in Whistler this week (my annual timeshare trek) and once again asking for a Table for One.

For many years I’ve enjoyed my alone time up here—time to look within—but for god’s sake, there’s just not that much more ‘within’ that I want (or need) to see. After eight years alone, I know myself pretty well and I have to say I’m a little tired of silent introspection, but I guess that is better than talking to myself—I swear I’m not there yet!

 

Since 2010, Whistler has been my quiet place, a place to watch the sun dance on Fitzsimmons  Creek as it rushes between Whistler and Blackcomb mountains; a place to sit on a bench in the middle of the crowded village and observe human nature; a place to wander the trail to Lost Lake wondering if I might encounter a bear; and, of course for me, a place to travel the green path of the golf course in search of a ‘birdie’.

After all these years, I still enjoy all of those quiet pursuits, but this year the silence has been deafening. I’m ready to rock and roll, damn it! I want someone to share my table, skip down the village path with me, travel up the mountain in search of bears and as night falls, dance under the stars.

I’ve got to say, I have a pretty nice life—lots of friends to share my various interests from golf, to writing, to casino runs, to baseball games. And, I often have family or friends at my table—rarely a table for one when I’m home. But, I’m not home. I’m two hundred miles away, wishing my someone (that special guy who has yet to sweep me off my feet) would knock on my condo door and ask me if the glass slipper fits.

I know, I know. I’m not supposed to show my vulnerability on social media—I’m supposed to post stories to make everyone envy my life and make you wonder why yours isn’t as perfect. Social media is a snapshot of our lives where we try to show our best side, our accomplishments, our humor and our superior intelligence. But, there are times when it might be helpful to speak our truth, to open our hearts and spill our guts. To those of you with perfect ‘Facebook’ lives, I’m happy for you (and a little envious). For the rest of us, let’s enjoy those rare moments of greatness before the inevitable shit hits the fan.

My wish for everyone reading this is that you find your soulmate or, if you’ve already made that connection, appreciate the one you have—or had.

And, if you are my soulmate or you know where I might find him, give me a call. I don’t want to spend another year in Whistler at a Table for One.

 

P.S.  This is a sequel to a blog I wrote in 2015:  Table for One  https://jmaydaze.com/2015/09/07/table-for-one/

Imagine eight people, six of us senior citizens, lying flat on our backs on a hard-planked dock staring at the night sky. McCall, Idaho was the scene of this line-up and, oh, how I wish I had a picture of our troop as we all turned our heads to the right to glance the crescent moon, then centered our gaze on the sky above us. The bright glow of the moon tempered the vividness of the stars, and still they were more glorious than anything we see in the city.

I don’t know all the constellations, but the Big Dipper was clear and from there I saw a sea of brilliant stars poking out from the haze of the Milky Way. As satellites crossed the sky, a shooting star brought a collective gasp from the family of eight. Yes, we are a family although we are not all related—we are connected by distant relatives who somehow brought us all together on this night. When we compared our stories, it seemed impossible that we’d be together one day. Yet, here we were, sharing the same beautiful star splattered universe.

As I traveled into the corners of my mind, the collision of these eight souls in such a vast universe filled me with wonder. I wondered why we had all met, then I realized it didn’t matter why—my mysterious grandmother seemed to be the glue between us—we were together and it was a beautiful night, one I won’t soon forget.   

The last thing I wondered on that night, was how we were all going to get our aging butts up from that hard surface without hurting ourselves. Despite our arthritis, artificial knees and hips, I’m happy to say we all arose and spent the next two days enjoying the company of this new-found family.

Thank you, TJ and Kathy for bringing us all together.

Anyone who’s had a near death experience will tell you to live each day as if it were your last. You never know what’s around the next corner. You might step off the curb and get hit by a bus.

Life has no guarantees and although the odds of being hit by a bus are rather slim, I met that one-in-a-million person. A bus took his life—not a near death experience, a real heart-stopping death—but, a voice deep within encouraged him to come back. There was more he needed to do.

I can only imagine how that encounter changed his life. I’m sure he looks at his two children with wonder, knowing they exist only because that bus didn’t finish the job when it struck him down so many years ago. And, although the road to recovery was excruciating, I believe the ordeal handed him an appreciation of life most of us will never fully understand.

