The Fine Line

“For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’ Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’ The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’”

(Matthew 25:35-40, NIV)

  

           Religion is itself an otherland. It is entirely reliant on the imagination to indulge its substance and to flourish. As far back as human history goes, men created their Gods out of thin air. They used storytelling and oral tradition to engage others, all the while transferring this manifestation as if it was all true. It’s not hard to imagine what centuries of embedding these “truths” can do to those who believe their path is a valid expression of the one true God. In this modern age, the expression of more fundamentalist thinking carries on this tradition. The literalizing of scripture is reliant on the belief that the Bible (or any other form of religious text) is completely true and is also a direct communication between humans and the God they worship. It is here that the real damage starts to be done. Believers believe that because they believe then it must be the only truth to believe. They fragment themselves from any evolved state mankind might experience. They strive, with great energy, to maintain their status quo. Change is only good when it vindicates the way that these minions think or act. Every time a group of them gather to pay homage to their chosen Saviour, another mass hallucination takes place. Each one of them that buys into ‘the sale’ is transported to another place, where the truth is only relative to how many Sacrament wafers you eat or how long you can speak in tongues. They sing out praises but only from their other side.

            Religious people have the right to their opinions just as much as I do or you do.

Just because we don’t like what they may have to say doesn’t mean that they don’t have the right to say it. In certain cases throughout history, this rule does not apply. Hate crimes, religiously motivated terrorism and child abuse are where most people tend to draw the line these days. I do not understand why more liberal minded people just don’t get it. When you walk into a McDonald’s restaurant, you shouldn’t expect them to serve 7 layer burritos. When you walk into someone’s Church, their “place of God”, you should leave your biases at the door, just as they should when they enter your sanctuary. I don’t know why people expect that others should change just to suit the possibility that someone might be offended or alienated by any belief they might express. You may not like what is presented to you but if you have a problem, you should leave and not expect them to adjust their thinking (preaching) to your position. This in no way negates the responsibility of men of god to welcome strangers into their midst. It is still shocking to me that people who profess to follow this god or that god, lack the basic knowledge of their scriptures when it comes to hospitality.

“‘Now this was the sin of your sister Sodom: She and her daughters were arrogant, overfed and unconcerned; they did not help the poor and needy. They were haughty and did detestable things before me. Therefore I did away with them as you have seen.”

(Ezekiel 16:49-50, NIV)

            In antiquity, hospitality was foremost in people’s thinking. To not welcome and serve a stranger was almost unheard of, a “cultural norm” among most ancient peoples.  Most religious customs would uphold the obligation as essential. From the Quran to the New Testament, hospitality is a common theme also found in most other written traditions (scripture). Often, this factor is overlooked as a driving force. For example, most subscribers to the Judeo-Christian tradition assume that the sin of Sodom (Sodom and Gomorrah), was homosexuality. This could not be further from the truth. The “real sin of Sodom was radical inhospitality.” It is a tale of “wantonness and dominance over others ...  about malignant power used to reject God’s shalom.” The “destruction” was a response to the inhospitable treatment of visitors (who happen to be angels) that were sent by God. In my experience, I have encountered the same callous mistreatment at the hands of so-called men of god. As if, my sin was greater than their sin and so on. I always have assumed that if you claim to be a child of God, you act the part. After all, we are supposed to “love your neighbour as yourself” (Matthew 22:39b, NIV). I believe that we are always responsible for how we treat other people, particularly strangers (see Matthew 25). We are instructed (1 Peter 4:8) that “Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins” (NIV). It’s not about accepting someone because they agree with you, or believe as you do. Jesus is not the only voice on the matter. From the same Judeo-Christian tradition, Paul makes it very clear that we should “share with the Lord’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality” (Romans 12:13, NIV). Since we all are children of God, that rule should apply to every one, not just our family or brethren.

“Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.” (Hebrews 13:2, NIV)

            I knew right away. The marquee defined things for me. I had been unable to ascertain any real sense of intention until the temple stood before me. It was more like an American style community hall than your traditional church. I knew exactly what I was heading into once I read the signs (so to speak). “Transforming lives through the power & presence of the Holy Spirit” and “His presence driven Church” did not strike me as an invitation but much more like a warning. I have entered many evangelical institutions and rarely have I come out intact. I thought, “Oh great, here we go again.” At least, I told myself, it was a wedding ceremony and not some Sunday morning service aimed at saving sinners who may have ventured in off the street. The hall was large and dark with a well-lit podium at the very front. Hundreds of chairs lined the floor. My partner’s family, for the most part, had settled into their places. There were ushers and the standard wedding fare. The bride’s family and the groom’s family were divided down the middle by a long white carpet. To each side, for the length of it, large white candles and white flower petals laced the fringe. The shadow cast over the room only helped to illuminate the bridal path. It was so simple but it was more lovely. It turned the midnight all around into atmosphere.

            One would imagine that any building which claims to house the Holy Spirit on its marquee only serves to make me well guarded. Fundamentalist Christians can be so unpredictable. This appeared to not be the case at this temple. Everyone was welcomed in and politely ushered to their place. The music was primarily secular in flavour, like a good wedding would do. After a while, I forgot I was even in what may or may not have been a den of haters. I looked at my partner, and his mother, and his father, and sister, and cousins, so many and all of them huggers. I felt reassured. The bride and groom had always, always, been sincere and warm with both of us. I rested in them having everyone’s best interests at heart. Any concern that I may have had a Pavlovian reaction was lost to the Groomsmen, the Bridesmaids and one terrific wedding dress. She looked perfect. It was perfect. Leave it up to religious men to spoil everything.

“But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind.”

 (Luke 14:13, NIV)

            It was not your routine vows and ceremony. We had all been invited to a feast but the pastor invited us to Jesus. It was the same old blah blah blah to me. I had heard this spiel so many times before I could almost recite along with him. His going on about the state of marriage and how it is for man and woman only, by an act of God, did little to phase me. After all, he was correct in these statements, at least according to his Holy book. He went on with it just a little more than I believe he should have. This was not his regular congregation. People came to see their friends, their family joined under God, not to be condemned by God. If I wanted to be alienated, I would have gone to a real church. Most of it felt more like a sermon on heterosexual union than a wedding toast. At the end of it, I stood thinking about anything else. This lack of consideration was old school. I would not have given it another thought but I was not the only attendant who found reason for much pause, especially with the focus of the speech. Several members of my partner’s family were surprised that I was not more upset. They most certainly were and not one of them, that I know of, is a homosexual. They were offended regardless. 

            I am well trained in surviving such exposure. It never had power over me. I was not offended nor was I angered. It is not my church and I was in it. When I saw the marquee, I could have easily gone to the McDonald’s just down the street. People are not required to adjust their way of thinking to suit me. I am also not bound to the same standard. Had this been a case of trying out the Church one Wednesday evening, I would have got what I paid for. This was not a Sunday morning congregation, we were all guests at a wedding, not a Bible study class. When I tried to poo poo the matter to keep peace, the full truth finally hit me. I considered all the damage that this man could have done. The bulk of the guests were not there to be converted, let alone convinced. There were teenagers present that could have been influenced and not to go play with Jesus. It was not a controlled service and many could have easily taken the condemnation personally. It would not be the first time a teenager killed themselves over what a preacher has said. I can’t say enough about the bride and the groom. Both took time out of their day to welcome me. I got hugs. At the end of the night, the groom stopped me outside to thank me for coming. I got more hugs. I felt much welcome, much hospitality. You can just tell from who they are as people that they are sincere, completely sincere. I was welcome. This is not an issue for these wonderful people. This is about putting one law over another. Picking and choosing based on your target audience. It is about appropriateness and inclusion. It’s about hospitality and all of us being welcome versus just some of us.

