The Omnist

            I’m not really that political. I do not enjoy the exercise. It’s not that I have no sense of fairness or interest in justice. I simply think that using politics as a measure of a society is like basing the character of God on the Bible. We are more than mere representation. I tend to not become involved. It’s not that I couldn’t care less, but it’s entirely possible. I consider myself a democratic socialist although the label is not my favourite part of being Canadian. I am far left of center when it comes to governmental policymaking and any related social matter. I support free speech and as a journalist stand firm on that position. I encourage social movements, especially those that are inclusive rather than selective. I believe that while Black Lives do matter, the movement would be better served if it unified with other voices, other matters of societal concern. In fact, I believe that All Lives matter, and therein lies the rub. All these movements, standing alone, screaming to be heard. We need to come together, to stand together, to rise up together. One voice should be all that is heard. Each splinter faction, each individual expression would not find itself lost in the whole, rather each would make up the whole. If all these lives count then we should merge and stand hand in hand, arm in arm. I do not mean to suggest that we should institute communal ideologies. Perhaps it may be that a unified articulation would better serve the masses. Regardless, lumping all causes, all movements together under one banner may not seem like the solution but it strikes me as better than the way things are. We pick and choose what we buy into. We select our crusade and not the other way around. We decide our position in the same way that we pick and choose the God that we worship.

            At the end of the Bible, the book of Revelation (Chapter 17) warns humanity of an anti-Christ setting up a one-world government and a one-world religion. In these  scriptures, mankind is forced to choose between their own personal God (from a long list of modern options) and the “one true” God (who just happens to be the demagogue in question). I hope that things don’t end up that way. My Christian conditioning always leads me to an unbalanced place. I often question my position, especially on the matter of social justice. I would not want to do anything or say anything that would make the cavern between the Lord and I grow larger. What if all the warnings are true? What if the New World order to come is a platform for evil to manifest as man? What if it isn’t all commentary and what if I am wrong? What if one religion, one political system would  only seal all of our doom? I would argue we must come together now as a collective so that we can preserve our own sense of faith and salvation. As with any political position one takes, deciding what God to serve is a very subjective matter. We give our loyalty based entirely on how we see the world and particularly how we see the focus of our divination. On a good day, people tend to validate their belief structure based on those things they find most appealing in a saviour. On a bad day, they either chastise themselves for error or blame themselves for the void left regarding any unanswered prayer they may have released. Each person believes differently, even if raised in an identical manner. Our faith is unique, exclusive to the individual. I was once asked how many Gods are worshipped on this planet on any given day. I could have easily researched the answer, claiming a number that really doesn’t mean much. Instead, I went with my gut response and stated “7 billion.” When asked to explain myself, I simply elaborated on how each person has their own concept of the universe and that unity comes down to whether you agree on a name for your God or not. It is within our own hubris that we assume our salvation. Since our own way works for us then everyone else’s position is flawed or repugnant. Our overbearing pride lies to us, often.

            There is common ground. Each religion holds something of value. Every religion, every esoteric idea, even the most outrageous cult, holds some form of the divine within it. If you take the time to look, it can be found. It all depends on what you’re looking for. Like a mustard seed, it starts out small then it fills with more. With enough time and attention, it becomes something much greater than it was. No matter who you are, there is room for a harvest. You have to cultivate if you intend to reap what you sow. If God is within, then He is within us all. We already have one voice but we do not use it. I’m not even sure that most of us know how to. Despite any warning from the Christians, I believe that coming together and worshipping together is much more productive for ourselves and our society than striving within the duplicity of varying theological positions. Rather than worshipping the many, we should worship the one. Whether we follow this deity or that deity doesn’t matter in the long run. All our prayers go to the same place. All mercy, all grace, all our salvation is filtered through the same process, regardless of what we call the object of our attention. This kind of thinking is far more successful than one could imagine. For example, the Bahá'í “ is a religion teaching the essential worth of all religions, and the unity and equality of all people.” With over 10 million followers worldwide, Bahá'ís regard “the major religions as fundamentally unified in purpose, though varied in social practices and interpretations.” Their base teaching strives for the wholeness of all people. Their mandate is to bring “a unified world order that ensures the prosperity of all nations, races, creeds, and classes.” If they can do it, perhaps we all can do it. It works for them. The idea of a New World Order has been demonized throughout the history of the Church. It may be viewed as evil, and the cause of our destruction, assuming the results are predestined. I would rather come together than continue to be apart. Look at the world around you and ask yourself whether the gods we worship actually work in the greater scheme of things. In fact, all the different religions and cults seem to exemplify the problem. I just don’t find all the subjective interpretations are something I want as part of my thinking. All lives really do matter, regardless of their faith. I suppose I have become an Omnist.

