Photos by the lake

Today, my son and I made our monthly trip to the lake to take pictures. It was our twentieth trip, and we haven’t missed a month. There’s something very comforting about the routine, not only of making the trip every month, but also of parking, making our way along the path past the blackberry bushes, wandering down toward the pier, walking out to the end of the pier, coming back and choosing one of the trails, and finally returning to the car. We are both people who find great comfort in routine, and yet there is sufficient change, gentle change, that it is always stimulating. Of course, the peacefulness of the setting, the lack of obligation, the opportunity to experience the exquisite and sad beauty of nature, these are certainly as important as the routine — for me, at least. I feel completely unskilled with the camera, like a small child awkwardly clutching a pencil. I see things a want to capture, but I really don’t have the ability to realize my ideas. Yet although I am inevitably disappointed by the results, the camera helps me focus my visual sense so that I am more aware of what I see, on the different scales and in the changing light. In the end, it doesn’t really matter if I capture it in a permanent way. The totality of our experiences is so ephemeral. We can’t possibly save it. Like strawberries, it has to be savoured fresh, in the moment, and in the end, even the most beautiful photograph (or memory) bears only a superficial resemblance to the original experience. So for me, the camera is more an aid to heighten my appreciation of one aspect of that experience.

The opportunity of spending time together is of course an enormous part of this routine. It’s a time when the lack of obligation and goals that must be reached tends to level out our relationship. We are companions, sharing an experience, and although our points of view certainly do overlap because of our similar termperaments, they are very different in many respects, too. We share the delight at seeing something rare or beautiful, the frustration of only catching a glimpse of something or not managing to capture it with our cameras.

Even though our trips are weeks apart, there’s a soothingness about the gradual ebb and flow of the seasons. It’s like watching trees blow in the wind — we have the illusion of being able to see the seasons. In our response to nature, there seems to be no clear line between the exquisite and the ugly. The corpse of a duckling lying next to the water, the gaudy flash of a blackbird’s wings, the patterns created by the ice on the edge of the lake, an iridescent fly cleaning itself on a dog’s turd… there is some kind of beauty in every experience, and also some kind of grotesqueness. I suppose the ideas of beauty and grotesqueness are somehow dependent on the meanings we read into these things. Do we see beauty in dead leaves because we feel that they are part of a cycle of death and renewal? And yet I have the impression that I have some kind of aesthetic sense that is very far removed from meaning. Is there meaning in a particular shape or colour or tone or melody? There doesn’t seem to be, but perhaps this is an illusion.

Religion, faith and life

Over the past number of months I have felt a rapidly growing sense of disconnectedness with my church. I’m sure this is in part connected with the fact that I have been accepting myself as a gay man, something for which I will certainly find no ‘official’ support in the church and no real support among the majority of members. But my feeling of alienation runs deeper than that. I have allowed myself to ask many uncomfortable questions that I had long avoided, to question the unquestionable. I suppose both these things are really part of the same small attempt to be more honest with myself and others.

The small denomination I grew up in could be described as fundamentalist. It places paramount importance on a set of theological propositions (“first principles”) which are seen to be the fundamental teachings of the Bible, propositions relating to the nature of God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit, angels, human beings, the devil, and salvation. It considers that all these propositions are taught in the Bible, and that acceptance of them is a requirement for inheriting eternal life.

It is a unique and unorthodox denomination in many ways. It is a lay community with no paid ministry or hierarchy of any kind, a somewhat loose association of independent congregations. Its teachings differ in many respects from those of mainstream Christianity, although most of them can be traced back to various protestant and earlier nonconformist groups.

As I have allowed myself to reexamine what I believe, what has struck me increasingly is how little emphasis there seems to be on this sort of theology in Jesus’ teaching. He seems to be completely concerned with the state of people’s hearts, their relationships with others and with God. And sadly, although over the years I have acquired quite a broad academic knowledge of the Bible, although I can quote numerous passages and engage in intelligent discussion on a wide range of subjects, truthfully I don’t feel as if I have developed a close relationship with God, nor do I manage to live the kind of loving life Jesus was calling people to live.

It almost seems as if for me (and I am speaking only for myself), this academic learning, this focus on ‘the Truth’ as a set of ‘facts’, has been a distraction rather than a help in becoming nearer to God. Perhaps this is because accepting this ‘Truth’ as a monolithic whole required me to be dishonest with myself, to bury the doubts I had about the literalness of the Bible or the nature of inspiration. As a result, I was having to play a kind of role, to appear to be something I was not, and my faith became more and more hollow.

