Paysage choisi

Worlds in collision

2006-12-31T17:47:00.000-08:00

Yet again I’ve allowed a number of weeks to pass without posting anything. There’s been a lot happening in my life, but I don’t seem to have had (or taken) the time to digest it all, much less write about it.

As I look back over the past year, it’s a little overwhelming to contemplate how much things have changed for me. Twelve months ago I was contemplating with great trepidation the possibility of talking with one or two close friends about my sexuality and the challenges I had faced as a result of it. I was starting to have some sense that I could be loved and accepted by God as a gay man (although I wouldn’t have put it that way), and as a result, I was feeling more alienated than ever from my church. Apart from my therapist, I didn’t know a single gay person. Now, I am out to most of my friends and family; I have embarked on a spiritual journey toward something I can wholeheartedly and honestly embrace and believe in; and I have begun to meet and make friends with other gay men and women.

One of my favourite blogs is Two World Collision. Eric’s postings are always thoughtful and thought-provoking, and they often resonate very strongly with me. He has a wonderful way of drawing his readers in with his generous openness and honesty. And he links to a rich range of sites that run the gamut of views and experiences. Eric’s two worlds are his Christian faith and his sexuality. When he began his blog, he was trying to come to his own understanding as to how — or even whether — they could be reconciled. Now, a year and half later, he seems to be much more at peace with these two parts of his identity.

I am experiencing my own two-world collision, but it’s different from Eric’s. Although there are many aspects of my faith that I am reevaluating and questioning, I have no doubt about the compatibility of my sexual identity with my relationship with God. My colliding worlds are my sexuality and my marriage.

During my journey over the past year, my wife has given me unwaivering support and encouragement. She has comforted me when I’ve been down, listened when I needed to talk, always been ready to come to my defence, and shown more understanding than I could have imagined possible. And she has shared her own feelings with me. In many ways, we are closer and our relationship is stronger now than ever before. Yet paradoxically, the more she has helped and encouraged me to embrace my true identity, the more problematic our relationship has become.

Obviously, this is nothing new; in fact, my first posting written last April addresses the same question. So I suppose, along with all the change, some things have remained the same… or rather intensified. As we begin a new year, I pray that over the coming months we will be able to find a path that allows both of us, and our children, to thrive and grow as human beings and children of God.

Marie Antoinette and Romeo & Juliet

2006-11-16T00:04:00.000-08:00

My daughter expressed an interest in seeing the movie Marie Antoinette, and since I almost always enjoy a period film, and it showed every sign of having some kind of educational value (that’s me — the fun parent!), I was happy to oblige. Besides, my son is studying the French Revolution at school at the moment, so it was quite opportune.

Of course, it’s a movie that has plenty of appeal on a purely aesthetic level: the beautiful shots of Versailles, including its opulent interiors, the spectacular — and, from our perspective, laughably eccentric — costumes, the lavish tables. The soundtrack is wonderfully eclectic with a good dose of anachronisms thrown in with the baroque fare. I found that these, along with Kirsten Dunst’s approach to the role, make it easy for the North American audience to identify with the character. We see her as a whole person — — one who faced her own heartache, and who showed remarkable inner strength in the face of enormous challenges. We see the world through her eyes, and it is not until the end of the film that we see one or two very short glimpses of the commoners who made up the vast majority of France’s population. Otherwise, like Marie Antoinette, we are spared the images of backbreaking toil, inadequate housing, starvation, and disease. As I watched Marie Antoinette shopping for shoes and fabric during her excursions to Paris, or consulting with her perruquier about the design of her next wig, or fastening a bejewelled collar on one of her puppies, I couldn’t help but think that this American-accented dauphine would be easy for many a contemporary material girl to relate to. And I began to realize that the privileged North is not so very different from the Bourbons cloistered away in Versailles enjoying their prodigal lifestyle, completely out of touch with the realities that face the majority who must pay for it.

When the movie was over, my daughter asked, “Why did everyone hate her so much?” Yes, I thought. This is awfully close to home.