            I am an Omnist and I believe in the validity of all religions. This does not mean I do not have one specific faith structure that I exist under or a name for the God that I myself worship. Omnism is “the recognition and respect of all religions; those who hold this belief are called Omnists.” The earliest known use of the term was by English poet Philip J. Bailey who, in 1839, claimed that “I am an Omnist, and believe in all religions.” It’s all about the legitimacy of all those religions. For the person who doesn’t make claim to any one faith, who does not practice or believe in one set deity or energy, the truth lies in all of them. Omnism is “a way to accept the existence of various religions without believing in all that they profess to teach.” In fact, to an Omnist, “all religions contain truths, but that no one religion offers all that is truth.” It might be thought of as a “syncretism taken to its logical extreme.” The very idea that there is a “single transcendent purpose or cause uniting all things or people” makes great sense to me. If all religions hold “different elements of a common truth,” then the Omnist is open to any such potential truth. The entire ideology is more expression than formula, more esoteric than dogmatic. Actually, there is a strong influence from existentialism, where "consciousness is a power or force that helps determine the reality, yet is not a divine influence.” Omnism affirms “the necessity of one arriving at an understanding of reality based on personal experience, engagement, and inquiry, and an acceptance of the validity and legitimacy of the differing understandings of others.” While it is more speculation than theology, there is an “implied system of values or ethics.”

            I was a hardcore Christian, even for a fag. The suicide of my first partner only pushed me further down that rabbit hole. I, once again, became somewhat of a fundamentalist, holding to the literal readings of any scriptural text. I was lost and tossed myself on Jesus. The Bible became my touchstone. Even though I knew deep inside it was probably a fruitless endeavour, I had to see for myself what this lifestyle really had to offer. If Jesus was the answer, I was willing to field the questions. After all, you cannot determine whether you are going the right way if you fail to follow the path in the first place. I hoped against all hope and wished for the things that my faith had always taught me one should pursue. I got washed away in the blood of Jesus. I started to believe all the hype. I closed my mind to other ideas and other belief structures. Like with any truly “good” Christian, I turned my back on everything in hopes of gaining everything. I had to try, even if a part of me cringed at the idea. Initially, it was confusion to have such a schism fracturing inside my head. At first, it was easy to ignore reality when I was safe in the Father’s arms.  I was so broken, so defeated that any offer, any tinge of rescue was pounced upon in desperation. I had been to this place before. My late teens found me born again almost every weekend. Despite the outer appearance, back then I did not discover any true reward in my surrender. Everything I was told to hate about myself stayed with me after every altar call. I never felt anything but I had to try. I just played the part then went off to suck some cock. Jesus took nothing and gave the same in return. When I met my current  partner, 20 years ago now, Jesus took a back seat. Eventually, I just kicked him out of the car. I did not need anyone else’s interpretation to clear the way. I studied. I have studied theology for so long now that I pee scripture, and that’s on a good day. From my early days of university through hundreds of exegesis after exegesis, this inquiring mind is never satisfied. It has always been my intention to simply understand rather than condemn. As a matter of fact, Christianity saw to it that I view the world this way. They are an example, for sure, but a bad one I suggest. Still, this way holds the same consideration any other faith would be granted. There is truth in all religions, after all. I no longer believe that Christianity holds all the answers. I do not believe it is the only way to have a relationship with God. Like any other theology, there are truths that lie within it. I guess I never had to turn my back of Jesus.

