I used to love twirling around in circles as a little boy, making myself as dizzy as I could before I would fall sideways into the warm grass, giggling and groaning with ecstasy. As a “spiritual seeker type” of young man, I was captivated by the Whirling Dervishes, the Sufi order that counted the great poet Rumi as one of its members. I sought out their mystical celebrations of merging with the Divine Source through a deep meditative trance induced by careful gliding into a transcendent state. Ahhh.

Who doesn’t enjoy a good spin?

In fact, I see spinning every day in my work. Some people like to whirl themselves into a dramatic tizzy by repeating the same patterns, over and over again, until they either stumble upon deep meditative introspection or they crash into a brutal wall of frustration and anger.

I am also aware of the kind of spinning where people attempt to repackage their thoughts, behaviors and emotions toward less incriminating, less shame inducing places. This is a fascinating process to witness, as the spinner, much like the Dervish, can become intoxicated by their own circulating distortion.

And really, who doesn’t spin sometimes? Humans are indeed animals, deep down inside, and we have a strong survival instinct. I find that for most people, survival tends to be typically emotional rather than physical in nature. Why would I want to feel bad about myself? It is far easier to spin the facts or the feelings in a way that alleviates my own anxiety or feelings of shame.

Today, there is even a substantial amount of institutional spin. Corporations spin disasters or failed quarterly profits, governments spin misguided policies, wars and appointments. Today, Wiki Leaks’ Mr. Assange is being spun so hard he is sitting in jail right now and the folks that put him there want you to believe the spin is reality. Since when does Interpol extradite people for broken condoms?

Ah, the breeze is lucid, warm, dream-like as we turn and turn and turn.

Last spring I attended a workshop in Boston offered by Hay House Publishing Company geared towards  folks in the community who want to promote their transformational work in the world. I wasn’t exactly certain what to expect nor was I particularly clear about what it was I was looking for, but a dear friend went to a previous offering and had nothing but rave reviews. And he is awesome.

One of the things author and life coach, Cheryl Richardson, presented was the necessity for contemporary  teachers to develop a personal “platform” that draws upon numerous social and technological avenues in order to effectively promote one’s core message. Core message, right? I negotiated mini panic attacks for the first 24 hours of the week-end as I grappled with the fear of truly spelling out to myself, let alone to others, what indeed was my message, my purpose, my passion.

“I want to change the world.” Well, easy enough, right? Who doesn’t want to change the world? I’d proudly sit with that clarity for about five minutes before the onslaught of “yeah, but’s” came pouring in and sent me reeling into confusion and self-doubt. “Who am I to say there is a problem with the world as it was created and exists?” “Who am I to suggest that I know what the world needs and that I have the ability to affect that change?”

“OK, I know! Relationships! I want to help folks enjoy more meaningful, transformational relationships!!!” Now what could be bad about that? I’ll be “the relationship guy!” I smiled silently from my chair as the workshop proceeded, content that I had already gained something useful and I had done it all by myself! Sure enough, an hour later a flood of scenes from previous relationships came crashing in, carrying the debris of mistakes, lessons and tragedies committed by yours truly in attempt after attempt to maintain “successful” romantic connections.

I felt like Charlie Brown trying to kick the elusive football. I’d charge the ball with gusto only to wind up flat on my back,  cartoon birdies circling overhead. How could I ever really know what I want to do or say with my talents if I can so easily find a hundred reasons why I have been so clueless about this or that, even a miserable failure at something I wish to teach others about.

“Who would want to hear about creating a healthy relationship from someone who has had unhealthy ones in his own past?”

I began to research platform development in the weeks and months following the workshop and found myself reading marketing books, opening numerous social networking accounts, watching Ted.com videos from speaker/teacher masters and creating a public presence. One of the themes that I found particularly striking across the board was the necessity of branding.

The notion that every public person needs to brand themselves as if they are a product to be sold in the marketplace was instantly jarring. Really? At first it was a bit funny to imagine myself as a tube of toothpaste or a new Smart Phone. “What makes me unique from other dental products or telecom mediums?” My toothpaste is all natural, smooth yet gritty, tasty and delicious but not too sweet?!? Not good enough! My toothpaste supports you by keeping a loving, compassionate breeze of sweet cleanliness on your breath all day! My cell phone not only makes calls and take photos of your life, it provides you with an alternative universe, a special community of like-minded people where you can feel at home and nurture your relationships!

No matter what product I could be “selling,” it is difficult to remove the essence of who I am and what I’m truly seeking to create in the world. I don’t want to sell anything, actually. I want to make changes in the world available for others to embrace. I can only share my opinions or beliefs about that change and then people can choose for themselves whether those ideas resonate or not. I do truly believe that healthy, nurturing relationships are the key to deep, lasting peace and self-love. I believe that with healthy relationships come healthy homes, cities and nations thus creating a healthy planet. Do I want to sell that to you? Not exactly.

