Look At All This Cool Stuff....

I collect things. Between my albums and CD's, there are at least a thousand. Three walls of my office are covered with celebrity autographs and movie memorabilia. I often find myself gazing at the objects I have amassed with great pleasure. In reality I only listen to a quarter of the music. There is a lot of money invested in my Hollywood shrine.

Last week I was cleaning pictures out of my gallery to speed up my hard drive. There are just over a thousand photos chronicling my life with, and without, my family. From childhood birthdays, to family adventures, there are only a couple of thousand. In forty six years of living, I have a few more priceless images, than replaceable objects.

I spend more time staring at my "stuff," than I do on those precious memories. Somewhere along my journey I decided that things were a sign of success. Maybe you do too. I have attached part of my identity, and success, to things that don't have the capability of reciprocating feelings back to me.

If the collections burned in a fire, I would be hurt. If the photos were lost I would be devastated. Yet, I only open those albums a few times a year. I stare at my stuff daily. Most of the real memories are packed away in the basement. I do that so they don't get damaged.

It is peculiar that I don't hide my stuff of little value. I want the world to see that. My mind has been wired to think that what people see, is more important than what they don't. We do have twenty, or so, portraits hanging on walls around the house. The rest are tucked away until the semi-annual dust off. I will take more pictures. I will buy twice as much stuff.

Last night I was making deliveries for my job. I was in a rotten mood. The heat was unbearable. My allergies were attacking me. People were rude and inconsiderate. I went on automatic pilot. I was more than happy to share my foul mood with anyone that crossed my path.

Half way through my shift I was taking a delivery to the far side of town. For a moment I was plucked from  Grumpyville and saw how beautiful the sunset was. I promptly pulled over and snapped a shot of God's beautifully painted landscape. It was breath taking. I am glad to share it.

I jumped back in my car so I wouldn't be late with my delivery. I flipped on the radio and was bombarded by the latest news reports out of Aurora, Colorado. It turned my stomach. The carnage left by a twisted coward was sickening. I prayed for the families of the dead and wounded.


I thought of the innocent people who were out for a night on the town to enjoy the latest summer blockbuster. They were oblivious, and anticipating a night of fun. Some said when the massacre began that they assumed it was part of a staged stunt. They thought it had been part of the show.  Three years ago I was in Aurora, Colorado for corporate training. My hotel was just a few blocks from THAT movie theater. I remember the view of the Rocky Mountains. It was awe inspiring. Now memories of that visit have been forever altered.


The title of this blog is Every Day Is A Gift. A lot of readers glance over the title. Some say I write about corny themes with predictable outcomes. I NEED to be reminded of of the fragility each waking moment offers. Life isn't scripted. Death is certain. The timing of it is even less predictable than living itself. We can change our approach to living any day, hour or minute. We can not avoid the moment our ticket to eternity gets punched. I don't want to spend my last moments shuffling this mortal toil full of anger. It is easy to take each day for granted. I control my attitudes and emotions. 


On my way back to work I saw a hawk flying in the distance. They are fascinating and graceful. I can watch them for hours. The wonder of their magnificence never lessens. My mood instantly snapped from attitude to gratitude. I realized how blessed I was to be granted another day of life. I walked into my workplace and shared my gift of humor with my coworkers. Making them laugh gave me great joy.


When I got home from work I passed my mountain of music. I did not gaze upon all the notable faces staring down at me. I went up the stairs and into the kitchen where my wife and two of the kids were eating. I grabbed a plate and sat with them gobbling up the few minutes of laughter and story telling.  I love them more than any THING can offer. I took a mental snapshot of the moment and realized that this is what life is about. It's not about marveling in the things that can't share life with me....



SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of the page. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

Grandma's Fat Black Typewriter

I have loved reading for as long as I can remember. As a kid my favorites were "Where The Wild Things Are," Encyclopedia Brown," and any book about baseball. I imagined I was the kid in the boat heading for Wild Thing island in his tiny sailboat. I helped Encyclopedia Brown solve the latest neighborhood caper. I read to escape the real world and disappeared between the pages. My love for reading has never left me.


I measured each book between my fingers. I slowly removed my hand, then stared at the gap between my pointer finger and thumb to review its thickness.I was fascinated that someone had cobbled all those words together. I felt a sense of achievement as the the space grew between my digits. The bigger the book I consumed, the better I felt. When I zipped through "The Hobbit," it was ecstasy. I never let my buddies know I was a reading fanatic. Back then it meant you were a geek. I was one, but was not ready to lose my place in the cool club.