Last night, my wife, our friend Maria and I had a very different entertainment experience. We went to a play put on by a small cooperative company at a tiny theatre with seating for no more than 60. It was an adaptation of Romeo and Juliet by Joe Colarco called Shakespeare’s R&J. In a repressive Catholic school, four boys secretly discover Shakespeare’s text and enact it, taking the various roles in turn. It’s a fascinating take on the classic, layering the relationships between the boys on top of the roles they are playing, as they explore feelings of guilt, shame, love and jealousy. I’m no theatre critic, but I found the production quite wonderful. I enjoyed its spareness — two or three risers and a wire fence were the only set, and a long red cloth the only prop — which put the full spotlight on some virtuosic performances. I also liked the immediacy of the small production — being able to see the nuances of facial expressions and tears.

I had been a little apprehensive about inviting my wife and our friend along; I’d wondered if they might feel awkward watching men share a tender kiss (or if I would feel strange watching with them). But as it happened, I needn’t have worried. It was all perfectly comfortable, and they both enjoyed it as much as I did. And that was another thing that made the evening so enjoyable.

October update

2006-10-26T23:12:00.000-07:00

For the past number of weeks I just seem to have been too swamped with work and other activities to settle down to doing any writing. There’s been so much since my last posting, and I wish I had time to reflect and digest more. But rather than remain completely silent, I’ve decided I should at least jot down some of the things that have been happening in my life.

My wife and I have taken to walking for an hour every morning. It’s not only been great to add that regular activity into my appallingly sedentary life, but it’s also given us a fantastic opportunity to talk. We’re talking more and more openly, and I think with more and more understanding and acceptance. Authenticity is seeming less like a barrier and more like a way to connect.

In September, my friend Maria and I participated in the Walk for Life in support of people in this part of the world living with HIV and AIDS. It was a glorious morning: brilliant sunshine with a refreshing breeze coming off the water. The walk was around Stanley Park, so we had the shade and scent of the towering cedars on one side and the salty ocean, lavender mountains and pure blue sky on the other. The walkers were a typically diverse crowd, from white-haired seniors to babies in backpacks, from the very straight-laced to the flamboyantly unconventional, a rainbow of races, and dogs of every breed. During the two-hour walk, Maria and I talked non-stop about things spiritual and mundane. It's such a gift to have friends you can be truly authentic with.

Later in September, I decided to volunteer at the LGTB community centre in town. I had been there in August, partly to see what kinds of programs and services they were offering, and partly to see how I would feel about going in. The volunteer receptionist was just leaving, but she took the time to give me a run-down of activities at the centre. Then she mentioned that there was no one to replace her when she left that day, and said, “You should think about volunteering.” Although at the time I discounted the idea immediately, it must have stuck in my subconscious, because late last month I was back talking to the volunteer coordinator. It’s an opportunity for me to get outside the narrow confines of my one-person office, meet and hopefully help people. So far I’ve really enjoyed getting to know the woman who’s been showing me the ropes.

Earlier this week, I came out to my dad. My mum had been trying to persuade me not to, so I’d felt the need to wait until she seemed to have some understanding of why I had to do it. I’m so thankful my wife and friends are so understanding and empathetic, because with my parents, I feel the need to have all the understanding and empathy. I do feel for them. For decades, they have been sheltered from what for them is a painful truth, so I can imagine how difficult it is for them. On the other hand, I also can’t help but think – or at least hope – that if one of my children had been carrying something like this for such a long time, I would want to reach out to them and try to understand what they had been through. My dad’s predictably emotionless response was to ask me if I was aware of “reparative therapy”, and quiz me on my understanding of Bible teaching about homosexuality. At least I expected nothing different. I suppose I am coming close to accepting him for who he is, although it still hurts a little. Perhaps, in time, that is how my parents will feel about me.

Bible camp

2006-09-04T14:48:00.000-07:00

I spent the last week of summer with my family at the annual bible camp we have been going to for a number of years now. It’s become a highlight of the year, providing a final opportunity for summer relaxation with people I’ve felt quite comfortable with. The atmosphere is very different from most church functions — no dress codes, no putting on the church persona, just real people being refreshingly authentic. Lots of spontaneous drumming, and this year a band from England playing great contemporary music. Far from the usual fare with our excruciatingly conservative lot.