My deep hope is that you will come to want it for yourself. There is a challenge within myself when it comes to trying to convince anyone of anything. I present ideas and possibilities and that is where I leave it. I know from decades of experience that I can not change another person but I can invite them to change. I don’t want to have to market myself in a way that makes change sexier or smarter, I want the reality of it to stand on its own. Then again, what if it doesn’t?

What if I sing from the mountain tops that projecting our needs onto others is the same as wanting to lock our friends and family in cages and invite visitors to come see what lovely relationships I have created? What if I dance a healthy relationship dance in my own life in the hope that those around me will see the beauty and benefit of nourishing their connections?

What if I do these things and nobody gets it? What if I sing my heart out and no one cares?

Back to branding. Can I make the message sexier without losing the authenticity of my beliefs and dreams? Can I assemble my words in a wittier way such that people think I must know what I’m talking about and then change? How is it possible to package myself and my message without attention to branding and marketing and not lose focus on the heart and soul of my personal journey?

I turn to the sun dried plum for wisdom.

What, you’ve not yet discovered this exotic fruit in your grocery store? The Angelino sun dried plum is naturally sun-dried, ready to use and will knock your socks off! It comes “fancy” sized, is approximately 2˝ in diameter with a deep violet color. California Angelino Plums have a tangy sweet flavor with spicy undertones and a chewy texture making them a good choice for snacking and as an ingredient for baking in breads, scones and bagels. Plums have a natural affinity to wines and dried plums are high in vitamin A, potassium and are an excellent source of fiber. They are even Kosher Certified.

What could be bad about such an exotic fruit? Nothing. Just explain it to the prune. They are calling it a “marketing make-over,” a “sea-change in the fruit world” and a “fruit of the past. ” The good old prune that my grandmother ( and yours ) used to chew on to keep things “right in the world” has been transformed into something exotic, fresh and fun. While it is still carries the amazing nutritional benefits of a good prune, the sun dried plum is about your transformation! What?

You didn’t like going to the store and buying prunes. It wasn’t sexy. Perhaps, it was embarrassing. You didn’t serve it at holidays or with mixed company. Your kids giggled at it in the cupboard so you stopped bringing it home. You changed. You wanted the benefits of the prune but you were no longer willing to tolerate the “bad wrap” associated with the prune. So, the powers that be made an adjustment for you as they have done with the Patagonian Toothfish, Sugar, and High Fructose Corn Syrup. They just want you to be comfortable. Corporations, governments and marketers can label things all sorts of ways to ensure that you feel at ease and that your numerous instinctual triggers don’t go off and compromise a sale, a change in your behavior.

Brother Shakespeare questioned whether a rose would smell as sweet by any other name? My message is the same, regardless of fancy platforms, marketing or savvy sales pitches. We can change the world, starting with our most basic relationships. Each day we have choices as to how we will be in the world; how we will interact with others. There is something so basic and true to this that no matter how I package it, the reality is always clear and present.

In the end, I guess I am really like the prune.

Remember the annual cold? I do.

Perhaps you are one of the special people who “never” get sick or when you do, have a bully night of it and then it’s gone. I, on the other hand, have wacky tonsils that seem to be breeding grounds for your germs and the germs from across the hall.

I remember the doctor who wanted to scoop out my tonsils with a spoon when I was in fifth grade. He actually said that. “Your tonsils are so swollen I can scoop them out with a spoon!” The last thing I was going to do at that point was allow that man in my mouth with a kitchen utensil. So, as I managed to do with the optometrist who advised my parents in first grade to have me fitted for glasses, I campaigned for leniency. I also found out that the typical person who gets fitted for eyeglasses finds their vision degenerate at a faster rate than non-spectacle wearers. It was an easy campaign from my perspective. To this day, I’m the only one of 5 family members without “corrective” lenses.

“Isn’t there a pill I can take?” The doctor informed my mother that 3 out of 10 patients were able to reduce the swelling of spoonable tonsils and avoid surgery. Done. All I needed were the odds and I could manifest the necessary results. Three decades later, my tonsils continue to be hotbeds for germ incubation. I can feel it. Right now. Bastard tonsils. Just kidding. One needs to be careful with negative affirmations…

Back to the annual cold. What happened to once in a while? It used to be that I’d get a whopper of a week long sinus cold each winter and it was done. These past few years it has been more like a few times per annum that the creeping crud invades my Google Calendar and forces me to make changes.

What gives? I eat a somewhat healthy, vegetarian diet, take supplements, get my seven hours of sleep, avoid most exercise, spend each day across from 6-12 people in close quarters and enjoy a good glass of single malt scotch here and there.