Before I heard my friend’s story, I thought I was living a full life—but, was I? For years I put off following my passions, assuming I could ‘think about that tomorrow’. But, what if I were hit by a bus today—what would I have missed?

As time passes (so quickly these days), the remaining years become more precious. I don’t have to get hit by a bus to realize the urgency of following my dreams. If I die tomorrow, I don’t want to be glued to my rocking chair. I want to be on a private jet heading to Bali, in New York signing copies of my best-selling novel or playing golf at St. Andrews in Scotland…again.

And, if I should happen to meet my demise by bus, I hope it’s while crossing Abbey Road.

The time has come for taking a few more chances—not anything life threatening; I’ll leave the bungee jumping to the youngsters—but I’m ready to dive into the deep end of life’s pool. So, the next time I ponder whether to eat the cake, drink the wine or kiss the boy, I’ll indulge myself. The cake will be loaded with delicious calories, the wine will be held in my best wine glass (the red plastic cups will be saved for the Seahawks tailgate) and the boy I kiss will know my passion the moment our lips touch.

The bus may be just around the corner, but before it hits, I’m all in.

“Two minutes to spare”, Brett informed me as we settled into our seats on train from Dublin to Galway. The taxi driver had been amazing, navigating the traffic and construction to get us to the train station on time, but when we discovered our train was on the end of a very long track, we ran (faster than I thought I was capable) to catch it before the doors closed. We made it and settled in for a two-and-a-half hour ride from the east side of Ireland to the far west. Little did we know that our final destination, the Cliffs of Moher, would consume another two-and-a-half hours on a bus ride down the coast. So, on the last day of our three-week European adventure, we spent ten of our fourteen travel hours on a taxi, a train and four buses, but when I saw the Cliffs, I knew each bump in the road had led us to a place like no other.

The majestic Cliffs of Moher set against the Irish mist is something we have all seen in pictures, but feeling the fear as you approach the edge and witnessing the massive formations in person is beyond compare.

And as beautiful as our last excursion turned out to be, our first was every bit as breathtaking as we traveled from Bergen to Oslo to explore the fjords of Norway

by train, bus (down the steepest road in northern Europe) and a windy three-hour boat tour. At the time, I thought we had seen the best and the rest of the trip would be bland in comparison. Boy, was I wrong!

Eleven days later, we traveled from Munich to Zurich by bus, Zurich to Lauterbrunnen by train and Lauterbrunnen to Murren by cable car—halfway up one big-ass mountain.

When we got to our room, we stepped out on our deck and faced a mountain in front of us and a valley way, way, way down below. Fear of heights is not one of my phobias, but believe me, I was holding tight to the railing on our deck for these pictures.

Three of the most beautiful sights on one vacation is more than one should expect, but there was so much more…

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I am heartbroken. I love my country and I feel like it is being torn apart by our new President.

He says he wants to make America great again. What does that mean? When was it any better than it is right now?  Does he mean he wants to go back to a time when white men ruled, women couldn’t vote and people of color were relegated to the back of the bus? I must admit it would be nice to go back to a pre-twitter universe so we wouldn’t be bombarded with half-truths and outright lies from the man who is in charge of our nation. Doesn’t he have better things to do than criticize Meryl Streep and Saturday Night Live?

Despite his penchant for twitter, he does seem to have time to ban law abiding citizens from entering our country from certain Muslim countries. Interesting that no terrorists have ever entered from these countries, but have come from the few he kept off the list. Oh, I guess the fact that he has business interests in Saudi Arabia, Egypt, Afghanistan and Pakistan may be the reason these countries did not make his list. This is reprehensible and even those who supported his presidency should see the hypocrisy here.

The people who have been left stranded include children and spouses of American citizens, students, scientists and others who may have left to visit relatives, not knowing return would be near impossible. Many have spent eighteen to twenty-four months being vetted to make sure they are not a threat (yes, it takes that long to immigrate, but we have been led to believe these people just leave Syria and hop a plane to the US—no, that’s not how it works). These people are trying to escape ISIS. They are on our team and we should welcome them, not send them back to be slaughtered by the real enemy. Continue reading →

Growing up, my family was small—Mom, Dad and Sister at the core. Our extended family ties were more like loose threads, connected only on holidays and special occasions but I remember those occasions as if they were yesterday. My grandparents, aunt,uncle and all the cousins in my parents’ back yard…

This year, after more than forty years, all my cousins reunited in my back yard. Faces have changed with a few wrinkles that hadn’t even begun to erupt at our last meeting. But, when our eyes met, I saw the teens and young adults I remembered so vividly from a time long ago.

