I was sitting in a circle, in a group they called “Big Group,”, and the people around me were introducing themselves.

You’ve done it, and I know you’ve done it. I know you’ve done it because we’ve all done it. We’ve all sat in circles, saying our names, “sharing” something about ourselves. But it’s not really “sharing,”, is it? It’s giving up the least revealing, least embarrassing tidbit about your personality while staring at the people around you, hoping to get the whole thing over with.

There are all ages, shapes, sizes, colors — any qualifier you could think of to define people at first glance. There are a couple of guys who look to be about my age, so in that regard, I’m doing fine. But it’s four people to the right of me when it dawns on me that there will be no blending in.
It dawns on me when Paul speaks.

“My name’s Paul,” he begins. “And I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi Paul,” the circle answers back.

My name’s Erick, and I’m not an alcoholic. I mean, I enjoy a good beer as much as the next guy, but…

“I’m Tammy, and I’m an alcoholic,” says the shortish woman I recognize from a bit earlier in the day. In fact, I already know Tammy’s story.

She’s been through three ugly marriages, all of them abusive. She hit the bottle to drown out the pain. Her second husband would hit her right back (but in the stomach, you know, so no bruises would show). In a fit of alcoholic rage and self-defense, she stabbed her third husband in the neck (not mortally), and she’s here as part of a prison-release program.

“Hi Tammy.”

My name’s Erick, and I’ve never been in an abusive relationship of any sort.

“Hey,” says the girl next to me. My heart thumps and I can barely hear through the throb that’s overpowering every one of my senses. “My name’s Michelle, and I’m an alcoholic and addict.”

“Hi Michelle.”

I remember this time when I was about 10 years old, ramping my bike with some older kids from my neighborhood on dirt mounds that scared me. I thought for sure that I’d fly over the handlebars and smash my face, but I was more terrified of telling them “No thanks” and walking away with my jaw in one piece. I took my red BMX over the biggest hill, and sure enough, I flew over the handlebars and smashed my face.

But I don’t remember smashing my face. What I remember is this: hanging in mid-air, arms sprawled, looking down on my bike paused below me and waiting to crash down — and it just felt like I hung there forever, knowing what was about to happen but not knowing how much it was going to hurt.

I think about that day from time to time, and I’ve determined that it’s my idea of what it means to have your life flash before your eyes.

It’s my turn in the circle, and I’m thinking about looking down on my bike all over again. I know what’s about to happen, but I don’t know how much it’s going to hurt.

“Hi, I’m Erick,” I say, then I pause. “And I’m Michelle’s cousin.”

If I was looking to avoid awkward, I’ve failed miserably. I was also looking to avoid biting my tongue, so I suppose small victories are important.

I can’t believe it, but I never come crashing down. My face doesn’t get smashed and my bike isn’t wrecked. I’m just…there. And I stop worrying about what I’ll say and I start to listen.

Tyrone is next, and he’s an alcoholic who spent time in prison. His teenage son died while he was inside. The police haven’t decided if it was a homicide or a suicide, and from what Tyrone says, it doesn’t seem like anyone’s too interested in finding out for sure. He’s lost his faith in God.

“Hi Tyrone.”

Meredith is an addict who blacked out and fell down a set of stairs, so her leg is in a cast. She looks like you would expect a meth addict to look — sunken cheeks, bags under her eyes, no body fat to spare.

“Hi Meredith.”

John is your grandpa. He’s someone’s grandpa, anyway. Overalls, full mustache, constantly fiddling with a toothpick left over from lunch. He’s a farmer and he can’t stop with the bourbon.

“Hi John.”

The people in this circle, minus a few exceptions, aren’t the types you would expect to see in rehab. Not the types I would have expected, at least. They’re normal, healthy looking people. They’re friendly, they look you in the eye and they pay attention when you tell them you spell your name with a C and a K. There are things you learn in an addiction rehabilitation facility, even if you’re not an addict.

Most notably, there’s the woman directly to my right, a person I’ve loved my entire life and have spent the past few years missing. She’s four years older than me and she’s what I grew up thinking of as “cool”. She’s my protector and she’s always listened to me. Now I’m listening to her tell me a little about her story. It’s the first time in a very long time that I’ve listened to her, and I couldn’t be happier.

“Hi Michelle.”

Day two of my sister Niki’s recent visit included a trip to Rodeo Drive.

