So I Started Running. . .

Posted on January 26, 2012

the day after my fifty six birthday. It was a suggestion made by my doctor that I thought was just plain crazy when he first told me.

I’m in generally good health. Except hypertension I’ve had for a number of years, which is controlled by medication — a little pill I take each morning. During my last visit, Doctor Siraj said that the only thing one could do about hypertension was prevent it from getting worse. Kinda sucks. Not being able to eliminate it. “But,” he said, “if you elevate your heart rate regularly, you have an advantage.” I told him that I walked regularly. He told me I needed to do more.

I remembered running as a teenager and enjoying it. At school, it seemed I could run forever without tiring or running out of breadth. But I had stopped, as soon as I started running after certain other things in life. Or away from them.

“Try it. If you don’t like it, you can always try a Zoomba class.” Said the doctor. He didn’t really say that. I made it up. It sounded like a funny thing he should’ve said.

So I checked with my friend Jerry, a lifetime runner who’s the fittest guy I know. I wanted to know some of the basics. “You need good running shoes,” he said. “And reflective gear if you’re running at night.” Jerry told me that running on the street — over asphalt — was preferable to running on the sidewalk. “Concrete,” he said, ” was ten times denser than asphalt.” I don’t really know if this is true, but it explained to me one of the possible reasons all those idiots run on the street, when there’s a perfectly safe sidewalk just a few feet away.

“You must do it three to four times a week,” said Gigi, my friend and masseuse, “if you are serious about it.” I think Gigi is fitter than Jerry. I think Jerry would agree.

“And you must break a sweat,” she added. “If you sweat, you’re doing it.”

It’s been about a month and a-half and — except for a stretch of a few cold low to mid-twenties days — I’ve kept up with it, breaking a sweat regularly and feeling pretty good about the whole endeavor. The music I listen to while I run makes it better. It’s been a long time since I was a teenager (about forty years) and I can’t run for more that quarter mile without slowing down to a walking pace until life re-enters my body and I can run for another stretch. But, hey, me likes it! Much to my surprise.

Yesterday, I invested in a decent pair of running shoes. The weather was warm enough to go out and break them in. I don’t even know if that’s the correct lingo, the breaking them in part, but I enjoyed running late at night, nice music playing in my ears and breaking a sweat. I especially enjoyed running past the liquor store where I bought the last pint of rum I drank almost twenty nine years ago, next month. I was a sober runner, I thought.

Next week I’m going out shopping for a pair of running tights. The kind with the reflective stripes running down the side. I’m no longer running away from something. Or after anything. I am just a runner, building stamina, clearing my head and strengthening my heart. And sweating.

Old Music

Posted on December 10, 2011

if it’s good never feels old but it’s “everlasting, ever new,” as Patti Smith would say. Bruce in Dublin, singing with — and to — his honey. Sweet promise to a loved one: “If I Should Fall Behind.”

Unintended Benefits of the Current Recession

Posted on August 10, 2011

(Author’s note: When I wrote this piece, originally posted here on February, 2010, my financial situation was dire. It was the same — and, sadly it still is — for millions of Americans. I have been employed for over a year, and things have improved a great deal. I have a lot of gratitude for the change in circumstances and I thought of reposting this piece to spread a little hope and encouragement for anyone still struggling. Remember, don’t give up before the miracle).

It has been almost two years since I decided to close my six year-old business because the economic realities were all pointing in one direction: downward. At the end of the line, I felt about my business as I felt at the end of my previous marriage: sad, disappointed and frustrated but I was convinced that I had done all that I could to save them both. It just had not worked. On both instances, when I walked away, I felt that I was not going to look back, except occasionally, to see if there was something to be learned that would help me navigate the current waters.

I make it a habit of not complaining about my situation because I know that there are so many more families that face equal or worst problems than mine. Besides complaining never got me anything, unless I was dealing with Costumer Service at a department store, and even then…

What I have tried to do instead is look for the silver lining — not in a pollyannish, but a practical way — in this economic Waterloo.

I’ve come up with some evidence of silver. I would love to share it in the hope that it might help some of you deal with your own storm clouds. I know that it will certainly help me to talk about it as I move forward.