“When a foreigner resides among you in your land, do not mistreat them. The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt.” (Leviticus 19:33-34, NIV)

            If you claim to be of God, then you should act like it. If you follow even one rule in your Holy book, then you are bound by all of them.  This pastor either had no idea who may have been in that congregation or he just didn’t care. I am not sure if he even stopped to think about it. It most certainly did not seem so to many of us. It is not his job to edit himself. The very idea of evangelization is to spread the word. This is not 55 CE. There is a fine line between your conviction and being rude. Not everyone wants to be saved and not all of us believe as religious people do. We were all invited to a wedding, not a lecture on breeding. It is not very hospitable to alienate even one person. As people of God, followers are instructed to care for the sinner, not castrate them or persuade them into membership. Where is the love of this God that I hear so much about? Why can I rarely find Him in their eyes? I must admit, I am never surprised by the actions of believers. They are a primary reason that I no longer believe in the Christian faith. While any agenda the preacher may have brandished is now left to himself, he also left a bad taste in the mouths of more than a few of us witnesses. I don’t see how what he did saved even one soul. I suppose it’s a good thing for him that the God from the days of Sodom and Gomorrah has fallen silent. There would be trouble, brimstone and such. It’s easy to let hubris lead you, especially when there is no real consequence for the actions you have taken. Here, what about hospitality? I thought, all were welcome in the kingdom of God. Apparently, I could not have been more wrong.

Photos

https://askgramps.org/page/29/

Sources

https://sojo.net/articles/true-biblical-hospitality-loving-immigrants-strangers-and-enemies

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rev-patrick-s-cheng-phd/what-was-the-real-sin-of_b_543996.html

http://www.patheos.com/blogs/kimberlyknight/2013/06/yo-pat-the-sin-of-sodom-and-gomorrah-was-not-about-homosexuality/

https://www.facebook.com/pg/VictoryInternationalChurch/photos/?ref=page_internal

http://www.victoryinternational.church/about/what-were-about/

The Days Of ...

“‘Let us eat and drink,’ you say, ‘for tomorrow we die!’”

(Isaiah 22:13b, NIV)

            There was a time when I could handle my liquor. Yes, there have been several incidents when I, apparently, could not. All in all, drinking seemed easy to me. While I never really liked the taste of alcohol, I downed it just the same. There was a point where consuming booze was an everyday experience. Things didn’t start out that way. I had only drank one beer by my nineteenth birthday and that introduction was anticlimactic. Soon came college and university and a deluge of spirits. Throughout my twenties, drinking was not only a social manifestation but also an evasion, an escape from the life I tried so hard to hide. I drank my otherland, usually with some salt and lime and a beer chaser. I took pride in my ability to consume and consume some more. Eventually, I could out-drink almost anyone who was up for the challenge. Of course, the drunker I got, the meaner I got, although this was not always the case. You could never have called me a “happy drunk” but I most certainly was a fun drunk. There were even a few times when my intoxication turned me into a babbling fool. I have been known to urinate anywhere I please given enough tequila and a state of extreme stupor. In my mind, the years I spent inebriated were more a waste of my time and money than I care to remember. These days, I am more of a cheap drunk than anything else. The days of wine and poses are, thankfully, long gone.

“So I commend the enjoyment of life, because there is nothing better for a person under the sun than to eat and drink and be glad. Then joy will accompany them in their toil all the days of the life God has given them under the sun.” (Ecclesiastes 8:15, NIV)

            I woke up to his face in my face. He smelt like tuna. From the skank that came with him, I could easily tell why. I sat up and she began her assault. Perhaps my passing out on a park bench, in her mind at any rate, merited such interference. Even in hindsight, I have no idea why they did what they did. I often wonder if they planned on robbing me. To their surprise, the shoes and the shorts and my shirt were the only things of value that came with me. I really had no idea what they wanted and neither of them ever said. The night before had brought many things, those being shot after shot after shot. I don’t remember wandering through downtown London, Ontario in the wee small hours of the dawn. I don’t remember much after darkness settled in for the night. The morning brought August heat and Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumber. He was just a regular guy, with nothing outstanding in his appearance. When she started her abusive behaviour, he simply withdrew, leaving the tantrum all up to her. She was a piece of work. It wasn’t her calling me every name in the book that pissed me off, rather when I gave as good as she did, the gloves came off. You could tell she was stinking drunk. She lunged at me several times but it was easy to avoid her. At one point, she jumped at me so hard that when I quickly moved out of the way, she smashed face first into a large tree. You could almost see the stars and garters spinning in a cloud above her head. The boyfriend just stood there like a lame duck. Eventually, even though her fury subsided, I cursed at him to control her. What a gutless excuse for a man. To just stand there, as if. When he called me an asshole, I punched him in the face for good measure. They both screamed at me as they crossed the park. A blood trail seems to have led the way. 

“Here is what I have seen to be good and fitting: to eat, to drink and enjoy oneself in all one’s labour in which he toils under the sun during the few years of his life which God has given him; for this is his reward.” (Ecclesiastes 5:18, NIV)

            We frequented the establishment for two reasons. First, the bar was close to where we lived and second, the booze was cheaper than at any other downtown watering hole. The atmosphere was a bonus when things got busy. My first partner and I took our place in our regular place and proceeded with our “let’s get shitfaced” routine. Tequila with a lager chaser for me and for him, if you please. Back then, every day of existence was nothing more than another reason to get tanked. When I see the two of us in my mind, I don’t see laughter and brevity cozying up to that bar. I see pain, hidden pain, deadened at the hands of the only way we knew how. I never stopped to notice that we would spend far more each month on alcohol than on groceries. Apparently, from what was to come, you cannot drown your sorrows without the risk of being pulled under. Something so enjoyable as drinking became a crutch right up until the day that he died.  I will admit our trip to the saloon that day is layered by many things. Even laughter has a way of rising up from the waters. So we sat there, drinking like fish (whatever that means). Doug gave up trying at shot number three but I kept going like I always did. By shot number six, the bartender started to gush over my ability to consume such a potent mix. At one point, Doug chimed in about just how much I could take before the inevitable. As I lowered the shot glass from my lips and tried to swallow Jose Cuervo (the drink, not the man), it all came back to haunt me. I should not have had that rice for dinner. I should have drank on an empty stomach. As words of acclaim over my skills flowed from Doug’s mouth, all I had consumed erupted out of mine. I spewed the booze and the rice and the rest of me across the bar and all over the alcohol, nicely displayed in pretty bottles for all to see. I covered most of it in one fell swoop then sat there rather empty, looking like a fool. It was at this point that they cut me off.

“Wine is a mocker and beer a brawler; whoever is led astray by them is not wise.”

(Proverbs 20:1, NIV)

            I had drank so much that I could  not drive home. I called a cab. As we approached the turn he would need to take to get me to safety, I spotted the Taco Bell sign and asked him to drop me off there instead. It was awesome to have this fast food joint so close to where I lived. I frequented it on nights when I worked late at a bar as a bouncer, but that’s another story. This was not the first time I relied on someone else to get me home from work. This was not the first time I stood in line at the drive-up window while purchasing a 7 layer burrito. For some reason, when it passed normal hours, the franchise stayed open to serve the needy. You could buy Fries Supreme until 4 am. As the line in front of me got shorter, the lineup behind me got longer and longer. A few feet behind me, two guys started making Nazi jokes in the most inappropriate manner. The last thing I remember was laughing at them. Apparently, I blacked out while they were kicking the shit out of me. This would be the only fight I ever lost. I’m not sure if I got even one punch in. I do know that I woke up the next morning handcuffed in the drunk tank. My wounds had been treated. When the police officer attempted to question me, I had no recall whatsoever of the event. I couldn’t describe the assailants. I had no idea how the fight even started other than a chuckle. They didn’t even rob me. I have to admit, the Sergeant was one of the nicest police officers I have ever encountered. He let me go in light of the circumstances. They didn’t even fine me, that day. I walked away humiliated and very angry. I wanted to smash out and hit something but I soon realized I could never cure this angst. I had to let it go. When I finished my shift that Saturday, I quit without two weeks notice. The days of social drinking ended with my goodbye.