I can’t remember a day in 2016 that touched me more than that day on my back deck, remembering our past, sharing our journey over the past forty plus years and looking toward a future with all of us more firmly connected. My heart was full that September day and even now it feels like it could burst when the memory resurfaces.

Thank you especially to my cousin in Idaho who suggested this reunion. I can’t wait to meet you on your home turf next summer. And, thank you for adding your beautiful wife to our family—so glad to finally meet her!

As Thanksgiving approaches, I can’t think of a better time to share these feelings. I continue to be so thankful for my immediate family—my son, sister, brother-in-law, nephews, niece-in-law and grand-niece—and am glad to know there is room for more thanks and more love. Our hearts are unlimited and adding my cousins and their wonderful spouses to that space in my heart was a gift I wasn’t expecting.

The funny thing about family–you don’t get to choose them. They are chosen for you through birth, adoption and circumstances that are often stranger than fiction. My family is no exception. On this Thanksgiving Eve, I am thankful for the circumstances that brought these wonderful people into my life. I love all of you!

 

 

 

Mother’s Day is two months away—too long to wait to share my thoughts about my mom.  Her time is short, at least that’s what hospice tells us.  But, to be honest, hospice has been giving her ‘less than six months’ for over a year now. She may well make it to Mother’s Day this year, next year and the year after. For most of my life, she’s battled one ailment after another, always expecting each year to be her last and now, after eighty-seven health challenged years, these may truly be her final days.

I wish she could read the words I have been saving for over a year. Not only are her eyes too clouded with disease to see the page, her dementia precludes her from understanding the simplest thought. Perhaps I should have said this all before, but it was probably a conscious decision on my part to wait until she couldn’t respond. This way I don’t have to worry about whether she understands or accepts me—I get to say what I feel.

Anyone who knows me well, probably expects me to pass judgement and criticize the woman who pushed my buttons from my late teenage years on. We were never on the same wavelength and after years of trying to explain myself and justify who I was, it has come to an end. We have agreed to disagree, not by any verbal contract, but by just giving up. And, maybe that’s a good thing. I guess I probably pushed her buttons, too.

Mom had a rough beginning—she was placed in an orphanage at eighteen months of age. She has no recollection of those days, including her birth parents or her subsequent adoption by my grandparents, but I’m sure they left a scar. Could that be the reason she has always looked at life with a critical eye? Her criticism and judgement still stings at times, but what hurts more is the fact that I sometimes find those traits creeping into my personality. She taught me to look for the flaws in those around me and here I am doing it again. Sorry, Mom, I want to blame you, but I’m a big girl now and it is time I choose a different path.  I’d like to think I have been traveling the positive path for a while now, but that negative thing creeps in there once in a while.

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Six years ago today I lost my Dad. I felt the life leave his body as I held his hand, comforting him in his last moments–or was I grasping those tired old fingers, hoping for one more more day with this wonderful man?

We had a special bond, there’s no doubt about that.  When I look in the mirror each day, I see his eyes in mine and as you can see from this old picture, we also shared the same ears. But, it was more than that.

My mom said we were two peas in a pod and even though I knew this was not meant as a compliment, I was proud to be in the same pod with my dad. We may have gotten on Mom’s nerves, but we always understood one another.

Only a few hours after Dad died, my son came to me with a poem in hand. He had spent those few hours writing me a poem to honor the special bond he saw between Dad and me. I want to share that poem with all of you here.

The Special Bond
By Brett Miller
12/22/2009

There are things I will never know about this man;
I’ve known him for but twenty-one years
But you were his biggest fan
To him you confessed fears, and for him you shed tears

He and I spoke of our love for the game
Shared laughs, and thoughts of the years of my prime
I respected and loved him; what you had was not the same
You had a bond shared but once in a lifetime

He was your hero, your inspiration, but mostly? He was Dad.
A loving father who was so very proud of you
But he was ready; he wouldn’t want you to be sad
Even though he had to know you would shed a tear or two

But now you know that he is in a better place.
Let yourself smile and think “How could he not be?”
Imagine the joy that would be on his face
At the very least, now he is finally free

Though we will not speak to him again
His legacy lives in his brilliant daughter: you
And also in how I am shaped as a man
Remembering these good things is best to do

I loved him, Mom, and I love you too
But no one will ever love Bernard Jack May the way you do

As I read and re-read this poem, I know Brett is right, my dad and I had a special bond. But, as I look back over more old pictures, I see Brett had quite a special bond with his Boppa (his name for his grandpa–long story I’ll save for another day).

