Kicking and screaming

Just did a death meditation.

Let me tell you this: I have no intention of letting the hard things drag me down.

I’m gonna be at peace at the end.

Even if I get there kicking and screaming.



Today I got good news. It was—quite frankly—unexpected. The reason it was unexpected was—quite frankly—because of a deep rooted story that I had (have?) about myself.

What’s funny (though not funny) is that I’d written the thing off as something that I really don’t want anyway.” You know that kind of teenage too-cool-for-school attitude.

Though, to be fully transparent, even on this side of the good news, that’s true to an extent.

Ok, so the story was hiding behind this attitude. Really, the belief was running the show.

I can tell because of the way the news felt in my body when I received it.

I can also tell because of the barrage of the other stories that flooded my mind (and body) in the moments following receiving the news.

What’s the point here? I’m not entirely sure other than, perhaps, that if we pay attention, we can learn a lot about what’s happening for and within us.

There’s a lot to notice.


I wrote this title (I promise)

I think I was a Junior in high school. It could have been later, but I’m pretty sure it was that third, penultimate year.

I had a friend who was in a creative writing class. It was the kind of class that you had to submit a writing sample to get into, not your typical elective. I’d done a wee bit of creative writing at that point1 and decided I should give it a go.

The issue was, I think, that I’d need to turn in a piece tomorrow (or some relatively short time frame). I didn’t have much time to write something. Or perhaps I’m making that up as a way to justify.

That evening, I did what I often did around 8pm: sat down to watch Evening at the Improv, one of my favorite shows. I loved watching stand up comedy. One of the comedians had a couple of stories that I liked, so I wrote them down.

Rather, I wrote them in a way that seemed like I was writing a couple of short stories. And then I put my name on them.

And then I turned them in. To the creative writing teacher.

And I walked away, sure that on one would be the wiser.

Sure that no one else watched Evening at the Improv.

I was wrong.

When she called me in to her office, she was serious. I wouldn’t be taking her class. She told me what I’d done. I denied it. She reiterated her point. She was very clear and direct.

And she told no one. Neither did I.

Until this morning when, for reasons I won’t go into here, I shared it with a friend.

And now I’m sharing it here. I’m sharing it because it’s important to get these things out. Even if it’s something that I, present day Greg, don’t feel bad about, I know that part of me, high school Greg, held deep shame about.

To that teacher, whose name I don’t remember: I’m sorry. I’m sorry I lied, and I’m sorry I denied it. You deserved better.

Frankly, so did I.

And to high school Greg: I get it. You knew that class could open something in you, but you were afraid of that. To have shared something real, fuck, that would have been too much. I get why you sabotaged that.

I got this now. You’re in good hands.

Let’s let this shit flow.

All real. All me. Well, all flowing through me.

  1. Including, believe it or not, writing a Choose your own adventure” style biblical story at synagogue.↩︎


And that’s okay

Sometimes all we have is the words we pull out of ourselves at the end of the day.



It’s toward the end of the work day (though I’ve got a couple more hours of facilitating in front of me), and I’m feeling tired. I’m tired because I’ve been using my brain so much today. I’m tired because my sleep, while generally good, was a wee bit interrupted last night (it was the first night that I was hot). And I’m tired from holding space.

I’m not complaining, just observing. The act of being present with another while they process the challenges that life is throwing at them is an intense one. It’s intense enough that a friend of mine who is a therapist started a thing she calls Cry Camp. Do with that what you will.

Truly, I’m grateful for the opportunity to hold space for another—in this case, a dear friend. It brings us closer together, and allows me to play a small role of support.

And it’s a lot.

It’s all true.

I just wanted to put this down to acknowledge it, to name it as real, and to normalize—just a tiny bit—the intensity that this very human and very necessary offering can have.

So, if you are a holder—at whatever level, to whatever degree—I see you.


What a year (it may be)

It’s been a year. And what a year, truly.

I mean, they all are in their own way—especially these past few.

That said, this past year has brought a lot of inner-growth, clarity, creativity, expansion, confusion. It’s been a year.

And I documented none of it here. I stepped away from this space, unsure of what to do with it. It’s an interesting move for me, as I really held an intention of keeping this space alive.

But, I suppose, stepping away does not necessarily mean dead.” No, it turns out, it just meant germinating.

As i write that, I realize that perhaps it seems like what I’m saying is that I’ve got an idea of what to do with this space, and I don’t. What I do have is a renewed interest in the practices that this space was meant to support: writing every day, publishing, and continuing to find my voice.

And in that sense, the germinating is complete. And now the next form of germination begins.

Right here, on this page.

Let’s keep it simple: writing every day for the month of May.

One thing a day. No biggie.

As a way to show up, to continue on the journey.

Thanks for joining me.