I decided I was going to become a writer when I grew up. It was going to be a fat book, with lots of words. People would gobble it up. They would measure it's girth with their fingers and be amazed at my work. I set out, at once, to achieve my goal of literary greatness.


My grandparents lived in the city. It was on the South Side of Chicago, on Karlov Avenue, just east of Harlem and Pulaski. I adored the predominantly Irish neighborhood they lived in. As kids we didn't ring the doorbell when we were seeking out a playmate. We stood on the porch and would call out, "Yo, Johnny can you come out and play?" Our singing pleas were repeated endlessly until someone came to the door. If they didn't come, you moved on to another house replaying the same song with a new subject.They didn't do that in Mokena where I lived. I thought it was the coolest. 


In the summer time the ice cream man would cruise the streets in a white painted cube truck that blared out "Pop Goes The Weasel," to announce his presence. I thought that was the coolest too. My heart would race as the sounds of the droning song got closer and closer. Grandma would pull some change from her tiny clasped purse. I would barely have my hand clinched around the coins before I dashed out the door. We would sit on the curb licking away at bomb pops or the latest Good Humor treat.


Grandma had an old Smith-Corona typewriter in the basement. A ribbon was stretched between two spools. The top half was red. The bottom half was black. The red served as highlighting back then. When you got to the end of the spool, you simply rewound it back to the left and continued with the task at hand. I loved plunking away on the fat round keys. When you wanted to capitalize a letter you would hold down the caps key. The heavy rubber roller would rise up from the black machine as the keys hammered at the paper like piano hammers hitting the strings stretched taunt inside.  When you released the key it would fall back into place with a thump. I worked feverishly as the slender arms slapped the ribbon to the page.

My first work was called "The Monkey and the Eagle." My mother still has it. It was a simple paragraph. The plot revolved around a monkey who steals an egg from an eagles' nest, then returns it after he realizes the mother eagle was sad. I went through pages of paper, and rewound the spools a few times, before I got the story just right. Inevitably I would near completion of my masterpiece and hit the wrong key. The spindle whizzed and whined as I ripped the botched up paper from the machine and replaced it with a fresh one.

I presented it to the world with glowing satisfaction. I was an author just like the ones' who pecked out my favorites. I wrote story after story. I was the hero of course. Sometimes I would type out a sad theme. In those works I tried to save a person or animal from doom. My heart fell to pieces when I couldn't. Now I see that people pleasing, and my desire to save the world, crossed into my reality.

I feel blessed and grateful that I reached my goal of becoming a published author. Writing SOUL PAROLE was a cathartic journey. As a kid I thought my works would be about safaris and daring rescues. I never thought I would pen the recounting of years of self destruction. I hope someone finds it as intriguing as Encyclopedia Brown.

When I got the first proof copy I stared at it for a few minutes. I flipped through the pages in disbelief that I had pecked out the words. I measured the book between my fingers. I slowly removed my hand, then stared at the gap between my pointer finger and thumb to review its thickness.I was fascinated that I had cobbled all those words together. I felt a sense of achievement as I carefully removed my fingers to keep my measurements true. I sat in awe, fixated on the space between the two. I was bathed in a sense of accomplishment. I have come a long way from "The Monkey and the Eagle."


SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of this page. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

Soccer Moms' at the Food Pantry? YUP!

"Soccer Moms' Please Drive Thru"...

As an addict I have a thing about taking on baggage. I love baggage big and small. I hoard it. The more emotionally painful the package the more I can obsess about it. The more rotten the deed done to another in my past the bigger the package grows in my mind. I caress it and beat myself to bits with it. From a passing comment probably not even meant for me to a second grade fist fight, I remember it all. I have a database of emotional unfinished business that used to make my life unbearable.

The pressure, guilt, remorse, shame and self-loathing created the need to try to escape myself for those many years through bottle and drug. Addicts live emotionally not intellectually or logically. Our emotions make our decisions in most cases. I reacted emotionally then would sort out the fallout from my behavior. We remember everything by our PERCEPTION of the emotional impact people and situations had on us or we had on them. That is why we create chaos in others lives. It is for the emotional insanity and drama. It is our ultimate drug. Chaos.

As our mind clears and we begin to work recovery strategies we try to reduce the baggage which in turn lessens the desire to use. We begin to feel comfortable in our own skins and minds. We try to go back through the rubbish pile that was our past and clean up the joint. The people we have hurt and lied, cheated and stolen from whether it be financially, emotionally or physically are met face to face and we come clean with a sincere desire to make things right. Sometimes it works out and there is a happy ending. Other times we get a dressing down. Still other times we are told that we had no impact at all.

