Pride Reflections. It is OK to be YOU!

Hello. I'm Brent Goken. And I'm gay.

There.  It's taken 49 years for me to type those words, along with my name attached.  Isn't that funny?  Most of my friends, colleagues, and even family have known for years, if not decades.  Yet, here I sit, in the month of June, the time when Gay Pride is celebrated, and placing a rainbow circle around my Facebook profile pic still makes contemplate.

Why, you might ask?

Well, part of it is my generation. While we might have been the first to hear a president utter the word "gay" in a presidential address, some of us still struggle with an underpinning of an inner and somewhat implied need to be "discreet," as ridiculous as that might sound to some.

Discreet as defined by Miriam Webster is to be, "careful and circumspect in one's speech or actions, especially in order to avoid causing offense or to gain an advantage or to be intentionally unobtrusive."  Can you imagine feeling the need to avoid admitting who you are for fear that you might create offense?  I'm sure most gay men and women can relate to this very challenge at least at some point in their lives.

In other words, many of us from my generation and far before, and even some now, are taught that it's ok to be "gay" just as long as you follow the rules and avoid any attention.  

I came out at the age of 24, mostly to my closest friends and confidantes, and later, my family.  (I used to rationalize that it's one thing to lose a friend because you are gay, but losing a family member is akin to losing a limb)  I met a guy three months later and ended up spending 23 years of my life with him, mostly while being "discreet" about who I was and refraining from demonstrating publicly the love and deep feelings I had for him.  I even remember hosting a huge party, with ample appetizers and sweets, where I invited all of our friends to join us, while not sharing the true reason why they were invited-- celebrating our 10 year anniversary.  Can you imagine living in your home, having a relationship with someone, sharing experiences, travel, laughter, joy, and yet... not feeling as if the gates can be open in respect to how you share about that relationship in public?  Yep. I did.

Until four years ago.  My long term relationship ended. We remain, to this day, best friends.  But there I was, a middle aged guy who had never truly experienced my "community".  So, I set out to do just that. And what I experienced made my heart swell with both pride and with pain.  I went to a few bars. Attended fundraisers.  Enjoyed as many drag shows as I could-- omg! Have you been to one? I'm telling you, the pure artistic talent, campiness, and laughter is something that can make anyone smile big!  I also experienced relationships and dating where suicide attempts, depression, substance abuse, and serious mental health issues prevailed, and I would argue--the vast majority due to the pain inflicted by the need to be "discreet".  I often say God brings people into your life for a reason. That reason might be to influence or to enhance perspectives.  Many of you probably watched Brokeback Mountain years ago.  I kept thinking as I watched that movie, there are still people out there who feel wrapped in the bondage of a world expectation without freedom to express and BE who they were designed to be.

I have always had a very strong faith. I also can share with you, as a young man, I spent hours in my little clubhouse asking God to make me "normal."  I also can share, every single time... God spoke to my heart, "sweet boy, I don't make mistakes. You were designed by me.  Be you.  And bring as much good to this world as you can!"

So, today, as you might notice, I've rainbow-fide my profile pic. Not to be political. Not to make a statement. Not even to celebrate a month.  But to remind all that it's OK to be who you are in your heart.  It's ok to be who God intended you to be.  Gay pride, along with the community, uses the rainbow as a symbol.  I've often said, while witnessing a live rainbow that God is showcasing every color in His pallet.  I'm sure glad I'm one of those hues, right along with you.

And, I, Brent Goken, am glad He created me to be.  Me.

Hiding Behind a Single Mask

When the pandemic reared its ugly head last year, I'm sure most of you will agree the isolation alone created a whole new layer to the angst we faced.  Being a single man, sans a spunky, ever-joyful, five-pound Chihuahua had never really fazed me until the world went on full shut down mode.  I arrived at my little cabin in the woods in mid March for Spring Break, and in two days learned we would shifting online and working remotely.  My entire life, on the short term-- or so I thought-- would radically change.  Initially, while challenging,  I believed living in the woods for a couple weeks would be good for my soul.  And it was for a while.  Two weeks later, a dark cloud appeared and began to hover over me, leading me down a desperate valley.  Only six cabins at my vacation resort, out of 296 were inhabited.  It was cold, desolate, and simply lonely.  As much as I attempted to make friends with the squirrels scampering around my tiny, snow-covered yard, collecting nuts, they never warmed up to the hospitality I offered.  I began to relate to Tom Hank's character in the movie, Cast Away, and even understood why he befriended a inanimate object in a volleyball to keep him afloat.  Never in my life had I felt more ALONE.

