They come when they come

Insights, that is: they show up at the strangest of moments.

I had dinner tonight with a friend. We had margaritas and Mexican food at La Rondalla, the scene of oh-so-many drunken and crazy nights in the latter half of the 90s. Given the food fights and broken glasses, I'm surprised that any of us are still allowed on the premises. Yet we are.

We had dinner. We walked down the street to one of my faves (Garcon) and had a nightcap: sauvignan blanc for Michael; sidecars for me. And we talked. We talked about relationships. We talked about work. We talked about drinking.

As we finished our conversation on the sidewalk, I talked a bit about Buddhism and its five precepts, fifth among them being abstaining from intoxicants. I told Michael I could see how most of the suffering in my life was related to not following those the five precepts. I said I had considered giving up drinking. I said I could see the benefits of doing so; I said that it was hard to imagine doing it.

I drove to the Castro, San Francisco's gay mecca, and stopped at my favorite bar for a final beer. And when it was done, I did something I'm becoming known for: ending an evening of cocktails with a trip to the supermarket.

It was then that I had my insight. I was carrying my groceries a couple of blocks to my car. I'm 41 years old. I was wearing jeans, tennis shoes, a tight t-shirt, and a hoodie. I passed the boys and girls coming in and out of the bars. I walked by a store with posters advertising the latest sexy gay videos, hot stars smiling over their bare chests.

And it came to me: all of this--the drinking, the clothes, the neighborhood, the sexuality, the energy--was hard to give up for one particular reason. I grew up in a tiny town in Kansas. I was awkward, unattractive, and uncoordinated in junior high. I had no dreams of fame or money, only a hope that I'd someday belong.

Then I came out and eventually discovered a world of flashing lights and beautiful bodies. I worked in high tech and prospered during the dot com era. I got to experience things I had never imagined as that shy, introverted teen. I flew from coast to coast to find the best party. I ignored everything in the pursuit of love. I cavorted with "drug stars and porn dealers." I earned and lost more money in one year than I had ever expected to see in a lifetime.

Whether this was what I wanted or not, it was the only foothold I had ever known in that wider world of What People Want. It was the way I had found to belong. It was acceptance, and more than that, success. But only in the sense of playing somebody else's game very well.

Seeing all of this, I remembered the things that I enjoyed as a kid: reading; quiet, often philosphical, conversation; running.

And it occurred to me that perhaps leaving behind all of the flashing lights and cocktails and beautiful bodies might not be a departure but an arrival, a return to where I started.

I don't know the destination. I don't know the schedule. But little by little, the path becomes clear.