“You have plenty of good things laid up for many years.

Take it easy. Eat, drink, and be merry!”

(Luke 12:19, NIV)

            It had been years since I had gotten to a point that I lost myself in the inebriation. For the most part, I remained sober, although I still got drunk on occasion. My partner Ben and his friend Derek sat with me and we started together. Straight shots of tequila and Molson Canadian (to wash it down) soon evolved into an entire bottle and most of the case. It wasn’t long before I was shitfaced then passed out on the living room floor. I drank more than double what my comrades had. I polished off the bottle like it was a soft drink or a bedtime glass of milk. After this point, I can only go by what I was told happened and by a few “hilarious” photos that were taken without my permission. At one point, drunk Derek apparently jokingly tried to slide that empty tequila bottle in me, up where the sun don’t shine.  No port was going to be docked that night. Throughout the rest of the evening, I was lucid only for moments at a time. My shenanigans, I was informed later, were very entertaining for my drinking buddies. Once we were alone, drunk Ben tried to wake me so he could send me off to bed. I took my clothes off and urinated all over the kitchen floor. I understand that at this point I started laughing uncontrollably. The puke came soon enough, just from a different stream. He finally managed to get me to rest and was left to clean up after my crapulence. The next day, when I was informed of the events of the night before, I swore I would never go there again.  

“If the dead are not raised, ‘Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die.’”

(1 Corinthians 15:32, NIV)

            My days as a barfly are long gone. It’s been well over a decade since I took a swan dive into any liquor, let alone my favourite tequila. I have trouble getting through even one glass of wine these days. There came a point where I just had no interest in  experiencing that state ever again. I had humiliated myself once too often and I have never returned to that fuzzy stupor. I may sip some wine with guests at dinner or nurse a beer with my neighbours on a Saturday afternoon, but I usually leave most of it behind when I head home. I still don’t like the taste and that sense has only strengthened with the years. I have gone without. I don’t miss it, not even a little. I would much rather smoke weed, but that too is another story for another time. I used to drink my sorrows away. I used alcohol as a wall to conceal who I really was. I no longer feel the need to conceal much more than some password or a family secret. I don’t need booze to do anything but stay in its bottle. I occasionally look back on the days of an excessive lifestyle, with laughter, but soon I shudder. It’s hard to imagine myself back in the days of my propensity. I remember most of it but there are a few missing pieces. I would like them back again. Unfortunately, I can’t go back but I can learn from it. The days of our lives shouldn’t pass us by, even if we drink them away.

“The acts of the flesh are obvious: sexual immorality, impurity and debauchery; idolatry and witchcraft; hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage, selfish ambition, dissensions, factions and envy; drunkenness, orgies, and the like. I warn you, as I did before, that those who live like this will not inherit the kingdom of God.” (Galatians 5:19-21, NIV)

Photo

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3pmmtQwUZz0

https://www.hangoverprices.com/jose-cuervo-rises-from-decline/

Sources

http://mexicalirosas.com/

https://www.gotquestions.org/eat-drink-and-be-merry.html

http://www.biblestudytools.com/topical-verses/bible-verses-about-drinking-alcohol/

Fork in the Road

            She walked quickly, almost skipping through the puddles and the tiny streams of fallen rain. She was wet to the bone and she shivered in spite of the warm June weather.  At first, she thought she had imagined the sound. It was something but she had barely even heard it. She quickened her pace. Her head whipped around when she thought that she heard it again. She told herself that maybe tonight was not the best night to walk home alone. The streets are hallowed this late after midnight. Even for such a large metropolis, there is lesser activity in the dead of night. She heard it again but this time it seemed to be from a closer position. Her shuffle became a trot, a fruitless prance to escape something unknown. Once she had started her hustle, out of nowhere she shot across the road, foolishly thinking the shorter distance through the park would somehow guarantee her safety. She would soon be sadly mistaken.

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveller, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;”

            He was far too young to understand such a thing. For all the pain, for all the agony, the little boy knew little about concepts like contrition and karma. All he knew was the daily struggle just to stay alive. Like feeding a dying rat, the treatments, and all the side effects, did little to change the inevitable. He would just lie there, praying that he was allowed to stay while at the same time begging to be set free. It was challenge enough just to breathe, let alone have the strength to carry on. The disease, it made sure of that. Every morning he would open his eyes to a new day and he would be grateful that he had the chance to experience it. Every afternoon he would close his eyes, cursing the pain, even cursing his life. It was more than any 12 year-old should have to go through. It wasn’t hard to see what was coming even if you tried not to look. Every day, he woke up and smiled. Every night, he tried to find peace. It was more than his body could take, but he took it nonetheless. It was how he decided to be.

            The county road was usually quiet at this time of day. The car headed north and continued at a healthy speed of 90 km/h. It was a sunny day, the kind of day that brings families together, out on the front lawn playing with ‘Rover’. Children run unencumbered  and dogs chase sticks. It was a beautiful day and a beautiful drive, even if that would all soon change. The tree line that followed the route was dense and heavy with Spruce and Cedar and Elm. You could barely see beyond the ditch that rested at the side of the way. Cruising down the highway, he gave little thought to anything but the sunshine and the serenity and the speed. Before that moment, everything was so pristine. The car roared up to 110 km/h and raced down the road. There was no way one could have imagined such a sad fate. Who could have known what was to happen next? Despite the speed, there was no way anyone could have possibly foreseen what was to come. The orange ball bounced out on the tarmac, out of nowhere it plunged across the northbound lane. It was far too late for anything but brakes, but the braking was far too late. For every ball there is bouncer and behind every bouncer there is always a chaser.

“Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,”

            They had dated in high school so coming across each other all these years later seemed like kismet. The truth is they were just well acquainted strangers with a great deal of unresolved issues between them. Their meeting, it was almost like a sweet rapture. She had never gotten over the pain of the day that she left him. He had better things to do with his time these days. They ended up together, sitting on the floor doing what they once loved to do. They talked and reminisced like nothing had changed at all, an irony that would soon become quite clear. She was shocked when he pulled out his little kit. There was the dime bag and the spoon and the lighter or two. He mixed the cocktail like the pro that he was and she watched him slowly enter himself, a pinprick and the rush of blood to the head. She had never tried before. She had never even considered it. Still, she sat transfixed, staring at his eyes as he fell into his glory. After a few moments, he sat up and began all over again. He heated it, then stirred it, then sucked it up in the same syringe he had just used on himself. He looked at her, smiled softly and handed a final fate. She shook every so slightly as he placed it in her hand.

            He should have known better. He had made the same mistake before. As he stood face to face, he knew he had to make his mind up. The last time she started to fade, they saved her. They kept her going whether she wanted to or not. Since then he has watched her drift between here and gone. You could tell she was suffering. You could tell this was cruel. With only the life left in her, everyone told him she would want to fight this. If you gave in, then the cancer would have won. It had won already. There was little left of her but for skin and bone. He didn’t like to see her like this, but who would? She just laid there, unable to speak, unable to react, she was a mere shell of any person she had once  been. Of course, it was inevitable. It wouldn’t be long now. Small words when presented with such a disconcerting choice. He prayed a little bit. He cried a little bit. He told himself that he must decide. When all the other voices had left for the day, when no one was there to stand in the way, he reached inside himself in order to do the right thing. Just what that decision would bring mattered next to nothing. It was the same thing all over again. This time, only he would play God.

