I am (written for St. Andrew’s Pride Service)

I was born in April. White. Male. Gay.

One strike against me

I could masquerade, cause confusion.

Not like the others who have their work cut out

for them

But it was March, in my adolescence, when I sat by the

bedroom window watching our middle class neighbourhood

emerge from winter, that I cried at knowing I

would grow up to be a homo and queer, words

that weren’t yet mine to own. Pervert. Fairy. Faggot. I wept

and felt a  darkness inside

at knowing that I would break my parents’ hearts and that their

raised eyebrows, smug glances and attitudes towards men together

were now meant for the likes of me.

March lasted a very long time, it moved in and

I dreamed of my older self comforting the younger one.

It wasn’t until my twenties that I told them and by

then they already knew – my colours were showing. Before my mother died

she told me that Priscilla Queen of the Desert was her favourite movie. I have been

one of the lucky ones – others leave home, are kicked out, turned away. Yes, I

have had friends who backed away, sat across rather than beside, but

others are shunned, put out of their community. Still it’s been a small

minefield of strangers throwing insults from cars, or empowered by their buddies

using the f-word while I look for the nearest exit, the fastest way to safety. And

I have watched friends die at the will of a strange disease with little effort to

find a vaccine. The fewer of us…

Where others have been beaten and beaten down, I have lived another day.

But now it’s June and what a month to be LGBTQ Gay. A gay month filled with

perfume in the air, peonies, poppies and lilacs, pollen bursting from buds and blossoms, rich

with mating and birth and all of the unexpected delights that nature seeds the path with. All rejoicing in being alive.

Nature has no agenda to eliminate the anomalies. The law of the jungle may be to eat

or be eaten but it has never been to beat or be beaten because your buds and blossoms aren’t like the rest.

Some say why pride? The work has been done, but no, there is still a world frozen by

religion, trapped by prejudice, fear, rhetoric, language and superstition. We cannot

ignore it – we know too much – our eyes are opened ever wider.

So here’s to you who still has to come out every day, whoever you are – has to teach the

world what it is to be you. To those of us who know sooner than later and the ones who arrived late to the party.

Here’s to you who still has to say I am…

And I am proud.

Out loud.

India

Sonnet 34: Why didst thous promise such a beauteous day

And make me travel forth without my cloak…

I think of this often when I am either optimistic about the weather, be it a cool spring morning––too cool––or a summer’s day when the storm clouds are just beyond the horizon and when I am beyond the point of no return and I hear the thunder roll and see the puffy white edges present themselves above the treetops the beginnings of a billowing boiling storm.

Today we headed out the door and went east as we sometimes do, a grey overcast May morning, high cloud like the underside of some soft quilt happening above. And yes we were well on our way when the poodle stopped and looked at me. What? We’re doing what you want. A walk to the lookout, lots of sniffing, in the moment. We continued until I heard it too, the low growling of thunder back towards the west, back towards where the clouds are thick and dark, back towards where I had not looked until that moment. He’d heard it long before me.

Yes I thought, oh shit, done it again. We’ll have to run to get back before getting drenched or hit by a bolt of lightening. But this thought, to which I had become accustomed, because of my habitual carelessness, was replaced by a larger, heavier and far more resonant feeling.

India, I thought. That sound, that thunder is coming all the way, through the earth, from India. The sounds of pain and deep, deep tragedy. It was India. I had read about India and the pandemic, at times not trying to follow the headlines and other times being drawn in to the news of this sad disaster. Both responses akin to trying to not look at a train wreck as it slowly progresses from bad to worse to worst. And there I was walking along a country road, dark clouds gathering and thinking as far removed as I was from India that it was there, somewhere in my consciousness. Very real. Very loud. Roaring in pain and anguish.

It’s odd to be in this world, in this bubble, fairly isolated while a humanitarian disaster of such magnitude takes place on the same planet. Do I want to jinx things by saying “why them?” Closer to home, people are dying while angels hold their hands in place of family, sad stories replay over and over. Care workers are worn to the quick. Raw, spent, yet managing to fight to steer the ship, hold the oars against the tide.

The thunder today caught me by surprise. Spoke volumes.

The Promise

I’ve followed the current advice traveling throughout the internet and then through the minds of my friends colleagues and clients and finally to my ears, that I should leave the gardening and the yard until we have a significant amount of days with the temperature over 10 degrees celsius, all to encourage dormant bees, butterflies and larvae and chrysalis of various descriptions (of which I know nothing) to come safely out of dormancy and do their thing, you know, pollinate and make sure the planet is operating properly for the everyone, although most of us would like to say, somewhat misguidedly operating properly for us, the humans.

