Our 17th Anniversary

I didn't remember it until that very evening, during dinner with friends. And I forgot to tell Rob until the next morning, on our way to the park for David's bike-riding lesson: "You know, yesterday was our 17th."
The date had just blurred by, like an oncoming car you don't notice until it's in your rear-view mirror. Still, our 17 years are a triumph: We've defied not only the usual stresses that shipwreck many a relationship whether gay or straight, but also the homophobia of George Bush and his zealous friends.
So now, although I'm a few days late, I stop and remember: our first night together at my place in Berkeley; trips to Malaysia, Singapore, Japan, France, Italy, Amsterdam, Costa Rica, and, of course, Guatemala; a few years in Palo Alto before moving to this magical city; Lucy, our ever-affectionate golden retriever; an elegant and festive wedding; weekends in Bolinas; the "queen-ification" of two lovely homes; jobs that only occasionally make us crazy; good health; gourmet dinners at home and about town; Rob's annual recital; Richard's occasional sermon; nights dancing into the wee hours; lots of hugs, wonderful smiles, a few tears, lots of forgiveness back and forth. And wonderful friends and family. Yes.
And, as if life couldn't possibly get any better, we have David, this beautiful son of ours, full of breakfast and plenty of mischief.
So much to savor. This year, we're celebrating it all a couple of weeks late. But next year, we'll be on time. I'll make sure.

Anselm Kiefer's Book with Wings

My nose is running from a bad cold, my hands are freezing from the January weather, and now my loins are stirring from ogling the cute thirty-something lad next to me. We are both looking at Anselm Kiefer's "Book with Wings" at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. Just the right thing to do at a moment like this.

This book of ancient tales and secrets is anchored to earth. Made of lead from the roof of the Cologne Cathedral, it is ashen and slightly rumpled, the survivor of devastations.

But just look at those wings, so powerful and magnificent: 13 feet wide, strong and athletic, ready to ascend effortlessly, gracefully!

This book is like me--with my running nose, cold hands, and hard on; with my own tales and secrets, devastations and dreams--a border creature, made for both earth and sky.

Each of Us Has a Name

We have many names and identities: parent, child; architect, teacher, businesswoman; stud or dud; budding Nobel prize winner or total moron--the list goes on and on. Most of our names we get from the world around us, from those who love us and those who don't. And these names shape who we become. Some of them bring a lightness to our step, make us strong and loving, wise and beautiful; others diminish us.

But one name trumps them all. That name is "Beloved". It is given to you by God, and no one--not your parents or your boss or your friends or co-workers, not the religious right with all their righteous ferocity, not even you on your worst day--can take it from you.

This video reminds me of the famous reflection of Bonhoeffer after his years in a Nazi prison.

(Thanks to Michael Music for the pointer to this lovely video.)