            My relationship with Christianity did not end well. Eventually, I realized the restrictions any religion might use to hold their position. Christianity was no exemption. It is because I was raised so that I had the hardest time separating The Christ from the dogma of the Christians. It’s the same with any other religious ideology. There is a grain of truth in everything but nothing is exclusive in that truth. It was a hard day for me when I walked away from my faith structure. I was trapped, suffocating on scriptures that I shoved down my very own throat. I reached out for guidance and compassion and any semblance of peace. All I found was a judgmental God with little concern for anyone but his own congregation. I expressed my concerns regarding other faiths, other ideas on salvation and was instructed just how wrong that interpretation was. I learned quickly, as my virtual assistant ranted off a list of the things that make following anyone but Jesus a fatalistic choice. Any other way (John 14:6) meant sheer doom. There is no other way, at least that’s what they keep telling me. At the time, I left Christianity because it seemed to offer me nothing but exclusivity. I never ever wanted God all to myself. I discarded my faith and surrendered to the unknown. A silent God is so much more friendly than a deity riddled by the tendency to associate with only a select group. All these years later and I realize my folly. I wish I had been freed long ago. I wish I had paid more attention to the ethereal nature of God rather than the anthropomorphic side. My faith changed and so did how I view God. My faith evolved and I became an Omnist, even though I had no idea what that meant at that time. It was by definition, not recognition. Distinguishing that truth is relative only convinced me further that the way I am going, how I travel, is what works for me. I no longer practice any organized religion or faith structure. I do not need one. I rest safe in the Father’s arms, even if you think He only cares about you.

Photo

http://www.1freewallpapers.com/coexist-cool

Sources

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bah%C3%A1%27%C3%AD_Faith

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Omnism

https://www.compellingtruth.org/one-world-religion.html

Green Peace

Green Peace   

“The human soul is hungry for beauty; we seek it everywhere - in landscape, music, art, clothes, furniture, gardening, companionship, love, religion, and in ourselves. No one would desire not to be beautiful. When we experience the beautiful, there is a sense of homecoming.”  (John O'Donohue, Irish author)

 

            Now that spring is well on its way into summer, I once again have the pleasure of tending to the garden beds carefully organized about our property. It has been almost three years since we located to Paris, Ontario. It can seem strange when stopping to take it all in. In slow motion, time passes and we often don’t know it. Sometimes one can see the changes, in glimpses, even if they are merely superficial. I stand here and I entertain it all, and like a Kinetoscope, picture after picture falls into line. One moment follows another, always leading, always moving, up until its end. Change comes in flashes. One must stop to notice rather than merely flipping through all those pages. Gardening and caring for our property has become a simple delight for me. I never would have imagined that at this point in my life communing with nature would become an instinct rather than merely based on impulse. I am a horticulturist whether I care to be or not. It has gone beyond family tradition, although I finally understand the thrill of it all. I have become my mother, in a sense, toiling and reshaping the grounds to my own taste and sense of Feng Shui. Each plant, each creation is a mixed evolution. The product from years of growth without me only added to the ease with which I took over the care. It is overflowing, a bounty of green and red and yellow and white. A stream of birds and squirrels and chipmunks too. The space is alive, and not just in some general sense. The land has tales to tell. It whispers to me and lingers for me. This notion has not always been. It has not always been this way. I held that gardening was an art my parents gave in to, not me. Now I understand what my folks were trying to tell me. Now I attempt to listen, I try to hear what Mother Nature is trying to say to me. Insignificant moments become a touchstone, and I find I have found home. Whether engaged at the bird feeders or sitting under the back tree, this is my space, to which I work and to which I manage. The shape of these things holds much revelation, a joy in the matter. It’s like an otherland made up of grass cuttings and bird crap pooped all over everything. It is a safe refuge even if I helped create it myself.

“I am the mown grass, dying at your feet,

The pale grass, gasping faintly in the sun.

I shall be dead, long, long ere day is done,

That you may say: ‘The air, to-day, was sweet.’

I am the mown grass, dying at your feet.”