The setting is stunningly beautiful, surrounded by tall temperate rainforest and next to a clear mountain lake where bald eagles and osprey dive for fish. My wife and I started each morning with a 30-45 minute walk, which gave us precious time to connect and talk about what was on our minds.

Sunrise over Shawnigan Lake

It was a strange mix for me this year. I have not been to church for a number of weeks now. I have been coming to the realization that that is the only way I can hope to salvage what is left of my faith. Still, I was looking forward to going to the camp and connecting with people I only see once or twice a year, people with whom I feel a special affinity that runs deeper than denomination or religious practice. And in that respect, I wasn’t disappointed. I had some great conversations that inspired me and gave me real hope. I came away with a renewed sense of optimism and opportunity.

Yet at the same time, I felt more alienated than ever. It seemed clearer than ever to me that the mainstream of my community will never be able to accept me and others like me for who we are, or even accept women as truly equal before God. After one of the kids’ classes, I bumped into my niece who exclaimed, “Auntie E’s class was so powerful!” I decided this was feedback the teacher needed to hear, so I went to let her know and thank her for her work. She said how ready the kids were at that age to tackle real life issues — like homosexuality, for example. It was so important, she said, to get the message through early, because once they get to secondary school all they hear is “tolerate, tolerate, tolerate”. I wished I could have pursued the conversation in a context where I could speak freely, but unfortunately E was working like a Trojan throughout the week and there was no opportunity to do so.

I vacillate between feeling that if only people could see us a real people, people they already know and respect, their attitudes might change — and feeling that they would just draw away in fear and hatred.

I was able to come out to another great friend, who not unexpectedly brimmed over with empathy and compassion. Being out to more and more people is amazing. I really had no idea what a tremendous difference it would make to my sense of myself. Thankfully, I have some incredible friends who have made it easier than I could have imagined. So far. Because always lurking in the back of my mind is the likelihood that when I stop carefully choosing, or when word gets around, being out may be a lot less comfortable for a while.

July silence

2006-07-26T20:54:00.000-07:00

I've taken a break from blogs and blogging for the past few weeks. Perhaps I just needed to get a fresh perspective, or perhaps I was just feeling lazy. I have a couple of postings brewing, but in the mean time, here are some quotes, from books I've been reading, that for one reason or another struck a chord.

“it sometimes happens that when one acts quickly and with great resolve, all the indecisiveness and doubt comes afterwards, when it is too late.” (Susanna Clarke, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell)

“He began to have the strangest feeling […] the feeling that something was coming to an end and that all his choices had now been made. He had taken a road in his youth, but the road did not lead where he had supposed; he was going home, but home had become something monstrous.” (Susanna Clarke, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell)

“The captain and sailors sat in the front pews.

All were men with blood on their hands; yet all gazed longingly at the milk-white body of Our Dying Lord, identifying His Agony with their agony and calling on Him to pacify the sea.

The priest said a short prayer to the Patron of Slavers, St José the Redeemed, and a longer one for the souls of the Black Brethren who would be ransomed for the Christian fold.” (Bruce Chatwin, The Viceroy of Ouidah)

The World Cup

2006-06-24T22:48:00.000-07:00

In 1990 my wife and I were living in a small tropical island country far from home. That was where we caught World Cup fever for the first time. The country didn't have a team in the tournament, and with its population of only a million, it probably never will. But when the World Cup began, nobody talked about anything else. When there was a match on, the streets were deserted. Friends were an hour late for a dinner invitation, and finally showed up with their TV, since we didn't have one.

We knew nothing about soccer (football), but we quickly learned, and discovered how riveting the game can be when played by top-knotch players at the international level. We soon had our favourite teams (the underdog Cameroon sticks in my mind) and stars.

Since then, when the World Cup comes around it's a time of nostalgia and excitement. North America seems to be one of the few places in the world where people don't take much of an interest, and most of our friends think we're nuts. They roll their eyes when we rush home to see a game, or lament because a favourite team was eliminated, or go off our brains about the terrible officiating. But in a way, that just adds to the fun. It's our own excuse to share a little craziness once every four years.

