My cab driver from LaGuardia looked worried when I told him the address I was going to in the Village. “Bad” was all I could make out from behind the plexiglass screen.

I didn’t realize that it was Parade Day in New York. Parade Day coming on the heels of the historic passage of same-sex marriage legislation in the New York State Senate. Thousands and thousands of people were celebrating in the streets of Greenwich Village.

It finally dawned on me what my cab driver was muttering about up front. He could only get me “close” to my destination.

I got out at the barricade and walked a dozen blocks. There were people everywhere, gay, straight, transgendered, all celebrating a breakthrough that was hard-won and too long in coming: equal rights.

Everyone I passed was joyous. Even the cops were friendly, wishing me a hello as I passed. That seldom happens in Toronto, I thought to myself. I make it a practice to say hello to police officers at home and am usually met with stony silence.

As I walked, I recalled a conversation I had with a participant in one of my workshops in San Framcisco. He was devastated by the repeal of gay marriage in California after San Francisco was overruled in granting marriage rights to same sex couples.

I said at the time that the war was over, depite the disappointing turn of events. The opposition forces were fighting a last gasp campaign for discrimination. They had lost the war even though they had won a battle.

The scene in New York City was vindication. The equal rights battles are not over, but the war has been won in my view.

I also got to thinking about Mayor Rob Ford’s decision to go to the cottage rather than attend the Pride Parade in Toronto. It betrays a small-mindedness that most liberals were convinced of during Ford’s election campaign. Small mindeness and provincialism.

Every Toronto Mayor with the exception of Art Eggleton in the ’80′s has attended the Parade. Not Ford. He’s going to the cottage. Seems more important than a major celebration of Toronto’s diversity.

Why am I suprised?

This guy hasn’t exactly demonstrated any sign of growing into a world-class mayor.

Anyway, I am happy for the human rights breakthrough in New York. And I enjoyed wandering through the celebratory streets of Greenwich Village.

Justice done.

© Patrick O’Neill 2011. All rights reserved.

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Something that is usually forgotten is that Father’s Day is an opportunity to celebrate the archteype of the Healthy Masculine. That archetype lives in every man and woman and is the dynamic energy in our nature.

The Healthy Masculine is associated with productivity that springs from living a values-driven life. It is the builder, protector and author of right action. This energy seeks to provide sustenance through hard work, honest means and generosity to family, friends and community.

When we use our dynamic nature in a healthy way, we pay attention to our responsibilites as an means of honoring the great gift of life. We are creative and engaged fully, recognizing that this is a path of honor in the world.

The Healthy Masculine is partnered with The Healthy Feminine, the receptive and nurturing aspect of human beings. The Masculine treats the Feminine as an equal partner in relationship, recognizing that the Feminine carries a fluency in the inner world that matches the Masculine’s fluency in the outer world.

Father’s Day reminds us that we must ensure that we take care of our dynamic nature and root out the behaviours that undermine integrity. These include acting from our circumstances rather than our principles and values; the failure to attend to our responsibilities; the misuse of power and authority; laziness; greed; and the failure to recognize and develop our creative gifts and talents. The Healthy Masculine always attends to the needs of the family as a primary commitment.

To all of us striving to be do our best and honor the Healthy Masculine, Happy Father’s Day. A special thank you to my own father, John D’arcy O’Neill. Much love, gratitude and respect to you for your modeling and lessons. You are remembered and appreciated. Rest in peace.

© Patrick O’Neill 2011. All rights reserved.

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Ok, so it’s true. I got another one, a tattoo on my left arm.

Glen, my new friend and tattoo artist extraordinaire, wondered alllowed: “Isn’t your wife going to kill you?”

“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” I said in my sneakiest voice. “Besides, she’s in Ireland. I can’t tell her if she isn’t here.”

Glen didn’t look convinced. Neither did my wife on her return. My third daughter, the rat, had already briefed her on my latest addition.

“Patrick O’Neill…You’ve lost your mind,” she informed me!

True as that may be, I did it for good reasons. There was the whole balance thing to consider, given my first tattoo was on my right arm. Only natural to get a second.

There’s also The True Snake Story.

You see, I had an encounter a few years ago in the Arizona desert with a green Mojave rattlesnake. They are the most lethal rattler in North America. Thirty seconds to Jesus. So lethal that your chances of surviving a bite are iffy.

I met my Mojave at the foot of a small footbridge that I was going to cross to get to the dining hall of the Conference facility where I was staying. I was minding my own business when out of the corner of my eye I saw something green and coiled.

I stopped. That’s good snake protocol.

Yup, it was a snake alright, a green Mojave kind. It remained still, coiled and non-rattling.

I had never seen a green Mojave before but I wasn’t about to get any closer. I backed away slowly observing it out of the corner of my eye and went to find the caretaker.

“There’s a snake,” I said when I found the caretaker. “A green Mojave kind. I think”.

“Not good,” he said. He went into his trailer and returned with a pistol. Together we went back to the bridge.

“They’re very shy”, the caretaker said. “And impossible to handle. Way too lethal. We have to shoot him.”

“We,” I said?

The caretaker approached the snake until he was virtually standing over it. The snake was rattling big time by now.

He fired the pistol at point blank range.

The snake dodged the first bullet. Really.

The caretaker got him on the second shot. He pulled out his knife and cut off the rattle, depositing it in my palm. “That’s for you,” he said. “Good job spotting him. He could have hurt somebody.”

I looked at the amputation, four distinct rattles still twitching in my outstretched hand. He picked up the snake. “The meat is good eating,” he said.

So that’s the reason for the second tattoo. That rattler gave me it’s rattle. I gave it my left forearm. It’s only fair.

“It’s a true snake story,” I said to my wife explaining the new ink. “I wouldn’t lie to you about something like that.”

© Patrick O’Neill 2011. All rights reserved.

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