The stores include Cartier, Dolce & Gabbana, Versace. The buildings are gorgeous, the people are stunning and Porsches line the streets. We rolled up in my filthy 1994 Volvo and commenced gawking and hoping for a celebrity sighting. Who was I wearing? Target. Long, ’70s-style dress. $21.99. Niki kept saying she had to pee. We were unmatched for griminess and enthusiasm.

A Neiman-Marcus department store is at the end of the Rodeo Drive area. It, unlike anything else, was actually open, so Niki and I walked through. (We were so gauche as to take a picture of the price tag of a pair of shoes ($1,216). We were sauntering toward the door, giggling and touching the last table of handbags, when we heard a voice:

“Would you like to try the most elegant perfume in the world?”

This line was asked in a delicately accented voice through the collagened lips of an impeccably dressed, middle-aged Asian woman holding sample strips and two glittering dark bottles of perfume.

“YES,” I said. How am I going to say no to that?

This was her cue.

“This is Elegance,” she said, holding up one bottle. “And this is Sexy. I sold Elegance to Beyonce and Celine Dion. Scarlett Johansson likes Sexy.”

She spritzed my right wrist with Elegance, my left with Sexy. It even gets better as time goes by, she said, as I leaned forward to sniff.

“No, don’t sniff yet, you must wait a minute.” I was finally allowed. They were lovely, especially Elegance. There are 170 flowers in every bottle. They are white roses that bloom only three times a year and are hand-picked. At dawn.

By this point I was completely enamored. I could not hear enough of what she had to say about Sexy and Elegance. Then:

“My name is Shu-Shu. Come, come with me to the counter.”

To the counter? I’d follow her to West Hollywood. Niki and I followed, trance-like, mouthing Shu-Shu?!

At the counter, Shu-Shu (emphasize the second “Shu” — no joke) showed us the boxes of perfume and the brochure for the brand (Clive Christian). She stroked a sample box featuring all three styles (Elegance, Sexy and something else). The box was open and the three tiny bottles sparkled on the dark blue satin. Their metallic caps were shining. They looked like jewels.

“All three samples, just $310,” Shu-Shu said. “I get them yesterday, I am almost sold out.”

I quickly considered my bank account. I’d budgeted for Niki’s weekend … I get paid next Friday … an investment … roses hand-picked at dawn.

Then my brain turned on.

“A lady from Australia was on her honeymoon,” Shu-Shu was saying. “She tried some and that night her husband asked, ‘What is that wonderful scent?,’ and she came back the next day and she said, ‘Shu-Shu, give me two bottles.’”

I was about to say no, but another story was enchantingly husking from Shu-Shu’s big, fake lips.

“A lady puts it on in the morning, and when she jogs in the evening, people run after her and ask what that wonderful scent is.”

I glanced at the rack of $80 wooden bracelets, found my strength, and apologetically turned Shu-Shu down. She handled it with as much class as was in her tailored dress and woman-on-her-honeymoon story.

“You come back anytime,” she said, as she actually walked us to the door. “Just ask for Shu-Shu.”

The next day, Niki and I went to Venice Beach. We lay out, watching the plebians tumbling in the ocean, saw the stretch marks and the teenagers groping. A gangstafied punk sold Popsicles from a cart.

“I miss Shu-Shu,” I said to Niki.

“Me too.”

Now that I’ve turned 28 years old, I feel like a grown ass man. No more pretenses. No more bullshit. No more competing with others. No more fighting for what’s left on the shelf. No more settling.

I’m beginning to see life through a different lens. Life’s becoming clearer now. Life now has meaning. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I’ve been having these moments lately where I sit and think and think and think; perhaps too much thinking; trying to put my life into perspective. And this is the outcome thus far:

It’s time for me to make it happen.
It’s time to stop accepting being alone and start actively seek someone to share my life with.
It’s time for me to get accepted into a graduate program to further my career options.
It’s time to become more responsible with time and money. C’mon Kevin! Let’s start saving and investing!
It’s time to stop being so damn shy and live it up! Carpe diem. Seize the freakin’ moment!
It’s time to start loving me.
It’s time to take a long hard look in the mirror and accept my all flaws for what they are and deal with it.
It’s time to conquer my fears and insecurities and move on.
It’s time for me to start being honest with myself and with others. No more being fake. If I don’t like you or if you don’t like me then so what?
It’s time for me to stop being a people pleaser.
It’s time for to stop caring what others think of or feel about me.
It’s time to start putting me first.
It’s time for me to be more spontaneous and adventurous. No more planning. Just do it!
It’s time for me to happy.
It’s time to be me.
It’s time for to start living in the moment. Ahhhhhhhh. That’s sounds so good.
It’s time for me to start living my life to the fullest.

