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For Christmas last year, my brother Michael gifted me East of Eden by John Steinbeck. Michael has a gift for giving gifts— especially books. When he gives me one, right away I look forward to reading his thoughts and reasoning behind it. His words always carry a special gem within them. They always uplift and inspire me. And they always remind me so clearly and wonderfully how much love my brother has for me. 

Michael and I can both be incredibly hard on ourselves. And while that sometimes manifests between us as a tension or projection or resentment, more often I think it emerges as this profound sadness, for how we feel we are failing ourselves and each other. I don’t mean to project so much onto my brother… or maybe I do. I guess I’m just trying to name and honor this heaviness that I’ve felt for not loving my brother the way I know I could have. And that is why this post, this relationship, this renewed effort I feel ourselves making, is so important to me. 

In East of Eden, my gift for Christmas 2025, after probably the hardest year of my life, my brother Michael wrote this:

Dear John,
1. I hope I haven’t already given you this book… guess it’s too late to return it lol!
2. Know it’s been a tough year and want you to know I love you and support you. This book felt right because of how it deals with the messiness of family.

A central theme towards the end is this ideal of Timshel, ‘Thou Mayest’, it refers to how god has given humanity the ability to rise above sin but not guaranteed it. We can chart our own destiny and rise above it. If you’ve read it might be worth a reread!

We mayest.
Love,
Michael

I am writing today to say as clearly and emphatically as I possibly can— yes, Michael, we mayest. I believe in you and me. I believe that we can rise, that we can confront the things that hold us down, and that we can feel worthy of the love we give each other.

I also want to name here that I am resisting the urge to wax poetic about the beauty of this story, of Timshel, of the myth of Cain and Abel, and the way in which Steinbeck explores what it means to be human. I love how my writing empowers me to share in ways that bring me closer to others. I am also aware of how much of my life has been defined by a top-down seeking, an intellectual, rational answer, a “why isn’t it working!?” each time I found the answer and then couldn’t ground it in my body. When I write, my priority has always been to be as authentic as I can possibly be, but my tendency has still been to fall back into the familiar safety of words and concepts, free from the messiness of the body and the heavy uncertainty of relationship. But I’m learning that I don’t always have to rush in to clean up the mess and remove the uncertainty. Sometimes things just need room to breathe, to be felt, to have their own say.

What I am trying to say is this: I love my brother Michael. I love the gift he gave me in early recovery of Thou mayest. And even more, I love how Thou mayest, for us, for our family, has always been and will always be— We mayest.

Writing this doesn’t necessarily make it all feel any easier. But I think that is in many ways the point. Because I don’t want a life that is free from pain, free from grief, free from loss and hardship. What I want is to live a life I can be proud of— not as some solitary hero, but as a brother, a son, a friend, a neighbor— as a human being alive on this earth who remembers that he doesn’t have to do it alone.

P.S. I was originally hoping to publish this post on Michael’s birthday— March 11. So, we mayest still procrastinate.

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Lee’s hand shook as he filled the delicate cups. He drank his down in one gulp. “Don’t you see?” he cried. “The American Standard translation orders men to triumph over sin, and you can call sin ignorance. The King James translation makes a promise in ‘Thou Shalt,’ meaning that men will surely triumph over sin. But the Hebrew word, the word timshel— ‘Thou mayest’— that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. That throws it right back on a man. For if ‘Thou mayest’— it is also true that ‘Thou mayest not.’ Don’t you see?”

“Now, there are many millions in their sects and churches who feel the order, ‘Do thou,’ and throw their weight into obedience. And there are millions more who feel predestination in ‘Thou shalt.’ Nothing they may do can interfere with what will be. But ‘Thou mayest’! Why, that makes a man great, that gives him stature with the gods, for in his weakness and his filth and his murder of his brother he has still the great choice. He can choose his course and fight it through and win.” Lee’s voice was a chant of triumph.

“… I take my two pipes in the afternoon, no more and no less, like the elders. And I feel that I am a man. And I feel that a man is a very important thing— maybe more important than a star. This is not theology. I have no bent toward gods. But I have a new love for that glittering instrument, the human soul. It is a lovely and unique thing in the universe. It is always attacked and never destroyed— because ‘Thou mayest.’”

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Reclaiming Our Soul