“And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.”

            Every day she got up at the same time. She got out of bed in the same manner and went into the bathroom for the daily rituals in there. When she had finished, she slumped the wet towel over her shoulder and walked back into the bedroom. For the most part, this was a lonely room. It knows no laughter, no passion, it knows nothing but her body resting upon her sheets like a stone. She made the bed like she always does. She adjusted almost everything as she made her way downstairs. The coffee maker percolated at the same time every day. The towel went in the laundry chute like it does every day. Room to room she moved like she owned the place. In fact, she had lived here alone for years and years. Everything repeats in this situation. From the cup she uses to drink the java to the newspaper waiting in exactly the same place every day. Her world seems easier when controlled in such a manner. There were no surprises, everything is always exactly where it should be. She is crippled by this temperament. If she did not work from home, her life would be useless. She poured another cup, wiped off the counter and paced herself to the front door. It opened just like it does every morning. In a second, her fear took over. The newspaper wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Instead of placing it in the mailbox as instructed, it lay 30 feet away from her, near the gate entrance to the house. She began to tremble. She began to break. For a moment, the world fell apart around her. She pushed open the screen door and she peered outside.

            He barricaded himself inside so that no one could disturb him from the task at hand. He sat alone, so alone it left him in the most miserable of places. He remembered her smile. He remembered his laugh. He knew both had gone and left him, at the hands of a stranger. They both died instantly on impact. If only he had chosen a different path that day. If only he had gone with them instead of staying at work to catch up on things. So  many ‘what ifs’ filled his mind. So many regrets, so much turmoil. He looked about himself and made for the ready. There was no real reason to stay anymore. There was nothing but the constant reminder of how he had failed them both. He placed the razor on his beside table and laid down to do the deed. He thought about seeing them again. He thought about the peace that death must surely bring. He didn’t stop to think about anything else. The tunnel closed in all about him. He looked at their pictures, faces long gone staring through his soul. The real question was if he could do it. Several times before he had managed to come this far. He imagined a better place but the challenge was just how to get there. It all came down to his choice.

“I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less travelled by,

And that has made all the difference.”

(The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost 1916)

            He had faced this decision so many times it was like second nature to him. It was the responsibility that came built into owning a pet. He had watched her descent for weeks and she worsened day by day.  She refused to die, all the same. He hoped it would end differently than it had with others in the past. He silently prayed for mercy and lasting peace.  For awhile, it was easy to respect her holding on to life. She was much loved and the idea of putting her down haunted him in the most unpleasant of ways. He didn’t want to end her, he wanted life to take her. He hoped for a quiet passing but the longer she held on, the more she seemed to decay. It appeared that his wish, his divine reliance was nothing but a pipe dream. It felt like a part of him was dying with her. He loved her but he just wanted it to all be over. As he observed her decline, he was torn into pieces. He did not know what to do. He weighed the decision he knew he had to make. He had promised her to let nature take its course and he had vowed not to interfere. She lingered and her suffering became apparent. It was like she had made his decision for him although, in the end, it came down to empathy and compassion. It wasn’t about what was right or what was wrong, it was all about his responsibility to her. It felt selfish but the choice was far less simple than that. She was doomed either way.

            Every day we are riddled with choices. Almost everything we do is a choice to one degree or another. If we don’t like the way things are, we have a choice. We can change things by making different choices. We can remain the same just by choosing to do nothing. Sometimes we don’t have a choice. The fork in the road is often as daunting as the path that brought you to it. The entirety of who we are is measured by these choices we have made. We always have the option, we can make the decision. What we decide is entirely up to us. Simply by taking advantage of our own free will, we get to determine our direction. Some would argue that we never really make any of those choices. Sometimes it isn’t a choice at all, rather it is an inevitable fate, a predestined experience. As for me, I just can’t seem to make up my mind.

Photos

http://leighloueygung.com/a-fork-in-the-road/#.WQxpImnytEY

http://www.istockphoto.com/ca/photos/confusing-one-way-signs?excludenudity=true&sort=best&mediatype=photography&phrase=confusing%20one%20way%20signs    

http://www.coachbrown.org/words-wisdom-choices-consequences/

http://creativeeducator.tech4learning.com/2015/connections/give-students-choices

https://permaculturenews.org/2014/06/27/commons-way-life-vs-market-way-life/

Sources

http://creative.sulekha.com/three-poems-from-robert-frost-on-making-choices_88794_blog

Morsels

“Carpe diem quam minimum credula postero”

- Seize the day and put no trust in the future -

(The Odes [of Horace], Book 1:11, 23 BCE)

            It’s not an easy feat to seize each day and make the most of each day. Generally speaking, we are so overcome by the events in our life that we have little time to do anything but have a drink or take some Valium or both. It is important that one tries to capture each moment, regardless of the reasons we may have not to. Even the most mundane of days can bring its own reward. The simple things, the easy things can often mean more than the most recognized or significant circumstance. It’s much more efficient to hunger for tiny morsels than to consume the whole thing. People forget that just walking your dog can have as great an effect on your bliss as getting that promotion at work or opening presents on Christmas morning. It is the small doses of glee and joy that make the rest of this life worth living. They are the epitome of what it means to be alive. We are supposed to seize each moment, not just the ones we think will matter the most. Hard times come for everyone but so do good times and happy times. These states can often be determined not only though grand or obvious indications but almost silent, almost invisible glimpses. In small hours, we find the bread of life. We should be consuming it slowly versus ramming it all down our greedy little throats.

“If the sight of the blue skies fills you with joy, if a blade of grass springing up in the fields has power to move you, if the simple things of nature have a message that you understand, rejoice, for your soul is alive.” (Eleonora Duse, Italian actress)

            My parents’ property is overrun with wildlife. Although I have always appreciated them gathering nature, I never really understood why they made such an investment in it. So much time and so much money never made sense to me. I would tell myself that I can watch birds for free. I love animals. I commune with the beauty of this world. I just never got why they focused so much on Squirrels and Chipmunks and flocks  of different winged things. There was always an abundance of these critters so I saw no uniqueness, nothing special in such a simple thing. With my mother gone, not much has changed. The land, the house, the gardens all still flourish at the hands of my father and my sister. The plot is beautiful, with giant Spruce and Pine trees filling in the sky. There are flowers everywhere. There are trees and bushes and Lily of the Valley as far as the eye can see. Ponds are scattered about the property and bring Possums and Raccoons and even Skunks. Canadian Geese, and a few Deer, seem to find their way to this sanctuary. They may come for a drink but some stay for the fish. The grounds are more like a mini-forest than a mere piece of land. For years, it was unclear to me just why so much energy and cash were put into the green space. In spite of having little interest in landscaping, I could (on occasion) catch a glimpse of what my folks saw, a reward for all their toiling. I have appreciated the place, I just didn’t realize the importance of having such tiny morsels to consume. Our lives are, apparently, made up of bits and bites. We fill up but we don’t know that we have. Still, it is small pieces that always seem to remain. You don’t have to know that you hunger to ever be fed.