I never suspected, when I closed the doors to my business, that I would be almost two years without employment and that I would be facing the dire financial difficulties I have faced.

I’ve heard the expression “Every cloud has a silver lining” a thousand times and I’ve never looked up its meaning or origin until I sat down to write this. According to Wikipedia:

The origin of the phrase is traced to John Milton’s Comus (1634) with the lines, “Was I deceiv’d, or did a sable cloud turn forth her silver lining on the night?”

I am not going to talk much about the cloud part of the expression because I don’t want to bore anybody. Besides, we all have our own misery quota. I want to talk about the silver lining component instead, as I have come to understand it.

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A 5 Year-Old’s Water Ceremony

Posted on August 4, 2011

My son shows me how to have reverent fun with water

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Blogging: The First Two Years

Posted on July 4, 2011

At a recent vacation, blogging between rest and relaxation.

Two years ago today, on Independence Day, I wrote my first post for this blog. Against the firework-lit Manhattan sky, Cubiyanqui came to be.

This blog has been, and continues to be, a challenge, satisfying work and a great source of joy and pride. Also a perfect channel “to share my creative efforts and other obsessions with my friends and the rest of the world.”

In this time I’ve posted 781 times on 109 different categories with 1,281 tags. Through today, the site has had a total of 23,335 visitors from as far away as Viet Nam and South Africa.

Of the many comments those visitors have left, one hateful diatribe stands out — and I mean hateful — written in response to a political article I posted. Someone didn’t agree with a constitutionally-protected progressive point of view I expressed. The comment, the only one of it’s kind I ever got, was full of racist, xenophobic words, also wishing me a painful death from a certain disease. I deleted it. Sent it to the trash, where that stuff belongs.

The comment that stands in stark contrast to that one was posted in response to an essay I wrote about missing my Dad on his birthday. It was from someone who was missing their own Dad and was searching the internet for a little relief from the ache. It was a brief human connection, the kind possible between reader and writer, born out of a common loss and the shared blessing of having known someone exceptional. That comment is the one I treasure today, on this second anniversary.

Thanks for you support over the last 2 years. I look forward to your next visit.

It’s Fathers Day

Posted on June 19, 2011

It’s just another day created by the Hallmark folks, but I find myself thinking about my father. His spirit is captured in this scene from Esperanza Farm I wrote years ago:

It’s Cuba, around 1963. A father’s small business has just been nationalized by the government. He’s going home to tell his wife. His son is with him.

Dad handed me a brown paper bag with two ham sandwiches inside. He had bought them from someone that had stopped by earlier in the day. We walked outside where the rain had been waiting for us. The mist rising was a splashing welcome to our faces.

I watched as my father locked the door, pushing it twice to make sure it was locked, the way he always did. Dad then turned the sign on the string to the side that read ‘closed’. He looked for a few seconds at the door and then he turned to me. He took the bag with the sandwiches from me and said: “I leave with more than I came.” He smiled at me, but I could tell that he was ‘this’ close to crying.

I waited for him to take the first step into the rain-covered street. The intensity of the rainstorm was increasing. Vapor was rising from the broken asphalt. The rain drops sounded like little whips against the concrete sidewalk.

Asking me to follow him, my father ran into the downpour, without looking back. I smiled and followed him. But before he got to the other side of the street, Dad slipped and fell.

I saw him go head first into the wet pavement.

I stopped, not knowing what to do, unsure of how to help him.

He had slid hard, falling on his elbows and knees, but, like a good outfielder making a diving catch, Dad had held on to the sandwiches.

He got up just as quickly and turning to look at me, he smiled with his whole face. He then started running again towards home, laughing as he ran, looking back often to see if I was keeping pace.

His laughter was piercing the gray clouds.

May you spend the day with your Dad, laughing under the rain. If he’s gone, may his memories brighten your day.

Thanks, Pipo.

Then The Little Bird Dies…

Posted on June 12, 2011

Out early to walk the dog. The heaviness of the air makes you notice it. It rained last night and the sun is sleeping late, covered with abundant clouds. A recent encounter with old treasured memories on my mind and Pandora providing the soundtrack. Time to be with my thoughts and a chance to do some good for my heart.