Well, I’ll tell you what gives. I fly. I mean, I go up in commercial airplanes. Almost every illness I have had in the past three years can be associated with air travel within at least a month if not a matter of days. The last two times I have been sick occurred within four days of flying. Hmm. What do you think about that? I think it is highly unfortunate.

I know we are all carrying various pathogens and pass them all day long from public restrooms to doorknobs to public transportation but has it always been this bad? It seems as if there is more awareness today than ever before when it comes to washing your hands after you tinkle. So what is going on?

There are endless answers from conspiracy theories to antibiotic saturated foods (and people) that create super-resistant pathogens, making it more and more challenging to combat the increasingly uncommon cold.

But still, why me? I take astragalus for God’s sake.

More than it being a mystery, it is a downright assault on my freedom. The fact that I can’t plan a vacation and assume that I’ll be well enough to enjoy it is very disturbing. Is it me?

Well, today’s my birthday. 40. Wow.

I suppose as a kid I figured 40 would mean something. It seemed so old, so up there…

And yet, here I am. And well, it doesn’t mean much. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE my birthday. Each year, I love to celebrate myself, my birth, my annual rebirth and the recognition of another cycle that has passed. However, the numbers? Well, they feel rather arbitrary. I only tend to compare myself to people in terms of their age when I am feeling bad about myself for something. Something akin to the notion that perhaps I have not lived up to my potential thus far.

Jesus accomplished so much before he was 34. In fact, he accomplished so much that people wanted him dead for all that he had done in 33 years. That’s impressive, no?

John Lennon died when he was 40 and he was a Beatle, for God’s sake. He was John Lennon, man. Imagine that. He was gunned down just a few blocks from Strawberry Fields Forever.

Martin Luther King Jr. died at 39. He had dreams just like me, but somehow he was able to mobilize a generation and well, yeah, um, they killed him for that.

Each of these role models changed the world, lived revolutionary lives and catalyzed paradigm shifts on the planet, all before they were 40 and they all wound up dead.

Now that I’m here, I suppose the idea that “I have plenty of time” seems a bit foolish. On the other hand, staring at the long list of my personal heroes leads me to wonder whether it is so surprising that I’ve been slightly resistant to changing the world. Everybody ends up dead. Seems like in order to make a profound difference on the planet, the price to be paid is often one’s life. Hmm.

Maybe I can still get something important accomplished and just squeeze under the radar, body, mind and spirit intact. Perhaps that is a worthy goal in and of itself: Develop a new paradigm where changing the world leads to respect and positivity without the desire to snuff out the messenger. I’m on it.

We are hungry, all of us.

Feed me, please. I’m in need of your… touch.

The physical experience of intention activating your body to interact with mine is something most of us never get tired of. We can feel anxious, uncomfortable, scared even- but beneath the defense mechanisms, we want it. Touch me, hold me, just graze your hand on my shoulder, but touch me.

I’m not the same without it and I’m not the same with it. Physical contact transforms me. It illuminates the dark places within my being; the shadowy, whispy caverns that get accustomed to perma-dusk. When I am open to receive the magic embedded in your touch I can feel the cells deep inside leap towards each other, dancing in the sprinkler like kids on a hot summer day. Life is beautiful when it is tactile.

I experimented with Orthodoxy once upon a time. For a year I mindfully moved through the world abstaining from physical contact with members of the opposite sex and it was profound- profoundly troubling. While it was wonderful to expand my willingness to give and receive physical contact with men, the absence of the soft, energetic graze of a woman was intensely present. The power of a good shoulder squeeze and the firmness of a huggable greeting was wonderful from the men I lived and learned with on a daily basis, but the loss of female contact while manageable, became something I decided was not something I’d ever want to live without. Never again.

She was a cute, Macrobiotic, Orthodox woman and it seemed the whole physical touch interdiction thing was getting under her skin as well. A few weeks of sharing smiles, giggles and Tamari roasted pumpkin seeds and it was on. As the sun headed down behind the olive trees, she guided me up the back stairs of an old Armenian spice shop to the roof. We stood and held each other for half an hour as the pink and gray of dusk wove a tapestry of touch into our lives once again. No kisses, No groping. No need. It was sublime and we soaked it up until we were good and done.

I never again voluntarily abstained from touch. There have of course been some “dry spells” here and there but it is something I’m acutely tuned in to as a need that can not ever be satiated. An itch that I will scratch until the cows come home.

I was speaking to someone at the airport this morning about the new, more “invasive”  TSA pat down security screenings at U.S. airports and her response struck me: “I think it is ridiculous that so many people are upset about it. It’s free touch! Who cares who’s touching me? Who can’t use a little feel on a stressful day of connecting flights?” Makes a person think twice before jumping to speed dial an attorney over the governmental grope.