(Margaret Gilman Davidson, American poet)

            If there is one thing I still hate about having property, it is cutting the grass. There is almost nothing else that I despise as much. There are reasons for my disdain. As a boy, my main source of income was mowing other people’s lawns. It was not a lifestyle choice. The chore was often divided. Some grass I cut for free and the rest I charged for the service. I hated raking it up almost as much. I used to dread Saturday mornings as the Church grass loomed. I never saw a penny. Saturday afternoon brought more of the same. This time I saw a profit. This type of income was my main source in the procurement of comic books. Every blade of grass, every weed, meant another page, another title to my collection. It was worth it to earn every penny. I gathered quite the stash and this set me on a lifelong love affair. Whether it was the little old ladies who lived down a lane, or my late Aunt Edna, it was little work for that much money but it seemed tailored to my angst about it. I remember cutting so much grass that I thought my name was John Deere until I turned twenty-three years old. As I left my youth, I actually thought I could escape it. It’s always easier said than it is to be done. Responsibility sucks especially if you hate something about it. I have rarely lived where the grass did grow but the places where it did were like thorns in my side. These days, I don’t think about this task. For many years, my partner Ben has done the dirty deed. I don’t have to think about it, focus on it, I don’t have to worry about it at all. Always mowing the grass is one of my favourite things about him. He can even change the bag on his own. At times, the life of a homeowner can seem more punishment than reward. I don’t have to concern myself, at least not with cutting the lawn. It might be a small joy, my exemption, with little of any thing but anything at all. Finally, it has become someone else’s chore.

“I could happily lean on a gate all the livelong day, chatting to passers-by about the wind and the rain. I do a lot of gate-leaning while I am supposed to be gardening; instead of hoeing, I lean on the gate, stare at the vegetable beds and ponder.”

(Tom Hodgkinson, British writer)

             Approximately one month after we relocated to Paris, my neighbour Barbara

set up house on the lot next to ours. I liked her right away. She is a dichotomy, at least how I see her. A little cranky, a little kooky, a little soft and a little hard. I appreciate women who can take care of themselves, whether with a man or without one. Barb seems to have done just fine, in spite of whatever circumstance found her alone once again. Although it took some time for us to warm up to each other, it was not a difficult matter. We worked right away and only needed time to discover more. Things got way better when her daughter Sam moved in. She is like almost every woman I have ever been friends with. Her carefree demeanour hides a softness I’m not sure many people have seen. She is warm and friendly and well travelled. I can get a little jealous of the freedom she still has. It’s not that I wish my life was different, it’s just that I would rather live it in the real Paris, or somewhere else beyond my hand. The pair of them have only added to a lovely out of doors. I look forward to seeing them. I like chatting with them both.  They make the front yard a charming space. I think we have actually become friends. One day, not so long ago, the girls adopted Oscar, a black purebred dachshund. I took to the puppy like he was my own. The time I spend with him is enchanting to say the least. On a regular afternoon, you can find him barking at my front door, craving the chicken liver treats I keep around just for him. He has become, in a true sense, part of the landscape around our home. His bark is enthralling rather than annoying. He is a pretty little thing and he most certainly knows it. His long black coat is soft like silk would be. His appearance is regal if you ask me. He is everything that anyone could want in a dog, at least from a short-legged little rascal like Mister Oscar. I look forward to the brief but lovely moments that we share. I would take him as my own if I could. His presence in my daily life has made me want to get a dog of my own. It has been well over a decade since we had to put Skippy down, a decision we often question out of guilt and remorse. It may seem like it is time again but with two cats, the chance of it happening anytime soon is fleeting at best. I would take Oscar in a heartbeat. Perhaps when one of the cats passes we might entertain the idea but until then, I will live vicariously through my buddy from next door.

“Negative feelings are like stray cats.

The more you feed them, the more they hang around.”