 All of the reactions are growing experiences and are important if long term sobriety is to be achieved. If a flower wants to grow it needs space in the pot or its' roots will rot and it will die. The same goes for drunks like me. I was going crazy from all the baggage. As I have cleared it away and made peace with my friends, family and self (to an extent) life gets better. God has given me the strength to stay clean and my mind is less packed with that crap. The worries, fears, pain and shame of who I was that paralyzed me is now setting me free by cleaning it up.

Now I am able to look at people in the eye with confidence and honesty. I can be a true friend. I can be of use not a user. I can sit with Tommy Connolly and not want to stab the guy in the eye with a fork! Wherever I run to I will always be there to meet me. That is a fact. It gets a little bit easier to hang with me the more I get right with God, man and me.

There are some people I can't make things right with. Some are dead. Some have new lives and I can't disrupt their happy harmony with my horror show rewind. Some I can't find but am ready to make things right if I find them. In these cases I try to be of service in other areas. On one occasion I stole something from a store that I could not go back to for fear of Shaw Shank Redemption. My mentor had me buy dog food in the amount of the item taken and had me take it to the humane society. Perfect! Karma square! I felt better that I was able to make the situation right. In a few years I will go back and make the situation right with the store. The point is that baggage was removed and I am a bit more okay with me because of the cleansing.

Yesterday I went with a friend to work at a food pantry here in Joliet. It is called the Family Outreach Food Pantry. I did not go there for any particular reason. My buddy called me at 6:10 am and asked if I wanted to volunteer at the food bank at 6:30. At first I was miffed because I hate to be late. Its' part of the new me. The only thing I was on time for in the past was beer sales and fresh bales. I said sure, and away we went. I can tell you now that God had my friend call me. There are no coincidences.

My vision of a food bank and food lines takes me back to my grade school history classes and the "Great Depression". You remember the old films and the market crash of 1929. There was the dust bowl and the people getting broth put into tin cups. I had a vision of homeless people coming up to the food bank and us handing little packages to the less fortunate. You know? It was going to be people in ratty cars and ripped clothes and winos and all the stereotypes I try so hard to fight when it comes to the labeling of alcoholics, addicts and those who suffer from mental disorders. I was doing the SAME thing before we got there.

We arrived at the tiny tavern parking lot where the food distribution point is and my friend was assigned to traffic control. WHAT? Traffic control at a food bank! He had the vest and the cool little flashlight with the pointy orange end on it and everything. I was jealous for a minute. I was assigned to fill orders. That was to put the boxes of food into the vehicles as they pulled up. This is where the story gets interesting, horrifying, eye opening and real folks. The real state of the STATES.

As the cars began to pull up I was taken aback. This can't be! There were a few beat up cars and a few homeless folks walked up whom I greeted with a grateful hello and a "God Bless you." The vast majority of the cars were "Soccer Moms." There were cars of all makes and models right up to a Tahoe with leather interior. The common denominator was all of these people "needed" food. There was no scam. Some folks looked down as I put on a smile and made a quick joke as to let them know it's a beautiful day as I slung the food into their back seats.

Single parents' pulled through with babies strapped in and we offered extra bread to those who wanted it. Every single family wanted it. Like alcoholism and addiction the people in the line to receive the food were a perfect cross section of Americana and it blew me away. Some folks looked as though they had stopped on break from work or were on the way to drop the kids at school. It was heartbreaking and gratifying at the same time. It is a day I won't forget.

In 90 minutes we handed out 300 boxes of food. When that ran out and we had only bread left people were happy and humbled to have a few loaves of that alone. I went home and sat silent for awhile. We are in trouble in this country. They have the food pantry every week and turn away more and more families.

I stood in front of my fridge and looked at the food and saw that our pantry was filled and it made me think of the times when I have said there is nothing to eat when in fact there was plenty. There just wasn't what I WANTED TO EAT in the fridge or pantry at that moment. I will be back to help again next Thursday at the  pantry.

 I remember not having food. I remember not wanting food because it would take up space my booze needed to fill. I also remember eating garbage when I wanted to eat and had to use my money to buy the booze. I've seen it from all sides. I think if there is anything that I can leave you with it is be thankful for what God has given you... and more thankful for what he hasn't...

Angels and Dreamins'.....Near Death Experiences and Visitations! Part One!

By the end of the chapter you will think I'm a few coins short of paying the Ferryman or right on the money. Either way I am dedicated to sharing it all. The subjects I am going to breach are often dismissed as wishful thinking, hopeful delusion or just plain nutty imaginations. I have firm conviction in the areas of dream interpretation, spirit visitation, guardian angels and dimensions beyond the 3 we currently experience as humans. I very much enjoy programs like, "I Survived...Dead and Back," "Ancient Aliens," and "Celebrity Ghost Stories."