It's one thing to share a home with your spouse and kids in the midst of a dark era of social distancing, face masks, and ample hand sanitizing.  But it's a completely different experience when all you have is... YOU.  I wondered back then if I was the only one who felt that bleakness that seemed to circle my head, causing me to sleep in intervals of only a couple of hours, awaking in the morning consistently at 3:30 AM, with hundreds of random thoughts and anxieties filling my mind at a rapid and never-ending rate.

And it's not been an easy journey for anyone-- but, I'd argue uniquely difficult on those of us who have navigated this period of fear, anxiety, stress, seemingly never-ending periods of shut downs and closures, all the while being alone.  The world around us has been in disarray for so long, and even our faith has been compromised.  The pandemic shuttered our churches, leaving the much needed, weekly reminders of hope to be diminished at the very least, or vacant at the worst.

As an empath, I feel at the deepest core the emotions that others experience when enduring a mountain of pain and struggle.  And this pandemic has amplified those feelings ten-fold. And I can say, I've witnessed many of my fellow single people go into the deepest periods of depression and despair, and some even feeling there is no way out other than considering suicide.  An article printed in the Washington Post in November of 2020, entitled, "For months, he helped his son keep suicidal thoughts at bay. Then came the pandemic." reporter William Wan shared, "Since the coronavirus arrived, depression and anxiety have become rampant.  Federal surveys show that 40 percent of Americans are now grappling with at least one mental health or drug-related problem. But young adults have been hit harder than any other age group, with 75 percent struggling.  Even more alarming, when the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention asked young adults if they had thought about killing themselves in the past 30 days, 1 in 4 said they had."

Sobering and heartbreaking, these statistics are not only alarming, but they reveal a crisis beyond what we've even faced by this virus.  We are taught to mask up to prevent spread of COVID-19.  Little did we know that behind those masks are so many facing an illness that is destructive and potentially even more lethal.  

I've learned a lot in the past three years.  After ending a 23-year relationship, I've come to know as a single person, I am required to face life, and all it throws at me, within my own capabilities and decision making.  And it hasn't been easy.  Dual income households face challenges, yes, but relying on one to cover refrigerators that break down, furnaces that stop working in the middle of an arctic cold snap, or the random, unforeseen life circumstance can be daunting.  Pair that stress with months of isolation, and you've got a perfect recipe for doomsday life perspectives.  

Fortunately, I am blessed with a strong, ardent, fierce circle of friends and family, who have consistently checked in on me throughout this year of pandemic pandemonium.  I'm grateful for each one, in more ways than I could ever express.  But not everyone has that type of circle.  Not everyone has his/her go-to "tribe", willing to help fight the battles you face, shoulder-to-shoulder, or even carry you when it's necessary to your survival.

In many ways, we as a culture have experienced our own World War in this pandemic.  And much like a war, there are still soldiers out there wounded from the battle.  As hope glimmers forward through vaccines, herd immunity, reduced cases of illness, we must be aware of the casualties of this conflict who remain silently in the shadows.  Huddled in quarters cramp and void of light.  Alone.

I challenge anyone who reads this to reflect on your current living situation.  Do you have pets who greet you upon arrival home?  Kids you can hug?  A spouse who will snuggle with you on the coldest of nights?  Are you employed?  Do you  have an income that is sustainable?  Yes.  You too have endured a dark chapter and that should never be minimized.  Each of us has our own lived experience in this life.  

But what about those in your circle who live alone?  Have you checked in on them recently?  Have you acknowledged that their journey might be different from yours?  Have you kept channels of communication open and on regular intervals?  

COVID 19 stole from us, hopefully only on the short term, the one thing that truly defines human existence-- connection.  It's a lonely world out there for so many, and we all need to do our part to ensure those we know are reminded that they are not only cared for, but they are loved.  

So, this is my challenge:  reach out.  Send that text.  Make that call.  FaceTime.  Send a card, if you want to go old school.  Just take a moment to reflect on your life and remember those around you who may not have the blessings you do. 