So I have been observing things as they start to push through the dead grasses and leftovers from last year’s garden. And I guess emerging like a promise to me is my trustworthy rhubarb plant that seems to present year after year to give me the greatest show and provide really yummy stalks for rhubarb pie.

A neighbour whose husband is an organic farmer, gave me some tomato seedlings, too early to plant but I will move them in and out until late May. Her husband was in the hospital with some issues and then we talked about the dwindling number of farmers. To me it seems a thankless job, but perhaps an incredibly rewarding occupation; being connected to the land, the weather, and all of nature in a very intense way. The work and worry must never ever stop.

When I saw my rhubarb for the first time yesterday and remembered how quickly it grows, it was, to me, like a promise that, with some attention, I will be provided for, by mother earth. Strange that for all of the crimes we have committed against this home, this planet so rich in her gifts, that she perseveres. Discarded tires, roofing shingles, cigarette butts, paint tins and discretely concealed unmentionables, make their way to the “landfill” (isn’t that a garbage dump?) while we look the other way, side to side, not up and down, or perhaps inside where the truth really hurts. While lawn mowers and leaf blowers and pesticides and weed killers prevail and are removed from sheds around this time of year, to dominate Mother Nature, once again, I wonder how much longer she will do so.

Dig Deep

It is a cold morning with a wind at our back. This is the view at our destination this morning, looking southeast over Smith Bay and Waupoos Island across Lake Ontario. On the winter’s coldest days I swear if I squint hard enough I can see the blue skies over the Caribbean and that island in the sun, Barbados, just there off in the distance to the right side of the photo, just beyond the darkest bit of sky. Can you see it? Even so it would take a plane to get there.

Strange, or maybe not, on these bleak days when I dread stepping out into the cold and grey, there is always a moment when I finally say out loud, “this is so damn beautiful” (in all its harshness). It really is. It can be a smell from my childhood blowing down from the north. That familiar burn of cold on my cheeks. Or that forlorn northeastern sky that used to really give me chills to the bone, knowing that not much existed beneath it, but rock, Canadian Shield, perhaps an ice sheet if you went far enough, but, as far as I was concerned not much more. I wasn’t really that aware of Inuit settlements, polar bears, caribou or just how beautiful and vital landscape could be. I suppose it happens with experiences, memories, imagination and perhaps learning.

These nights though, I dream of warm tropical places, filled with light and the richness of warm colours, vegetation, unbridled growth. It’s as if the dreamworld is bringing me that experience to warm my soul as the wind blows the ice dry and smooth, rabbits huddle under the deck and small birds brace themselves as if the strong wind is just to be tolerated.

I dream too of crowded buildings and places where people gather, places like malls and galleries, open enclosed areas. I am not quite sure what my being is calling out for. Do I need the throng of humanity? I don’t think that is it, but there is something to it, a labyrinth maybe, or a grand puzzle, a maze which I must negotiate. I always have to make my way through these crowds, find something I’ve misplaced.

For all of the memories, desires and thoughts that accompany me on that stretch of road, I am very often dragged back to the present, because that is all there is. Warmer days will be here soon enough, my shoulders will relax, I’ll smell the richness from the marsh, the lake, the first hint of lilac and then when I look across the Bay it will be to that place, much closer, where we play in the cool clear water on a hot summer day.

The Miracle of Christmas

For way too many years in my naïve bubble of white middle class privilege I could not imagine why Christmas was a difficult time for some people. Was it because they had had such fond memories and now things had changed, they’d gotten older, they had kids, perhaps there was no one to shower them with gifts, cook a hot meal or tuck them in?

When I lived in Vancouver, thanks to partner number two we would semi-regularly trek to St Andrew’s Wellesley United for the Sunday morning service. I had been raised a Presbyterian (now a wonderer at the world and not really of any domination though Zen bhuddist seems to align with some of my beliefs and practices), so, not a big stretch. Really the reason we went I think is because the reverend Sheila Mackinnon put on a great show. It was like having Shelagh Rogers of the CBC give the sermon. There was humour, spontaneity, laughter and much food for thought. Of course my partner at the time was more devout in his practice than I, but the show and the promise of a Sunday brunch, boozy or not, were more than enough to get me out of bed.

The reverends (there was more than just one) regularly mentioned the First United Mission down on Hastings street in the downtown east side of Vancouver. A place I referred to and still do as ground zero––for drug use and abuse, for poverty, homelessness and just the saddest reflection of disenfranchised and victimized humanity.