I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Brett inherited his love of words from my dad as well as his intelligence and awesome sense of humor–or was it from me? I am the link between the two of them and just maybe, we are three peas in a pod. I’ll share my pod with those two guys any day.

It is said you reap what you sow. I thought I had been doing a reasonably good job of sowing seeds of kindness and generosity so why was I reaping the week from hell? I couldn’t help but wonder what was wrong with my seeds. Perhaps I planted a package of genetically modified (GMO) seeds—mutated with expectation. When will I learn to just plant the damn seeds and let them grow at their own pace?

The week started out okay. I sowed a few cranky seeds as my son and I got a late start to the Seahawks tailgate, but once we got there, we shared our food with friends and a few homeless visitors and we were rewarded with a fantastic Seahawks win. Golf the next day with my boy was also a joyous reaping, but that’s where it ended.

Hell week started with work. My last project of the year morphed from a simple online enrollment of fifty people to an antiquated paper project taking much more time and effort for both me and my clients. We were all unhappy as we reaped the obvious result of a bad seed—what had we done to deserve this?

By midweek, that news seemed tame when I found out I had two more tumors in my bladder. They’re small and don’t pose a significant threat, but surgery is required—and two weeks of feeling under the weather is more than I wanted to waste. I’ve never been good at resting.

If that wasn’t enough, I dropped my wallet on Capitol Hill as I rushed to meet a client at Starbucks. I assumed it was in my car, so I paid for my tea with loose cash and chatted with a woman who bought her first policy from me to cover the birth of her son. He’s now twenty-one, so after all these years, this client feels more like a friend. On the bright side, I reaped the good vibrations of our conversation, but on the not-so-bright side, my wallet was lying on the sidewalk waiting to be picked up by someone who would likely find my credit cards very handy at this time of year.

As I begrudged my unfortunate circumstances, my father’s words came to mind. This, too, shall pass. That’s true, but maybe that wasn’t the answer. Maybe I needed to look at these things and find out why they were placed in front of me. And, as I pondered each situation, I got my answer. Continue reading →

For the past few years I have ignored my Husky roots, mostly because I held no passion for the football team. I arrived at the University of Washington the same year Sonny Sixkiller took the field. Those were the days! Then, a few years after my tenure, we had Warren Moon under the skillful leadership of Don James. I was a Husky through and through and I’m embarrassed to say my loyalty wavered through poor coaches and players about whom I just didn’t give a damn.

The fact that my son defected to Washington State and became a Cougar also tainted my thinking. A couple of Mom’s Weekends in Pullman gave me an understanding of the tight community and sense of belonging WSU brings to its students.

There is not much that would be mistaken for culture and only a handful (if that) of non-WSU activities worth enjoying in Pullman, so the students bond in a way that a Husky couldn’t possibly understand. I get it. And, for those years that I traveled over the mountains, always in awe of the beautiful rolling hills of the Palouse, I wondered if I had missed something by choosing to be a Husky forty plus years ago.

Today I realized that I had not missed a thing. I needed to be a Husky. I grew up in a small tight knit neighborhood (much like the WSU community) and I needed to expand my horizons. The University of Washington was exactly what I needed to grow up, to learn about life, people, society and maybe even get an ‘education’ along the way. I developed my social conscience at UW as I protested the Vietnam war, gained insight into the hearts and minds of humankind through my psychology studies and learned to love football.

Could I have learned that at WSU? Maybe, but I wouldn’t trade my Husky days for anything. I love my Cougar friends and, of course I love my Cougar son, but I am a Husky and I no longer feel the need to apologize. We have a great coach and a young, eager team on the rise—much like the Cougars. So, the rivalry can officially resume with two teams heading in the same direction.

Today we fight the big fight—The Apple Cup. And, today I am a proud Husky.

GO DAWGS!!