For those of us who have faced depression and come out stronger for it, one thing is for certain and a most consistent of testimonies-- more than likely someone in your circle helped save you.  All it takes is one.  Be that one for someone.  Be the human antidote to a problem deeply hidden behind so many our masks.  And that, my friends, will be the greatest legacy you can give this world.  Compassion, understanding, and love can make all of the difference.  Do it boldly.

Loose Ends Never Heal

My life changed in dramatic ways in 1995.  I had just graduated from grad school, with honors, accepted my first job as a Direct Marketing Consultant, complete with business cards, a laptop (worth (9K at the time), and a zippered boxed cell phone for my car. Like the TV show, the 30-Somethings, in many ways, I was living the dream.  I moved to Carbondale, IL to begin my journey. Living in a pole-barn converted into two separate condominiums, I truly felt the beckoning of an adult life I never imagined.  Apprehensive, yes.  But excited, most certainly. 

In November of that year, my best friend, my soul-mate-from-another-mother, Brandon Hoefle, died tragically on his way to visit me for the first time in a car wreck.  

So many things I wished to tell him. So many things I longed to share.  Personal things.  Beautiful things. Things only he could understand.   In one second, all opportunities ceased.  Brandon, my living angel, flew into the sunset, quietly, peacefully. Never again to be seen on this Earth.

On the day of his funeral, I stood there, crying, deeply saddened. Alone.  Overwhelmed with the shoulda-coulda-woulda's, I just couldn't stop thinking of what I should have said.  What I should of done.  So many regrets.  

Looking back, I have come to realize that Brandon transformed my entire life in his passing.  And while I'd give anything I could to see him and speak with him today, his life changed mine in ways beyond comprehension. His life painted the canvas that still reveals itself today, ever vibrant, ever changing, ever illuminating the world around me.

You see, my friend Brandon was truly a living angel. Anyone who knew him would absolutely agree.  He was kind. Compassionate. Empathic.  Caring.  Loving.  Generous.  Self-less. Sincere.  A constant reminder of the true value of life:  forging bonds with people is your greatest and most valuable legacy in life. Do it boldy.  Do it carefully.  But do it. Without regrets.

I've never cried so hard as I did when I attended Brandon's funeral. My entire body shook.  I couldn't even look. Our mutual friends literally carried me physically through the entire process.  I was in the deepest level of remorse and regret I've ever been in in my life.  Brandon had been there for me in ways no one since could even replicate. He knew me. He knew my struggles.  He knew who I was before I could ever admit it publicly.  And yet; he loved me. Unconditionally. Relentlessly. Without fail. He wanted to see his friend happy. Content and at peace. But I could never give that to him... now.

I've never shared this publicly, but when my friend Brandon died, I said a bold prayer paying homage to the lessons I learned through him:

Never leave a path unpaved without seeing the good.

Never give up on the good that exists in any experience.

Seek the good.

The good makes US good.

Be a gold digger of the morsels of shimmering life lessons never ending.

And above everything, never allow loose ends to remain in your life.

Because loose ends may be your lasting legacy.  And that's not a way to live.  Loose ends destroy your spirit and harm your growth.  Smooth over the rough spots.  Blend the pigments on that canvas.  You own the brush. Only YOU can make it happen.

Brandon taught me 25+ years ago that while chapters in life may close, and the endings may not be what you wished them to be, don't allow the ending to be just that.  An ending.

All endings should be in peace.  And love.  Even if you walk away forever.  Don't allow loose endings.  It's not good for your heart. It's not good for your soul. 

 

And quite frankly, life is truly lived when you glean the good from every experience. Good. Bad. Ugly. 

The Bible speaks of a peace that passes all understanding.  Sometimes, we as human beings need to put away our positions, our stands, our selfish pandering of rigid and painful stances.

Peace comes from tearing down walls. Peace comes from shattering those bricks that face you.  Peace comes from never, ever, allowing loose ends to remain.

Brandon, my living angel, taught me that in his life and beyond-- life is short.  You don't know what tomorrow might bring.  In a second.  One.  Life may change.

And do you want to live for the rest of your life wishing and hoping for the peace?

Do it now.  Right now.  Reach out.  Love.  Reconcile.  Be at peace.