From time to time I have had to deal with severe cases of the blues. I’m not sure if there is clinical depression lurking in my depths, but I try to deal with it with a hands on approach. Back then I took inventory: Was I sleeping? Eating properly? Bank account was overdrawn, was that it? No success with auditions? Another publisher rejected me? Should I meditate more? Do some therapy around it? Volunteer? Aha! I had heard that taking the focus off of one’s self was a great cure for feeling better! But volunteering to that point had meant stuffing envelopes or something innocuous and boring. Had I ever seen a soup kitchen? Of course I had. In the movies. Of course.

Anyway, as I learned, the First United Mission always needed volunteers so I took the cue and I marched myself down there (took the bus) to Hastings and Main. Hastings then, spoke to a former world of wide busy streets with trolley buses, cafes, Chinese restaurants, grand hotels, big department stores and prosperity of Vancouver in other glory days. The spotlight now was definitely not on Hastings which had become home to sidewalk lean-tos, welfare hotels, lumps of sleeping bags and cardboard hovels, barred windows and entry ways of those same department stores now being used as shelter from a wet and cold Vancouver. Empty taverns, still operated with moving shadows and dim lights. And of course there were people, yes people, horizontal or vertical, with deep hollow eyes and holes in the bottoms of their pockets and shoes, probably wondering how the hell they got there in between the highs and lows.

I was given a tour of First United by the pastor, a kind woman who seemed to know how to navigate her church through the rough seas of Hastings and Main. First stop on my tour was the nave, the dimly lit area where services were held. It was modern, curved with the same kind of hard modern pews that my own St Timothy’s back in Ottawa a lifetime ago had. It’s hard to forget that hard pew on my bony kid bum. Forever imprinted. In the dim light I noticed some movement at one of the pews, slowly as my eyes adjusted I saw that almost each pew was occupied with a sleeping body. A pair of boots extending over the end of one, the curve of hips or torso at another. It was almost noon. A weekday. And this was home to God knows how many. The only place to rest their heads, and street weary bodies.

Over the years I ended up participating in what was known as “family friendship” twice a week at First United. (I described it as one of the ‘realest’ times of my week.) A kind of soup kitchen in which attendees committed to showing up for a hot meal. We served, spaghetti, chili, stew, something cast off from a food supplier or grocery store, that became treasured lunch to attendees, accompanied with white bread and weak coffee, maybe jell-o, and then we sat and ate with the attendees and, over time got to know and recognize them. Some you couldn’t look in the eye. One woman, vivacious, straightforward and ball of fire, I later recognized as one of the disappeared women, who met a horrible end, at the hands of the notorious, well, I don’t want to mention more, but you can find it all in the press. You’ve heard about him.

It was a little community of regulars who crawled out from the cracks to show up on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Other days of the week there were other services, coffee or watery soup for those who had spent the night on the street or in a bus shelter.

Christmas drew near. The Vancouver skies darkened. Lights went up downtown. Apartment balconies blazed with colour. Shop windows competed for kitsch. The carol ships (yachts line with Christmas lights), tootled around English Bay every evening, and there was a bottomless optimism reserved for this time of year, where music was everywhere, people stumbled on the sidewalks after drunken staff lunches, and after-work eggnog.

But away from all this mayhem, at the mission was a growing sense of dread. It was clear to me as my bus seemed to descend into the darkened world of Hastings and Main. While I stressed over my Christmas list and thought I was justified in despising how Christmas could bring out the worst in me, it became clear that the impending dread of these peoples’ Christmas was not the over-indulgent sentimentality of days gone by. No, they didn’t have that luxury. They didn’t miss the Christmas of my childhood and the orgy of gift taking (not much giving), over stuffing, decorating, and nodding off to Babes in Toyland. Nor was their dread about that steamroller called Christmas that, in my world, could annually crush me in its wake if I didn’t fight to make it out the other end with a couple of dollars still in the bank account. They weren’t stressing over their gift list or their guest list. There was no rent to pay.

These people had experienced Christmases where the drunk uncle wasn’t a source of amusement. Where Dad…exactly where was dad? Where there was lots of nothing, a whole lot of it, and shouting, and smashing, and fists through walls and wails and tears and the most horrible abuse, all to the soundtrack of someone dreaming of a White Christmas. It all finally made sense. I finally got it; it made its way through my safe little naive bubble and burst. This was why some dread this time of year. For me it had been extra special and for them extra horrible. While I was bemoaning my not having time to ice my gingerbread the way we did as kids or make the short bread according to my mom’s recipe and the price of more booze just because we always need more booze, to sit and reminisce, they were doing everything possible to forget.