            When the home I now live in was purchased, it came with abundant and rather mature gardens. The beds around the place are filled with hosta, bleeding hearts and lilies of many varieties and colours. The front entrance still stands safe, as a weeping cedar takes to guard. English Ivy, tropical Ferns and hundreds of Solomon’s Seal fill each area along with Chickens and Hens and other ground covers. The yard itself was well developed and plush green. Come summer, the side of the house welcomes very little sunshine, all thanks to the huge and very overgrown Trumpet Vine that runs on top of the fence, from the front to the back of the  house. By July, it is stunning. I discovered there was little room for anything new or transplanted. I spent all of last year tinkering, adjusting and planning for the coming seasons. With little work to be done on the actual gardens and plants, I focused on creating a stone border around each specific area. I finished the entire front and left the back patches for this year. I got decorative, hanging three metal stars at the entrance and placing a beautiful metal heron in the main plot out front. I mixed Lily of the Valley in with ferns and the Black-Eyed Susan found rest at the foot of that wonderful bird. By the end of last summer, we brought in a spruce tree, a cedar tree and a Walking Stick. We added ornamental planters and glass influences like the Hummingbird placed on the inner gate. It turned out to be a very beautiful place, this place. Dogwood and Sandcherry bushes fill in the outer yard, to commingle with Myrtle, a large variety of wild and ornamental grasses and Morning Glories coming out the wazoo. To top it all off, a large and full Rose of Sharron acts as sentry to those who would walk through the front gate. I can’t imagine what the place would have been like if I had to do all the planting and all the planning. Regardless of what was here to begin with, I couldn’t believe how much work it all was. I couldn’t believe how rewarding it was to create your own little world, an ecological Otherland. I have to say that I get it now. I have turned into my parents.

            After the patio stone sidewalks were re-laid and that Trumpet Vine was pruned, I set to the task of welcoming wildlife to the space. I purchased a songbird feeder and a Hummingbird feeder. Bird houses were already scattered about the grounds. I started saving bread and fruit, tossing handfuls every morning for the animals to feed on. All of a sudden, out from the decks and trees they came. Squirrels and Chipmunks and hundreds of birds dance across from my kitchen window. All day long you can spy on Orioles and Cardinals and Blue Jays. Flock after flock of Sparrows peck the ground clean. Starlings are less than welcome but I feed them just the same. There are Jacks, Juncos and a pair of brown Doves that I have called Betty and Veronica. My favourite of the all critters was Herbert, an adult Chipmunk who filled his face every day around noon. He was recently beheaded by a neighbourhood cat. I watch them all. I can stand only feet from each one without giving myself away. From the kitchen to the feeders is less than four feet, with only glass and the occasional screen to stand between me and them. I love wasting time glaring at them, although it rarely is a waste. I try to memorize the regular birds, naming them accordingly. It has become one of the greatest pleasures that I have in my life. Such an easy and simple thing has become a staple of delight. I finally understand why my parents made such an effort with their gardens, and the ponds, and the feeding areas about their property. I could spend the entire day just looming in my window, watching and interacting just like my mother and father did. I understand so much better than I ever did before. It’s the feeling that all these little wonders can bring. It’s the meagre and simplest of things that build together to make a brighter day. Joy covers everything or nothing at all.   

“Cherish your solitude. Take trains by yourself to places you have never been. Sleep out alone under the stars. Learn how to drive a stick shift. Go so far away that you stop being afraid of not coming back. Say no when you don’t want to do something. Say yes if your instincts are strong, even if everyone around you disagrees. Decide whether you want to be liked or admired. Decide if fitting in is more important than finding out what you’re doing here. Believe in kissing.” (Eve Ensler, American playwright)

            When I was a teenager, I used to hitchhike between Strathroy and London every weekend. On a Friday evening, I would head to the main road out of town and I would

let my thumb lead the way. I rarely failed to get where I was going. Come Sunday, I would leave my friends and either take the train home or hitch back to the place from whence I came. It’s been years since I took to that task. It’s been years since I needed to. It was fun while it lasted but I much prefer to get someplace by car versus my feet and a wiggling appendage. It’s been over twenty-five years since I last rode the road. Still. I recall how much freedom I felt standing, waiting for fate to pick me up. It was exciting, even dangerous, and I often miss that. It never cost me a penny and I rarely regretted the choice. I know it sounds silly but it was such a simple pleasure for me to explore my independence and the world around me. Such a meagre morsel but nourishment nonetheless. It was never some complicated expression, just a little joy that few can understand. These days, I share a vehicle with my partner and the arrangement suits us both quite well. Any need I have to get somewhere is usually met with a stop to fill up and a day of touring. On the days when I don’t take my partner to work, home office serves me well. I will admit that Paris tends to be isolated from most other places. A small town is limited for stuff like that. No car, no access, at least for the most part. You can always walk if you want. One April day, I decided to do just that. 

            The distance between Paris Ontario and Brantford Ontario is approximately 13 kilometres (around 8 miles). Other than a taxi, there is no other public transportation between them whatsoever. It’s one of those small town traps I am so familiar with. About an hour after my partner headed to work for the day, I was summoned to Brantford. They needed to see me that day. There was no way I was about to pay $60.00 for a cab to take me there and back so I decided to try and hitch a ride, just for fun. I figured it was worth a try. No harm, no foul. It hadn’t occurred to me before, this option. Honestly, I told myself that there was no way it would work for me now. I decided I had nothing to lose, even making a note of when and where I should turn around. It was a futile effort, I thought to myself. I walked through the downtown of Paris, across the Grand River Bridge and onto the highway that leads to Brantford. I imagined it would be a fruitless attempt. Who would pick up someone who looks half Nazi and full on grump? Sure, I am pretty but in a scary way.  I expected that I would have to walk the entire distance. Despite the April sun, the wind was cold and made me glad I wore a winter jacket. With my water in one hand and my thumb protruding with the other, I started walking backwards, my intent was crystal clear. Not a minute after I stuck my thumb out, a car pulled to the side of the road just ahead of me. He waved me on through the back window. I rushed to the grey Impala  and peered inside. I couldn't believe that in this day and age a 70 year old man would pick up a stranger. When he asked, I explained to him where I was going and he told me to jump in. The old guy dropped me off in the perfect spot and I walked a few hundred feet to my destination. The little rush I got only lasted for a few minutes. The way back home was just as easy. Almost the minute I reached the edge of the city, the moment my thumb went up in the air, I got picked up again. It was almost instantaneous. To my surprise, the white F-150 roared to a stop. I shuffled to the passenger door, opened it and he bid me enter. This time farmer Bob did me the service. He headed straight into Paris, past the downtown and he even dropped me off near my home. As I waved goodbye, I noticed he was picking his teeth. It was probably just a morsel.

“We’re only here to love

Like there’s no tomorrow

So let’s live each moment like

Our time is only borrowed”

(Borrowed Time, Madonna 2015)

            I suppose it’s true when they say that “life is full of surprises.” I am consistently surprised just how surprised I am at being surprised. Every day brings something new, something different and something special (or something worse). Life is abundant in both  happiness and sorrow so one actually has to stop and pay attention in order to recognize which is which. When you do take heed, it’s almost funny how the big things seem so small. You would think for all the bluster they would entail so much more. It is the morsels that sustain us, it seems. Tiny pieces all about us waiting to be consumed. Each bite is small but if you eat enough of them, you will get your fill. Time is borrowed and it falls away. We are left with only these. These moments, these scrapings, miniature heirlooms one and all. They are all that remain.     