We only get one shot at this life.  And this life, as my friend Brandon said to me over and over, is "finite, Dude."

5 Pounds of Joy

Four years ago, after the loss of my beloved Chloe, a beagle/husky shelter pup, I truly couldn't imagine ever finding another dog who captured me like that beautiful, 50-pound, ever-shedding, multi-colored fur baby could.  Chloe had a heart so humanistic.  So very intuitive.  She knew me well, and served as my ever-supportive, unconditionally-loving, and simply beautiful sidekick in life.  

The pain in the loss of my Chloe hit me deep to the core, leaving me vacant and heartsick.  Friends and family urged me to adopt another puppy, but I just couldn't do it.  In my book, I had shared my life with the best dog on the planet, and no one could ever take her place.

Shortly after Chloe died, my city's mayor and his wife also lost their beautiful furry companion.  I watched both with a heavy heart and a sincere level of empathy, as they navigated their own loss.  I knew all too well how losing a member of your family-- even one with four paws-- creates a painful crater in your heart and soul. More on that later...

About three months after Chloe passed away, my Mom contacted me via Facebook and shared a picture of a tiny, little doe-eyed, reddish brown, five-pound chihuahua, snuggled in a blanket, wearing a sweet little sweater, complete with a pink bow.  Mom insisted I need to rescue that poor little baby.  As funny as it may seem today, I instantly remarked, "Mom, I'm into big dogs.  A chihuahua is like owning a guinea pig.  Not my kind of pet, sorry."  But Mom insisted, "Look at her sweater!  She's cold.  She's scared. She's been through so much in her short life!"

Begrudgingly, I pulled up the information on this little "rodent" of a dog, and her story compelled me to look further.  Originally cared for by a beautiful couple who fostered dogs, Lily as a puppy was quickly adopted by an older lady.  Four years later, Lily's owner passed away from cancer, leading to a shuffling of Lily to various family members, before she ultimately arrived back at the same foster family who originally cared for her.  And to make matters even more fascinating-- I soon found that the foster father happened to attend high school with me years ago.  It was all surreal.  But Mom wouldn't let up.  Persistence is something that most certainly is a trait in our family, and she wasn't going to let me pass up on this little one. 

My partner at the time and I agreed to come and meet Lily and determine whether or not she would be a good fit for my next puppy.  When we arrived at the door of the foster couple's home, I could already hear the barking. High pitched.  Anxious. With a bit of aggression.  When Erin opened the door to greet us, I could already see frothing and teeth displayed by Lily, perched at the top of the staircase.  The entire "meet and greet" lasted about a half an hour.  Lily barked incessantly.  Growled.  Nipped at my partner's coat sleeves.  She was a complete and utter hot mess.  In my mind, all I could think of was, "how can I tell Erin and Michael that Lily isn't a good fit and thank them so kindly for allowing us to meet her... and LEAVE."  Michael explained that Lily was the sweetest dog in the world prior to being adopted-- but something happened between adoption and the shuffling that ensued after her former owner died.  Both were insistent that all she needed was love, a stable environment, and for her to be comforted.  

As we sat in Erin and Michael's lovely home, filled with so many sweet, gentle and affectionate animals, only one stood out-- the tyrant:  Lily.  Michael quickly grabbed Lily's cotton-candy-pink crate, her little bed, and a few other items, including her Nutro small dog food, and said, "I am so glad she's going to a good home."  Meanwhile, the froth on Lily's seemingly rabid mouth created a beard, all the while growling, showing those fierce teeth, and in complete display of pure defense.  Yep. We were crazy.  We were taking home a dog that most certainly would be nothing more than a liability.  

We carried Lily, still in her crate, reacting erratically and defensively, to the back seat of our car.  We waved at the Jensens, and thanked them for being so good to Lily.  I rolled up the window, looked at Rich and said, "we are certifiably NUTS. She's CRAZY.  She will bite me!"  As my partner pulled down the road, Lily squealed with the most high-pitch, simply obnoxious tone, and continued to growl.  I slumped in my seat, thinking of the immense blessing I once had in Chloe-- and how nothing would ever replace her-- especially NOT this dog!

About four miles down the road, I asked Rich to pull the car over. I explained that I wanted to take Lily from her crate and have her sit on my lap.  Nervously, he looked at me and asked, "Are you sure about that?  She seems pretty scared right now?"  I told him that the only way I'd know she would have any chance of being "normal" was to hold her on my lap for the trip home.