Still we decorated the room where we ate lunch, little bits of tinsel and strings of popcorn that we made in a group, each assigned a different decorating task. Cut out paper stars. Things you make with a pair of scissors and a folded piece of paper. We stood in a circle before lunch and held hands. We said a prayer. We all knew. We all knew the storm was approaching. We all knew that the best presents we could give each other were our hopes and prayers, prayers for a safe and Merry Christmas and the hope that we would all see each other again in January. Survivors all.

Subtle Differences

Have you noticed things are a little different in the natural world? I imagine we are still polluting as badly as ever even though many of us are in lockdown. But things are different. My garden responded differently this year. It was more difficult to make things grow. The rabbits and squirrels seemed to take great delight in eating new sprouts of beets, sunflowers, watermelons. Caterpillars ate the leaves off many of my tomatoes. When we first moved here, I’d plant a seed in the hard soil and poof I’d have an eight foot tall sunflower. I planted hundreds of seeds this summer and got a few sunflowers. I had planted many things behind chicken wire–no match for any wildlife it seems.

The rhythm was different. It still is. And now the fall is here and it seems the leaves are taking such a long leisurely time to change. I don’t mind. I have taken billions of photos as a result. There is something about those colours that not only moves me, but, from time to time takes me back to the Ottawa valley in the fall. The desolation in the cold clear sky to the northeast. The warmth in our home. The rapid switch over to winter. Wondering if there would be snow on Hallowe’en.

Yes, the leaves are still putting on a show, though many have fallen. And now we have large mushrooms where there were none before. It is indeed an odd time. Nature seems to be noticing our predicament and responding, well of course it is. Nature is far more sensitive than I can ever hope to be. I’m sure I have my patterns, my response, my escape hatches, my adaptabilities. There seems to be a great knowing that takes place out there in the trees, everywhere in fact, but not in my brain, where I spend so much time trying to figure it all out.

The Outdoorsy Type

I don’t think I’ve ever described myself as outdoorsy and yet, recently I see the possibility that I may be just that. I am inclined towards the out of doors, upon rising I stand at the front door and look out the window at the garden. I wait for the kettle to boil to make my tea and then, with notebook and some kind of device that can play music to the backdrop of the early morning birdsong, I head out. I might write something, might read a bit of the news but soon the sheer power of the setting lifts my view and my spirit. For about an hour, I stare at the garden, the tree tops, the sky, with no attention at all to anything else.

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When it is time for coffee with my partner, we have one cup inside and another outside, on the other side of the house. If not outside, then sitting on the sofa, our attention to a nourishing tableau of cedars and the sky.

Somewhere in the morning is a walk with my dog, or a visit to the beach to beat the heat and other people. There we wander, run in and out of the water, play get-the-toy until we take a break and I stare at the horizon while my dog sniffs around the bushes at the top of the beach, to catch up on recent smells and activity.

In the winter we take long walks through fields, or on the sandy windswept or snowswept beach, weather permitting.

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I’ve always thought the outdoorsy type did things like jump off cliffs with kites on their backs, or surf whitecaps holding onto kites, or just fly kites. I used to thing they skied down black diamond runs or over polar icecaps which qualified them for ultimate outdoorsy status. I used to think they bungee jumped, barrel jumped or log rolled, swam channels, climbed mountains, hung off of cliffs, or cycled steep creek beds.

I see now that outdoorsy has little or nothing to do with bucket list activity. Bucket list activity is about checking a box, scoring a goal, receiving a slap on the back for a daring, perhaps life-threatening feat.

Outdoorsy to me is more than just being outdoors, and less than scaling Everest or scaling a fish.

My experience of outdoorsy is my need to be under the vast sky, among some green or rocks or sand, even water, to be where the planet breathes. Birds swoop as if on a pendulum, following upside down arcs from treetop to treetop. Rabbits sit close and rip the leaves from the milkweed, one eye on me, two ears on the dog. Chipmunks travel a highway of hollow logs on the periphery of the yard. A leopard frog pokes his nose out of the mossy pond. Meanwhile new growth and new colours and new volumes of plant life slip almost unnoticed into the panorama.

All this from one vantage point. I use my butt as much to be outdoorsy as I use my limbs. I use very little skill, but vast amounts of attention, very little thought but boundless spirit. I don’t leap from rope bridges into gorges with an elastic around my waist. I don’t kayak down white water. Nor do I know a coreopsis from a blue tit. I might know when a rain cloud is bearing down on me or recognize the scent of freshly rained upon ground. But, to be honest, I know and move very little, though my eyes and ears and spirit travel vast distances at great speeds.