There’s a little bird on the sidewalk, ten paces from my door. It’s flapping it’s wings that have yet to learn to fly. They can’t carry him away as I approach.

I pick him up (do you call a bird “it” if you don’t know their sex?). I’ll call him “him” because I think he was a boy bird. Something in his eyes gave it away. They’re blinking slowly and as I pick him up, he suddenly stops trying to get away. I put the walk on hold. I feel he needs me but I’m not certain what to do for him. I bring him inside, leaving the dog in another room complaining about the delay.

Birdie opens his beak, the way I’ve seen birds do when they’re taking food from a bird-parent. Is he thirsty or hungry? I try both. A little low-fat milk on my son’s syringe. But birds don’t drink milk, they drink water from bird baths or little puddles left behind by June rain. He spits it out. I try water, the smallest drops I can squeeze out. The way he’s opening and closing his beak make me think that birdie is dehydrated. I hold him in my palm and he stretches one of the wings. He blinks some more and gasps. I whisper: “You better not fucking die, you hear?” I think of Saint Francis of Asisi or whichever saint was good at rescuing little animals. I’m no fucking saint, I say to myself.

I should’ve just kept on walking. I couldn’t do it, of course. I have no time for this but I couldn’t walk away either. Where the fuck is the mother or the father bird? Your kid is dying and I don’t know what to do…

Maybe is hunger. He could be hungry. I try bird seeds but they’re too big for his little throat. He’d choke for sure. There are little crumbs on the cutting board from this morning’s toast I made for my four year-old. Glad he’s not home. I can’t explain what’s going on while I try reviving birdie. And the kid would be asking me what I was doing, over and over again.

I time dropping the powdered bread down the hatch when he gasps. I squeeze a tiny water chaser. He shakes his head. Am I helping? Who the fuck knows…

There are always plenty of birds hanging around our yard waiting for us to refill the feeder by the pear tree. But not today. Birdie is my problem. I rub the tiny chest and blow a little warm air his way. A little more powdered bread and water. He perks up, or at least he no longer looks like he will die any moment now.

I’ll fill the bird feeder to attract the regular gang. I wrap him up in a dish towel and place him on the bluestone wall below. Maybe a little company will cheer him up. Can birds take care of their own, in between snacks? I move back into the house to give them space. No bird shows up. It could take a little time. I decide to walk Celeste. She hadn’t complained for a while, like she understood I was involved in serious business. Who the fuck knows…

I walk our regular route. A bunch of memories sprinkled throughout a mile and a-half and stretched over forty years of living and dying in the same area of the world.

We get back and after I refill the water bowl, I go out to the yard to check on birdie. He’s dead, of course, his dark eye looking up at the deserted bird feeder hanging from the gray sky. I feed myself some bullshit, like at least the last few minutes of his life he wasn’t alone. He had some company that stroked his chest and blew warm air on his feathers. He had a last meal and he didn’t die on some sidewalk. Like I said, it’s bullshit, but I wish someone did that for me if I was dying on some sidewalk.

I give the bird a proper burial. He’s wrapped in a paper towel inside a plastic bag from the food store my son is visiting with his Mom this morning. Glad he’s not around. Birdie will go out with the Sunday trash before he returns. There would be plenty of time to explain that birds — and people we love or hate — die, just like that.

I write this. It’s neither an obit or a eulogy. It’s a mentioning.

It’s the least I can do for the dead boy bird.

You’re Hired!

Posted on May 7, 2011

Author’s Note: This article was first published in January, 2011, when I became convinced that what I had for the previous 6 months was indeed a job. I’m still there, happy, productive and grateful. I repost it today in honor of the improving job numbers from this past Friday.

I didn’t hear those wonderful words when I finally left the ranks of the over-qualified, under-employed and over-the-hill corps. What I experienced was a more gradual invite.

“Call me in the morning, I may have a project for you,” or “Next week I’ll have a few hours putting together a bid. If we get the job, then I’ll have more hours for sure.” Those occasional hours became pretty consistent part-time work which then evolved into full time employment.