When I opened the door of the car and peered into the backseat, Lily sat there, head turned, froth still ever present on her lower jaw.  Carefully, I opened the gate.  Within seconds, Lily jumped into my arms, pushing her head to my chest, and looking up at my eyes, all the while shivering.

Gently, I ran my hands through the top of her head.  Cradling her like a baby, I carefully grabbed her blanket, wrapped her up in it, and took a seat in the front.  She laid there, rolled up in a tight ball, cuddled under that blanket, with eyes ever focused on mine, nervously licking my right thumb. Over and and over.   And that, my friends, might be the end of the story. But it wasn't.

Lily never once growled at me again.  She never barked.  Never showed her teeth or frothed at the mouth. The high pitch squeal remains to this day-- but only when I arrive home after working, visiting friends, etc.  And that squeal is always accompanied by a seemingly five-foot, repetitive, jump in the air, where she begs me to pick her up and cradle her.  I still shake my head that I ever had a reservation in adopting this little 5 Pounds of Joy.

Lily changed my life and came at the exact time I desperately needed her.  

Little did I know then, in a short three year period, I would leave my relationship of 23-years, albeit amicably and peacefully.  I would suffer breakups, heart ache, managing the selling of a home I loved intensely and the buying of another, and so many tears. So many tears.

Speaking of tears.  At one point, on one of my deepest and darkest points of loss, I sat on a park bench at the resort where my second home is located.  It was a beautiful day-- bright blue skies with a few cotton candy clouds floating above.  I sat there, praying, asking God to make all things better. I asked Him for strength. Comfort. And to know that in the end, life would be good again.  Lily, ever observant, saw the tears running down my cheeks.  Her head tilted, and whites of her brown doe eyes focused intently on my eyes, Lily slowly moved to my knees, lifting herself up, and stretching her little nose to sniff my face. Her eyes followed the the stream of tears.  Her nose ever sensing my intense emotion.  Then, that little dog began to lick.  Strategically. Gently.  Every. Single Tear.  She covered my face with kisses.  And pressed her own face towards my chest and cheeks.  She sensed my darkness and she did the only thing she knew might help-- provide comfort and love.

Lily has taught me so much in life these past four years.  She's taught me that we're all a bit scrappy.  We've all experienced loss and pain.  We've all been scared and fearful.  And we've all been misjudged.  Believe me, I most certainly misread everything about Lily when I first met her. She may be five pounds in weight, but that dog has a 100-pound heart.  

Looking back on the story about the shared loss I experienced about the same time my Mayor and his lovely wife lost their fur baby, I can remember one conversation I had with them-- even knowing that at the time, I didn't necessary feel it for myself. The advice is still good:  the greatest tribute you can give to a pet you've lost is to adopt another, and do it immediately.  

I will be forever grateful Lily remains at my side to this day.  Snuggled up in a blanket, watching as I share her story. She may be grateful I rescued her.  Little does she know-- the feelings are so mutual.

The Puzzle Pieces of the Heart

 God gave us hearts dense, complex, and filled with puzzle pieces.

Each person represents a single piece; each relationship, long or short, forms a shape.

Some shapes are jagged without logical form.  Misshapen. Fingers spreading in erratic directions. Still others are refined by their corners, and easy to identify their placement.

Each person.

Forms a permanent shape.  Some may fade. Others remain staunch in their position.  Strong in their placement.  Never moving.  Firm.  But every piece is still intact.  Every. Piece.  

Some pieces represent those you've lost.  Never again in this world will they spread their fingers and broaden their heart stamp.

Others are still here.  Yet not in the form you anticipated.  Yet, their puzzle piece remains.  Still there.  Still influencing. Still shaping the current that flows through you.

These pieces, in brilliant hues, both dark and bright, form perspectives, perceptions, and life as you know it.

Each person.

Forms an undeniable impact.  Ridges and valleys.  Mountains and rainforests.  Tears.  Joy.  Laughter.

And in the end, the puzzle represents all.  The good. The bad. The ugly. The pain. The joy. The sorrow. 

Assembled will be an image of a puzzle complete; vibrant, brimming with clarity, and void of question.