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The Secret Language

IMG_7196We do a lot throughout the day. Walks. Coffee and treats. Naps. Playing in the yard with a fabric kind of Frisbee or some other weighted toy. I talk a fair bit to him while all this goes on: “Out of there.” “Off.” “Leave it.” “Good boy.” “Water?” “Pee pee?” “Let’s go home.” “Dinner’s almost ready.” “I love you.” “Move over.” “Let’s go this way.” And a whole lot more, sometimes trying to negotiate our way out of my garden, a patch of poison ivy or a snow bank.

Though we understand a lot, I’ve come to learn that his language, and mine too isn’t my collection of disembodied words or his random barks.

When we are tugging at that toy in the yard we are one hundred percent in our own moment. Engaged with each other and connected by much more than words. And now that summer is here we go to the beach as often as we can. It is here that we have our routine that may be one step from heaven. He barks, I throw the toy in the water, soon I brave the water too and then soon after I am holding him to my chest, his feet tucked under and I have his whole body close. I am chest deep in the water and he is against my chest, held by me and his buoyancy. From here we walk parallel to the beach, our hearts close. He looks at the shore, moving his head from point to point. He likes to have the shore view as we come around to retrace our steps. We like to go as far as the uneven surface will allow. It is a quiet peace that we are part of. It is there that we both know that we are doing what we and the other loves.

Later, our other activity is called “standing”: I am in the water, now maybe waist deep and he is swimming circles in front of me. I take his front paws and his back ones reach for the bottom. Soon his front paws rest on my forearm and he tries taking one paw, then the other and standing on his own. Then he decides he doesn’t need the arm and takes himself for a little walk as far as the sway of water, current and balance will allow. And yesterday he took yet another step, backwards. He watched me, our eyes locked as he removed his paws from my forearm support and walked backwards, as if he was practicing some sort of dance step. He went back and then returned to my arm. I praised his daring, his creativity.

With him there is no “time to go,” we know when that time has come. But for those precious minutes or hours we have found our meeting place where we can speak the same language and know exactly what is the most important thing in life.

Listen. Tell.

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Late Saturday afternoon

and I walk out onto the solitary country road.

The sky has cleared,

no clouds and the wind bears down

on us from the northwest

and on that wind out of that clear sky

over the fields and trees I finally get a sense

of the world, the whole world, the whole whole world

as I had forgotten it – as if wind

is blowing across every surface,

through every tree, mountain pass,

across every dessert and ocean.

And every wall.

 

The great thumb of sadness

presses itself onto my little heart.

My chest swells, a rasp runs up my throat to find a way out

through gasp and spit. There is no one

to hear the sound it makes.

I take a breath and call to the frogs and ducks in the ditch.

I have to tell them we are sick, we have brought illness

upon ourselves.

I know what you mean, they say,

we tried to tell you.

And now the trees are listening too

(like they don’t ever listen), and they lean in

to comfort me. We’ve known for a long time

say the birds, half heartedly, at the bird feeder.

 

But the whole world I say, like one insignificant marble

dropping on the kitchen floor. So small, so very, very small. It could

roll behind the fridge.

We tried to tell you said the trees and the bees,

but you wouldn’t listen. We asked the wind to help

but still you wouldn’t listen. And now you know sad,

and we hate to see you sad.

 

I collapse

into my soul, sadness has nowhere to go, nothing to offer. There are too many faces

telling me to resign, surrender, fight, protest, rebel, deny, accept. The curve

is now a wave that sweeps up my soul off the ground, my feet

into the air, and lifts me, where there is nothing to touch or hold onto.

Good Friday 2020 Angels, Saints and Warriors

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I sit in the meadow this afternoon, every
afternoon now with frog sounds, peepers
over there in the marsh. I bow my head
as if to pray, I want to pray, how
to pray, close
eyes, look into darkness, clasp hands.
Something is going on out there,
ringing against my ears, noise, news, overtaken,
by voices coming from every direction
noisy, inside, out, beneath, through and
around.

Today the prayer-waves are clogged
by those trying to get a message to the one beyond
the door, face down, in emergency, breathing
measured lungs of oxygen. Prayers rush––
each time a door is opened, left ajar,
held for a moment by a foot or an elbow
––prayers seep through the cracks, fly around the world
clamor for space, time, understanding.

But they do get through. Prayers. It’s the angels,
the saints and the warriors, watching their colleagues
rally or falter, knees weak, back firm, one by one
as they fight an uncalled for battle
with made-up rules, decoys, red herrings,
White flags.

For what do I pray, alone in messy spring grass while
they stand bed-side, delivering prayers and saying last rights
to a history they never knew –– their back towards a family
praying –– serving as a conduit for I love you,
bon voyage, we’ll meet again, simply goodbye
or a simple loving touch.
For them I pray.