Trinidad and Tobago's goalkeeper Shaka Hislop

Portugal's Francisco Costinha, Nuno Gomes, Cristiano Ronaldo and Luis Figo
Saudi Arabia's Yasser al-Kahtani
Togo's Mohamed Kader Coudjaba and Emmanuel Adebayor celebrate a goal Switzerland's Alexander Frei and Tranquillo Barnetta share a hug
Mexico's Rafael Marquez
Brazil's Ronaldinho gives Japan's Hidetoshi Nakata a taste of his fancy footwork
France's Thierry HenryHe wears a suit well, too

Fatherhood

2006-06-19T00:25:00.000-07:00

On Friday, we celebrated my son’s fourteenth birthday. Fourteen years since I watched my very premature son delivered by Caesarian section (as I was – “we weren’t born, we were surgically removed,” we joke). He weighed 740 grams (1 lb, 10 oz). The first time I held him, when he was five days old, it felt as if I was just holding the towel he was wrapped in. Now he’s a great tall lad, with a baritone voice, who goes snowboarding.

My daughter will soon be twelve and she too seems far too grown up, trading clothes with my wife and monopolizing the telephone to chat with her friends.

Today I’ve been contemplating what a blessing fatherhood has been. Each of my children has enriched my life in so many unique ways. They could not be more different from each other, and if ever I thought there was a single right way to raise a child, I quickly learned from them that there are as many right ways as there are children. I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to spend a lot of time with both of them from the time they were babies. I have been able to watch them grow and take delight in each new discovery and accomplishment, and share in the frustrations and pain as well.

Even though they are so different, my son and daughter are remarkable mirrors of both their parents in various ways. This helps us understand each other, but can also be rather unsettling when we see our own faults and foibles reflected back at us. Sometimes as I take them to task, I feel as if I’m talking as much to myself as I am to them.

When my son was three, I shaved off my beard for the first time since before he was born. For quite some time, he refused to acknowledge me, and insisted to my wife, “That’s not Papa.” Finally, he agreed to compromise and refer to me as “Papa-without-a-beard”.

I couldn’t help but wonder, as we marked my son’s birthday, what our relationship will be like this time next year. My wife and I agree that it’s important for me to let our children know their dad is gay, and that it will be easier for them if we let them know sooner rather than later. I feel quite confident that they will take this revelation in their stride and that it will help them grow and strengthen our relationship. But naturally, there are nagging worries. Will they see me differently? Will I be forcing them to carry an extra burden they shouldn’t have to bear?

Looking back, looking forward

2006-06-10T19:43:00.000-07:00

Late last year, after years of procrastination, I started seeing a psychologist. At the beginning of that experience, I wrote the following journal entry:

I suppose I am “in therapy”, whatever that means. Well, it means I have had one session with a psychologist and have another scheduled for this week. I’m really not sure what I think about this. At the first session, I obviously simply attempted to explain to the psychologist who I am and why I feel the need to talk to him. And he attempted to understand, and briefly outlined his own background and point of view. I feel quite uncertain about what these sessions can accomplish, because in many respects, I will be as much of a puzzle to him as I would be (and am) to those in my own community. So in some way, this could well serve to heighten my sense of aloneness. And yet somehow I feel the need to talk to someone who is well outside my own culture and even beliefs. Perhaps this is simply because I want to be heard without being judged. I want to be ungagged in a setting where I don’t need to be afraid. Not that I am completely unafraid in this setting. What am I afraid of? Strangely, I’m afraid of upsetting the delicate balance between my contradictory selves. I have a sense that this is already happening, but where it will lead is completely unpredictable. I know I will resist change tooth and nail. Yet my desire to be unmuzzled must be strong enough that I am willing to risk upsetting that balance.