So in parallel with the other changes in my life, I find myself having to redefine my relationship with my church and what it means to me to be a Christian. Thankfully, I don’t feel alone in this. My wife is on a very similar wavelength, and I have good friends with whom I feel free to share my thoughts. I’ve also found some great people in cyberspace whose blogs are an inspiration. Still, it’s unsettling to be drifting loose from the anchor of that simple and powerful relationship with my religious community.

Telling Mum

Last week I came out to my mother. I’d been turning around in my mind for months if and when and how I should talk to my parents. Did they really need to know about my sexuality? What difference would it make to them? Why did I feel the need to tell them — for them or for me? Would it be selfish of me to burden them with something they would just agonize over? Would they want to know?

For some time it was obvious that Mum had sensed that something was up, and was worrying. But she was afraid to ask, even when I told her some time ago that I was seeing a psychologist. Recently a friend who had been talking with her mentioned how anxious she was, and I realized that at this point, not knowing might just be worse than knowing. So I asked her to have lunch with me.

It was a brilliantly sunny day — the sort of day that makes you feel optimistic even when you have no particular reason to feel that way. We walked through the park to the restaurant, in the shade of the massive horsechestnut trees with their clusters of white and pink flowers. We chatted about all sorts of things, and I began to realize that I really hadn’t talked with my mum like this for a very long time. I think unconsciously, I’ve been gradually drawing back, distancing myself, to protect both of us.

We finished our lunch and walked back to my parents’ house. By that time, Mum had asked if I was going to tell her what was wrong, and I’d suggested we sit out in their backyard. So we sat and drank tea and I came out to my mother.

Looking back afterwards, I was struck by how easy it was. It really felt as if I was gently breaking to her something I was perfectly comfortable with, but knew would be difficult for her. It also seems, looking back, as if we were speaking across a vast intellectual and cultural gulf. In fact, I think it was the very fact that I am becoming so comfortable with being gay that made it so difficult. If I had broken down, made a tearful confession and said how much I wanted to overcome this horrible flaw in my personality, it would have been so much easier for her. As it was, she had to come to grips not only with the fact of my homosexuality but also with my refusal to accept the church’s teachings about it.

My parents have had to deal with many crises and difficult issues with their children and grandchildren over the years. I expressed to my mum how sorry I was to add to those burdens, and she confessed that she had sometimes wondered if she was being punished for something. “Or,” she said, “maybe I have some things to learn.” She is trying to have an open mind. I told her about the film Trembling before G‑d and she said she would very much like to see it. I know it’s unreasonable for me to expect her to take all this in, and make an enormous leap in her thinking, from one day to the next.

At one point, her eyes teared and she assured me that I am her son and she loves me, no matter what. And for now, I think that’s all that matters.

Shame

One of the recurring themes in this little blog is the feelings of shame I have lived with for most of my life, and my current struggle to become free of them. So recently I’ve been pondering the subject of shame: what is it? what is it for? why is it so debilitating?

It seems to me that in one sense, shame is as essential for social health as pain is for physical health. Like pain, shame is an unpleasant feeling that normally indicates to us that something has gone wrong. It is our way of internalizing other people’s attitudes toward our actions. It provides us with a powerful inhibitor for antisocial behaviour — the prospect of feeling ashamed makes us think twice before doing something socially unacceptable. In an ideal world, of course, people would be motivated purely by the positive rewards that come from acting respectfully toward others, but realistically, we seem to need the stick in addition to the carrot.

I once knew someone who suffered from chronic pain. It didn’t matter what she was doing, what position she was in — moving, standing still, sitting, lying down — she was constantly in pain. She was unable to find any medication that would relieve her suffering; drugs that were somewhat effective in dulling the pain had such terrible side effects that they were worse than useless. Normally when we feel pain, it makes us realize that we have an injury or illness we need to take care of. In her case, I suppose, the pain was indicating something, but since nothing could be done about the root cause, it was not fulfilling any real function. I believe shame can be quite similar. Sometimes, it causes needless suffering without accomplishing anything positive at all.

Sometimes shame is associated with actions. We make an offhand remark and quickly realize it has hurt someone, and we feel ashamed. Perhaps that feeling prompts us to apologize, to try to make things right. But sometimes, shame is associated with things over which we have no control. A child’s parents can’t afford to buy him the kind of clothes that will make him look fashionable, and he feels ashamed. I met an elderly lady once, a woman of colour, who powdered her face so that her complexion would not look so dark. This, it seems to me, is the kind of shame that is profoundly harmful, that festers away deep inside us, that eats away at our soul.