(Sister Joyce Rupp, American author)

            Long before the bird feeders went up and Oscar moved in next door, stray cat strutting was a daily theme in the theatre that has become my backyard. Since the first day we moved here, cat after cat has been stalking critter after critter. This unending parade of feline invaders was a constant distraction. I spent so much time chasing them away, I might as well have been a cat. As the landscape changed and evolved, touches were added to shape the backyard. These shifts in the green space only added greater places for the cats to hide. There were numerous strays and a few domesticated. It seemed that every day some new monster appeared, trying to disrupt my sanctuary. The worst offenders were actually the pets of my then next door neighbour. The two were a nasty pair. I cannot tell you how many burials I have had to endure because of their natural inclinations. The most disgusting issue with the cats from next door was how they disposed of the body. Whether a dozen Junkos out back or the chipmunks in the side yard, one body after another was found headless with the guts sucked out of it. For over a year, “Jack the Catnipper” roamed free about the neighbourhood. I don’t know how many creatures were devoured by the beast but the carcass total was more than two dozen. It was carnage. When we learned that our neighbours were moving to England, my first thought was whether they were taking their cats. I waited with bated breath for the news. As much as I would miss my friends, the idea of not having to kill the furry fuckers was quite appealing. Not that I would have done it but sometimes it helped to think that I could have. The world has changed since the departure. The grounds are overrun with birds and squirrels and chipmunks. Somehow the strays have learned to stay away or at least something has made them. Since the warmer weather, the doves have returned, the chipmunks are back and the world in the garden is safe once again. It is a peaceful place by all accounts. Life is better without all that pussy and I am unanimous in that.  

“In search of my mother’s garden, I found my own.“

(Alice Walker, American author)

            When my first partner died, the plot he was buried in sat alone with few neighbours. Twenty-five years later and there is little room left in the area for anyone else. The cemetery has filled in like a conga line. Almost immediately after the burial, a marker was ordered and when it arrived, I began to tend to the garden space around his headstone. Unfamiliar with the art of design, I covered the area with almost any plant I could find. It was overflowing and unorganized. Initially, I even used a trellis, just to the right side of the stone. It was covered from head to toe with Morning Glories. It was all just a little too much. I think, in a sense, my attempts at mandating beauty turned tacky and inferior. I was clearly overcompensating so I let it all go to seed. Eventually, the Lilly of the Valley that I planted in year one strangled out anything that would have grown on its own. I had to find a way to keep it all in. I took flagstone from my “in-laws’” property and created a rock border around the marker. It has rounded the edge ever since. When we moved to Paris, I decided the garden beds needed a border, badly. The myrtle that is so abundant throughout the yards was already growing over and into the grass on the front lawn. I had to confine it somehow. I decided, I was inspired, to create the same look that I had at the cemetery in Stratford. If the edging could keep Lilly of the Valley at bay then some measly groundcover would not be a challenge whatsoever. Although the flagstone was no longer available from Ben’s parents, I drove around for a few weeks comparing prices on the amount I needed. Soon enough, it piled up on the front deck like dominos. I started slowly, rounded the path and kept on going up to the back entrance. I only took a few weeks and the stage was set. I believe that the combination of the flagstone border, a pond of myrtle, grasses, and more grasses, plus black-eyed Susans, wild daisies and several fully developed types of lilies, make what now stands in the front garden look more like a swamp than anything else. It is organized chaos, overgrown exactly as I planned it to be. The large heron I place as the centrepiece creates the illusion of water, and riverbank and fowl. I guess there is a magic to working with stone and rock. You can’t really mould them to anything but the shape they came as. You have to work with their limitations. If you discern, like putting together a puzzle, the unshapeable becomes the very thing that ends up holding it all together. Every time I look out over the little piece of land that we own, I see old beauty and new beauty and beauty that is to come. It has become an otherland at times, but more refuge than escape. Even the stones that surround our parameter are silent whispers of another place and another time and of the man I used to be.

“When I go into the garden, I forget everything. It’s uncomplicated in my world of gardening. It’s trial and error, really. If something doesn’t work, it comes out, and you start all over again.” (Emilia Fox, English actress)

            I used to dream of faraway places where the space was quiet and still and gave me much needed rest. I would imagine warm beaches or mountain trails, always thinking they would settle me and lead me to a peaceful place. Most people seem to want the same thing, somewhere to go that you can call your own. They want sanctuary from the stress of the world. It’s too bad we always dream of someplace else. If only where we are would mean as much. I am a fortunate man. I don’t need to head to Maui or Rome to find it. I can go out the front door or walk out the back, that’s about all I have to do these days. Even in the roughest stretch, it is there for me to run away to. It has literally become an otherland. I have come to need it, to find what my parents found during all the years of their toiling. After all, we are all entitled to a little green peace.