Perhaps I see these sessions as an opportunity to say out loud, to myself, the things that have progressed from a deep, repressed place in my consciousness to my inner monologue, but for the most part no further. So in that sense I see them as providing something very much akin to my writing now. But the psychologist is not a neutral medium. I think I am afraid to face his values because this will force me to shine an intrusive light on my own. I am looking (as always) for comfort — relief from the muzzle — but I am liable to find something far from comfortable.

Am I liable to learn anything about myself (or the world) that I did not already know? Perhaps, but I’m not betting on it. At the moment, it feels as if seeing the psychologist is part of a pattern of acceptance (resignation?) that began very long ago but has built up momentum over the past months. So I suppose in that sense that delicate balance is inevitably changing. But I can’t imagine what the end result might be. That I certainly find terrifying.

When I read this now, I am struck by how much my perspective has changed in that short time. True, I still feel as if I am on a journey toward an unknown destination. Yet in many respects, the way does seem clearer.

Yesterday, for the sixth time I told someone that I am gay. Now this may not seem like a very impressive milestone. On the other hand when I wrote that journal entry a few months ago, the thought of telling anyone was enough to make me break into a cold sweat.

I think being able to talk openly with those few people has made an enormous difference in my view of myself. I had certainly begun to accept my sexuality as something I couldn’t change, and even as something I didn’t need to change. But each time I told this to others, I was able to tell myself again too. And each time they reacted with acceptance and understanding, my self-acceptance was strengthened. As a result, I feel as if little by little, the wall between my contradictory selves is coming down.

So whatever the new equilibrium I find looks like, whatever way I find to reconcile the contradictions in my life, I feel increasingly certain that openness will be a key part of it: openness about who I am, what I believe, and the challenges I face.

Remembering Grandpa

2006-06-04T20:30:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was listening to a recording of Grieg piano pieces I hadn’t played for a while. Hearing the opening bars of “To Spring”, I suddenly remembered that that had been a favourite of my grandfather’s.

My grandfather came to Canada from England, with his parents and older sister, at the age of three. They crossed the Atlantic early in 1912, weeks before the Titanic’s fateful maiden voyage. They settled in a remote little town out west where my great grandfather was to work on the railway, but he was soon shipped back to Europe where he experienced the horror of trench warfare between 1914 and 1918. After the war, they were resettled in a larger centre, where my grandfather would grow up and spend the rest of his life. He met and married my grandmother when he was in his thirties, and Mum was their only child.

Grandpa was a mild-mannered, soft-spoken man and a true old-fashioned gentleman, always to be seen wearing a suit and tie, and never without his fedora. He had what I imagined to be a rather tedious job at the post office, but he was fascinated with just about every aspect of life, and was always quoting some interesting fact he’d gleaned while reading, or reciting passages from Shakespeare or the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. He loved to travel, and after his retirement, when he and my grandmother weren’t away, they were planning their next big trip.

From as early as I can remember, Grandpa was my favourite grandparent. He always took a genuine interest in us kids and spent lots of time with us, teaching us to play chess or card games, telling jokes, playing charades. He took great pride in all our accomplishments and always encouraged us in our interests. It was often remarked that I took after my grandfather in various ways, and I certainly did seem to share his temperament and his love of language and music.

When I was a teenager, I was surprised to learn that in midlife, my grandfather had had a mental breakdown, and had spent quite some time in hospital as a result. At his request, he’d been given electroshock therapy at a time when it was falling out of favour with psychiatrists. As he approached old age, Grandpa began to experience emotional problems again. He became increasingly agoraphobic, and eventually virtually cut himself off from everyone but close family.

Little was ever said about what prompted these episodes; Mum just said he’s been troubled by experiences he’d had as a young man. But recently, she confided to my wife that he had had doubts about his sexuality, that he’d “questioned whether he was a real man”. Grandpa, perhaps you and I had more in common than either of us ever knew.

I’m listening to the Grieg again, and thinking about my last memory of my grandfather. I am sitting next to his hospital bed, and I’ve been reading him stories by one of his favourite authors, Stephen Leacock. He asks me about what I’ve been doing, and how the family are. I ask him about his childhood memories, and he begins to tell me how difficult things were for his parents, the contrast between Lichfield and the isolated Canadian town with no paved roads. But too soon, our visit is over. It’s time for Grandpa to go to sleep.