I probably would not have discovered the immense gratitude I feel for my current job, had it not been for the twenty-seven month trek through the unemployment desert. I consider myself a good, reliable, very qualified candidate but in all of that time I had one — as in a single — interview. As weeks turned to months without an income, I had to let go of the life insurance, the leased car, the dinners out, the health insurance. The payments to the utility company, the credit cards and the mortgage company became less and less frequent. Basic necessities were sometimes paid for because of the generosity of friends and family. There were consequences to my inability to pay our own way that threatened my sanity, shredded my credit rating and obliterated my self-esteem.

Two things saved my ass during the darkest of days: First, the ability to live in the moment, or a day at a time — a neat little trick I learned in AA — and my four year-old sons’ smile. It was never easy and at times I felt quite desperate and disheartened but when I looked around and saw the devastation that the economic crisis had brought to so many, I refused to complain. I found it petty and self-absorbed.

The persistent, optimistic side of me was convinced that better days were on the queue. Good friends were reminding me of this whenever I forgot.

A decent job is important because it allows me to provide for my family’s — and my own — needs; it lets me live up to my responsibilities and fulfill my obligations; it allows me to work with others and to be creatively engaged with society. More than anything, it connects me with the rest of humanity by reminding me of what traits I share with God. Genesis speaks of a working, creative deity that worked for six full days before taking a break. I believe, now more that ever, that we should all have the opportunity to follow God’s good example.

If you have a job, congratulations! If you’re looking for one, may you hear the words at the top of this post real soon. In the meantime, do not despair. Better days are on the queue. Ask your friends to remind you of this.

Happy Birthday, Dad. Still missing you, man!

Posted on March 30, 2011

Author’s Note: I published this entry on my father’s birthday for the first time in 2009. I still miss him and not only on his birthday, so I post it again today. This is the one post that gets picked up most by search engines. Other folks who missed their departed dads come here to read about mine. If you’re reading this, I wish that you were as lucky as I was in having known someone like my dad Gilberto. Blessings to yours and mine.

If my Dad was alive, today would have been his 79th birthday. He died in a car accident in Cuba in 1979. He was 47 years old. I almost died with him.

On a day like today, I am remembering his courage and his grace.

I would love to tell you a little bit about both.

We were in Cuba visiting the family we had left behind a decade earlier. We were one of the first groups to travel back to Cuba under the Family Reunification Act. This was an agreement entered into by both the Cuban and American governments to allow family members living in the US the opportunity to visit relatives on the island.

Like a lot of Cuban families, ours had been split along political lines. After supporting the Revolution from its infancy, my Dad broke with it in the early Sixties. He felt the original promises of the Revolution — a return to democracy after Batista, with the Constitution of 1940 as guide — had been betrayed. He called the Castro gang the real counter-revolutionaries. After the nationalization of private property — including my Dad’s humble-single pump Sinclair station — and the declaration by Castro that communism, not democracy was the future for Cuba, Dad filed the necessary paperwork to emigrate to this country. I can only imagine the pain Dad must have felt leaving his family and friends behind and move to a country that spoke a different language and lived a different culture. He was only allowed to take with him the clothes on his back.

About a quarter of my family did the same thing. The other three quarters stayed behind with different degrees of involvement in the Castro government. Some close relatives, believers in and defenders of the Revolution, were high up in governmental circles. I loved these people as much as I loved the ones that made it across the Florida Straits. My Dad taught me that. I never heard him say one negative, unloving thing about any family member that had chosen differently than him. He had a big, accepting heart.

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A Valentine’s Day Like No Other

Posted on February 13, 2011

Author’s note: This was first published 2/14/10. It is still my reality, that of millions of Cubans and others around the world who’ve suffered the same fate as I throughout our imperfect history.

Image via Wikipedia

Forty one years ago today I became an exile.

I left Cuba on a day like today as a fourteen-year-old with my seventeen-year-old sister, traveling through Spain to get to the promised land: Southern California. This is where our cousins — the ones that sent for us — had settled. An American friend of theirs from church had donated the money to pay for my airfare. My cousins had paid for my sister’s.

In Spain we stayed with friends that were making the same trip but who were ahead of us by a couple of months. My parents were to join us later in Los Angeles, if everything worked out. It was not until years later that I was able to comprehend how big an if that had been.

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