I don’t like playing sports. I don’t like sweating. Or running. Or being hot. I don’t like having to block people or throw things. My aim is just terrible. My balance isn’t that great either, and I have weak ankles. I came to terms that I was not athletic in the early ’90s. It was second grade and I played soccer (with ThisOrdinaryDay’s Sam, actually). From stories and home videos, I learned that I spent more time picking weeds and making necklaces than playing. My dad said I ran like a girl. I don’t even know what that means. I also wore jeans to games. Apparently we didn’t have a uniform — or I just decided that I didn’t do uniforms. Either way, I looked ridiculous. And thus was the end of my foray into sports (at least by choice).

So deciding last-minute to run a 5K with my coworkers recently was uncharacteristic. Some might even say shocking. Or a lie.

The Corporate Challenge is an annual walk/run in Central Park. It’s held in other states and across the world to raise money for local not-for-profit organizations. Some people take it competitively with hopes of making it to the finals. I just wanted free T-shirts.

When “race day” arrived, I was vigilant about getting verbal agreements from my coworkers that we’d all walk together. I’d even promised glowsticks to walkers. Even the people who enjoyed running had decided to take it easy. So as we changed into our team shirts, took pictures and did exaggerated stretches in the office, I was under the impression that we were all walking.

But as we left Times Square and walked to Central Park, the stirrings started that my art department friends were going to run. Psh. No glowsticks for them. Whatever. By the time we reached our meeting point, the majority of my coworkers had said they were going to run. I joined up with two women in Advertising who, like me, refused to run. When one asked if I was sure I wouldn’t run, I told her I don’t run. Ever. And this is why.

I started having terrible foot pains during ballet class in sixth grade. After X-Rays and CAT scans, I found out that two bones in my right foot were rubbing together. In an attempt to fix the problem, I wore a big, black walking cast that came up to my knee for my entire seventh grade year and a semester after I had surgery in eighth grade. As annoying as it was, it did exempt me from everything I hated in gym class — running, team sports and group showers. This continued through high school gym classes and meant I would never have to run. Which was fine, because heavy impact still hurt.

My foot problem was a perfectly acceptable excuse for gym class, but close to a decade later, I was still using it. My poor logic assumed that because it had hurt in the past, it would always hurt. And I let myself think that far too long.

I recently read a post from my blog friend Bridget and a book by Randy Pausch, a professor dying of cancer. Their words really put into perspective the way I look at challenges and daily tasks. I began to notice how I blow simple things out of proportion and devote entirely too much time to complaining about them. Pausch makes a point of asking if you’re spending your time on the right things. I don’t want to add up how much time I’ve wasted debating myself about flossing, washing dishes or taking out the trash. It would’ve been more efficient to do the actual task than think about it (which is another point he makes: don’t complain, just work harder).

And it’s what Bridget describes as giving something 100 percent… not being tentative and excusing yourself, but being dedicated no matter what. Agonizing about a simple task was ridiculous and such a waste of time until I decided that the issue was not under debate. Bridget was right. It makes things so much easier when you’re not fighting with yourself about them.

I suppose it was my new frame of mind that influenced me the day of the Corporate Challenge. My coworkers and I, along with 15,000 other people, took our places. Lyndsay — who recently completed a half-marathon — promised me that she was not a fast runner and that I could keep up with her by power walking. So with Lyndsay’s continued encouragement and reassurance that they weren’t going to be moving very fast, the two Advertising ladies and I joined the runners.

Just before the race began, it started raining. First just sprinkles; then it was constant. I put my hair into a ponytail to avoid weather-related catastrophes and hoped that our thin (and very ugly) company T-shirts (which were white and plain on the front except for a small logo) would hold out through this weather.