            I think I will purchase a birdbath and a feeding platform for all those rodents in my yard. Each should give me more than enough to take notice. It’s like Wild Kingdom around here these days. I am transported into the miracle of simple when I watch them all at play. I am as much in the moment as each one of those critters. I think back on my family and all the years my parents and sister have worked on developing their own kingdom gone wild. I never understood the beauty in these experiences but I most certainly do these days. I finally get the freedom that comes from recognizing the moment, even if it’s attached to a fuzzy little chipmunk. So I try to live in the now, embrace those moments, these morsels tossed about me. I take chances, I look for adventure, even if someone else would find my journey boring or juvenile. It took me over five hours to hitchhike to Brantford and back that April day. At least I didn’t have to walk the entire way. I probably won’t do it again but it was sort of fun to flash back to all those trips I made to the big city when I was a young man. It felt great to be spontaneous, to reach for something so simple and find such joy just from the experience. Sometimes you have to say “what the fuck!” So I sit and dream about hitchhiking across America like I did back in the day. Maybe this time I’ll just keep going.

“Our lives are made

In these small hours

These little wonders,

These twists & turns of fate

Time falls away,

But these small hours,

These small hours still remain

All of my regret

Will wash away some how

But I can not forget

The way I feel right now.”

(Little Wonders, Rob Thomas 2007)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Baqhrg-MuE

Photos

https://doafl.wordpress.com/2013/05/01/my-big-fat-greek-salad/

http://www.hellawella.com/ultimate-visual-guide-portion-control

http://www.mommyish.com/2013/05/08/mom-eating-disorder-parenting-disordered-eating/

https://www.shutterstock.com/video/clip-8470924-stock-footage-empty-plate-move-a-white-plate-with-a-knife-and-fork-on-a-green-background.html

Insitus

“At that time the disciples came to Jesus and asked, ‘Who, then, is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?’ He called a little child to him, and placed the child among them. And he said: ‘Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever takes the lowly position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.’” (Matthew 18:1-4, NIV)

            Although I was born in Toronto, London Ontario is the most familiar Canadian city for me. Known as ‘The Forest City’, it lies approximately 200 km west of the Greater Toronto Area. I have lived there with both my partners. I went to university and college in London. I partied heavily there. I thrived there. I know every area of the city very well, as if there was a map of the place etched in my brain. I have spent a great deal of my time in the suburbs and the downtown core. The Greyhound bus station nestles near the Covent Garden Market,  right in heart of it all. I used to know the bus schedule off by heart. I still have a doctor that I see. Her office, in the very core, overlooks one of the busiest streets in the city. I have travelled to London so often that its geography plays in flashback. While the downtown still exists, it does not thrive. It is dying the same slow death that other downtowns are all across North America. Technology tends to kill off what isn’t advancing with it. The internet has meant doom. It’s a plague carried in on all those smartphones. I digress. One visible deterioration is the increase in the homeless and panhandlers. On a busy day, you can't walk twenty feet on Dundas Street without the standard “spare some change?” While I have compassion and much empathy, I cannot possibly give to everyone. How do you choose who to be kind to? I cannot actually know who is in need or who just wants some more Meth. I must discern so I listen to my instinct.

            The moment I reached into my pocket, she exited the store we were standing in front of. I can still feel the cold chill in the air. As I handed him all I had, she began to accost us both. She tried to shame me for the “crime” of helping another. I was only “encouraging” him. She attacked him, condemning him for having the audacity of even asking for help. I have never forgotten that woman. It’s strange how less than a minute of your lifetime can change you. You can spend years looking for answers and guidance and in a heartbeat it comes. Now, some harpy remains my catalyst. Every time I think of the worst in people, she is the poster child. One of the reasons I try to be kind is because she told me that I shouldn’t be. I was always a friendly chap when I was younger. I was polite but a little crazy. It was easier for me to be mean than it was to be nice. I used to rest comfortably in the darkness but I never had  trouble being kind. If not for the grace of God, I may well have been that kid, sitting on the cold concrete begging for bus fare to get home. This is the reason I stopped to help him. Acting on the goodness in yourself is very important. I think God squeezes it out of us when we hold it all in. Being kind is not just an expression to a person or a charity, it’s an expression of the divine within us. Being generous, being compassionate, these are things we shouldn’t have to try to be. It’s a cold enough world with so little light. Be kind, or the world will not be kind to you. If you had memories of that unfeeling creature, you would know I speak the truth.

“Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.” (Ephesians 4:32, NIV)

            It’s kind of sad to look back over your life and realize you don’t have many examples of kindness you can refer to. I don’t just mean from others. I am guilty. For most of my life, being kind to strangers has never been an issue for me. Being nice to the people I actually know has been the challenge. I have always been able to see life from the view of others but familiarity tends to bring contempt. I believe that kindness is a natural state I have always been able to tap into. Even in the worst of times, I still acted on instinct and chose to be kind, no matter what I was feeling or going though or whether the Bible tells me so. Yes, I give to the homeless, I have helped care for the aging. I have given of myself, my money and of my time. It is still quite the challenge for me to be consistently kind. The older I have gotten, the more I am convinced that kindness shouldn’t be an effort but somehow it always is. The modern world is trying at best. You have to turn rather odd in order to actually survive. Compassion and empathy seem mere tools we use at our convenience. Other people are only shadows that pass us in the hall. Most times, we don’t even notice that anyone is there. Kindness is more than a happy place. It is an attitude, not only an intention. You can give all you want but until you give of yourself, you’re just cheating.

 “Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.” (Colossians 3:12, NIV)

            One of my first exposures to the Gay community was my friend David. Although he was considerably older than me, we became fast friends. He introduced me to Gay culture. He exposed me to the seedier side, to bars and cruising and drag shows. No more than a friend, he was more a mentor than anything else. This sat well with his partner Paul. At 18, I was very single, very curious and very driven. The entire lifestyle played right into my untreated Bipolar disorder. I never even realized this underlying factor. Dave and his community demonstrated, to me at least, that there was substance to what most people view as hedonism. It may well be, but my first exposure, face to face, revealed much more than jockstraps and Liza Minnelli. It was into the second year of our friendship that Dave started to get sick. Treatment was different with HIV back in the early days of the slaughter. When someone got infected, their future was usually limited to months rather than years. People rotted right before your very eyes. The disease ate through most victims like a spitfire. It caught on and it spread. My friend Dave was no exception. After only six months from the notification, he looked more like a concentration camp survivor than the man I had known for over 2 years. I visited him regularly when he was admitted to the hospice. I watched the Kaposi Sarcoma spread over his torso like moss on the side of a tree. As the infection worsened, Dave went from HIV positive to full blown AIDS. His skin became almost translucent, the cancer spread inward and his suffering was great. At the end, the best he could do was lay there. He developed blindness and AIDS dementia. His time drew near, or so one would think. Like my grandfather after his stroke, Dave lingered, seemingly unwilling to let go of this life. He became a stranger in almost every way. I didn’t recognize him, he didn’t recognize me. He was lost, on the brink for months. 

            Morality is relative. Kindness is not. What one person might find reprehensible another might consider mercy. Kindness is to act upon that mercy. As Paul watched David slip slowly into nothing, you could see the weight if it. You could almost smell his fear. He told me it was like torture but from the inside out. Each day always more of it. The hardest part for him was the catch-22. He wanted David to have peace, to no longer suffer. At the same time, he did not wish to say goodbye. I can’t imagine being stuck in that endless waiting game. I cannot imagine what happens when you just can’t wait anymore. Eventually, the Kaposi filled his lungs and a ventilator was hooked up. Almost calmly, Paul reached for it and turned it off. It appeared methodical but I noticed his hands shaking. He was being pulled apart, despite what may have happened as consequence. Paul put David first. He offered mercy, the kindest gift of all. I don’t know the details of what followed but I know charges were never laid against anyone. I believe natural causes was mentioned in the coroner’s report. David was laid to rest, with only a few friends gathered to say goodbye. They had trouble getting a funeral home to bury an AIDS victim but luckily discovered a gay-owned establishment that had no issues. In all my years, of everything that has passed before me, I have never witnessed a greater act of kindness. To give up the thing you want the most so that another might benefit is the ultimate act of charity. Whenever I think back on the misery of those few months back in 1985, I imagine it differently. It was a time of great loss for the gay community and gay people in general. Few sat unaffected by this plague. For me, I will always remember how an act of kindness in the face of great peril freed my friend from constant and needless suffering. Be diligent in your kindness, always.