Paysage choisi

2006-06-03T22:36:00.000-07:00

The name of this blog comes from a poem by the 19th century French poet Paul Verlaine, which is in a collection called Fêtes galantes inspired by Watteau’s rococo paintings. Verlaine’s words have been set to music more than once, but it is Fauré’s setting that has been going through my head a lot lately. I find the themes in the poem very close to home: wearing masks, going through the motions, hiding sadness, life’s sad beauty.

Poetry is notoriously untranslatable, but I offer my humble attempt below.

Clair de Lune
Paul Verlaine

Votre âme est un paysage choisi
Que vont charmant masques et bergamasques
Jouant du luth et dansant et quasi
Tristes sous leurs déguisements fantasques.

Tout en chantant sur le mode mineur
L’amour vainqueur et la vie opportune,
Ils n’ont pas l’air de croire à leur bonheur
Et leur chanson se mêle au clair de lune,

Au calme clair de lune triste et beau,
Qui fait rêver les oiseaux dans les arbres
Et sangloter d’extase les jets d’eau,
Les grands jets d’eau sveltes parmi les marbres.

Your soul is a choice landscape
enchanted by masqueraders
strumming lutes and dancing. There’s a hint
of sadness hidden beneath their fanciful disguises:

as they sing (in a minor key)
of love triumphant and good fortune,
they hardly seem convinced of their own happiness
and their song dissolves into the moonlight,

into the tranquil moonlight, so sad and beautiful,
that sets the birds in the trees dreaming
and the fountains sobbing with ecstasy,
the tall, slender fountains among the statues.

Photos by the lake

2006-05-30T21:28:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-29T01:03:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-21T00:31:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-14T00:13:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-06T22:21:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-02T17:04:00.000-07:00

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…

2006-05-01T18:16:00.000-07:00

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.

The voluntary bondservant

2006-04-30T19:34:00.000-07:00

If you buy a Hebrew servant, he is to serve you for six years. But in the seventh year, he shall go free, without paying anything… If his master gives him a wife and she bears him sons or daughters, the woman and her children shall belong to her master, and only the man shall go free.

But if the servant declares, ‘I love my master and my wife and children and do not want to go free,’ then his master must take him before the judges. He shall take him to the door or the doorpost and pierce his ear with an awl. Then he will be his servant for life.

(Parshat Mishpatim, Exodus 21.2-6)

Like many of the laws set out in the Torah, this one has long seemed strange to me. The bondservant is forced to make what appears to be an impossible choice. If he values his freedom and wants to enjoy the reward of his years of labour, he must abandon his wife and young children. If he cannot bear to be parted from his family, he must give up his freedom for good. He is to declare that he loves his master, but suppose his love for his family is so deep that he cannot bring himself to leave them despite his master?

Is liberty to be valued even more highly than family? Or is family so precious that it is worth the price of liberty? According to Jewish tradition, the servant who gives up his freedom has chosen a human master over God, and the piercing of his ear is a sign that he has lowered himself in this way. But in the Christian tradition, the servant who devotes himself to master and family is commended and his devotion is seen as foreshadowing Jesus’ devotion to God.

Recently it occurred to me that my own situation is in some ways parallel to that of the Hebrew bondservant. In finally coming to terms with my sexuality and fully accepting myself for who I am, I have experienced a strong sense of liberation. More and more, I feel free from the oppression of shame and self-condemnation. But long before I began to approach that point, I married a wonderful woman and we had two beautiful children. So how can I reconcile my love for my family with my new-found freedom and self-acceptance? Can I fully embrace that freedom and still have my earlobe nailed to the doorpost?

Mixed marriage

2006-04-28T15:37:00.000-07:00

We had been a couple for over two years. We had flown back and forth, written enough letters to fill a room, and run up scandalously high telephone bills. She had crossed a continent and a border to be with me. Yet when we announced our engagement to her parents, after a stunned silence, her mother’s response was, “But it will be a… mixed marriage.” Little did she know.