As a young person beginning to experience sexual feelings, I was soon faced with an impossible dilemma. Within the framework of the Christian world-view I was raised in, to accept the feelings I had toward members of my own sex as part of my nature would mean I must by nature be perverted, evil, given over to depravity. On the other hand, trying to deny these feelings, or overcome them like a bad habit, led inevitably to failure and further feelings of guilt. Shame soon became a defining part of my personality, and coloured many aspects of how I viewed myself. Gradually, I realized that I could no more change my homosexuality than I could change the colour of my skin, and I was ashamed of who I was.

In recent months, as I have begun my journey toward self-acceptance, I have found myself understanding the idea of gay pride in a way I never did before. I used think it was a rather aggressive, in-your-face approach. Why should people take special pride in being gay? Why should they flaunt their sexuality for all to see? But now, it makes perfect sense to me. In fact, it seems so obvious I can’t imagine why I couldn’t see it before. It means not being ashamed of who we are. It means taking pride in ourselves as human beings and rejecting the negative attitudes imposed on us by others.

A twenty-five-year-old wound doesn’t heal overnight, and my situation makes the process particularly challenging. But I am blessed with some amazing friends and family, and I’m hopeful that with time, I will be able to fully accept myself, and be accepted, for who I am.

Pages out of the past

Some time in April, something possesses me to look out my high school yearbooks. They sit unopened for weeks but finally, I pick them up and leaf through them for the first time in easily twenty years. There’s an eeriness about the shadowy faces, fixed in time with the same smiles or grimaces they had for that split second a quarter century ago, like distant echoes of long-silenced voices.

Memories are so elusive. They’re patchy and selective, and they’re filtered through their own futures. As I look at those faces out of my past, I experience a strange kind of double exposure effect: I see them as the faces of peers, through my adolescent self, and at the same time, I see them as those of children less than half my age. Looking at my own image, I wonder who that person really was, and what he would think of me.

When I smell the sweet, strong fragrance of guavas, I am immediately transported to a certain kitchen in a certain house in a certain town in South America. When I catch a whiff of kerosene, I instantly have the feeling that I am about to board a flight for some exotic destination. The effect of the grey images staring out at me from the pages of the yearbook is less overwhelming, but it is similar. They bring back snippets of long-forgotten memory: places, sounds, situations. Some faces bring back swirls of emotion: awakening desire, curiosity, confusion, guilt.

I begin to remember the repeated resolutions to avert my eyes, to avoid the unspeakable thoughts and feelings that plague my mind. Again and again my determination falters and I am carried away by the tide of my senses.

I begin to remember the constant, painful dissonance between the models I must conform to and the reality of the person I am deep inside — the despair of realizing that not only will I never be what my peers demand, but I am also failing to be what my family expects. Like the leper king, I must never be seen without my mask, and in my private moments I must be appalled at the monstrosity that stares out at me from the mirror.

I begin to remember the hollow feeling of being completely, hopelessly alone, of walking through the world in a kind of fog of aloneness.

I want to go back and talk to that earlier self, tell him everything will be alright. But I know it won’t be. There’s nothing I can say to him that will make things alright. He isn’t ready to hear what I have to say to him. And yet, perhaps just one word of reassurance, one understanding ear, one safe place where he can say the truth out loud — perhaps that would make a difference. I’ll never know. For him, it’s too late.

May walk

walking down quiet suburban streets
arm in arm
past neat gardens
and tidy lawns
here a woman pulls up weeds
there a man varnishes a fence
spring colours are muted
spring scents are dulled
the breeze is not bracing
but numbing
the sun is fickle
now warm and caressing
now distant and cool
our silence is not uncomfortable
nor is it companiable
it lies between us like an ocean
the ocean of my incapacity
the ocean of my authenticity

Everything reminds me of…

After holding something in for twenty-five years, now that I have finally let go, it should come as no surprise when it gushes out in endless torrents and cascades. But the fact that it may be understandable doesn’t stop a voice inside me from whispering, “will you stop obsessing… just get over it… move on already…” Of course, a more charitable voice will sometimes come to my defence: “this is a necessary process… give yourself time to heal and adjust…”

Often I feel as if I am emotionally and intellectually chasing my tail — repeatedly going through the same cycle of emotions, the same thought processes, the same inner dialogue. Perhaps this is an inevitable (or at least valid) part of the journey toward some kind of peace. Hopefully, in spite of appearances, I am actually making some kind of progress.

I suppose many people, for one reason or another, go through a phase of reassessment when they reach midlife. It seems natural to take stock of the first half of your life, take satisfaction in your successes, be thankful for the gifts that have enriched your life, come to terms with unfulfilled hopes, check your bearings to see whether you’re headed in the right direction. And when you realize that for decades you have been living with a deep wound that has never healed, I suppose it’s only natural to obsess a little. After all, it only takes a tiny paper cut, and suddenly all you can think about is your little finger.