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law.”

(Galatians 5:22, NIV)

            It shouldn't be so hard to be kind. It should come easy but for some it does not. Perhaps the most frustrating thing about being mortal is that you can wish all you want but life always seems to stand in the way. Sometimes you have to force kindness, feed it through all the chaos and the suffering. Life, in the end, does not always allow us such a luxury. We are so absorbed in our own misery that it tends to be almost impossible to think about someone else. I would argue that shit always floats to the top of the toilet. Kindness is a built in reaction, not something hard pressed and obscure. It is written in the very makeup of each and every person. From the time we are children, the constructs of this reality battle our nature for dominance and control. We lose a part of ourselves as we grow and mature. Being kind becomes an inconvenience rather than a pleasure. As children, it was second nature. It was so easy to see without judgement, to act completely from instinct rather than some rational thinking or social instruction. As we lose our innocence, our view of others is corrupted and warped. It is through our integration that we lose compassion and empathy and any semblance of unity. We strive to be individual and along the way we learn how to care about only ourselves rather than each other. Simply through the act of existing, we sabotage the very best part of us. In fact, as we age, we must learn to be kind all over again. We change and so too does our reasoning.

“Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.” (Mark 10:15, NIV)

            When we moved from the city to the town of Paris Ontario Canada, the silence, at first, was maddening. After 9:00 PM, the town literally disappears into obscurity. Walking through the streets and residential areas at night, you can almost feel all the people sleeping. It’s a cozy little village. Daylight brings the place to life. In my area, there is an elementary school only a city block away. Come morning, and later in the afternoon, the street we live on is overrun with children, strollers and parental guidance. Some kids are accompanied while others walk home alone or with friends. There is something magical about watching kids play. It can take you back to when you were that free. When I am in the front garden or working at the table in the front window, I spy. It makes me giggle to watch just how unaffected children appear to be. The energy they put out is bright and clear and completely natural. I remember when I was a kid and used to be like that. I try my best to maintain that and carry it with me. It takes much struggle for me to become so young. When the school lets out and the street fills with laughter, I sometimes wonder as they wander. Do they know sadness, and loss, and tragedy yet? Has the world already taken its toll? Every morning its the same children and every afternoon the same crowd bustles back home. 

            At any time I cared to notice, she walked home alone, down the street and into someplace else. She rarely carried  herself with a sense of joy and adventure. She is a pretty little girl, prone to jeans and plaid work wear. I just assume she dressed that way on purpose. It seemed to suit her in a country girl way. I don’t know her name but I know what she looks like. I know that she likes to pick flowers and she even skips on occasion. Every time I have seen her, she has never walked with anyone else. She seemed to want no part of the other children and adults who marched along the same way. I can’t be sure if she was sad, isolated or even bullied. All I knew was what I saw and she seemed out of place among all the other children. I was trimming the English Ivy in my front yard when the ruckus began. Dozens and dozens of school kids began to swarm the street like they do every weekday. I stopped my fiddling and picked up my coffee to watch. Like on every occasion that I see her, she sauntered without a care in the world, or at least I hoped she did. The ring from the bicycle behind her must have startled her. She attempted to jump up on the curb and instead tripped and fell flat on her face. It hurt to watch as she landed hard on the grassy knoll across the street from my house. Thank goodness it wasn’t a concrete sidewalk or driveway. I stood up quickly, trying to determine if she needed my help. To my surprise, other children, not the adults, came running to her assistance. A group of five of her peers helped her to her feet and made sure she was okay. The entire event was like someone had thrown birdseed on the ground and a flock of sparrows rushed it. I was pleasantly surprised. Not one of them asked her name. Not one of them asked her religion. No one cared if she would later be a lesbian. Their response seemed a natural reaction, not based on any one factor or another. Such kindness I have rarely seen, not like this anyway. They could have kept on without her, just like they would every other day, but they reacted like all children should. It has been a few weeks since this incident. I’m still working in the garden. I still stop and sip my coffee. The sweetest part of it all is that I have not seen her walking alone ever since that day.

 

“Jesus said, ‘Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.’” (Matthew 19:14, NIV)

            We learn to hate. We learn to judge and we learn to disparage. Other things we are just born with. A cruel nature is as natural as a kind nature. You don’t have to be taught to be either one. All you have to do is act on instinct. You can’t teach someone to be good to others any more than you can teach someone to be rotten to others. You can lead a horse to water but you cannot make him drink. You either have it or you don’t. One cannot be a little bit pregnant. Kindness is an essential part of being human. All you have to do is watch children at play. No adult ever taught them to act like that. It is innate and one of the very best things in life and some of the best things in life are still free. 

tells me so

Photo

http://abc7news.com/society/exclusive-bay-area-teen-discusses-act-of-kindness-that-went-viral/1793614/  

Surprise Surprise

            When we first moved to Strathroy Ontario Canada, it pretty much had the same layout that it does now although the appearance has somewhat changed. It was much less populated and commercial. Regardless, it remains a beautiful town, in a beautiful setting. When my family located there from Toronto in 1976, I was 11 years old. Initially, the move itself did not agree with me. I felt like an alien, trapped in the land of boring white people. I missed my friends. I missed the diversity. I missed my neighbourhood. I even missed the CN Tower. I just wanted to go home. It hit me rather quickly that Strathroy was now where I lived. I resented it a little. No one asked me whether I wanted to leave the city. No one asked me if it was okay to uproot us all. Eventually, things settled and I accepted this prison but only because I really didn’t have a choice. School started shortly thereafter and I was easily distracted by my new surroundings. For the longest time, I just couldn’t let go. I wanted to go back and do it all over. I knew I couldn’t go back. I was destined to die in this backward, nursing home infested slice of white bread. About a week after school started, I decided to take a different way home. The direct way was ripe with traffic and people. I got on my bike and I pedaled through the town. I had resolved myself to unhappiness. Over time, those bike rides got longer and they became more frequent. I suppose that exploring the town was a way of embracing the town. Each adventure was a different kind of adventure than those I had in Toronto. I discovered the attraction that brought my family here. It wasn’t that my Mom’s family lived in the area. It wasn’t that the countryside was a better place. It certainly was a safer place, a quiet place. I had to learn how to adjust to the silence rather than all the sounds of a metropolis. It took a few more years but eventually I have come to love Strathroy. It has become my home, even though I no longer live there. It has become much more of a touchstone than Toronto ever was. I am still pleasantly aware of this turn of events. I spent the first few months after we moved there wanting to return from whence we came. It’s ironic, Strathroy is now where I come from and where I’ve been. I could never have imagined that it would end up this way. I guess life really is full of surprises.

            The Strathroy Lions swimming pool was a part of my life long before our relocation. Every summer, my siblings and I spent a few weeks visiting our grandparents. It was torture but it was worth it. It gave my parents a much needed break but it gave each of us kids another swimming tag. For a week each July or August, we registered  then received the appropriate Canadian Red Cross Water Safety Level Badge. I started early on, at age 6, with my Beginners. In Grade 10, at 15 years, I concluded my stay by achieving high standing with my Bronze. The pool became somewhat of a second home during the hotter months. With swimming lessons in the morning and swim time all afternoon, I spent the good part of every vacation underwater. So did my sister. In the summer of 1978, we were both asked if we wanted to assist the swim team with workouts and meets. My foot was still quite weak from an accident that crippled me in January, so competing was not going to happen. Tracey and I spent a great deal of time setting timers, cleaning the deck and setting lanes. We usually were responsible for holding the starting line then raising it as an indication to begin. Honestly, it was a hell of a lot of work but my sister and I did it free of charge. No one ever criticised our performance, even if it wasn’t in the blue.