My wife and I had both been fortunate to grow up in racially diverse, relatively tolerant communities, where children from a kaleidoscope of ethnicities, cultures and religions learned and played together, and to a large degree, saw these differences as no more important than differences in hairstyle or eye colour. We had both tended to be drawn to children from other backgrounds, and to us, ideas of racial superiority or segregation seemed as bizarre as belief in a flat earth. I can remember being dumbfounded when a tawny-skinned member of the Nation of Islam at a New York subway station shook his head at us and said, “It’s too bad people don’t know the Word.” Seeing our puzzled expressions, he added: “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to mingle the seed?”

Needless to say, there was not the same tolerance in our communities when it came to sexual diversity. Not only was there severe pressure in society at large to conform to gender-based expectations, but in our religious community, these expectations took on a moral dimension. There, any sexuality outside marriage was anathema, and homosexuality was so far beyond the pale that it hardly merited a mention. It went without saying that such a thing did not, could not exist within the church.

Having experienced the pain and dehumanization of hiding my own identity in such a hostile environment, I have become extremely wary of orthodoxies of all kinds. Clearly we need to stand up against injustice and oppression of all kinds. At the same time, I have come to believe that to a large extent, what is important is to be sure of one’s own values and to try to be true to them, while respecting and trying to understand those of others. To me it may seem quaint or odd or silly or just plain wrong that my neighbour adheres to strict dietary laws or doesn’t participate in politics or remains celibate. But so long as she isn’t trying to force me to live as she does, as we get to know each other, we can be enriched by our differences. That’s the kind of world I’m hoping for.

Coming out of the closet and staying in the house

2006-04-27T08:13:00.001-07:00

I have been inching out of the closet for a long time now. I came out to my wife in a moment of crisis eight years ago, and her loving support and empathy were amazing. I think we both thought at the time that simply removing that secret from between us would strengthen our relationship and everything would be fine. We settled back into our life together with little change. But as time went on I began to realize that I needed to do more. As I became more anxious and my low moods more frequent, my wife saw the connection and urged me to see a therapist. Typically, I procrastinated, but finally last December, my wife gave me the name of a therapist recommended by her counsellor, and I made an appointment.

Although I had already begun the process of shedding the sense of shame I had been carrying so long, the experience of talking freely with the therapist, a gay man himself, was incredibly liberating. At the first session, he asked me where I wanted to go with the therapy — what my goal was — and I realized that I didn’t know. I said at this stage what I needed most was to have the opportunity to talk, to share my thoughts and experiences. I explained that I felt fully committed to my marriage and that this was about my inner journey of accepting myself.

Suddenly, I started allowing myself to explore a part of me that I had severely repressed for over twenty years. I began devouring gay-themed literature, discovering E.M. Forster, Gore Vidal, James Baldwin, Jamie O’Neill, Christopher Bram and Shyam Selvadurai. Soon I felt an irrepressible urge to come out to my close friends. I started with a couple my wife and I have been very close to since we were first married. Their response was overwhelmingly supportive, and they showed great insight into what I have experienced. Since then, I have come out to two other couples who have also shown tremendous acceptance, love and generosity. The fact that this has come from members of my generally conservative religious community has been especially gratifying. What was also important about this experience was that I was able to express to all these friends my acceptance of myself as a gay man – that not only am I unable to become something else, but that I see no need to.

I’m under no illusion that I have completed this process. I know my self-acceptance is fragile and I need the constant reinforcement provided by those who are close to me.

Strangely, though, in parallel with the sense of exhilaration I have felt as I have begun to be freed from the burdens of guilt, shame and self-doubt, I have also felt an increasing sense of isolation and loneliness. For various reasons, I have been reluctant to find opportunities to meet other gay men. Yet my need to do so is like a lead weight on my chest. This feels like another barrier — another closet door.

When most gay men come out of the closet, they are making a statement not only about who they are, but also about who they love and how they live. For me, though, it’s really just about what goes on in my head. And that seems somehow less significant and more private — not the sort of thing you share with most people.

So, is it possible to come out of the closet and stay in the house? I think so, but I’m still trying to work out how.