The three powerwalkers decided that we’d start the race off jogging because it would be crowded and crazy that we didn’t want to get trampled. But the funny thing was, once I started jogging, I realized it wasn’t as nearly as horrible as I thought. Even though my body was not used to this, I didn’t collapse or cramp up or pass out. I wasn’t wheezing or out of breath. Actually, it wasn’t bad at all.

So I ran. And continued to run. For three and a half miles.

The rain continued to pour the entire race. I was soaking wet. My shorts bunched together, my ugly shirt started weighing me down and they both stuck to my skin. A previous version of myself would’ve been miserable, maybe even would have left when it started raining before the race. But I wasn’t hot, and I wasn’t sweating. Not to mention I had beautiful views of Central Park and coworkers who kept by me through it all. Two women mentioned that every time they looked at me, I was always smiling. I guess I just couldn’t hide how happy I was to actually be doing this.

We didn’t talk much, which was fine because I was busy in my own head thinking about what a momentous occasion this was. We didn’t take any pictures either, like I did last year when the walk turned into an impromptu photo shoot. But I can tell you that the Corporate Challenge was a wonderful bonding experience, and one that I never expected to have. We crossed the finish line together. Unfortunately, our ugly T-shirts with the tiny logo were unrecognizable, so the announcer said, “Here come people in white shirts crossing the finish line.”

For the rest of the night, my body felt the best it ever has. I was on an endorphin high. My lungs felt expansive. My legs felt strong. My abs felt toned. Even when I stretched in my sleep, I could still feel the wonders the run had on my body. And my foot didn’t hurt. At all.

Had it not been for the encouragement of my coworkers and my recent reading material, I would never have believed in myself to accomplish such a personal feat. Which leads me to wonder what else I’m capable of that I’ve overlooked or been afraid to try. Now that I’ve overcome such a long-standing obstacle, I’m ready to challenge myself even more to find out what I’m capable of.

And maybe next year I’ll use the glowsticks to encourage my coworkers to run with me.

Yesterday I left Sequoia National Park. The park is situated south of Yosemite and shares many of the geological features that make Yosemite so popular. There are sheer stretching granite cliffs, and verdant valleys. There are ice-cold cataracts running from glacial snow-melt and alpine lakes set against high peaks. And then there are the sequoias, the namesake of the park.

The Giant Sequoia is one of the oldest and largest living things on the planet. The General Sherman tree in Sequoia National Park is the largest living thing on earth based on volume. Even a picture doesn’t do justice to the enormous size of these trees, as my camera cannot fit an entire tree in the frame and include a recognizable human at the bottom.

While I walked through the park, with my head tilted back, and tried not to run into other people, I took some time to read about the history of the park and of the trees themselves. Apparently, when the National Park Service first began protecting the area of Sequoia National Park, they spent a lot of time protecting the trees. Specifically, they protected the trees from fire.

It seems logical, even now, that fire would be something to avoid. Here is a park that is based almost completely on the existence of extremely large pieces of wood. As it turns out, wood is extremely flammable. If there were to be a fire in the park, the park would burn. Ergo, no more park. Seems pretty straightforward.

After a few years of maintaining the park, the rangers of the NPS began to notice something interesting. The sequoias were no longer reproducing. The ancient behemoths were growing normally, expanding upward and outward, but there were no longer any saplings growing in the park. Obviously worried, the rangers began an extensive investigation. They eventually discovered one region of the park where saplings were still growing. The area was no different than any other park regions, except for one important fact: There were the charred stumps and underbrush characteristic of a recent burn.

This discovery spawned numerous studies of the sequoia and its life-cycle. The rangers eventually determined that not only were the sequoias extremely picky about their location, needing a specific altitude range and a specific latitude range, but also that they also need a specific amount of light and type of soil. The latitude and altitude dictate the general location that sequoias can be found, but the light and soil are dependent on fire.

Today, if you enter Sequoia National Park, chances are good that a maintenance burn will be occurring in some region of the park. Section by section, the park goes through a cycle of burns and growth, to allow the next generation of sequoia to grow.

Standing underneath a sequoia, especially one of the really old ones like General Sherman or General Grant or The President, it was hard for me to believe the fire actually helped their growth. All of the trees in the park show some signs of fire damage. Some have yawning black gashes from lightening or some kind of sap explosion (is that even possible?), some have scorch marks completely encircling their trunks, and others were completely engulfed, leaving nothing but a charred obelisk. Even though the fire is necessary to their growth, it is not easy for these trees. It hurts. The scars prove it.