“Little things seem nothing, but they give peace, like those meadow flowers which individually seem odourless but all together perfume the air.”

(Georges Bernanos, French author)

Photo

Summer 2016

Paris, Ontario

Damaged Goods

“We all bleed the same

We’re more beautiful when we come together

We all bleed the same

So tell me why, tell me why

We’re divided”

(Bleed, Mandisa 2017)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HVKuA1s5I3o

            I had no idea when I was young just how difficult life would turn out to be for me. When I was a kid, I thought, I believed that everything would always be okay and that God, with all His mercy, would look after me. While these ideas may not be actual lies that I told myself, they pretty much hold the same validation. God does not assist us. He may guide us but the course is mostly in our head. I have had the opportunity to challenge my beliefs, something most other people don’t have the luxury of doing. Despite the challenges that have met me on the way, I have had a much easier life than most people. Yes, I know tragedy and have experienced physical pain beyond comprehension. I have struggled and I have lost. I am still standing but I’m pretty sure that life is easier for a white boy. It’s just too bad I’m also a homosexual or I really would have been set. I am told that life is better as a breeder. Granted, I have never once in my entire life been called a faggot by anyone. When people see me they wonder for their safety, not whether I am a top or a bottom. I’m only stereotypical in private and even then it is mostly for my very own amusement. The most important thing I have learned along the way is not necessarily that we should be kind. Although this rule is significant and should be followed, there is something more important to remember. I try to put myself in the shoes of the people I am exposed to. I tend to take the time. It’s easy to be kind to someone when you understand that the same way you are feeling is usually the same way everyone else is feeling. All the pain and all the chaos are the same for everyone but the circumstances are different. Instead, we do not tolerate each other. We seem to function on apathy these days. We don’t see that there but for the grace of God go all of us. It’s no surprise that this can be easier said than done. I too am limited as a human being so I can only do my best. Sometimes my best isn’t good enough and I fail horribly. I do what I always do. I pick myself up, I dust me all off and I start over once again.

“I believe that stories are incredibly important, possibly in ways we don’t understand, in allowing us to make sense of our lives, in allowing us to escape our lives, in giving us empathy and in creating the world that we live in.” (Neil Gaiman, English author)

            When Robert was a child, he slowly watched his mother dying in a hospital bed. For four long months, his innocent life suffered at the hands of a cruel world. This was the beginning of a slippery slope. After the death of his mother, Robert’s father showed his true colours and abandoned him to foster care. Robert never saw him again. What once seemed like a happy life now only seemed darker, as if it had somehow been corrupted.  There was not much sun in the little boy’s sky. He was always such a troubled lad. As the years of bouncing from guardian to guardian went on for much too long, Robert got lost in the rejection and eventually turned to injection. He grew cold and callous. It was all about the escape and protecting himself from becoming a casualty. In his teen years, he went from being angry all the time to crime. He would steal anything just to get a fix. His flavour was heroin. He was fifteen the first time he met a needle. The evasion was so much more than he expected. This otherland was the very best place. By the time he reached twenty-one, Robert looked like he was forty. His entire existence was at the end of a prick. His teen years had fallen away and he couldn’t even remember most of them. Life was a blur. Life was the buzz. If not for his friends, he would have been on the streets. He woke up one day face down in his own vomit. The paramedics came and they took Robert away. For 28 days, they forced him to get better. No matter what they said, he would not let go of the hatred and all the bitter. It ate him alive, or at least it seemed to. When his sentence had been served, and they finally let him go, he went right back to the life he had come to know. It was too hard for him without the drugs. He couldn’t function, at least not to some standard of human decency. I do not know what ever happened to him. He is as lost to me as he was to himself. I hope that he is somewhere safe rather than the stronger possibility. I am not sure anyone could have survived that kind of lifestyle. The very last time I saw him, we sat talking on my couch. I asked him what he wanted from life. I felt for him as he walked away without saying a word. I remember thinking to myself that he looked more like a concentration camp survivor than the friend I once knew. Speaking from experience, I understand addiction and what it feels like to stick yourself full of junk on an hourly basis. I can only suppose what the world looks like through his eyes, if he is still somehow with us. I hope that he is and that he has found the peace that once was so elusive. I have tried to picture him better. I try to imagine it but I am not convinced.