 I believe them or many of them. At the least I am open to the possibilities. I have experienced some unusual,unexplainable spiritual encounters personally. I also know there are hucksters and manipulators out there who manufacture their so called "psychic abilities" to pray on weak and hopeful. The bottom line is that it is ludicrous to think that me or scientists can say that these experiences are hooey! Darwin himself said that if there were more components to his single cell theory that the whole theory must be thrown out. We now know there is much more to a single cell organism than the one Darwin peered at in his 100x magnification microscope. If you are a Darwinist read up on it. While you're at it cover the "missing link" for me. I know what the missing link is. It is God! I refuse putting limitations on the creator of the universe and I know that with God anything is possible. More importantly, "to not lean on my own understanding."

My belief in these other dimensions and experiences are based on the fact that we use very little of our brain's capacity. It's less than 10% I think. That leaves 90% of sensory ability most of us have not developed. It has got to be there for a reason!  My personal beliefs do not conflict with my Christian views because there are frequent references to "angels being among us" and "visions" by the messengers of God. There is the appearance of the Nephilim and their procreating with humans. Virtually all cultures describe objects in the sky and encounters with creatures not of this world.

Ultimately I am okay with it because I do not try to define God. He is eternal and omnipotent, no beginning or end. No where in the Bible does it say that earth and sky were all He created in this universe only. He created the whole shootin' match. Earth was just a part. I believe there is much, much more. To think that we are the only intelligent life in a universe that grows daily is putting man's conception of God's limitations on Him. I can not fathom how one can put parameters on an omnipresent, all powerful force that we do not comprehend. The small mindedness of man and his narcissistic thinking creates this hog wash!

I am going to share 3 "unexplainable" experiences I had with "the other side," and mental connections that I know are not of this earth. Terra Firma is a spec in an ocean of galaxies. I know these experiences were as real as puddin' pie and I am grateful to have had them. If you disagree, start your own book. It wasn't so long ago that man thought the earth was flat. Galileo was almost executed as a heretic, Einstein a fool.

My grandmother and I were very close. My mom worked hard and Gram stepped in to play a life shaping role in my early youth. We had a connection beyond conversational. I felt her all the way through from my inner core to hers. In 1991 she was in the hospital suffering from emphysema and a myriad of terminal conditions. On her last day here, I was home for lunch from my job and received a call from my mother. She said I should stop after work and see Gram because the doctors didn't think she would make it through the night.

She was at Silver Cross Hospital in Joliet. I was working in Shorewood a few miles away. I finished my lunch and headed back to work. I would stop at the hospital at the end of the day. While driving on I-80, just before Larkin Avenue, I was overwhelmed with an inner feeling that I had to go to the hospital THEN! I exited at Larkin and headed back to the hospital. The voice was powerful and non-negotiable. I entered the room to find my mother pacing, as she had been there for hours. I suggested she go grab a smoke and a Coke and I would sit with Grams.

Mom left for a break, exhausted and emotionally drained. Grams was propped up in her bed with tubes and drips stuck into all the veins available for pumping in medicines. Her eyes were open and moving but she was unable to communicate verbally with me. I sat at the edge of her bed and took her hand. I told her I loved her and that she was like a mother to me. I expressed my gratitude for her always looking after me and accepting me unconditionally. She knew of my alcoholism and had suffered through years of it with my grandfather. I cried and rubbed her hand, thanking her for being such a bright light in my universe. She was a huge Bulls fan and I told her she had to get better and come home because she couldn't miss their first championship.

As those words spilled from my lips she peered at me. Her eyes darted left and right searching into mine. She took a deep breath and exhaled. It wasn't an exhale I had ever heard before. It was complete, a full expulsion of all the air in her lungs. The sound seemed to go on for a minute. I know it was much shorter than that and that she was gone. I told her I loved her and kissed her forehead and then completely lost it. My mother returned to find her mother had passed and me in hysteria. It was one of the most difficult yet beautiful things I have ever experienced. The sounds that a person makes on that final breath are not like Hollywood. It is chilling in its finality. I think of her daily.

What I experienced that day was not of this dimension or plain. The feeling that pulled at me to go immediately to the hospital instead of later in the evening was unrelenting. It wasn't a quick and easy way to end my work day. My inner spirit was guiding me to my grandmother and told me she needed me right then! Her passing in my presence explains the urgency. The confessions of my love for her were not a staged drama with a climactic ending. God put me there for her and for me! I drank a lot that night and cried about losing my rock. Then my anger at her death turned to thankfulness for God allowing me to be a part of her last moments here.