As I saw the fire damage, as I felt the trees’ scars, it seemed as if the sequoias were trying to tell me something about myself. I might not be as big (not even close) or as old (not even close) as the sequoia, but there are all sorts of things growing in the forest of my life just like the sequoia forests. Some of them are weeds, some of them are flowers that will die and re-grow every year, and some of them are sequoias that have already started their stately climb to the sky.

Most of these things have a place in my life. Most of them are good. But the truth, just like for the real sequoias, is that for new growth, for new things of beauty to have room to spring up, there must be room. A fire must come to clean out the weeds and flowers and small bushes to prepare the way for something so much bigger, so much better.

The sequoias are giving me a new perspective on the difficult parts of my life: the deaths, the surgeries, the illnesses, the separations, the strife. I still recognize that these things are violent and painful, burning apart living things. I still suffer from them, I still mourn them. But I am starting to see that pain is not the only thing that can grow from a fire. A Giant Sequoia can grow too, as long as I plant a seed.

I’m going to have a daughter. I know it.

I’m not expecting* right now. I don’t know if I’ve even met the girl who will carry my daughter. And if I have met her, well, we haven’t discussed that yet and we haven’t realized some day we’ll be making a daughter.

*Do males expect? Is it the woman and man are expecting or just the woman is expecting? If someone could clear that up for me, I’d appreciate it.

But I just know it, I’m going to have a daughter and I’ve always been scared to death of the fact. I even go so far as to tell people that I want a son. I want to name him Phog (probably why I haven’t found the mother of my baby yet) and he will play basketball, probably get burnt out on basketball and then I’ll force him to play because eventually he’ll learn to love the beauty of backdoor passes and team defense and the pick and roll, because how can you not.

When I say things like this, it makes my mom angry. In fact, it makes females angry. But the men who are reading this are nodding their heads. If their girlfriends or wives are looking over their shoulders, they might be hiding the nod, but they get it. They’re thinking about their friends when they were in high school and college and maybe they’re even thinking about themselves when they were in high school and college and they, like me, are thinking about the chastity belts and bedroom deadbolts they’ll have to buy for their future daughter’s bedroom door when she turns 14. Even I feel bad for my future daughter.

But I had a breakthrough today. It was the first day of a basketball camp I’m coaching at this week and it’s a co-ed camp for kids. I’ve coached in the past*, but I’ve never coached girls.

*Coaching is the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. When you see the light bulb go off in a kid’s head and then his body actually performs the skill you’ve been teaching for months and you see how happy… eh, this deserves its own entry. Come back in two weeks and I’ll tell you all about it.

So when I arrived at the camp today and saw all the girls, I thought it might be a challenge. I know how to deal with a boy who’s not listening. You maybe raise your voice just a little, no yelling, but just enough to get their attention. But could I do that with a girl? I’m not going to make a girl cry. I might cry.

So camp started. I had the eight-year-olds. And they all were pretty good kids. Almost all were awful at basketball and have practically no knowledge of the game and that can be frustrating, but it’s also fun because you get to really teach. Maybe they only get about half of what you’re teaching, but they’re learning, and they want to learn, more than any high school kid can learn or is willing to learn. Patience is the key. Extreme patience.

But this is where I started to realize I could have a daughter.

The girls listen. They all listen. And then, they actually make an effort to do what you say. And they do it with a smile. And they’re all so darn cute. And they all loved me. I don’t know what it was, but they all loved me.

One little girl named Janet was in my group in the morning session and she was one of the few kids who also stayed for the afternoon session. In between sessions Janet came up to me (well, actually, she was sort of following me around, but not an annoying follow like some kids do), and she asked if I knew whether she would be in my group in the afternoon. I said I didn’t know, because I didn’t.

Then when they were being split up into groups that afternoon and she was in the group told to head to my basket, she sprinted toward me like she had just been given the key to the best, biggest candy store in the world and her little freckly face had a smile ear to ear, and, well, my heart kind of melted.

Janet: (jumping up and down, tugging on my shirt) Coach C.J.! Coach C.J.! I’m in your group! I’m in your group!

Me: (smiling) I know. I know.

And then I thought maybe I’m all right with a daughter. Maybe it won’t be a curse. Maybe I even want a daughter… just one that magically skips the teenage years or stays eight forever.