“Empathy is really the opposite of spiritual meanness. It’s the capacity to

understand that every war is both won and lost. And that someone else’s pain is

as meaningful as your own.” (Barbara Kingsolver, American essayist)

            She was not what people expected. She seemed quiet at first, the silence and the space offered were the best things she could grant to other people. Calling her a bitch could seem quite redundant. She knew what she was and she didn’t care. She had trouble with relationships. Not only did she not understand people, she never tried to. She liked being alienated from everyone, including herself. She never got close to anyone. Try as she may, she just could not push others as far away as she wished she could. She was alone by her own making and unhappy at her own hands. She didn’t feel, at least she tried not to. In private, she was sorrow and sadness and invisible tears. She came to this place, she was not planted here. It was hard to feel for her. I didn’t know that she lost both her parents to the whims of a drunk driver. I didn’t know she was raped when she was twelve. It never occurred to me that she might have valid reasons for being the way she was. It didn’t really matter, she was just miserable and everyone around her knew it. I tried to be understanding, to empathize with whatever experiences had set her on her course. It was hard, month after month, to not exclude her from any kind of social gathering. We worked together for over two years and I cannot recall ever seeing her smile or laugh, not even a giggle. A few months before I left to work in Radio, we sat beside each other at a convention for media specialists. I didn’t know it at the time but we both grew up in North York, part of greater Toronto. We got along the entire day, at least I thought we did. After dinner together, we started to consume scotch like it was apple juice. We ended up in the hotel lobby talking for almost all of the night. I let her into my world and she seemed to let me into hers. It could have been a friendship in the earliest of stages. Understanding some of her history made it so much easier for me to put myself in her shoes. What she claimed somehow filtered past my own reservations and allowed me some insight, some clarity and a moment to comprehend. It was strictly on a limited basis. Come Monday morning and things went right back to normal. For all the sharing, for all that artificial closeness, it turns out she was exactly what everyone thought she was. It was like I wasn’t even in the room. I get it. It’s hard for some people to feel almost anything at all. We are broken and quite often unable to recover. We become damaged goods. I haven’t seen that woman since I left to live in Toronto with my first partner. I have no idea where she is or if she is doing alright. I’m not sure if she is even alive. If somehow she does still exist, I can only assume she is probably consistent. I have little doubt that she is still a bitch.

“If your emotional abilities aren’t in hand, if you don’t have self-awareness, if you are not able to manage your distressing emotions, if you can’t have empathy and have effective relationships, then no matter how smart you are, you are not going to get very far.” (Daniel Goleman, American author)

            I was twenty years old when I sinned against God and His Church. I didn’t know that I was doing so, at the time, but that has always meant little to the God of my salvation. I didn’t know he was a minister when I had sex with him. I did not ask and he did not say. He neglected to mention anything but his need. I did not know he had a wife and several children. I discovered the truth when I walked into his Church a few weeks later. I was visiting friends in London, Ontario when they suggested I attend a service. I was much into theology and enjoyed church-hopping despite being an abomination. I don’t think he saw me swimming in the congregation. He lingered up at the front like some holy man, even though his proclivities would beg to differ. It was not really an issue for me that he stood there claiming to be a man of God. Even a guru will get an erection. It was his spouse and his offspring that put a bad taste in my mouth (so to speak). My friend pointed them out, sitting in the front pew, while he dangled the Lord Jesus over their heads. This was the ultimate hypocrisy for me. His sermon that Sunday morning was apropos. He preached about the absence of forgiveness and the struggle people have with accepting God’s, a love which seemed irrelevant as we had sex a few weeks before. It was hard not to be angry. It was all I could do not to stand up and yell, “He swallows!” I kept looking at the back of his wife’s head wondering if she knew anything about it. All his ranting and raving, all his empowering us with the love of Jesus seemed artificial in light of his true inclinations. He might as well have cheated on his wife with another woman, not that it mattered. It wasn’t about homosexuality, it was about conviction. I ended up feeling sorry for him. I thought about all the trouble I had with being gay and what he must be going through in spite of his man-made divinity. It was difficult for me to understand his position at the time. Hindsight does grant one a clearer vision. Every time I walk or drive past the place, I notice his name is still on the marquee out front. It is still a Baptist Church and he still manages the reigns. I cannot imagine what it must be like for him. I cannot fathom the conflict he must maintain within himself. Most gay people know what it means to hide. We mostly do it out of survival rather than shame. I thought the days of having to hide who you truly are, every day of your life, were over.