            On the final night of the final matches, we did our jobs like we always did. We stood with the rest of the team and cheered each other on. When the coach went to announce most valued team member, I instinctively said to myself anyone but me. My sister and I almost fell in the pool when they announced our names. Together we were the most appreciated of all those members. What a surprise. What an unexpected surprise. When the cheers were done and the goodbyes said, Tracey and I set out to walk home. It wasn’t that far but the giant life-size trophy made it seem so. It was almost as big as my sibling. I have to admit I used that as an excuse to carry the thing home, despite my sister’s complaints. I should have let her carry it even if I thought she couldn’t. Still, that trophy sat on the mantle in our dining room for almost a year. We returned it, as instructed, just before the next swim season. I was unaware just how attached I got to it. I wanted to keep it. It was nice having a reminder of such a pleasant experience and such an unforgettable surprise.

            Strathroy was the town where my mother grew up. She returned home with her family many years later. Throughout my childhood, my grandparents lived on a huge lot just outside the town’s border. Eventually, they divided the property between my mother and her two brothers, as well as retaining the land their house sat upon. I think everyone thought it was a good idea starting out but it soon turned out to be one very big mistake. Building the house and establishing a home was one thing, dealing with our new neighbours was another. Just as a warning, never move next to a family member and never even entertain living near more than one. Things turned rather sour rather quickly. The details are unimportant but the consequence is clear. There was no love lost between the three siblings. Grandma and Grandpa only made things worse. My parents carried on regardless of the chaos each day seemed to bring. They built a lovely home and the gardens around the property flourished and spread. Out back, where the pool used to be, there was the vegetable patch. My folks have always maintained such a commitment since the first summer they moved to Scott Street. Come spring, tomato plants, pepper plants and onions galore were established in rows and pretty little columns. My Mom and Dad could be found seeding, edging and weeding the beds. New plants joined cold soil and formed the genesis that would be, come warmer temperatures. When they travelled,  I watched the gardens, diligent of frost and the like. One late spring, my family took a vacation in Northern Ontario. Sault Ste. Marie is beautiful, from the Canadian side. In Strathroy, the warning had been made on the 6:00 PM news. I went out to cover the vulnerable. I heard the barking right away. When I opened the garage, I got the surprise of a lifetime. My uncle, the middle child, stood kicking Nugget, the purebred poodle who had been part of our family since he was a puppy. It was the shot to his head as I opened the garage door that shocked me the most. Joe scurried out the back door like a Catholic schoolgirl caught playing with herself. I checked the dog and he was okay, at least he was okay physically. I followed the trail. There stood my uncle and my grandmother, covering pepper plants with small green plastic pots.  When I confronted him about the dog, he told me to shut up and rushed me. The shovel I brought with me was raised in clear defiance. I even told my grandmother to go fuck herself. When my parents got home, it was like that schoolgirl had seen someone smoking. Joe ran out of his home like a wheel on fire. He approached my parents and started cursing me. Unfortunately for him, I had already acquainted them with the activities of the night before. Thanks to my mother, the chips fell where they may. We all knew not to piss her off. She attacked him with the very same energy that he had attacked Nugget. He may have abused his own dog Pepper, but my mother would not stand for him attacking our dog. If you get what you pay for, then he sure got himself a bigger surprise.

            The town eventually swallowed up the area my parents lived in. The tobacco field across the street eventually turned into half-million dollar homes. The neighbourhood changed and it changed rather quickly. Where those tobacco plants once covered the fields, for as far as the eye could see, now stood hundreds of very expensive and very exclusive homes. When the town tried to add affordable housing to the mix, the neighbourhood got together and boycotted the idea. I had long before left Strathroy so it was of little concern to me. I frequently came back to visit and I even lived there for a few months while my life transitioned. One Christmas, I decided to go outside and have a cigarette. I would return to my regular life on the morrow. I stood in my half-length flack army jacket with black scarf and work boots. I had shaved my head years before and I will admit I looked rather formidable in this attire. Rather than standing in the cold dragging on death, I took a walk to see the newest additions to the neighbourhood. Into the new subdivision I wandered, unaware. I walked down Scott Street to York Street and headed into the brand new light show. The field across from my parents’ place had always been so dark and looming. It was strange to stand in the place that I used to pelt frogs and toads with a badminton racket. Now, Christmas decor flattered the streets and lamps of bright gold illuminated the walkways. I can’t say that I appreciated what I was seeing. Even the green space set aside for the town was nothing more than an eyesore. I was not well pleased, to say the least. As I headed out of town via Parkview Drive, I occasionally spotted a few homeowners spying at me through a window or a door. I thought it was funny, at least for a moment or two. As I reached inside my coat to grab another fag, a police car sounded its sirens and pulled up beside me. I was so surprised that I almost pissed myself. Like a lot of people these days, I have never trusted the cops. I never have and I never will. If the past is a guide, it has always steered me as far away as possible from them. This Christmas Night, they came looking for me. Apparently, dispatch had received numerous calls from people regarding a skinhead who was casing out homes in the area. I almost joked with them as to whether they had found him yet but I already knew not to joke with frying bacon. They questioned me and I tried, with great difficulty, to be pleasant and agreeable. I don’t care if people thought I was a serial killer walking around, until someone commits a crime you don’t assume they will. I had to confirm with ID that I was who I said I was. Luckily one of the officers was rather friendly with my father so I was dismissed with warning. As I walked back from whence I had come, the police car pulled past me and disappeared behind a neighbouring church.  I was not surprised, as I headed onto my parents’ property, to see the same vehicle pull off the road up the street. I’ll assume it was to observe me, to confirm what I claimed was true, rather than getting a donut. The Tim Horton's is downtown.

            The grounds are still lush with plant life. The landscape is chiselled and there are  water sculptures placed throughout the other scenery. There is peace and quiet all around. The nature is in surround sound. Wildlife flourishes in every part of the land. The property my parents shaped is a little different these days but the flavour, the impact of the place can still be felt every time I come home to visit my father. My mom has been gone over 7 years. I can still see her sitting up by one of the ponds, hose in hand, song in mouth. I can still hear her calling out to all us kids that dinner was ready and to get inside or go without. To my surprise, the world has kept turning even without her in it. I could never have imagined losing her, even though I knew it was coming. I can’t believe so much time has gone by. I can still feel her when I go back to Strathroy. Hell, I can still feel her whenever the sadness chooses to come. As I look back over the time I have spent in Strathroy, there is a mix of such good things and such bad things. I eventually fell in love in the stupid little town. I lost my first partner to the hands of gravity and a nine storey silo in the middle of this stupid little town. They say you can’t go back and that’s okay because sometimes I don’t want to. Surprise, surprise, sometimes I can’t help it.

 Photos

The Tower

Tanton Street, Strathroy

circa 1985

The Pool

Lion’s Park, Strathroy

circa 1990

The Trophy

Arthur Street, Strathroy

circa 1979

The Back Field

York Street, Strathroy

circa 1950

The Way It Was

Scott Street, Strathroy

circa 1981

The Way It Is

Scott Street, Strathroy

circa 2016

Sources

http://www.strathroyagedispatch.com/2012/03/28/lions-pool-to-stay-open-this-summer

http://www.eureka4you.com/wtower-on-s/Strathroy.htm