“Look at Christ, my dear friend: His life was divine through and through,

full of self-denial, and He did everything for mankind, finding His satisfaction

and His delight in the dissolution of His material being.”

(Mikhail Bakunin, Russian founder of collectivist anarchism)

            Earl is an ignorant pig. His whole life he has been reckless and had an inappropriate disregard for people in general. He is misogynistic, racist and homophobic. At least that is how he seemed when I met him. My friends warned me that someone nasty lurked about on the other side of their property. He looked the part, at least the part of Georgia that he crawled out of.  He played the part. His nasty disposition only worsens as one gets closer. He puts Duck Dynasty to shame, and not just because of his appearance. Granted, it’s not like his mother lives under his bed, not that I know of. At least he doesn’t walk around with a loaded gun like many of his brethren do. Still, the longer I observed him and his lifestyle, the more I did not like him. It’s hard not to judge someone so judgmental. Our interactions with each other were brief but succinct. On the first occasion, I simply walked on his part of the grassy knoll between the two driveways. Most of that path was tree-lined, so I only fell out of step for a moment. Out of nowhere, someone screamed, “Hey faggot, get the fuck off my lawn!” The rest of my friends filled me in on it later. Although I only stayed a week, there was plenty of time to find some amusement while having my morning coffee on the front porch. One morning, he hung a Nazi Swastika out to dry on his front lawn. I don’t know if he meant to provoke but it worked. I wanted to get up and go kick the shit out of him. The least I could do was tell him off, you know, for my friends. As soon as I started to walk over to his place, he walked out, grabbed the flag and then disappeared for the rest of the day. The day before I left for home, I was sitting out back near the pool. I heard the brakes squeal and the wheels spin out and I heard it drive away. I walked around front to see what had happened. My friends joined me near the porch. Lying near the side of the road was a dog, writhing in pain and agony. Our gut reaction was to help it but before we could, Earl walked down the lane, across the street and he snapped the dog’s neck in one motion. He picked the beast up, petted its head and took it out to the back of his property and he buried it. I didn’t see him cry. He barely noticed us, not that it mattered either. I am rarely surprised by people but I was by Earl. We don’t really ever know a person, not all of them. We only ever know what they show us. I have to believe that there is good in all of us, if only in degrees. I have Earl to thank for my position. He would hate the fact that he influenced me for good but I can live with that.

“What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to

what lies within us.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson, American essayist)

            It is the life I have led that has made me empathetic. I try to write through that empathy rather than through experience. It is not always easy for me to put myself in someone else’s shoes. By the time that idea even comes up, I am usually quite angry. No matter how I try to be kind and no matter how often I stop myself from attacking, circumstance always gets on my last nerve. It’s hard not to understand why most human beings just can’t get along. We focus on our differences instead of our commonalities. It is difficult to have empathy towards every person that you know or encounter. Too much information can short out your give a shit button. You have to distinguish where this method is applicable. The easiest part of being empathetic is the ability to relate. I understand pain because I have known pain. I have been abandoned and I have lost my way, more than once. Having gone through your own life should make it easier to identify these symptoms in others. One must be careful, however. You cannot dish out empathy like it’s water. You can’t dissect every bug in the yard. You try to do your best well knowing that we all are damaged goods.

“We may not know one another but what if we treated each other

Like we were sister and brother

And say it with a kiss, no matter what it is

Put love back at the top of our list

Find a better way, to make a better day

Don’t you know, don’t you know, don’t you know that

There’ll be more happiness when we do that

Oh what a wonderful way to live”

(Say it with a Kiss, Amy Grant 2017)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oe6b6GRYjPk

Photo

https://en.paperblog.com/excuse-me-no-damaged-goods-here-222216/